16 Weeks in Scotland

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Islay: A Dram Good Time


Well, we couldn’t be in Scotland for sixteen weeks and not grab a side trip to malt Mecca. I mean, after all, we do have values. It would be like going to Paris and not having a croissant. Or leaving LaCrosse without ever having sampled a walleye dinner with fried cheese curds. Life must be experienced to the full!!

I guess I need to say right up front that this isn’t about drinking. Much as I love my spirits, this trip was more about the sense of place and national pride that malt whisky has come to represent. Malt whisky is the life’s blood of Scottish history and culture from the time of the clans to the union and, if they have their way, on through to the time of disunion. A time when a lot of folks in these parts hope to make it on their own in the new European Union. The desire to move away from the Brits and the general political and cultural malaise born of hundreds of years of on-again-off-again oppression is evident in all corners of the country. As an old man at the County Pub put it, “Whisky is a jar of rebellion, and we drink a dram of it every day. The British taught their children how to rule and then taught the Scots children how to follow. But home rule is the new way. It’s the Scots way. Equality for us means to stand apart . . .”

Hence, we came to Islay to see malt whisky as an art form with deep nationalistic overtones and the promise of cultural perpetuation. Each area in Scotland has a distinctly unique style of whisky. And within each area, each distillery has its own signature technique that maintains their whisky’s integrity and identity. Islay malt whisky can come only from the island of Islay.

The peat stained water flowing through the endless bogs, the “family secret” malting and drying process, the indescribable salt air we were privileged to breath while there all come together to form this totally unique spirit that really is a the water of life for this isolated island whose next most important export is the amiable sort of goodwill we could only hope for at home.
The town of Bowmore, itself, reminded me of a maritime Mayberry with a heavy Scots accent: “Oh, Aye Andrrreeew, and will ye be seein’ yer auntie Bea doon by the gaol of an evenin’ ?” Ah, the Barney of Fife . . . one gas station, a grocer (all signs in Gallic) three pubs and a few small hotels of various degree.

As Virginia will avow, our hotel was a combination of Fawlty Towers and A Clockwork Orange. Peter, the proprietor, was a shoe-in for a young John Cleese – rapier thin, zipping about in a black suit and tie, balancing a tray with the ruins of a full Scottish breakfast precariously adrift, mumbling left and right in an oddly frantic monotone, “Is everything to your satisfaction wonderful wonderful good good . . .” and disappearing before we could ever respond. Young Peter Junior was a bit more laid back in sweats and black rock 'n roll tee shirt and could be convinced to pour an honest dram beyond the legal 25 cl (dismal) Scottish measure. The matriarch was the power behind the throne and was one hell of a chef, offering everything from wild game and fresh sea fare to an “American BBQ" (the Scots version anyway) and the perfect finnan haddie with locally grown root veggies. Actually, everything was great if you don’t count the closet-sized room, the ciggie smoke wafting up from below (we were situated over the pub room) and the Czechoslovakian knife fight outside our door at two A.M.

Well, if all were serene and predictable, we’d have no need to travel now, would we? In the final analysis, the island experience was absolutely perfect. Miles of walking the deserted roads; collecting shells on beautifully desolate seashores, climbing to the top of overlooks, and, of course, visiting the distilleries. Here’s a little travelogue of our walk through the barren home of the finest drams on earth.

The bus stop outside of Islay airport.
We were sort of mystified by the barrenness of the island and wondering if there would be a bus in the next twenty four hours or so when a nice couple stopped and gave us a ride the seven miles into Bowmore. The ride, of course, included an Islay history lesson -- the road we were driving (the main highway) was originally designed in the 19th century as a railroad, but the peat bogs couldn't support the weight, so it became a wagon road. We were also introduced to Bowmore's "round church" built as a circle to "keep the devil away.













We got into town in the early evening and caught a taste of the local night life, which pretty much consisted of a great view of the town distillery and a bunch of bored kids playing football on the high street.


And, of course, there was the scene at the local petrol palace.
Bowmore is a pretty place. A photographer's dream. The washed-out colors and wind-ripped store facades are intriguing to say the least. Super clean, crisp air and a sky that transcends our concept of blue give it an other-worldly feel. The town was laid out in the late 17th century as a corporate center and not much has changed since. New businesses operate in the same old structures like new wine in old bottles. Or maybe I should say like new whisky in old bottles. The economy on this island -- as well as British taxation at over 250 million pounds per year for eight small distilleries-- has made it so that the whisky sold in bottles was actually made by the previous distillery owners. This is almost always the case. These places change hands on the average of every ten years. Yet the local houses maintain their distinct flavor mostly because of the four or five artisans who remain in charge of the actual distillation process -- while rich guys in France and Japan sip champagne and Saki and watch over their investments from afar.

Here' a shot of Bowmore's Barley malting process. Although none of the island's distilleries actually do their own malting anymore (they hire out their malting to the Port Ellen folks who do custom work for each business), the folks at Bowmore claim that they do at least twenty percent of their own stuff. Aha! But the people at Ardbeg say that Bowmore does no more than three to five percent and that the whole malting thing is for show. And a nice show it is. We missed the official tour, but with a little cajoling we got the dram lady to show us the malt guy, and this turned into about an hour of good conversation and more drams than she probably should have allowed someone who wasn't even on the official tour. It's probably no big secret, but I did discover that Bowmore also owns Auchentoshen and the whole operation is owned by Suntory. . .

Some of Bowmore's best. Malted barley tastes like breakfast cereal

Ardbeg, possibly the most versatile distillery on the island (and able to give Lagavulin a good run for the money flavor wise), offers an impressive and very informative tour. The most astounding information is the fact that it takes only two to three men to run the entire operation, putting out an estimated two million liters per year at full capacity. The new owners, the Glenmorangie family, have been working night and day to maintain Ardbeg's production because the barreled inventory is shrinking fast. Thus the New and Still New vintages, that really don't cut it, are being offered as a sort of waiting period. They explained to us that it really is the only way they can keep the doors open until their own spirits reach the ten year mark. Okay, I'll accept that, but I ain't drinkin' no baby whisky. However, their specialty vintages are absolutely wonderful. The tasting table is no-holds-barred, offering sizable drams of almost everything from their present inventory. Oh yes, the on-site restaurant is darn nice, too. The new Ardbeg operation is a class act. Just like their whisky.

Following the industry's economic twists and turns, Glenmorangie itself has just been bought by an even bigger corporation -- French Moet Hennessy. So, again, the whisky remains the same, but the accountants ever evolve and the common Islay man needs to ferry over to Glasgow for steady job.

Ardbeg's welcome mat. Here's me standing in front of a retired copper still. Ardbeg uses just two stills to maintain a world supply of its product. They run them non-stop. A good still will last about fifty years. This one is beyond repair.


This is the intermediate spirit receiver. Each distillery has one of these and each is equally decorative and very old. Every drop of whisky goes through one of these to maintain a cask strength. It is then drained off to be re-distilled and the process repeated.
The end of the line. It'll be a good ten years before we can check this one out. I wonder who will own it by then . . .


On our way home from Ardbeg, about a five mile stroll along roads like this one, we decided to drop in on the Lagavulin folks.
They'd prefer an appointment -- so the books say -- but we were welcomed like old friends. There were two other people in the shop, so we went on the tour. The first thing I noted was the little brown stream of water flowing from a tile under the road and into the building. Could it be? Yes! The water supply is a trickle of peat-stained spring water that begins a mile or so inland. It is tiny. I was impressed to see how they just treat it like a creek and go about their business as usual. No protection, no security. Nice place!
Essentially, all whisky is made pretty much the same way. So the Ardbeg process was pretty much the Lagavulin process as well. But, as we were informed, the real difference is in the phenol count. For example, while Bowmore is at around thirty percent, Ardbeg comes in at over fifty-- higher than Laphroig. Caol Ila is even higher. Lagavulin is in between. We got to taste some of the new spirit from the barrel room. The guide poured some out into our cupped hands, and we lapped it up like water from a farm pump. Virginia was impressed with how sweet and gentle it was. I was thinking that in sixteen years this cub would become a tiger.

Below: His Nibs with the goods


The whole whisky thing aside, our Islay trip was pretty much a nature walk that involved a dram or two and some excellent fare at "l'hotel dangeruese". If this is what a love for whisky can get me, you can count me in every day of the week. Islay is a land of brutal beauty and deep cultural history. It's nature and humanity joined at the hip. And you can really taste the aesthetic intensity of this never-quite-secure situation in their whiskys. Warm, unruly yet thoughtful, and as smoky and inviting as a 16th century cottage in December.

We had perfect weather and both of us agreed that it was pretty much a walk back in time to, perhaps, a better place. We walked along the tidal breaks, hunted mussels, and watched the cruising seals. Climbed hills to see what was up there, and pretty much saw the world from a far different perspective than a staggering trip to the big city. We'll save that one for the blog to follow. Next stop: Paris. Oh mon dieu!


3 Comments:

  • This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    By Blogger Fred, at 12:36 PM  

  • An amazing account! Tonight, I intend to reach for my bottle of Ardbeg to savor a dram in your honor. Thanks for taking us on the tour! Fred.

    By Blogger Fred, at 12:37 PM  

  • Thanks, guys,
    We have a real opportunity to see and experience a lot of things that would simply be beyond a general tourist's ken. The trip to islay is one of those things. Because I have a particular reverence for Islay based not so much on the whisky as on the great friendship and brotherhood I've had due to Islay whisky, I see it as a sort of secular holy place. A place I'll visit with a special friend one day. I can actually count the number of drams I had there on my fingers (although I do intend to make up for lost time when I hit Rockford :-) )

    The same goes for the trout fishing. It ain't the fish. It's the inner sense of sharing the experience with the people I wish were standing next to me in thigh deep iced tea discussing all sorts of important stuff. It's sharing that sense of place that I feel almost duty-bound to experience for all of us because i know you guys would do the same thing in the same spirit.

    Yeah, I know it sounds cheesey, but that's how it is. No matter where we go, our friends are always with us. We were constantly bringing up Anna and Lissa in Paris -- and the kids too. "Wouldn't Becca die for this bug collection?" "Hey wouldn't burr head love this guillatine?"

    And damn if we don't see Sam in every coffee house in Europe . . .

    I think Anna's call about turning whisky into a philosophical history lesson is right on -- if things are just a buzz, then that's all you'll ever get out of it. And I don't EVEN want to start about the aesthetics of french wine (ah Paris) -- but if you can't appreciate French culture and history, the terroir, the people, and see it as a local argicultural product, (and a lot of other cool consideratiions) it's just another buzz, a way out of the world rather than a way into it.

    I like the idea of sipping my way through life rather than gulping.

    It's certainly a pleasure sending these blogs out to y'all

    love and later,
    der perfesser

    By Blogger Unknown, at 6:53 AM  

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