Mull of Kintyre and Finding the Laddie

Julia sat on a bridge outside Grogport Cottage

I was looking back at my past post, and was thinking of whisky again, so without further ado, I reached into my cupboard, pulled out a Dalmore 'Spey Dram' from their Rivers Collection, and thought some more.

It was somewhere during getting intimate with this strange concoction (all my senses keep triggering off a chocolate sensor in my head with this whisky, unsure why, yet it is no secret that eating olives reminds me of fish... weird, but true) that my mind drifted away towards another rather special bottle I bought, back in 2004.

The only view to Arran I could find from outside our cottage

The setting was both Julia and I had lived together for our first year in London, and decided to go on a holiday within the British Isles to save on costs.  As my Grandfather was from Scotland, and I love their favourite tipple, I wanted to head up there for my first visit to the country.  I rented a lovely little place called Grogport Cottage which was located in Kintyre.  It was a one bedroom affair, with a tidy garden, and across the road outside the front door, there was a tiny beach, and a stunning view of the Isle of Arran.  All was quiet, and it was the perfect place to explore, enjoy ourselves, as well as celebrate the fact that a few weeks earlier on my birthday that year I proposed to Julia, and we were getting excited at the prospects of getting married to one another.

For the record; cold enough to stop breathing

However, as much as I would like to digress about the wonderful week, climbing the occasional hill, visiting remote beaches (having the bare cheek to test if the water is as cold as the North Sea), seeing the baby seal pups dotted throughout the shores, and failing to spot one porpoise out at sea... I did warn you at the beginning this was about whisky, which is where it shall remain.

For those who know not where Kintyre is, then I shall do my best to paint you a wee picture.  It is on the west side of Scotland, and hangs like a phallic peninsular before heading out towards the Islands, and the Hebrides proper.  It is considered (from a tourist viewpoint) to be Scotland's only mainland island.  It is the home of a few fishing villages, and you may have once heard Sir Paul McCartney sing a melody to the Mull of Kintyre, which is at the southern tip of the peninsular, and is a series of cliffs, that look out towards Ireland on a good day.  The main town is Campbeltown, which is tiny, with youths driving fast cars blaring out bagpipe music, and the home to something that I have always enjoyed indeed.  A Single Malt named Springbank.

Catching a quick peek into the distillery

Without going into the history of anything here, I had sampled a bottle of this stuff before, and enjoyed it.  Immensely.  I saw a particular bottle in a shop in Covent Garden once with a £15,000 price tag!  Mary wept... It is priced at £50,000 now on a favourite website, click this line, take a look, and enjoy the final piece of advice, 'If you buy one make sure you drink it, musty and gingery, a bit like rummaging about in yer grannies garret'. Perhaps, but you're charing £50,000 for the pleasure!

Anyway, I wanted a tour, but such is life in the Island life.  It was shut.

So was I deterred by this?  Hell no, there is a happy ending, and it resorted in me booking a ferry, and some gentle persuasion that we were going offshore to buy whisky (Julia gets seasick looking at a bath).  The destination was Islay (pronounced 'eye - la').  This place is a thing of beauty.  There were only seven or eight, but now ten distilleries on the island, and whilst they are all peaty in flavour, they are all individually unique in such an extreme the three big names on the island line up next door to each other, and are completely different in flavour.  Having sampled these three in the past, I opted for something I've never tried, and we headed across the island in the car to a fairly new distillery called Bruichladdich (go on, give it a go before reading the next bit -- pronounced 'brook-laddie').  

We arrived for a morning tour.  The first question asked was, "what's your favourite Laddie then, sir?" 

"I just want to see how the process is done on Islay, and maybe sniff a little taster later, which my better half can finish.  I am driving after all."

"Nonsense." Came a curt reply.  "The Police have to fly to this Island."

"Now, which will it be then, sir?"

The bottle still exists in spirit

 To put a message across, the above conversation was true, but delivered with humour, and common sense.  I was allowed a tiny amount to sample on my way round, and allowed a snifter at the finish, but by no means were they encouraging, or would allow me to leave over the limit.  However, it did encourage me to leave after spending a decent sum of money on the final thimble of the spirit.

It was straight from the barrel of a single cask, that was identified, and opened for worthiness of general sale to those who come to visit the shop on site.  It was one of the smoothest, and purest whiskies that ever graced my lips.  Given its strength, there was little burn on the way down.  It came with a little story, and I could take a bottle; fill it; and label it myself for the princely sum of £55.  That was for half a litre as well.  I didn't hesitate to act neither. 

It was called a Valinch, as that is the French word for the wooden tap that you hammer straight into the barrel.  Hence the novelty factor in pouring your own.

I mentioned it came with a story.  I have spoken with Julia about this, but we came out with two versions of events.  What I will tell you is a kind of combination of the two:  A local farm had some piglets, and it was soon identified who the runt of the litter was.  It became a bit of a cheeky swine, and the farmer soon found that the piglet had a taste for curling up, and going to sleep in the abandoned whisky barrels after their proper use.  Having this shelter away from the rest of the bunch, he was cared for, raised from the human hand, with an appreciation for fine malt, and if it spoke English, could probably conjure some divine nasal notes in a whisky review.

If you were interested in how soon the bottle became empty, I didn't dare open it as it was the most expensive drink I'd bought (at the time), and I wanted to drink it when the time was right.

It sat on a shelf in my front room staring at me for an entire year, then I decided to open it on the spur of the moment one day, sharing it with some people.  About 30 people asked for a drop of this stuff in favour of champagne for toasts on my wedding day. 

After all that time, I got a glass of it.  For fifty-five notes.

It was worth it though.