It hasn’t escaped our notice that July has arrived, as inevitably as any such change. Our ex-colonial cousins in the USA are celebrating their anniversary as an independent nation with fireworks and gatherings unhindered by best social distancing practice, while in the UK the pubs are opening after months of lockdown.

In Braidwood, we’re waiting out the results of the Eden-Monaro by-election, which at the time of writing is on a knife-edge between the incumbent Labor party (spelt the U.S. way) and the Liberals whose handling of the bushfires crisis earlier in the year may well have fatally damaged their chances. Celebrations will no doubt ensue for the winners when the count is finalised.

But this blog isn’t about politics. At Corner Cottage, we have made a commitment to Dry July: as a result of some quite heavy celebrations of late, we’ve been feeling the need to practice some abstinence – a little moderation in the alcoholic consumption department.

It’s the mark of the mature drinker that unchecked overconsumption is not necessary: that’s the preserve of the younger set, still on the journey to finding their sea-legs, so to speak. Not for us the tonsil-bothering excesses of beer pong, the projectile chundering that follows over-enthusiastic shot-swilling, the mouth-breathingly comatose conclusion to boozy parties.

And who needs the morning-after dry mouth, crapulous brain, the intestinal disarray? A seasoned imbiber faces the new morning with a yodel of joy, and optimistic spring to their step, and an undimmed view of the day’s sparkling promise.

As mature individuals, we are now more intrigued by the subtleties of various vintages, the nuances of different cultivars, the nose, the finish, the texture on the tongue. We match our wines carefully with food; we debate the appropriate ports to accompany cheese; we seek out the trendiest gins for our tonics. As you know, whisky is for ruminating over, as the fire smoulders in the grate and the stars wend their slow arcs in the chill winter skies outside.

So taking a break for the liver’s sake is no chore. It’s the grown-up thing to do, in the knowledge that a little moderation merely extends the duration of our enjoyment on future evenings. So tonight, the mercury dropping to near freezing, we gathered for our pea and ham soup (this time subtly enhanced with spinach and a little potato, whose starch thickened the texture deliciously), accompanied by hunks of local sourdough bread and chipotle butter.

The fire pulsated in its bed of coals, the soup went down nourishingly, while the by-election coverage droned on in the background. And to set it off nicely was a bottle of chilled Margaret River Sauv Blanc Semillon – surprisingly good on a winter’s eve. And if that’s not dry enough for your July, I don’t know what to tell you: it was just the two glasses – moderation in anyone’s book.

Cheers!