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Foot-pounded figs on a path, pine resin drifting from the forest margins, wild thyme scuffed into pungency: all evoke the Mediterranean, but none of these aromas is quite as culturally evocative of li

Speyside, a rumpled, salmon-splashed patch of hill country midway between Inverness and Aberdeen, is the engine of Scotch malt whisky production.

I regard all of those living on the Isle of Islay with a kind of awe.

The world's thirst for Scotch tends to rise and fall like the mercury in a Clydeside barometer.

In a corner of the labyrinthine European Union website (though offered in a mere 12 languages as opposed to the official 23) lurks a page of sprightly optimism.

The Last Toast

I drink to our ruined house
to the dolor of my life
to our loneliness together;
and to you I raise my glass,
to lying lips that have betrayed us,