I know I’m not alone in dreaming of my own cask. The solemnity of the stone warehouse, the odour, the mould and stillness, and a piece, a modicum, a scintilla tucked away in the far corner with my name stamped on the lid. This clear spirit turning golden, intensifying. Mine, but maturing away from me, as I perhaps mature away from it and like a childhood friendship at distance, suddenly years later reunited, with all the ceremony of the intervening years disappearing as we sup, and toast and celebrate our lives together.
When I tell people that I put down a cask of whisky for my daughter Enya (born in January last year) the reply is often to the effect of “how lovely, she’ll really appreciate that in years to…