It’s been a busy week at Corner Cottage, although somehow it doesn’t feel as if we’ve achieved as much as in previous weeks. Maybe after all the stress and drama of moving out of Canberra, we were due a bit of a slump – just to recover and regroup.

Anyway, given that it’s Saturday evening, it’s dark outside and the fire is pulsating seductively in its ragged hole in the wall, I feel the time is appropriate to dip into a glass or two of a tipple I never thought I’d take to . . . but absolutely have: single-malt scotch. 

I’m not sure why we call it ‘Scotch’ whiskey rather than ‘Scottish’ or even ‘Scots’, but there will be a bore out there who would be happy to lecture us on the distinction – after all, it is  the kind of thing that attracts knowledgeable obsessive types who bang on about the notes of peat, the nose of toasted almonds and marshmallow, the subtle savour of fresh tarmac. Like many a philistine in the worlds of art and culture, my approach is more straightforward: I don’t know much about it, but I know what I like. 

As mentioned, this wasn’t always the case – as a younger man, beer was always perfectly adequate for my alcoholic needs (and is still most welcome). At that time, whiskey was something old geezers in suits with mortgages and ample earlobe hair drank. ‘Scotch, rocks’ seemed such an establishment affectation and way too expensive anyway.

Then there was the time at uni when, on a Friday afternoon, my mates and I pooled our cash and bought a bottle of Jim Beam and then proceeded to play dice for the privilege of doing shots of the disgusting fluid, with Violent Femmes pumping out of the speakers in someone’s res room. I must be bad at dice, because I ended the evening with my head in a metal dustbin, spewing uninhibitedly. So – no more Bourbon thanks.

This negative impression wasn’t improved when, as a postgrad, I was invited to a professor’s house to discuss structuralism or some such. He cracked a bottle of Laphroaig, assuring me I’d really love the seaweedy iodine overtones. After a  couple of glasses, neat, he intoned that it would go down even better if I took my shirt off. This smooth move was badly timed, though, as I proceeded to vomit liberally, bringing the evening to a timely end.

Despite this bad start, whisky was playing the long game, and back it came – this time in the hushed precincts of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society in Edinburgh. They say context is all, and, as with the priapic professor, the setting proved to be the clincher – especially on a dark winter’s eve: it’s kind of clubby, with cosy leather sofas, deep red walls, muted lighting and of course glowing coals in the grate.

There’s an extensive menu of whiskies to try, all cask-strength, and each is described in a witty and colourful way. Here’s one I found:

The Panel found curious notes of Fry’s Creams, a lady’s wardrobes and freshly tramped wheat fields at first. This opened up swiftly to include perfumed oak, lemon blossom, marzipan and pink marshmallow. Water revealed strawberry chocolate liqueurs, hibiscus, jasmine tea and a scoop of raspberry ripple ice cream (with water). The palate was full of lemon and ginger tea with notes of red lace sweeties, cocktail bitters, lavender oil and nutmeg. Reduction gave us fruit jelly sweeties, lime curd, melon balls, roasted parsnips with rosemary and a wee drizzle of linseed oil.

OK, that could be seen by the cynical as being a tad hyperbolic, but can’t you just taste it right now?

The measures are served in Glencairn glasses with a little jug of water – very necessary at cask strength – and after about three (maybe four), it really is time to leave or you’ll be going home horizontal on a stretcher.

As naturally as night follows day, came the time to recreate this experience in the comfort of home – and this is the best of all. It’s always been my intention to assemble a small collection of carefully selected bottles to sample ruminatively late of an evening, but generally one bottle seems to be finished before another can be bought. And yes, I do still put in a dribble of water – who am I to go against the established practice of The Panel at the Scotch Malt Whiskey Society?

At the moment I’m back on the Laphroaig – I’ve overcome the historic associations and really savour that seaweed tang; since landing in Australia, have polished off a nice bottle of Bruichladdich, another of Aberfeldy, and the old fallback, a very wallet-friendly Bowmore No. 1. Oh, and an Irish variant which, given my chosen career, seemed appropriate:

Recently, I wrote an article on the craze for whisky investing in China, and interviewed a millionaire collector. I expected a lot of bumf about private barrels and rare bottlings, and although these were mentioned, what impressed me most was that all the collectors regularly get together and drink deep of their investments. They feel that the value of their collection lies in the enjoyment of it together. That these collectors are in it for the craic is great precedent for both ‘investing’ in the golden nectar and drinking it in good company – an ambition to adopt for Corner Cottage.

Speyside or Highland, a glass of the old poison is just the ticket after a long day. And as some wit once said, “Malt does more than Milton can / To justify the ways of God to Man.” Slàinte mhath folks!  

Title photo by Dylan de Jonge on Unsplash