So, the storm* has settled and I've a wee chance to rattle a few thoughts out and there is no more prime a subject for me than that of whisky and terroir. These wee notions, the subject of the ramble, have been summoned by nothing less than a wee jolly out to Islay to be shown the works of Bruichladdich. A distillery ringing the chimes for a doctrine that they believe terroir matters. "Terroir"**, I can hear the wails, "Oh for fucks sake", as whisky geeks bemoan visions of wine nobbery and mythicism poisoning their egalitarian and rigid science. Is this the case?
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@Rob_Gilmour has been writing for Empty for too long to mention, he is currently working in wine in Edinburgh, He's somehow found himself as the President of the @IWSScotland. Being a balanced, multifaceted individual Rob's only interest in not wine, he is also interested in wine education as well, having passed his WSET L3 with distinction, not to mention Rob has a fondness for having his ego stroked, demonstrated the purring he made while receiving a WSET Scholarship. Rob is also a deft hand at circumlocution. If you'd still like to contact him email: emptyglassie@gmail.com
The argument follows that after you distill the damn barley, the crassest essence of "Terroir", the soil and growing conditions of that barley are lost. The still and the cask are your "Terroir", and these are far from place specific. The conclusion would be that we wino's should wobble back to our poncey juice and leave this great nation of scientists to refining their liquid art.
Make no mistake about this, I am a wino on a wander, a grapist having a gander, and I will utter a slight apology for that.
What has me so inclined to comment and natter is one of the less mucky but rather more murky aspects of "Terroir": people. In wine, we sometimes get caught up in Mussolini-like cults of personality around the winemaker. Much wider than that is the place, both psychical and, more abstractly, the particular place in time. That moment that ferments the atmosphere and ends up crafting a snapshot in history. Of course, "Terroir" is a daft and loose term and it quite rightly attracts scorn for that but it is a rather catchy way of saying exactly what I've just battered out. In other words, it's a noble concept that's gotten caught up in bawbaggery.
Bruichladdich comes into this for exactly this reason, they take their fair share of flak for being everything under the sun (or lack of, given the location). Of the nasty names muttered, "bullshit merchants" seems to be the one that holds the most curiosity for me. As a whisky novice, I'm left pondering how Bruichladdich have ascended to these titles?
As we take-off on a shaky flight to Islay, over the cancelled ferries and floods of the mainland, the curiosity niggles away. Bruichladdich is a quirk: a whisky distillery who had been fiercely independent yet found themselves bought by Remy-Cointreau, a distillery with a history back to 1881 but who have trouble with older stocks. I am endlessly baffled, after all, these are distillers who have spurred creativity and innovation using the Victorian equipment that the old ghosts*** of the distillery guarded preciously. The paradoxes are endless: with so many layers, are any simply fluff? How many of them?
And we land.
Off our small rickety coffin in the sky and onto the mildly more hospitable rock that has been staring down wild seas since the ice age. Surprisingly, all save the wind is calm and we are greeted at the airport door by one of our guides for the trip. We are warmly welcomed onto Islay and mounted into a people carrier which will be one of the many places our thoughts will be boiled, melted, and reformed. Quaint that it is adorned by a large splashing of advertising for The Botanist Gin. A sign?
Wading along the east side of Islay, rolling down the hill in Bowmore and crossing through purgatory to the west wing of the island, we arrive at our camp, the beautifully situated guest house of an taigh-osda @ Bruichladdich. We're shacked up in the perfect location; two minutes from the distillery and one minute from the sea. It's here, around a table facing a window into the sea loch dividing Bruichladdich from Bowmore, that we will recap and rebuke our lessons from the day ahead.
First, however, we scurry to our first battlefield. The town of Port Charlotte and more importantly, the dinner table in the creatively named Port Charlotte Hotel and Bar. In this cosy, welcoming atmosphere our host banters with staff and offers us tips to navigate a wonderful menu. Bellies full and the first sword is drawn: how can a whisky distillery have "Terroir" The polite sceptical chat rages amongst the group and eventually I let a little bellow alluding to the importance of the people we are meeting and how they must be part of this marketer's best friend, "Terroir".
A fill of whisky, a brief hello to the stills and a conversion in the war room of an taigh-osda later it's midnight and two of us have found ourselves sat on a wall outside the distillery watching the waves make menacing advances on the gates of the distillery. The clock moves an hour forward and we take up an invitation from one of the gents watching the mash to return and to see all the cogs creak into motion.
The faces lurking around the 24 hour distillery are from the same cut as today's earlier introductions: warm, welcoming and inviting. We are treated to the mash, wash, the different malted barley's, all are spooned, sipped and nibbled. Nothing is is left untasted. Watching the mellow beast hum through the night we're treated to captivating idle chat on the whys and hows of ending up on this Island flung off between Ireland, Scotland and nowhere. We rolled home in the wee hours, minds humming and in severe need of a nap before our day of Odyssey.
An early morning pulled the curtains to the Paps of Jura to the north and the crags of the eastern island being kissed by the sun, I for one am amenable to the wanton mention of "Terroir" at this point. Breakfast and a wee chat with the proprietor of our temporary abode: a native by birth, a former emigrant from its shores, gifted with the option of returning to Islay thanks to the worlds new found interest in the island, a man fond of his dogs and his peace.
Fed.
The second of our hosts arrives, followed by our original host with our juniper clad chariot. We are set. A true foray onto the Island begins. We set off westward for a gawk at the abyss of the Atlantic and our musings and curiosities find out a wee splash about our hosts. The first of our hosts is the sister of the new head distiller, the second is the daughter of a farmer who is provided work by the distillery growing barley on the Island, an island not traditionally a home for barley. Our mouths meander as we pass the newest of Islay's distilleries, Kilchoman, something of a shadow to the Bruichladdich doctrine of provenance, barley and "Terroir". Onwards past Rockside Farm, a source of barely for a Bruichladdich single farm whisky.
We arrive.
Rockside farm to our backs, literally, just out of touching distance, we march along the pass in the sand dunes to Machir Bay. Like a slap, the Atlantic air we imagine we have in our bones wakes us and the cobwebs of the previous night are away. We stand a row of five, wellies deep in the sea, the wind beckoning us to wet arses, we hold fast. Whisky appears, seven glasses follow. Seven Rockside Farm 2007's are poured, and here we are immersed in "Terroir". No, not just because we are immersed in the wonder of geographical proximity. We have arrived on an island, been greeted openly, met people who have been offered a livelihood here by Bruichladdich. We are standing on a sandy beach, some of us so keenly that they're knee deep in the ocean that besieges this rock. The whisky is pouring at 180 degrees from the bottle as the wind howls and we are sipping away with our hosts at the nectar that has made their livelihoods, these conversations and this story possible. AND FOR GEOGRAPHY GEEKS LIKE ME, THE FARM THE BARLEY CAME FROM FOR THIS WHISKY IS FUCKING OVER THERE, LIKE RIGHT FUCKING OVER THERE!
We are removed from the beach.
One welly is emptied of it's gallon of new found sea water. We are consumed once more to be spirited away once more to another corner of Islay.
to be continued....
An early morning pulled the curtains to the Paps of Jura to the north and the crags of the eastern island being kissed by the sun, I for one am amenable to the wanton mention of "Terroir" at this point. Breakfast and a wee chat with the proprietor of our temporary abode: a native by birth, a former emigrant from its shores, gifted with the option of returning to Islay thanks to the worlds new found interest in the island, a man fond of his dogs and his peace.
Fed.
The second of our hosts arrives, followed by our original host with our juniper clad chariot. We are set. A true foray onto the Island begins. We set off westward for a gawk at the abyss of the Atlantic and our musings and curiosities find out a wee splash about our hosts. The first of our hosts is the sister of the new head distiller, the second is the daughter of a farmer who is provided work by the distillery growing barley on the Island, an island not traditionally a home for barley. Our mouths meander as we pass the newest of Islay's distilleries, Kilchoman, something of a shadow to the Bruichladdich doctrine of provenance, barley and "Terroir". Onwards past Rockside Farm, a source of barely for a Bruichladdich single farm whisky.
We arrive.
Rockside farm to our backs, literally, just out of touching distance, we march along the pass in the sand dunes to Machir Bay. Like a slap, the Atlantic air we imagine we have in our bones wakes us and the cobwebs of the previous night are away. We stand a row of five, wellies deep in the sea, the wind beckoning us to wet arses, we hold fast. Whisky appears, seven glasses follow. Seven Rockside Farm 2007's are poured, and here we are immersed in "Terroir". No, not just because we are immersed in the wonder of geographical proximity. We have arrived on an island, been greeted openly, met people who have been offered a livelihood here by Bruichladdich. We are standing on a sandy beach, some of us so keenly that they're knee deep in the ocean that besieges this rock. The whisky is pouring at 180 degrees from the bottle as the wind howls and we are sipping away with our hosts at the nectar that has made their livelihoods, these conversations and this story possible. AND FOR GEOGRAPHY GEEKS LIKE ME, THE FARM THE BARLEY CAME FROM FOR THIS WHISKY IS FUCKING OVER THERE, LIKE RIGHT FUCKING OVER THERE!
We are removed from the beach.
One welly is emptied of it's gallon of new found sea water. We are consumed once more to be spirited away once more to another corner of Islay.
to be continued....
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*the storm - December 1st until December 24th, Time of the year when every cretan-kind, obscure liqueur seeking prick leaves their home to annoy me
**"Terroir" - To be paused at while reading and pronounced, with gusto, aloud. Particularly while in public
***Bruichladdich is not, and has not to my knowledge been, haunted. I meant the lads who heroically kept all this Vicky equipment maintained
***Bruichladdich is not, and has not to my knowledge been, haunted. I meant the lads who heroically kept all this Vicky equipment maintained
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