It took me just over an hour to reach the Brewery, at a kind of half-walk, half-jog. The scenery, being now familiar, made the whole trip seem less daunting than it might have done a few days earlier. I resisted the urge to shilly-shally by The Shipbuilders or the school on the way, and the sense of urgency I had picked up at the top of the lighthouse drove me along in the shadow of the perimeter fence with none of the trepidation of my first encounter. I stopped and composed myself for a second in front of the imposing Brewery entrance before taking hold of the oversized bell-pull and announcing myself musically.

The door opened almost immediately to reveal an immaculate gentleman in late middle age. Regal deportment, plentiful grey hair swept back from his domed forehead, a prominent red nose, unique on the island, and dressed in charcoal with the precision of a tailor’s dummy, he smiled thinly, then stood back to signal me to enter. I did exactly that.

‘I won’t be negative upon our very first meeting,’ he started in a clear voice, ‘but I admit to having begun to feel a little concerned. However, I am glad to see you now. Today is good. Tomorrow might have been less so. Hmmmm.’ He waited just long enough to allow me to feel abashed, then held out his hand. ‘I’m Frank Robertson. You know my younger son, Bobby, I believe.’

I could see the resemblance as soon as I looked into his eyes. If Bobby managed to develop such a nose over the next 30 years or so, they might turn out to be indistinguishable. He seemed less interested in the details of my physiognomy, and looked over my shoulder as I told him how genuinely delighted I was to finally make his acquaintance. Before I had finished, another man had joined us. He had a joyful face.

‘This is Shaun,’ the boss man introduced his colleague. ‘He deals with the day to day running of the place. He knows every cog, bolt, tun and vat here intimately. I’ll leave you with him. I expect he’ll fill you in on his precious marketing plans, too. All commercialistic nonsense, if you ask me, but you youngsters might find it amusing to discuss if you run out of serious topics.’ With that, he turned and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. Shaun and I were left alone. I felt his long arm land on my shoulder.

‘Come on, then,’ he cracked, ‘let’s get the official tour done and then we can get on to the best part.’

We walked, or rather he led and I followed, through various processing rooms. Shaun’s enthusiastic patter didn’t let up for a second. The hops grew wild in The Sanctuary, the grain came from the vast open fields of the south-west, where the sun ripened it early in the summer, earlier than anywhere else with a comparable climate. The water was simply Nature’s gift.

He was a contemporary of the older Robertson boy: Bobby’s brother Billy, the one who had moved to the mainland to take on the wider brewing industry. I related my experience of the mainland bitter in the Shipbuilders and brought a tear to his eye. He was as proud of his old schoolmate as any father would have been of a son. They were still in regular touch, as much as the postal system allowed, and news and brewing tips were regularly exchanged across the Sound. Billy may have been physically absent, but his influence was as great as it ever had been, so I gathered from Shaun.

The scale of the operation was much greater than I had expected. For an island I could run around in a few short hours, there was an awful lot of beer being produced. I questioned Shaun on it when he stopped for a rare breath.

‘Seems a lot, I suppose,’ he said, and looked around critically ‘but you’ve got to consider the bigger picture. It’s not such a small island as you think. We’ve five pubs here, and don’t forget we supply the Old Lighthouse on the Other Side, too. You’ve been in there, right? We’re sole supplier to The Griffin, as I’m sure you already know, and you’ll find out for yourself how significant that is. Besides, production is concentrated into a small part of the year. Most of what you’ve seen in action here will start to wind down now the Winter’s arriving, and it can lie quiet for months. All depends on how bad it gets. We make everything with spring water here, and if those springs get too cold it’ll impact the flavour. Couple of years ago they froze over completely. Madness.

‘Then there’s the bottles. We’ve always done them, but we churn out a lot more now. One of Billy’s last ideas before he left was a Centenary brew. Hundred years since the first Brewery was built here, see? He wanted to mark it with something new. Hadn’t had a brand new product for over 20 years. It made him, and it’s what drove him away, in the end.’

‘Drove him away? What happened there?’ I was curious about this missing son.

‘Artistic differences, you might call it!’ Shaun laughed at his own summary. I smiled uncertainly. ‘His Dad thought he was messing too much with tradition. There was honey in it, and I think he even used heather in some of the early versions. Always off around the Mountain picking stuff to try, he was. I’ve got no idea what ended up in the recipe: apart from Billy, only Frank does. And he refuses to discuss it with anyone,’ he chuckled loudly, shook his head sadly at the thought. ‘Couldn’t argue with the end product, though, could he? Unreal, it was. Still is. But they had some monumental rows about it. In the end, Billy just upped and left. Daft, really, but that’s between them. Did me a favour – I’m the first non-Robertson to hold a position like this here. No way would that have happened if Billy were still here.’

‘What about Bobby? Why didn’t he take over when his brother left? Wouldn’t that have made more sense?’ I felt I knew the answer to that question already, but wanted to hear it from Shaun.

‘He’s not interested in running this place. Smart lad, Bobby. He knows as well as anyone that he’s not from the same mould as his father or brother. Simply hasn’t got the scientific mind for it. Doesn’t bother him: he just gets on with what he is good at. Works the other way, too: can’t imagine Billy or Frank running a pub! It’d have no customers within a week. The Surly Arms. the Old Grouch. the Recipe for Disaster.’ He broke into another of his low laughs, and I joined him.

‘So, when Frank retires, I take it you’ll assume control?’ I prompted.

He paused a moment. ‘That’s not something we’ve discussed. Under normal circumstances, yes, the assistant would step in when the time comes. And nobody’s ever retired, either. This time might be a bit different. I expect Billy and Bobby might have something to say. I try not to think too much about it; busy enough with the day to day stuff. But there’s always been a Robertson in charge, for the last 102 years. It’d be a big day if that were to change.’

‘What’s the history of ownership, then?’ I asked, keen to change the subject from the inevitable major incident looming somewhere in the future, in the centre of which sat my new friend.

‘Ah-ha! Now you’re asking. Real tour guide stuff.’ He perked up noticeably.

He took me back to the day, 102 years earlier, when a 25-year-old Frederick Robertson, Frank’s grandfather, had outgrown the rudimentary brewing setup his father had assembled in his outhouse and taken this parcel of land in the shadow of the Mountain, upon which he constructed the island’s first genuine brewery. The Donalds, by then, had given up on their own brewing efforts in favour of the burgeoning shipbuilding trade, so the Robertsons were clear to operate unchallenged. Fred was a dynamic young man, typical of the times, and wasted no time in claiming the industry. It was generally held that nobody else would have been able to keep up, anyway.

Seven years later he was dead. A victim of the swine flu that had taken four of his brothers. The other had died in Flanders, a day after commencing action. Fred’s borrowed shotgun, inexpertly cleaned and reassembled, had effectively exploded in his face as he pulled the trigger, his aim unerringly on another infected porker as the cull drew to a successful conclusion. Not much was left on his shoulders. He had died atop a small rocky rise, now foundation to one of the ghastly watchtowers, overlooking the bowl which was soon to become part of our infamous prison; almost in the shadow of his mighty brewery chimney, which had been erected less than a year earlier. At least he had completed the building works which would act as his legacy, and sired his own successors. The twin boys, Alexander and Adam, had just turned two.

Frank’s grandmother, Eleanor Robertson, had taken the reins and kept her late husband’s dream alive until her elder twin Alex was old enough to assume control. He sat at the helm for almost 50 years before reluctantly admitting defeat in his rage against the advancing years. Only then did Frank claim his birthright. His first job, which he discharged as skilfully as everything which came subsequently, was to oversee the dignified retrieval of his father’s bloated body from the mash tun.

‘Some say that’s what made him like he is,’ Shaun concluded. He had to wait until he was nearly 40 before he got his hands on the place. His Dad wouldn’t let go. I don’t expect he’s going to either. Why should he? He’s pretty healthy. It’s not as if retirement holds much in the way of interest for someone like him. Wouldn’t surprise me if we were still here in ten years’ time having the same discussion.’

‘Does it bother you? Not knowing when he’s going to go, or if you’ll even be next in line when he does?’ I didn’t want to rub his nose in it, but the situation would have upset me, I was sure.

‘I don’t let it bother me,’ he stoicised. ‘We all live for a long time here. Life is less of a rush than what you’re used to. Besides, I’ve got my niche. I know Frank’s the boss, and a genius, but I look after the more human side of things. Christ, all I have to do is shoehorn the word “marketing” into an idea and he runs a mile. I get as much control as I could want. For instance, you’ll probably hardly meet him again, unless you’re really interested in the chemical make-up of the beer. Mostly my side of things, the licensees.’

I was quite happy about that. The thought of a working relationship with Shaun, even if it might turn out to be exhausting, was more tempting than trying to locate some shared ground with old Frank.

‘You know,’ he started up again, ‘it’s always been a tight-knit, maybe even parochial, operation here. Nothing wrong with that, as such; it’s the way the island goes about its business, one of our strengths. There’s surprisingly little narrow-mindedness and almost no in-fighting. But I just wanted to make things a bit more commercial when I started. I felt I had to have some impact. This is a spectacular product that we create here. Seems wrong to keep it all to ourselves, and, whether you like it or not, the world’s getting smaller. I’m not sure how long we can continue the way we have been. I reckon a little bit of openness might be just enough to keep everyone else at arm’s length. The more you hide something, the more they want to know what it is you’ve got to hide.

‘There are plenty who don’t agree with me. Thin end of the wedge, they call it. They might be right, as it goes, but that’s not what I’m after. This community deserves protection. Everything I do is designed to maintain that. And it’s not as if we do an awful lot of business with the mainland. Centenary won a pretty prestigious competition, and that gave us a profile. Once you’ve got that, you can’t just slink back into your shell. So I export a small sample of our bottled stuff and try and enter a competition every year, just to keep the industry satisfied. So far, so good: we get a small cash income, and we always win the prizes. Keep our heads down, don’t draw too much attention to ourselves, we should be fine. Frank knows we have to. No way he’d let me do my own thing if he wasn’t right behind it. It’s a balance to maintain, though.’

By this time we had reached a grand wood-panelled hall. Barrels and crates of bottles were arranged on a network of tables running the whole length and span of the room. The windows on my left looked over a central elliptical courtyard, filled with the good-natured buzz of a supremely happy and well-adjusted venture. Men, donkeys, inspiration and truth criss-crossed and jostled in perfect harmony; a living, choreographed business plan to shame the corporate gargantuans I had always known. Back inside, Shaun was standing by the first keg, a half-pint glass in his hand, a look in his eye.

‘Don’t be shy!’ he barrelled. ‘This is the bit you’re really here for. Time for a taste!’ he held out the glass for me. How about that? It was mine. After all, it was vitally important that I fully understood the products I was to be purveying.

Our route among the tables guided us methodically and chronologically through the history of the island’s brewing. I could see the bottles of Centenary waiting patiently at the far end, and resolved to still be in a state to appreciate them when I arrived there. Shaun was, predictably, less worried: I imagined the novelty had worn off. But even before that approaching apogee, with each new taste experience my years of unrefined mass-produced lager, not to mention wine, drifted deeper and deeper into the “guilty secret” corner of my memory. It got me thinking, though, and I scanned the whole room, unsuccessfully, for taller bottles.

‘It might be a silly question, but is it only beer? There’s nothing like cider, or even wine?’

Shaun almost choked on his generous glassful of Prisoner of War. ‘You’re lucky you’ve asked me that, and didn’t save it for Frank,’ he wiped his mouth and chin with a white handkerchief as he spoke. His overalls mattered less. ‘He’d have slung you out on the spot. Never, ever, talk to a brewer about vinification. Not ever.’ He shuddered, much like I had at the top of the lighthouse. ‘I didn’t tell you this,’ he continued, ‘but you can get some white wine here if you really want it. Joshua makes his own. I’ve heard, from one or two reasonably sane judges, that some of it is quite decent. Wouldn’t catch me drinking it, though. Could be made of anything, if he’s involved. Probably is, too. No thanks, I’ll stick to this stuff. Apart from the Centenary, I know exactly what happens to every drop of this from birth to bottle.’

With that, we arrived at the final table. I felt sure I heard a small prayer under his breath as he poured the beer reverently into a tall, frosted glass.