Drink

Solemn, moving, serious: British. As silence fell and the wreaths were lain, even teenagers joined in the mood of reverence. Suddenly it did not matter what the gossip columns were saying about Andrew Mountbatten Windsor, or what latest mischief might arise from the Duchess of Sussex. The great ship of state and of history sailed on serenely. The sacrifices of a previous generation were saluted. They had paid the price for their Britishness. We, their successors, unworthy as we might feel, could at least salute them, especially as good bottles were about to be opened, to toast the fallen. Yet there was a problem far more important than princely indiscretions.

There is a fellow called Anthony Newman who is fascinated by drink, as a consumer, a producer and an intellectual. That said, he spent some years supplying Australians with craft beer, which does not sound very intellectual. But he insists he paid for his own passage and was able to return without a ticket of leave. While living in Oz he visited Japan, and found himself captivated by many aspects – not least sake, the rice wine which is its national drink. Nearly 90 per cent of sake is consumed locally. Anthony decided the potential export market was enormous. I have heard it persuasively argued that Japan is the most

We were drinking Israeli wine as the talk ranged from frivolity to seriousness: from Donald Trump to the tragic paradoxes of the human condition. Some would claim we were discussing the same topic, yet this may not be the time to disrespect the US President. I once described Ariel Sharon as a bulldozer with a Ferrari engine. It was one of the many tragedies to have afflicted Israel/Palestine that just when he had decided to bulldoze for peace, he should have been stricken with a massive stroke. One reason I love being in Israel is that one is never more than 50 yards from an argument Now a new and

As readers will be aware, and without sounding too immodest, this column is absolutely committed to diversity. In an earlier era, that might have seemed unnecessary. A British oenophile did not need to search out bottles from great distances. He could merely take his pleasure from the first growths of Bordeaux and the grands crus of Burgundy, with perhaps a little dalliance on the Rhine or the Rhône. Nor was this only a British modus operandi. I covered the French election of 1981 from Burgundy (there were good political reasons for doing so, as well as other ones). The Burgundians knew that wine was made on the banks of the

Last weekend, I was in England: among two very diverse aspects of the nation. In recent months, every Saturday, central London has been plagued by demonstrations. I suppose that there must be a right to protest. But what about the right to mosey around Westminster and Whitehall without blocked roads and with any hope of peace and quiet? Last Saturday saw the largest manifestation of all: less of a protest than an English uprising – a flag-waving two-fingered revolt against the liberal intelligentsia. I kept well clear, having no wish to be caught up or kettled, and later there were attacks on the police. This should lead to jail sentences.

Autumn: surely one of the most beautiful words in the language. All the other seasons are expressive, almost even onomatopoeic, worthy of being serenaded by Vivaldi, but autumn has a gentle resonance. Mists and mellow fruitfulness, not to mention the grouse season. School and university accustomed most of us to think of the year beginning at the Michaelmas term rather than in January. This is reinforced now that parliament is back – though with Sir Stumbler in charge, it is more a matter of fogs and sour fruitlessness. That brings up memories of a different era, one which was immensely fruitful though never mellow. The 100th anniversary of Margaret Thatcher’s

Jack Gervaise-Brazier is a restless romantic. He was brought up on Guernsey, which filled him with a love of islands, but also a desire for wider horizons. As Jack was a head boy and a good historian and classicist, his schoolmasters assumed that he would move on to university and he was offered a place at Durham. Had he visited, he might have fallen under the seduction of its cathedral and other glories. As it was, he headed for a different City to pursue stockbroking and trading. Although he turned out to be a more than useful performer, he always intended to use this as a ladder, enabling him to

There are at least two Long Islands. One of them, eternally famous for The Great Gatsby, is a fascinating blend of glamour and meretriciousness. It is separated from the other one by 3,000 miles of ocean and a totally different culture. In this Long Island – actually about 70 islands of various sizes, also known as the Outer Hebrides – Sabbatarianism is frequent, but glamour and meretriciousness are as wholly absent as anywhere in Europe. Over many centuries, the Hebridean Long Island was often beset by conflict. Viking raiders, Scottish kings, great clan chiefs: all fought for supremacy. The Scottish Crown eventually won, though the clan chiefs exercised subsidiary kingships,

It was my friend Alex who tipped me the wink. I bumped into him at a party earlier this year and to my astonishment he’d lost about two stone and was nursing a glass of fizzy water. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, draining a goblet of red wine. ‘You’re usually about three sheets to the wind by now.’ He explained he was on Mounjaro, the slimming drug, and one of its side effects was to suppress his desire for alcohol. He’d had a couple of glasses earlier in the evening, but had then lost interest. ‘You should try it,’ he said, eyeing my unsteady gait. After a particularly heavy

‘The nuisance of the tropics is/the sheer necessity of fizz.’  Over the past few days, during which England endured sub-tropical sweltering, it was more a matter of beer. I do not wish to denigrate water, which is all very well in its place. I often drink it. But for urgent, nay life-saving, rehydration, nothing beats beer. Now that almost all beer is properly made, I just tend to order any pint that catches my eye. In recent temperatures, the eyes have been busy. As I may have written before, there is one curiosity about beer. The Belgians, Czechs and Germans – plus other European countries – produce lager-style beers that

Procrastination may be the thief of time, but in the right circumstances, it can be fun. The other day, I was enjoying myself in St James’s, my favourite London arrondissement. There are delightful contrasts, from the grandeur of the royal palaces and the St James’s Street clubs to the charming, intimate side streets and alleys with their pubs and restaurants. The late Jacob Rothschild would often cross from his palatial office in Spencer House to Crown Passage, in order to lunch at Il Vicolo (regularly praised here). His Lordship never bothered to reserve a table. Instead, he would send someone across with his form of booking: a bottle of Château

We were talking about Italy: where and when to sojourn. I confessed to so many gaps. It is years since I visited Genoa and I know that the Ligurian coast has innumerable hidden treasures. There are the well-publicised places, such as Portofino and San Remo, which I am sure are pleasant enough out of season. But for many months they are likely to resemble an eastern extension of Monaco. Small is the key word. We are not dealing with the mighty names from Piedmont. In Liguria many of the local wine producers have tiny plots, sometimes only a couple of acres. They will supply the local restaurants which also draw