Why Not Just Close?

People ask this. Accountants ask it. Family members ask it. Sometimes you ask it yourself, usually at three in the morning when you can't sleep because the VAT payment is due on Friday and there's not enough in the account.

From a purely financial perspective, the answer is often straightforward: yes, you should close. The numbers don't work. The business is not generating enough profit to justify the capital tied up in it, the hours you're putting in, or the risk you're carrying. An accountant would look at your books and tell you to wind it up, and they wouldn't be wrong. The maths is the maths.

But a brewery isn't just a set of numbers on a spreadsheet.

You've built a brand that people recognise. Customers who come back week after week because they love what you make. Regulars at the taproom who've become friends. Local shops that are proud to stock your beer on their shelves. You've created something that exists in your community, that people care about, that has your name on it. Walking away from that isn't like closing a spreadsheet. It's like giving up on a part of yourself.

And it's not just about you. If you've got staff — even one or two people — closing means they lose their jobs. Local people who rely on the work you've given them. People who believed in what you were doing enough to come and work for you, often for not very much money. Telling them it's over is one of the hardest conversations you'll ever have.

You've also spent years of your life making this work. The early mornings, the late nights, the missed birthdays, the holidays that never happened, the money you put in from your savings or your pension. All of that was an investment — not just financial, but emotional. Closing the business means accepting that all of that sacrifice didn't lead where you hoped it would. That's not a decision. That's a grief.

Things were easier before Covid. Before 2020, the craft beer market was growing, consumers were curious, and the economics — while never easy — were at least manageable. Since then, everything has got harder. Energy costs went up. Ingredient costs went up. Consumers tightened their belts. Pubs closed. The cost of living crisis made a £3.50 can of beer a luxury that fewer people could justify. The industry didn't just have a bad year — it had several bad years in a row, and many breweries that were viable in 2019 simply aren't viable any more.

So you carry on. Not because the numbers say you should, but because giving up feels impossible. Because the brand matters. Because the people matter. Because you've poured too much of yourself into it to walk away. And every January, when the phone stops ringing and the orders dry up, you pick up that second job and you tell yourself that this year will be different.

The sensible advice — the honest advice, the advice this entire book has been building towards — is that the best way to avoid all of this is to not open a brewery in the first place. That's not defeatism. It's experience talking.