There’s not a lot to do here, or is there?

“Closed on weekends thanks to COVID, I’m afraid. Glengyle as well, obviously. You can always come back on Monday though. Are you staying locally?” 

“…sort of.”

I stood, crestfallen, in Campbeltown’s Cadenhead’s. We’d arrived the previous evening under sail – sunburnt, wind-beaten and queasy after a hair-raising night in Arran’s Lamlash Bay. 

There were four of us – a skipper and three bumbling deckhands pinballing around western harbours in a cruising sailboat named Minnie. We’d mustered in Tighnabruaich four days earlier. Campbeltown marked the southernmost port on our adventure, and the stop I’d been looking forward to most. As a whisky enthusiast with a pulse, the town and its exports had long been a source of fascination. The first single malt to catch my attention was from Islay, but the bottle that made me fall in love with whisky had funk. Until August of last year, Campbeltown remained shrouded in mystery. 

“A bit rough around the edges, I’ve heard.” 

“Not sure there’s a lot to do there.”

“I’d go for the distillery tours, I think, but not much else.”

In my relatively short tenure as a whisky fan, I’d heard a lot about the spirit, but less about the place. What was said about the town wasn’t exactly complimentary, which only added to the mystery.

“What”, I thought to myself, “could this rugged outpost of distilling excellency be like?” I imagined a Svalbard of single malt savants, factories belching fire and smoke, and cold, hard stares. 

“What the hell are they up to?” one of us asked as we approached Davaar Island, the tidal land mass at the mouth of Campbeltown Loch. What had started as a speck near the island was moving towards us at breakneck speed. Squinting into the sun, an open-topped powerboat at full capacity came into focus, its passengers waving frantically. They yelled something, but it was impossible to hear them over the wind and their engine.

“WHAT?” our captain yelled. A few more yelps and waves from their side. Had supply chain failure given rise to Scottish piracy? Before long they were within earshot, almost alongside our boat. A voice rose above the din.

“DO YOU WANT A BEER?” One of their passengers was brandishing a green bottle, attempting to gain his balance at the bow. Minnie’s crew sprang into action with more urgency than we had the previous night when there had been a small electrical fire on board. I launched myself down the stairs to the galley in search of a bottle we could offer in return. Our captain steadied us while my fellow lackeys made ready to relay the cargo. A few seconds later, we were waving as they sped towards Arran, the beer we’d given them raised in the air. No cold, hard Campbeltown stares yet. 

In Campbeltown harbour itself, the harbourmaster waved from the concrete jetty where we were basking in what remained of the sun, congratulating ourselves on another day without serious damage to Minnie’s hull. “Alright lads?” he exclaimed. “Just pay for the berth before you leave, no rush. Got any plans for the evening?” 

We’d booked dinner at the Ardshiel Hotel, and I mentioned that I’d been hoping to introduce my crew-mates to the town’s whisky before visiting the distilleries the next day.

“They’ll have what you need,” he said. “A great big whisky collection in there. More of a Guinness man myself. There’s a bar a few minutes from here that pours the best pint of Guinness in Scotland.” He paused. “Not as fancy as the Ardshiel, though…” He gave us a cheery goodbye, and promised to come by the next day to see how we were getting on. 

The Ailsa Bar was less than two minutes from the jetty and the harbourmaster was right – it wasn’t fancy. At first glance, it might generously be called “nondescript” and more accurately called “grim”. It occupies a narrow lot off the town’s main street in what is effectively an alleyway, with a dirty white facade and a small, dark window. On the top shelf of The Ailsa Bar that summer, half-empty bottles of Drambuie rubbed shoulders with Longrow bottlings that I, (admittedly a novice enthusiast), had never even heard of. 

Whether or not it’s the best pint of Guinness in Scotland is up for debate, but after half an hour, we had agreed it could well be one of the best pubs. 

We were met inside by a man that might have been the inspiration for Popeye’s hirsute nemesis, Bluto. He had a hulking frame, a strong jaw fixed in a permanent gurn, 10-o’clock shadow and an unsteady gait. He was originally from Nottingham, he told us, pointing at a blurry tattoo to back his claim. His friends hunched over the bar while he slapped our backs and made fun of our sunburn. Every few minutes they’d turn to dispute one of his grandiose claims or make a joke at his expense. When I asked him what he thought of Campbeltown whisky, he told me he didn’t know anything about it, and pointed me in the direction of one of his fiercest barside critics.

“I’m a Longrow fanatic myself!” I chirped. My new friend grunted. “Eh? The Springbank stuff’s okay. Prefer Glen Scotia, personally.” 

Another round of Scotland’s best Guinness and several thousand back slaps later, we stumbled into the dying light of Shore Street – reluctant to leave, and promising to return later that night for a round of darts. Our Campbeltown welcoming party had made us feel as if we’d been coming to the Ailsa for years.

We were greeted at the Ardshiel Hotel by bright tartan wall coverings and royal blue carpeting in the restaurant, which, it has to be said, were objectively unhinged interior design choices, but there was plenty of whisky to keep us occupied. The people working at the hotel were as warm, welcoming and funny as their counterparts at The Ailsa Bar and the harbour. Here I found bartenders sympathetic to my Springbank-worship. 

The crew’s stamina was flagging, though. We’d been up since early that morning, combing the beaches of Lamlash in search of a wooden dinghy seat that had been lost overnight in a rough swell (found at the high water mark, a mile from where we confidently predicted it must be). 

Despite being interested and eager to learn more, my friends are, by their own admission, not yet “whisky fans”. Had I presented them with something like a cask-strength Springbank 12 in our sun-addled state, I might have risked losing them for the cause, or committing manslaughter. A Longrow Red shoot-out would have been lost on us all by then. Instead, we covered the basics – a Springbank 10 here, a Longrow NAS there and the inevitable Kilkerran 12. Much sniffing and nodding and smiling ensued. We’d get into the weeds tomorrow, after the distilleries. We were expected for darts. 

A thick head was hardly enough to get in the way of an early morning expedition into town. Convincing a crewmate to enter a truce (we’d been undermining one another for days in the hopes of being named first mate), we headed for Main Street, waving at the harbourmaster sitting aboard a boat named Aquaholic.

Without a route, we aimed for the whitewashed Castlehill Mansions, a former church built in 1778 at the head of Main Street. Passing a bustling cafe and florist, our eyebrows began their long journey up our foreheads. Suspicion mounted further when we reached the top of the street and turned around to take in the view, which was – as we’d begun to expect it might be – lovely. It’s not hard to see why a builder and an architect from Inverary travelled all the way down here and decided it was a good spot for a church. If you squint, looking from the recently-restored town hall to the rolling green hills that gather round Campbeltown Loch, you might as well be back in the 18th century yourself. Where was the desolation we’d been told to expect?

There are abandoned buildings, and plenty of architectural interventions from the 60s and 70s to counter the charm of Castlehill, the town hall, and the heritage centre – a beautiful neo-gothic building that was delivered “as a numbered kit by sea from Beauvais” in 1868. The Lorne and Lowland Church, made famous by Kilkerran’s label, sits close to a dilapidated Victorian tenement. We pressed on down Longrow, my excitement mounting.

“Looks pretty closed,” my crewmate mused aloud as we stared through a gate on the aptly – and infuriatingly – named “Well Close”. There, just beyond my reach, was the place where they made my favourite whisky. And we’d come on the wrong day. 

“It’ll probably just open later on!” It didn’t sound any more convincing out loud than it did in my head. 

We peered through gates and holes in fences, catching glimpses of damp barrels marked “J.&A. MITCHELL & CO. LTD.” and “SPRINGBANK SINGLE MALT”. 

“We’ll try later”, I was assured. 

Mercifully, the town’s Cadenhead’s shop was open. I sought it out alone, preferring to face my fate without an audience – like animals that wander off to die in solitude. 

“So, the Springbank distillery’s closed?”

“Closed on weekends thanks to COVID, I’m afraid. Glengyle as well, obviously. You can always come back on Monday though! Are you staying locally?” 

“...sort of.” 

We should have left Campbeltown already, but had opted to stay a while longer that day to explore. “I guess this is an excuse to come back some time,” I offered weakly. 

The shop’s attendant I was speaking to seemed as if he’d just walked in off the street. His colleague was wearing a Cadenhead’s polo shirt, but he’d shown up in a hoodie and was talking to me as if we’d gone to high school together. He bit his lip, thinking for a second. “You said you liked Longrow?” 

I nodded. “Love it. I know it’s not everyone’s favourite, but the non-age statement stuff is what got me into whisky.” 

“Would you mind waiting here for a minute?” He flashed a smile and disappeared into the back of the shop. I heard glass clinking and tumbling as I marvelled at the walls of bottles filled with spirit from Campbeltown and further afield. Before long, he emerged.

“Here you go!” He handed me a small flattish bottle filled with a dark brown liquid. “We’re not selling this one, you take it.” On it was a faded, handwritten label that read “Longrow 15/327-3”. 

Campbeltown is not unanimously pretty, but it isn’t fair to say that it’s rough around the edge either. The edges might be the prettiest part. Bereft of distillery visits, we walked towards Davaar Island later that day, past stately lochside homes, stretches of stone walls, brambles, cottages, and – yes – the gigantic naval oil fuel depot, but so much more besides. Beyond it lies Kilkerran cemetery, which looks, with its palms and strands of lichen hanging like Spanish moss, as if it’s been transplanted from a Caribbean island. A neat line of bright Commonwealth war graves stand high on the hill and face back towards the town. 

Davaar is connected to the rest of Campbeltown by a causeway, which you need to cross at low tide or not at all. There’s a helpful tide chart posted near the start of the path.

“What time is it?”

“We’ve just missed it.” 

Sitting in Bangladesh Tandoori on a Saturday night, you’d never know that you were less than five minutes from the birthplace of some of the most highly-coveted whisky on earth. It’s a BYOB, and I had done exactly that – my little bottle of Longrow was still stashed safely in my jacket. 

The restaurant has harsh fluorescent lights and looks for all the world like a hospital waiting room, but serves good food and attracts a lively crowd that give it a warm atmosphere. The people that work there are friendly. Like The Ailsa Bar with its grotty facade and the Ardshiel with its aggressive tartan walls, first impressions belie its real charm, which has more than a little to do with the locals. Either people had been lying to me about Campbeltown, or they were trying to keep it for themselves. GD

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