For all this time I thought Bacchus was Roman or possibly Greek but it turns out he was Georgian and his cult originated not in wooden casks but in clay pots which raises the question were those proto Russians the beaker people of their day refugees of another Stonehenge of another time and when did grapes or dates and other fruits of the vine first find themselves fermenting and making that mixture which does the duty of Sidney's poesie to teach and delight surely the sommelier who showed me the best of the reds inevitably dark and dry had a point when he said the only real wines are red and there is no white Georgian I played at conversation offering him the logical point that Georgian wines are therefore real in the relevant sense giving him the point but he told me philosophy or chopping logic was of no use as he was talking about taste and the Georgian tasted best and there was after all no disputing tast...

If you stayed at Villa Nina Guest House in Leamington Terrace--and slept under the monkey puzzle tree, or were near enough to smell the McEwan's mash on brewing day, or went to the Edinburgh Booker cash and carry for a flat of eggs or a tin of sweets, or crossed the Bruntsfield Links (where nobody ever plays golf but some occasionally engage in medieval swordplay), or ducked under the whale's jawbone arch when exiting Middle Meadow Walk you met Dr Spiegeli. It's not that he was actually in all of those places all the time, but his sense of humour was as ubiquitous as porridge.  And to understand him you need to understand real Scottish oatmeal--not that he served it in his B&B, but his spirit was pervasive like the porridge, and his laugh was contagious and his smile wicked and bewitching and infectious.  Now it's time to remember some aspects of Dr Spegeli. Pinhead and Aga cookers and spurtle sticks When you are going to make a good Scottish porr...