It seems a little out-of-kilter to be recommending a rosé in the middle of deep winter in the northern hemisphere.
I look out my window from where I sit at my desk and the sky is low and iron grey, the wind – which sliced my breath away when I took the dog for a walk earlier – is bending the plum tree, and some of last night’s frost still clings to the roof of the garden shed. The garden is bare, twiggy, bony.