Ode to a Gan Scot

I canno let the day pas on
Wi-oot a tak on Burns
This ploughman poet o’ suk gan song
O’ witty rhymes n turns.
A young man died this noble Scot
Wit sae many ta mourn his goin
But those he taxed he taxed a lot
Whilst misty winds thair blowin.
Some say he died ‘o fragile heart
And others say ‘twas lasses
Wha’e’re in death did play its part
We’ll raise our whisky glasses.

Today is our beloved dog’s 9th birthday. Just as women were once not considered to be legal “persons” in western society (and tragically still aren’t fully so in many parts of the world), our dog is not considered as a “person”. He is only legally our possession.

Yet these creatures, have intelligence, loyalty and feelings like any other creature. They can come to be as loved and adored as people and often are loved and adored more so, sometimes with good reason. To us Buster is very much a person, one totally dependent on us, and a real character!
Once a near-relative was very offended when we innocently compared the care of a dog to the care of children. We are childless and she, you see, has too many. But child-centred society is a relatively new phenomenon and so is the enjoyment of an extended childhood. Perhaps, one day, dogs will have rights beyond those of their owners. But rights are fragile. Perhaps if we are not careful, none of us will have the rights we once took forgranted. Happy Birthday Buster. Thank you for coming into our life as a very small puppy. Your spirit is as big as you are!

Who would have thought that a small community such as Warkworth, Ontario would have so many single malt scotch whisky afficionados? I certainly didn't.

Since I was 19 years of age, at a time when I was working and travelling in Britain, I have enjoyed the taste of Scotch. But in those days, it was the blended brands. Whisky meant sitting in a 17th Century Yorkshire pub, at a small table on a stone floor by a stone hearth with a hot fire and wearing a weathered tweed jacket. Very content, naively young, and oh so self-satisfied! Warm to the core despite the howling winds and damp heavy fog outside. And to this day it conjures such almost primaeval memories.

I did not discover the joys of single malt until much later in life when on an extended holiday in Scotland I sampled and relished The Glenfiddick for the first time. This was in a 13th century pub near my brother's magical organic walled garden. That was over 20 years ago now, and I was a poor law student who could not afford such luxury on a regular basis.

I can't exactly recall when I became a real afficionado of fine single malt and perhaps it is vane to claim to be one now . It was sometime not long before I turned 50. And for my 50th, we travelled to the Isle of Islay where we rented a magnificent 18th century Manse on Lagavulin Bay. The distillery was just a short walk away as was the ruined 9th century castle of Duneveg, hanging moss covered on a high crumbling cliff above the sea. It was on Islay that we sampled and grew to enjoy most of the 9 single malts of the island. Ardbeg, Laphroaig and Bowmore among the best. I think, although our tastes have grown, Lagavulin remains our favourite - and perhaps that too is as much attributable to the romance of that special vacation, - the long walks up bubbling moor stream beds, across peaty and heather laden moors, like the water that flows into the distillery there. And the wonderful pubs overlooking harbours and lochs filled with the rich musical and incomprehensible voices of Scots having raucous fun after a long day's work on a farm or fishing boat - or perhaps even in a distillery!

When I opened my shop 14 months ago, I put out a casual word to some other main street merchants and inhabitants that they could pop by on a Friday evening after business hours for a wee dram. Little did I realize how popular this would be. We are now anywhere from 9 or 10 up to 18 whisky-loving souls who gather for an hour or so to sample a different whisky each week. And then there are the occasional whisky dinners! Scrumptious and so inventive. We are self-named the Mill Creek Lodge Order of Afficionados of Fine Scotch or MCLOAFS.

Well, it is a fresh new year. I am sitting in my shop looking out across the merchandise and through the window panes where large flakes of snow are falling. I can't say the first 14 months of enterprise were profitable. Indeed, they were not. But I did learn a lot about retail and there have been many wonderful moments. I am actually quite proud of the undertaking, despite its financial inadequacies. I can only hope to see things improve in the coming year. If not, I shall remember why I took this risk: When our memories outshine our dreams, the end is near.