Angels' Share

I've probably mentioned it before, the "it" being that I'm far from keen on alcoholic beverages and even more far from keen - if possible - on whisky. A far-from-keeness I certainly don't share with M, who finds whisky - the Scottish kind of course - to be one of life's little pleasantries. IMHO the only remotely decent thing whisky's good for is a dash in Irish coffee or possibly in some chocolate cake - dessert thingy.

However I can appreciate, very much so, the traditions and craftmanship of whisky making. I just wish all that work could bottle up something nicely appealing instead of nauseating appalling. Hence I haven't been very interested in taking whisky tours or going anywhere near the stinky, smelly place that a whisky distillery is as far as my delicate nose and person is concerned.

So all those - too many - times M has thought it a very good idea to pop by a distillery when in Scotland accompanied by me "really, do you know have many trillions of castles I have had to endure...?" At travel lowpoints like that, I have been found taking a nap in the car, writing postcards by a nearby stream, enjoying a bit of sun in face or a decent cup of tea with shortbread and a good book in adjacent tearoom.

On this latest Scottish journey I thought it would be nice though, to get in on a bit of the whisky action a k a taking distillery pictures whilst trying to still breath without qualming. First stop was a return visit to the smallest distillery in Scotland (possibly the world), Edradour. Which, admittedly, is rather cute, quaint and picturesque (although of course smelly).

A few snaps, admiring the colourfulness of the wood boxes containing the smelly stuff, enjoying the scenery with white and red cottages and flowery garden, hating the odors, come on you've been here a few times before, can we please leave now?

A few days later it was time for distillery stop numero dos, Tomatin. A place that has absolutely nothing in common with Edradour, apart from the distilling of whisky that is. A place that will haunt my dreams for many years to come, it looked, to say the least, worn and decayed, like a horrid looking labour camp.

With what I presume were workmen's dwellings close to the distillery area, the few people around pale and harried, walking like the living dead. The whole area echoed of dreams had, dreams lost and sorrow drenched in whisky. I urgently begged M to get us out of there before we'd been drowned in mash tuns and turned in to a new Swedish blend by zombies.

Third whisky stop was Talisker, the only distillery on Skye, not exactly charming in looks - and, as I will write about in a later post, pretty much the most ghastly tasting whisky I've ever sipped. Though that nasty smokey amber liquid is one of M's whisky favourites. Of course - but situated where there were lots of open spaces and a grand loch view.

The distillery also flaunted many pretty bottles.

As well as made good re-use of whisky making equipment.

Fourth place of whisky making pretty darn boring by the looks of it, kind of just drove by and stumbled in - stumbled due to hunger for a late lunch not too much whisky -, Ben Nevis was its name. Situated below the highest mountain in Britain with which it shares its name, beside a busy road and in the rather dull town of Fort William. According to M the whisky isn't much to jump and shout about in joy either.

Some weeks later M went on his annual whisky tour with friends, this time to Islay and Jura, sampling everything whiskylike around. Needless to say I'm not the least bit envious about the whisky part, a *wee* bit more envious about the Islay and Jura part though...