Farewell for now to a golden age of drinking

A YEAR AGO your columnist joined a sailing trip to Islay, an island in western Scotland famous for peaty malt whisky that can singe the hair off your nostrils. The mooring was in front of a distillery called Ardbeg, its name painted in huge black letters on a whitewashed wall facing the sea. Its breakfast included haggis—and a dram of scotch. Then came the distillery tour, and more samplings. Even at midnight, the air reeked with the smoky vapours coming from the mash tun. Night workers cooed over the spirit as it flowed through pipes and jars. They said demand was so strong that production was running round the clock.