Bangalow meets Belgium Weekender! – Common People Brewing

It began not with a flashy press release or a viral TikTok, but with a quiet agreement between a third-generation Brooklyn brewer and a Virginia farm. In a world where craft beer is often defined by its rebellion, this collaboration stands apart—measured, deliberate, and rooted in the soil of origin. Beyond the hype, this convergence reveals a quiet revolution: industrial brewing reimagined through regenerative agriculture, where every pint tells a story of land, labor, and lineage.

At the heart of this story is Peter Holloway, brewmaster at Brooklyn’s Root & Reed Brewing, who, 18 months ago, drove 90 minutes south to meet a 300-acre operation in Essex County, Virginia—Holloway Farm. What started as a simple inquiry—“Can you grow barley that tastes like sun-ripened soil?”—unfolded into a partnership that challenges the myth that urban craft beer is inherently disconnected from its ingredients. The reality is, both Brooklyn and Virginia share a common challenge: reclaiming agricultural authenticity in an era of industrial homogenization.

Virginia’s soils, particularly in the rolling piedmont region, offer a rare terroir—loamy, slightly acidic, with a mineral backbone shaped by centuries of conservation tillage. Holloway Farm’s Gabe Mitchell, a fourth-generation farmer, has spent a decade transitioning to regenerative practices: no-till planting, cover cropping with clover and rye, and integrating rotational grazing. “We don’t farm for yield alone,” Mitchell explains. “We farm for flavor. The grain carries the memory of that soil—its depth, its resistance.” For Root & Reed, this means more than sustainable sourcing; it’s a sensory transformation. Barley from Holloway Farm yields a malt profile with wildflower nuance and a subtle earthiness absent in conventionally grown equivalents. The difference isn’t just in the lab—though sensory panels confirm a 17% higher phenolic complexity—but in the narrative woven through every fermentation cycle.

But the real innovation lies in the logistics. Brooklyn’s microbreweries have long prided themselves on local procurement, yet most rely on regional distributors with opaque supply chains. Root & Reed reengineered its distribution model, partnering directly with Holloway Farm for just-in-time grain delivery—minimizing carbon miles and ensuring peak freshness. This shift isn’t just ecological; it’s economic. By paying a 22% premium over commodity grain rates, the brewery injects liquid capital into a rural economy historically bypassed by craft beer’s urban-centric supply chains. As Holloway puts it, “We’re not just buying barley—we’re investing in generational stewardship.”

Data confirms the impact. A 2024 study by the American Brewing Association found that breweries sourcing within 100 miles report 34% higher customer loyalty metrics, driven by transparency and traceability. Root & Reed’s Virginia barley now features in over 80% of its seasonal releases—from the hazy “Sunset Ridge IPA” to the seasonal “Blackwater Rye Sour.” Each batch is tagged with a QR code linking to the farm’s satellite map, harvest date, and soil health metrics, a move that blurs the line between consumer and co-creator. Customers aren’t just drinking beer—they’re tasting accountability.

Yet this model isn’t without friction. Regenerative farming demands patience: cover crops require winter dormancy, no-till systems need recalibration, and yields can fluctuate in transition years. For Holloway, the trade-off is deliberate. “Industrial brewing often treats agriculture as a cost center,” he notes. “But when grain becomes a living archive of soil and climate, every hectare turns into a variable worth nurturing.” The 2-foot elevation difference between Brooklyn’s skyline and Virginia’s piedmont isn’t just topographic—it’s symbolic. One city built upward; one down, rooted deep.

Beyond the taproom, this convergence reflects a broader industry reckoning. As global supply chains grow volatile, breweries are reevaluating “local” not as a marketing buzzword, but as a risk mitigation strategy. Virginia’s 2023 Farm to Brew Initiative, offering tax incentives for urban producers sourcing within 150 miles, has doubled participation in regional craft networks. Yet authenticity remains elusive. Greenwashing threatens to dilute genuine partnerships—R&D teams at major breweries now face scrutiny over “regenerative” claims lacking third-party verification. The Holloway-Root & Reed model sets a benchmark: traceability isn’t optional; it’s foundational.

For the consumer, the stakes are personal. A pint of Root & Reed’s “Virginia Ridge Porter” isn’t just a drink—it’s a contract. With every sip, one traces barley nurtured on sun-baked Virginia fields, harvested by hands that know the land like old friends. In an age of hyper-processed convenience, this is radical: beer that demands attention, honors complexity, and resists the pull of abstraction. It’s craft redefined—not as rebellion, but as reverence.

The Brooklyn-Virginia axis isn’t a trend—it’s a testament. Brewing, once disconnected from the earth, is now returning to it: through soil, through story, through structure. And in that return, a new paradigm emerges: beer that doesn’t just refresh, but reanimate. Beyond the taproom, this convergence reflects a broader industry reckoning. As global supply chains grow volatile, breweries are reevaluating “local” not as a marketing buzzword, but as a risk mitigation strategy. Virginia’s 2023 Farm to Brew Initiative, offering tax incentives for urban producers sourcing within 150 miles, has doubled participation in regional craft networks. Yet authenticity remains elusive. Greenwashing threatens to dilute genuine partnerships—R&D teams at major breweries now face scrutiny over “regenerative” claims lacking third-party verification. The Holloway-Root & Reed model sets a benchmark: traceability isn’t optional; it’s foundational. For the consumer, the stakes are personal. A pint of Root & Reed’s “Virginia Ridge Porter” isn’t just a drink—it’s a contract. With every sip, one traces barley nurtured on sun-baked Virginia fields, harvested by hands that know the land like old friends. In an age of hyper-processed convenience, this is radical: beer that demands attention, honors complexity, and resists the pull of abstraction. It’s craft redefined—not as rebellion, but as reverence. This quiet alliance is already rippling outward. Local food hubs in both boroughs now feature “brewery-sourced” barley in community dinners and school programs, bridging urban and rural education around sustainable agriculture. Young farmers, inspired by Holloway’s transition, are returning to the land with brewing partnerships as a viable economic anchor, reversing decades of rural outmigration. Even major distributors are adapting: regional co-ops now prioritize direct contracts with producers like Holloway, reducing intermediaries and ensuring greater transparency. The true measure of this movement lies not in spreadsheets or press clippings, but in the subtle shifts—how a farmer’s confidence grows when a brewer visits the field, how a customer feels a deeper connection to what they drink, how a city’s microbrewery becomes a steward of heritage rather than just a purveyor of product. This is more than a regional experiment; it’s a blueprint. In a world fractured by distance and distrust, Brooklyn and Virginia are proving that brewing, when rooted in place, can be a force for connection. As Peter Holloway often says, “We’re not building a brand—we’re growing a network.” And in that network, every grain tells a story, every pint carries purpose, and every sip tastes like hope.

Brooklyn Meets Virginia: Where Brewing Meets Farm-Fresh

It began not with a flashy press release or a viral TikTok, but with a quiet agreement between a third-generation Brooklyn brewer and a Virginia farm—Peter Holloway and Gabe Mitchell—whose shared vision transcended the limits of urban and rural. Beyond the hype, this convergence reveals a quiet revolution: industrial brewing reimagined through regenerative agriculture, where every pint tells a story of land, labor, and lineage.

At the heart of this story is Peter Holloway, brewmaster at Brooklyn’s Root & Reed Brewing, who, 18 months ago, drove 90 minutes south to meet Gabe Mitchell, owner of Holloway Farm in Essex County. What started as a simple inquiry—“Can you grow barley that tastes like sun-ripened soil?”—unfolded into a partnership that challenges the myth that urban craft beer is inherently disconnected from its ingredients. The reality is, both Brooklyn and Virginia share a common challenge: reclaiming agricultural authenticity in an era of industrial homogenization.

Virginia’s soils, particularly in the piedmont region, offer a rare terroir—loamy, slightly acidic, with a mineral backbone shaped by centuries of conservation tillage. Holloway Farm’s Gabe Mitchell, a fourth-generation farmer, has spent a decade transitioning to regenerative practices: no-till planting, cover cropping with clover and rye, and rotational grazing. “We don’t farm for yield alone—we farm for flavor,” Mitchell explains. “The grain carries the memory of that soil—its depth, its resistance.” For Root & Reed, this means more than sustainable sourcing; it’s a sensory transformation. Barley from Holloway Farm yields a malt profile with wildflower nuance and a subtle earthiness absent in conventionally grown equivalents. The difference isn’t just in the lab—though sensory panels confirm a 17% higher phenolic complexity—but in the narrative woven through every fermentation cycle.

This quiet alliance is already rippling outward. Local food hubs in both boroughs now feature “brewery-sourced” barley in community dinners and school programs, bridging urban and rural education around sustainable agriculture. Young farmers, inspired by Holloway’s transition, are returning to the land with brewing partnerships as a viable economic anchor, reversing decades of rural outmigration. Even major distributors are adapting: regional co-ops now prioritize direct contracts with producers like Holloway, reducing intermediaries and ensuring greater transparency.

The true measure of this movement lies not in spreadsheets or press clippings, but in the subtle shifts—how a farmer’s confidence grows when a brewer visits the field, how a customer feels a deeper connection to what they drink, how a city’s microbrewery becomes a steward of heritage rather than just a purveyor of product. This is more than a regional experiment; it’s a blueprint. In a world fractured by distance and distrust, Brooklyn and Virginia are proving that brewing, when rooted in place, can be a force for connection.