Distillery bottlings | Various ABV

Raising a glass.

It’s not his real name, but let’s call him J.

I met him through work. Like me, he was a Yankee who had moved to the UK for a job. He was a few years older than me and worked at the same place that hired me in my first job outside of the States.

He’d made the big move the year prior and so had just gone through the whole labyrinthian process of work visas and sponsorship, National Health Service surcharges for migrants, and discovering that the budget that you’d carefully developed based on your new salary was significantly off due to this UK thing called “council tax.”

He had just spent a year learning the institutional particularities of the UK sector in which we worked, which is broadly similar to the US sector, but with very different norms and bureaucratic inanities.

Because J. was a year ahead of me in learning the new job in the new country, he was a very useful friend to make. And a friend he was. He was generous with both his time and his patience with a guy who had been abroad, but never lived abroad, and who had loads of questions about all things big and small.

Why do UK banks require proof of address to open an account, while estate agents require proof of a bank account before renting you a new address? Why in The Name of Everything That Is Holy do you have to pay to use public toilets? Why is beans-on-toast a thing? (settle down; I eat it now). Why is there such heated debate over “milk first” or “milk after” with tea? And why does “tea” mean dinner?

He was quick on texting, always had time for questions when bumping into him in the hallway at work, while sharing various hacks he’d discovered during his own first year in Scotland. It was at work that I gradually discovered other sides to J. As I was bound to.

While he was generally very respected in the wider profession, he was sometimes difficult to work with on an everyday basis. Very difficult. It was common that he’d do a half-ass job on something that needed full attention, with me and others having to pick up the pieces.

His attitude towards his daily mundane work responsibilities varied in direct proportion with his ambition in the wider field. Which is to say that he often shunted the mundane (but necessary) parts of the job in order to do other things that would bring him wider field recognition and accolades.

I of course understood all of that, as I too was very ambitious and wanted a nice career. Yet sometimes it made him a pain in the rump. And he made more work for myself and others. I often got pretty annoyed at him. We all work with folks like J. at some point.

Yet just when he was annoying the bejesus out of me at work, he would do something like invite all the local Americans over to his flat for an expat Thanksgiving. And it was lovely. Amongst the shortening and darkening days of late November in Glasgow, for a few years J.’s Thanksgiving parties were a bright spot during an otherwise “meh” time of year. The chat amongst the expat Yankees was always an amusing mix of work talk, all things Britain-from-an-American-perspective, and a shared but unspoken understanding that while most of us truly enjoyed our lives in the UK, there was a nostalgic air of what we left behind; usually family.

J. moved on to another job after a couple of years. Because of this I gradually lost contact with him, though I would occasionally see him at professional conferences. We would chat for a few minutes, exchange how things were at the new job, how things were going for me, and other niceties. He would often share something very complementary with me, such as when he recommended something I’d written to one of his colleagues, who’d found it useful. He didn’t have to tell me that, but he did.

At the same time, though, I could tell that in the midst of a bustling conference full of Very Important People (not me), that he was itching to go schmooze with them. This was easy to recognize, of course: asking me how I was doing, while looking over my shoulder to see if any Important People were nearby that he needed to rub elbows with. I’d politely say how I didn’t want to keep him for long, freeing him up from me - and freeing me up from an inattentive conversational partner - and we’d both be on our way. We’d bump into each other like this for a few more years, but then after a while I stopped seeing him at conferences.

I recently learned through the grapevine that J. died not too long ago.

I was shocked. Although I hadn’t spoken to him for a few years, and was no longer close to him, I did know him well, worked with him for several years, and hung out with him often when we lived in the same city. As I mentioned, he was only a few years older than me. That part has made his death hit home even more closely.

I think about the days I’m getting that he didn’t get. I’m thinking more than usual about how I’m spending those days. J. and I are, or were, of the same generation, having come of age in what now seems like such a quaint and frivolous decade; the 90s. We had the same cultural references, and immediately got it when one of us would do a Beavis and Butthead grunt laugh, or riff some Seinfeld catch-phrase. J. isn’t going to get all of the years that I – hopefully – still have in front of me.

What I’ve been thinking about even more is the particularly tragic nature of the timing of his passing. J. had recently made some big moves to address some chronic health issues. He was a large lad, and had finally had surgery to address longstanding weight issues. He had also just landed a big new job in the States in the city where he grew up. He had been looking to move back there for a number of years, but had trouble finding a suitable job in our field. But it finally happened.

He didn’t get to make the big move, though. After bouncing around for many years, his life appeared to be turning a very positive and exciting corner. And his death came just when he was getting a glimpse around the corner of the new chapter to come.

I’ve recently began a wonderful new chapter in my own life, and the thought of being robbed of getting to experience it just as I was starting to savour its excitement and warmth would be so awfully cruel. J. was many things, but he, of course, very much deserved to live the new chapter he’d been brave enough to bring into being.

Before J. left Glasgow, he, myself, and some colleagues made some trips over to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society on Queen Street in Edinburgh. At that point, during my first couple of years in Scotland, I didn’t know a thing about whisky and actively steered clear of it. “Whiskey” was that awful burn-y stuff I tried as a teenager, and I never went back. But alongside learning that SMWS has generally pretty good food, I also learned that single malt was not what I thought it was. Not at all.

Those early cask strength, single cask drams were hot and powerful to me; but it was there - with guidance from J. as we munched our burgers and onion rings - that the world of single malt started to open up to me in ways that were totally unexpected. The vibe surrounding it wasn’t the same vibe that surrounded “Jack” (Daniels) and “Jim” (Beam) in the very small and very rural American town where I grew up. The flavours were none that I expected, but were explosive in so many ways.

I don’t remember any of those SMWS drams, but the experience of discovering this spirit and its incredible, weird and wonderful diversity alongside J. shifted my course and steered me directly into winds of mash tun fumes and washback aromas. Now years later, I’m still heading in that direction.

I owe J. a great deal for playing a big part in the early stages of my whisky journey. It would have been good to have a last dram with him. I wish he could have seen how his new chapter would have turned out. Instead, if you don’t mind, I’ll raise a glass to him and share it with you.

In fact, for J., I’ll raise three.

Review 1/3

Longrow 100º Proof, 2025 release, 57.1% ABV
£65 sold out

Is there a punchline here? A moral?

If there is, it’s simply to value every single day we have, because we truly don’t know how many of them we have left. If there’s a moral related to whisky specifically, one dawned on me related to my luck in nabbing a bottle from a recent Springbank release, the Longrow 100 Proof.

This bottle of course follows the now discontinued Longrow Red series, as Dougie recently discussed in his review, where he gives more details. While the Red series was of course extremely popular and unobtanium for most, they often appear to be some of the most divisive of Springbank releases.

Red wine finishes divide opinion for a reason and, of the few I’d tried in pubs and via samples from fellow whisky lovers, I really liked a few and was “meh” on others. I went many years without ever owning a full bottle, but managed to get a couple of bottles over the last year or so. I never opened them, despite of course being supremely curious. I might never get one again, you see, so why not save it for a special occasion? Or, what if it’s one that I won’t care for, and realise that I burned some cash on something merely so-so?

J.’s passing has obviously got me thinking a lot, and opening some dust-collecting bottles in my bunker has been one consequence of this. What am I really saving them for? If I get hit by a bus tomorrow whisky will be the least of my worries, but it still would have been good to experience those bottles that I’ve spent so much of my hard-earned dough on. I completely understand holding on to some special bottles for, say, a big birthday, a wedding, the arrival of a wee one, a promotion, landing a dream job, and so on.

But, thinking of J.’s new chapter that he’ll never get to experience, I popped this new 100 Proof alongside two other Longrows I had still unopened: last year’s 7 year old Red and a prized “cage bottle” from a visit to the distillery also in 2024.

No special occasion. Just a Wednesday evening. Just a day I was particularly present, and genuinely grateful to be here.

Score: 6/10

**Good stuff.**
***TL;DR***
*Good - I like it more than Doog - but not my favourite of these three*

Nose

Red creaminess, light ash and earthy vegetal peat. Red notes such as a bit of tannic sweetness, but paired alongside drying light ash and a dash of sawdust.

Palate

More red sweetness coming through than on the nose: cherries and dried strawberries. Ashy peat rather than vegetal peat, with a slightly salty tinge. Dry red creaminess, a bit of oak spice, and a sprinkle of herbs. A hint of sourness, but not nearly as much as the 7 year old. Some noticeable ABV heat when sipped neat; slightly jaggy. The texture and mouthfeel is good, although a little less than I was hoping given the ABV.

Score: 6/10

Review 2/3

Longrow Red 7yo, Pinot Noir Cask Matured 2024 release, 57.1% ABV
£65 sold out

Score: 5/10

**Average. In a good way.**
***TL;DR***
*Interesting, but doesn’t quite come together as we might expect*

Nose

Herbal, sour, and vegetal peat. Dunnage and farm-earthy notes. A hint of sticky red sweetness behind the sourness, but just barely. Bare wisps of smoke, but again the peat is mostly the vegetal variety: sweet and sour dense wet bog.

Palate

A little sweeter on the palate, along with orange rind in a glass of red wine, drying peat ash, and salty sea breeze. Sourness throughout. The wine cask influence is as if the wine was made from dried red fruits: buzzy zest and light ash and is quite drying to the palate. The sourness does give way to these other flavours as it develops, but it does linger throughout to the finish, although dissipated.

Score: 5/10

Review 3/3

Longrow 15yo, ‘Cage bottle’ distillery exclusive, Fresh Sherry Palo Cortado Matured, 2024 purchase, 57.4% ABV
£60 paid at the distillery

Score: 8/10

**Something special.**
***TL;DR***
*Simply excellent*

Nose

A somewhat muted nose: lightly peated orange rind, coastal waft of harbour air, hint of vegetal peat, orange varnish, salty grass, and very lightly perfumed oak.

Palate

Much more expressive on the palate than the nose: lightly drying, lightly sweet, and ashy peat. At fifteen years it’s much more rounded than its two younger siblings here today, with none of the youthful jaggedness that they have.

The sweet Palo Cortado cask influence is so well-done here, and while there’s little other cask information on the bottle, this tastes like a very well done finish rather than a full maturation or a clumsy flash finish. Or if it was a full maturation, perhaps a second-fill cask.

In any case, the sweet cask influence is remarkably well-balanced with the drying nature of the spirit, and marries utterly seamlessly: lightly sweet, drying, mouth-coating, thick, rounded, salty, coastal, industrial, and earthy.

Score: 8/10

The Dregs

This final release of the Longrow Red series, the 7 year old, was… fine. Not bad, but certainly not great. There are some nice notes there, but it doesn’t work nearly as well as other Reds, and isn’t nearly as cohesive as most other Springbank releases. While cask and spirit are indeed integrated, despite being only seven years old (the ‘finish’ was three years), it’s simply the flavour combination – largely the sourness that dominates – that puts it out of balance and lessens the experience. But then, you might love it.

I think I like the 100 Proof a bit more than Dougie did but, while it’s good, it's far from my favourite Longrow. I’m looking forward to what Springbank does with this 100º Proof series. This first edition has some red wine casks in it, but given that red wine doesn’t take prominence in the series title any more, it seems likely that the cask make-up will change in future batches. There’s a lot of room for variation and flexibility in a series whose only binding theme is alcohol by volume, so I suspect that we will indeed see future variation in cask types.

I also wonder if a “100º Proof” series by nature somewhat lacks an identity. The other 100º Proof series on the market today – Signatory’s – is widely appreciated for the excellent value that it offers. I’m enjoying a couple of bottles myself at the moment, and have a few more stashed away, but I can’t see much that holds the series together besides the consistent ABV. Longrow of course has peat, but is peat-plus-ABV a series? It’s not a red wine series, it’s not a local barley series, and thankfully it’s not a series held together by contrived Diageo-esque mythical creature marketing that another beloved Campbeltown distillery currently offers. I wonder if the distillery will aim to define it a bit more as it develops. But then, it’s Springbank, and every release of this will sell out quickly, so such questions are probably moot anyway.

As for the 15 year old Palo Cortado cask… it’s simply excellent, full stop. This ranks as probably my second-favourite Longrow of all time, only behind the rich, deep, haunting Longrow 18.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you, and I hope you’ll accept my apologies for the lengthy and indulgent write up today. We here at Dramface HQ often weave in our lives with what we write, and I’ve admittedly taken advantage of that mantra today. It is the water of life, after all, and we take that literally, alongside our commentary on the whisky scene.

In writing up this review, the “water of life” took on a meaning that it usually doesn’t for me. While J. and I were not close anymore, he was a generous, patient, and good-humoured friend at a key point in my life at the beginning of one of my new chapters. His untimely death puts a new gloss on the “water of life.” Water of life. Sometimes it takes a death to rattle you into the present. Whether the whisky is a 10 or a 2, today I’m sincerely glad I’m here to enjoy it, and to experience the people, fun, reflection, and laughs that it brings.

Cheers to you, J.

Slàinte.

Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. DD

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