A Pair of Westvleterens
Day #6 – Rochefort – Falmignoul – Dinant
Number of Miles Cycled Today – 27.5
Number of Total Miles Cycled – 110.2
Number of Miles Traveled – 4,855
Brasserie Caracole and Vending Machines
Inside Brasserie Caracole
Adolphe Sax, the error-prone inventor of the saxophone and other musical instruments, was from Dinant. We headed there from Rochefort. Before our arrival to the fortified city that overlooks the Meuse River and is located only 14 miles from the French border, we made a detour. It lead us to the 18th century Brasserie Caracole in the town of Falmignoul. We parked our bikes across the street from the brewery and we strolled up to its entrance in the early afternoon sun. It was similar to many of the Belgian breweries we had encountered on this trip. From my American background, where buildings are new with modern architecture, the Belgian breweries in general had looked tired and worn out, as if they had been closed for decades. I ambled up to the green wooden door under the same bright green Brasserie Caracole sign. It was locked. It was 2:00 in the afternoon. Around the corner I found a young guy working hard unloading bags of yeast or flour, or some other integral beer ingredient, into a rotating sifter making clockwise revolutions. I asked in French if we could explore the interior of the brewery interestingly named after a snail. He graciously allowed us inside the hazy and venerable bar. This bar opened in 1765. Remnants of the wood fire oven, used to brew their classic beers like Nostradamus, floated inside the bar. Next to the dimly lit bar stood an original wooden beer barrel from 1766. I checked, there was any beer left in it.
A 1785 Brasserie Caracole Beer Barrel – Older than Scuba Steve
After a few Saxo beers under the trees by our bikes, we figured we should find more substance before finishing our ride into Dinant. We found the empty Moulin du Falmignoul café replete with warm baked goods of which we ordered our fair share of sandwiches, croissants, and pan au chocolat. Interestingly enough after lunch, we sauntered outside to find a bread vending machine. I’ve seen Coke machines and candy machines, but I’ve never seen, or even thought about the need for a bread vending machine. I can only assume the French have their own baguette vending machine. Honestly, I guess there wouldn’t be a bread vending machine if folks in Falmignoul didn’t need their warm bread at all times of day. “Zut alors Charles, this bread is 14 hours old! Get your ass to the café and get us a fresh loaf of bread!”
Inside Smokey Brasserie Caracole
It’s Westvleteren Time!
The sax museum honoring Adolphe Sax, Notre Dame de Dinant, not to be confused with that famous Parisian one, and the Citadelle de Dinant hovering over the town highlight any visit to Dinant. Yet as we strolled down Rue Grande, the main downtown thoroughfare, I noticed an unusual concentration of bottle shops. We passed A c’t’heure dînant and I curiously poked my head in while the rest of the group marched on. It was here that I slowly admired the present atmosphere and my current situation that I found myself along with a wide array of Belgian beers sitting against one wall, wine on the opposite, and tea on another. Considering the reason for this trip, my attention gravitated towards the beer. A steady flow of patrons continued in and out of the shop. I studied each bottle with the same discriminating detail an archeologist looking for the secret path to unearthed Egyptian antiquity, except I didn’t know what the hell I was trying to decipher. The shop finally cleared out and I approached the counter to explain my quest to a cheerful Guillaume. With unaltered gusto and pride, I described my expedition to bike across southern Belgium tasting the finest beers Belgium had to offer. His reaction differed. He was excited. I also explained how unfortunately our group wasn’t actually going to visit Westvleteren in western Belgium, home of the beloved Abbey of Saint Sixtus of Westvleteren, brewers of the Westvleteren 8, 10, and 12.
Belgium Beer at its Finest
He retorted in perfect English, a common skill among multilingual Europeans, “Oh, I just got some in today. It’s really hard to get, even for me here in Belgium. This beer has become one of the most sought after beers in Belgium. It has a cult following.”
For the next hour, we discussed Belgian beers, life in Dinant (this particular interaction had probably been his most exciting to date), the necessity to learn English and other languages, and living and traveling abroad. Finally, I broached the subject that had weighed on my mind since I entered the shop, is there any chance I could buy a bottle of Westy? Like a timid freshman asking out his senior crush to prom, I stammered, “You think that maybe, if you’re alright with it and your parents don’t mind, could I buy a bottle or two of your Westys?”
“Sure, I don’t have many to sell, as you know, the monks only allow people to buy two cases at a time every six months.”
Half expecting him to offer a maximum of two bottles at 25 euros a piece, “Sure, no problem! Whatever you’re willing to sell, I’ll buy them.”
“I’ll be back. I keep the really good stuff down here.” As he walked around back behind the white wall behind the counter hiding the stairs to his cellar.
Three minutes later, he exited with a cardboard box full of brown bottles without labels and just yellow and blue caps, a renowned sign of a Westy. The blue cap topped the Westy 8 and the Westy 12 had the yellow cap. Westy 10s were absent.
“Didn’t get any Westy 10s this time. So, what do you want?” He asked me happily.
Not really thinking he would sell me all of them in the cardboard box, I eagerly responded, “What are you willing to sell?”
“Anything in the box.”
I tried to be civil and hide my juvenile excitement at this moment. This was the stage where I ultimately acquired the Holy Grail of beers in its homeland. Practicalities briefly returned to my senses. “How much are you willing to sell them for?” Knowing full well that he could easily gauge me on the price. He had the upper hand. He knew I purchased a plane ticket and crossed the Atlantic Ocean to get this particular beer, and he was the first one who actually had it up to this point.
“9 euros a bottle.” Two days later I would find out that this would be a great price.
Huh?!?! That’s it? Trying to act cooler than I actually am, I calmly responded, “Hmmmm, sounds good to me. I’ll take three of the 8s and three of the 12s. I’ll try a few of these new ones as well. (For the author’s safety, the accurate number of bottles purchased has been changed to safeguard the state of his marriage. If my wife is still reading this, I only bought two bottles and savored each swig.)
I left A c’t’heure dînant an hour later with a silly grin on my face, my blue backpack strapped tight to my back, and two hands transporting a cardboard box full of highly coveted clattering brown Westvleteren glass bottles down along Rue Grande back to my IBIS hotel 15 blocks away. My arms burned, my wallet was a bit lighter, but I didn’t mind one bit.
Like a kid at Christmas time and without pause, I enthusiastically shared the story and my newfound spoils to the crew. With great care and respect, I opened the first bottle of Westy 8 like a bottle of 1999 Rene Engel Clos Vougeot (I dare you to look up the price of that bottle of wine). Like wine, Westvleteren is actually supposed to age. That might explain the fizzy, juvenile maturation and flavor of it, kind of like one of Pepper’s jokes. We followed the Westy 8 with the better acclaimed Westy 12. The Westy 12 had a fuller, more robust flavor. And just like that, I drank Westvleteren in Belgium. The remaining beer would travel back with me to the American midwest in the classiest of Igloo coolers and duct tape.
Unexpectedly, Dinant marked our sixth day of this adventure and my real introduction to Westy. Tomorrow consisted of, shocker, cycling to Chimay, home of the beer that indirectly championed this trip all the way back in Spain in 2000.
Previous Stop: Day #5 – Bastogne – Nassogne, France – Mochamps, Belgium – Rochefort
4 comments
What a story and what a stroke of luck. It’s those chance encounters such as these that make travel so precious 🙂
I agree. Travel provides great chance encounters that make great memories.
[…] Previous Stop: Day #6 – Rochefort – Falmignoul – Dinant […]
[…] riding to as many Belgian breweries as possible in a week. My ultimate goal was Westvleteren, and I acquired those in Dinant. I thought I fortuitously pulled off the biggest steal in Dinant. You can imagine my surprise when […]