Looking out at random over the rooftops, I thought it was a sign. I tried to imagine the inspiration, without doubt divine, which once led the saint to macerate hops to make the liquid that would, for centuries to come, make rugby, hockey or football fans happy, before conquering wine drinkers thanks to artisan recipes. Where was he born (in Belgium? In Germany?) I asked myself, this holy man forgotten by all for the benefit of his invention. By going to the small pub of the same name, I expected to be greeted by the story of Saint-Hop, which would undoubtedly delight me . The small pub is nice, but no story, and I now feel a void, where I have imagined this saint who does not exist (unless one of my fascinating readers knows something I do not know).