Brontë Liqueur

Several news outlets carry the story of the revival of the so-called Brontë Liqueur by an entrepeneur who happens to be the great grandson of no other than James Roberts, the philantropist and Brontë enthusiast who bought the Brontë Parsonage in 1927 and gave it to the Brontë Society.

Bdaily:

North Yorkshire businessman, Sir James Aykroyd, has revived Brontë Liqueur, a tipple he first discovered some 40 years ago during a business trip to Paraguay, South America. [You can read the story here]
Now four decades on, he has managed to fulfil his dreams of bringing the liqueur to the UK, transforming both its look and its taste for a more discerning consumer.
Sir James, who worked in senior roles with Buchanan’s whisky and Martini and Rossi and more recently stepped down as a shareholder and chairman of Speyside Distillers, said: “Back in 1928 my great grandfather - Sir James Roberts – bought the Haworth village parsonage and gifted it to the Brontë Society.
“Today that building is the Brontë Parsonage Museum and this is something our family is immensely proud of - I still hold the key to the parsonage’s front door.”
While the original Brontë Liqueur was honey-based and presented in a ceramic jug, the new-tasting drink celebrates God’s Own County with blackberry and sloe and a hint of jasmine. (Clare Burnett)

The Drinks Report:

A percentage of all sales of Brontë liqueur will be donated to the Brontë Society to ensure that the legacy of the Brontë family endures.
The original Brontë liqueur was packaged in a ceramic jug. The liqueur is now presented in a glass 70cl bottle inside a metallic dark blue box with gold highlights. UK RRP £27 per 70cl bottle. (Felicity Murray)

EDIT: 

New York Magazine's Grub Street:

The producer of the new booze attributes the line to Emily Brontë, but it's actually a lovely bit from a Ralph Waldo Emerson essay published in 1844, the year before Emily started on Wuthering Heights. Other than that, this liqueur is faultless and is destined, eventually, to come to the U.S., where it will inevitably wend its way into an untold number of doomed affairs. It's just the thing to sip while wandering the moors, in the drizzle, to shake off a nightmare. You know, the one in which Heathcliff turns into a Bukowski beer bro. (Hugh Merwin)

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