The bubbles settled to form a precise, quarter-inch head. The rest of the pint was a pale gold with the sparkling clarity of a Highland stream.
I gazed at it for a few seconds, revelling in the anticipation of the drink to come. It was a thing of beauty.
The pig farmer had settled himself down in Edinburgh's Oxford Bar and, it being mid-afternoon, he was one of three customers in the place and the only one sat on a stool in the front bar.
The Oxford is five minutes from Princes Street and has become relatively famous thanks to Ian Rankin's crime novels. It's the favoured watering hole of both Rankin and his fictional DI John Rebus, but trades solely on its excellence as a traditional pub.
I swopped smalltalk on the snow, the absence of tourists (pig farmer excepted) and Hibs' chances of winning their first Scottish Cup in 108 years with the barman before turning back to the pint.
Cool, but not cold, fresh, slightly malty. Deuchars IPA is an ordinary pint made extraordinary when it is served properly.
I love the Oxford Bar.