There are a few lessons I need to learn in life. One of them is that I don’t like cigars, a fact that I seem to forget EVERY time I drink single malt whisky. I get carried away by the peaty booziness and convince myself I am really in a dusty Havana club, then light up a bad boy. Then I cough up a lung and the illusion dissipates faster than a fart in a wind tunnel.
Hotel du Vin in Cambridge is so damn comfortable, cosy and indulgent we barely actually saw any of Cambridge at all, remaining ensconced within the hotel walls. A cigar bothy in the back garden proved a haven of such deliciousness that I once again fell prey to Cohiba-shaped crime. I could have swum laps in the bathtub, moulded into the bed and I finally learnt to use a Nespresso! Continue reading