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Spirited Scotland – Part 1
Places 17 years ago No Comments

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contributed by Beth Cowan [architect / avid blogger / continent hopper] 


EDITOR’S NOTE: ‘Tis the season for celebration, which tends to include “spirited” fun. Without a doubt, the king of the spirits is whiskey, and no country takes its whiskey more seriously than Scotland. SpiritedScotland-1.gifThe Scots craft their whiskies like they do their architecture and décor: artfully and neatly. OK, we know we’re pushing it a little. This article’s only absolute relation to design is that it’s written by an architect. Yes, our American in Ireland is taking one for the team by sampling Scottish spirits. Well, somebody has to do it.

I could feel my stomach lurch before it even got to my lips. I took a deep sniff and my stomach actually screamed: "Hey lady! What are you doing to me” You were kind enough to actually give me breakfast today, and may I just say, that was a welcome change, but now you expect me to take this” It’s 10:30 in the morning!" I had a fleeting thought as I raised it to my lips and tipped the glass back: "I don’t know how alcoholics do it." It went down and it burned every inch of the way. Thus began my first of three days touring distilleries on the island of Islay, Scotland.

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Anything For Scotland

The only reason I went on this tour was because it was in Scotland. I love Scotland. Almost as much as I love Italy and that feels like blasphemy to utter, but Scotland has the most amazing landscape I’ve encountered yet in my travels. Jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring, ‘I would be a sheep herder if I got to live here’ landscape. Plus that accent… I had no choice but to sign up, even if I had to taste whiskey – known as “Scotch” in the U.S. – for a weekend.

There is a liquor store here in Dublin that is owned by a Scot, and he had been on this tour the year previous, courtesy of one of the distilleries. An industry perk. Recognizing an opportunity to make money (as any good business owner would), he set up the Celtic Whiskey Shop Distillery Tour 2006. The tour-goers forked over a ridiculously low amount of money, and the only thing we had to pay for on the trip were our bar bills and souvenirs. I don’t know how he did it. I’m pretty sure child labour in Asia is involved somehow, but I really don’t care. Scotland. For three days. While someone else drove me around and showed me interesting stuff. Perfect.

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All Auchentoshan

When the day arrived, we presented ourselves at the airport, boarded the plane, and 55 minutes later disembarked in Glasgow, Scotland. Into the vans we went and 30 minutes later we turned into our first distillery, Auchentosha. Phonetically, it’s pronounced awk-en-tosh-en, but in my mind it sounded like Akhnaton. Not the same thing at all.

It was all of 10:30 in the morning and our first whiskey was only 20 minutes away. Our tour guide was Graeme, who was lovely, but I suspect it was mostly his accent that I was finding appealing. Jason in the gift shop had a wonderful accent too. (Sorry. Must remember that this is a distillery tour, not accent tour. Right.)

Auchentoshan is owned by Bowmore distilleries, which is located in Port Ellen, Islay (pronounced eye-lah). They set up the tour for us, and this was their sister company. I’ll not comment on the tours themselves in great detail, because they really are the same thing, over and over again and really, you mostly want to know how the whiskey was, did anyone fall into the still, did I find a husband, etc…

Auchentoshan is a typical whiskey – light amber, getting darker with age. Scottish Michael showed me how to add water to make it sweeter. Didn’t help. It tasted like whiskey, and I’d like to say I was there for it but really, I’m a beer and wine girl. I know. What in the world was I doing on a trip like this” With that first dram, I was wondering the same thing. After we tasted four drams there, which I’d say is the equivalent of one very full drink, we piled back into the vans to make our way to the next stop for lunch: Loch Fyne.

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I Loch Lunch

It was glorious weather, particularly for October in Scotland. Blue skies, warm, and bright sun. The drive to Loch Fyne was close to 90 minutes. Past Loch Lomond, which is still every bit as lovely as people say it is, around the water and down the other side to the village of Inverarey, where we finally stopped for lunch. Whiskey in the morning followed by a long car ride equals car sick, just so you know. Several of us actually. Lunch was a very welcome thing.

We had great food, but I can’t tell you what I had. I can tell you that I passed on the haggis. I shouldn’t have. I’ve never seen it, have had no contact with it whatsoever, and this really was the perfect opportunity to try it. But seeing as I was already nauseated, I decided not to gamble lunch on it. Damn shame on my part. Those that had it, raved.

Learning my lesson from the back of the van and not wanting to be car sick before I boarded the ferry, I switched seats with Irish Michael, who informed me that riding shotgun carried with it the duties of occasional map reading and frequently feeding chocolate to Ally, trip scoutmaster and Celtic Whiskey Shop manager. That I could do, although he needed no map reading. And when he did, he wouldn’t let me have the map. He instead gave it to Scottish Michael, who was useless. I think they decided I was a girl (astute observation), and therefore incapable of reading a map (less than astute observation).

So I mostly rode in silence and fed Ally the occasional chocolate. He’s not a very easy man to converse with, but I did manage to get out of him the most important statement of the entire trip, which revealed itself after I asked why we drove North to go, essentially, southwest. He said it was the scenic route, giving everyone a chance to see several of the lochs. I commented that I feel like a poseur saying “loch” instead of “lake,” and asked what the difference was anyway” “Lakes are British, Lochs are Scottish.” Duly noted.

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Cold Feet & Ferry Tales

We drove for perhaps 45 minutes, my jaw open for virtually the entire trip, and arrived at Kennacraig, where we exited the vans and waited for the ferry to take us to Islay. We had about 30 minutes to kill so, being snap happy, I took photos and then posed in the water for my aunt. She has a ritual which I’ve somehow inherited: anytime she comes to a body of water on her travels, she wades in and has her photo taken.

In I went. It was cold, but absolutely beautiful scenery. The water was an inlet from the ocean and surrounded on three sides by the beginnings of mountains. The trees were turning colours but hadn’t had that first good cold snap to turn them from muted to brilliant so the landscape was soft and gentle but still colourful. The water was deep blue and rocks were shiny black. So was the ferry. In fact, when the bow went up it reminded me of Darth Vadar for some reason. I may have had too much wine at lunch.

Once on the ferry, the Irish contingent sought out the bar and waited for it to open. We made friends with the barman, John, which is something the Irish just do naturally. As we sailed out to the island, I slipped out to see the sunset and take a few photographs. While there, I met one of my fellow tourists, and we chatted until it became a matter of walking away and missing the sunset or throwing him overboard.

Every group has one blowhard, and this was he. His axe to grind was of course his opinion of U.S. foreign policy, Bush, and the war. Which would be fine except that most people who open with “Your man Bush there…” don’t ever want an intelligent discourse on politics. They merely want to beat you up for their own enjoyment and fighting back is considered unfair and rude. I have neither time, nor patience for these people.

So I walked off in mid-sentence (his, not mine) and went back to the bar in time to be delighted that someone discovered Islay has a micro-brewery. I’m all for dark beer that isn’t Guinness at this point, and one must support the local craftsmen, no” No. Four different brews of beer and not one of them good. Perhaps if I were an ale fan… then again, no one ordered a second round of Islay Ales. Bad batch perhaps”

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A Man In Every Port

We washed ashore after dark and van-ed up again only to find the ferry sailed to a different port that we had planned. Disturbing. We had dinner reservations, and no one knew how to get from there to Port Ellen, our home for the next three days. Plus, it was pitch black – you know, that inky black you can all but feel on your skin because you’re miles from the nearest lights yet the stars seem a mere ceiling away. I love that!

Out came the maps, off went the caravan, and 30 minutes later we arrived in Port Ellen, population 850 (roughly), with two main streets, one round church, one decent pier, one obligatory school, and one massive distillery. But a distillery with cottages. Cottages in which we were staying, in fact.

We checked in, and 15 minutes later were crossing the street to the Harbour Inn for dinner. We were late, but they were gracious with us. Our table was situated next to a table of 12 men on a stag weekend. My kind of odds. I think I remarked as such as we sat down and set about ordering, stag weekend all but forgotten in the promise of food.
 

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Beefcake

I had the haggis. Well, in truth, I had the sirloin but it was served on a “bed” of haggis, if such a term could be accepted in the culinary world. The thing about haggis is that it’s not what you’re expecting when you hear what it actually is.

I lifted my steak to have a look. It looks like the inside of a fig, sort of purple-ish black with white seeds in it, only in loaf form. Like fig pâté, but made of slightly less vegetarian ingredients. It had almost the same consistency as pâté but was a bit meatier. And it tasted like… hmmm… it tasted like… You know what coffee tastes like when they describe it as “having chocolate essence”” Haggis tastes like essence of beef. Only more intense and a lot richer. And no, I wasn’t drunk. I deliberately went light on the wine in order to remember what the haggis tasted like because I knew you’d want to know, cowardly and snoopy culinary voyeurs that you are. In summary, haggis tastes like very rich and dense beef fruitcake. Which would make it beefcake, no”

We had dinner, we had much wine, I got the wrong steak but they very politely replaced it, and I got to thoroughly enjoy my dinner while being chatted to by Scottish Jaime, who it turns out, is from Inverness, which is my idea of having a summer house in heaven. He works for Bowmore distilleries and takes people on this trip once a month. What a job to have.

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More To Come

Join us next year (we just had to say that) when our intrepid traveler learns how to pronounce “Bruichladdich” with out spitting, comes close to melting her esophagus, visits the daddy of all distilleries, and meets the Lord of the Whiskies.