You have to really like whisky to make the journey. It took a cross-country flight, then a tiny twin-prop plane across the Firth of Clyde, to get here. But it wasn’t just for a drink.
In fact, a bottle of my favourite tipple had made me a Scottish landowner. It seems hard to believe – especially for an Englishman who lives 600 miles away – but a piece of paper, that tumbled out of a bottle of Laphroaig, promised a plot of my own.
