The Empty Lighthouse

   It's the middle of September and the Isle of Skye got a soaking overnight. Nonetheless, the young Chinese woman gingerly descending the steep and slippery path is wearing flip-flops. 'She probably just came from the beach', my wife observes. 

   There's a fine vista from this elevated position. Across the wide bay three waterfalls tumble over the cliffs. In the distance a long and undulating island is visible. Fat sheep are everywhere, greedily chomping on the short grass. And, at the foot of the path, close to the sea, stands a lighthouse painted in white and yellow. It towers over a couple of low, single storey buildings.

   As I approach the compound, I see that it is not in good repair. The paint is flaking off, revealing the reddish brown stone beneath. Rusting cylinders of fuel have been dumped on the ground and dead thistle plants stand sorrowfully by one of the walls. The gates are padlocked. 

   And yet, there are curtains in the windows. I venture up the rise to peer inside, trying to dodge the sheep droppings which seem to be everywhere. Inside, on the window ledge, is a hardback copy of a John Le Carré novel. It looks almost new. Round the corner, a window pane is missing. It's as if the place was suddenly abandoned, like the Marie Celeste. Either that, or it's now a crack den or a squat. 

   A path leads from the buildings to the rocky water's edge, where we find a disused crane and a jetty. No doubt this was where provisions were unloaded by the lonely souls living in this spot. Behind, near the lighthouse, I spy two men with fishing rods wandering back to their tents, where they are presumably spending the night. It's an eerie place to camp out, and it gives me an idea for a story, which I relay to my wife:

   'I'm spending the night in a tent outside the lighthouse when I'm awoken by sounds which seem to come from the jetty. The next morning I walk down to the shore, but find no sign that anyone was there. The following night, though, I hear the noise again, and this time I go over to check it out...'

   'It's a good start', she says. 'What happens next?'

   'I have no idea', I say. 'I have no imagination'. 

White Wines of the Rhône Valley

    I visited the Rhône Valley in the summer of 2016, staying in Orange and Rasteau. I wandered around deserted stony vineyards, drank carafes of wine in restaurants that served indigestible cuts of meat, and experienced the terror of a giant bee flying up my shorts on a train platform. I love the region and, inspired by a recent book by Matt Walls, decided to do a spot of tasting. In this post I'm going to concentrate on whites, and will turn to reds another time.

A vineyard in Rasteau

    The 2018 E. Guigal Côtes du Rhône (£12, Tesco) has a lovely aroma of pear, peach and melon. It has plenty of body, befitting a wine that contains 60% Viognier plus sizeable doses of Roussanne, Marsanne and Clairette, and a noticeable bitterness on the palate. Like most whites from this warm and sunny area, there's not a lot of acidity, but it's not flabby, probably owing to the Roussanne and a splash of the acidic Bourboulenc grape. The alcohol is high at 14 percent, but it doesn't stick out. It's excellent value. 

 At £40 a bottle, the 2016 Jean-Luc Colombo Condrieu (Oddbins) certainly isn't cheap. Nor is it very good. I had this wine over two years ago and felt that the oak wasn't in harmony with the Viognier grape. The issue this time around was different: the wine is past its best. The aromas are elusive, and I was obliged to plunge my nose into the glass for a good sniff. The initial smoky Burgundian note proves fleeting and gives way to a very light tropical fruit aroma and a hint of petrol. The palate is rather watery, offering a suggestion of pineapple; the most interesting aspect of the wine is the kiss of tannin which you can sense on your front teeth.

    Guigal's 2017 Condrieu (£39.99, Majestic) is in a different league. It smells fabulous, like a super rich peach and apricot yoghurt overlaid with new oak. The wine has a wonderfully lush mouthfeel which, combined with the heady alcohol and stony/tropical flavours of the Viognier, brings to mind a Sauternes, albeit one with no sugar! There's enough acidity to make your mouth water, taking the edge off the booze. It's an immensely satisfying drink, and I kept thinking it would be the perfect wine to drink with a roast chicken. 

    In my opinion, whites from the south of the Rhône Valley can suffer from having too little Viognier in the blend, or perhaps none at all. The 2017 Chante Cigale Châteauneuf-du-Pape (£26, Woodwinters), is a case in point, Viognier being forbidden in this legendary appelation. The wine has many good points: it really fills the mouth and has a voluptuous texture, thanks to partial barrel fermentation. Despite the elevated alcohol, there's a notable freshness on the palate, courtesy of the 60 percent of Bourboulenc, Roussanne and Picpoul in the blend. It also has a distinct mineral touch. Still, I felt it lacked something. The fruit leans towards the tropical but the flavours are a little hard to pin down, and it doesn't have the explosive aromatic lift of a fine Viognier. 

Cairanne

    During a tasting in the wine village of Cairanne five years ago, I asked what flavours Grenache Blanc, the mainstay of white wines in the southern Rhône, brings to the table. 'Rien (nothing)', was the answer. The grape makes up half of the 2019 Boutinot La Fleur Solitaire Côtes du Rhône (£10.50, Woodwinters), and you can see where the man was coming from, for it's somewhat hollow on the palate. There's a nice pear character on the nose, though, which returns on the finish. A quarter of the wine is fermented and aged in used oak, giving it a touch of creaminess. The acidity is decidedly low, maybe due to the crazy heat of 2019, and you can sense the alcohol in your throat. 

    

   My last tasting sample was the 2019 Le Plan des Moines Les Silènes Cotes du Rhone (£10, Villeneuve), which has higher acidity than the average white from the southern Rhône. More typical are the abundant body and intoxicating alcohol. The stone fruit aroma is reticent, while the palate is more stony and salty than fruity. 

 The nature of the blend had me scratching my head. According to the wine merchant, it's 50% Grenache Blanc, with the other half Clairette. It seems too fresh to be a blend of these low acid grapes though. I think it's likely to contain some, perhaps a lot of, Roussanne, which has more acid and might account for the stony, mineral note. Evidence to support this comes from the back label, which reveals that Grenache (the red kind, I suppose) and Roussanne are the principal grapes used in the producer's wines. One thing's (almost) certain: there's no Viognier in this one.  

Note: Like the 'Emperor of Wine', Robert Parker, I purchased my own samples. In my case, of course, there was no alternative. 

James Young Simpson

 

   I cannot remember when I first noticed the statue of James Young Simpson. I've been in Edinburgh for a very long time, and the city's many statues usually escape my notice. 

   It is found at the western end of Princes Street. He is seated and leafing through a tome while gazing to the west, towards Haymarket. He has a lion's mane on his head and the square jaw of a boxer.

   I am uncertain if I saw the statue before I chanced upon the building where he used to live. And it was chance. Many years ago I worked as a poorly paid teacher of English in a language school on Queen Street, and walking home I would pass the building which bears the memorial to this scientist. He was, it says, the man who 'discovered the anaesthetic power of chloroform'. 

   This sounded rather cool to me. A modicum of research revealed that he and his nineteenth century pals would conduct experiments on their own persons, which was how the chloroform discovery was made. 

   My research also revealed that Simpson was buried in a cemetery very close to my home. I rather like graveyards, and this fact piqued my interest still further. Indeed, a path which leads from the city centre towards my home passes directly above Warriston Cemetery. 

   The gates were always closed, however, and I learned that the place was not open to the public. And yet, on occasion I saw people within its confines, usually with dogs. Eventually I noticed a big hole in the wall. Here was the way in! 

   So, today, after a wait of several years, and driven in by a combination of mild curiosity and the boredom of lockdown, I climbed over the wall. On the other side, a muddy, sticky morass serving as a path awaited me. 

  I had expected a kind of wasteland featuring homeless people, dog poo and condom wrappers (cemeteries having apparently become a popular venue for sex). I saw none of this, however, the overriding impression being instead one of neglect and the passage of time. Most of the tombstones I passed were no longer upright, having presumably been pushed over. I discovered a couple of spots where gravestones had seemingly been thrown together, like Christmas trees dumped on the street in January.

   Sounds were few: the soughing of the wind, birds chattering and the squeaking and creaking of tall, ancient-looking trees whose branches were threatening to snap off. A handful of dog owners passed me, perhaps wondering what on earth I was doing there with a bag of shopping from Tesco. 

   I walked through a tunnel to the northern end of the graveyard. Here the place was in pretty good shape. I soon realised that the cemetery was actually rather massive and, after checking out a couple of dozen likely candidates for Simpson's grave, I admitted defeat. I had a tub of ice cream in my shopping bag and I was wasting my time. On the way out, I almost fell over; I held on to my shopping at the cost of a hand caked in mud. 

   Upon returning home, my wife's reaction to my spur of the moment tour of the cemetery was as anticipated: a knowing shake of the head and, upon seeing my muddy hand, the well-informed observation that I was lucky I'd remained upright.