Linger Longer: Moments from The Glorious Playground
Introducing Gleneagles x Glendronach: Moments from The Glorious Playground. A limited edition, three-part series of whiskies created to celebrate the way Scotland casts in magical light on unforgettable moments. This is the story which breathed life into the bottles, as guests journey through some our most iconic spaces, from our Shooting & Fishing School and The American Bar through to a frivolous finale in The Ballroom filled with irresistible sparkle.
What if we make a story, just me and you? We can wave our hands like magicians, announce to everyone: look over there, that way! And quietly slip the other way, together…
I know we can’t. I know those days are gone; that door has closed. I closed it, didn’t I? Slammed it, you might even say. But maybe it rebounded; maybe it’s not quite shut, and a little light can still slip through.
Because I’m here, and you’re here, and we’ve got the fire and the sparks and that can be enough, can’t it? You stroll in and kick off your boots and slump grinning next to me, like in my memory but softer now. And I think: there you are.
A branch snaps somewhere outside and I remember that story you told me about climbing trees with your brother as kids, your mother seeing you and being so angry, scared you’d fall; and you said to her, it’s okay, mum, and showed her how you tested each branch before your brother stepped onto it; even then, even a wee boy, you were so careful, so tender.
At that age I was stuck inside, me and my sisters all pretending we were in A Little Princess, walking circles of the living room with history books balanced on our heads. I couldn’t see my own feet like that but still I took these big, confident steps; so trusting, so bold. All I can say is I walked confidently into a lot of furniture. Kind of explains why I’ve never been good at seeing what’s right in front of me.
And look, okay, I know we’re not children anymore – but can we still play pretend? Create our own magic, a charm of glamour and grammar – hey, did you know that, historically, those words have the same root? A spell cast by speaking it.
How many years has it been? I know you’re still with her. I’m still with him too. But we don’t need to think about that now.
‘Hey stranger,’ you say, a cheeky wink implied, even if you don’t literally do it.
‘Been a while,’ I say back, and here’s what I mean: I’m sorry.
What I mean is: I shouldn’t have left you.
What I mean is: I had to leave, and given the choice I’d leave again, and I’d regret it again, and again, and again.
What if we live inside our story, me and you and whoever else wants to dream? It’s okay if it doesn’t have a proper beginning or an ending. Just one of those stories you tell your friends when you’re all sitting round a fire and someone says, remember that time? It feels like a dream, all of us here together. Old friends telling old stories.
You always loved a story, didn’t you? The happy ending, the choice that means it all works out. Remember that thing from my film theory class, the threshold moment? The decision at the door: do I stay inside and choose the familiar, the known – or do I cross the threshold, into the unknown, into Wonderland, into fairyland?
‘Same again?’ you say, and everyone cheers, and when the drinks come we all cheers again, clink of glass, the sweet nostalgic glow.
‘To old friends and old stories,’ I say back, and here’s what I mean: I know our story can’t change.
What I mean is: you’re not mine. You never were.
What I meant was: but you’re not hers either. You’re yours. I’m not trying to keep you.
This night, though – can’t that belong to all of us here? Ours to spill or burn, to hold holy or tell to no one. We can all slip behind that big carved door, solid and unreal as the doors on a sunken wreck, a lost elegance preserved in salt. We can, can’t we? No one is stopping us.
The story doesn’t have to end yet. Perhaps we’re not so young now – but the night? The night gets reborn, brand new and fresh and all ours, again, and again, and again.
What if we choose our own ending to the story, just me and you, the way we used to?
The painted sky is spinning above us and do you remember that summer, lying on the riverbank, pink blossoms snowing down on us, our hands held tight, seeing pictures in the shifting clouds?
You saw dragons, unicorns, a fairy queen, a parade of waltzing circus elephants; I saw a bunch of grapes, a scatter of blueberries, a fat round apple with the leaves still on the stalk.
‘Are you hungry?’ you said, teasing. ‘Do you need a snack?’
‘I’ve got one,’ I said, and what I meant was: kiss me. And you did.
The truth was I didn’t see food because I was hungry; I just liked to see things I could hold. Things I could have. But maybe you really did believe you could have a fairy queen, all to yourself. You always were a dreamer.
Driving home that day we saw expect more than the door, a billboard advert, for what we didn’t know, and it seemed strange because what else is there, what else but the door? What is life but a series of doors? Thresholds we cross or don’t; a choice that works out or doesn’t. They always say: if you find yourself crossing into another world, don’t eat anything or you’ll have to stay.
So let’s stay. Just for tonight. Let’s feast on the enchanted fairy banquet; let’s spin under the stars until dawn.
I keep thinking there should be some grand conclusion here, some neat little happily ever after. But life doesn’t really work like that, does it? I thought we’d already had our ending – and we all found each other again.
So maybe that’s the ending for tonight: old friends, still finding each other. One more drink. One more dance. One more hour until the end of the story.
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