For as long as anyone can remember, New Year – Hogmanay – has been a bigger deal to those living north of Anglo-Scottish border. Jason Goodwin explains why, and takes a look at the curious origins of this name.

I learned the elementary rules of surviving Hogmanay in a castle perched high on a bluff overlooking the gelid waters of the North Sea. It was New Year’s Day.

Hogmanay, as everyone knows, is a New Year’s revel, encapsulated in a word that fuses elements of cottage and war-cry, of homeliness and wildness, with no origin or meaning that anyone can reasonably define. Perhaps it’s old Gaelic or old French or Norse. Nobody, significantly, can remember.

That hasn’t stopped dictionaries from attempting to pin it down. ‘Early 17th century: perhaps from hoguinané, Norman French form of Old French aguillanneuf, meaning last day of the year, new year’s gift,’ reads the entry at oxforddictionaries.com. Macmillan’s etymology blog concurs, suggesting that this definition ‘makes perfect sense in view of the auld alliance, the traditional alliance between the kingdoms of France and Scotland before the latter became joined to England through the ascension of King James VI of Scotland to the English throne as James I in 1603.’

The OED, however, also suggests that there is an earlier Latin predecessor in the world hagnonayse, first recorded almost two centuries earlier in 1443. To add to the confusion, some sources believe there is a Gaelic derivation from haugmenn, the Icelandic word for ‘hill-men’, or elves, banishing trolls into the sea. And the BBC’s researchers throw in a different etymology entirely, citing a Norse word ‘hoggo-nott’, meaning Yule.

“Hogmanay does take to itself many of the more fiery and festive elements of Christmas, which the Presbyterians refused to celebrate because it wasn’t in the Bible – Christmas Day only became a national holiday in Scotland in 1958”

Given all these different accounts, let’s turn to Country Life’s editorial from 31 December 1898 instead for a pronouncement which we might as well decide is definitive: ‘if they [the etymologists] would forsake their books and consult the great heart of the people, they would find it to be a synonym for whisky.’

Defining Hogmanay is one thing. But surviving it? That’s a different matter entirely. That day in the castle everything started smoothly. We were whisked off the night train by our kindly hosts through a wonderland of frosted hedgerows, to be fed with ham and chocolate and entertained with views of the rolling sea.

The place was a hubbub of activity, preparing for the great Hogmanay dance that would stamp out the old year and trip in the new: there were telephone calls and people shooting off on bicycles and in Land Rovers as the roasting pit, which was to put the hog into Hogmanay, had its annual scrub.

The castle had certainly been cleaned from top to bottom and made pretty with boughs of greenery, although whether that was because of the party in prospect or because the household cleaved to the old Hogmanay rite of Redding the House, I can’t say. Traditionally, a house would be swept and aired before New Year, with particular care given to sweeping out the ashes of the fire.

The ashes can be read, like runes or tea-leaves, to predict what the year will bring. This is called spodomancy, but we had no spodomancers to hand. Nor did we participate in the ritual cleansing of house and farm known as ‘saining’, a spiritual affair, sprinkling the rooms with river water and burning juniper until everyone coughs.

Instead, our fire was lit in the quiet library, with a decanter on a side table and always that view of the darkening waves, as we guests from the south put in a few moments shuffling our feet on the Axminster, hoping to recall the Bachian geometry of Strip the Willow.

“You’ll be propelled at the head of a gregarious body to first foot the next people up the glen and on to the next, to wake eventually with a pounding head and frozen limbs, lying under cushions on the sofa in a strange house”

Outside, in the courtyard, bonfire preparations were under way. Fire looms large in Hogmanay celebrations and the fire festivals that take place across Scotland at New Year doubtless have roots in a pagan, Viking past. Hogmanay does take to itself many of the more fiery and festive elements of Christmas, which the Presbyterians refused to celebrate because it wasn’t in the Bible – Christmas Day only became a national holiday in Scotland in 1958.

At Stonehaven, young bloods swirl baskets of fire around their heads as they march to the sea. In Edinburgh, where the celebrations kick off with a torchlit procession through the town, they end with the burning of a wicker figure on Carlton Hill. Up Helly Aa has nothing to do with it (that is the torchlit procession on the Shetland Islands, in late January, which ends with the burning of a Viking longship. It’s very 19th century).

The torchlight procession in Edinburgh to launch the Hogmanay celebrations, led by 26 Up Helly Aa’ Vikings from Shetland.

There’s nothing very puritanical about first footing, however, especially when good luck is ensured by the arrival after midnight of a tall, dark, handsome stranger. The first foot can bring a number of magical fairy gifts, including black bun, fruitcake baked in a pastry wrapper, which Robert Louis Stevenson described as ‘a black substance inimical to life’.

First footing is, I think, at the very heart of Hogmanay, weaving a web of solidarity and neighbourliness. Some say the gifts should be coal, bread, silver and greenery, for warmth, good cheer, prosperity and long life. In return, the first foot gets a wee dram or two and may be sent from the house with a pan of ashes, swept from the fireplace during the Redding, to represent the departure of the old year.

In all the talk of tall, dark, handsome strangers, the key word is stranger: you may be small, even ugly, but if you’re a guest, and a man, it may fall to you to bring in the black substance inimical to life.

As a one-off, this is jolly. You steal from the house before midnight, carrying your trappings, stamp about in the cold looking for holly as everyone inside cheers and sings, and then return, to knock with appropriate pomp on the front door and be welcomed in with thumps, kisses and a stiff drink.

“We drank what was left in the ice buckets and a few bold souls slaked their thirst with amber liquid before our host led us on a seven-mile tramp along the beach to town”

At this point, in remoter settlements, you may find yourself being recycled. Everyone loves a stranger at Hogmanay. You’ll be propelled at the head of a gregarious body to first foot the next people up the glen and on to the next, to wake eventually with a pounding head and frozen limbs, lying under cushions on the sofa in a strange house. Women may first foot these days, but redheads? Never.

Mug up on your dance steps and do at least learn one verse of Auld Lang Syne, a feature of New Year celebrations the world over, although it was set to die a natural death until Robert Burns revived it. The national bard called it ‘an old song, of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript until I took it down from an old man’.

At the castle, the pipers skirled, the reelers whirled, young and old trod the measure. It was a wonderful, magical night. Outside, sparks flew and the hog rolled on his spit. Then came a morning, and drowsy revellers rose like the sheeted dead, clutching their heads and croaking for water. And there was none, as the pumps had failed in the night.

We drank what was left in the ice buckets and a few bold souls slaked their thirst with amber liquid before our host led us on a seven-mile tramp along the beach to town. There was a ceilidh in the hall and hot tea, truly wet, and buns. We were so much revived that, as I recall, we carried off a prize for dancing. The rudimentary lesson? Stick to your drink and keep a jug of water by the bed.

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Whisky prices have gone through the roof of late, with 2018 seeing a 40% rise – but is it a bubble or the genuine emergence of a new collectible asset?

The rise and rise of whisky as one of the world’s most astonishing investments has been nothing short of extraordinary. The world record sale price of whisky was broken twice in the space of a few weeks at the end of last year – both times by a 1926 Macallan.

The first fetched £700,000 at Bonhams in Edinbrugh in October. It was part of a limited release by Macallan of a 1926 whisky cask that was bottled 60 years later in 1986. 12 of the bottles were released in 1989 with labels designed by pop artist Peter Blake, designer of the Beatles’ legendary album over for Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. 12 more were released four years later with labels designed by Italian artist Valerio Adami. The £700,000 bottle was one of the latter dozen, and was a couple of hundred thousand more than a pair of similar bottles had each fetched just a few months earlier in April.

A couple of weeks later, however, a similar bottle – albeit one with a Peter Blake label rather than an Adami one – went for a fair bit less at Sotheby’s in New York. Had the whisky market hit its peak? Not a bit of it.

The very next month both hammer prices were made to look like the sort of money you’d pay for a bottle of Aldi single malt. Another example from the same batch sold for £1 million at Christie’s in London, this time in a bottle sporting a one-off design by Irish artist Michael Dillon. Take into account the various fees and the actual price paid was £1.2m.

The reason it went so high? Well, there’s the obvious: Macallan is the world’s most sought-after single malt, the 1926 its rarest bottling, and the Dillon bottle the rarest example even of that – one whisky blog referred to it as the ‘Holy Grail of collectible Macallans’.

Beyond that, though, why? We’re talking about a bottle of booze rather than a great work of art – though of course this sort of bottle blurs that line considerably. Is it really rare, unique and special enough to justify that sort of price? Or is this a bubble, in the manner of everything from tulips to Bitcoin over the years, which will one day seem absurd to future generations.

‘Whisky guru Charles Maclean apparently gets mobbed by collectors when on lecture tours in Asia’

Genuine appreciation and enthusiasm has undoubtedly helped fuel the boom, but speculation is absolutely part of the equation. There is also a suggestion that some ‘collectors’ are actually consumers, happily drinking the fine single malts and clarets which they buy at auction, rather than merely putting them in a dusty cellar. Obscene as the sums involved might be, we can’t help admiring such chutzpah – and unlike those who race £1m classics at Goodwood, there’s no ‘repairing’ a bottle of whisky once you’ve drained the final dram.

Knight Frank recently tackled this question in their annual Wealth Report, which called 2018 a ‘transformational year’ for rare single malt, reported aggregate price rises of 40% and predicted that ‘prices will continue to harden’ for those lucky enough to hold a bottle of something from one of the ‘right distilleries’.

“Don’t drop it… DON’T DROP IT!!!”. The Macallan Valerio Adami 1926, a 60-year-old Scotch, fetched £700,000 in October 2017. Although 12 bottles of The Macallan Valerio Adami 1926 were produced, it is not known how many of them still exist. One is said to have been destroyed in an earthquake in Japan in 2011, and it is believed that at least one of them has been opened and consumed. (Pic: Alamy)

Indeed so keen were the researchers on the whisky market that they even commissioned a separate report, ‘Why Asian investors are going mad for malt whisky’, which described it as ‘an investment of passion by high-net-worth collectors’.

Whisky guru Charles Maclean apparently gets mobbed by collectors when on lecture tours in Asia, according to the report, while the private jets of Chinese billionaires are regularly spotted at Aberdeen and Edinburgh. It’s not just Scotch, however: Japanese whiskies are also sought-after, with one selling for around £300,000 last year.

Extraordinary stuff. If you’re reading this with a dawning realisation that you’ve either drunk or given away a bottle that might now be worth a fortune, don’t feel too bad – even the experts have been caught out. Sukhinder Singh, founder of the Whisky Exchange and one of Britain’s foremost experts on the Water of Life, told Knight Frank that he sold one of those 1926 Macallans for just £5,000 few years ago.  ‘I don’t feel too bad,’ he added. ‘I’ve still got a few bottles.’

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We’ve all heard the hype about English gin and sparkling wine, but those with an eye on the future should look to whisky, says Rupert Ponsonby.

English whisky is set to fly – and about time, too, I reckon. Gin’s renaissance should be a lesson for us, an inspiration. Sipsmith was the pioneer, battling against officialdom until, one day in 2009, a fax stuttered in from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs to say ‘Yes, go make gin’. It was the first copper-pot based distillery in London for 189 years.

We’re all aware that Scotland is the king of whisky, but it’s little known that 70%–80% of all gin produced in the UK comes from Scotland, too. However, amazingly, England now has more distilleries than Scotland, according to HMRC, with 166 distilleries compared with 160 in the burnished north. Of the 54 new distilling businesses firing up in 2018, 39 were in England, 11 in Scotland, two in Wales and two in Northern Ireland.

The beauty of gin and vodka is that they can be distilled, bottled and sold within three weeks. Compare that with whiskies, which use expensive barrels and need lots of handling time, plus space for storage. Then there is the legal minimum for three years of ‘ageing’, bottling costs and all that goes with it. Gin is providing the cash flow for so many new distillers, but it’s the higher-value English whisky that could be a nest egg for the future.

Old Harry Rocks and Purbeck Hills on a sunny day.

In 1887, Alfred Barnard visited the few producers in England for his great book The Whisky Distilleries of the United Kingdom. He named 10, but visited only four, so it’s likely that the other six were producing industrial alcohol or gin instead.

The four visited by Barnard were the Bristol Distillery, established in the 17th century, which made only ‘grain’ whisky – highly rated as a blending material in Scotch and Irish whiskies; the Vauxhall Distillery in Liverpool, founded in 1781 and producing only grain whisky; the Bank Hall Distillery in Liverpool, which produced grain and malt whisky; and the Lea Valley Distillery, Stratford, London, which produced whiskies of both grain and (barley) malt and closed down in 1905.

That marked the end of single-malt production in England until 2003. This lack of great history means the English whisky industry has the chance to develop its own style, free from the shackles of the past.

Scotch single malt is governed by the Scotch Whisky Regulations 2009, which define production, packaging and advertising. By comparison, English whisky abides by an EU Regulation of 2008, which, although largely similar, opens the door mentally to innovation. ‘The most significant difference in regulations between Scotch and English whisky is that the latter isn’t bound to only using oak casks,’ explains whisky writer Dave Broom.

According to Brewer and Distiller International magazine, English whisky ‘can be made from any cereal, including rye, oats, barley and wheat; distilled in any type of still, and matured in casks made from whichever wood they choose (maple, chestnut, cherry, oak), and pre-filled or not with sherry, port, rum, whiskey or whatever takes the distiller’s fancy’.

The mere fact that England is warmer than Scotland may well also change the speed and manner in which the whiskies will age in the barrel and produce riper flavours.

Back in 2003, Hicks & Healey of Cornwall (www.healeyscyder.co.uk) was the pioneer in England (Penderyn of Wales started in 2001). It combined the prowess of St Austell’s brewery with the stills and innovation of Healey’s cider farm in what was largely an academic project, but its 2011 single-malt Cornish Whiskey (note the ‘e’) was voted the best new release of 2011.

In 2006, St George’s Distillery in Norfolk (www.englishwhisky.co.uk) followed suit, launching its first three year old in 2009. The farming Nelstrop family is the biggest English producer and has a powerful reputation for its many peated and non-peated whiskies, aged in barrel on the farm and bottled on site using its own water.

Adnams of Suffolk, the canny brewer, started distilling in 2010 and launched a 2013 bottling from new French and American oak barrels. It now makes Single Malt No:1, with aromas of apricot and honey, and Triple Grain No:2, with musings of chocolate and spice – both at 43% ABV.

The Cotswolds Distillery in Shipston-on-Stour, Warwickshire, released its first three-year-old whisky in 2017, using former Bourbon barrels and re-charred red-wine casks. It prices sensibly and presses the ‘local’ button by committing to using only Cotswold malts in all of its single-malt whiskies.

The Lakes Distillery, near Bassenthwaite in Cumbria, also fired up in 2014, releasing its first single malt in 2018 at a record price for one from a new distillery: £7,900 a bottle.

London is catching up fast. In 2018, The London Distillery Company of Bermondsey released the first single-malt whisky from the capital for more than 100 years and it has a 100% rye whiskey at 54.3%, which has rested in new English (yes, English, not American or French) oak barrels.

These were followed by the East London Liquor Company in Bow Wharf, which launched its first rye whisky in late 2018. Pricing is likely to be at £60–£70 a bottle when it’s offered to the general public this summer. Other distilleries to watch out for include Isle of Wight Distillery (2015), Spirit of Yorkshire (2016), Copper Rivet Distillery of Kent (2017), Dartmoor Distillery (2017) and Durham Distillery (2018). Still more are hiding in the wings, but there are dangers for English whisky.

Dawn Davies of The Whisky Exchange worries about occasional greedy pricing – with some first-release bottles issued at hundreds or thousands of pounds – and the over-use of new oak barrels, leading to vanilla-scented whiskies with little complexity.

The concerns of Guy Hodcroft of Master of Malt include whiskies being released too early, before they’ve gained character and complexity, and about the lack of regulations to keep fly-by-nights in check.

Both of them are, however, positive that English whisky can differentiate itself from Scotch and find its own identity, with many styles already available. Experimentation is rife and distillers are bringing the same sort of intellectual madness to English whisky as brewers did to revitalising the UK’s burgeoning beer scene. Given time, English whisky could well be the next big thing.

Six to try

• Cotswolds single malt 2014, 46%. Orange peel, honey, oak and a lick of demerara, made with 100% floor-malted barley. £44.95, www.cotswoldsdistillery.com.
• The English Original Single Malt, 43%. Understated and welcoming, with sweet oak and creamy walnuts. £39.99, www.englishwhisky.co.uk.
• Spirit of Yorkshire’s Maturing Malt ‘004’, 46%. Innovation! Not yet a whisky. Caramel, orange and roasted nuts. £39.95 for 70cl,  www.spiritofyorkshire.com
• Copper Rivet’s Son of a Gun, 47.4%. 120-day-old not-yet-whisky of wheat, barley and rye, from a pot still. Honey, oats, raisins and kumquat. £32, www.copperrivetdistillery.com.
• Bimber Distillery, 47.9%–63.5%. 30-month-old not-yet-whiskies from different casks. £39 for six 5cl, www.bimberdistillery.co.uk.
• Sacred Peated English Whisky, 48%. Norfolk whisky further matured in sherry casks in London. Smoke, sea salt, pineapple, clove, vanilla and Christmas cake. £47.95 for 70cl, www.sacredgin.com. 

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Ten years ago an Oxbridge scientist turned his considerable brainpower to distilling proper Caribbean-style rum — and a host of other spirits — in the heart of Cambridgeshire. Emma Hughes tells his story.

If Ian Fleming’s Q had decided to go into the spirits business, he might have approached it a bit like Dr John Walters.

‘I was listening to Radio 4 and they were going on about the joys of eaux de vie, spirits made from distilling wild-fruit wine,’ the former Oxford biochemist explains.

‘At the end, the presenter said “Of course, you can’t do this in the UK — it’s illegal.” I thought, that sounds like rubbish.’

It was 2009 and Dr Walters, who had just sold his business, was looking for a new outlet for his scientific knowhow. Having confirmed that it was indeed perfectly legal to own a still of up to four litres (just under a gallon) for personal use, he built himself one in a shed. Then, using the grapes growing up his house in Dullingham, Cambridgeshire, he made cognac.

The results were so impressive that, eventually, he decided to go full-time.

Having filled out all the relevant paperwork and expanded his operation, Dr Walters found his new venture, English Spirit, ‘knocking out about 120 bottles a week, which was actually quite hard work’.

His small team started making vodka and gin from East Anglian sugarbeet, but, at that stage, there weren’t that many vodka and gin drinkers. ‘We needed to broaden the portfolio and I suddenly thought why is nobody doing rum?’

The spirit had struggled to shake off connotations of provincial nightclubs and package holidays, but Dr Walters knew it could be something special. ‘If you make it from proper sugarcane molasses, as it was historically, the flavours are spectacular. It’s like drinking liquid Christmas pudding.’

The path to the bottling of England’s first commercially-produced rum, however, was less than sweet in parts. Unlike gin, which is fairly straightforward to distill, rum is demanding and fiddly.

‘The molasses was actually a real b****r to ferment,’ Dr Walters admits.

‘The yeast didn’t like it, it was very acidic, took a long time to generate alcohol and the amount of alcohol produced was quite low. It’s a really sticky, gooey, messy, awful job.’

However, all the expense and difficulty was worth it in the end: Old Salt, a golden rum, has a caramel nose, notes of cocoa powder and sponge pudding on the palate and a finish that’s been described as ‘a rich concoction of treacle tart and vanilla ice cream’.

‘It was named after the site we were on, the old salt depot at Dullingham — it had been a site for holding road grit,’ confides Dr Walters. ‘No romance at all!’

Its launch coincided with a growing awareness that spirits weren’t only for mixing and a groundswell of appreciation for the work of artisan distilleries: in 2014, Old Salt was named the world’s best rum at the Hong Kong Rum Festival.

Next up was English Spiced Rum. ‘Spiced rums were often a traditional way of polishing up rubbish spirits by adding flavours to mask the defects, but ours is Old Salt embellished with cherries, hibiscus and vanilla.’

To celebrate English Spirit acquiring Treguddick Manor in Cornwall (which the company now runs as a Poldark-ish spirit school), he launched St Piran’s, a white rum — the kind drinkers are most inclined to turn their noses up at.

‘Most people think white rums should be buried in a large Coca-Cola,’ admits Dr Walters. His, made with water from a borehole at Treguddick, is distilled four times to refine the flavours.

‘You’re chipping away at rough spots and, depending how you distill, you can bend the flavour profile any way you like. It ends up with these gorgeous, citrusy notes bombing through a caramel base. Because it’s clear, you just don’t expect those kinds of depths of flavour.’ For this reason, he recommends people drink it with their eyes closed.

 

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Today, English Spirit has three sites (the third, at Great Yeldham in Essex, is home to 20 copper stills, as well as the Walters family) and, last year, the company produced more than a million bottles.

Although rum is still at the heart of the business, Dr Walters has experimented with everything from chilli chocolate to cucumbers, but there’s one ingredient he won’t be touching again.

‘There was a time we were trying to make parsnips into brandy,’ he remembers. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to press them, but it’s a bit like pressing a cork: down goes the press, out comes the juice, up goes the press, back in goes the juice. When you’ve got a ton of parsnips in front of you doing that — well, it was a bit of a tragedy watching that unfold one day. You’re better off roasting them.’

English Spirit, Great Yeldham, Essex – www.englishspirit.uk

Winter snowfall, springtime mildew, hail and the hottest, driest summer in generations have conspired to make 2018 Bordeaux vintages something you must absolutely snap up, explains Harry Eyres.

Another Bordeaux vintage, another opportunity, as the en primeur campaign gets into gear, for exaggerated claims of greatness? Perhaps, but I was genuinely impressed by the handful of 2018 Bordeaux barrel samples I managed to taste on a short trip in March. In pockets, at least, this is an exceptional vintage, which should be represented in every serious claret lover’s collection.

Why you should be buying it

Last year was ‘hell and paradise’, according to Gabriel Vialard, technical director of the Pessac-Léognan cru Château Haut-Bailly, one of the châteaux I visited and was most impressed by. The hell part of 2018 was hail and especially mildew, caused by the damp spring and early summer; Haut-Bailly lost half its crop.

The paradise was the remainder of the long, warm, dry growing season from late June to October. Very high levels of ripeness were achieved and the challenge for many was retaining freshness.

Three wines to buy and try

At an entry level, the consistent cru bourgeois Château Beaumont 2018 looks an excellent bet. I’ve yet to taste it, but have heard good reports — not just of this cru bourgeois, but of others from the heavier soils of the northern Médoc.
£114 per dozen IB from www.davywine.co.uk

https://www.instagram.com/p/BvtBdk5ni_i/

At more exalted heights, I loved two of the Pessac-Léognan greats. Domaine de Chevalier 2018 (right,) has beautiful, fresh elegance and completeness, with layer upon layer of pure fruit.
Estimated to cost £325–£390 per six IB; www.leaandsandeman.co.uk

The other I tried is something which will become truly incredible: Château Haut-Bailly 2018 (est. It’s almost opaque in colour, with great brooding depth on the nose; the first impression is of silky suavity, backed up by multi-layered density. This is a great wine in the making.
Estimated at £500–£600 per six IB; www.leaandsandeman.co.uk

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As the sun makes its usual sporadic and dismal efforts to warm Britain up as summer approaches, thoughts turn to the great question of the day: what to sip while sitting out in the sunshine. Whether your poison is wine, beer or something harder, we’ve a suggestion for you.

Gin: Elderflower gin liqueur

There are some people, few though they may be, who feel guilty having a full-strength G&T before five o’clock in the afternoon. For those people the drink of their summer will undoubtedly be Hedgepig’s Zesty Elderflower Gin Liqueur, a charmingly flavourful gin liqueur with a clean flavour smooth finish that’s drinkable with tonic, over ice, and does well with a slice of apple to garnish.

While less-conventional flavours of gin are popping up all over the shop, this one is delicate and scrumptious — and all-too-easily finished. The best part? As well as easing your conscience by having a G&T with gin that’s ‘only’ 29% alcohol, you’ll ease it further with the knowledge that for each bottle sold 50p is donated to the British Hedgehog Preservation Society. Obviously if the hedgehogs are your priority then you could always pick something up from Aldi and send the (considerable) difference to the charity, but, well, every bit helps.
Hedgepig’s Zesty Elderflower Gin Liqueur – £32 for 50cl from www.fruityhedgepig.com

Beer: Ginger and Kaffir lime wheat beer

We first tried Lowlander’s beers a few weeks ago and were heartily impressed, in particular by the Poorter — the spelling, like the company, is Dutch. Against that backdrop it was with some excitement that we popped the lid on one of their low-ish (2.5%) alcohol summery beers, namely the ginger and Kaffir lime wheat beer made with Darjeeling tea and cardamom. What a disappointment it was, for the first few sips. The next few were slightly more palatable. And after that it started to go down brilliantly, a wonderfully fragranced and balanced summer drink.

Note that distinction: drink, not beer. This — and the Yuzu and prink grapefruit flavour – are beers for people who don’t really drink beer. Go in with that knowledge and they’re delicious.
Lowlander beers, £2.49 a bottle from www.beerwulf.com

White wine: House of Certain Views Pinot Grigio 2017

‘We all tend to get stuck in ruts,’ wrote Country Life’s wine columnist Harry Eyres in Wednesday’s edition of the magazine following a trip to a Shrewsbury wine merchant. ‘I was brought up on red Bordeaux and white Burgundy and still love them, but those staples of town and country taste only represent a fraction of what the wine world has to offer. There is clearly also life beyond Prosecco, Pinot Grigio and Sauvignon Blanc, so hats off to Tanners of Shrewsbury for unearthing some truly unusual and satisfying curios.’

Top of Harry’s list of something a little different is a Pinot Grigio which, he says, goes far beyond the ‘insipid, quasi-industrial kind churned out by too many Italian producers.’ This 2017 vintage from the Hunter Valley has what he describes as a ‘truly enticing floral, blossomy nose and a rose-tinged muskiness on the palate — it’s slightly off-dry, but not sweet.’ Perfect summer drinking fare, in other words.
House of Certain Views Pinot Grigio 2017 — £10.90 from www.tanners-wines.co.uk

Non-alcoholic: Robinson’s Summer Edition Fruit Cordial

Forget orange squash, and even lemon is not quite enough to get the full summer-hit you need if you’re mixing something a little special for those who can’t (or won’t, or don’t) want a boozy summer tipple. But this concoction from the classic English squash makers sounds ideal: a strawberry, cucumber and mint cordial.

Robinson’s suggest mixing it with sparkling apple juice, fresh lime and a sprig of mint — or even, if you can rustle up the energy, a strip of cucumber and a half strawberry, as pictured above. If this particular mix of flavours doesn’t inspire you, they also make pear & elderflower, crushed lime & mint and rhubarb, raspberry & orange blossom versions.Robinson’s fruit cordial — £2.50 for 500ml from supermarkets including Waitrose, Sainsbury’s and Tesco

Home-made: Elderflower ‘Champagne’, according to Country Life’s classic recipe

Our classic recipes for home-made elderflower wine , cordial and bubbly are — though we say it ourselves — pretty much unbeatable. Obviously they taste better if you’ve foraged your own elderflower — the time to pick them is early in the morning on a hot dry day. But don’t do go picking if you don’t have the time: they must be used straight away for maximum effect.
How to make elderflower wine, cordial and champagne

The good news, for those who've always fancied owning a Rolls-Royce but have never quite had the means, is that the company's latest creation is priced from £37,000. The bad news is that it has no wheels, no seats, no engine, and is used for chilling Champagne.

‘It’s reassuringly expensive,’ jokes Gavin Hartley, Head of Bespoke Design for Rolls-Royce, as he stands over his newest creation like a benevolent Pygmalion admiring his Galatea. The difference between his ancient predecessor and their respective creations is that this proverbial sculpture is not carved from marble but crafted from anodised aluminium and leather.

Traditionalists might raise an eyebrow — perhaps even both — at the very existence of the Rolls-Royce Champagne Chest. And those eyebrows might nudge still further upwards when they hear that, as part of this project, the iconic British company has gone into partnership with the Champagne owned by the rapper Jay-Z.

Yet nobody could deny that, as Champagne chests go, this one has been as diligently designed and manufactured as one of their luxurious vehicles. ‘The finest materials are married with pinnacle engineering to provide an experience like no other,’ Gavin promises, and it seems that he does not promise in vain. It’s an object that’s as functional as it is beautiful.

Designed to be the centrepiece of an elegant environment — from penthouse to terrace to garden party to yacht — the Champagne chest does exactly what is says on the box, and a few more things besides. Opening with the touch of a button and not a small dosage of theatre, the exterior lid of oak (which doubles as a handsome serving tray) raises to reveal a perfectly-arranged four-person Champagne set.

Hand-blown glasses are presented in a style reminiscent of a V12 engine in the central chassis, while side pockets open automatically to reveal an elegant mixture of the magical trio of the aperitif world: Champagne, caviar and canapés.

The thermal Champagne coolers are perfectly appointed to take great care of your favourite tipple. Crafted from anodised aluminium and carbon fibre, they are designed to keep their precious cargo at optimal imbibing temperature for as long as one should need it to be so.

For caviar lovers, two ‘caissons’ designed to fit 30g tins are accompanied by two blini caissons, fitting together like an elegant puzzle nestled in one of the hammock-like leather side pockets. For those who prefer a different array of snacks to accompany their bubbles, three porcelain bowls concealed in a similar thermal cylinder with a delightfully playful soft-touch opening can be swapped into one of the side pockets.

Everything about the Champagne chest is designed to be as tactile as a brand new car. Illustriously embroidered ‘RR’ napkins are hidden under the lid and two mother-of-pearl spoons accompany the caviar caissons.

The materials used throughout the chest will be exceedingly familiar to Rolls-Royce owners; the lid is a dashboard, the chassis a bonnet and the interior supple leather seats.

Naturally, as a Rolls-Royce product, personalisation is not only possible but actively encouraged; the team say that they envisage customers matching their chest to their car, and making all manner of alterations to ensure that it perfectly suits their own unique lifestyle.

For the launch of the chest the Sussex car company has gone into partnership with Armand De Brignac Champagne, a fit which seems utterly ideal for this particular project. It’s a bubbly made by the ancient Cattier house based in Montagne de Reims, a business which has been in the Cattier family for 13 generations and over 250 years. Yet the Armand De Brignac Champagne itself has, like Rolls-Royce, moved into the 21st century apace: this bubbly, including their iconic Ace of Spades Champagne, is owned by Shawn ‘Jay-Z’ Carter.

Jay-Z initially earned fame as a rapper, but his life and career have gone far beyond that today. His marriage to Beyoncé and canny business moves have almost made him a billionaire — and he’s got a well-documented love of famous French fizz that long pre-dates his purchase of Armand De Brignac a few years ago.

And nothing has changed in the production of the bubbly itself. Walk through the cellars and the unique gold colour of the bottles glows in the dim light of the extensive space, which was used as a shelter during World War II and has ceilings marked with  soot from the candles used to light the dark, damp rooms. Each rack is hand-turned daily to leave the necks of the bottles crystal-clear; a process too-often done by machine. A group of only 18 highly skilled people touch a bottle, from the pressing of the grapes to the moment the bottles leave the cellars.

The ‘Ace of Spades’ Champagne is meticulously produced in small quantities exclusively in the Cattier cellars. Finest grapes from the region are selected, regardless of cru, every season and sustainably picked, pressed and bottled. Each bottle contains a trio of vintages, bringing together unique characters from different harvests into one fruity, soft and balanced beverage.

Although Jay-Z’s rap empire and the quiet cellars of Cattier do not seem like a likely pairing, the entrepreneur’s influence has seen Armand de Brignac become a household name in the United States — even if, retailing at around £300 a bottle, it’s certainly not a household product. Again, you could say the exact same for Rolls-Royce.

All in all, then, the pieces of the jigsaw fit together rather well. This chest is designed to appeal to the car lover, the art lover, the Champagne lover and the epicurean, a delight for those who value the combination of function, whimsy and fresh gadgetry.

The Rolls-Royce Champagne Chest is available to acquire through Rolls-Royce dealerships, with prices starting from £37,000 excluding local taxes — www.rolls-roycemotorcars.com.

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Our regular wine columnist Harry Eyres rounds up the best of a miracle decade and tells us why we should be drinking vintage bubbles.

Regular readers of Country Life magazine will know of my predilection for vintage Champagne. So far, no cure for this condition has been discovered, apart from the regular replenishment of exhausted stocks of older vintages with younger replacements. Fortunately, we seem to be living in a golden age of vintage Champagne, with much more regularity of good vintages than was the case in the past. The price differential between vintage and non-vintage remains relatively modest and doesn’t really reflect the vastly increased sharpness of focus you obtain when you look through the lens of a single year.

Ancient Champagne families can draw on their own supplies of vintages when the circumstance arises (the Cattier cellars have a virtual mausoleum of bottles which date all the way back to 1937) but for those of us without the benefit of a long-standing investment in the vineyards of Reims, more recent decades will do nicely.

Why you should be drinking it

The 2000s were something of a miracle decade for vintage Champagne, with one of the greatest of all vintages in 2002, possibly matched by the splendid 2008, with 2004 and 2006 not far behind. I have a soft spot for the overlooked 2007s and the ripe, delicious 2009s. Now, 2012 is showing why some consider it the equal of 2002.

What to buy

Henriot 2008 (£586 per dozen from www.ivvltd.com) impressed me especially, with its crisp, crunchy texture and lovely balance (50% Pinot Noir and 50% Chardonnay). More Pinot Noir-dominated and even more complex and magnificent, with ripe, roasted aromas and great mineral freshness, is Billecart-Salmon 2008 (£70 from www.champagnedirect.co.uk). Moving to the newly released 2012s, Pol Roger 2012 (£79.95 from www.thefinestbubble.com) is showing delectably pure, crisp apple and citrus fruit and superb balance.

Moët et Chandon Vinage Blanc 2012 (£54.95 from www.thefinestbubble.com) is pale gold, with some biscuit, brioche notes on the nose. It’s appley crisp and fairly tight and will get better and better as it loosens – I wish that were true of all of us.

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Some particularly attractive Greek wines deserve our attention, states Harry Eyres.

Greek wines continue to make – I was about to say steady, but perhaps the better word is stealthy – progress on the wine scene.

‘When “the most sensitive vinifier in the whole of Bordeaux”, takes on a new project on an obscure Greek island, it’s sensible to pay attention.

That fashionable restaurant the Chiltern Firehouse even has its own Greek sommelier, the impressive Katerina Grigoriadou. There is good reason for this: the country is a treasure house of unique autochthonous varieties and no one is yet charging silly prices.

Why you should be drinking them

When Stéphane Derenoncourt, the man Jancis Robinson once described as ‘some reckon… the most sensitive vinifier in the whole of Bordeaux’, takes on a new project on an obscure Greek island, it’s sensible to pay attention.

‘The unconventional, quietly spoken M. Derenoncourt has been responsible for two of the Bordeaux wines that stand out for me vintage after vintage’

The unconventional, quietly spoken M. Derenoncourt has been responsible for two of the Bordeaux wines that stand out for me vintage after vintage, Canon La Gaffelière and La Mondotte. Now, he has turned his attention to Tinos, a barren and rocky Cycladic island best known for religious festivals.

What to buy

T-Oinos Avgoustiatis 2017 (£29.99; www.thewinetwit.com) has immediately attractive freshness and a chocolatey richness – think Beaujolais with an eastern-Mediterranean twist. M. Derenoncourt, however, believes that clearer messages from the soil can be obtained from two other varieties, Assyrtiko and Mavrotragano.

Clos Stegasta Assyrtiko 2017 (£44.95; www.masterofmalt.com) is quite deep gold in colour, with great richness and density, some oak influence and this variety’s characteristic mineral intensity.

Clos Stegasta Mavrotragano 2010 (£74.99; www.thesurreywinecellar.co.uk) is extremely deep in colour, vibrant and graphitey on the nose (just a hint of a great Pauillac, such as Mouton Rothschild), dense and concentrated on the palate. Special stuff indeed.

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Another week has gone by in which producers and purveyors of goods have asked themselves not 'what does the world

To properly mark World Gin Day on Saturday 8th June, we've pulled together five of the very best gin cocktail recipes for you to try, from a classic G&T with a very special gin to the rambunctious Rock, Rattle and Rose.

A soliloquy to gin would not be out of place on a day like this, but as it would be decidedly unpatriotic to express that level of sentiment towards a non-relative in public, we will refrain.

We will say it’s no surprise that this gorgeous drink is the nation’s favourite – gin sales almost doubled over the last two years, with more than 66 million bottles of the fine stuff sold in the UK over 2018 alone.

Although we for the most part support Churchill’s sentiment that ‘I would like to observe the vermouth from across the room while I drink my martini’, we do think that, on occasion, a little extra liqueur and a garnish or two do not go amiss. So, without further ado: Cheers and bottoms up.

To begin: The classic

You hardly need an ingredients list with this one but just in case – a glass of ice, a slice of lime, pour until you feel slightly nervous then fill your glass with a tonic of your choice.

We will say that, on this auspicious occasion, we recommend you swap out your favourite tipple for one designed to be drunk tomorrow (or at least have get it in stock for next year).

The World Gin Day Gin from That Boutique-y Gin Company promises to be a gin like no other, with seven botanicals sourced from our planet’s seven continents. Its juniper comes from Europe, liquorice root from Africa, cinnamon from Asia, coriander from Australia, angelica root from North America, lime from South America, and lastly, salt from Antarctica.

It’s velvety smooth and the definitely one to add to the drinks cabinet.

The World Gin Day Gin from That Boutique-y Gin Company, £31.95 from www.masterofmalt.com

Bombay Sapphire’s ‘Laverstoke’

Celebrating the opening of their Laverstoke mill in 2014, Bombay Sapphire contrived this delicious summer cocktail as a change of pace from the classic gin and tonic (although what’s wrong with a Bombay and lime we couldn’t possibly tell you).

Ingredients

• 50ml Bombay Sapphire gin
• 15ml Martini Bianco vermout
• 10ml Bottlegreen elderflower cordial or 15ml St-Germain elderflower liqueur
• 75–100ml chilled Fever-Tree ginger ale (freshly opened is best)

Method

Squeeze 2 freshly cut lime wedges into a clean glass and then drop them in. Pour the gin, vermouth and elderflower over the lime and swirl well to mix. Fill the glass with good- quality, cubed ice and stir with a bar spoon. Chill briefly. Finally, pour the ginger ale down a twisted bar spoon (into the spoon end) over the ice and gently stir the cocktail at the same time, ‘folding’ to combine the liquids.

Elderflower Gin Liqueur and Tonic

There are some people, few though they may be (and certainly not in our offices), who feel guilty having a full-strength G&T before five o’clock in the afternoon. For those people the drink of their summer will undoubtedly be Hedgepig’s Zesty Elderflower Gin Liqueur, a charmingly flavourful gin liqueur.

Method

Best served simply with a plain indian tonic, over ice. It does well with a slice of apple to garnish.

You can buy 50cl of Hedgepig’s Zesty Elderflower Gin Liqueur for £32 from www.fruityhedgepig.com

The Rock, Rattle and Rose

Something a little bit different to encourage you to finally purchase the gin coupe glass you’ve had your eye on for so very long. Crafted in Caithness, Rock & Rose’s gin family has swollen since 2014 to include a navy strength gin as well as one for every season. For this recipe, we recommend the classic.

Ingredients

• 50ml Rock Rose
• 25ml lime juice
• 5ml mint syrup

Method

Pour all ingredients into a cocktail shaker, add ice and shake until cold (remember to point the shaker away from you to avoid any accidents). Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe and garnish with fresh mint.

A Pinkers variation

A huge part of gin’s two-year production spike is down to the sale of flavoured and ‘pink’ gins. In 1824, Dr J.G.B Siegert created Angostura aromatic bitters as a healing elixir for soldiers fighting in Venezuela and 24 years later, one enterprising Royal Navy ship surgeon added a few dashes of these bitters to ‘a jigger of gin’ to alleviate complaints of seasickness. Thus, the original ‘pinkers’ (as it was affectionately known by naval officers) was born.

Ingredients

• 60 ml gin (a classic like a Bombay or even, dare we say it, a Gordons, will do just fine)
• 2 dashes Angostura aromatic bitters
• 100ml Prosecco Rosado

Method

In a mixing glass, stir gin and Angostura aromatic bitters with ice to chill. Strain into a gin coupe, top up with prosecco rosado and garnish with summer berries or a twist of lemon for a zesty bite.

Angostura®aromatic bitters are available in Morrisons stores nationwide at £10 for a 200 ml bottle. 

And finally… proof that the gin market really has gone to the dogs

If you’re looking for a doggy-getaway at the end of this summer, we have just the ticket. The Craft Gin Club and dog-friendly travel experts Pets Pyjamas have put together the perfect pairing for your and your furry friend.

The experience includes a two night stay at charming The Bell in East Sussex (dog friendly, of course), some lovely dinners and the imparting of knowledge of the spirit one does absolutely not need but must, as a Brit, ardently desire. For puppy, miles of footpaths and forests including Bewl Water Reserve will be right on your doorstep.

The Dog Friendly Gin Tasting Experience is priced from £350 from 8^th to 10^th September or 22^nd to 24^th September. Visit www.petspyjamas.com for more information and to book. 

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Red is for red meat and white is for poultry and fish, but what is rosé for? The answer is of course that rosé is for summer, anywhere, anytime, from pale blush to startling pink. Sophie McAlpine has rounded up some of Country Life‘s favourites to be enjoyed this summer. And after all, if you‘re going for a bottle, it may as well be a magnum...

After a full magnum I’m sure everyone would be hearing whispering angels…

A comprehensive mix of Grenache, Rolle, Cinsault, Syrah, Mourvèdre grapes make up the world’s most-sold rosé. And it is surely a well-deserved accolade; the Chateau d’Esclans age their impressive range of grapes to produce a wine with the fullest flavour, even in this dry and crisp rosé. The Château’s owner, Sacha Lichine, claims that the wine got its name because, after enough glasses you might just ‘hear the angels whispering in your ear’. Hopefully the angels don’t say ‘go on, hot sun, no shade and another magnum sounds like a great plan’.

£49 per magnum, available from www.themagnumcompany.co.uk

M is for mmm, go on. One more glass.

Château Mintuy, located on the Côte d’Azur, have been specialising in rosé wines since the mid-19^th century. Pop the cork of this rosé, made of Grenache, Cinsault and Tibouren grapes, and allow the fresh fruit aromas to transport you to the Riviera before filling your glass and enjoying, alongside a velvety Rocamadour goats cheese.

£37 per magnum, available exclusively at The Magnum Company’s store in Burlington Arcade

AIX-elent

Deliciously dancing between notes of red fruits and citrus, this rosé is a true summer treat. It is balanced by gentle spice and a mineral complexity, derived from the vineyard’s location on a mineral-rich plateau 420 metres above the Mediterranean, where conditions for growing Grenache, Syrrah and Cinsault are the best in the world. Get it down you, good sir.

£28 per magnum, available from www.themagnumcompany.co.uk

Unusually complex, but traditionally simple to drink

The red fruits typical of the Grenache, Cinsault and Syrrah are balanced by the freshness that comes with the presence of Rolle grapes in this unusually complex rosé. Even its colour is a surprise- a beautiful sunrise shade of pink. Every grape picked in the village of Correns where Miravel is situated, is certified 100% organic.

£39 per magnum, available from www.themagnumcompany.co.uk

Ancient wine for a good time

A nice rosé from a nice place (incidentally, the english translation for ‘beau lieu’): Château Beaulieu’s 140 acre estate lies within an ancient volcanic crater that has bee a vineyard since Roman times. The wine is a balanced mix of Garancha, Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah perfect for all those moments that demand a truly classic rosé like summer barbeques, and midweek dinners…

£29 per magnum, available from www.themagnumcompany.co.uk

Sharp and complex, the bitter-sweet Italian digestif Amaro is enjoying a new-found popularity on British shores, says Flora Watkins.

According to bartending folklore, it’s 100 years since Count Camillo Negroni walked into Caffè Casoni, Florence, and asked for a stronger version of his usual tipple, an Americano. The barman obliged by adding gin (rather than the normal soda water) to vermouth and Campari – and a classic cocktail was born.

The true provenance of the Negroni may be lost in a haze of botanicals (as the late chef and author Anthony Bourdain observed of his ‘perfect drink’, it will ‘hit you like a freight train after four or five’), but, since its creation in 1919, it’s become the second-most requested cocktail in the English-speaking world.

Nick Williamson of Campari UK confirms a ‘real resurgence’ is under way, with UK sales of Campari up by 37% last year, compared with 2017. This summer, the company will mark the centenary of Count Camillo’s concoction with a launch party for Negroni Week (June 24–30), at which 100 variations of the cocktail will be served.

‘When I took over, nobody ever touched it. Now, we go through one bottle every two weeks and Aperol is as famous as Pimm’s.’

It has taken a long time for British tastebuds to catch up with the count’s. The bitter kick of a Negroni’s key ingredient, Amaro (usually in the form of Campari), has long been enjoyed as a digestif in Italy. Here, however, it hasn’t been to everyone’s taste – blame our unsophisticated palates and those 1970s ‘Luton Airport’ adverts with Lorraine Chase and her Campari and lemonade.

‘In Italy, wherever you go, there will be the local Amaro,’ says Alessandro Palazzi, head barman at Dukes hotel in St James’s (‘Shaken, not stirred’, December 12/19, 2018). ‘They’re mainly drunk after dinner, on ice or straight, to help the digestion. My uncle drank it as a corretto – an espresso with 10ml of Amaro.’

When Mr Palazzi arrived in London in 1975, the only Amaro he encountered was the odd bottle of Fernet-Branca in an Italian restaurant. ‘When I took over, I introduced an Amaro called Cynar, made with artichoke,’ he recalls. ‘Nobody ever touched it. Now, we go through one bottle every two weeks and Aperol is as famous as Pimm’s.’

Aperol – Campari’s slightly sweeter, orange-hued sibling – has enjoyed an even steeper rise in sales: up 56% in the UK last year. Mr Williamson, who has overseen Aperol Spritz (Aperol, Prosecco and soda, with a slice of orange) ousting Pimm’s as the go-to drink for many when the sun comes out, attributes this success to ‘a broader trend for bitter tastes and flavours; dark chocolate, kale, espresso’.

For Ian Hart of Sacred Spirits distillers of Highgate, London N6, the new popularity of Amaro ‘makes perfect sense, after the rise of gin, vermouth and cocktail culture’. Mr Hart began working on his own Amaro ‘initially, to produce the missing element in a Negroni’ (he already produced a gin and a spiced English vermouth made with English wine).

‘That first sip is confusing and not particularly pleasant,’ he said of the Negroni. ‘But man, it grows on you.’

In the quest to make ‘something that was red, bitter and had complex herbaceous and spice elements’, Mr Hart incorporated oris root, Peruvian ginger and a number of other distillates, together with the gentian root that gives Amaro its characteristic bitterness. The distinctive colour of his Rosehip Cup – ‘we decided that, rather than giving it an unconvincing Italian name, we’d give it an English name’ – is achieved with grape skins. Mr Palazzi uses Rosehip Cup, as well as Sacred Gin and Sacred English Spiced Ver-mouth, to make the London Negroni at Dukes.

Mr Hart also produces a bottled Negroni. ‘It ages very well in bottles, it matures and softens,’ he divulges. ‘Mark Hix has it on his menu – he calls it the Full English Negroni.’ With his summery Rosehip Spritz, he aims to provide the weddings market with an English alternative to an Aperol Spritz.

Although Mr Williamson concedes ‘more Aperol is drunk in the summer than winter’, he sees it as ‘a great start to your evening, whatever the weather’. Food writer Valentina Harris serves Campari soda at her Christmas drinks parties as the vibrant red colour ‘makes everything look festive’. That glorious colour is extremely Instagram-friendly, which helps drive its popularity with millennials.

If you’re yet to be converted, now is the time to give it a try. Just keep Bourdain in mind. ‘That first sip is confusing and not particularly pleasant,’ he said of the Negroni. ‘But man, it grows on you.’ Cin cin.

How to make a Rosehip Spritz

• 2 parts Sacred Spirit Rosehip Cup
• 3 parts sparkling wine (Nyetimber is best)
• 1 part soda
• Serve in a large wine glass with ice and a slice of orange

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It’s been dubbed ‘the world’s most idiotic marathon’: a 26-mile run through vineyards, fuelled by wine and cheese. Emma Hughes finds out if she has the stomach for the legendary Marathon du Médoc.

History doesn’t record what Pheidippides, the Ancient Greek soldier who ran to bring the Athenians news of their victory over the Persians in the Battle of Marathon, was thinking as he trudged along. Whatever he imagined his legacy might be, it almost certainly wasn’t a long line of people in various states of intoxication wobbling through vineyards, trying not to be sick.

The Marathon du Médoc, which has been taking place in and around Pauillac since 1985, is infamous. Participants (who tend to be British; in terms of doomed endeavours, this is up there with the Charge of the Light Brigade) are expected to break 23 times to gorge themselves with the region’s finest — and richest — foodstuffs. Plus, of course, a glass of claret at each stop.

‘Is this the world’s most idiotic marathon?’ ran the headline on a feature covering the race a few years ago. The general consensus appears to be ‘yes’. And I’ve put my name down to do it.

The Pichon Longueville castle on the route.

I am neither a runner nor a heavy drinker, so I’ve pressganged my friend Edward into joining me. He’s a Withnailian dilettante whose blood type is Port.

We’ve barely taken off for Bordeaux when he reaches into his bag and pulls out a travel-sized bottle of sherry. ‘Full of electrolytes,’ he announces, offering me a swig.

I decline, thinking of the gargantuan quantity of wine I’ll be expected to get through the following day. Nobody, I tell myself, has ever actually died running the Marathon du Médoc — but there’s always a first time, isn’t there?

Our base for the weekend is Les Sources de Caudalie, an enchanting collection of converted barns and a grand manoir arranged around a lake: The Wind in the Willows meets Versailles. Wine, obviously, is the thing here: the hotel’s rooms overlook the famous Château Smith Haut Lafitte winery and the spa offers a series of ‘vinothérapie’ treatments.

‘I wish I’d trained more, but is there anything that can prepare you for stuffing a wedge of brie into your mouth as you endeavour to keep up with a drunken Scarlet Pimpernel?’

My plan for the night before the marathon is for us to join some other runners at one of the official pre-race pasta parties. Edward has other ideas. ‘I’ve booked a table in the hotel restaurant,’ he tells me. ‘We’re having five courses.’ His eyes twinkle evilly. ‘And matching wines.’

I take the guide to pre-race nutrition I’ve cut out of Runner’s World to dinner, but my resolve evaporates in the face of tomato tarte tatin, monkfish with preserved-lemon risotto and a caramel mille feuille for two. The wines, all of which come from across the road, are outstanding. ‘Think of it as training,’ Edward instructs as he brims my glass for the umpteenth time. We stagger off to bed at midnight.

Five hours later, our alarm goes off — the starting gun is fired at 9.30am and we’re nearly 80 miles from Pauillac. We struggle into our costumes — fancy dress is mandatory. Edward, for no clear reason, has come as a Georgian fop, complete with canary breeches and a cravat. As a result of a misunderstanding with the fancy-dress shop, I am dressed as a traffic cone. The forecast for today is 30˚C; I already feel as if I’ve been swaddled in asbestos.

The train to Pauillac is rammed with British people, many of whom also look very much the worse for wear. It’s standing room only; Edward and I clutch the pre-marathon picnics the hotel has kindly packed us off with, swaying slightly. The journey passes in a queasy blur. Whenever we go through a big wine name, such as Margaux, my stomach lurches.

Pauillac itself has been completely taken over by the race, with jacketed marshalls stationed outside every bistro and tabac. The pavements are packed with runners: we pass all Seven of the Dwarves, as well as Asterix and Obelix doing calf stretches.

A number of experienced-looking participants, I notice with alarm, are already dosing themselves with Imodium.

We fight our way to the media tent, where Jean-Yves, the charming press officer, loads us up with bottles of water. ‘Drink lots of this, yes?’ he says, bundling us towards the starting line. ‘Not just wine, okay?’

There’s barely time to steel ourselves before we’re shunted into motion by a Viking longboat being pulled by six men in horned helmets. The marathon route loops south from Pauillac and heads down towards Bordeaux, before winding its way north again and finishing right where it started.

It takes in household names such as Château Lafite, Château Mouton Rothschild and Château Latour and, within minutes, we’re among the vines. It’s already scorchingly hot and there’s little shade, but the crowds cheering on the side of the road are a tonic.

It becomes apparent that we’re going to need a little more help than that when, less than three miles in, we’re overtaken by someone being pushed along in a shopping trolley. ‘We need to run faster,’ I wheeze at Edward, who’s stopped to chat to a group of Japanese tourists, all of whom want their photos taken with ‘Mr Darcy’. ‘It may be too late for that,’ he says, pointing behind me: hot on our heels is the Sweeper, a float adorned with brooms that urges runners to keep their pace up (the cut-off time for the marathon is 6½ hours).

We set off at speed, the coffee I chugged earlier to clear my head sloshing around ominously in my stomach. Luckily — or unluckily, depending on your perspective — we’re almost at the first stop.

‘Hanging off a vine is a dinosaur suit, tragically crumpled. We stop in front of it, paying our respects to the fallen’

The grounds of Château Lynch-Bages are full of trestle tables laid out with beakers of red wine and cheese biscuits, as well as more usual snacks, such as bananas. They’re staffed by volunteers from the town, who urge us on with cries of ‘Allez!’. A Tyrannosaurus rex waddles past eating a KitKat.

Each stop merges with the next. We’re struggling along at mile eight when a honk from the Sweeper forces us to take evasive action. ‘Over here,’ Edward hisses, gesturing towards the vines themselves. We cut a corner by sprinting through them, emerging on the other side, significantly further ahead, to whoops and cheers. We’re press, rather than official participants, so nobody seems to mind.

I wish I’d trained more, but is there anything that can prepare you for stuffing a wedge of brie into your mouth as you endeavour to keep up with a drunken Scarlet Pimpernel?

At about mile 11, we make an executive decision to switch from jogging to walking. The sun is beating down mercilessly; rivers of sweat are pouring out of my traffic-cone suit and Edward’s cravat is gently steaming.

We’re not the only ones to have succumbed to the wrath of grapes: the road is littered with false moustaches, wigs and clown shoes. Hanging off a vine is a dinosaur suit, tragically crumpled. We stop in front of it, paying our respects to the fallen.

A runner stops of a wine break in the courtyard of Chateau Montrose, near Pauillac.

‘You know, we’re about halfway,’ Edward says, consulting his map, ‘which means we’re actually very near Pauillac.’ He pauses and raises an eyebrow. ‘Spot of lunch?’ I nod, more grateful than I have ever been in my life.

We limp to the nearest fromagerie, where we feast on fresh baguettes, farmhouse cheeses and cherry jam, surrounded by fellow marathon escapees. Our table has a view of the finishing line and we watch as the first runners start to trickle through. Everyone looks ecstatic.

As we’re paying the bill, Jean-Yves emails with the news that the fastest person completed the course in an astonishing time of two hours and 28 minutes. ‘Perhaps next year,’ Edward shrugs gallicly.

Back at Les Sources de Caudalie, the pool is a shimmering oasis and I sit on the edge with my feet in it, whimpering.

Another guest looks up from his book. ‘You know,’ he remarks, ‘you look like you could really do with a glass of wine.’

The Marathon du Médoc takes place every year in September — for details and to register, visit www.marathondumedoc.com. Rooms at Les Sources de Caudalie from €300 per night — www.sources-caudalie.com.

Ready, steady, SLOW! The wonderfully eccentric (and very British) world of competitive snail racing

Summer in the British countryside brings with it all sorts of unusual events and celebrations – and they don't get any

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John Lewis-Stempel visits the village of Cognac to learn how the eponymous digestif and the local wine, pineau, is made.

We drove down to Cognac yesterday. Road signs on the 25-mile journey to the capital of brandy manufacture were hardly required. We just followed the sun and the increasing congregation of vineyards. On the D731, outside Cognac, the vineyards reach the horizon.

In winter, Cognac’s viticultural flatland is a sort of hell – endless, pierced with stakes, tied with lines of wire. In winter, the regimentation of the yards brings always to mind war cemeteries. Yesterday, the vineyards were draped along in summer’s green leaves and young growing grapes, which softened the scene – somewhat.

The production of wine, regular or distilled into brandy, is not always a pretty process. Before I moved to France, I fondly imagined the château on the bottle label was exactly that, a dreamy confection of a French country house, the refinement of which was only outdone by that of the baron-owner, as he walked his vineyard in September’s dewy dawn, cashmere cardigan loosely wrapped over his shoulders. Actually, château in vinification is but a prefix attachable to any old vineyard, the building on which can be a breeze-block shed and often is.

The day out in Cognac was a bit of a busman’s day trip; my wife and I intend to produce pineau, a local fortified wine made from fermented grape must and cognac. In the cave of our Charentais house, all the kit of pineau-manufacture lies about – stone vats, a giant screw-press, bottles, a barrel ramp – although unused for five or more cobwebby decades.

To re-start pineau production in the cellar would be pleasingly authentic, perhaps profitable. At the very least, we’d have a drink of guaranteed provenance and ungainsayable purity; as our neighbour Georgette Roban says: ‘You know what’s in it if you make it yourself.’ The Robans have a two-acre vineyard solely for DIY wine for the family.

Anyway, we thought a tour of the Hennessy plant in Cognac would be worthwhile. Catching sight of the grey, blocky factory, topped by a giant red Hennessy flag, on the quayside of the Charente, my daughter said: ‘Looks like something from Stalin’s Russia.’ As I say, not always a pretty process, wine-making.

The juxtaposition of the Charente was cruel to Hennessy – the Charente, chartreuse and elegant, is France’s most beautiful river.

The first stop on the Hennessy tour was a former ‘cellar’, which, contrary to definition, was an above-ground pebble-dashed warehouse. Inside was a slick light show (‘digital immersion’) demonstrating Hennessy’s history since its foundation by Irish strong-arm mercenary Richard Hennessy in 1765. A rap star would have loved it. Indeed, the American rap scene seems a target market for the brand.

When I was a child, cognac was an after-dinner drink, taken with a Romeo y Julieta cigar, by gentlemen of a certain girth and age. Today, apparently, it’s quaffed by Drake and other rappers with attitude.

Next, we followed Gwen, our impeccably gamine guide, to a working ‘cellar’ and into a state of beatitude. The cellar was long and wide and high with rows of oaken barrels, each filled with eau-de-vie, the distilled grape juice that’s the basis of brandy. The barrels are permeable: they let air in, the vapour of eau-de-vie out. Oh, the smell of it! Fruity. Intoxicating. Heavenly. About 3% of each barrel evaporates: ‘the angels’ share’.

In that immense, shadowy cellar, we witnessed and we nosed the beauty in brandy-making: the craft of the cooper, the know-how of the cellerman, the exquisite palette of the taster. All of them human things. Savoire-faire, you might say.

There wasn’t a single electronic gimmick or gauge in sight. At Hennessy, the product is still made by hand and by tongue, same as it ever was. We came away enthused.

As a result, this bright summer’s morning, I’ve stepped out into our vines, as keen as the razor edge on my pruning knife. This year, our most productive vines will be the mature folle blanche we inherited, which grow, their trunks as thick and gnarled as old dockers’ wrists, along the stone wall of the garden.

Another of my misconceptions before sojourning in La Belle France, was that vines were low-maintenance fruit; in the growing season, they’re as needy as children, constantly requiring tying up to the trellis, trimming and, like today, thinning the leaves and shoots so the grapes get adequate sunlight and ventilation to preserve their health.

Vines are delicate wards. Ours have survived the Great Cold of May, when the thermometer plummeted to break regional records 50 years old, but who knows what weather awaits next week, next month?

Last year, the Charente department endured a May gale that left the vineyards, in the words of local paper Sud Ouest, ‘un triste spectacle’. After the storm, drought. Growing grapes is a game for optimists, for dreamers.

In the spirit of hope, I carry on working the healing knife deep among the folle blanche foliage, rampant and wild. A steady pile of vine leaves accumulates beside me. At lunchtime, wholly in touch with my inner transnational peasant (‘waste not, want not’), I will use these to wrap and bake feta cheese.

There was a shower in the night and the nubile clusters of hanging miniature grapes, wet and green, are luscious in the rising heat. The naked earth around the base of the vines has the sweet warmth of baby’s skin.

A red admiral butterfly fixes to the wall to dry its wings. A skylark rings silver notes above me. A 22-spotted ladybird walks over my hand. If Dionysus himself were to emerge from the vines, it would be Arcady.

Twice crowned victor of the Wainwright Prize for nature writing, for ‘Where Poppies Blow’ (2017) and ‘Meadowland’ (2015), the author was the 2016 British Society of Magazine Editors Columnist of the Year

Rose flavours, healthy sodas and enough gin cocktails to sink a ship, here are the latest concoctions to keep you cool this summer.
Serve over ice and sip in the shade.

Fentimans rose lemonade

It doesn’t hurt to have rosy-fresh breath every once in a while and if you ever want a drink to make you feel like you’re consuming a yummy cocktail when you’re not, this is it. The perfect combination of sweet and sharp, Fentiman’s rose lemonade is one of those rare rose-flavoured offerings which doesn’t taste like a mouthful of perfume, making it a lovely edition to the fridges of Britain.

Find your nearest Fentimans stocklist at www.fentimans.com

Ice ice Lolly

While you’re at it, mix four parts of Fentiman‘s rose lemonade with one part of gin (use Slingsby Rhubarb) and a dash of agave syrup, put it in some lolly moulds (with some fresh raspberries for the aesthetic) and hey-presto, you’ve got a new boozy dessert.

Slingsby advise not going too heavy on the gin, or else your lollies wont set. If you’re looking for another gin hit, pair your lolly with a Slingsby G&T.

Slingsby Yorkshire Rhubarb Gin, £39.99 from www.spiritofharrogate.co.uk

Tanqueray London Dry Gin Rosemary & Vermouth Highball

You can’t go wrong with a classic, and Tanqueray and tonic certainly is that. However, as gin cocktails rise in popularity, Tanqueray have invented some gorgeous options to pair with various foods.

‘The meaty spice of Tanqueray’s London Dry Gin juniper coupled with the bitter cacao and coffee notes of Belsazar Red are a match made in heaven for robust, meaty steaks.’ says Jack Sotti, Tanqueray Brand Ambassador.

How to make it:

● 40 ml Tanqueray London Dry Gin

● 20 ml Belsazar Red Cordial

● Top with rosemary soda

● Garnish with a sprig of rosemary

Tanqueray London Dry Gin Basil & White Grapefruit Highball

Something for the vegetarians among us, this is genuinely refreshing and easy to rustle up at home, especially if you’re the type to grow herbs in your garden.

How to make it:

• 40 ml Tanqueray London Dry Gin
• 20 ml fresh pressed grapefruit juice
• 10 ml sugar syrup
• 1 sprig basil
• Slice of fresh grapefruit
• Top with soda

Craft cocktail cans from That Boutique-y Gin Company

If you’re too time-pressed to make a gin cocktail (what a busy life you must lead) then That Boutique-y Gin Company has you covered with their new cocktails in a can. Crack open a pineapple gin mule by the pool, or try a cherry-cola gin. With recyclable packaging which wouldn’t look out of place in an office environment (work drinks, anyone?) you can start your evenings early. Maybe even at lunch time.

Get the Pineapple Gin Mule and others for £2.75 each from www.masterofmalt.com

Genie Drinks live sodas

Soda is notoriously unhealthy, but Genie Drinks have done away with the guilt-factor to produce a fleet of sainty soft drinks which are 100% vegan and actually help you maintain a healthy gut. Made in the UK, the sodas come in Lemon & Ginger or Original Orange.

Genie Drinks also make 100% vegan Kombuchas, so if you want to add some health to your barbeque without eating the limp salad which wilted in a hot car on the way over, this is the way to go.

To buy Genie Drinks’ Live Sodas (£25 for 12 bottles) or their Kombuchas (£28.80 for 12 bottles), visit www.geniedrinks.co.uk

Sea Buck’s Cornish tonic water

Everybody’s favourite mixer has seen a few new versions, but none more carefully-contrived than a beautiful St Ives offering, made from Cornish spring water infused with quinine-producing cinchona bark and sea buckthorn berries.

It’s a fair match for a stiff gin, producing an elegantly-wild flavoured beverage.

Sea Buck Tonic Water for £1.30 from www.drinksfinder.co.uk

Bristol Distilling Company’s 77 Blush Gin

We’ll be honest — being sent a new drink with a cocktail recipe occasionally proves… well, let’s just say a little hit-and-miss. But we were enormously and pleasantly surprised by this one using the Bristol Distilling Company’s 77 Blush, a grapefruit and rose-flavoured gin liqueur.

Not only was it utterly delicious, it was also brilliantly simple: a slosh of the booze, a slosh of soda water and a slosh of Cawston’s apple & rhubarb juice and it was ready to go.

Bristol Distilling Company’s 77 Blush, £14 until 19th August for 50cl, www.tesco.com

Bonus – a food pairing for your nightly tipple

We’ve paired drink with food, now it’s time to pair some food with drink. A new range of biscuits provide the perfect pre-dinner snack with whatever beverage takes your fancy.

Try the parmesan, toasted pine nuts and basil with Prosecco, whisky or blonde beers and ciders and opt for the pecorino, rosemary & Scottish seaweed with gin & tonic and gin cocktails (maybe one of the options listed above?) for the perfect marriage between biscuit and alcohol. You’re welcome.

Find The Drinks Bakery biscuit range online at www.amazon.com

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As far as Tom Parker Bowles is concerned, there are only five true cocktails – and none of them come with umbrellas, sparklers or a sugar overdose. We apologise to the mojito lovers, this one may not be for you…

There are, as any fool knows, only five true cocktails. Five, I say – no more. The rest are also-rans and imposters, sticky mountebanks and frothy fools, little more than alcoholic window dressing, a sickly sweet salve for the easily impressed.

There’s nothing funny about a proper cocktail. If I want to laugh, I read Wodehouse, the Grossmith brothers or Chris Packham’s views on pretty much anything. When it comes to the barman’s art, things get serious. No comedy vessels or paper umbrellas, no puns, sparklers or pre-made mixes.

A cocktail should sharpen the senses, pique the soul and stimulate the mind. That first sip, in the words of Lawrence Durrell, should ‘fairly whistle through the rigging. As to the cocktail’s origins and etymology, the stories are as endless as they are legion. Everything starts, I suppose, with that early American definition, in the May 6, 1806 edition of The Balance and Columbian Repository, of ‘a stimulating liquor, composed of spirits of any kind, sugar, water and bitters’.

The Oxford English Dictionary – a source to be trusted in matters like this – lists its first recorded use three years earlier, however, appearing in The Farmers’ Cabinet: ‘Drank a glass of cocktail… excellent for the head.’

As for why it wears its name, there are as many tales as there are W. C. Fields witticisms on booze. Was it that mixed drinks were once garnished with a rooster’s tail feather? That the recipes were influenced by its bright colours? Or that they were stirred with a Mexican cola de gallo, a long root shaped like a cock’s tail?

One tale tells of the leftovers of an ale cask, called ‘cock tailings’, which were mixed with the dregs from other drinks and sold as a cheap kick. Mixed-breed horses were called cocktails and people who liked racing liked booze, so the term slipped over – or so they say.

Maybe it’s the fact that docking horses’ tails caused them to stick up, thus a strong drink made one ‘cock up one’s tail’ or… well, you get the general idea. But enough chat. You must be thirsty – time for a drink.

Martini

The alpha and omega of cocktails, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. I like mine dry as a desert wind, icy cold and downed in no more than three sips. Those vast American buckets are an aberration, as, by the time you reach the end, the drink is lukewarm. Oh, and only gin makes a martini. With vermouth. That’s it. Make it with vodka and it’s a ‘vodka martini’.

Now, there are as many tales about exactly how dry a martini should be as there are martini bores. Luis Buñuel suggested allowing a ray of sun to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat and onto a bottle of gin. That would suffice. Another wag suggests ringing a friend in Los Angeles and getting him to place the vermouth bottle by the phone, while you place your shaker or mixing glass at the other end.

Sir Winston Churchill thought this too much: all you need do is glance at the vermouth while stirring your drink. You get the point. You want it dry.

No shaking, either – it overdilutes the drink. Bond may well be adept at saving the world, but his martini habits leave much to be desired.

Keep your glasses and gin (Sipsmith or Tanqueray Export, for me) in the deep freeze. Fill a shaker or glass with ice and the frozen gin, stir 50 times and strain into the pre-frozen glass, which has either been delicately sprayed with vermouth or swilled, with the excess thrown away. Garnish with a twist of lemon, an olive or, for a Gibson, a couple of cocktail onions on a stick. Here endeth the lesson.

In London, Quo Vadis, Bellamy’s and Dukes make the best, but do beware. As James Thurber sagely points out: ‘One martini is alright, two are too many, three are not enough.’

Bloody Mary

Saviour of many a Saturday and Sunday morning, this is as much liquid meal as it is remedy. Its creation is as much an essential skill as building a fire, roasting a chicken or taming a recalcitrant lion.

Lemon, for me, is the key: at least a whole fruit per jug, none of those measly BA slices.

It adds backbone and acidity, pulling the whole thing together. A good dash of Tabasco, of course, for kick, and a hefty jigger of Worcestershire sauce for depth. Plus a good slug of fino sherry.

As for the juice, a mixture of Schweppes (or any other thickish juice) and Clamato, that wonderous Canadian blend of tomato, clam juice and MSG. Horseradish has no place near the Bloody Mary. Get thee away, Satan. The same goes for those pre-mixed juices you get on the plane – Mr T’s and all that. There’s simply too much going on.

Then ice – lots and lots of it – and stir or shake for about 30 seconds. This is a drink that should shock fuzzy heads back into a sensible state and quell any over-indulged stomachs, leading one gently away from the excess of last night and onto the pleasures of lunch. A Bloody Mary bridge, if you will, and a pre-prandial friend indeed.

Negroni

It was apparently created by a Florentine barman at the start of the 20th century, when asked by a certain Count Camillo Negroni to beef up his Americano. Fosco Scarselli replaced the soda water with gin and the slice of lemon with orange, to tell the drinks apart.

It’s a resolutely adult aperitif, with its triple punch of gin, Campari and sweet red vermouth. With its uncompromisingly bitter tang, the first sip is a shock, the next a jolt.

By about the fourth or fifth, however, the world becomes a warmer, softer place.

A Negroni is welcome at any time of day or night, for clearing the palate, as a mid-party sustainer or even a late-night last sip. I like using old-fashioned Martini, although there are plenty of grander versions about. Antica Formula Carpano is particularly good. And remember, lots of ice is key, too.

Margarita

Tequila. The good stuff, unaged or blanco if possible. Fresh lime juice (never, ever from a bottle). Orange liqueur. That’s it. Not frozen into a slush puppy (although they do have their place. Namely Vegas. Only Vegas) or mucked up with the contents of Carmen Miranda’s hat. Finally, salt on the rim – never, ever sugar.

It’s a Mexican classic, although ‘creation’ arguments still rage between Tijuana, Juárez and Acapulco as to who actually came up with the thing. Was it Carlos ‘Danny’ Herrera, Francisco ‘Pancho’ Morales or even Texas socialite Margarita Sames? The truth is lost in the dregs of some long night.

There are many versions, but the original is undoubtedly the best. Although a Tommy’s Margarita, in which the triple sec is replaced with agave syrup, is perfectly respectable, too.

Old fashioned

The granddaddy, the recipe that appeared alongside that original Balance and Columbian Repository’s definition of a cocktail. It dates back to the fag-end of the 19th century in Chicago, Louisville or New York (pick your origin story) and manages to be both sweetly sippable and unreconstructedly macho. It even has its own eponymous glass, the short, round tumbler.

As bold and forthright as a bewhiskered Confederate general, it’s the sort of cocktail drunk in dark corners of smoky New York clubs, places in which oil fortunes are made and automobile empires carved out. Its very simplicity is the key to its eternal allure.

You muddle (or softly pound) sugar with bitters (Angostura is the classic) and a splash of soda, then add your bourbon or whiskey, plus ice and a citrus twist. Sit back, sip and wallow in the old-fashioned glories of a true pioneer.

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More than 70 years after George Orwell penned the famous essay on his favourite pub, The Moon Under Water, its key attributes still hold true, finds Flora Watkins. Photographs by Mark Williamson.

Long before the Queen Vic and the Rovers Return, the most famous fictional pub in the English language was The Moon Under Water. In a 1946 essay for the Evening Standard, George Orwell described ‘My favourite public house’, listing its many charm – before admitting that it didn’t exist.

For Orwell, the pull of The Moon Under Water was its atmosphere. Inside, he explained, ‘it is always quiet enough to talk’. There are ‘no sham roof-beams’ or ‘plastic panels masquerading as oak’. The barmaids know most of their customers by name.

There are open fires, draught stout, an excellent snack counter and a ‘good solid lunch’ is available. Outside, a large garden with ‘swings and a chute’ entertains the younger customers.

Today, some aspects of The Moon Under Water are curiously, quaintly dated. Few would prefer their beer served in a china mug or recognise the caraway-seed biscuits and liver-sausage sandwiches on the bar menu, yet its ethos still resonates deeply. (One can only imagine what Orwell would have made of Wetherspoons naming several of its soulless drinking hangars ‘The Moon Under Water’ – surely an example of Newspeak?)

For Fiona Stapley, editor of The Good Pub Guide, Orwell’s emphasis on the atmosphere of a pub is an abiding principle. ‘We go on our hard-and-fast rule about walking into a pub and feeling welcome,’ she divulges.

A vast range of establishments appears in the guide, from Michelin-starred fine-dining pubs to simple country inns with filled rolls and dogs by the fire. However, ‘if there’s no welcome, there’s no atmosphere – the main thing is the person behind the bar,’ she stresses.

The sorts of pubs the guide recommends ‘don’t have televisions’ (unless it’s for a big sporting event, such as the Six Nations). Dogs are welcome, as are children, ‘but they’re the sort of children who’ll sit nicely with a colouring book,’ Mrs Stapley continues.

There is food ‘of every description’, from fine dining to ‘Mrs Smith making her famous stew up on the moor’, but all made with good, organic produce of local provenance, where possible, and united by a ‘lack of pretention – you don’t want bass fillets with a blackcurrant coulis when you’ve been out for a walk,’ she says, firmly.

For super-chef Tom Kerridge, the owner of pretty The Hand and Flowers in Marlow, Buckinghamshire, the only British pub with two Michelin stars, pubs are about ‘warmth and friendliness; people who say “hello” when you walk through the door. I thought, why can’t I do great food in that environment?’

Mr Kerridge feels strongly that good food shouldn’t have to go with wearing a shirt and tie and neither should it be about ‘bamboozling people’. To that end, the pub staples of steak and chips and fish and chips have been on the menu at The Hand and Flowers since it opened in 2005.

He now has a further two pubs in Marlow: The Coach and his latest venture, The Butcher’s Tap. Formerly a traditional boozer, the bar now doubles as a butcher’s counter during the day. It’s difficult for ‘wet-led pubs’ to survive, explains Mr Kerridge: ‘People’s drinking habits have changed massively and business rates are high, so we have to look at how pubs can diversify and still be places in the community.’

Diversification has also seen the growth of the ‘inn with rooms’. Today, any savvy pub will have opened its bedrooms and converted any outbuildings. At Archie and Nicola Orr-Ewing’s The King’s Head Inn in Bledington, Gloucestershire (Pub of the Year 2018), the charming rooms, decorated by Mrs Orr-Ewing, are in high demand. Its sister pub, The Swan in Swinbrook, Oxfordshire, owned by the Chatsworth estate, also features prominently in The Good Pub Guide.

‘At one end of the pub, we had The Princess Royal and her entourage having dinner and at the other end of the bar were all the bookies’

‘With me, it’s always had to be a pub first, where everyone’s welcome, whatever walk of life you’re from,’ says Mr Orr-Ewing, trying to pinpoint the secret of their success. ‘The food and rooms are key money earners, but the vibe has to be from it being a pub.’

At the other end of the scale from fine-dining pubs with rooms are the traditional, unspoilt country inns, so treasured that The Good Pub Guide has a special category for them. A favourite with many is Laurie Lee’s former local, The Woolpack in Slad, Gloucestershire. With its saloon bar and outside stairs to get to the loos, it’s still recognisable from the pages of Cider with Rosie, the men ‘drinking hot-pokered cider, cutting cards for crib and watching their wet boots steam’.

Modern-day Moon Under Waters might have a name as prosaic as The Red Lion or as unusual as The Cat and Custard Pot at Shipton Moyne in Gloucestershire. The thing they’ll all have in common is being at the heart of their communities, perhaps selling groceries or sponsoring local sports teams, as does The Rose and Crown at Snettisham, Norfolk.

That sense of community is exemplified by Annie Clift, who runs The Talbot in Knight-wick, Worcestershire, with her 93-year-old mother, Jean (known to all as ‘Mrs C’, she still makes the marmalade and game pies and does the accounts). The Talbot was voted Countryside Alliance and Country Life’s Sporting Pub of the Year in 2015.

‘It’s all a bit symbiotic,’ Miss Clift explains. ‘Farmers and gamekeepers have to control some species, so we serve pigeon, rabbit and muntjac. We have a bakery, a farmer’s market and sell to local shops and a brewery.’

Crucially, although Miss Clift is renowned for her food, she kept the ‘tap room’, or back bar, when she came to The Talbot 36 years ago. ‘Lots of places have done away with them, which is a shame, because the locals do like to have their own, almost club-like space.’

Any modern Moon Under Water needs a sprinkling of local characters, such as the gentleman in Bledington who was born in the village and has come into The King’s Head for a pint of cider every night, without fail, for the past 20 years. Sadly, ‘he’s the last of a dying breed,’ says Mr Orr-Ewing, as he sums up what a pub is about.

‘I remember one Cheltenham week, about 10 years ago,’ he recalls. ‘At one end of the pub, we had The Princess Royal and her entourage having dinner and at the other end of the bar were all the bookies. To me, it just summed up the great spread.’

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When it's pouring with rain and the damp chills you to the bone, forget what month the calendar says — just reach for the fortified wine, says Harry Eyres.

August might seem an odd month to be contemplating fortified wines, but as the current weather proves it can be a grim and damp time of year — particularly in the north and west of these isles.

I have lit fires in August and, when we used to go on holiday to Applecross in Wester Ross (with those wonderful views across to the Cuillins), we were always accompanied over the Pass of the Cattle by a bottle or two of tawny Port.

The classic fortified wines — sherry, Port and Madeira — are all ‘wine families’ encompassing a wide range of styles, from the lightest fino or manzanilla and the finest sercial Madeira to heroic vintage Port. They all come from hot countries, so there’s no rule outlawing a slightly higher level of alcohol in warm conditions.

I am increasingly baffled by the apparent prejudice against and misunderstanding of sherry. Time and again, fino or manzanilla seems the right choice, either to accompany fishy dishes or just as an aperitif. I never tire of Hidalgo’s notably fresh, light-footed and tangy Manzanilla La Gitana (£11.19; www.waitrosecellar.com).

If you prefer a slightly more full-bodied style, go for Barbadillo’s Solear (£5.95 per 37.5cl; www.thewinesociety.com).

At a recent Madeira tasting, I found myself veering towards the Verdelhos. Henriques & Henriques 15-year-old Verdelho (£28.60 per 50cl; www.hedonism.co.uk) is a lovely, deep-copper colour, with exceptional focus and intensity, and finishes far from sweet.

For a very special occasion, try Blandy’s 1979 Verdelho (£140; www.landmarkvintage.com) — this shows gorgeous delicacy and finesse.

I’ve tended to avoid white Port, except in Portugal, because of its lack of acidity, but Calem White and Dry Port (right, £11.75; www.thewinesociety.com) is attractively fresh. Serve chilled when — or rather if — August warmth returns.

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Sauternes and its kin are too delicious to be left to languish, urges Harry Eyres.

On a couple of recent wine trips with younger colleagues, I’ve been somewhat dismayed to detect a strong prejudice against sweet wines. This seemed to be related not to how delicious or otherwise they tasted, but to how many calories they contained.

‘Feeling sorry for a category of wine may not be the best reason for recommending it, but I do feel the struggling producers of Sauternes, and of other sweeter wines, deserve our support’

The contemporary attitude to sweetness is, in my view, confused, as many supposedly healthy foods and drinks (smoothies, fruit juice, ‘protein bars’) are just as sweet – if not sweeter – than many wines with a degree of residual sugar. Sauternes and Barsac contain, on average, 80g – 120g per litre of residual sugar. This may sound a lot, but is about the same as apple juice.

Why you should be drinking them

Feeling sorry for a category of wine may not be the best reason for recommending it, but I do feel the struggling producers of Sauternes, and of other sweeter wines, deserve our support.

‘From the sister property of the great Yquem, this wine would be memorable for a very special occasion’

Their wines are too delicious – not just with pudding, but other kinds of food such as foie gras, crab pâté and blue cheese, or on their own – to be allowed to languish.

What to buy

Les Remparts de Bastor-Lamontagne 2015 (£72.07 per six), from the impressive, consistent Château Bastor-Lamontagne, is a lighter, fresher style of Sauternes that’s very versatile.

Château Guiraud is a first-growth Sauternes that, like Bastor-Lamontagne, has been practising organic viticulture for a number of years. Château Guiraud 2016 is quite pale in colour and has lovely precision.

At a more luxurious level, Château de Fargues 2015 (£1,010 per six) has tremendous, voluptuous intensity and spiciness. From the sister property of the great Yquem, this would be memorable for a very special occasion.

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