Wine

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

Western Sicily is one of the most wonderful places on Earth. From the Greek temples in the south to the Arab-Norman architecture and frescos around Palermo, there are endless treasures and glories. There are also records of fascinating characters, especially the Emperor Frederick II Hohenstaufen, Stupor Mundi. Historians still argue whether he was a prototype of a Renaissance ruler, with a distinct flavour of the Enlightenment, or merely among the most remarkable men of the high Middle Ages. He was a polymath, but one of his most distinguished qualities ultimately limited his inheritance. He found it impossible to stop fighting, not least against a succession of popes. In that particular

China: what next? Around the time of the millennium, I wrote that during this century, many of the world’s great questions would be answered in Chinese characters and that great fortunes would be made, and lost, in the China trade. That is one prophecy which might hold good. No one ever says that they could take or leave Maotai Churchill said that the longer you can look back, the farther you can look forward, and it is worth following the Chinese example and thinking in epochs. Consider one of the most significant might-have-beens in history: the career of the 15th-century eunuch admiral Zheng He. He commanded an enormous fleet and

West Virginia. There is a paradox. A state of natural beauty, glorified by mountains and watered by rivers – including the Shenandoah (surely the most beautiful word in American) – carved out of reluctant nature by hard human labour, then divided by slavery and war, but ending on the Union side – it ought to be an honoured political jurisdiction. But the West Virginians broke away from the rest of Virginia. In its early days, it was governed by cultivated gentlemen, who filled their cellars with fine wine and their libraries with fine books. Yet the way of life which managed this transplant of European civilisation was sustained by slave

Riches, ancient cities, great architecture, splendid landscape, agriculture to match, trade routes, romance. Records of human settlement stretching to the dawn of civilisation, recurrent conflicts and invasions, dynastic struggles which lasted for centuries, wars of religion followed later by revolutionary conflicts. We are contemplating Provence, a region with a glorious history but which has often produced more history than it could consume. That gives rise to an ironic parallel. In the UK, we too have a Province, pronounced Prov’nce. It too has exported a lot of history, for which it has received little recognition. Almost a third of the signatories of the US Declaration of Independence had Ulster Protestant roots.

We were almost having a symposium and I was invited to define Toryism in one sentence. I replied that one book would be easier: the late Roger Scruton’s On Hunting, which ought to be subtitled: ‘From Horse-Shit to Heaven: the Search for Love, Order and God.’ ‘But what if you leave out God, and therefore heaven?’ said one fellow: ‘What would be left?’ ‘What indeed. Many learned Tories – Dr Johnson, Salisbury and Quintin Hogg being obvious examples – would have given a simple answer: nothing.’ Those of us who have to do without God and yet avoid the abyss of nothingness can only fall back on eupeptic pessimism. Edward

Let us indulge in a slight paraphrase. What rough beast slouches towards the White House to be reborn? The inauguration ceremonies remind us that many Americans still hanker after monarchical splendour. Even as contentious a figure as Donald Trump is accorded the dignities appropriate to a head of state. The same of course is true of M. Macron, who carries them off better. The dignified portion of the constitution, or the efficient one? It could easily be argued that President Trump is better in the latter role. In his early phase, President Macron wanted us to see him as a Napoleonic figure. Indeed. Napoleon le Petit. If a bottle was

It is extraordinary to remember. When I was a small boy in Scotland, Christmas Day was not a holiday. My father almost closed his office, but someone was on duty. The main festivity was Hogmanay: not a holiday in England. Now the whole country closes down for a fortnight. A friend who is a serious industrialist says that far from afflicting productivity, this is a good thing. After two weeks, apart from those who have gone in search of sun or skiing, most people are fed up with family life. Even the brats cannot wait to get back to school. So his employees return to work with renewed vigour. We started with

This has been the most fascinating political year I can remember. I have even found myself dreaming about politics – and neither the excitements nor the perils are likely to end any time soon. So it might seem self-indulgent to tear one’s attention away from grog. But we all need distraction, even in the spirit of gaudeamus igitur. Looking back over the year’s drinking, I also decided to summon interesting bottles for a meander through pleasant memories. My friend keeps his politics in the closet for he is a Californian who voted for Trump. He should be put in charge of the White House cellar As he has before, a

Back in January, I wrote about my new year’s resolution to cut down on my drinking. The thought of total abstinence was too bleak, so my plan was to limit myself to 100 bottles of wine in 2024. Not quite the NHS’s recommended limit of 14 units of alcohol a week – roughly one-and-a-half bottles – but not a million miles away. I envisaged taking Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays off and then confining myself to half a bottle a day for the remainder of the week. Although I also intended to do Dry January, thereby building up an eight-bottle credit. So 100 bottles in 11 months was my aim. Surely

Crime. Fear not: none of us was planning to break the law, with the possible exception of hate speech. Where that is concerned, how would one start? But we were more concerned with crime and literature, and a fascinating perennial question. What is the distinction between crime fiction and novels? In the 1990s, I introduced one of the loveliest girls of the age to the delights of proper wine Crime and Punishment: no problem. So what about The Moonstone? There are very many supposed novels which I would rather read. Moving nearer our own day, we have Dorothy Sayers or P.D. James. More recently, Reginald Hill, Susan Hill and Ian

We were assembled to taste Chilean wines assisted by magnificent Scottish food, courtesy of the Scottish embassy in London, otherwise known as Boisdale. But there was a problem of etiquette. As we were dealing with Chilean matters, I thought that we should propose a toast to a great Chilean and a staunch ally of this country, General Pinochet, who saved his own nation from becoming another Cuba or a mess like the current Venezuela. The left will never forgive Pinochet or Kissinger for frustrating Marxist ruin My neighbour expressed doubt. Surely the general committed atrocities? I conceded that the overthrow of Allende was not bloodless. But the sort of men