Drink the field.

The barley grew in a field on this coast and was brewed two hundred metres up the track. When we say drink the field, we mean it about as literally as a beer can — the ground you came to see, in your glass.

Drink the field.

This isn't a beer that name-drops the coast — it's grown in it. The barley came up in a field by the dunes and was brewed two hundred metres on. So you can order a pint of north Norfolk, more or less literally.

A pint of north Norfolk.

Four miles up the coast the barley grew, a short walk from there it was brewed, and now here it is in front of you. That's the whole journey. Most 'local' beer travels a great deal further to look this local.

Four miles, start to pint.

The barley grew in a field on this coast. It was brewed two hundred metres away. And it's best drunk right here, looking at the dunes it came from. Three steps, one stretch of coast, no lorries in between.

Grown here. Brewed here. Drunk here.

The field your pint grew in is a short drive away, gate open most days. Come and walk the length of it, then go and drink the result — or just take our word for it, which for once is completely true.

Walk the field. Then drink it.

Most beer on that shelf has been around — grain shipped in, brewed miles off, then trucked to you. Ours grew in one field by the dunes and was brewed a short walk away. The shortest journey up there, by a distance.

The shortest beer on the shelf.