Falkirk, in Scotland’s Central Belt, isn’t somewhere you’d expect to find good whisky, but one of the great lowland malts, Rosebank, was made there. I went looking for the distillery once. Although marked on my 1980s map, I could find no trace: its tell-tale pagoda roof, replaced by Rosebank Terrace, Rosebank Avenue, Rosebank Circus, each filled with modern ticky-tacky little-box houses, just the same.
The local pub-owner broke the news: Rosebank had closed. Then he produced a last remaining bottle of amber nectar from the shelf behind him.
“Let’s drink. Like everything else in life, enjoy it while you can.”
The local pub-owner broke the news: Rosebank had closed. Then he produced a last remaining bottle of amber nectar from the shelf behind him.
“Let’s drink. Like everything else in life, enjoy it while you can.”
