Beer from 1840 shipwreck: Scientists developing new taste sensations for beer lovers from old beer

Today in the news there were several stories about historic grapes and the search for ancient wine. We were having this discussion over on Twitter.com/womenwhowine  While we primarily talk about wine there are those occasions when a nice cold beer really hits the spot. So it was interesting that this article found its way to us today too.

While Davie Jones sang* about rum there were apparently some pirates who enjoyed a nice bottle of beer every now and then. 

Scientists are analyzing the bottles of beer salvaged from the 1840s shipwreck found near the Åland Islands in 2010. Living bacteria found in the bottles were subject to further tests to find out how the cells had survived for so long in the wreck. Read More

Next September 19th (Talk Like a Pirate Day) perhaps we will be reading the results of these scientist's research with a nice cold beverage by our side - most likely not from 1840.

Text accompanying Davie Jones Locker picture seen above:

"DAVY JONES'S LOCKER."

Davy Jones, loquitur:—

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest. Hey! ho! and a bottle of rum!"
Faith, that's a chorus I can rattle off with zest. Gratefully it clatters upon Davy's tym-pa-num, Like a devil's tattoo from Death's drum! Fi! Fo! Fum! These be very parlous times for old legends of the sea. Vanderdecken is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any pikestaff they can't disestablish Me! Daddy Neptune may delight in the Island trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed and fight, as in days of yore, When old Charlie Dibdin's fancy piped free songs of Jack and Nancy, of Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore; But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main, Daddy Neptune must allow Davy shares his empire now, or the Sultan and the Howe have gone down in vain.

Daddy Neptune loves me not. Plumped by storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot in the days gone by, But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die? Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash, When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?

Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull, monster gun, all are mine ere all's done; and the millions madly spent On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent, To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the "Progress" some abuse, and the many crack up. Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones may well look glad at the modern Iron-clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp!

Science and Salvage? Fudge! If I am any judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge will not lose by them. Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn. Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular goldmine" in one huge black hulk! Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a shark or ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.

Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha! Ho! ho! I keep my old office. Wives may weep, and the taxpayers moan; Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan? Davy Jones is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge; He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or the spill of the Royal George.

Good old false last-century Chart! Though the conning may be smart, and the steersman play his part, Palinurus-like, Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell 'em, even Davy Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or strike. Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we've had our day! Pass the rum and let's be gay. Not that "dead man's chest," Robert Louis grimly sings, like my "Locker Chorus" rings—mingling weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and jest!

Davie Jones picture and text from public domain