Paul is a freelance writer. In this article, he explores one of the many good things about his new home of Asheville, NC — Beer.

There’s an honesty and a beauty in beer, and there aren’t many places more honest, beautiful and beer-filled than Asheville, North Carolina. Nestled in the slopes of the Appalachians, basking in the heat of a glorious August afternoon, the South Slope beer beckons.

I’ve lived in Asheville for two years, a Brit abroad, a stranger in an even stranger land. The city is wonderfully welcoming to misfits like me; we both wear our quirks with pride.

I wander south, the streets of Downtown are gently thronged with humanity. Buskers ply their trade on banjos and washboards, dancers sway rhythmically to the drumbeats in Pritchard Park, aromas fill the air. I look around, there’s not a “living statue” in sight.

Tourists, the lifeblood of the city, are everywhere. People come to town for one of two reasons: Biltmore or beer, heritage or hops. The South Slope is a place for tastebud adventures, rather than architectural wonders.

My first stop is Burial Brewing, a taproom that celebrates the cycle of life. Even the names of the beers evoke tiny moments: Scythe Rye IPA, Skillet Donut Stout, Shadowclock Pils, Haysaw Saison. The summer needs refreshment, and the barman pours me a Pils from a pitchfork-shaped beer tap.

Before I head into the beer garden, Tom Selleck demands my attention. A large velvet portrait of the magnificent man hangs on the tasting room wall, looking down benevolently. In January, we gathered here to celebrate his 70th birthday, it would have been rude not to.

From here, the sound of banjo-picking, laughter and applause picks up, drawing me outside. A man sits in the beer garden, a modern storyteller and his audience. He blends music and tall tales for an hour, mixing jokes and folk songs as he sings for his supper. His feathered cap is handed around and stuffed with dollar bills, an honest appreciation for good entertainment.

Music is everywhere in Asheville, with the Celtic history of the Blue Ridge mountains making it a hotspot for Bluegrass.

Fiddle, guitar, banjo and upright bass all find a place on the streets of the city or in the bars. The popular Jack of the Wood pub hosts a Bluegrass night every week, and it’s to their South Slope brewery, Green Man, where I’m headed next.

As soon as I enter, I remember why I love this place. Pagan gods leer down from the walls, their faces carved into wood and stone. Scarves drape over the light fittings, embroidered with strange runes. The chalkboards tempt me to try Wayfarer, Leaf Blower, Rambler or Forester. They’ve got a beer and a beer glass for each season; I get a Rainmaker and take a seat.

The place is busy, but not just with people. Canine companions jostle underfoot, seeking out a pat on the head or a morsel of food. There’s a joke in Asheville that you can’t consider yourself a citizen until you have a dog, but then any city that can support two dog bakeries would say that.

I’m soon in a conversation with a young couple from Virginia, and I realize that Asheville has already cast its spell on them. They’re asking what it’s like to live here, how the job situation is, if it’s really as great as it seems (amazing, terrible, yes — if you don’t mind bad drivers).

Finishing my drink, I make my farewells. The sun is casting shadows down the street, and there’s one place left to visit before I head home: The Funkatorium.

This brewery is an experiment, a dare with nature. Created by the wonderful people at Wicked Weed Brewing, the people who work here are more alchemists than brewers. The principles are simple: take the brewing process and twist it into new and wonderful shapes. Whether that’s open barrel fermenting, aging beer in wine barrels, or finding out just how sour you can make beer, there’s always something extraordinary going on.

As a Brit, my tastebuds were as repressed as my culture; fortunately, they’re now finding their freedom. The beers here explode with flavors that must be savored. After the music and the stories, the gods and the dogs, the questions and the answers, it’s time to just… appreciate. I sit quietly in the corner, taking small sips, stretching each mouthful into an experience. I let the tastes linger as long as they can, realizing that soon I’ll have to go.

I head out, seeing small groups of people coming down the street. The breweries will be packed tonight, friends sharing conversation, laughter and honest, beautiful beer.

I’ll be back in a couple of weeks for some new brewery adventures at Twin Leaf and Hi-Wire, but for now the sun is setting over the mountains, and it’s time to go home.