Aromas darkened the room as if a thick Islay smog had been sent by the devil from the deepest peat-filled abyss and fused with engine grease along the way. Burning newspapers spiralled flakes of black ash into the air that fluttered in the smoke like burnt butterflies from the Hades. Then through the seemingly impenetrable reek of chimney soot and charcoal came a shining ray of golden treacle that illuminated the caramelized crackling of burnt pork belly.

A crunch from peanut brittle crumbled onto maple syrup as it trickled down a chimney and onto heather and gorse that sparked and flamed in the fireplace. Finally a waft of singed cinnamon married with wood ash before a complex amalgamation of iodine, aniseed balls and muscle rub evaporated into the finish and numbed the tongue like cloves fired from a ship’s cannon.