There are nights on Skye when the weather isn’t just background noise; it’s the main event. The wind comes in off the Minch, the rain drives sideways, and the house takes on that familiar creak and sigh as if it’s settling in for the night along with you.
These are not evenings for overthinking wine.
They’re evenings for lighting the fire, putting something simple on the hob, and opening a bottle that feels right for the mood, comforting, steady, and quietly enjoyable.
When people ask me what wine suits winter on Skye, they often expect me to point straight to something big and heavy. A blockbuster red. Something to “warm you up”. But that’s not actually what I reach for most of the time.
On a properly windy night, I want a wine that feels reassuring rather than overwhelming.
For whites, that often means something with a bit of body but still plenty of freshness. Not sharp, not thin, just rounded enough to sit happily next to food and keep you company for the evening. Think along the lines of a French white with a bit of texture, or a New Zealand white that’s more about balance than punch. Wines that don’t shout, but don’t disappear either.
Reds, when I want them, tend to be medium-bodied rather than massive. The sort of red you can pour without committing to the whole bottle straight away. Soft tannins (that gentle dryness you feel on your gums), good fruit, and nothing too aggressive. I want warmth from the experience, not from alcohol alone.
These are wines made for real life. For casseroles, baked pasta, roast chicken, or whatever happens to be in the fridge when the weather’s turned and plans have changed. They’re forgiving wines, the kind that still work if dinner’s late or the conversation wanders.
One thing I’ve learned living here is that Skye weather shapes how we drink, whether we realise it or not. When it’s blowing a hoolie outside, wine becomes part of the shelter. It slows you down. It gives the evening a bit of structure. One glass while you cook. One with food. Maybe one more if the wind shows no sign of easing.
There’s also something grounding about opening a bottle you trust on a night like that. You don’t want surprises. You want something you know will deliver quiet pleasure without asking anything of you in return.
That’s why I’m so particular about the wines I choose. I’m not looking for clever labels or wines that only make sense with a lecture. I’m looking for bottles that feel at home on a Skye table in January. Wines that match the rhythm of the place.
If you’re staying on the island in winter, this is something I always encourage people to lean into. Let the weather set the tone. Eat simply. Drink something honest. There’s no need to chase trends or worry about what you should be drinking.
And if you’re at home, listening to the rain against the windows and wondering what to open, my advice is the same. Choose comfort over complexity. Choose balance over bravado.
The storm will pass. The bottle will empty at its own pace. And for a few hours at least, everything feels exactly as it should.
If you’d like a hand choosing wines that suit nights like these , whether you’re on Skye or further afield, you know where to find me.