I’m not sure if it was the lingering tiredness from a long day and even longer journey, or the skinful of IPAs I’d been tasting throughout, but when I arrived at the Russian River brewpub in Santa Rosa, California and stood in front of its bar, I burst into tears.

My first taste of Pliny the Elder—the superlative double IPA on which Russian River Brewing Company has built much of its reputation—was in 2013. I was in Portland, Oregon, completing a wonderful day of visiting the city's many breweries by dining out at a restaurant recommended to us called Higgins. I remember ordering crabcakes while we perused the drinks menu, which in true Portlandian style had a beer list that matched its offering of wines in both length and quality.

Except the beer we ordered wasn’t on the list. Our server tipped us off that they’d had a couple of cases of Pliny delivered that morning—a chance to try a beer I had lusted after for years presenting itself without warning. I remember feeling somewhat overawed as I held the bottle in my hand, it’s bold red and green label smiling up at me, while text that formed a square around its border asked us to “drink fresh, do not age.” We were not going to argue.

My memory of that first taste is a two-parter. The precision of its aromatics, sharp as a Spartan’s speartip; piercing with notes of freshly cut grass, pine resin, and citrus in high definition: orange, lemon, grapefruit. Then came the endless bitterness that lingered and lingered until you finally supplanted it with another sip. We made quite a dent in the restaurant’s limited stock that evening. And the crabcakes went so well with the beer we ordered a second helping.

Pliny has never quite tasted the same ever since, but my love for it hasn’t diminished as a result. The next bottles were, typically, smuggled in the luggage of friends; thimblefuls of a beer that was probably past its best. It was never designed to be appreciated this way. Then it appeared on draft in Colorado. Drinking it over lunch with a freshly primed palate at The Mayor of Old Town—a favourite bar of mine in the city of Fort Collins—took me back to Portland, only now I found it somehow maltier, and more balanced. It was easy drinking for an 8% beer. One pint quickly became three, which quickly became an afternoon nap.

By now I was obsessed with this beer, and so plans were made to visit—no, make a pilgrimage—to Northern California, and the brewpub that spawned it. Except California is a long way from London, where I live, so they were on hold until an opportunity to visit presented itself. This finally came in April 2019.

We had planned to spend a long weekend in the Bay Area. This would give us the chance to visit a few other assorted breweries, wineries and restaurants in San Francisco and its adjacent cities. A day and a night was earmarked specifically for a drive into Sonoma Valley and to the Russian River Brewpub in Santa Rosa. My travel companions were my Dad, Frank, and our friend Jess, a Colorado transplant now living and working in San Francisco. With Jess doing the driving, this would provide ample opportunity for my Dad and I to focus on our beer.

In my head we would drive straight to Russian River and stay there. I was obsessive and tunnel-vision had set in. All I could envision in my future was a cold pint of Pliny, a large pizza, and then another pint or two to wash it down. As we drove past the Heineken-owned Lagunitas Brewing Company in Petaluma I asked if we could not stop. “When are you going to be in Petaluma again,” my Dad quipped, as Jess pulled into the parking lot. I was asked to remove the chip from my shoulder.

That was our first pint of the day, which I enjoyed, begrudgingly. The next stop would be Healdsburg, beyond Santa Rosa and home of Bear Republic Brewing Co.'s (now sadly closed) original brewpub. A weird experience followed, wherein I got to enjoy another legendary West Coast IPA: Racer 5—and, I confess, its stronger iteration Café Racer 15—at the source. However I was scratchy, fidgety, and despite being just 30 minutes away I was worried that Russian River would be closing in nine hours’ time.

Although, for some reason, I was beginning to relax, which allowed me to focus on our next destination: Russian River’s brand new, and far larger, brewing facility in Windsor, on the outskirts of Santa Rosa. After a few scrambled DMs on Twitter we had managed to secure a tour. An offer we absolutely could not refuse, and so the brewpub would have to wait for an hour or two more.

““I was scratchy, fidgety, and despite being just 30 minutes away I was worried that Russian River would be closing in nine hours’ time.””

This facility—a pantheon of steel beams and pale grey poured concrete that seems to buffet the California sunlight straight back into the atmosphere—cost brewery founders Natalie and Vinnie Cilurzo $50 million (about £40 million) and it shows. The Sonoma Valley and neighbouring Napa forms much of California wine country, and this brewery complex and its surrounding acres feels every bit at home within this context. If it didn’t say brewery on its exterior you could easily be convinced it was owned by one of the larger winemakers.

Its interior is as sleek as it is vast. A fully booked out restaurant greets you as you enter, with a large gift shop for beer-to-go and merchandise immediately on your left. 12-packs of Pliny are stacked window-to-window in the fridges. I was so close.

We make our way through the restaurant to a second, slightly more casual bar through a door at its rear where we meet our guide. He pours me a Pliny. There it is, but something different this time? Rich, honey-sweet malt and an almost estery note reminding me—quite exceptionally—of Fuller’s ESB. Then there is a bitterness that just keeps going. There it is.

As our guide leads us back through the restaurant to the brewery entrance I spot Natalie Cilurzo chatting to a few regulars. It’s a Sunday, and I smile when I see the same kind of warm interaction I’d expect to see in a cosy brewpub, but occurring instead here in this vast, somewhat cold concrete structure, which all of a sudden feels a little warmer. I have had four pints of IPA, so decide not to introduce myself.

The brewery is vast, bright and chrome. Sunlight reflects from the huge, German manufactured brewing vessels, causing you to shield your eyes as you move through particularly bright spots. We pass the open fermentation tanks (is this why I am tasting esters, I wonder) where beers like Pliny, and others such as STS Pils and Blind Pig pale ale are fermented, before passing into an altogether different part of the brewery.

Shades of grey are replaced with those of oak and crimson; here sour beers mature in former wine barrels. At the end of it all, a church-styled door leads to the altar within this temple—a coolship. Its room is lined with pale, untreated wooden beams, making it somewhat resemble a sauna, but this has a purpose: to develop a rich and healthy culture of local microflora with which to inoculate wild beers for spontaneous fermentation. We taste Beatification, a pale golden sour fermented this way and aged in wood, its spritzy notes of Chardonnay and lemon zest cleansing my palate of Pliny’s bitter hop oils.

We take a seat in the beer garden after the tour. An STS Pils helps me slow down a little. I was relaxed now, having just seen something wonderful—and we only had one more destination to reach. We soak in the atmosphere of the beer garden as the low sun creeps down the California skyline, and suddenly this place feels less gargantuan, and we find ourselves wishing it was our local.

Suddenly I’m excited again. I can feel my heart beating faster. We are standing outside the brewpub now. Then we are being ushered straight to a table; thanks to the new facility gone are the long lines and waits. This instantly feels like the neighbourhood bar I imagined it to be—and that’s because it is. It’s low-lit and softened with wood panelling. Over two-decades worth of brewing memorabilia hangs on the walls. There is not one empty seat, the air is filled with the smell of pizza and the tables are stacked with its famous beer flight: a small pour of all 20 beers they currently have on tap. Dad has already ordered himself one.

The bar stretches out either side of me, feeling a lot longer than it probably is. I find a gap amid the crowd and soak in the sounds of conversation and glasses being clinked. The beer doesn’t seem to stop pouring. I look up and see the chalkboard, its brightly coloured lettering displaying the taplist almost joyously, like it’s willing you on to celebrate the beers this brewery makes. I feel hot tears filling my eyes as I look down and notice a server catching my attention and asking me what I’d like to drink.

“I’ll have a pint of Pliny the Elder, please.”