A beer-tasting mission taking in ale infused cheese and the Turin Shroud? Cheers

RON MACKENNA

IAM NOT admitting it’s a sign of old age but when the hipsters, the hapsters, the bloggers and the blaggers pile out the taxis into the late-night pleasures of downtown Turin I’ll hang back and say: “Er, ah … Just take me to the hotel.” The truth is – though I don’t know it yet – I’ll be getting up early to see the Turin Shroud. The funny old thing is we’re actually only here for the beer. Three days in northern Italy to drink something called Menabrea. Strictly between you and me, I’ve been in that press-trip last-race-to-thebar-movie many times, including the mutiny in Spain. Who thought flying 50 journalists to an island for lunch, hosing booze down their throats and expecting us to get back on the plane at 4pm was a good idea?

But let’s start at the beginning. A predawn meeting at an airport; strangers introducing themselves; a quick run through an itinerary that like all itineraries has been managed down to the very second – can’t have us lunatics having any free time and causing mayhem. Then the freebie – sorry, very serious and interesting factfinding mission – commences. And this has been no different. An hour or three after that first meeting, having oohed and aahed at how spectacular Turin is from the air, we’re being hurtled at speed towards an autostrada barrier, an Italian driver’s loafer buried deep in the carpet of a Maserati.

Where are we going? To the hotel of course – item number one on the itinerary, having moments before disembarked from Torino Airport, all weary and bedraggled with that dog-eared style only we British have, cases rumbling behind, feeling like everything we bought from the internet came in the wrong size.

And then what happens? Well … there’s lots of chatting on the telefonino between our hosts in their various vehicles, and a sudden U-turn. Not a literal U-turn, though many years ago I was in the back of a car driven by an Icelander that reversed down an autostrada on-ramp. How we laughed … sorry screamed. No, this is only a metaphorical U-turn. Underlined by the driver firing us down an exit ramp and into streets of those mustard-coloured houses that are all over northern Italy and presumably look better in the sunshine.

And so endeth the itinerary. An item no doubt sweated over by earnest British public relations people and rather magnificently shredded by our Italian hosts in 30 minutes.