Glen Garioch 10yo
Cadenhead’s Whisky Shop Odense | 55.1% ABV
Score: 8/10
Something special.
TL;DR
The core range ramped up to maximum: this is delicious whisky.
A big day filled with big decisions, like ‘What goes in the hip flask?’
Being Scottish is great. Along with the accent, the rugged good looks and propensity to grumble about tourists, we also have the right—nae, the duty—to wear, wherever and whenever possible, our national dress: the kilt.
In modern life, we don’t see many kilts—other than attached to someone getting married, or loosely attached to visitors at the Fringe—and it’s a damn shame, because they’re brilliant. They’re traditional yet can be worn in a modern way. There are belts and Sgian Dubhs and all manner of accessories to personalise with, but the most fun part for me is the sporran, for it has the ability to hold stuff, like hip flasks.
Quite a lot of Scottish folk I’ve spoken to dislike the kilt, and I can understand why—who would want to wear a wooly skirt, especially if your surname is an unlucky one (some clan tartans resemble wholly unflattering checked tablecloths). Some people just don’t suit them—whether that’s due to build, frame or posture—and shirk the very concept of wrapping eight yards of itchy fabric around their midriff. Many choose brieks instead, which is completely and entirely admissible if you’re over the age of 65.
Being the man of a nature defined loosely as stocky, I fit a kilt quite nicely, and I’m lucky enough to have my own kilt, that doesn’t resemble tableware, in my family name: a clan of the Lowlands with loose associations with a particular French red fruit, and more recently with buff men rescuing petrified time-travelling maidens from a lifetime of suffering under the Red Coats. (If we all looked like Sam Heughan in a kilt we’d see far more kilts around, that’s for damn sure.)
I love wearing my kilt for many reasons, but it mostly reminds me of the day I first wore it, my wedding. I felt so proud to finally represent my family properly, as all Scots do, resplendent in their finest and standing beside all the other clans in attendance. Add this to a backdrop of misty Scottish Highlands, and there’s no feeling quite like it.
“I’ve played groom or best man four times now, but only twice have I attended a wedding without duties, and both were tremendous fun.”
The last time I wore my kilt was around three years ago at my sister-in-law’s wedding. It was one of the finest weddings I’ve ever been to, not just because the sun was splitting the May sky, and not just because I got to wear my kilt, but because I had nothing to do. I played no part in this wedding, which was a relief, because every single wedding prior to that has involved me either being the groom or the best man. Both roles are laden with pressure, anxiety and obligation.
Were I forced to pick one of the two roles again, I’d have to choose groom, because once those lofty words are spoken and squinty photographs are captured, there’s a quick by-the-numbers speech to bellow and then it’s party time. Performing the duties of a best man, on the other hand… Well, that’s a long day in the saddle, depending on your perspective in life. This important role can be approached in one of two ways.
The first is the guy who chats up the mother of the bride and delivers a mildly comedic speech with an edge of legitimate concern—not for the groom whom they’re trying to roast, but for the bride who is just now realising that the man she’s just vowed to support her entire life is no more than a hairy man-child. Grounds for divorce regularly appear shortly after vows.
The other approach is that of duty to the bride and groom, of making sure their day sails along on a cushioned pillow of care-free ease. It involves making sure that Granny is wheeled into place at the right time and that the band are belting out their 80s covers at a hearing-aid sensitive volume, that the celebrant has remembered to bring a pen to sign the register, that the photographer doesn’t ask the new couple to run at the camera chucking wet grass blades in the air (nothing gets grass stains out of a white silk dress).
I have approached my duties as a best man with the latter perspective, but it makes for a long, tiring, stress-filled day. At the very zenith, when your body starts to tire and pressure reaches peak levels, is exactly when you’re required to make a coherent speech that tugs at the heart-strings and, according to my own self-imposed rule, make the mother of the groom cry out of pride for her wee boy grown big. Extra points are awarded if I get the father of the groom going too. If I fail to do any of that, I’ve failed as best man.
Anyway, I say all that to say this: weddings are brilliant and whisky can play a big part in Scottish weddings. It’s often used during ceremonies to seal the deal, with the bride and groom sharing their first drink from a ceremonial quaich. Whisky is shared in toasts to the new couple from hip flasks appearing from sporrans—if we’re not careful, the source of many a regret the following morning!
Despite enjoying every wedding I’ve been a part of, nothing beats attending one in which you have no part to play; as I said, I’ve played groom or best man four times now, but only twice have I attended a wedding without duties, and both were tremendous fun. I like to people-watch and observe the slow descent into anarchy whilst the breeze cools my rapidly rising temperature under the heavy-weave wool skirt. It’s a fabulous pastime; the Champagne flows and for one night only, everyone is genuinely happy.
That last free-solo wedding was the last time my kilt was worn, but a month or so ago, my wife alerted me to the news that her boss was getting married and we’d been invited to the evening reception. She asked (warned) that I get my kilt checked for size, lest it be too small, too big or otherwise unusable. I didn’t, obviously, leaving it until the week of the wedding to wrap that weathered hunting tartan around my waist, only to find it was so big that it wouldn’t stay up properly.
Panic ensued; my wife manipulated me into the tightest headlock I’d ever experienced and kicked me up the arse for good measure. Luckily for me, however, there’s a kilt shop just along the road, and the lady there was kind enough to sort me out overnight. I’d lost 5 inches around my waist, and that’s a lot of inches for any man to lose.
Fortunately for the betrothed the big day, was another belter: a cloudless July sky, midway through a heatwave (in Scotland!). I bought new socks for the occasion and, on the afternoon of the wedding, assembled the myriad accoutrement that make up a traditional Scottish kilt. As I was getting ready, I realised I had two decisions to make, and very important ones at that; two hip flasks were cleaned and ready to accept whatever whisky I chose to see me through the evening. One big and one wee… The decision was harder than it had any right to be.
Review
Cadenhead’s Whisky Shop Odense Annual Release 2021, Fino finish, 55.1% ABV
£40 at auction, occasionally available
After much deliberation and false starts, into the wee flask I tipped, with the deftness of an elephant threading a needle, some of my Springbank Cage Bottling—it’s brilliant whisky and why the hell not?
It burst like a geyser over the top of the flask and went everywhere, forcing me to suck the worktop. My wife didn’t approve of this behaviour, especially not whilst I was cooing at how delicious it was.
For the big flask, I chose one of my latest auction triumphs, a whisky I had yet to properly look at — what better way than at a wedding! Into the big flask went the Glen Garioch (or Glengarioch as Cadenhead’s seem to prefer) 10yo, bottled in celebration of the worldwide Cadenhead’s whisky shops each year.
This bottle, won by me at auction for the princely sum of £40, formed part of the 2021 annual release. It was distilled in 2011, bottled in 2021, and enjoyed the final two years of its maturation inside a fino sherry hogshead. I bid on this bottle because it’s clear by now that I absolutely love Glen Garioch: I started with the 12-year-old core range expression and progressed quickly onto a Cadenhead’s Warehouse Tasting 9yo finished in tawny Port . So when this little pup made its way onto the auction listings, my sights were firmly set.
I managed to spill this everywhere too, and spent another few minutes sucking the worktop. Whisky flasks are hard to fill accurately, it seems; I need to get me one of those transparent ones. Anyway, flasks finally filled, both were stuffed into my big hairy sporran and off we went into the glorious evening sunshine.
We arrived at the “rustic” location and stood amongst the other evening guests as midges descended and started nibbling our particulars. The wee suckers won without a fight and we all headed into the deafening din of the large hall that made up both the wedding breakfast and the evening reception. The bar was probably the slowest bar ever to have graced any event in the history of time and so, after I had finished the G&T that was way too rubbish for the time spent retrieving it, I turned to my trusty flasks.
I opened the big one first and offered a dram to a fellow wedding-goer in our little circle of my wife’s work pals. She absolutely loved it, despite being a non-whisky drinker, and soon the Geery flask was dripping the last drops (whisky shared and all that good stuff). My drinking pal went back to her gins, so I opened the wee flask for some primo Dougie whisky time, but it didn’t last long.
My wife, in a request for funds from the magic money sporran, saw that I was holding too many things and offered to take some of those things off my hands, temporarily. One such thing was the wee flask. That wee flask, opened and vulnerable, quickly ended up on the floor, spilling its rare contents over the concrete for what felt like a lifetime, but only long enough to lose around half of its fill. My wife was remorseful. I was remorseful. The circle of onlookers were remorseful. It was a remorseful time for everyone.
Tell you what though, I had a great time at another wedding where nothing was required of auld Dougie Crystal. The whisky in my flasks beat the offerings at the bar by country miles—one Jameson and one Bell’s—and despite the racket from the band (they certainly were not playing at a hearing-aid friendly volume), and despite my rare Campbeltown treat trickling along the floor into a rusty drain, it was a fitting evening of whisky, chatting and dancing. I wasn’t dancing, mind you, for I was the pack-horse designated with carrying all my wife’s necessities around, like her floral-patterned silk purse that I dropped on the way to the stovie station, whereupon I suffered a heckling from several drunk guests for having impeccable taste in ladies’ accessories. Thank you, Mrs Crystal.
Nose
Vanilla cream laced with cranberries for days. The smell of a black forest gateau bolsters this sweet treat—chocolatey with sharp pops. A malty bread note appears and goes quickly. A sour cranberry note, tart fruit, but faint—a cola note overtakes it. Wth water, the purple fruity creaminess gives way slightly to a more woody vibe: fresh cut oak with loads of pastries and cream cakes stacked on top.
Palate
Bright red fruit: mainly cranberries, but cherries, raspberries and strawberries are all mushed in there together too. Long lasting fruity tingles followed by a crescendo of warming spice—sensational. There’s loads to unpack: the obvious toffee and caramel are there as a base, but the bigger layer of this multilayer experience is that of fruitiness: creamy fruits, not zingy fruits. Delectable. Raspberry ripple ice cream. With water, the sweetness dials up a bit, opening the door to a bit of sweet oak, but ultimately it’s an Eton Mess on steroids.
The Dregs
If there ever was a whisky designed to fill a hip flask to take to a wedding, it’s this. It’s cask strength, pulling mid-fifties on the ABV scale, but so darned drinkable too. The fellow dram-sharer didn’t find it at all overpowering and, despite her declaring it to pack a punch, found it to be really enjoyable, floral and delicious—her words.
And that’s the beauty of this Glen Garioch expression: it’s full to bursting with the cranberry Glen Garioch signature whilst featuring some nicely integrated wood notes and oodles—and oodles—of lucious, silky vanilla cream. I do wonder how a fresh-faced, new-to-whisky palate would accept this, but for me and where I am right now, it’s just hitting the yum-yum square in the face.
In a month where Talisker 18 now tickles the arse of £200 and prices are nipping up everywhere we look, to find such a tasty whisky for £40, delivering flavours that make my heart sing, is surely huge value for money. Yes it was won at auction, and yes maybe I was lucky to find that rare lull in attention from the speculators and self-bidders and other the tricky people that frequent these places and get a whisky that hits way above it should for £40. That’s Arran 10 pricing but with nearly 10 more percents and an experience far more tuned to my whisky persuasion.
If you are not a fan of Glen Garioch, and I can’t believe anyone can dislike such a tasty beverage, or even if you haven’t tried this distillery yet, this whisky would be a great way to (re)open that door into the world of the Geery and enjoy the potent experience of summer fruits delivered on the best pavlova you’ve ever eaten (just in liquid format). It’s a damn shame it’s all gone and available only through auctions, but if you can find it, get it.
I really need to try more Glen Garioch but, despite my efforts, I’ve missed out on a number of them at auction recently. A visit to the distillery is needed to properly acquaint myself with this place—a distillery that is beginning to become my favourite place, producing primo whisky without any form of pretension whatsoever. I’ll certainly be wearing my kilt when I do.
Score: 8/10
Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. DC
-
Dramface is free.
Its fierce independence and community-focused content is funded by that same community. We don’t do ads, sponsorships or paid-for content. If you like what we do you can support us by becoming a Dramface member for the price of a magazine.
However, if you’ve found a particular article valuable, you also have the option to make a direct donation to the writer, here: buy me a dram - you’d make their day. Thank you.
For more on Dramface and our funding read our about page here.
