Ah, Kilkerran. Shall I compare thee to a spring’s day? Your nose art more lovely and less temperate than a field full of buttercups and a breakfast of buttered malty toast. Thou taste of lemons and cream and a sprinkling of black pepper, with a maturity that belies your mere nine years. Your finish is long, fresh and smooth, with nary a wrong note or hint of too much oak. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, Kilkerran I pledge my troth to thee.