The Americans call it stone-skipping, the Inuit make rocks jump over ice, and apparently the Bedouin do it on the sand. Small boys and skimming stones in the stream. My father taught me and, a while back, I my own son. "Now you'll need the right stone, round and river-smooth, so big, just to fit between forefinger and thumb. Then you stoop down, and, slice it over the water…two, three, four. And a half." His first dove straight in, quite fast, making that deep sound like a drum. Thereafter he took to it like a duck to water. Or a duck to drakes, perhaps. I watched him quietly from the bank, feeling like my father as I heard him call, delighted, 'Six Dad! As big as me!' 'Well, I think that calls for a small celebration,' I announced, as we arrived back home a little later. 'You'll be having an Edradour then?', he said, with a somewhat hopeful look in his eye. 'Aye, and you'll be having a lemonade', I replied, looking at him sternly, but suppressing a half smile at the boy's cheek. There are some things a father can pass on to his son when he is still young. And there are other things that are best left for a few years. Like, indeed, the Edradour itself. Edradour …enjoy life's small victories.