The ice tinkles into the glass and a golden-colored aqua vitae follows. The heady smell of malt whiskey permeates the air. We settle down with our nightcaps, companionably reading or chatting as the mood takes us. The little window of light we cast onto our backyard illuminates the swirling flakes of snow, the last snowfall this winter. Even though I've complained endlessly about the weather this year, I feel a bit sad, I wont be waking up anymore to the sheer beauty of a winter wonderland. Wanting to make the most of it, I watch the flakes at their complicated dance, mesmerised as I sip from my glass .
The oars break the surface of the water, sending little ripples outward from the epicenter. A new moon hangs over the water, casting an unearthly glow over the scene. To the man, it seems they're the last people on earth. There's no other sound in the little boat, the others are too shocked, too still. He shakes his head slightly, for a moment it seemed he heard cannon fire, smelled the rusty tanginess of blood, heard their cries . he shudders as the boat nudges land. They're on *An t-Eilean Sgitheanach(Isle Of Skye) at last.
They hustle their precious cargo out, hide the canoe and their leader forges ahead with the utter familiarity and confidence of a lifetime spent on the island. They stay away from roads, creeping silently along ditches and fields, the thigh-high heather softly tickling their kilts, going still at any sound. The man is concerned only with placing one foot before the other, worried that his reserves might die out before the interminable night ends. Suddenly, a looming pile disperses the night around them. It's the castle, the windows blacked with cloth to prevent any light shining through. An old, old man with deep grief carving additional lines in his face hurries to welcome them. He curtsies deeply "Your majesty!"* [*]
I blink, back in the present, the tension from the little scene settling in my bones. I smell smoke, and sniff a bit alarmed thinking wildly of cannon fire and gunpowder. I relax when I realise it's only the peaty aroma of the Talisker my partner is drinking. I swirl my own drink, willing all the volatile molecules to mingle, agitate, escape into the air and breathe them in deeply for comfort. I love sniffing* Drambuie* before drinking it, as a whiskey liqueur, the smell is deceptive. The bouquet is a heady mixture of fine aged malt and straight grain whiskies with a teasing hint of something floral in the background. The surprise comes as you drink it. Wonderfully rich and mellow all at once, the after taste of the herbs, spices and heather honey mixed into the whiskey lingers on the palate. A whiskey connoisseur might turn in his grave, but the sweetness of the honey combined with the malt makes this a truly memorable experience. Much as I like the honey, I still need my dram on the rocks, otherwise it's a tad too sweet. The name Drambuie comes from the Scottish Gaelic phrase an dram buidheach, meaning the drink that satisfies. Smiling at the aptness of the name, I sip appreciatively .
A Jeep travelling over a mountain road on the isle of Skye. It's winter, so all the windows are rolled up, the heater is working overtime and the group inside are all a bit light-headed with the combination of engine fumes, mountain curves and lack of food. They havnt eaten since breakfast and it's 5:00pm now, and food still isnt on the agenda. The driver grips the wheels of the jeep grimly. They've made him stop playing his single tape of Clannad, and in a moment of devilry, ostensibly to introduce him to Indian music, more because they want an expression to their lousy mood, have started playing *antakshari. As the vehicle crests the Cuillin, the unevenly sung refrains of pyaar hua, ikraar hua, die away on their lips, they gaze spellbound. This is an uninhabited side of the island and the sheer beauty and harshness of the granite, basalt and green surrounding them is breathtaking. The driver smiles, he's silenced them at last .
I'm frowning now, at the memory of my younger, thoughtless self. Without thinking, I take a hasty swallow that brings tears to my eyes. My partner frowns at me, I can see him thinking it's a criminal waste to be quaffing whiskey, even if it's a liqueur. I make a moue at him and take a proper sip. This one goes down just right, warming me on it's way, like a good Scotch or brandy might, I have a pleasant buzz already. I take another sip and close my eyes .
The Scottish giant has the undivided attention of the couple in front of him. The boy is tall, but the Scotsman towers above them. They are all standing in the summertime-grass covered gleann and he makes a varicoloured picture, red-headed clad in a snowy white shirt and red, blue, green plaid amidst the grassy vista behind, dotted only with the occasional sheep. He's explaining the intricacies of the Scottish tartan patterns to them. The girl's eyes keep dropping to his stocking where she spies glimpses of a little jewelled hilt among the skirts and red felt.
He finally notices and with the air of a master conjurer, pulls out a deceptively innocent-looking little knife. It's a sgian dubh, a ceremonial dagger. With all the excitement of a boy, he points to the little notches and a groove running the length of the blade, the better to stay inside a person and drain their blood when you stab them he says, suiting word to action. She shivers, partly due to the cold wind that has just whipped by and due to the sudden fierceness of his expression. The boy smiles down at her and slips a comforting arm around her shoulder .
"Hey, where were you?", he asks gently, reaching out to slide a finger along my arm. His touch pulls me back to the present. I gaze into my goblet where the liquid amber winks under the lights, I can feel the Scotland of the past fade away to be recalled like a favored ghost when time permits. My companion smiles at me, the man in my thoughts, albeit a bit older, with the same sweet smile that comforted before. "Right here", I say as I thread my fingers in between his and smile back into his eyes.
[*] In 1746, Prince Charles Edward Stuart fled to the Isle of Skye after the failed Stuart uprising against the English throne. There, he was given sanctuary by Captain John Mackinnon. After staying with the Captain, the prince rewarded him with this prized drink recipe. The Mackinnon family launched it commercially in 1906.~ Drambuie legend
Interested in other recipes? Try drambuie drizzled over some warm fruitcake, Drambuie creams, the Rusty Nail(Drambuie&Scotch) or any number of cocktail recipes listed on the Drambuie website.
It cost approx$30+ for a 750ml bottle and is 40% ABV, so as always, drink responsibly.
