Luck Be a Lady, Part II

Once upon a time, in a moment of extraordinary generosity, Drew poured me a glass of 18 year-old Macallan. At the first sip, I fell in love and it became my whisky of choice. Quite by chance, I found myself within an hour’s drive of the distillery, and I booked my tour for Friday. Although I left myself extra time, I was caught in an unfortunate traffic situation. Walking up to the distillery door in the swirling snow, I fretted about the five minutes I was late, if the tour had already started, would they let me hop on late? Or would I have to reschedule, and were there any openings?

As it turns out, very few people book distillery tours at 10am on weekday. That is to say, I was the only one. I was treated to a private tour. First off, Emily was delightful. It’s not a word I generally use, but it is the most apt description of all of the people I met. Well, except that one surly guy at the ice cream shop. It took me a bit to adjust to the luxuries of the private tour. Usually, I’d hang in the back, taking it all in in my own way, poke around a bit, and not ask any questions. I knew, however, that in an hour and 45 minute private tour, I’d have to speak. Slowly I moved from mute to questioning to conversational, and in the end I thoroughly enjoyed a tour tailored to my interests.

In an estimated two years' time, the new distillery will be functional, and you will no longer be able to tour the facilities I saw, which date back 200 years. I’m quite fortunate to have stumbled in to tour when I did, they're already booked solid most of the summer. What I learned was fascinating, about the history, time, work, and love that goes into every drop. I tasted the fresh rain water, smooth, clear, and cool which is used in the still, but had to decline the barley. Luck still on my side, fresh new make spirit was running through the glass pipes and I was able to dip my finger in and have a taste. Remarkably smooth for 73%, I must say. Since I was on my own, Emily pulled a few strings and I was upgraded to the VIP tour and showed me some areas which are generally restricted.

First was the filling station. With the scale of The Macallan, one might guess that it is near-fully automated. Walking into the large shed, empty but for casks and workmen, I was privileged to a view of the manual labor that is still a part of the process. Cask after cask was being filled then tipped over and rolled away by hand to sleep like Rip Van Winkle. It was in this very shed that the head whisky maker at The Macallan got his start thirty-five years ago. I was shown the tipping station, where mature casks are tipped out and drained to be sent to the marriage pots. The marriage pots were our last stop of the VIP section, where whiskies from different casks and barrels spend six months to a year getting to know one another before being bottled.

Emily cheerily removed the bung from a cask of 18 year, and dipped her finger in. She invited me to do the same, to taste the difference between whiskies which have yet to fully blend and those which have undergone the marriage process. And it’s true, it’s quite different from the smooth flavor of the finished product. “But still I have to say,” she said with a smile, dipping her finger in for the third time, “it’s not bad.” I was inclined to agree.

I took my time enjoying drams of different varieties of The Macallan. Over good whisky, I got to thinking. Sometimes I feel like I should have had more, well, any qualms about taking a good portion of my life-savings to go discover the world. But with a fire in my belly and a smile on my face, I was nothing but happy about the decision to go a-wandering.

The contentment continued as I set off for the Isle Skye. On my drive, I was treated to the sight of wee lambs gamboling about verdant pastures, and my heart melted like rich Scottish butter. I was in high spirits, even though I had no idea what I was in for. I had been told by many that I should go, so I did. Fortunately, I met yet another delightful and helpful woman at the gas station just before Skye Bridge. They get a lot of famous people in these parts, she told me, in fact Princess Anne was in just last week to use the toilet. Kanye West was in the day before, too, but she prefers 50 Cent. Above all, she gave me a piece of advice which ended up being one of the highlights of my whole trip. Visit the Fairy Pools, she told me, it’s a bit of a walk, but they’re worth it. Off I went, in search of magic.

After miles on a single-lane winding mountain road, I at last came to the trailhead. Not knowing what to expect, I followed the path, insensible to the freezing rain ripping through the glen. The Fairy Pools are a series of waterfalls and their resultant pools. It doesn’t sound like much, but I understand how they got their name. They are enchanting. The clear water runs swiftly through the mountains, carving its way through hard rock and smoothing it. Pools form, deep and crystalline, taking on an ethereal blue hue, seeming still and calm despite the violence around them. The water is beckoning, in the winter cold they seem to promise warmth and rest – a mischievous trick of the sprites for whom they are named. I almost went for a dip, but after an hour I realized that my legs were entirely numb and I still had about six hours of driving ahead of me. With a sigh and a promise to return, I put the Fairy Pools at my back, my Scottish adventures nearing their end.

I was not ready to leave Scotland, but time heeds no one. It was with certain melancholy that I left the Highlands, making my way back towards Edinburgh. Having ridden near the top the wheel of fortune for the week, I should have expected the turn which would bring me to the bottom. That’s her way after all. Driving south, I was caught in construction almost the whole time. It didn’t bother me, except for the fear of being charged extra for a late return. Then a truck kicked up a stone, and instead of just bouncing off like so many do, it drove straight into my windshield, pocking it with a large chip. Oh Edinburgh, you really are not keen to impress. Here’s hoping that Capital One is as good as their word and the rental insurance covers it. I’m just hoping to ride luck a little longer and not have to pay to replace the windshield of the renegade Fiat out of pocket.

Though not wanting to leave Scotland behind, I head for the promise of Ireland, for two weeks wandering the rocky coast of the Emerald Isle.



 The Brevity Report:

• I saw a passenger bus consumed by roiling flames