Whiskies of the Year 2016: Dave's picks

The kids have done it again and woken you at an unfeasibly early hour. You lurch upstairs, excited but bleary. As you near the kitchen, the aromas start to build – there’s fresh fruits and warm Danish pastries, cinnamon wholemeal toast and a fresh honeycomb dribbling across the plate. The table appears to have been polished.

You sit down with the family. The Grinch has fled. There’s muesli dotted with dried banana, there’s thick cream. It’s indulgent, but you deserve it.

You’ve never grated nutmeg on your porridge before, but what the hell… it’s Christmas.

Stewart Buchanan unveiled this in Christchurch at the end of a long show when everyone’s palates were jaded. It was – and remains – a revelation.

Victoria Spivey sums up your initial mood. 

It’s Boxing Day. You’ve forgotten the stress, the niggling arguments over charades have died down, and the joy of the season is upon you. You head outdoors, to aid digestion and build up that appetite – there’s turkey sandwiches when you get home. Outside, everyone seems to be wearing new boots/hats/coats; kids are wobbling along on gleaming bikes. Everyone smiles at each other. The air is chill enough to lengthen your stride. The aroma of smoky bacon leans out from a cafe as you head along the beachside, past the seafood shack, where they’re busy boiling lobster shells in sea water.

You glide along, accompanied by a whiff of Terre d’Hermès. The landscape is brighter and more nuanced, every detail picked out by the low, bright sun. The hills in the distance flow into the calm sea. Plans form in your head, your heart is full.

The fires of home call you. A glass of manzanilla is waiting.

Caol Ila. The hallucinogenic Islay malt.

Never get stuck in a drinking game with Santa… damn, that man can drink! Here’s a Christmas game: how many drinks does he have in this song – and how many whiskies?

Slightly unsure, you stand in the drive of the big house. As the last notes of the carol die away, the door opens and you’re invited in. You stand in the entrance hall; there’s a sweet smell of dust and beeswax. Your nose twitches – someone has opened a humidor in that room where you can hear the clack of billiard balls. A woman wearing a green dress wafts past smiling, the scent of angelica trailing behind her. All is anticipation.

It’s later. Your hosts are generous and welcoming. The wine cellar has been plundered, some autumn fruits have been dried, others preserved in syrup for your delectation. You sink ever deeper into your new calfskin armchair. Light reflects off the chandelier, bringing brightness.

You want that effortless elegance. You can never afford it. If only someone could bottle it. 

Confession time. My first taste of this – for this site – turned out to be a slightly flat sample. I re-tasted from a fresh bottle a couple of months later and was blown away. This is everything a classic Tomintoul is about, and contains subtle touches of the flavour which obsessed me more than any this year – rancio. It has, accordingly, been remarked.

Christmas wouldn’t be complete without some Joseph Spence. Sing along now!