Whisky Online Blog

Silent beauty and picturesque, empty ancient cottages.

Back in 2007 when I was finishing my degree in Film Studies at Glasgow University I took a module entitled ‘Scotland On Film & TV’. Our tutor designed the course around the theme of Scotland’s presentation through film. Its structured visual delivery to the spectator that had come to be little more than the spoon-feeding of scenery to hungry urban eyes the world over. Scotland’s landscape was one of feminine beauty, rolling hills, silent glens with solitary and majestic stags strutting proud. It wasn’t a Scotland of the cailyard, nor was it shortbread tin tartanry. It was something else, it was landscape as ornament. Take time to look at any number of adverts, films, tv series, music videos or tourism campaigns shot in Scotland over the past fifty years and there is a distinct trend to view the landscape as wallpaper, a drape at which to point a camera and admire from a distance. This is not the Scotland of fank, mire, bog and drizzle. It avoids the world’s greatest palate of grey that is the Scottish wilderness, the greens are vibrant and gentle, not dulcet and shrouded. Stone cottages are pretty rather than the cinders of butchered culture. There is no sense of life hacked out of an unforgiving, cold and relentless environment. The shorelines are postcards not fishing ports, the villages quaint not fragile or remnant and hills or moors are open, bountiful wilderness, not achingly silent plains stripped of the forests that fuelled empire and industry and emptied of their population. It is a wilderness of endless beauty, one where the people come to visit, not one where its inhabitants were forcibly distilled away to distant shores. While this trend is being aggressively bucked by excellent modern Scottish films such as Morvern Callar and Red Road, films that bring the landscape and cities back sharply into the foreground as inescapable parts of Scottish life. This process of ‘ornamentation’ is the new cailyard, the modern construct of Scotland, one that whisky is entangled in in strange and guilty ways.

The majority of people’s whisky knowledge begins with a blurb, the back of a bottle, the masticated regurgitation of a marketing office somewhere far from the distillery. It often contains any number of phrases ‘cool, soft, clear, natural, plentiful, highland, spring, river, water, Atlantic, peat, coastal, ancient, nestled, forest, glen, gentle, rolling, stunning…’ the list goes on, sound familiar? Whisky has for so long become valuable enough to require an identity, a construct like that of the landscape that is used to ‘sell’ Scotland around the world, whether it be explicitly or indirectly. Whisky has been put forth as the product of a landscape, an artefact born of place and the good grace of nature. The end of this logical path is the wine-gifted buzzword ‘terroir’, a word that whisky is increasingly growing to love. The idea that it is a product of the land is a popular one and not without merit but whisky is a spirit with bite and its influence is more convoluted than we’d like to think.

The Laphroaig back label is always a classic for this kind of overtly romanticised imagery.

Whisky is an industry, one made possible by the land in which it is made but one that has also had to influence change on the landscape itself in order to survive. The commercial distilleries that grew out of the legal overhauls of the early 1800s made money and fast, that money helped lay the fabric of Scotland’s early railway lines, it increased shipping commerce and port activity, they necessitated a re-carving of the land itself, further deforestation, the developments of new roads, new community flagships were born in the shape of distilleries. In the days when a small, two-still distillery like Ardbeg provided at least sixty jobs and a thriving local community of two hundred people, the larger distilleries all over Scotland were powerful epicentres of community.

The Scottish landscape was for so long a harsh master, it provided but it was a lifetime of give and take, for every meal it gave a family it chilled them to the bone, soaked them and muddied their fields. The inhabitants of Scotland in the fledgling years of commercial distilling were not scenery addicts, to them the landscape was hands in freezing water, it was knowing the touch of seaweed, the ache in the limbs wrought by steep hills with wind worn clothes and skin. This was the character of the people that made Scottish whisky for so long and these were their trials. Perhaps the greatest influence of the landscape on whisky has always been one of osmosis, by transfer between the people that were raised by the land and who eventually set their hands to whisky making. In return whisky played its role in the ultimate taming of the land, the industrialisation and domestication of Scotland. Scotland is now a relatively comfortable place to exist, its scenery rarely exerts so great a pressure over the inhabitants or inflicts discomfort, only mild frustration and inconvenience in the form of rain and occasional landslides. The landscape is now enjoyed rather than endured, it is a place of outstanding natural beauty, its practicality and necessity forgotten by most and unknown by many.

Scotland's wilderness these days plays host to golf, luxury castle hotels and distillery tours.

Interesting then that just as our relationship to the landscape as a culture over recent decades has changed and been tamed so too has the character of Scottish whisky. Stills and kiln fires are no longer tended by men of questionable sobriety. Barley is no longer turned by hand. Fermenting wash is no longer left to fester in wooden washbacks for up to a week due to slower production. Casks are no longer repaired or coopered on site, large workforces are gone and in their place is the cold, relentless efficiency of automation. Distilleries are filled with the absence of voices, the trembling clicks and clacks of consoles and computers have replaced footsteps and chatter. We live in a stunning but deeply man moulded landscape drinking whisky made by fewer and fewer people and their human mistakes, ticks of technique and quirks of style.

The clinical might of Roseisle Distillery stands a proud testament to the pinnacle of modern Scottish distilling. A cold monster, doubtlessly of unending consistency, a feat of distilling science that is undeniably impressive.

The quality of Scottish whisky is globally quite excellent these days. The German and Scottish independents bring us many great and obscure casks while the majority of distilleries are emerging from the teething problems of modernisation that so many experienced in the 1980s. Most now release excellent mature stock from the 1990s and 2000s. In many ways these are good times for whisky drinkers, but the quirk has gone. The blurbs still speak of babbling burns and sea lashed warehouses, they still speak of the ‘people’ while employing less and less of them on the front lines of production and they still speak of their spirits as if they have remained unchanged for decades. Nothing could be further from the truth. The whiskies of Scotland have changed and done so in close step with the people who live there and make it. The influence of the landscape on whisky is no fairy tale of terroir and mystique. It is a tale of constant give and take, instigated and moderated by the people between them, an ever evolving story that goes through periods of rest, warfare and uneasy peace. Just as whisky necessitated physical change in the parts of the landscape so too the landscape provided and moulded the very real and human folk that would make the whiskies, whiskies that for so long reeked of character, they weren’t always good but they were never boring. Now both whisky and people have seemingly outgrown and escaped the landscape from which they came. That landscape which is now an ornament on our tv screens and scribbles on our bottles.

If you spend your time spiraling in whisky circles, which, if you’re reading this blog, I suspect you do, then you’ll probably be familiar with the modern and unwritten law of whisky-themed social and business interactions. I speak of course about one-upmanship, the never-ending and unspoken quest to outdo each other in the knowledge stakes. I know many people who, upon entering a room in some kind of whisky situation, feel obliged to subtly make everyone else aware that they know more about whisky than anyone else in that room. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, you’re probably guilty, as am I, of having competed yourself at one point or another. I know there have been times when I’ve over asserted myself and my ideas, I’m also sure there are parallels in all facets and walks of life. It’s just that it seems particularly viral in the whiskysphere.

This is the 'actual' whiskysphere where we all live.

I was always aware of these issues but it’s not since coming to work in an auction house in recent months that I’ve become increasingly demoralised by them. This is a line of work that keeps me constantly involved in the antique and collectable side of whisky and, therefore, the murky, digitised underworld of geekery that it entails. This is a place where the trend has been allowed to run wild in recent times. A place where facts are no longer harmlessly gathered, they are stockpiled like ammunition, ready to be loaded into the weaponry of knowledge and unleashed on other whisky mercenaries. Bottles are ticked off like a scorecard, ‘Oh! You haven’t tried that one. Oh god it’s incredible.’ This kind of attitude seems to be boiling away more and more feverishly these days. Whether I’m in my office at the auction house greeting someone or out viewing bottles, I will often be chatting away with someone about whisky and that old familiar tone of mild condescension will raise its head. It might be as simple as looking at a particular bottle and saying something along the lines of ‘Of course that one is interesting because of… (insert hyper-obscure factoid here)’. Whether I know this or not is irrelevant, it’s the burbling undercurrent of wanting to appear more knowledgeable that gets me. I didn’t realise quite how bad it was till I started this job and it’s something that I’ve since made a big effort never to never again do myself. It suddenly seems like a lot of needless effort, to constantly be switched on, actively seeking an opportunity to surreptitiously show off. It becomes quite tiresome, you end up loosing sight of why you, and anyone else present, is standing there in the first place, a shared passion, not a shared competition.

So why does it exist? Where do these oddly sad and competitive streaks come from? Is it something to do with whisky or with booze in general? I’m sure it exists in wine circles but I have never experienced it to the same degree, perhaps I’m not deep down enough into the geekery. It seems to be a very whisky-centric thing. Of course it’s not all bad. I wouldn’t be here typing this or doing the job I do if whisky and its wonderful followers weren’t a great source of joy in my life, but it’s because I love it so that this knowledge stealth warfare gets me, it spoils things. The majority of people are not too bad, it’s more the ones who are chronic with it, the people who can’t help but turn every conversation into a mini lecture, not a debate or a friendly argument but a single sided diatribe. It can be quite bewildering to come out of the other side of such instances and think back on what was discussed and said and realise it all revolved around something so inconsequential as the temperature of the 2nd mash water at Dailuaine, or something equally obscure.

Maybe it exists because whisky is all too easily the refuge of the nerd, the completist, the collector, the cataloguer and hoarder of facts and measures. I never quite understood that angle myself, I don’t really know many facts about whisky if I’m honest, I was always more interested in building and developing an understanding of whisky than a knowledge of it. I can’t tell you what the temperature of the 2nd mash water at Dailuaine is but I could probably tell you, as could many whisky lovers, why it is that temperature and what effect it might or might not have on the final character of the distillate.

We are here, at our festivals, on our blogs, our forums, our distilleries, our bars and our tastings because the bottom line is that we have found something of nourishment or inspiration in whisky as a drink. Something we feel compelled to share and communicate to other people we care about. That is the clear power of whisky in the digital age of instant communication. In most instances this competitive streak probably arises out of a mixture of an honest desire to share our acquired knowledge and a willful push to banish misinformation and enhance the education of those around us. It’s just at its most extreme edge, the pace where it becomes tiresome and unpleasant, the conversation where you start to wonder why this person bothered turning up at all. Was their mission to get out of bed that day and take pity on all the wretched souls who don’t know as much about whisky as they do? Who knows, all I know is that it is something that unfortunately exists in whisky society and if we all made an effort to be less confrontational with our knowledge then the better it would be. It’s only whisky at the end of the day, we love it, it fulfills our lives in many great ways, but it doesn’t matter how much you know about it. It matters that you love it and that you share it.

So, Valentine’s Day. The annual Hallmark-sponsored schmaltz festival. I’ve never had much time for Valentine’s Day, many people bemoan the memories it conjures up of school days and the associated adolescent angst. Sitting in corners watching the same people getting the same cheap chocolates and awful cards, year after year. Some people on the other hand adhere to it with a sweaty romantic fervor. I find myself fitting into neither camp. If you have a friend/partner/lover, then it seems that each and every day is as appropriate as the last for extolling their virtues and bestowing upon them your love and affection. Romance by its nature should be an endless and spontaneous pursuit. National ‘be romantic’ day, which is what Valentine’s Day feels like if you allow yourself to be consumed by the sea of corporate hijackery, seems more than a little oxymoronic. Likewise, I have no resentment of those who flaunt their entanglements so brazenly for one day of the year. The streets of Glasgow were last night well-decked in couples, hand-in-hand, dolled-up to the nines, arguing and bickering as only people in committed relationships know how. I felt no bitterness or resentment, no jealousy. If I am going to feel miserable at lacking love or a partner in my life, then that, like its antithesis, is something I can entertain and indulge each and every day of the year. Self-pity, morose  and middle-distance gazing introspection are national British past times, something that should not, like love, be relegated to a single card-saturated day of the year. For me, Valentine’s Day is more of a fleeting inconvenience, something that brings unwarranted expectations, unwelcome awkwardness and a smorgasbord of corporate clap-trap. The shops of our High Streets bulging at the gills with yet more fetid shiny drudgery, like bloated dying fish entangled in plastic on a cold beach. Valentine’s Day is like a volcano, annually letting off steam in the form of pointless and commendably shallow trinkets. Nothing says “I love You” like a helium-filled, heart-shaped balloon, an item whose unique romantic potential is unleashed when you puncture it and dance around the park singing your lover’s name having recently inhaled the contents. In short, I don’t particularly like Valentine’s Day, it just exists and I grudgingly tolerate it.

Prepare the sick bucket!

It did make me think however about what people drink on their Valentines date. Or more to the point, what do we drink in general when in a romantic situation? One thing can be certain, it’s not whisky. At least not historically, I’m sure there are trends being bucked these days by those with a taste for something smoky or strong. There’s no doubt whisky is a romantic drink but it will never topple the dominance of something like champagne. People in love seem to want to drink fizzy things, especially when they’re out and about, going for dinner and making a big deal out of each other. If they’re flirting maybe they lean more towards cocktails, or if they’re being quiet about it and are serious about what they eat or drink they’ll probably have a decent bottle of wine, red being the obvious preference of the romantic gastronomist. When you consider these trends for a moment it highlights quite succinctly the deeply solitary nature of whisky as a drink. Sure we share it as friends, in fact the only times I really drink whisky are in very specific social situations with particular friends, the ones who are comfortable with a similar level of geekery about the drink as I am. But it is not the same as the urge that compels us to order champagne on a date. The urge for whisky is often born of darker hours and moments. It is a soothing and deeply contemplative drink, one to nullify the senses, to mull over, to brood with alone while allowing it to allay the storms of a hurried and worried mind. Whisky has a power almost no other drink can match in these instances. Brandy comes close but it is too elegant, it lacks sinew and bite, just as Rum is too playful in character and Tequila too brutish. Whisky strikes a potent and seductive pose between raw power and an intellectual ferment of flavour and distractive depth. We drink with friends but Whisky’s most glorious hours have probably been at the helm of lone drinkers as they sail though wild oceans of mental turmoil.

Burns was a man consumed by romanticism, to the extent that he sought nourishment in whisky in the darker and lighter hours of his life.

Fitting then that the reality of Valentines Day in the majority of other countries is as a celebration of friendship. A festive idea that I can get on board with, something to encompass more that two people, something that does deserve to be hit home once a year. An excuse to purposefully gather many people who are dear to each other and let them remind one another why they matter. It seems a shame that whisky has not been seen as more of a drink for lovers, that there cannot be classical romance over a dram or two. Of course there can be, the scents and aromatic qualities of great whiskies are often seductive in nature. Perhaps it is simply the age old fact that whisky is still largely misunderstood by the majority of the world’s drinking population. It will always be a drink that lends itself to the fusing of friendships and minds, a sociable spirit of great magnitude. Though I suspect its deepest , most honest power will always remain in moments of quiet solitude. That is not too say the realm of the alcoholic by any means, simply that it is a spirit who’s depth demands concentration and inner flights of thought, it is a drink that nourishes in a way that few others can ever hope to. Where a mouthful of good whisky sinks into your soul like a boulder, others so often skim the surface like fleeting pebbles.

Lets finish up with a tasting. A Coleburn methinks, for no other reason than I’m in the mood for something a bit different…

Coleburn 1971-1999. 28yo. Douglas Laing OMC. 198 Bottles. 50%. 70cl.

Colour: Dull gold

Nose: Beautiful, a stunning and nervous bubble of wax, minerals, honey, garden fruits and ground white pepper. Classically old highland in style, the kind of aroma that can only be found in these old style distillates that have a healthy amount of age in refill wood behind them. Further notes of pollen, wild flowers, an extractive saltiness, linseed oil, wet rags, more flinty mineral qualities and white stone fruit aspects. Very reminiscent of Clynelish, or possibly Banff, from the same era. If only there were more Coleburns around to see how consistent this character was. It goes on with putty, boiled cereals, pencil shavings and little touches of wood smoke. Resinous, complex and pretty spectacular in all.

Palate: Hmmm, that’s a shame, the palate is immediately quite over-extracted, lots of notes of black tea, mushrooms, cardboard and earth. Hits of wax, mould and olive oil as well. Very big notes of tea here, milky tea and soft spices with some quite aggressive tannins in there as well. Not particularly enjoyable it’s sad to say. Butter, rotten orange peel, muesli, sultanas, sour dough, marmite and wood. It’s very bitter and quite astringent really, I think a dodgy cask has been at play here or something.

Finish: Long but still very extractive., cardboardy, teaish and bitter.

Comments: What a shame. The nose was enthralling and beautiful, it’s so bizarre how utterly different the palate was. Everything about the nose said this was going to be 92/93 points material but the palate really dragged it down. It’s a great shame because I have a big soft spot for Coleburn, I have tried several others that are pretty fantastic, if there was an award for greatest indifference felt towards a closed distillery then that would surely go to Coleburn.

Score: 75/100 (but the nose is 92 easily)

Big thanks to Tobias & Dennis for this dram.