SPIRITS: The Wild, The Refined
THE ‘Glorious Twelfth’ of August is one of the busiest dates in the game season, being the first day from which one may aim a shotgun at the warbling red grouse. I recall landing one of these portly little birds on a heather-strewn highlands moor a few years ago. Instantly plucked then barbecued, it was served on incongruously immaculate linen in a remote bothy with Dalwhinnie, the aromas of heather and wildflowers in the dram echoing the scenery.
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