G R I F F E N 2 0 2 3 | 1 6 A Masterclass inWhisky of flavour (thank God for the barrels!). Unlike many things in this world of ours, its production and consumption cannot be rushed. It is a drink for the soul while the rest of the world rushes by. Well, perhaps you know all this already, or perhaps this has piqued your interest in the drink? Perhaps you too are sympathetic to dusty books and wet wool. Perhaps you’re wondering where to start? Personally, I favour a heavily peated whisky – something from Laphroaig, Lagavulin or Ardbeg (all Islay). These all taste of a wonderful mix between peat, iron foundries, tar, seaweed, 1843, steam engine smoke and treacle. If that doesn’t appeal, then I would recommend a heavily sherried whisky - anything from Glenfarclas or Aberlour will taste of an aged aunt’s breath on a Sunday afternoon, Kathleen Ferrier’s voice, and a Waitrose Christmas pudding all rolled into one. Yum. It’s an expensive occupation, however. A bottle from those distilleries will cost anything between £40 and £100. If I can recommend just one - Lagavulin 16 is very hard to beat. Sláinte! n the local geography) that makes their whisky distinctive (and superior). The local water is critical they say, the region’s barley is uniquely flavoured by their particular microclimate, the stills are a special shape, they triple distill, the sea air imparts a special taste to the barrels…etc etc. The truth is almost all of the flavour and colour (except when peat is involved) comes from the barrel. ‘New make’ spirit, straight off the still (what Scots originally used to drink) is remarkably unpalatable. If you can get into the ‘spirit’ of it, whisky is a rewarding drink to get into – there’s a lot of ‘backstory’, a lot of mystery and it has huge depth o one, however, is born with an ‘innate’ love of whisky – it’s something which has to be decided upon and carefully nurtured and cultivated. I can trace my love of whisky to holidaying on the Isle of Arran. My dad was taken there by his parents when he was a child, he took my sister and me there for many years when we were children, and I now take (drag) my own children. When I was about 10 they started building a distillery at Lochranza in the north of the island. I had no idea what whisky was at that age, but from then on a tour of the distillery became an annual event. The only thing I really recall from those days was the warm rich smell of malted barley being mashed and the sweet smell of bourbon soaked oak in the warehouses – both with a backdrop of horizontal rain of course. Since then I have been on a very large number of visits to Scottish distilleries from Ardbeg to Talisker, and Auchentoshan to Springbank. It’s probably heresy to say this, but the tours are much of a muchness. Distilleries like to make out that there is something unique that they do (usually linked to N Richard Pygott, Housemaster and teacher of Geography, muses on the delights of ‘Scotch’ Alcoholic drinks conjure up in the mind’s eye an image of the typical person who drinks them: chardonnay, real ale, Champagne, vodka martini, lager, whisky.To me, whisky invokes thoughts of dusty old books, oak panelled rooms, seaweedy docks at low tide, thick herringbone tweed, wet wool, driving rain and billows of cigar smoke – all things to which I am extremely sympathetic. Given how popularAbingdon’s staff whisky tasting evenings are, this probably applies to quite a number of us.
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