Milroy’s Highland 19yo
Soho Selection - Jura | 55.5% ABV
Score: 5/10
Average. In a good way.
TL;DR
Would get ID’d buying itself
Bus Drams
It’s just after 7:00am and we’re on-board a ferry, just minutes after leaving the Ardrossan shoreline. It’s still dark outside, and there are six of us, all fully grown men, crammed around a small table, along with our rucksacks, rolls ‘n’ bacon, and the bags under our eyes big enough to pass as checked luggage.
Despite the early hour, the whisky bottles planted upon the ferry table could already stock a modest bottle shop. What we’ve built is essentially a travelling circus ring-toss game.
On arrival, each of us has produced multiple bottles from our rucksacks - a mix of distilleries, styles, ages and ABVs. Some are clearly in faded cardboard boxes rescued from the back of cupboards. Yet, despite their obvious age, all bottles are uncorked on arrival. One member of our group, Darren, has produced a non-slip protective mat, previously utilised for his home BBQ. It has now been repurposed as a makeshift tablemat – proof that the Venn diagram of ‘outdoor cooking’ and ‘whisky enthusiasm’ is, in fact, very close to a perfect circle. Still, we remain poised like professional squash players – ready for the desperate lunge when a bottle starts to tip.
The ferry staff nearby pretend not to notice the tourist attraction we’ve created in the corner of the room. They can’t have missed it – they were simply prepared for it; a state of selective blindness perfected over years of experience. This was, after all, the first ferry to Arran on the morning of the island’s annual whisky festival.
That’s right – we are on our way to a full-day whisky event, yet we’ve collectively decided to create our own beforehand. It’s an objectively ludicrous situation. Yet one I am sure you’ll recognise.
It’s a phenomenon I refer to as the ‘bus dram’.
Now, the mode of travel may change - I mean, we’re on a ferry, after all - but the discipline remains the same. Sometimes a good name just sticks.
Essentially, the definition of a bus dram is ‘a bottle of whisky brought, amongst others, purposely to be shared with a larger group of enthusiasts.’
Heck, under that definition you may not even be travelling at all. And for however flippantly I use the term, that’s ok.
The ritual of the bus dram is common for enthusiasts, but it is not a rule set in the terms and conditions of any excursion. It’s a practice learned by osmosis. No-one asks for it, it always just happens. Rucksacks unzip; drams pour; the good times begin.
When I reminisce, ‘bus dram’ moments are comfortably some of my favourite memories from within my own whisky community. As I’ve travelled the width and breadth of this beautiful country I get to call home; many a time I’ve done it with a bottle in hand and great company at my side.
I’m exceptionally lucky in the company I keep. Many of my friends work in the industry or have been immersed in whisky much longer than myself. They are the kind of people with access to bottles that don’t officially exist. Bottles you can’t buy in a shop – or rare drams from ‘back in the day’, whose scarcity has now rendered them collectable.
The kind of people with collections so vast they can blindly reach into a cupboard and retrieve a bottle you’d need to auction a kidney to buy – and then say ‘Oh aye, forgot about that.’
However, spending time with people like that can begin to warp your whisky calibration. Your idea of what is normal can begin to change. As an honestly not that relevant example, I once bought my first bottle of Glen Scotia 15-year-old at a heavily discounted price of £30 many years ago: no matter the distance from that moment, the bottle still feels expensive to me to this day. My Scotia meter is corrupt.
With such casual access to special whisky, a 20-year-old single cask starts to look like a midweek dram, and an exclusive hand-fill becomes something to shrug at. As if whisky stops being delicious once more than five hundred people in the world can buy it.
This level of whisky, and more importantly the incredible generosity with it, can actually paradoxically create its own kind of pressure. When everyone’s bringing ‘something special’ the collective generosity raises the bar for what ‘special’ is.
And that’s when the self-doubt can creep in: so what do I bring?
It’s not jealousy, or a form of one-upmanship, far from it. It’s just camaraderie tinged with my own special brand of existential dread.
It’s the hope of contributing meaningfully to the group experience. No one likes to be the guy in the village who eats the bread but contributes nothing. With everyone contributing something memorable; you don’t want to bring a perfectly good bottle that simply blends beige in the company it keeps.
If we let this ‘bus dram’ dilemma spiral in our mind it can feel like an act that tells the group who you are and what you can bring to the table. Literally. Selecting a bottle as the internal monologue is spinning: “Is this too young? Too cask-forward? Too mainstream? Too weird?”
Every bottle reveal feels a bit like a show-and-tell, except instead of a Mickey Mouse pencil sharpener from your family’s recent trip to the Disney Store, it’s cask-strength peat monsters and long sold-out sherry bombs.
Remember: the bus dram is about connection. It’s a shared act of generosity that reminds us how lucky we are to be among people who care this much about flavour, friendship, and a damn good dram (sometimes before 9am). The best bottles aren’t necessarily the rarest - they are the ones that spark the conversation, the laughter, and attach themselves most firmly to a lasting memory.
There’s an absurdity to feeling like you’re presenting an offering to the gods when everyone just wants a good sip.
The bus dram isn’t a test - it’s a toast.
Review
Highland Peated Malt 19yo, Soho Selection #12 (Jura), Milroy’s of Soho, Refill bourbon barrel, 55.5% ABV
£125 RRP
Would this be worthy of ‘bus dram’ status?
I’ll let you decide that for yourself - but it has fulfilled that role for me.
I’m not entirely sure which trip this bottle rode shotgun on, but it’s definitely clocked a few miles. Despite the label describing it as coming from an ‘Unknown Highland Distillery’, Milroy’s of Soho are quite clear on their website that the liquid hails from Jura Distillery. If that were incorrect, I’m fairly sure someone would have politely (or less politely) pointed it out by now.
I picked this bottle up for a heavily discounted rate during one of the early 2025 sales - the kind of discount that makes it a ‘must-buy’ … but also makes you double take and wonder what’s wrong with it.
Now, Jura isn’t typically a distillery I usually gravitate towards - despite the name being shared with my furry best friend of the Boston Terrier variety. Its official releases have never quite clicked with me.
However, if my experience with Bowmore has taught me anything, it’s that independent bottlers can sometimes show a distillery in a new light; revealing a character that somehow goes missing in the core range.
With all of this in mind, I took the risk and picked it up.
It’s a 19-year-old single malt - how wrong could it really go?
Score: 5/10
Average. In a good way
TL;DR
Would get ID’d buying itself
Nose
The first thought was that someone’s taxes have definitely gone awry - because what I smelled, immediately was burning paper. It’s a very specific kind of ashy: the smell at the end of a bonfire when the wood’s done and someone’s chucked on a stack of printer paper to keep the party going.
There’s a hit of citrus in there too, though it took me a while to pin down which fruit. It’s not fresh citrus - but deeper, sweeter, more caramelised. Think grilled pineapple rather than lemon zest.
At the tail end, something softer emerges: a sweet note, somewhere between lemon curd and synthetic cream.
Palate
This is a strange dram - there is no doubt about it.
Horseradish and wasabi hit first. It’s an odd umami taste profile; one I can’t say I have associated with whisky very often.
Once that initial wave settles, it turns distinctly coastal. Sea salt steps forward, joined by a light peat on the palate, though, truthfully, the peat is more prominent on the nose.
There is a doughy, bready, note to the finish. Which is followed by an almost cooking grease flavour and coating of the mouth. It’s not as unpleasant as that description sounds, however, it’s hardly what you’d call inspiring.
The Dregs
This dram was a little closed off at first - it really took a while in the glass for it to come out of its shell, despite the bottle having been open for at least six months at this point. It’s a unique, stubborn, whisky. One that can be enjoyed, but purely on its own terms.
It’s bottled at 55.5% ABV, which feels well judged. At no point did it feel thin, nor did I ever feel the need to add water - though the option is certainly there.
At 19 years old though, I would expect a little more of a dignified charisma to the liquid.
There is nothing here that hints long cask ageing; if the label had been a misprint, and should have said nine years instead, in some ways it may have been more fitting.
It’s not a bad dram by any stretch - just not a great one either. It’s average - and that’s fine. For the price that I paid, fine is acceptable. However, at RRP I possibly would be less forgiving.
As a ‘bus dram’, though? Weirdly, it works.
It’s memorable, divisive, and absolutely conversation-worthy. It won’t stun the group into appreciative silence - but you’ll definitely have something to talk about.
Score: 5/10
Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. AM
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