Alas, the ’63 ports are beginning to fade. I came to that conclusion the last time I tasted a Warre’s, and the other night I was at the drinking of a Graham’s, an exemplar of that magnificent year. It was still delicious, and from the summit of a mountain there is a long descent. But the journey had begun. The passing of a great vintage deserves a grand obsequy: tolling bells, slow marches, a gun-carriage. How appropriate, therefore, that our host was not only a Grenadier but perhaps the most famous member of that illustrious regiment in recent decades.
There are so many stories about Valentine Cecil, and most of them are true. One year, stationed in Berlin, he decided to celebrate his birthday in the Hotel Stadt in East Berlin, whose dining room was normally reserved for East German ministers and Russian generals. Early that evening, the atmosphere was even more oppressive than usual. The sole diner was a three-star Russian, who looked as if he were on guard at the table as he addressed his food in sullen and solitary pomp.
Suddenly, the gloom was dispelled: the doors rocked on their hinges. Twenty young men from the Household Division charged in and overran an enormous table. Already illuminated, they drank vast quantities of Champagne. Toast followed toast. Although the Russki was accoutred as well as a Soviet tailor could manage, his khaki was no match for their blue and scarlet and gold. Worse still for his temper, they took no notice of his presence.
Like many previous Russian commanders, however, he had one advantage: endurance over time. He could sozzle and glower indefinitely. But under the four-power rules governing Berlin, the Brits had to be back through Checkpoint Charlie by midnight.
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