Glenfiddich Ancient Reserve 18-year-old 40% Dram #32

It's June and I'm in Scotland. Have I gone back in time? Despite having mentioned something of both, neither time nor place seem overly important. Of course, the former is. When was I told about the relationship between the sun, yard arms and alcohol?

As the above hopefully demonstrates, my character for this post is gently befuddled. It could be lunchtime. Anyway, as inappropriate as society finds drinking spirits with a midday sandwich, that is what I have been doing. I sit at a wrought-iron table on a slated terrace and only a copse of silver birches obstruct my view down to the glen bottom. Behind me is the whitewashed hotel that I've been staying in, a fabulous base for walking, within which is a fabulously well-stocked bar. In the healthy, mountain-fresh cool of said bar I have found a bottle of Glenfiddich Ancient Reserve. For some bizarre reason, Glenfiddichs have evaded me thus far on my malt journey and I wanted to see, once and for all, if "pears" was not just opportunistic marketing.

I stood on the lawn, dram in hand, feeling the sun revive me. This section of grass had only recently been abandoned by the hotel's shadow and was still lush and moist. Tipping the tumbler which captured in its thick bottom the colours of green grass, blue sky and demerera sugar heather, I could smell flowers. It was astonishingly fresh, as if it too was a plant still dipped in dew. I sniffed again and, unbidden and unexpected, I caught a whiff of not quite ripe... comice pears. There they were after all.

Before I began sipping with conviction, I noticed the tight core of maltiness on top of which soared an arch of cinnamon and fruit scone sweetness. The peating was light but rich and then in came some lemon rind. I was refreshed!

I walked to where a burn tumbled from the peaks of the glen through the hotel's grounds. I let a little water enter the glass and blend with the full gold, a delicate operation considering the force of the water, its fierce coldness and how much I had paid for my double. I took another sniff as stream water dribbled from the glass onto my shoes. I found blossoms for trees that didn't grow this high up. From top to bottom there were grooves of character: a round butteriness and caramel maltiness. I also clocked an added presence of berries. Swirling the dram and waiting unlocked vanilla and lime ice cream and, most summery of all, passion fruit pavlova. Then I couldn't delay drinking the stuff any longer.

The sun is not quite joining me at my little table. As the malt continues to tour my palate I marvel at the pecan roundness and orange juice flavours. There is also some heather honey, I think.

I've decided. This is a fine dram for summer. Very refreshing indeed. I might go for another one; keep the heat out.

This genuinely is the first Glenfiddich I have offically tasted although I sampled the 12-year-old in a bar a few months ago. I bought a miniature for said dram yesterday and it's almost that with it I can really start to call myself a malt drinker: I'm to cover the basics, or the most ubiquitous drams, at last. As for the most esoteric, I have found my way to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society website and I would dearly like to be a member. Maybe after the exams. If I want to taste a greater variety of malts and test my palate to new extremes it is, gloriously, the only option!