The Sway of the Uisge Beatha
An ode to Scotch
Being Scottish is wonderful. To a certain extent the Scots are defined, and celebrated, by the cliches carved from folklore and tourism. The weather is dreich a lot of the time, but when it’s not raining and a rare sun splits the skies over the Highlands, there’s literally no finer place to stand witness to nature's true prowess. The majesty of the Scottish landscape is matched by the humble outlook of her inhabitants – we are a simple bunch. Yet within the ranks of our unassuming natives lurks many a genius, many an inventor, pioneer and tradition heralded the world over.
Yes, the Scots might have invented most of the modern world as we know and understand it. We might have pioneered the prolonged existence of mankind through medicine. We might have changed the face of nautical navigation through lighthouses and opened lines of communication through telephones and televisions, pioneered powered flight and created the bloody bicycle. But we don’t all chop wood in kilts and tight white vests, despite what porridge boxes depict. We don’t chase haggis around hills. Not many of us toss cabers or dance the Dashing White Sergeant every evening. We don’t typically call non-natives Sassenachs or swish our sgian dubhs at anyone that looks at us in a funny way. But one such trope, which is accurate to some degree, is that some of us enjoy, on the whole, the luxurious amber viscous digestif called whisky.
It’s an industry now worth many billions of pounds a year, with a comprehensive and successful tourism industry surrounding it. Hundreds of thousands of worldwide citizens set off on noble crusades to our motherland to see, at source, where this magical liquid is created. Whisky is a product of our lands, time and expertise that is, many would agree, unrivalled. A Scottish single-malt whisky is like no other and can attract, given the right combination of age, style and brand, hundreds of thousands of pounds at auction. To drink whisky is a hugely popular pastime, and it’s something I’ve avoided quite successfully until now.
One of the first drams of whisky I ever poured
A Powerful Proposition
I’ve always loved the concept of whisky. I love that it’s a product of the Scottish lands and patience. That’s it. Simple ingredients and patience. It’s obviously a damn sight more complex and skillful than that, but ultimately the flavour, colour, texture, smell and sight of whisky is wholly dependent on barley, water, yeast, oak and time. But many factors render every single incarnation of this spirit unique. Some say the water used for the mash flavours the whisky – does it run through peat bogs, charcoal or mineral streams like some marketing would like you to believe – is this even a thing? Evidence to the contrary later. What about the grains and the process to make the mash? Where’s that sourced from and what techniques are used to make it? Is the barley local or imported? Is that barley dried traditionally or with more modern methods? What about drying that barley with peated heat and smoke? The still shape – each one unique to each individual distillery, carving, refluxing and channelling all that distinctive flavour profile that makes every whisky uniquely identifiable. Is this copper still directly or indirectly fired? The casks! How many facets of flavour profile tweaking is dependent on the style, finish, size, age, material and toastedness of a cask? And on it goes – each step in the process imparts a little nudge this way and that, gently pushing the gradually more potent new-make spirit to a point where, once it’s left for a while, comes out as whisky, but more intriguingly tastes distinctively like a particular brand of whisky. How frustrating to wait! How nervous to wait – what if it comes out tasting like hand sanitiser? What if you didn’t seal the cask properly and there’s nothing in there after all those decades of patience?
I never knew of this closely choreographed dance of historical process and craft – each “house” has its own way of doing all these things and more. It’s a closely guarded secret for some. It’s an open celebration for others. Whatever the method of making, the result is always a liquid potent in colour, aroma and flavour. I love – LOVE – the smell of whisky. If you ask me what the smell of Scotland is, I'll say whisky. It’s such a wonderfully rich and inviting aroma, so unique and endearing. It conjures up many images, some sourced from film and pop culture, but beautiful images nonetheless. When I think of whisky I see dimly lit, time-worn wood bar tops and glowing walls with rows of captivating amber capsules, teasing untold secrets. The subtle clinking of glasses, a soft chattering din and, if you’re not hydrating, a slow inexorable slump into one of the worst hangovers known to humankind. It’s a sensational vision.
To taste whisky is an entirely different experience. My dad is an avid whisky consumer – he loves the stuff and is partial to a bit of post-whisky “tiredness”. As I’ve aged, I’ve periodically tried dad’s whisky and in quick-step reaffirmed my dislike for its taste. How tragic to have a liquid so intensely alluring in smell, sight and concept, and yet so disastrously unpalatable when ingested. It has bothered me for as long as I can remember, even more so because of my potent Scottish soul. I can easily enjoy a whisky sauce. I can easily float the idea of a whisky-tinged anything (porridge!); but stick a dram in front of me and ask me to drink it, and I’m tapping out. We chose to honeymoon on Skye and while there, in off-season wintery November, we visited the Talisker distillery situated a very short distance from the house we had rented. The visual spectacle of the distillery overwhelmed me – those gigantic copper stills and red brick surrounds, mechanical spirit safe contraptions with brass framed glass jars. It was impressive and what’s more, the ambient smell was exactly the sort of visceral scent that gets me excited about whisky, and the idea of what whisky should taste like. I expected toasted sweet caramel loveliness with honeyed sugary silkiness. At the tasting end of the tour, tentatively sipping a Talisker laid out for us, I was met with that familiar overwhelming mustiness and savoury whack of soapy alcohol that made me recoil from dad's drams. Whisky, it seemed, just wasn’t for me. That was until a surprise opportunity in early 2021, in my professional sphere, presented whisky in a new light.
From the Isle of Skye
The Ignition Spark
Scepticism is high when it comes to my relationship with marketing. I want to know the truth behind the thing, not what the people behind the thing want me to think about the thing. Making my own mind up is my general strategy; let me get to the heart of what makes your brand, outlook, style or whatever attractive and then I’ll decide if I want to be interested. If ever there was a place for marketing to go wild, it’s whisky – so much prestige, history, desirability and lifestyle revolves around this sunset sauce and what it means to be a consumer of it. Selling that lifestyle is part of what makes Scotch whisky so popular in other parts of the world – it’s the “Scottishness” of it that sells. We were introduced to a whisky brand, through a mutual connection, as a potential partnership and I was at first intrigued but kept it at an arm's distance.
Knowing that whisky is serious business, I needed to make sure I was up to speed with what sets this distillery apart from the other many distilleries around Scotland. We scheduled a whisky tasting experience but, due to Covid being in full flight, had to settle instead for a remote tasting over Zoom chat. Apprehensive about whether I’d enjoy this whisky knowing my historical conflict with it, I set off to research the brand, the taste profiles of their whiskies and, in more depth, how they go about making their version of this venerable beverage. Just as I cracked open the tabs on my web browser, the postie delivered the tasting kit for our upcoming Zoom chat, and immediately I was struck by the smell emanating from the sealed box. Here I was once again, ushered gently into the inner sanctum of the whisky experience through a waft of the beautiful whisky scent. I was convinced it would be a disaster; how can I keep fooling myself like this, with the beautiful aromas of whisky lulling me into thinking that it would be different this time? More pressingly, how can I pretend to like the stuff on the Zoom call so I don’t offend the guy chairing it?
And so to the tasting – I’d been sent a 10yo, 12yo, 18yo and cask strength set of miniatures, along with an official Glencairn glass – the glass designed specifically for drinking whisky to maximise the smell and taste experience. The online tasting commenced and I started with the 10 year old. It was as I’d feared – bright, savoury, cutting and overwhelming, but there was something there, something a bit sweeter than I’d previously found. Not for me, regardless. Next I moved on to the 12 and it definitely seemed to be more flavourful, more fruity or nutty or something less harsh tasting, but still with that savoury smack. I was not reassured. Next up was the 18. This was the one that suited me most on paper and the one I felt would be pivotal. I’d done so much research by now that the reviews on the 18 seemed to be the most akin to the things I enjoy in food and alcohol – fruity, Christmas cake, treacle loveliness; you could say I have a sweet tooth, so if anything was to get my foot in the door, it’d be the 18. Sure enough that first sip was somewhat of a revelation, but it wasn’t wholly because of the whisky. I had, out of shot, cut a slice of mum’s world famous iced gingerbread loaf to eat alongside the whisky, and when I combined the two – a sip of the 18 and a nibble of the gingerbread – it was a mind-altering experience. It sounds a bit daft to say it, but the gargantuan wave of flavour I experienced was unlike any other spirit, or indeed any other food or drink, before. Intense, laser-focused flavour. Gone was the soapyness or the malty savoury tastes; just pure unadulterated fruity spice wonderment.
It was then I opened the cask strength and things got exciting. With a percentage of 58.6% and a pretty serious colour, this dram was an extra level of intensity, yet somehow still surprisingly drinkable. I couldn’t believe I was drinking whisky at 1pm on a Wednesday afternoon, but I realised then that the whisky game demands a bit more effort than trying your old man’s whisky collection once every decade. After an increasingly hazy chat with the host, we signed off and I sat alone writing progressively more sporadic notes of my experience. For weeks afterwards I thought about that moment with the 18 as I realised what whisky, for me, could be. Was it just that my tastes aligned with this distillery more than any of the others I had tried? What were the chances that it just so happens that this was the gateway distillery for me? Many questions unanswered, but I resolved to continue my investigations into the brand and their whisky, and bought myself a full bottle of their 18 year old whisky beverage.
And so it remained for another four months; me drinking a nip or two every other week, slowly revealing new flavours and on the whole loving my newfound affinity for this deep amber nectar. Until the Covid restrictions allowed the distillery to open up again, I had no other choice. Unsure whether my palette was developing or not, the more I tried the 18, the more flavours I started tasting and the more I enjoyed sitting with that glass for a long while. Sitting, thinking, sipping. Thinking some more. Tasting new flavours. Smelling and thinking and sitting. The hours passed unobstructed and the evening fell to darkness before I knew it. I supposed this is what whisky is all about – passing the time with just the investigation of flavour as company.
The rise of the virtual tasting enables us to participate in the conversation of whisky, with those who make it
An Education
The COVID-19 restrictions were soon lifted and, on a pleasantly warm Friday morning, I drove over to the distillery for a tour of the place and a go at their Malt Master experience. When I arrived at the distillery the barley remnants from a recent production were being decanted into a huge trailer towed by a tractor; steam was billowing from the hot husks, the smell was visceral – a sweet, vinegary wave wafting through the warm breeze – it was a scene setter. The tour around the distillery was fascinating and seeing those copper stills glistening in their majestic setting, elevated high above me was inspiring stuff. The postbox red, archaic milling machines. Their version of the brass and glass spirit safe. The process of making whisky is so intriguing. I mentioned before that the water used in distillation might or might not impact the flavour of the whisky – well I have a story. On this distillery walkaround, we were taken to a nearby waterfall which, in the bloom of early summer, was more of a trickle than Niagra Falls, and were shown the water’s path down to the distillery. Naturally I enquired as to whether this was the water used in the distillation process, to which the answer was emphatically no, it’s used only for cooling as it's way too dirty to be used for anything else. Surprised, given my naivety in general at this point, I of course followed up asking where the water used in the whisky comes from? The answer was, “...see that tap on the wall? Courtesy of the local council.” I doubt very much therefore if the water used in distillation has any impact on the flavour of the whisky, but it makes for a nice story. Soon we were taken up to a small house nestled in the middle of the distillery – the old farmhouse – to get stuck into the Malt Master process. I was driving, which was a bit of a downer, but the method of crafting my own single malt whisky was still transformative.
The questions were immediate and multiple. I hadn’t realised until I sat down in front of five glass flasks of whisky, that a mass-produced, widely available 18yo whisky isn’t decanted from one 18yo cask. I’d assumed that a distillery would distil spirit into casks, sit those casks somewhere and at an age-appropriate moment, spill all those contents into bottles and voilà – some aged whisky. I’d assumed they’d have loads of casks set aside for that 18 year journey and my rudimentary brainmaths figured they’d need a few thousand. Those warehouses across the road were pretty big. My question to the master bender of, “What happens if that barrel you’ve been sitting on for 18 years turns out to be horrible?” was met with a bit of confusion. The concept of warehousing, of selecting multiple casks and blending to create an age-stated whisky for consistency of smell and taste, hadn’t reached my frontal cortex yet. I was gently guided through the gateway of education into a world so different to my preconceptions that I was, for a short moment, awestruck.
As my brain caught up I realised just how vast and complex the whisky making process actually is. To think of all those casks in the warehouses, each one periodically checked for progress and selected at the perfect moment of maturation. What a task! Experiencing first-hand how the master blenders take those casks at their own individual maturation points and craft a whisky that is loved around the world, but also offers the same consistent experience for those who regularly buy the same one is something far beyond my abilities, that’s for sure. At that moment, sitting at the head of the giant oak table, admiring each of the progressively darker flasks and concocting a whisky from smell alone, I felt a surge of excitement well up; a wee stone had been removed from the wall of my mind-cave and through the resulting peephole I observed a chasm of amber-glowing obsession.
While the partnership ultimately didn’t pan out – these things rarely do – the experience had etched an impression into my whisky appreciation timeline so deep that it would mark the start of that very thing – something akin to an obsession.
Freshly blasted new-born nappy? Whisky is such a personal experience - we all have different reference points
The Amber Tesseract
Since that moment in 2021, my whisky enjoyment has exploded. I’ve now tried many whiskies from different distilleries, both Scottish and from further afield and all have been fascinating. I guess this is what has surprised me most about whisky enthusiasm. I had always assumed it was just a drink that people enjoyed and, among the more… excitable enjoyers, a place to pour their money and time. A hobby, if you will. Little did I know there’s a moment when you sample a whisky and it resonates so intrinsically that it’s almost impossible to withstand the lure of the next “find”. You’re captured and bound tightly. Strapped into a memory rollercoaster with your arms and palates free, ready to seek out more whisky that might resonate: Aberlour, Springbank, Dailuaine, Benrinnes, Bruichladdich or Glen Scotia. The resurgence of whisky as a business, and the subsequent flurry of newer distilleries such as Ardnamurchan, Clydeside, Lindores and Daftmill opening is incredibly exciting to witness. Each showing what new minds and spirits can achieve. There’s the independent bottlers, another unknown to me, offering a chance for the enthusiasts to try whisky from distilleries that might not offer it up themselves. There’s a whole other world of mystery. Each bottle you open holds so much promise and, if you’ve done your homework (and there’s a lot of homework to be done) you are rewarded with a sensory experience far beyond anything you may have found in the past. Even the same whisky, from the same distillery, has many variables too; batch variance. Whodathunkit? One cask, even if filled with the same new-make spirit and sealed at the same time as another cask beside it, will have different taste profiles when matured. It’s an almost infinite world of chance, and it can certainly set you down a path of limitless time, and money, sinkage.
Whisky, as an activity to participate in exclusively for excitement, could be regarded as a bit silly. I could be running a marathon or bungee jumping to get some real fun. But if enjoyed responsibly and approached from the experiential angle, rather than the getting blootered angle, it can be an unparalleled, joyous process. I approach this from a native perspective too, obviously, but the smell, taste and legacy of whisky is an incredibly satisfying experience for me; I feel connected to the very land upon which I reside, from which I have aged as a person. It sounds completely daft, I admit it, but I can see now why dad had so many whiskies and why he liked to drink it with pals. “Do you fancy a wee dram?” he’d say. His pals would light up in anticipation. I would watch on, thinking: “You guys actually enjoy drinking that stuff?”
Well, now I do too, and it’s a magnificent concept. It conjures up memories from childhood, literally. I’ve had memories that were embedded so deeply inside my brain that, when whisky facilitates its release through smell and taste, it’s startling in its clarity. I don’t mean flying into the depths of drunkenness either; it’s while being sober; the first few smells and sips and ancient memories appear thick and fast. Walking to primary school as a wee boy, through the coal smoke billowing out of the chimneys. When was the last time I smelled a coal fire? Doesn’t matter, the memory has been served, and with that memory comes many more associated memories that have also remained securely lodged deep in the dark recesses of the memory banks – the interactive educational touchpad game used to teach road safety – I remember that suddenly now too, in almost forensic detail. The memory has lurked there all this time, waiting patiently to finally be served up to my mind’s eye through the medium of whisky. How bloody wonderful is that?
Whisky isn’t for everyone, of course. It wasn’t for me for 19 of my adult years. If you hate whisky then I guess one could reasonably argue that the right one hasn’t been discovered yet. When you love whisky, you absolutely unequivocally love it. You actively develop your palate, expanding flavour receptacles and finding new things in the glass each time. It keeps progressing until you feel comfortable saying controversial things like: “It smells like the first inkling of rain in the wind,” and other absurdities because you are conjuring up memories and experiences from where you last sampled that particular nuanced flavour or smell. I recently blurted out there was a touch of freshly blasted new-born nappy in the neck-pour of a Glenfarclas 15. I was laughed at, but that’s what I smelled. I don’t know why or how, but I did. It obviously didn’t taste like freshly blasted nappies, and the smell quickly dissipated into a more astringent red wine type scent, but that’s experience for you.
Whisky is a brilliant conduit for memories. You remember the first whisky you really truly enjoyed. You remember the first peated whisky you tried or the discovery of a new distillery that resonates with you. Friends and family impart their whisky experiences on you, which feeds into the memory banks too. That’s the biggest surprise for me when it comes to whisky – the memory banks and how easily they are accessed with the smelling and tasting of whisky. It’s an expensive hobby and it can be soured easily if you choose the wrong bottle. It has an addictive absurdity about it; you want to sample the next one, and the next one, and the next one. You can chase bottles from limited releases with sweaty, feverish determination. The exhilaration of opening a newly chased bottle and the release of the taste and smell experience is a palpable, tangible currency. It can be traded. It can be passed on. It can be gifted. If the camaraderie and generosity that I’ve experienced in whiskyland since I first opened that door remains genuine, and I keep my whisky enjoyment to the enthusiast level and not beyond, I can’t see me ever leaving this unfathomably large, inter-connected sphere of collective experience. It’s the first community I’ve joined that embraces everyone and shows newcomers, with beaming pride, the magnificence of this most beautiful liquid called whisky.
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