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Lord Robertson celebrated his 80th birthday last weekend. I assume the former NATO Secretary General spent it on his beloved Islay, the beautiful Scottish island that is, among its other claims to fame, home to nine whisky distilleries.
When I first visited Islay in 1994, having answered the phone randomly at the right moment on the business desk of the Sunday Times Scotland in Glasgow, and answered in the affirmative when asked if the whisky correspondent was available to join a trip to the island a few weeks hence, it was my first whisky experience. Flying in to the tiny airport, the traveller sees the name of Lagavulin spelled out on the walls of the building. A group of us hacks toured the distillery at nearby Laphroaig distillery and, introduced to the distinctive, smoky, peaty taste of Islay whisky, I fell in love, through that unusual route, with Scotch.
For the first few months, then a foolish 23, I threw myself with too much intensity into experiencing high-quality whisky. Be careful, my father said kindly, to treat it with respect; only when you have had a night of too much whisky will you realise why it has a dark reputation. Having found out the hard way he was right, ever since a dram has been something taken occasionally and sparingly.