I’ve been struggling to remember the last time I felt genuinely relaxed; that blissful mental and physical state where happiness meets contentment and you don’t have a single care in the world. In trying to reconcile the trauma the past 18 months has exerted on me—on all of us—I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be truly at ease.

Before the pandemic, one place in particular I would find both solace and kinship was at a beer festival. In my search for remembering what it was like to feel more normal, I fondly recalled the deep-seated warmth I felt from head to toe as I travelled home from Cloudwater Brew Co.’s Friends & Family & Beer in February 2020. While there I had a wonderful time enjoying many delicious beverages, and spending quality time with friends old and new—some who had travelled half-way across the world to attend. The festival took place in Manchester, too: a city my partner and I had decided we would soon make our home. I felt ready for the next chapter. Then the wheels came off, the world grinding to a halt at the mercy of the bastard virus.

The resulting lockdowns and eventual restrictions the British government put in place meant that mass gatherings like beer festivals were not just untenable, but unlawful. Entire businesses that relied on these events for their income were no longer able to function, instead scraping together a living on meagre handouts (if, indeed, they were deemed eligible for them.) Drinkers like me had absolutely no idea when, or if, these events we once took for granted would ever return.

But beer festivals did return somewhat tentatively in the summer of 2021, a little over a year since the pandemic began. Excited to get back to the kind of occasions I used to enjoy so much I made plans to attend a few. Hop City, organised by Northern Monk and taking place at their brewery in Leeds, was scheduled to take place on July 10th; the first in-person event I had planned to attend. I had booked a hotel and I was ready to get back into it. Or at least I thought so until it was postponed; the lifting of existing restrictions on large events delayed by a surge in cases, caused by the arrival of the then-new Delta variant of the virus.

Instead of being disappointed by the news of the event being rescheduled, I felt a deep sense of relief. I realised I’d been steeling myself for weeks in order to be comfortable enough to be in a large crowd of people for several hours. I declined an invite to the festival’s new date, making excuses about how busy I was. I’ve been doing this a lot lately.

As restrictions on large events finally eased, I looked on as beer festivals returned to London, Leeds, and Manchester, and beyond. Part of me wishes I was there, truly. But most of me felt fear as I saw the sharing of glassware, the group selfies with unmasked faces pressed together, and the thought of how many dudes, several beers in, were probably—no, almost definitely—not washing their hands after taking a piss.

But, despite my fears, I would have to prepare myself to experience this eventually: on Friday September 3rd I had tickets for Leeds International Beer Festival. Come hell or high water, this would be the event where I would normalise being in large crowds again. Perhaps this would be the turning point in finding that moment of peace I was so desperately seeking.

***

As a long time sufferer of anxiety, out of necessity I’ve become incredibly good at managing it. I practise mindful meditation most days. I run. I eat my vegetables. And I enjoy the relaxing effects of alcohol. Even in the deepest throes of a panic attack I have become skilled at outwardly appearing totally normal. The trick to managing anxiety is being aware of it, and one of the most profound changes I have experienced over the past 18 months is that I am aware I’m now experiencing it nearly all of the time.

Those of you reading who also experience anxiety will also know how exhausting it can be. That you have to divvy out your social interactions carefully, aware that you’ll need time to recharge between them. As an additional point of stress, in the weeks leading up to the festival my work schedule had begun to return to normal. I had been properly busy for the first time in 18 months, my calendar once again full of travel and deadlines. What this meant is I had less time to build up the energy reserves needed to handle the large crowd, and the resulting social interactions I would need to process.

But on September 3rd I hauled myself out of bed at the sound of my alarm, packed an overnight bag and made it to the station in time for some breakfast before catching my train. There I met with friends who were also travelling to the festival for our mutual’s birthday. Everyone, including me, was masked up, respecting each other's distance. This was a bunch of good eggs and we were off to have a nice time.

My adrenaline began to spike at the sight of innumerable maskless passengers on the train. I had—perhaps wrongly—assumed that the simplicity of wearing a mask would become the norm; we are at this point incredibly well informed about the virus’ behaviour these days. Thankfully the journey was a relatively short one, and soon we arrived in Leeds. I parted ways from my group at the station so I could drop my bag at the hotel, but also to give myself a few minutes alone in which to prepare myself for the crowd. I counted my breath in sets of 10 and concentrated on the sensation of my feet touching the floor as I walked to the venue.

Then, I felt things begin to unravel pretty quickly.

“You’ll need to show proof of vaccination or a negative lateral flow test at the door,” an attendant tells me before asking for my ticket, my fingers transforming into tiny snakes with minds of their own as I attempt in vain to find it on my phone. I recall taking my vaccination card out of my wallet and placing it in my desk drawer for safekeeping. How could I have been so stupid? I feel like a stewed plum. The attendant tries to give me advice, directing me to a pharmacist where I can get a self-test, but all I can hear is the whistling in my ears.

Marching towards town, my heart pounding like a kick drum, I began cursing every fibre of my being for being so negligent. I daren’t make eye contact with my friends as I pass them in the queue. A few metres on and a text arrives from one of them telling me I can simply download the NHS app to prove my vaccination status. Stopping in my tracks I start trying to download it, but my surging adrenaline makes this relatively simple task feel positively Herculean.

Thankfully, it worked, and I headed into the festival at last, pulling my mask over my face as I did so. Although instead of taking in what should’ve been an auspicious moment, I beelined to the bar with the shortest queue. It didn’t take me long to realise I was pretty much the only person still masked-up, and that it would make enjoying the beer I now possessed exceedingly difficult.

Once I had regrouped with my friends I began to settle in, and I even started to enjoy myself a little. Some excellent beers helped: The Kernel’s Foeder Lager was a treat, all oak and Brett funk; Five Points’ Best, served on cask at a bar run by local pub Whitelock’s Ale House was tasting as good as ever, the snappy, peppery Fuggles ensuring each sip was more satisfying than the last. Neptune’s rum barrel-aged On the Bounty stout tasted, quite literally, like a liquid Bounty bar.

The highlight, though, was found amid the tranquility of the cider room, where—in an area utterly (and perhaps a little disappointingly, considering the quality of what was on offer) devoid of a crowd—the incredibly knowledgeable Phil took myself and a friend through a tour of bottled ciders. Pilton’s quince cider, Pomme Pomme, might be one of the best things I’ve drunk this year.

““Beer festivals were indeed back, and we might be one step closer to that idea of normality we find ourselves clinging to, even as everything around us remains chaotic.””

But I couldn’t escape that I had a panic attack, and that the debilitating effect it had on my body and mind didn't just suddenly go away. I had used up a significant portion of my energy reserved for socialising, and I kept looking for excuses to wander off by myself.

I also felt perplexed at how relaxed everyone around me seemed. As mentioned above, a skill I had acquired had been to appear outwardly—despite the circumstances—completely fine. Maybe everyone else was doing so too. We’ve all been through the same 18 months, after all. But being amid the smiling, laughter, and pints being slung back with noticeable ease, it didn’t feel that way.

There is no doubt the organisers had done a wonderful job in setting up and running the event, and everywhere I looked people appeared to be having a wonderful time. I admit that seeing the giant orange neon letters that read “LEEDS BEER” hanging from the pillars of the town hall was an emotional moment. One that signified to me that beer festivals were indeed back, and we might be one step closer to that idea of normality we find ourselves clinging to, even as everything around us remains chaotic.

But in that moment I also realised I was not ready to be back. And that blissful moments are not necessarily found at those places for which you must spend days emotionally preparing yourself to spend time within. I do, in fact, remember the last time I felt utterly at ease: on the 11th of July 2020, sat on the pebble strewn beach with friends at Cley-Next-the-Sea, in Norfolk, picking at smoked fish and prawns in the shell, while sipping white wine and listening to the waves crash as distant wind turbines gently turned.

I have spent the past year working hard at making peace with visiting the pub and attending smaller, more intimate events. If anything, the pandemic made me realise how much I depend on that third space between work and home to help me switch off. But it will be a while before I feel able to surround myself with a couple of thousand people again. For now, at least, beer festivals and the joyful camaraderie that they can offer will have to wait. For a little while longer, anyway.