“Water of life”
There is a mystique that surrounds whisky lore. It is an allure that carries with it the promise of some ancient connection to a simpler time in our existence, a bygone era that we gaze back upon longingly in starry-eyed wonderment.
The very incantation of its name brings to mind vivid tableaux of misty moors and emerald fields; rocky outcrops and tortuous sheep-worn trails that snake their way through the highland countryside; of salt sprayed promontories, and jagged rock faces carved since time immemorial by the minions of Odin’s wrath; where the benediction of monks can be heard wafting from lofty peaks of roughly-hewn stone; and tartan-clad warriors cross hand-forged steel on the battlefield, and by night, in the flickering light of the great hall, drink deeply from bottomless tankards.
This extant elixir transcends time and place and allows us, at least for the briefest moment, a glimpse into the zeitgeist of our forefathers.