ThePortForum.com

The story so far...

Having decanted the older port, Baron Forrester decided that he should fill his pockets with Cockburn 1847 branded corks. He, much to his mother’s dismay, had not cleaned his bedroom of empty bottles and pipes before going to see his wine cellar and its skeletons. But what he found instead was that the door to the cork room was wide open, with an intriguing smell of an old Taylor colheita coming from behind an ancient wardrobe with a glass door. Long ago the glass had been painted black inside so the equipment inside was hidden, but the corking machine was making a strange groaning sound. ‟The younger port: where did he put it?" groaned the young maiden as she was watched quietly by the Baron. The maiden's Father burst through with the younger port, decanted, in one hand and the tray of glasses in the other. "Ahh, old Taylor!" exclaimed the Baron, "Where have you put my tasting note book?" . "The wardrobe, if you dare look inside!"

Meanwhile, down at a remote quinta along the Rio Torto, the drunken Bishop was entertaining a young impressionable policeman with stories of magical double magnums of Dow 1878, served by vestal virgins in a wide range of Riedel glassware. The policeman was confused about why so many glasses were being so obsessively re-washed.

"Ah!" sighed the man with the map, "Follow! I know where the Old Taylor is. Into the boat, quickly!". Baron Forrester spotted the boat sailing, port tack beating into the sou'westerly. After a sip (a policeman drinking on duty!) they arrived at a most unusual mooring, given the type. Coincidentally, at this very moment, the maiden’s father dropped the decanter. The room fell silent as it fell, and bounced and was caught by Forrester. But the stopper had broken , so drinking now was imperative. Glug, as the policeman slurps not sips as he did previously. ‟Why is there sediment?” I thought you decanted this? Have you consulted The Port Steward?" demanded the policeman as he grabs back the decanter . "Coffee filter! I need a glass to drink and this one is the wrong shape!!”

Meanwhile, the girl with big glasses of port ready for the guests arriving suddenly noticed a stain had appeared on the ceiling. Blood! cried Forrester. The wet reddish stain drips onto the previously clean muslin, rendering it useless for decanting . The girl wept as she dropped a bottle of port, vintage of course, all over the Baron's new map of gentleman's Commonwealth cricketing outposts. Fortunately, cricket is of no interest to peasants, but a gentleman prefers blondes.

The policeman's radio crackles as Test Match Special finishes. "Plums, violets, cigar smoke?” Bumble wondered as he sipped the Cockburn 1873. "It's like very expensive vinegar, made by multiple generations in the Douro of angry and extremely hairy Australians, who usually prefer extreme ironing, dangling from cliffs photographing natives. Meanwhile, behind a bush, a bottle of Port is boiling quietly in the heat. The label is clearly fake, apostrophes having confused the forger, but the capsule looked genuine, and it seems to state: that it had been bottled by a man named Rudy.

The Baron and young maiden, with pockets full of gold, strolled across Morecambe Bay sands. Where they saw, nestling in a shallow rock pool, fifteen minutes later, after they had consulted their Tide Tables they could not believe - it was