by tashmcgill | Jun 24, 2017 | Opinion, Travel
There are some people and some places that have a certain magic to them. If you are lucky enough to encounter the magic people in the magic places, then things get turned around, upside down and put back to centre inside you – in a way that means you cannot leave unchanged. Bruichladdich is like that for me, a distillery on the edge of Islay looking across Loch Indaal.
“As I step, I see feather after feather along my way. There is an old legend that says when you see those small white feathers appearing around you, it’s a sign that someone is watching over you, thinking of you. I have found those feathers in the back country of Kentucky, the suburbs of Tennessee, the steps of St Pauls in London and here, in Islay – in the hallway of the Port Charlotte Hotel, on the foreshore of the Singing Seas and on the steps of Bruichladdich Distillery. Perhaps my Scottish ancestors are smiling that I’ve returned to the land of my forefathers and to this island of most famous malts. It’s remarkable that one small island of eight remaining distilleries can have such an impact on the world whisky stage. Islay malt is a thing of legend.”
This excerpt from my story The Sun Came Out on Islay gives you a glimpse of the magic.
This gorgeous print is from Kate McLelland and you can view more of her work here.
Look to the centre of the map and you’ll see Bowmore, settled in the apex of Loch Indaal. Directly opposite to the left or thereabouts, sits Bruichladdich and the distillery village that has been built around her. One or two stores and two roads, one leading around the coast and the inland to farmland.
It pays to know the ‘ch’ in Bruichladdich is silent. If you’re clever, you’ll ask which ‘ch’.. it’s the one at the end, the first is said in that Scottish brogue that sounds like the earth rolling over itself.
If you’ve spent anytime on the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky or even in some of the larger Scottish distilleries, you might be under the impression that a distillery is all nameless and faceless until they roll the big guns out for annual festivities, but it’s not like that at all on Islay, let alone at Bruichladdich. There’s no such email address as store – at – bruichladdich dot com. It’s Mary you’ll meet most days and so it’s Mary you can email to arrange your distillery tour.
And it’s worth visiting, just like I did, in the slightly off-season before the hub-bub and madness of Fèis Ìle. In the gentle Spring sun, Mary took me on a more personal tour – albeit, I was the only one hanging around. Her immediate ancestors built and worked in the distillery, so it’s in her blood. It was a little of the magic of people and place I talked about. Here’s a glimpse of Bruichladdich as I saw her.
There are plenty of distilleries who talk about and deliver on experimental finishes and trying new things – certainly there are many who have bigger marketing budgets and personalities like Dr. Bill Lumsden. But there is something wonderfully understated in how Bruichladdich have been going about proving their brand as Progressive Hebridean Distillers; more than the vibrant teal and distinctly modern typography on their bottles alone.
The oldest history, old history and the new history
You can read more about the beginnings of Bruichladdich (practice it with me… brew-achk – lahdee) here. Bruichladdich started as a family business thanks to the Harvey brothers in 1881 and by the time Mark Reynier and his investors completed purchase of the distillery in 2000, the distillery found itself in the hands of an owner who prized the Victorian equipment and the family-owned and run mentality of distilling. Careful restoration meant almost all of the original equipment in still in use for production today, although the distillery is closed in June 2017 for annual repairs and maintenance. Even the grainhopper is nearly 150 years old!
Let’s skip ahead to when I first tasted Bruichladdich in 2006. The iconic squat bottle and bright teal caught my eye, almost as much as the discovery of Bruichladdich as Islay’s unpeated malt. This was in fact older malt that was being released from stock but by the time they released their first ‘new make’ spirit in 2011, there were already moves afoot to purchase Bruichladdich from Reynier by French giant Rémy Cointreau. Part of Bruichladdich’s success was the migration of Jim McEwan from Bowmore to Bruichladdich, where he took up the role of distillery manager and influenced the evolution of Bruichladdich’s ‘progressive approach’. The sale went ahead in the summer of 2012 but since then, Mary and others will tell you they’ve been able to maintain a family-run approach. When Jim retired in 2015, it was Adam Hannett who stepped into the role of Head Distiller, having learned from Jim. And outside of a few changes to production rates and the backing and resources of a global giant to hand, not too much has changed.
Geography and tasting
Bruichladdich takes water directly from the spring so it doesn’t run through the peat beds as it does at Ardbeg, Lagavulin or many of the other southern distilleries. This limited peat contact and the use of un-peated barley the resulting whisky is much milder and lighter than what people traditionally think of as an Islay malt. In general terms, the flavour profile is appropriately opposite to Speyside whiskies (opposite coasts!). Think dry finishes and spice notes that sit behind the smoke. These gentler Islay spirits are greener moss and grass influenced (rather than peat) with a touch of seaweed, tending towards a roundness of nuts and a dry finish. In the case of Bruichladdich, the unpeated malt is floral and complex. It’s a lighter spirit but it’s not simple. The flagship bottling (The Classic Laddie Ten) was first released in 2011, exactly ten years from when the restored stills first ran through to the spirit safe on September 9, 2001.
Progressive means what?
In their own words, Bruichladdich ‘respects the past but doesn’t live in its shadow’. When you visit the distillery, you’ll see cask explorations that are only available there as the head distiller picks and chooses casks from Rémy Cointreau’s stocks around the globe. That day at the distillery, Cask Exploration No.7 is classic Bruichladdich spirit finished in a Rivesaltes wine cask. Rivesaltes is a little-known wine appellation in French Catalonia – a sweet wine. In this expression, the balance of the classic malt profile is sweetened and rounded by the wine finish. Bruichladdich release Black Art (now in it’s 5.1 edition which is solely Adam’s profile and on his own admittance, he’s changed McEwan’s recipe quite drastically) semi-regularly, a more general release of these wine cask explorations.
But there’s more to it than wine finishes. Bruichladdich leapt into making malt using barley grown from the Octomore farm behind the site of Port Charlotte. From these threads of history, Bruichladdich created both the Port Charlotte, a peated version of their spirit, a 100% Scottish version and the Octomore, the most heavily peated of all the Islay whiskies.
| DISTILLERY |
MALT PHENOLS (ppm) |
NEW MAKE PHENOLS (ppm) |
MIDDLE CUT ABV |
| Ardbeg |
54 (42-70) |
24-26 |
73-62.5 |
| Bowmore |
20-25 |
8-10 |
74-61.5 |
| Bruichladdich |
3-4 |
|
76-64 |
| Port Charlotte |
40 |
20-25 |
|
| Octomore |
129 (in 2003) |
46 (in 2003) |
|
| Brora |
7-40 |
|
|
| Bunnahabhain |
1-2 (peated malt 38) |
|
72-64
|
| Caol Ila |
30-35 |
12-13 |
75-65 |
| Highland Park |
35-40 (and unpeated malt used together) |
2 |
70 and then 2h40min |
| Lagavulin |
35-40 |
16-18 |
72-59 |
| Laphroaig |
40-45 |
25 |
72-60.5 |
Phenol-levels of malts and new-makes in different distilleries and the ABV of the middle cut.
(modified from Misako Udo: The Scottish Whisky Distilleries)
It’s this ability to play at all ends of the spectrum that I most love about Bruichladdich and then there is the spirit of the place when you arrive. More likely to be greeted like family because, in many respects they are just that. A slightly-extended, whisky-making, award-winning family.
While you may not make it to the shores of Bruichladdich anytime soon, can I highly recommend you take a tastebud journey?
Start with the Laddie Ten and then try it alongside the Port Charlotte to really get a sense of this wonderful place.
by tashmcgill | May 12, 2016 | Drink, Travel
There is a long road on the southern tip of the Isle of Islay, that edges along the coast from the Port Ellen maltings. With sweet, smoky malt and the salty sea air in your lungs, you’ll take that long road to the legendary ladies of Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg. Follow that road past all three and you’ll arrive at the Kildalton Cross, the oldest known relic of its kind in this part of the world – and part of the reason these ladies of Islay are sometimes known as the Kildalton distilleries.
In a single day on Islay, while the sun was shining and the air was mostly still, I drove the long road. I drove the long straight stretch that reminds of Waipu, Northland through the peat beds of Lagavulin where my sister owns a 6-inch brick of land. I stopped at Laphroaig, I stopped at Lagavulin and I finally arrived at Ardbeg. They sit mere miles from one another, that pass by in a glimpse of green, gray rock, wide skies and sharp corners.
Ardbeg, like so many distilleries, survives through tenacity and partly, luck. Reading the tides, as it were. There was a once a thriving community that lived within walking distance of the distillery but those people, the infrastructure and the school are long since gone. Like so many, to survive has meant sale after sale of the distillery and her stock and near constant reinvention and exploration. The Ardbeg we know today is quite different in approach to the Ardbeg that once dominated production on the island, before the turn of the 20th century. She has lived through two closures until she finally re-opened in 1997, under the ownership of Glenmorangie (part of Moët Hennessey). Upon starting production again, they began to release some of the old stock and invest in new production. This would eventually shape the way Ardbeg was re-introduced to the world as being back ‘for good’.
I say ‘for good’ because part of Ardbeg’s fate now rests in the hands of the Ardbeg Committee, a worldwide fan club of sorts that was started in the year 2000. This coincided with the release of what has become the core expression of the Ardbeg line, the Ardbeg Ten. This malt is sweet and smoky and big, as all the Kindalton ladies can be. That committee receives unique and exclusive bottlings, on which the committee’s feedback influences the release to broader public consumption. I’m a member, along with many other New Zealanders but it’s something special to actually make it to the grounds of any distillery that you know and love.
When you arrive at Ardbeg, the light bounces off the tall copper-painted, still-shaped monument in the forecourt. The bright white Ardbeg ‘A’ logo glows white from the asphalt surface the tiles are embedded in. *The large forecourt is a relatively new development, in time for the bi-centenial Ardbeg celebrations last year. 200 years of a robust and wild spirit was celebrated on Ardbeg Day 2015 with the release of Perpetuum.
The annual Ardbeg Day celebration started in 2012 with the release of ‘Galileo’ at the end of Feis Ile, the Islay Festival of Music and Malt. They need the space on that forecourt because the population of the island swells by thousands for the week-long festival. Galileo was the celebration of Ardbeg’s space experiment, to see how spirit might age different in a no-gravity environment. Since then Ardbog, Auriverdes and Perpetuum have all celebrated different aspects of Ardbeg’s future, flavour and past. Ardbeg Day 2016 is just around the corner on the 28th of May. Mark it in your calendars now.
But this is more than just marketing, I promise. Sure – a limited edition that is guaranteed to sell out within 48 hours around the world (less than 2 hours in Auckland, 2015) is a great way to create buzz. It must be said though, that this unique way of engaging with lovers of Ardbeg is worth pursuing and protecting. After re-opening in 1997, Ardbeg won Distillery of the Year three times in a row. Each of the Ardbeg Day whiskies has made it’s way to my collection and for good measure, I buy a bottle to drink and a bottle to keep. And the road to Ardbeg is worth the drive, to savour the nature of survival.
The crisp white wall of the distillery buildings and the signature name etched along the foreshore stands firm and concrete. I wandered down to the foreshore and skipped stones into the sea, smelt the freshness of the ocean and thought to myself, some things find a way to survive so long as they are loved. I walked through the distillery and enjoyed the Old Kiln Cafe. I enjoyed the Committee Release variation of Dark Cove*, bottled at cask strength. I wandered through the warehouses and breathed the old stone, new spirit aroma of Ardbeg itself, the land, sea and air of the place.
For all the energy and enthusiasm of a young distillery reborn (she’s only been open again for just under 20 years, with her ‘Young’ series from the early 1998 distillings still stacked in warehouses for periodic release), there is an ancient spirit on the long road. You’ll meet it at Ardbeg and then you’ll meet it again at the Kildaton Cross.
They reckon the Irish monks arrived and starting making whisky on Islay sometime in the late 14th century, on the run from Nordic invaders. This cross is older than that, carved from stone. The Parish in which the Cross is found dates from around 1580, but the gravestones found within the parish grounds are older than that too. The Cross takes similar form to those found in Iona and so it’s assumed it was carved sometime in the mid-8th century. It was when repairing the Kildalton Cross years ago, they discovered the bodies of a man and woman, below. The man died from terrible trauma. So old, so mysterious, so unknown. What was the story of these people that lived and died on this rugged earth?
There is a sense of mystery about this place and this corner of the island in particular. It can’t help but spill over into the myths and legends of whisky-runners, illicit stills and hiding from the excisemen that litter the history of Islay, and in particular, Ardbeg malt. Caves, pirates, smugglers and risky tales abound. This year’s Ardbeg Day release has been named Dark Cove and embraces some of this darker, mysterious history. But those tasting notes and secrets will be released shortly.
*Dark Cove will be released on 28th May, when Ardbeg Day becomes Ardbeg Night. Subscribe for updates on where you can taste and experience the #ArdbegNight festivities. This year, New Zealand welcomes it’s first Ardbeg Embassy bar, The Jefferson to join the three off-premise locations: Whisky Galore, Regional Wines and Spirits and Sam Snead’s House of Whiskey. The Ardbeg Embassies in Auckland, Wellington and Christchurch will all host events during the day and night.
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by tashmcgill | Apr 2, 2016 | Travel
It has rained on Islay for 105 days in a row. But today is the 106th day, and the sun has arrived back to Islay after a long, damp, dark winter. I too, have arrived. Whether I brought the sun, or the sun brought me is moot; although sometimes I like to believe I have magical powers, it is enough to know there is magic in the place.
Islay is soft earth; like many islands. Heaving with moss and peat, the hills and landscape of the island is a vessel for water that lands up high from the rain and makes its way into the lochs, then into the rivers and streams and back out to the sea. The sea itself encroaches on the island at every opportunity. The moss and grass grows down between the jagged rocks at the shoreline and the rockpools are sometimes hard to discern from the land. Soft earth, that moves under your feet but is teeming with life.
Islay is soft earth; like many islands. Heaving with moss and peat, the hills and landscape of the island is a vessel for water.
There is magic in this place, I’m sure of it. As I walk over shorelines and climb jutting peaks for views of the Atlantic on one side and the Lochs on the other, seals appear, head bobbing and looking straight at me. We stare at each other; the occasional head tilt from side to side. I smile and the silkie disappears below the sea crest once more in a dive, his back slick like oil and inky black against the blue of the tide.
As I step, I see feather after feather along my way. There is an old legend that says when you see those small white feathers appearing around you, it’s a sign that someone is watching over you, thinking of you. I have found those feathers in the back country of Kentucky, the suburbs of Tennessee, the steps of St Pauls in London and here, in Islay – in the hallway of the Port Charlotte Hotel, on the foreshore of the Singing Seas and on the steps of Bruichladdich Distillery. Perhaps my Scottish ancestors are smiling that I’ve returned to the land of my forefathers and to this island of most famous malts. It’s remarkable that one small island of eight remaining distilleries can have such an impact on the world whisky stage. Islay malt is a thing of legend.
The island is sweet to smell with her salty air, endless vegetation, and the Port Ellen maltings running from early morning til night, the warm, malty smell hovering over the bay. In Bowmore, the distillery sits in the heart of the administrative capital of Islay, just tucked into a side street. Kilchoman is a farm distillery – no distinctive stacked hats, just stone buildings tucked into pasture. Life is built around whisky here, in more ways than one but life is also more than whisky. It is people, farmland and the weather.
I’ve come to Islay for the whisky, yes but more than that. To explore this tiny island of single lane roads and step back in time for a moment, going as far as I can to this edge of the world and breathing deeply. And I’m glad of it; glad for the way each passing driver lifts their hand in greeting, glad of the easy manner of suggestion and introduction. There is a hospitality here that flows easily between people and you can feel it from the moment your feet hit that soft earth. You could cover the main roads of this island in a day and still have time to spare. Villages might be as small as six houses, but there are coves and hills, lochs and lighthouses to see as well as 8 distilleries in operation, running tours and tastings. The best way to stay on Islay is at one of the local hotels or in the myriad of guesthouses and B&Bs. They are all over the island, in every crevice.
Beyond the long road that runs past Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg, I reach the Kildalton Cross. Amongst this graveyard there are stones are carvings that seem to predate words, ancient Celtic carvings alongside burials as recent at 1903. The gravesites are littered inside and outside of the ruin of a church and outside it, the Kildalton Cross. There is an old spirit in this place for certain, echoed in more than just the ruins that scatter the shoreline. At Lagavulin, the church used to be beside the distillery but it was moved to make room for a carpark, only to have the church bell returned to the hilltop overlooking the old malthouse. It’s bad luck to move a church bell, they say. There is old magic here.
At the Mull of Oa, there is a square lighthouse that marks the entrance to the channel. Behind that lighthouse, a flock of wild goats that have free run of their hill and the coastline there. A colossal bull with ivory horns turns to stare me down as I walk past him. I can’t resist the urge to poke my tongue out at him and he, unimpressed I assume, turns away again. I laugh out loud and he looks back, but it’s impossible to be here and not feel connected to the land and all that lives on it here.
Islands, and island people have much in common no matter where you find them. They make life from what the island gives them. In this instance, the farms are full of fat cattle and sheep and the whisky makers are happy; very happy. I have eaten salmon from local Loch Fyne, venison from the central hills and fennel grown wild with homemade bread that yearns for Scottish butter. I oblige happily; and indulge in Botanist gin, made with 22 botanicals foraged from the island. There is a married couple, botanists, who were enlisted by Bruichladdich to help them create an Islay dry gin. It’s delicious and comes in a bottle the shape of the square monument.
Bruichladdich has become my favourite of the Islay malts, by nature of their people. The warmest and kindest of all the whisky people I have met. Mary is a kinswoman as soon as we meet and the hour or so I spend wandering the distillery with her will stay in my mind a long while. A family-style business despite having lost their independent status, what they haven’t lost is their progressive approach to single malt.
Late at night once my exploring is done, I venture onto the top of the hill that heads out to Kilchoman Farm Distillery. Word is that the Northern Lights will be making an appearance in the clear skies overhead and what few town lights exist on Islay disappear up here. I sit out in the dark, nothing but the wind and the stars beside me. I can smell the peaty residue in the air from a fire burning on the west side of the island. I saw it earlier and because there is no wind, it hangs in the air. Somewhere to the east of me, there is a riverlet running, I can hear it gently trickling down the bank. That water is likely clear as glass but inky brown, like all the water that runs through the peat banks.
While technically spring, the earth will need a few more days of sunshine before the islanders can start cutting the peat. Too soft, it won’t burn but too dry it will crumble. It’s impossible for me to think of Islay without thinking of peat, but the truth is you can only smell the smoky, iodine nature of it once it’s burning or faintly in the water.
The water runs gently, the faint smell of smoke is in the air and then, just a hint of green glow starts dancing on the horizon. It’s not as dramatic as I was expecting or hoping for, but as my eyes adjust, I see it stretching up and then rolling, listing slightly to the left. In an unexpected turn, not only has Islay given me sunshine but she’s also given me the lights. There is magic running in this place.
I have tasted whisky straight from the cask here, roamed on hills and rugged coastlines, breathing deeply of this rich, island air. As I drive out to meet the early morning ferry back to mainland, I see great flocks of birds dancing in the morning light. The dawn is slow here, taking from just before six in the morning to half-eight. Their graceful dance against the indigo sky is mesmerizing. Even the skies above this soft and fertile earth are alive.
The two hour ferry crossing back to mainland sees me leave the sunshine behind, a gentle grey blanket resting over Kintyre. The sun is trying to push through with the same urgency that the boat pushes through the current. I came to Islay for whisky but I found magic and I leave, hoping I have breathed some of that magic into my bones and blood.
This post was originally published on tashmcgill.com
by tashmcgill | Mar 24, 2016 | Travel
It has rained on Islay for 105 days in a row. But today is the 106th day, and the sun has arrived back to Islay after a long, damp, dark winter. I too, have arrived. Whether I brought the sun, or the sun brought me is moot; although sometimes I like to believe I have magical powers, it is enough to know there is magic in the place.
Islay is soft earth; like many islands. Heaving with moss and peat, the hills and landscape of the island is a vessel for water that lands up high from the rain and makes its way into the lochs, then into the rivers and streams and back out to the sea. The sea itself encroaches on the island at every opportunity. The moss and grass grows down between the jagged rocks at the shoreline and the rockpools are sometimes hard to discern from the land. Soft earth, that moves under your feet but is teeming with life.
Islay is soft earth; like many islands. Heaving with moss and peat, the hills and landscape of the island is a vessel for water.
There is magic in this place, I’m sure of it. As I walk over shorelines and climb jutting peaks for views of the Atlantic on one side and the Lochs on the other, seals appear, head bobbing and looking straight at me. We stare at each other; the occasional head tilt from side to side. I smile and the silkie disappears below the sea crest once more in a dive, his back slick like oil and inky black against the blue of the tide.
As I step, I see feather after feather along my way. There is an old legend that says when you see those small white feathers appearing around you, it’s a sign that someone is watching over you, thinking of you. I have found those feathers in the back country of Kentucky, the suburbs of Tennessee, the steps of St Pauls in London and here, in Islay – in the hallway of the Port Charlotte Hotel, on the foreshore of the Singing Seas and on the steps of Bruichladdich Distillery. Perhaps my Scottish ancestors are smiling that I’ve returned to the land of my forefathers and to this island of most famous malts. It’s remarkable that one small island of eight remaining distilleries can have such an impact on the world whisky stage. Islay malt is a thing of legend.
The island is sweet to smell with her salty air, endless vegetation, and the Port Ellen maltings running from early morning til night, the warm, malty smell hovering over the bay. In Bowmore, the distillery sits in the heart of the administrative capital of Islay, just tucked into a side street. Kilchoman is a farm distillery – no distinctive stacked hats, just stone buildings tucked into pasture. Life is built around whisky here, in more ways than one but life is also more than whisky. It is people, farmland and the weather.
I’ve come to Islay for the whisky, yes but more than that. To explore this tiny island of single lane roads and step back in time for a moment, going as far as I can to this edge of the world and breathing deeply. And I’m glad of it; glad for the way each passing driver lifts their hand in greeting, glad of the easy manner of suggestion and introduction. There is a hospitality here that flows easily between people and you can feel it from the moment your feet hit that soft earth. You could cover the main roads of this island in a day and still have time to spare. Villages might be as small as six houses, but there are coves and hills, lochs and lighthouses to see as well as 8 distilleries in operation, running tours and tastings. The best way to stay on Islay is at one of the local hotels or in the myriad of guesthouses and B&Bs. They are all over the island, in every crevice.
Beyond the long road that runs past Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg, I reach the Kindalton Cross. Amongst this graveyard there are stones are carvings that seem to predate words, ancient Celtic carvings alongside burials as recent at 1903. The gravesites are littered inside and outside of the ruin of a church and outside it, the Kindalton Cross. There is an old spirit in this place for certain, echoed in more than just the ruins that scatter the shoreline. At Lagavulin, the church used to be beside the distillery but it was moved to make room for a carpark, only to have the church bell returned to the hilltop overlooking the old malthouse. It’s bad luck to move a church bell, they say. There is old magic here.
At the Mull of Oa, there is a square lighthouse that marks the entrance to the channel. Behind that lighthouse, a flock of wild goats that have free run of their hill and the coastline there. A colossal bull with ivory horns turns to stare me down as I walk past him. I can’t resist the urge to poke my tongue out at him and he, unimpressed I assume, turns away again. I laugh out loud and he looks back, but it’s impossible to be here and not feel connected to the land and all that lives on it here.
Islands, and island people have much in common no matter where you find them. They make life from what the island gives them. In this instance, the farms are full of fat cattle and sheep and the whisky makers are happy; very happy. I have eaten salmon from local Loch Fyne, venison from the central hills and fennel grown wild with homemade bread that yearns for Scottish butter. I oblige happily; and indulge in Botanist gin, made with 22 botanicals foraged from the island. There is a married couple, botanists, who were enlisted by Bruichladdich to help them create an Islay dry gin. It’s delicious and comes in a bottle the shape of the square monument.
Bruichladdich has become my favourite of the Islay malts, by nature of their people. The warmest and kindest of all the whisky people I have met. Mary is a kinswoman as soon as we meet and the hour or so I spend wandering the distillery with her will stay in my mind a long while. A family-style business despite having lost their independent status, what they haven’t lost is their progressive approach to single malt.
Late at night once my exploring is done, I venture onto the top of the hill that heads out to Kilchoman Farm Distillery. Word is that the Northern Lights will be making an appearance in the clear skies overhead and what few town lights exist on Islay disappear up here. I sit out in the dark, nothing but the wind and the stars beside me. I can smell the peaty residue in the air from a fire burning on the west side of the island. I saw it earlier and because there is no wind, it hangs in the air. Somewhere to the east of me, there is a riverlet running, I can hear it gently trickling down the bank. That water is likely clear as glass but inky brown, like all the water that runs through the peat banks.
While technically spring, the earth will need a few more days of sunshine before the islanders can start cutting the peat. Too soft, it won’t burn but too dry it will crumble. It’s impossible for me to think of Islay without thinking of peat, but the truth is you can only smell the smoky, iodine nature of it once it’s burning or faintly in the water.
The water runs gently, the faint smell of smoke is in the air and then, just a hint of green glow starts dancing on the horizon. It’s not as dramatic as I was expecting or hoping for, but as my eyes adjust, I see it stretching up and then rolling, listing slightly to the left. In an unexpected turn, not only has Islay given me sunshine but she’s also given me the lights. There is magic running in this place.
I have tasted whisky straight from the cask here, roamed on hills and rugged coastlines, breathing deeply of this rich, island air. As I drive out to meet the early morning ferry back to mainland, I see great flocks of birds dancing in the morning light. The dawn is slow here, taking from just before six in the morning to half-eight. Their graceful dance against the indigo sky is mesmerizing. Even the skies above this soft and fertile earth are alive.
The two hour ferry crossing back to mainland sees me leave the sunshine behind, a gentle grey blanket resting over Kintyre. The sun is trying to push through with the same urgency that the boat pushes through the current. I came to Islay for whisky but I found magic and I leave, hoping I have breathed some of that magic into my bones and blood.
by tashmcgill | Nov 25, 2014 | Family, Friendship, Relationships, Travel
I need another suitcase. This beauty has accompanied me more than 100,000 miles and she’s starting to show her age. She’s been the perfect size though – an ample fit for a two week journey that’s not overly cumbersome to deal with. She’s modern, sleek but not flashy. Practical but with a splash of colour and a curve here or there. I’ve packed her this morning in Tennessee to realize that she’s on her last run home, while I’m leaving again from a place I’d like to stay. Time to talk tough to myself and start the next leg of my journey home. Here goes.
Dear Heart,
You will be ok. I want to remind you not to wear your heart on your sleeve but we both know it’s too late for that. You’ve dug yourself a hole you can’t get out of now, invested so deep in a place that’s far too many miles away from where your life is everyday. You’re a bit of a fool, really – but a sweet one.
You should own up to the fact, you could have stopped this years ago. Put your foot down and refused to get involved but people have this way of crawling inside of you and taking up space. The ones that are making a home for themselves in there now are too good to throw away and you know it. But you could have pulled the plug before it got this hard.
So you need to toughen up. You’ve got a couple of hours til your next flight and it pays to remember there’s a whole other family of people you love waiting there, not to mention your family back home. If you wouldn’t spread yourself out so much, maybe you wouldn’t have this problem.
Just acknowledge that every hello comes with a poignant goodbye. Every goodbye is easier when you’ve planned the next hello. And this is a cycle you’ll probably be in for life now. So toughen up, Heart, get on the plane and then you can let your tears swell.
Every year you hope and pray that this year will be the one you travel one way. Every year you find a little more home here and find it a little harder to re-engage back there. Every year when leaving, you say – next year, I’ll unpack for good.
And if we’re honest, you suspect that time is a clock still ticking on things working out the way you suspect they might. You think you might have stumbled on the best of the best but it’s not something you’re brave enough to admit yet.
Here’s the truth of it, Heart. You’re lucky to have found something that is so hard to say goodbye to. Lucky to have people to return to. If you will keep expanding the boundaries and letting more of them in, you’ll always be travelling somewhere. Maybe there’s no unpacking for you anymore. Maybe you’ll always be travelling between here and there.
Maybe it’s time to accept, Heart, that home is the people and life will be a series of journeys between those you love – unless you’re prepared to give one of them up? No, I didn’t think so.
Dear Heart, you are a brave little soul. You throw yourself into loving people with everything you have and wonder while leaving feels so much like being torn apart. But without this pain, you wouldn’t have the joy of coming home. You, Heart, are at home here with these people. Truthfully though, your next stop is home too, and the next. Enjoy the travelling. Tonight, you’ll land somewhere new and begin it all again.
Good luck – you will be ok.
Self.
by tashmcgill | Nov 18, 2014 | Culture & Ideas, Travel
You can learn a few things in Las Vegas. More than blackjack or how to play the house advantage. You can learn a lot about being tough, surviving and rebirthing yourself. After all, Las Vegas is a city in the desert, without a water source close-by. Lake Mead is some 45min away. None of the greenery here looks real, its irrigated golf courses and landscaped gardens a far cry from the stark desert ash everywhere else you look.
Amidst the lights and neon signs, the truth of Vegas is a testament to the best and worst of human experience. Here, each rebirth of Las Vegas can be seen etched into the landscape of architecture, signage, history museums and photographs. While new hotels and resort complexes rise up on the dust and ashes of previous monuments, others sit abandoned on the Strip, rusting slowly in the parching desert sun.
This is human. We live out of our history and everything we are becoming is from the context of who we’ve been. My mistakes and my triumphs exist side by side, the evidence of both scattered through stories, opportunities and lessons learned along the way.
The best of us learn how to drill down and find water in the desert. We learn to build our future stories out of and beside the rubble of our histories. We let our darkness live as shadow of the lights.
Sometimes we refurbish. We take the old structures and ways of being, strip them out to bare bones and begin again. New furniture and fixtures make a difference. We can change our habits through careful new architecture and design. Human beings are like houses – we build and design our lives carefully and those that dwell in them should be carefully thought through.
Sometimes we leave the rusting, decaying pieces just within view. Sometimes they are the challenge yet to come, a restoration so complex or unprecendented that we haven’t figured out just how to approach it yet.
Either way; this is a testament to human survival. When we triumph and when we fail – we go on. We begin again, we build more, we stretch more. If we fail but do not persevere, if we do not find another incarnation of ourselves, we do not survive.
Vegas knows this. Her rugged history of men and women escaping taxes and the law is written in the dust of this desert. No matter how many shows, new hotels and great restuarants pop up here – this is a place with a slightly dark underbelly, where people are often looking to lose themselves for a night or a weekend.
But that’s not all that Vegas wants to be – and why wouldn’t she want more? We, as people, are rarely satisfied with the status quo for long. So now, she reinvents herself as a city for the arts, a city for performers, for families, for luxurious and clean escapes.
In this city, rebirth and survival is found through reinvention. But it’s never reinvention from scratch. It’s actually evolution. Core ideas reshaped into new expressions. Take the circus. Once upon a time, circus trains travelled the deserts of the mid-West, slowly fading one by one from railway tracks and then from caravans until people began to say – the travelling circus is dead.
Not here in Vegas. Here, for more than 30 years, Cirque de Soleil has rebirthed traditional circus into a haven for the performing arts community. Gymnasts, dancers, contortionists, divers, fire-breathers – all have found a home in the new Circus that people travel all over the world too. That’s what Las Vegas has become for many – the home of Cirque.
Evolution through history. Future, present and past standing next to one another in a single view. Rebirth and survival.
Perhaps it’s best expressed like this: once, I knew how to live until it no longer made sense. The world around me changed enough I knew I must change too, in order to survive. So I reshaped how I lived in this new world, and found myself building new habits and ways of being. I am still present, still full of what has been but I am newer too. I am a survivor.
