The last time I drank mead was 7 April 1978. It was my 18th birthday and —unforgettably — it was snowing heavily. My chum Mark had bought me a bottle of Lindisfarne Mead which I knocked back on top of several Tequila Sunrises, a bottle of Black Tower and a few Brandy Alexanders.
This toxic mix took its toll and I was violently sick during an all-comers’ snowball fight the length of the Fulham Road, before getting arrested for being drunk and disorderly outside the Café des Artistes at 3 a.m.
I only mention this because my younger son, Ludo, is now 18 and has developed a serious mead habit. But where mead in my day was limited to the aforementioned Lindisfarne — beloved of National Trust shops and historical re-enactors — today it is deeply trendy, thanks to dozens of new producers, modern packaging and a range of alcohol levels and flavours.
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