We awoke in a coastal library, the books seasoning in the sea breeze and clinging to airborne ribbons of seaweed. Iodine-soaked bandages flapped in the wind, as old boats crumbled on the foreshore. We could taste sweet meats, tomatoes sundried on charcoal, crispy kelp, melon and toffee sauce. On the nose, a drop of water delivered bacon butties wrapped in kelp and deep fried, served with a side of damp sand and pecan pie, while the palate finished with peanuts, beechwood tar on an old fishing rope and salt-cured ham. After nine years in an ex-bourbon hogshead, we transferred this to a first fill heavily toasted medium char hogshead for the remainder of its maturation.