Personal update - trains and automobiles; whisky, wine, and weed.

[johnny9fingers]

The Missus and I were up early yesterday to drive the Mother to Swansea, on the road to her ferry at Pembroke Dock, where she embarked to Ireland to visit the rellies and attend weddings and such like.

I'm never at my best in the mornings, but it doesn't do to dwell, my dears.

For some reason or other The Wife wasn't in too chirpy a mood either. Small spat ensued but we got to the Mother's for 6.15am. Then I drove to Swansea. Which is only two hundred miles or so. Madame and I said farewell to the Mother and headed for the sights of Swansea before taking a train to visit some of her old Uni chums who live in Bristol.

Amongst the delights of Swansea I can heartily recommend the Oxfam bookshop. They know roughly what stuff is worth, though they can rather under-emphasise the condition of the book when estimating a price. I bought a Folio Society edition of 'The Compleet Molesworth' to replace the last lost paperback I leant out, and a couple of slightly overpriced Pratchetts.

We changed trains at Cardiff and got into Bristol by about 2.15.
Taxi to chum's place: near Clifton and rather nice.
Found an independent wine shop of repute but two streets away and bought a brace of Picpoul, and a big Sicilian red for our hosts, for we were staying with them the night. Then I stupidly asked about Armagnacs....after ascertaining that he didn't have anything that interested me we moved on to Whisky. Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, our wine-shop chappie produced a bottle behind the other bottles: it was an Ardbeg Corryvreckan. And you know what, even given the premium he had evidently placed upon the bottle (which amounted to a 15% mark-up) I found I could not resist. So bottles in hand we returned to our hosts: who despite small children were abrim with bonhomie. All bundled into Our Hostess' car and over the Brunel bridge to pay a visit to our Host's parents and swim in their pool: it being a hot day and small humans needing to fill every waking moment with activity, less they turn into noise making machines of hysterical grumpiness. A bit like adults then. Hosts parents are pretty much as one would have imagined: goodlooking upper-middle-class oldsters of intelligence and some wordly accomplishments and success: and nice to boot.
Returned to Clifton-ish for supper. The evening was spent in civilised company, with good conversation, food, wine, and eventually, after cheese, we cracked open the bottle of Corryvreckan.
One of the best, if not the best.

I feel I've shelled out slightly too much for everything I paid for with money this trip, But the spirit of these odd holidays has meant that I've had a pleasureable experience whatever. Now to rein my horns in, I suppose. Time to do some practise.
 

Comments

[torpidai.livejournal.com]

Ardbeg Corryvreckan a single Malt from the Islay casks, I'd have downed 1/2 a bottle and done 1/2 a lap breaststroke of the paddling pool! (Any wonder it's rare for me to get an invite to taste the good stuff? lol

We're just a little North of the Leek-eaters/sheep worriers if you have bought too much btw :)

[johnny9fingers.livejournal.com]

I speak as a man who can 'do' the odd half bottle from time to time: it just ain't possible to drink half-a-bottle of Corryvreckan. Two generous slugs were my limit at that time of the evening, and Dave's too, it must be said. But we did a comparison with an old Bruichladdich (18 yo) and even though the Brookie was damn good indeed, the Corryvreckan was just stunning.

I have me a mind to try the new Ardbeg 'Supernova' 2010 ASAP. I doubt whether I'll ever shell out for a 'Lord of the Isles' though: £350 for a bottle of Scotch is a bit steep. Something about the law of diminishing returns; aging senses barely compensated for by a greater knowledge and understanding; and relative poverty, combining to render such expenditure unlikely, even if it's a one-off experience which does nobody else any harm.

There are limits to indulgence, but it is good to know. The problem with connoisseurship is the process of refinement, once started, only stops with either exhaustion, or poverty. Like the legendary drug addict who moves from pot to heroin in easy steps, eventually only the most complex and nuanced of pleasurable experience will do.

It's a sort of refined gluttony, but not, alas, an original sin. So I keep it in check as much as I can.