“We,” says the Brocher, face lit by fire and dark with soot, “have creosote in our blood.” In their blood, on their hats, on their boots, down their backs – the Brochers, and in particular the Clavie Crew, have creosote everywhere, except in their whisky. They take that with water, a substance they otherwise disdain as being fine for quenching a thirst but a terrible thing to allow near a bonny flame. Continue reading...
