Bertie’s bar & Lochnagar schooled me in Scotland
Bertie’s Bar in the Fife Arms hotel, Braemar
As a West Country boy more likely to be found necking Irn Bru than sipping a single malt, it wasn’t until Tom Parker Bowles started shuffling toward middle age that he finally fell for the charms of Scotland and whisky…
It wasn’t love at first sight, nor even lust at first sip. With Scotland, I mean, and whisky. Perhaps it was because I’m a West Country boy, born in Wiltshire, and suckled on the teat of Wessex, a place where both Downs and accents are softly rolling, and ancient henges dot the plains. This part of Britain has a gentle, bucolic beauty, miles removed from Scotland’s altogether more muscular, ‘mon then ya bawbag’ appeal, with its city hewn from granite, mighty moors, and entire battalions of biting midgies. Not so much a different country than a whole new world, as alien to me as the Mines of Moria, or Mountains of the Moon. Sure, I loved Irn Bru (still do), Tunnock’s Tea Cakes and good haggis, sizzled in butter and topped with a fried egg. But a dram of whisky? Nope, not even a wee one.
It’s not as if I didn’t try. I did, endlessly, desperate to be seen as a sophisticated, macho swiller of Single Malt, pouring generous slugs of the stuff from heavy crystal decanters into equally chunky tumblers. Before adding a casual splash of water, drinking deeply, and sighing, in a suitably manly manner. But I just couldn’t get its point. Too fierce and uncompromising, too single-minded, whisky is a spirit that demands one’s undivided attention. Just like Scotland herself, it has scant interest in being unconditionally adored, and no time for preening flattery. Love it or loathe it, it couldn’t give two fecks.
The snow-flecked peak of Lochnagar. Photograph: Shutterstock
But slowly, over the years, dislike turned to, if not love, then certainly a growing attraction. As trips up north increased, to Ballater, and the Cairngorms National Park, the Auld Enemy became the new friend. I began to crave that air, pure and sweet, the roaring rivers, thrashing through rocky ravines, and the snow covered peak of Lochnagar. I even started to appreciate dreich, that peculiarly Scottish damp bleakness that, while deeply depressing in England, is somehow romantic up here.
‘Just like Scotland herself, whisky has scant interest in being unconditionally adored, and no time for preening flattery. Love it or loathe it, it couldn’t give two fecks’
As my adoration for Scotland grew, so too, did my appreciation of whisky. A couple of days spent on Islay, and touring the Lagavulin Distillery, gave me a taste for smoke. As well as the most almighty hangover. Next thing I know, I was sipping those smoky malts with joyous aplomb. But despite an ever-growing appreciation, there is no place for whisky wankery. Having grown up with a grandfather and uncle who were monogamous to The Famous Grouse (with little interest in Single Malt) my mind is as open as my tastes are basic. A few sessions with the experts at Bertie’s Bar at The Fife Arms in Braemar may have got me off to a flying start, but I’m definitely thirsty for more.
And, as I shuffle toward the middle of middle age, so my love for Scotland, and her blessed dram, swells. Ok, I’m admittedly more likely to toss a caber than dress up in a kilt and sporran. I’m an Englishman, after all. Who knows next to bugger all about whisky. Just a clueless amateur, then, but one who has taken his first faltering steps down that merry malted road.
Tom Parker Bowles is a food writer, author and critic
