Happy birthday, Whiskey.

According to my researches, Whiskey was first produced by American clergyman the Rev Elijah Craig. It is named Bourbon because Rev Craig lived in Bourbon County, Kentucky.
                                                                                                                                                                                        My parents, waaaay back in another life, once had a pony called Whiskey, another called Brandy, and as far as I know they parented a foal who was named Babycham, after those small bottles of Perry that were once so popular in the '60's. Then there was Champion the Wonder-pony who was possibly one in the same as Babycham, who I claimed as 'my pony', even though I didn't do much riding that I can remember. There were also two beautiful horses called Johnathon, and Captain. These extant subspecies of Equus ferus materialised because my parents needed to try and turn the farm around into a growing concern. Before they had been kindly gifted it from an aged uncle, it had not been financially viable, and in fact was going into debt at a leisurely but steady pace. So my mother, being in possession of a small dowry of four hundred pounds, had invested in what was to become known as the riding stables. Along with these stables she had organised a caravan park/camp-site by the lake, and the farm manager's house which they turned into a three-in-one cafe, restaurant, and pub. Seven dogs, some feral cats, a couple of pigs in the orchard and a chuckle of hens in the old hen house, just about made up the remains of the domestic animal life.

This estate, as it happened, was located on the bog land of a remote part of the island, which was only accessible to the adventurous type of holiday maker who were good at navigating thin winding roads lined with thorny hedgerows, thousand year-old oak, beech, and hazel trees, and hampered by puddles in pot-holes. They would then bump and grind up the long avenue, and those who weren't too tall would arrive on the graveled frontage of the main house, without too many bumps on the head, and leaving old Willie Grey, in his weathered tweed cap and jacket, to have to rake it all, Zen-style, back into an even spread. They would then crunch their way to the front door, and listen as the door-knocker echoed around the wooden floored hallway. They would then be told of the facilities and pointed towards the lake which would mean retracing the bumpy road back for a mile and a half to the allocated camping spot. Willie would then turn up again to re-rake the gravel, as it appeared that he didn't really have very much else to do. There is a strong possibility that at the end of the working day he may have indulged in a shot or two of the very whiskey, the birthday of which happens to fall on this very day.

Happy birthday Whiskey.