When my dad came home

 Dear Reader,

The history of malt whisky began in medieval Scotland where monks distilled it for medicinal purposes, with the first recorded production in 1494.   Over the centuries its popularity grew leading to increased taxes and illicit production until the Excise Act of 1823, legalized licensed distilling causing the industry to boom.

By the 19th century single malt was established and while blended whiskies later became more popular, single malt whisky remained a niche but respected product. Single malt, made exclusively from malted barley was traditionally made in the Highlands.  And in the 1820s single malt gained royal approval with King George IV's visit to Scotland helping to restore its reputation.

For any Scotch whisky, whether malt or blended, the age statement on a bottle refers to the number of years the whisky spent maturing in casks.  Very few whiskies are bottled from a single cask.  The mixing of spirits with different amounts of ageing is allowed, the age statement of the resulting mix reflects the age of the youngest whisky in the bottle. 

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The only time I drink whisky is when I have a bad cold.  Before you go to bed mix honey, lemon and whisky together and it sends you to sleep in a moment.  The cold seems to get better too!

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From Dorothy Wordsworth   November 24th  1801  Westmorland

'I read a little of Chaucer, prepared the goose for dinner, and then we all walked out.  I was obliged to return for my fur tippet and spencer, it was so cold....It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered us........' 

 

From John Ruskin   November 30th 1875   in Surrey

'Herne Hill.  Bitterly cold and dark;  the paper chilling my fingers.'

 

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When my dad came home 

he nodded off
int the old armchair
any time,
forgot everything
could name no names.

Tobacco smoke from Woodbines
filled the house,
he drank malt whisky,
came home unsteadily from the pub.

He talked of cricket, he whistled
and hummed old country and western songs,
rocked in the rocking chair
and potted up red geraniums.

He ate junket and white fish
had headaches
and he wept sometimes.

But we were good friends, my dad and I,
night times he told me stories,
and tucked me into bed.
I never asked about the war,
and he never said. 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia