It’s definitely the whole weekend.
Hamish, fresh home from the airport, just messaged the group asking for a reminder of what the Blind Challenge theme was for this year, and despite Ainsley saying “shame”, which I’ll come to, I think that the theme for the whole weekend, for me at least, was hope.
Despite the outwardly positive, often poorly rendered visage that we pencil onto our heads to form some sort of barrier between the devastating truth and surviving another day, we are all battling something.
Some, like me, are battling basic business bollocks, the swings and roundabouts of selling products that no-one really actually needs, at a time when the world is aflame with the unknown, the unjust and the unbelievable. I’ll be ok. I think.
Others are battling far more formidable adversaries. A lot of sad eyes were connecting this weekend; you were seen and, hopefully, felt a temporary reduction of stress through the medium of bear hugs and fine whiskies. It’s ok to talk. It’s ok to not be ok. Just know we are all here, in one big connected web, and we are receiving all transmissions.
Before you think this is going to be a downbeat debrief in the turmoils of the human condition, let me absolve you of that concern.
Nothing has the power to invert sad eyes quicker than witnessing a man waking himself up in the morning with an abrupt, impressively percussive report from his arsehole and then, without missing a beat, state that it’s his “startup sound.”
My body continues to process the tidal wave of food, beer and fine spirits; the mind continues to process the tidal wave of moments. The Skye sun hangs low, casting its dimmed November light upon a frosty landscape, and as I sit here after the Glasgow Whisky Festival weekend, contemplating what it was I witnessed, both body and mind are struggling to truly process it all cohesively. Such was the magnitude of human triumph and glory flitting across my mind’s eyeballs.
From Le Coq pints alongside Rishi’s Biryani might, karaoke jams, under-the-table crams, Bon bootings, sex-swing mootings, spilled pints, tears and blood, sticky floors, Gregor’s snores and all that comes with connecting with like-minded folks, this weekend was one of the most memorable weekends of whisky lore in living memory.
It snuck up on me this year. A fretfully challenging landscape of geopolitical unrest and shaky e-commerce positions has had my head firmly planted in the sand when it comes to our beloved community and spirit. Consumers are worried and reluctant to spend, and businesses are crunching myriad scenarios in preparedness. Forewarned is forearmed and all that, and so my attention has been wrestled elsewhere for most of the year, leaving the glory of whisky joy in the background.
When the computer was clicked off on Wednesday night, the concept of travelling to Glasgow to see my brothers and sisters in the Whisky Excitement Troop arrived like a surprise. It doesn’t help that time is eating itself, and realising it’s been a year since the last weekend of whisky fun was equally surprising. I feel like I haven’t achieved anything.
Driving past the Cuillins at seven am as the island woke up, I felt oddly disconnected from everything, like I was floating in some ethereal misty land. That feeling of disconnection from reality continued throughout the day, as I made my way to the barbers to get my thinning grey fluff categorically scalped, see the parents for a moment, and then onwards to Stirling to meet the freshly-landed Gregor.
I’d been invited along as plus-one, because of Gregor’s involvement in the creation of the album artwork for Blue Rose Code’s latest release, East of Eden. My night started awkwardly as I attempted to park inside the ramparts of Stirling Castle, but soon we were both watching sound-checks in an empty auditorium and sitting in the dressing room like giant flies on walls, as professional musicians noodled on their instruments waiting for the call to the stage.
Exhausted from having flown ten hours from Portland, transporting his body through space and time to end up in The Tolbooth on a Thursday night within the same working day, and knowing we were facing a weekend that demanded energy, Gregor and I both cut loose soon after the encore and headed back to our mother’s houses. Wee boys back in their maternal safe space, but for a brief moment.
I awoke early Friday and concocted a giant bowl of porridge before heading off into the morning sunshine. Parking charges continue to finance the entire Glasgow City Council it seems, commanding £5/hour to park anywhere useful. I worked out a dodge and walked myself from the subway carpark to the hotel to drop the bags off.
A quick jaunt along Sauchiehall Street and I was hugging the Big French Bear and yelping in excitement of what awaited us - wolfing down a second breakfast at the Counting House and heading, six-strong, to the first event of the day: the Under the Table Tasting (UTT) at Sloans.
The Hallions had arrived by the time we’d made our way into the balmy climes of the pub, and a beer appeared in my hand. This year’s UTT was, on paper, a worldy experience and it had us all in deep discussion as to what we might find. In an event that is specifically aligned to let us supergeeks taste the weird and wonderful, the odd casks, the rare finds, the weird routes to glass, this year’s providers had the potential to bring serious heat.
We had Cadenheads, Little Brown Dog, Glasgow Distillery, Wire Works, Daftmill, Dornoch and Springbank on the bill, and all were buzzing with anticipation. We headed upstairs at the allotted time and after much arranging of people, and the deployment of an ear-splitting whistle from the Boss that had Ainsley jumping off his seat, the room was called to order.
Over a hundred and twenty people crammed into Sloan’s fairy-lit sweat box, with special mention needed for the cast iron radiators which were searing the backs of our heads. Capacity was reached, but this year the masses were remarkably well behaved. The untenable racket booming between each sentence spoken by the bottlers last year, caused a lot of frustration for everyone and took ages to bring order to the room every couple of minutes. Not so this year, props to everyone for haudin’ their wheesht. Mostly because the Boss gave us all a pre-emptive scalding. We’re in his house, after all.
First up to the stocks was Cadenheads with a 29yo Burnside, which is Balvenie, at 53.4% ABV. There's a copyrighting issue as a reason for the codename, but it was really quite delicious and, similar to last year’s 40yo Glenmorangie, brought “oooh’s” to the room on account of its age. We learnt about the new Cadenheads bottling plant in Campbeltown. Hamish on my left, Ainsley on my right, Jackie, Jeff and Ramsay in front. My boys. My beautiful boys.
Next up, the master orator. What a fantastic storyteller Andrew Smith is, and the room was in rapture listening to the story about his brother’s aesthetic charms, and the bottle of Little Brown Dog whisky he’d brought to this event. Unpeated Caol Ila at 57% ABV - when have you ever tried unpeated Caol Ila, he asked? Never, I answered, because I spend all my time drinking Ardnamurchan obvs. It started great, became weird, and got weirder as the afternoon progressed. I have a big inkling that I over-hydrated it, and it turned sour. Some drams have incredible latitude for tinkering, whilst others have razor-thin margins.
Seb from Glasgow Distillery was sitting at our table, lucky so-and-so, and he presented a very compelling, very delicious find - a cask from 2015 that was leaky. Here we go! Cask 1583 was reracked into a refill bourbon barrel upon discovering it almost empty in 2019, and at 11 years and 5 months old stands as one of their oldest whiskies. In fact it was a cask filled in month three of their production commencing, as they were finding their feet (and working out how to use their brand-new distilling equipment). A really tasty whisky and at 61.2%, remarkably dextrous with water, opening up the floral side, yet still keeping the impact. My favourite so far.
Next to our table sat Tom Lindsey, distilling tinkerer, cask manager, whisky ambassador for Wire Works and fellow pursuer of the photographic craft. A few years ago he brought to the UTT a whisky that I still think about, using the technique of small waters, or Petites Eaux. You can read about that one in my Wire Works Alter Ego review here.
This year he brought something pretty cool - a triple distilled, unpeated whisky that utilised the copper column still permanently attached to their pot still and deployed rarely other than for their rum (I think). Tom decided to punt some Chevalier barley through this system, stuck that into a recharred red wine cask and brought it to our event. It was absolutely fantastic. My favourite, just pipping Glasgow on account of its massive flavour and silky texture.
The room was heating up, and never had a hot room anticipated the next offering as much as this. Daftmill: the most hotly debated whisky in whiskyland on account of there being so little of it made. This is the Whisky Ultra’s dram, the stuff that rarely gets seen, rarely gets bought (because it’s snapped up in heartbeats) and is always interesting if you get a chance to try it.
I’ll admit to not being on the bandwagon, just because I don't get excited about things that I have little to no chance of actually experiencing. Well that was firmly parked, because for the first time Francis Effin Cuthbert was in the room! Ainsley was greased and willing. Francis presented a 2013 Summer Batch, 46%, un-chill filtered, natural colour, and admitted that he might not have read the brief properly. Good stuff all the same.
Next was Dornoch, and the brothers two had joined us this year. We had all noticed on the dram sheet underneath the Glencairns, that this year it didn’t say “Thompson Bros” but “Dornoch”. In the glass was a 6yo distillate from Dornoch Distillery using ex-brewers yeast, extra-long fermentation (7 days), punted into a refill ex-Bruichladdich barrel in 2020 - peak Pandemic time. This was delicious, and thick, oily, with a bit of savoury and spice.
Finally we had Springbank. Against all others this glass brought the olfactory punch expected of the Wee Toon. What could it be? A cage bottle or two? Maybe some weird distillation that went wrong? It might even be something ultra-aged! It was revealed to be a Local Barley 2013, filled into Bourbon casks and using Bere barley. It was Springbank. It was Local Barley. It was tasty.
With that, the Under the Table Tasting ended and the room emptied pretty sharpish - the boss was on point this year in getting things moving at the perfect lick. What a wonderful place to exist, inside this inner sanctum of excitement, for the very tangible, very shared experience of whisky discovery.
The horde headed for Rishi’s Indian Palace of Dreams, but the 5 Nations decided to lunge for a sports bar inside a shopping centre with the Hallions, to watch Ireland play Argentina in the Nations Championship. Gregor, on the downslope of jetlag (and maybe too much Daftmill), joined us for a while, bellowing in his Musselborough resonance “COME ON IRELAND!”, to an empty bar before nodding off, awaking at the precise moment my dessert arrived.
His stolen fork extended. The pud was eviscerated. He has some special skills, does Oor Gregor. He’s henceforth uninvited to the pudding train. We all went to bed. Not together, I hasten to add. Tomorrow was the festival of dreams, and we needed to be on point.
I awoke at an ungodly hour to move my car from the car park to outside the hotel, now that the threat of bankruptcy had ceased for the weekend. The 5 Nations plus Jeff Whisky assembled kerbside in search of good coffee and found nothing open at eight am except Greggs. I drew the line, much the same as Ainsley draws the line at anything that isn’t French.
Luckily a brilliant wee cafe next to the Haberdashery was open by the time we marched back towards the hotel, and we ate giant pastries and drank delicious coffee. From tarts to cinnamon buns the weight of a bus, Ainsley made it work nonetheless, and we six enjoyed the simple pleasure of morning cakes. I had a quite fantastic pain au chocolat, much to Ainsley’s dismissal. Not enough butter. No shape. No form. No layers. Chocolate? Where?
The second breakfast began at the Counting House as per standard operating procedures. With so many Barflies and whisky exciters in attendance now that we had to find alternative seating arrangements - no space for the 5 Nations. Giant plates of rubber food arrived, and we dispatched it all with ruthless efficiency over discussions of AI and the impact on the creative field. Ainsley’s papa arrived late, but wasted no time either.
Taxi for Hampden please. We joined the snaking queue parallel to the high-walled football pitch, strangely built right beside the bigger walled national stadium. A game was afoot. I knew this because beside this smaller stadium is a hill where people had gathered to watch it for free by peeking over the wall from 500 yards away.
The whistle sounded and we were suddenly all inside Hampden, walking up the stairs to be greeted by the legend Scott Munro, who was staffing the festival this year. If I spent a lifetime existing in the presence of Scott, it still wouldn’t be close to enough. I had no pre-ordained route, expectations or hit-list other than trying things I wouldn’t normally go for, so I wandered for the first 10 minutes without any whisky in my glass, until I alighted upon some Cadenheads Ardnamurchan peated 8yo bourbon barrel. The mission failed immediately.
Focus time. Over to Bruichladdich and I was straight into some 18yo Port Charlotte, which was equal parts delicious and sweet as it was smoky and ashy. A delightful entrance to my day. A wander over to Fragrant Drops, who were positioned directly across from the shop this year and, as such, directly in the warpath of everyone entering or exiting the eastern suite. I managed to wrestle myself in there and stood in awe at the 10 or so bottles laid out before me.
First up was a Bruichladdich, to keep the momentum going, but this wasn’t whisky. A 1yo (14-months) “Rhinns” from the distillery, in a fresh Oloroso cask, at 59.5% ABV. Absolutely delicious stuff, and confounding given its age. Where else have we seen a 1yo spirit presented so beautifully, and so tastily? Fragrant Drops surprise at every turn; irrespective of risk or brand building, they chase flavour from all places, and it’s why I love them.
If there was a theme for the day, it was heeding Ainsley’s advice from two years running - advice a lot of us didn’t pay heed to, much to our collective chagrin: spit and dump. No, not the preferred method of Glasgow’s Saturday night dating scene, but a way to keep the boat on an even keel. I was dumping quite a lot of drams this year, and it paid dividends. Indiana 95% Mash Rye, finished for three and a half years in a second-fill Tokaji barrel. As much as rye gets my face contorted, this was really good! But dumped after a few sips of the 15ml given.
The spittoons are there for a reason, and contrary to what we might think, there’s no insult taken by the exhibitors when a dram is dumped in their spittoon. It’s a way to smell and taste the spirit with minimal ingestion of alcohol. A pretty sensible approach, and I can say with confidence that more than a few people could’ve benefitted from deploying this technique, but I’ll come to that. A good system was discovered, if you’re worried about offending anyone; bin a dram at the next table you visit, both showing that you’re sensible, and also that whatever was in that glass clearly isn’t as good as what you’re about to drink from this new place.
Off to GlenAllachie where our pal Graeme has defected this year, from Bruichladdich. We tried the Meikle Tòir “The Turbo”: it was big, sherried and peated. 5yo at 50% ABV and 71ppm of them there peaty binkles. Not sure why, given its popularity upon release, but it wasn’t jamming with me, so off I went to the other side of the room, and a whirl of the new Ardnamurchan in White Port.
It was sweet, maritime, savoury and a little bit rubbery. I sometimes find that coming to Ardnamurchan from other sweet treats presents quirky challenges with their spirit character. But spend a few moments inside their world and the spirit comes alive. Palate quirks, eh?
The “4 C’s” were out in force today: Carl, head and shoulders above Craig, Calum and new start Claire, floated himself cheerily into Glasgow that morning from the United States of America. He looked effortlessly light on his feet, and was instantly swamped by punters as soon as I backed away. He’s so handsome. Mini Crystal still calls him saucy hands.
Thompson Brothers was also swamped, so I went for a wander, rarely finding myself at Rare Find and enjoyed their 12yo Ben Nevis in a first-fill Oloroso Quarter cask, a 56.6% ABV. Pretty good - one of the standouts of the day so far. The boys tried Mortlach and Clynelish, both were decent, they said.
We went in search of David Stirk who, true to form of all years and events, had some stonkin’ drams on, under, around, inside and above the table. He offered me many, and I bellowed “the weird one?”, and he chose an 18yo Trinidad “Single Modernist” rum. 55% ABV from ex-bourbon barrels; fantastic. The Scarlet Ibis it was called, bottled by The Whisky Exchange. I went weird, and I got weird. I finished this one. Delightful.
In the spirit of weird, I carried on solo back to Fragrant Drops, via a quick blitz of the synapses from The Grail girls, sans Rachael unfortunately, but gratefully un-sans Erin, the nuclear hype-train and the equivalent of sun to Superman. We talked, among other things, about the joys of little bronze statue fingers, allegedly turning forty (although I think they just wanted me to feel less old and haggard), analogue photography and its resurgence, and Glengoyne.
An old Imperial appeared in my glass, facilitated from a wee bottle at Tormore’s stand by Robert of Drammr Excellence, and it was decadent and quite fantastic. No idea of age or provenance or anything else unfortunately, because Erin was zapping my eyeballs with lasers. At least ten minutes were spent, after parting, trying to refocus myself amidst the kaleidoscopic unicorns. The day I don’t see The Grail troop is the day I stop coming to the festival.
Back at FD and straight into their new Glen Garioch - the label devoid of artwork so that, if you fancied it, you can scribble your own masterpiece right on there and, if Rachael and George decide it’s worthy enough, will be immortalised on the next bottle wave. It was Glen Garioch fully matured in ex-bourbon, cask #1445 at 59.3%. Fantastic example, as it always is.
Not to be outdone by David Stirk, I moved to a French Brandy, aged for 32 years in a single oak hogshead and it was, not to put too fine a point on it, spectacular. 48.5% ABV and sweet, decadent, rich, blissful flavour. Out of stock, otherwise I’d be bringing it home with me. Ainsley said it was excellent, so that confirmed it. The table was bursting with folk, and loitering was persistent, so I cut loose.
North Star and a whirl of some rocketship Ben Nevis, because why not? 12yo whisky bottled in an Oloroso sherry butt, at a memorable 68.7%. It was, as expected, like drinking the sizzling oil from a pan of freshly-fried earth. No business being that gangbuster, but interesting. I dumped it at Glasgow, where Seb was pouring a more pedestrian 55% 10yo unpeated Tequila single casked community bottling.
I tried their “Sherry Cask Matured” 6yo, which on the label states an initial maturation in ex-bourbon, with a finish in PX and medium sherry casks, whatever they might be. Not sure how this labelling works, as I’d assumed until checking the photos now that it was a full-matured sherry affair, given how big the sherry component is on the label. Who kens? No me. Both sparkling. Seb continues the exciter-aligned greatness.
A flypast of Brave New Spirits to try a big sherried Glen Moray and then it was back to Ardnamurchan, because someone had whispered there was a cheeky under the table beauty. Sure enough, with the secret handshake, an 11yo, first-fill Oloroso sherry, using peated spirit appeared - I assume their standard 30ppm. The label just said “Tasty Juice”, and it was accurate. As I was drinking that, someone else whispered a Woodrow’s Inchfad that had to be tried. I obliged. It was also excellent.
As the clock ticked down I was in the last throes of actually finishing an Aberfeldy 12yo from Single Cask Nation, when Rachael at the Fragrant Drops table poured someone else a 50yo Invergordon, finished in an Oloroso quarter cask. It was the same bottling from last year that sat alongside a John Lennon bespeckled counterpart. This one, marked “part two” was the Elton John edition. I stuck my arm out and it was serviced with a dram. Really quite special whisky.
Final drams were called. This grapevine system is really effective, for I heard about a 30yo Glenrothes under the table of Fragrant Drops that wasn’t meant to be spoken of. So I did the admirable thing and spoke about it directly to Rachael, who admonished me but still poured me a wee dram, which I gratefully took outside into the fresh air of Glasgow.
The impact of Glasgow Whisky Festival is always revealed in the few minutes of ambient coolness on the steps of Hampden. I had started slow and ended quickly, with time evaporating before my eyes. As the punters flooded from the doors, the impact for others was revealed too. Lots of wobbly legs and droopy eyes, which is a given.
More than a few folk past their natural bending point. It’s always going to happen, but this was the first year I saw blood. This year was the first I saw flat people, one of whom was so flat it was concerning. The same man bounced past us in the Valinch later on, seemingly resurrected from the whisky grave.
For most in our Barfly contingent, it was Akbar's for a feast. For the 5 Nations, it was Rishi’s Curry Superhouse, 5ft dosas, Biryani and beer, but first a quick pint with the Hallions in the quiet ambience of their hotel, sat beside a man dressed head-to-toe in bright red tartan complete with Balmoral hat. He had no drink. But he was drunk.
Rishi’s is our wee group’s favourite tradition, and we were all hyping each other on by the time we arrived at the door, to a waft of sublime spices from the opened door. The dosa arrived. The spicy bits arrived. The biryani arrived. I dispatched my Special Biryani by the piled spoonful in record time, sweating from every orifice, mouth completely on fire, lager gas inflating my insides to 50psi, but utterly, joyfully, blissfully content.
Usually we’d have a walk to burn off some heat, but now it’s just a quick swing to the new barfly haunt, the Valinch Bar. The Bon Accord is categorically binned, and a place which we would soon discover to be a ghost of its former self. Surprisingly we were first in the door, grabbing a welcome dram of Springbank 10 from the hundreds laid out, and crashing down on a corner table. Graeme soon joined us from GlenAllachie, and the busloads arrived soon after, amping the noise up to cacophonic levels.
We temporarily suspended ourselves to find a bar to watch the France vs Fiji game. We found one showing 99% football, with one screen presenting rugby. We drank sweet Czech beer and marvelled at the stark contrast between our television, showing massive meat men pummelling each other (not like that) for eighty minutes without a complaint, and all the other televisions showing Scottish football. Such an angry sport, so it is.
Back to the Valinch for a nightcap, then off to the hotel to prepare our bodies for what’s arguably the biggest event of the weekend. I caught up with a few of Dramface’s beautiful people, including Drummond and his pal who revealed to me that Skye is the class-A drug inlet of Europe. It’s our ice breaker now - hey how’s the cartel getting on?
As we walked back to the hotel there were a lot of blue flashing lights rocketing along the motorway, and a lot of thumping noise from above. Jackie and I watched from our hotel window as a helicopter buzzed around with its impressive spotlight beaming down somewhere south of the river. It felt less Search and Rescue, and more Search and Destroy.
The big day started with a spectacular breakfast at the Singl-End cafe. Hamish found this wee place last year and it’s become the second most anticipated foodie target of our weekend - especially the veggie haggis. Uncle Foosty was in-bound today by train for the Blind Challenge, his first exposure to the very best event in any whisky calendar. Before that, we had a date with the Good Spirits Company, because Ainsley, the man not buying any whisky this weekend but managing to already buy two, was definitely not buying any more whisky. He stuck by his word, buying a French Brandy instead.
Walking back to the Haberdashery in glorious sunshine, we all felt a little sketchy at the prospect of more whisky, but the welcome dram was soon in hand, an exclusive Good Spirits Co. Balblair, and we were settled. As I stood about listening to people’s festival stories, Hellen sidled up with a bag of armbands, and asked me to take one out and put it on.
It said “Captain” on the side. Today just got interesting!
These past few years have been glorious as a team member, chipping in to the conversation about what we think is in the glass, and what traps might have been set by the man who provides such an experience. He declared this year that no traps were set, yet as we headed into the dense fug of self-doubt that is blind whisky tasting, I felt there might be a few unintended traps. As an unexpected team captain, I wanted nothing more than our team to do their best and have fun and win everything in sight or else it’s curtains for you all.
My team were solid performers, analysing and questioning what was in the glass. Could it be a Campbeltown malt? Well, traditionally I would find these notes in a glass if it was, and I’m not. But maybe it is. Maybe it’s this or that instead. Listening to other folk working through their process was magic, and helpful to me too. Except Steve-O, who is so affronted by the mere presence of peat, that he sniffed all five, but sipped only two. A hamstringing of epic proportions, you’d assume. Steward’s inquiry. He also stuck all the wee dots on his score sheet before Mike had even sniffed his third whisky.
As team captain it was my duty to have a go, but he was adamant that he was right. As the other five in our team worked through the process, we diligently conferred upon what was what, eventually arriving at a solid set of dots stuck in places that we were sure had to be correct. Locked in, thanks for nothing Steve.
He passed his sheet over to us and I took it with an eye-roll. You’re on thin ice, I said. I turned his card over and saw it was exactly the same as the rest of us. Same dots, same places. Just 30 minutes saved. Amazed, I asked him how, without tasting these things, did he know. He shrugged and said “it just is”.
The room was buzzing with chatter until the Captain brought order and requested those who think they knew exactly what’s in the glass, to stand up and have a go. Ainsley arose like a French centurion in slow-mo, shoulders wide, already triumphant in his ability to impress, and stated not just one, nor two, but three of the whiskies in the glasses. Oor Hamish stood up and said one of the drams, the yellow one, was Balmenach.
Emotions are wild in a place like this. A hundred and twenty people at an event where things could go pear-shaped very fast, on account of cask strength whisky. Yet everyone was professionally going about our business, enjoying the challenge of picking out, from our formidable sensory arsenal, any hint of character or note of familiarity, so that we can, together, try and win this fun little serious game.
Emotions can get the better of us, too. None more so than the Boss himself who silenced the room to celebrate the friendship and assistance of the other Bottlechasers, Gregor, Scott and Seve. His voice wavered. The pauses grew longer. The head went down. The floor was scuffed. Scott was having none of it, reflecting the praise back onto the Boss, which magnified his struggle. Watching him wrestle his emotions back from the point of no return, I found myself getting worked up too. Look at what he means to us all. I’m getting worked up now typing this.
Everything we enjoyed this weekend, all that we love and hold dear at Glasgow Festival Weekend, is because of him. Holding back tears of gratitude and happiness is tough, but I think we all managed it… just. Back to the game, and the bottles were revealed.
One of these five bottles was a Drookit Dug. One of these bottles was a Bowmore. One of them was a Balmenach. One of them was a Smögen. And one of these bottles, actually four bottles now due to the increase in attendance, was a Longrow cage bottling.
Our team decided to tow a party line, all putting the same answer in the hope that, if we got it right, we all got it right and thus more chance of winning. It also meant that if we got it wrong, even by a few, we were in the doldrums. Steve put whatever he liked, stuff the rest of us, but still managed to tow the party line. If that’s not the sign of a great leader, I don’t know what is!
We identified the blend as the green dot. This lined up with the Drookit Dug - lots of grainy notes in there. We stuck the yellow dot as the worm tub Speysider. Meaty. Thick. Wee bit dirty. This lined up with the Balmenach. We put the weird and savoury and just a bit-not-right blue dot, with the non-Scotch. This lined up with the Smögen.
The two that had us debating what was what, turned out to be the red and white dots - the Islay and the Campbeltown. I was convinced the white dot was Campbeltown - it had the tell-tale machine shop grunge notes that cut through the peat alongside a salty, maritime cut that reminded me of the Longrow hand-fill. However the red dot also had bits of this too. Dirty and sherried. A tough call, but as a team we decided to have the white as the Islay, something like a Bowmore, and the red as maybe a Longrow Red, something winey.
As the scores were called out, starting from the least to the most, we were confident. The blind matchup, if we got it right, meant we were on for a full-marks outcome, something I was secretly dreaming of for my first captaincy!
The team that came in last, the one that scored least, misplaced all drams and burned the house down was Ainsley’s team. The boy who stood up and shouted that three drams were absolutely, categorically this, this and this. The room was in uproar. He took it well.
More and more names were called out until just two teams remained. We achieved 8/10 across the board taking us to 48/60, just shy of what Jim’s team, the Novices, achieved. Not bad! Not bad at all. A fantastic set of drams this year, and all of them were absolutely delicious.
The room was cleared, food was served, a new room constructed for the bottle share, and the second part of the night began. This year a formidable amount of whisky was brought to the bottle share, from all over the globe. Ainsley brought a Walnut Liqueur that, despite its sweetness, was a delicious little spirit.
From there I lost count of the drams I was trying, and again dumped quite a lot of them in an effort to stay in the game. More than the Festival, using spittoons at this event felt more insulting, just because it’s our bottles we’re sharing, and a waste of perfectly incredible whisky. Yet, the night would be quick and the morning catastrophic if I overstepped the mark, and I had a five-hour drive to attend to the following day.
A quite ridiculous 33yo Imperial was tried. A quite ridiculous private cask of Wire Works STR at 67.9% ABV was tried. An underwhelming Balblair was tried alongside my first ever Octomore 11.2. The Octomore was really surprising, in that it didn’t blow my head off with peat. It was heavily peated, but also sweet, rich and delicious.
A 19yo Glen Garioch in first-fill sherry butts had both me and Foosty swooning, followed by a slightly younger 24yo Imperial, which was just magnificent. And that seems to be the limitations of both photo-rolls and memory. Foosty cut loose back to the hotel, fu’ and contented, and we decided not long after to head for the re-owner’d Bon Accord for a night-pint.
When we arrived, the bartender was propping up the desolate bar with their sleeping arms, no joke. Awoken by six burly men blasting through the doors on a late Sunday evening, we ordered a smorgasbord of fine ales. I opted for a sour beer and absolutely loved it. Others thought it heinous. We sat in the silence of a weird place that felt familiar yet so utterly devoid of what made it magic, and wondered just how a pub like this could feel so alien. But it wasn’t quiet for long.
Others decided to do the same, and soon the Bon Accord was rammed with Blind Challenge participants. The last order bell was sounded, followed shortly after by a shout of “leave the pub NOW!” from the same sleepy bartender. Some complained loudly, others left quietly. Setting off into the cold November night, the others decided to head for a karaoke bar, but my time had come. I had to accept defeat and headed back to the hotel to get myself off to bed for a long night of whisky processing and hydration. The pictures and videos in the chat when I woke up in the morning were equal parts hilarious and impressive - Ainsley on the bass, Hamish on the guitar, rocking out in some neon-lit bar at 1am on a Monday morning.
It was time to go home.
The summary of the weekend circles back to that word I mentioned at the start: hope. The world is in a shocking place right now, and it’s only natural and understandable that minds follow suit. It’s a strange place to exist within. Yet, throughout all of the weekend, throughout all of the festival, from exhibitors to punters, through impeccable Indian cuisine and sweet Czech beers, everyone who orbited around Roy and his sphere of magnificence were treated to some desperately needed connection.
Things are starting to look ok. It’s a long road, but we’re at least pointing in the right direction. It was a reminder that, no matter how far from the orbital mechanics of Roy and all the Dramface, Barfly, Aqvavitae and Whisky Exciter groups one might depart, there’s always a tether attached, always a way to reel yourself back into the most beautiful noise, the comforting embrace of people loving other people, simply because they love the same things as you do.
Whisky. Patter. Fun. Friendship. Watching Ainsley eat a £3.50 pain au chocolate the size of his head and complain that the chocolate isn’t even melted, therefore it could never be French.
It was a timely reminder for me to stop worrying about the things I cannot control, and enjoy these moments we have, together. The belly laughs and tears of joy heal far quicker than anything prescribable. Where there is hope, there is love. Where there is love, anything is possible.
See you all next year for another whirl around the magic roundabout of Glasgow Whisky Festival weekend.
I hope.
DC
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