Mull of Kintyre and Finding the Laddie

Julia sat on a bridge outside Grogport Cottage

I was looking back at my past post, and was thinking of whisky again, so without further ado, I reached into my cupboard, pulled out a Dalmore 'Spey Dram' from their Rivers Collection, and thought some more.

It was somewhere during getting intimate with this strange concoction (all my senses keep triggering off a chocolate sensor in my head with this whisky, unsure why, yet it is no secret that eating olives reminds me of fish... weird, but true) that my mind drifted away towards another rather special bottle I bought, back in 2004.

The only view to Arran I could find from outside our cottage

The setting was both Julia and I had lived together for our first year in London, and decided to go on a holiday within the British Isles to save on costs.  As my Grandfather was from Scotland, and I love their favourite tipple, I wanted to head up there for my first visit to the country.  I rented a lovely little place called Grogport Cottage which was located in Kintyre.  It was a one bedroom affair, with a tidy garden, and across the road outside the front door, there was a tiny beach, and a stunning view of the Isle of Arran.  All was quiet, and it was the perfect place to explore, enjoy ourselves, as well as celebrate the fact that a few weeks earlier on my birthday that year I proposed to Julia, and we were getting excited at the prospects of getting married to one another.

For the record; cold enough to stop breathing

However, as much as I would like to digress about the wonderful week, climbing the occasional hill, visiting remote beaches (having the bare cheek to test if the water is as cold as the North Sea), seeing the baby seal pups dotted throughout the shores, and failing to spot one porpoise out at sea... I did warn you at the beginning this was about whisky, which is where it shall remain.

For those who know not where Kintyre is, then I shall do my best to paint you a wee picture.  It is on the west side of Scotland, and hangs like a phallic peninsular before heading out towards the Islands, and the Hebrides proper.  It is considered (from a tourist viewpoint) to be Scotland's only mainland island.  It is the home of a few fishing villages, and you may have once heard Sir Paul McCartney sing a melody to the Mull of Kintyre, which is at the southern tip of the peninsular, and is a series of cliffs, that look out towards Ireland on a good day.  The main town is Campbeltown, which is tiny, with youths driving fast cars blaring out bagpipe music, and the home to something that I have always enjoyed indeed.  A Single Malt named Springbank.

Catching a quick peek into the distillery

Without going into the history of anything here, I had sampled a bottle of this stuff before, and enjoyed it.  Immensely.  I saw a particular bottle in a shop in Covent Garden once with a £15,000 price tag!  Mary wept... It is priced at £50,000 now on a favourite website, click this line, take a look, and enjoy the final piece of advice, 'If you buy one make sure you drink it, musty and gingery, a bit like rummaging about in yer grannies garret'. Perhaps, but you're charing £50,000 for the pleasure!

Anyway, I wanted a tour, but such is life in the Island life.  It was shut.

So was I deterred by this?  Hell no, there is a happy ending, and it resorted in me booking a ferry, and some gentle persuasion that we were going offshore to buy whisky (Julia gets seasick looking at a bath).  The destination was Islay (pronounced 'eye - la').  This place is a thing of beauty.  There were only seven or eight, but now ten distilleries on the island, and whilst they are all peaty in flavour, they are all individually unique in such an extreme the three big names on the island line up next door to each other, and are completely different in flavour.  Having sampled these three in the past, I opted for something I've never tried, and we headed across the island in the car to a fairly new distillery called Bruichladdich (go on, give it a go before reading the next bit -- pronounced 'brook-laddie').  

We arrived for a morning tour.  The first question asked was, "what's your favourite Laddie then, sir?" 

"I just want to see how the process is done on Islay, and maybe sniff a little taster later, which my better half can finish.  I am driving after all."

"Nonsense." Came a curt reply.  "The Police have to fly to this Island."

"Now, which will it be then, sir?"

The bottle still exists in spirit

 To put a message across, the above conversation was true, but delivered with humour, and common sense.  I was allowed a tiny amount to sample on my way round, and allowed a snifter at the finish, but by no means were they encouraging, or would allow me to leave over the limit.  However, it did encourage me to leave after spending a decent sum of money on the final thimble of the spirit.

It was straight from the barrel of a single cask, that was identified, and opened for worthiness of general sale to those who come to visit the shop on site.  It was one of the smoothest, and purest whiskies that ever graced my lips.  Given its strength, there was little burn on the way down.  It came with a little story, and I could take a bottle; fill it; and label it myself for the princely sum of £55.  That was for half a litre as well.  I didn't hesitate to act neither. 

It was called a Valinch, as that is the French word for the wooden tap that you hammer straight into the barrel.  Hence the novelty factor in pouring your own.

I mentioned it came with a story.  I have spoken with Julia about this, but we came out with two versions of events.  What I will tell you is a kind of combination of the two:  A local farm had some piglets, and it was soon identified who the runt of the litter was.  It became a bit of a cheeky swine, and the farmer soon found that the piglet had a taste for curling up, and going to sleep in the abandoned whisky barrels after their proper use.  Having this shelter away from the rest of the bunch, he was cared for, raised from the human hand, with an appreciation for fine malt, and if it spoke English, could probably conjure some divine nasal notes in a whisky review.

If you were interested in how soon the bottle became empty, I didn't dare open it as it was the most expensive drink I'd bought (at the time), and I wanted to drink it when the time was right.

It sat on a shelf in my front room staring at me for an entire year, then I decided to open it on the spur of the moment one day, sharing it with some people.  About 30 people asked for a drop of this stuff in favour of champagne for toasts on my wedding day. 

After all that time, I got a glass of it.  For fifty-five notes.

It was worth it though.

My Birthday; a Long Weekend; Relaxing with the Obligatory Present

Last week, on Thursday came a day which like most people, start to pretend to forget, but inside hope everyone remembers.  It was my birthday.

I'm not shy of my age, although I do have to admit, that I have to use some quick mental arithmetic to get the answer.  Whenever asked, 33 doesn't roll off the tongue (nor did 32 until it changed), no, inside my brain makes a quick calculation that 1979 gives me 21 years to the turn of the century, and we're 12 years inside already.  Why can't my short term memory handle such a figure for a year at least?  No wonder my old man claimed the 30's just disappeared.

I don't usually do the whole card thing to be honest, as it bugs me that people can do really well financially in making people feel obliged to buy them.  This has gotten me into a spot of bother on occasion with Mrs. Banks in the past, but no more will be said of that, and let it be suffice to say one has learnt his lesson... and was happy with his two cards from his two favourite ladies. 

However, I didn't arrange my own card at work, so I wasn't too bothered to not get one there, but working where I do, and with those I know, it was best to sort out my own birthday gathering in the office.  I decided the best move was for everyone to eat my home towns staple diet for lunch... fish and chips.  It took some organising, and the queue at the Golden Union Fish Bar in Soho weren't too pleased as a group of us were stood there ordering food for 15 people.  At least it was nice and fresh, and the service was brilliant to get it all out and ready in perfect time for all to enjoy and feel stuffed for the rest of the day.

At home I got a couple of nice presents.  There was the paperback crime novel to make the commuting easier; the obligatory bottle of Single Malt; and a rather quirky present in a Garlic Roaster.  This was something I had never seen, nor heard of before, but when I read 'Rotissoire A Ail' on the front of it, I knew I was dealing with something really interesting.  The thought behind the present is great.  As I haven't baked any bread for a while, I now have to make some decent garlic bread using this roaster, as well as some selective seasoning.  I had read a recipe for roasted garlic in the past, and the notion of giving it sharp blast in the oven for half hour, then spreading the contents on your toast to keep the vampires at bay is most excellent.  I will keep you abreast of it's rewards in due course.

I must admit, I do love the box as well.

Julia took me out on Saturday night for a meal at the Spread Eagle in Greenwich.  I enjoyed myself thoroughly.  Due to the huge amount of rain we've had (and being from Grimsby, I call it spitting) there were few people interested in going out on a Saturday night.  So, there were few people inside the restaurant, and it gave a lovely quiet ambiance about it.  The decor was in a fashion of a huge art collection with a local maritime theme, which I liked, and the food was nicely presented, and was excellent throughout.  Julia even said the chocolate fondant she ate had now just eclipsed the one we ate on our honeymoon in a restaurant in Kenmare, Co.Kerry.  She knows her chocolate fondants.  Trust me.

Well, I sit here reflecting back on all this food, unmentioned wine, lovely presents I got last week.  I wont bring up the nasty self inflicted exhaustion, taking Olive swimming, and three year old birthday party I had to endure on Saturday.  No, I'll sit back, conjure up a few more words, and sip on the obligatory malt (a Balvenie 12 year old Doublewood, if you were interested).  

Supping on this nice dram, I got tempted to partake in a little light reading, and catch up on some tasting notes by way of a couple of whisky reviewing sites.  I enjoyed reading that this particular Balvenie has 'an undesirable, nay 'orrible finish'.  Is that an oxymoron?  I was also drawn to reading some notes that were written for a bottle I spent hours, days and weeks to seek out three years ago for a particular birthday (you may be able to guess if your maths isn't so hot).  This bottle was an independent Glen Scotia 1974, 30 Years Old.  It sits in a lovely box, and I am ashamed to say is nearly finished.  It should be finished by now, leaving what is left isn't doing it any favours, but it was mighty fine when I first opened it. I. Just. Can't. Let. Go.

I leave you with a pair of lovely descriptions for the 30 year old, which aided me in my choice of selection those three years back:

• Nose:        Delicate, floral.  Orange blossom.  Apricot and almond pie cooking in the oven.  Develops on toffee.   A peat echo.
• Palate:       Caressing, luscious, rich.  Peach Melba.  Floral honey.  Pear drop.
• Finish:        Smooth, sensuous, deliciously lingering.  Spicy dryness.
• Comment:  What a lovely nectar.  Great fruit and cream combination.

• Nose:        Buttery yet oily. Complex notes of car mechanic workshop, coconut oil, black olives in brine. With water, goats' cheese, smoke and candied peel.
• Palate:       The oiliness shows best here giving a mouth coating texture. Lemon, light spices. Ever so slightly salty. Pure flavours.
• Finish:       That salty cheese again.
• Comment:  Fantastic balance, but uncompromising.

You don't get that on every blog.

Sláinte

Early bird; Taking advantage of a night pass; Reflections

I find myself sat at my Laptop, sat on my own musing the days events, pondering the benefits entitled with letting Mrs. Banks have a night pass.  What should I do?  Watch a film?  Read a book? or listen to a spot of Portishead, type out some words with a nice liquid to my left, and a phone to my right waiting to ring to let me know a spot of Nepalese Cuisine has arrived for my stomach's assessment?

Depending on how long certain events may take, I'll try and mix everything into one.

What's new then?  Not a great deal, I learnt Julia had taken the sides off of Olive's cot last night... the hard way.  I was fast asleep, and then heard someone walk into our bedroom with stealth like precision.  I did well to keep the profanities to an absolute zero given the circumstances.  The day was to begin, that little earlier than expected.  If this appears, and doesn't take too long to view, it will give an idea of the snotty happy welcome we got this morning:

After, it was business as usual.  Go swimming in the morning while Julia has a driving lesson.  Get home; go shopping; sit in the car reading (currently The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes) while Olive has a nap, and I shirk out of going into the supermarket duties (a huge fear I have, supermarkets aggravate me, make me aggressive, and give me the all out jitters).  In the afternoon, Olive went to meet up with some friends.  They all fought, didn't share, shoved and screamed, until it was time to take Olive out of the equation.  Olive did provide a laugh by managing to finish every child's cake for them at discrete intervals:

I had a quick 6 km run as well this evening.  I don't want to know what the temperature really is out there now, but it was not warm for running in.  I knew it was -6 this morning, and I had to resort to very warm water to get the car doors open.  Anyway, I digress, it was freezing, and I took a good pace all round.  Final time for just over 6.2km was 31mins 43secs.  A good pace for training at.  I have a small matter of 16.5km to do tomorrow.

A few reflections have come up lately.  I got to catch up with my good friend Jon, who's now living in Shanghai.  It was good to see little had changed, and that he spends his cold days wrapped up in bed praying for the warmer weather to come around.  It came to mind that six years ago we were in the first stages of a road trip to Banjul with the Plymouth to Banjul Challenge 2006.  This was a challenge where we had to get to Banjul in Gambia via the means of a £100 car.  In essence, a cracking road trip, with some great yarns, and some great guys met along the way.  More will no doubt come up on here when I'm searching for things to mention.  Still, I thought I'd show a picture of our teams car, a 1984 BMW 318i aka 'The Steed'.  Jon emailed to me this car as an example of what not to buy for the trip, it would be costly to find parts for, and may consume a bit of the unleaded amber nectar.

He didn't notice, it had my name on the plate, and said motor was subsequently bought.

Possibly the best car I've ever bought

Julia made us some dolls to take on the trip, as some lucky mascots.  I believe Jon still has his, mine is in the possession of Olive.  She calls it mini-Daddy.  Mini Daddy still features prominently, and he's a little like me as well... just look where I found him.

The cupboard is looking empty

I must add, this cupboard is always half empty unless the door cannot close properly due to it's contents.  I should also add that I've just taken one out that's not in the above picture.  This nicely presented bottle is a single cask bottling of a Glen Scotia 1974.  It sat in a barrel to age for 30 years before someone put it in a bottle.  I naturally got it for my 30th birthday (in fact, it was the perfect gift from the lady wife), and a lot of time was invested searching the perfect 30 year old dram.  This one doesn't disappoint, it's a shame it's nearly empty, and at a 3 figure sum of money, I doubt there will be another one... best get saving, and looking for a 33 year old this year, variety is, after all the spice of life.

Know how to keep your husband happy

As if timing couldn't get any better, some chap has knocked on my front window, and delivered some tasty smelling scran.  Talk about the spice of life, this meal is an ominous shade of green, and the first taste has sent my mouth a frenzy... further research has unravelled this mystery, it is a Lamb Hariyo - cooked with green sauce of fresh mints, coriander, green chillies & Nepalese spices.

already getting the sweats looking at it

I've just had a mouth of food, then washed it down with a slug of that Glen Scotia... BOOM!... I hope Julia enjoys her night pass, because I'm near to heaven right now...

Sláinte.