A WHISKY MOMENT

Just a few miles up the road is Edradour Whisky, the smallest distillery in Scotland. They make some of the finest whisky in the land, but only in very small quantities - their annual output is about the same as the large distilleries manufacture in a day. Only twelve casks of whisky are produced a week, by hand - with no automation - by three men. It is sold in very few outlets and it is scarcely available outside a very small local geographic radius. It is not shipped to Australia so the bottle I am bringing back home will be quite unique.

Whilst I've been here, I have been fortunate to enjoy a few wee drams of Edradour cream whisky with Jeanette; Edradour single malt with Gordon; and Edradour cask matured with my brother. The shop at Edradour has whiskies for sale that cost up to four hundred pounds (nearly $800) a bottle.

The text on the opening page of Edradour's website is as eccentric as any I've seen. It also typifies the Scottish love of, and relationship with, whisky and golf:

I don't know what it is about fairway woods.

Ten years I've been playing golf - time enough to reduce my handicap to a respectable level, time enough even for Edradour to mature - but not, it seems, to master a fairway wood.

Yet I persist in trying and have at least achieved consistency - one of the most acute slices you ever saw (not that I'd let you see).

 So it was this one time, on the final hole, it happened. The eighteenth is a long hole, with a nasty dogleg halfway along it. I'd overhit my tee shot, and the trees wouldn't allow me the green in less than three. Pity.

A pro might do it with a lot of spin. A pro I thought or my fairway slice.

 I took the wood, a deep breath and swung. And true to bad form, the ball arced gracefully round the trees, bounced on the fairway, and ran to the heart of the green.

 In the clubhouse later, over a glass I was asked: "Who taught you shots like the last one?"

 Sad to say modesty left me as I replied: "Some things just come naturally".

 Edradour …enjoy life's small victories.

In other news .....

1600 litres of domestic heating fuel have been stolen from a local castle. The police sent around an email to alert us to be vigilant for oil thieves.

Icicles are dangling from the gutters, some almost two feet in length (or over half a metre in 'new length'). They point menacingly down over doorways. I try not to dilly-dally on doorsteps as I don't much fancy being speared through the head.

I am packing up my cottage today and saying more goodbyes. Tonight I am having dinner with Jeanette, Gordon, Paul, Teresa, Gilmour and Mahri and then a farewell drink with Eric in the pub. Tomorrow morning a haggis, neeps and tatties brunch with Jeanette & Gordon. Fingers and toes are crossed that the forecasted snow storm does not dump over Edinburgh and Heathrow and thus delay my departure.

Although I cannot think of a better place to be stranded, especially as I will have my bottle of Edradour whisky for warmth!

'HASTE YE BACK' AFTERNOON TEA

Jeanette organised a marvellous afternoon tea for a group of my new friends as a farewell. The table groaned with high calorific sandwiches, savouries, scones and cakes all prepared by the guests, and washed down with French champagne and, of course, the ubiquitous tea.



Paul, my golf buddy, prepared an exotic gateau for the occasion, appropriately themed as the 19th hole:



His wife Teresa apologised for the putting green being brown. She had offered to sort through all the mixed assortment of sprinkles and pull out the green ones but their larder only had the chocolate variety. I thought a brown green was perfectly acceptable as it's the colour an Australian course will turn when scorched by the summer sun.

The mention of summer sun revealed that there is some pent up longing for holidays in Australia, so we can expect a few guests. People hereabouts still seem a little flummoxed that I have actively chosen to be in their country in winter - and managed to survive the coldest winter for many years. Dawn checked through her diaries and reckoned 1984 was the last winter to match this year's conditions.

There were a few bits of news to catch up on from over Christmas and New Year. On Boxing Day, Lavender's house burned down but apparently the fire service volunteers included a couple of local women who thoughtfully made rescuing some of her personal belongings, such as photos, a priority. Nevertheless she is now in a temporary home, still shocked by the experience. Everyone agreed that the New Year's Eve ceilidh had been a great night. Plans for upcoming January social events - Mahri's birthday, the WRI dinner and Burns night - were discussed. Life will keep ticking over.

Tea eventually gave way to champagne again. We toasted 2010.

"Haste ye back," they said.

"I will!"

SOLVING PUZZLES

The good news is that Eric has found his teeth .. in a bag of potatoes! Quite how they got there - or indeed how they dropped into the bag unnoticed by Eric - is unclear, but I have a suspicion that whisky and a lengthy round of First Footing visits may have played a large part. Apparently he spent all day yesterday spring cleaning his house, turning everything inside out until eventually he found them in a cupboard, in the potato bag.

The bad news is that today I am starting to pack up as I leave on Wednesday. My golf clubs and shoes have been cleaned to satisfy the most pernickety of quarantine inspectors. Now all that remains is to sort through the detritus of 10 weeks, chuck the rubbish and work out how to cram what remains into three cases and a 32 kilo luggage allowance - which I think will keep me fairly pre-occupied over the next couple of days as I seem to have accumulated a mountain of new possessions: warm clothes, knitting bag, fur coat, sporran, bird feeder etc etc etc.

I was finally able get my car out this morning, albeit with Gordon giving it several hefty shoves to get over the snow. I collected my last Sunday paper from the shop and then drove over to Bruar, marvelling at the vast expanse of pure white moors with nary a footprint or tyre track to be seen, from which I always half expect to see a mad Heathcliff-like figure stagger out of the wilderness. All I encountered were a few deer, sheep buried up to their tummies, an abandoned car and a half-built igloo.

I am also in a race against time to complete my Beatrix Potter jigsaw, which I have promised to give to Gilmour. Even though the subject matter may be a bit effete for him, I figure that it is solving the puzzle that's the challenge, rather than niggling about the colour of  Mrs Tiggy Winkle's apron. His wife gave him a jigsaw mat for Christmas, which enables him to roll up his puzzle mid-completion and put it away, so at least if guests turn up unexpectedly he can hide away his predeliction for Peter Rabbit and Jemina Puddleduck, thus sparing his blushes.

The mat sounds a somewhat better solution than my makeshift tray, formed from an Amazon.co.uk box:

EMERGENCY IN THE VILLAGE

Last night there was an emergency in the village. Eric lost his front teeth. Gordon found him wandering the pathway in front of our cottages looking for them. In the snow. Well, he had certainly had them in at midday when he visited me with his pack of whisky and vodka. After that visit, he went to Ian next door for another wee First Foot dram. And then on to Elaine and Ronnie's. Ronnie swears he had his teeth when he left. The whole village is on high alert. With more snow falling again today, the pressure is on to find his clickers before they get buried.

This loss certainly explains another small mystery: why Eric was not to be seen sitting on his usual seat in the pub last night. Eric is very particular about his spot in the pub, always the same stool at the end of the bar. So much so, that on New Year's Eve he decided he wouldn't go to the pub because it would be packed and there would be nowhere to sit. One of his mates decided to take matters into his own hands and found a cafe table sign, sponsored by American Express which said 'RESERVED', and placed it on Eric's bar stool. Status quo resumed. Eric was persuaded to go to the pub after all, where lo! and behold, despite a bar crammed with revellers, his seat awaited him.

This is Eric a little later on New Year's Eve with his teeth in. I could offer this as an Identikit for a Wanted poster to put up in the village shop, perhaps?



So, with no Eric to entertain us last night, I tried to resurrect my glory days when I played on a darts team in New York, way back in the late 1970s. I challenged my brother Johnny and brother-in-law John to a game of 301. My first throw I hit a double 18. Meanwhile the boys struggled in vain to get their first double start in the game. I was down to shooting for a final double 15 before they even posted a score. Male egos were taking a serious bruising. Suzanne looked on with great interest as earlier in the week John had cockily challenged her to a game of pool and she had wiped the floor with him. She was keen to see him trounced yet again by a woman. But in the end, despite my valiantly aiming for a double 3, and then a double 2, John shone through at the finish with a scorching double 1 to take the game.

But enough of this idle chit-chat. I must pull on my coat and walk the lanes before it gets dark, to see if I can find Eric's dentures. Life will be miserable if he has to forgo his corner of the bar for another night.

FIRST FOOTING

Part One

There is a Scottish tradition in these parts called First Footing. After midnight chimes on New Year's Eve, apparently I must ensure that the first person to knock on my door is a tall dark man bearing gifts of coal, shortbread and whiskey. This will bring me good luck for the next 12 months. These gifts represent warmth, wealth  and food (as you might expect, hereabouts whisky is a food substitute). Conversely, if your first caller of the new year arrives empty-handed, turn him away, as only bad luck will follow.

Jean's mother-in-law once waited inside her home for more than a week, waiting for her First Footer, refusing to leave her house and thus risk a year's worth of bad luck. Eventually she called her son John and told him to hurry up and get on over to Aberdeen.

The other tradition which I am exhorted to follow is to open my back door to let the old year out, and then open my front door to open the new year in. As I do not have a back door I am fretting a bit about this. Would the upstairs skylight do instead?

Part Two

A fantastic night at the ceilidh! About 150 people crammed into the dining area of the lodge, of all ages, swilled beer and whisky, and danced til we dropped. Gordon was the 'caller' - the leader of the band and the man yelling out the step instructions during each dance. He must have learned about my extensive Scottish dancing lessons that I took in Sydney because he repeatedly chose me to demonstrate the steps (whether this helped the onlookers when they joined in is, however, debatable.). With little panache but lots of enthusiasm we took to the floor for the Gay Gordons, Strip the Willow, Virginia Reel, Dashing White Sergeant.

Part Three

At 11.00am this morning there was a loud knock on my door.  Brushing my teeth, still in my dressing gown, I answered the door and there stood not one, but two, tall dark men! Gordon and his son Stuart arrived bearing gifts of coal, shortbread and whisky.

"Would ye have a wee dram?" asked Gordon.

Whiskey flavoured with toothpaste, before breakfast, is an interesting way to start the day but local traditions must be upheld! At least now I am assured of a year of good luck. I pondered the problem of not having a back door to let out 2009. Gordon advised me to open my front door twice, instead.

At 12.00 noon there was another knock on the door. Eric had arrived to welcome in the New Year, clutching a large festive looking carrier bag.

"Would ye have a wee dram? Whisky or vodka?"

I am beginning to think the only way to survive New Year's Day is to brave the snow which is once again cascading down at an alarming rate, and go for a long walk. At least that way I might have a small chance of remaining upright today.