Islay 2010

It’s that time of year, when the Scots turn fearfully back to their homes, lock the doors and pull the curtains; it’s the arrival of the Stockholm Malt & Metal Society once again. Uncharacteristically late though – we prefer the dark month of February usually.

The trip started, as always, with the stormtroopers of Malt gathering to take the bus to the worlds greatest known mystery to man; Skavsta Airport. However, the society had experienced a crack in it’s great, unified foundation: part of the group (Names! We hear you cry, well all right, Peo, Mellis, El Mannio, Anders M and Gordon ”Butt Crack!” Cook) had had just about enough of Ryanair last time round, and since they charged us a small fortune, or at least as much as a regular carrier, they opted to fly with Luftwaffe via Frankfurt to Edinburgh, arriving a couple of hours ahead of the rest of us.

Now, the crack in the group didn’t end there – John and Charlie were already located in Scotland, and met up at before us. The masochists among us (David, Niklas, Hegert, Anders F, Robbe and Hans) who used Ryanair arrived last, and thus had instructed the others to make sure there was a decent supply of beer and whisky for the bus trip.

Two crates of beer and a bottle of Bruichladdich Progressive Malt was loaded upon the bus. As we rolled out of Edinburgh airport we stopped for a short fuel-fill and mounting of the life-saving magnets with our war-logo on. As we pushed west-wards, we hit Glasgow, and the bottle of whisky was dangerously low on content.
Arriving a few hours later at Inveraray (yes, it’s a long way etc etc) at hotel Argyll, most of our bus-travelling passengers were duly tired or drunk, or both. After a gruesome check-in process we hit the bar only to meet Charlie and John, loudly playing pool, and who in comparison put us in complete sobriety. Being in Inveraray for six hours, they spent the time the only way they found relevant. Trying out all the bars of the town. Both of them, as it turned out. The rest of us tried half-heartedly to speed up to their level, but we all knew in our hearts it was a lost mission at start.

After speeding through breakfast early next morning we head south down Kintyre to Tarbert and the Kennacraig Ferry Terminal. Not only did the trip take less than an hour (as everyone said one and a half), but the ferry couldn’t open it’s front for one reason or another, leaving us waiting a further three quarters of an hour. Imagine those minutes being spent on a leasurely breakfast instead we thought.
But not for long. Within a short time we were aboard the ferry, and Calmac once again proved to have the best fry up on planet earth. Amazing soul-food for hungry malt freaks.

Arriving in heaven, or Islay, whichever, we sped off to Kilchoman for our first tour. But first things first: we sat down and ordered a nice healthy lunch in their farm café. We were now firmly set on eating our way around Scotland rather than drink it, as previously.

After orders were taken, we took the tour of this small, new distillery, and it is a great one as well. Very small scale, very open and informative, it is a great contrast to the huge monsters of distilleries you can find elsewhere on the mainland. After the tour, we had our pre-ordered lunch and sat back for a beer or two before raiding the shop.

Leaving Kilchoman, we headed back to Bowmore to check in at the cottages. Our good friend Nick Ravenhall – probably the most well informed New Zealander on scotch whisky in the world, and definitely one of the nicest as well – had hooked us up with a cottage in Bowmore. As we checked in our jaws dropped: beautiful house, nice garden, huge kitchen, loads of bedrooms and a great lounge on the top floor where we all gravitated to with our complimentary bottle of Bowmore malt during the late afternoon.

The stereo blasting away, the skies blue, everyone gathered with a beer and a great malt – what more could one ask for?

As it turned out, as we turned the TV on, one could actually ask for one last thing: a flight home on Sunday. The icelanders were finally taking their revenge on the refused loans from the EU and set off one of their smaller volcanos. Small, but spewing enough ash to the sky to stop us from being able to fly back it seemed. A quick check with Bowmore, yes the cottage was free for another few days, this could actually be quite good! However, John had to fight his way back to Stockholm, and set off on a dare-devil journey back via half of europe.

Dinner was eaten at Harbour Inn before heading over to Duffies Bar for ridiculous amounts of Old Acquaintance – probably the best malt in the world, should you ask us. Not only great malt, it’s spiritual (pun intended) home must be Duffies Bar on Islay.

Friday morning had it’s usual amount of hangoverness, but we all assembled like the troopers we are (minus John, who left us with a sombre look on his face) for the full scottish feast before heading over to Bruichladdich.
Followers of this proud society might recall that we, following our previous visit to Islay, bought a cask at Bruichladdich. It is appropriately numbered 666, and today we got to visit our beauty for the first time. Lying in the middle of the warehouse on bottom-floor (it needs to be as close to its spiritual father as possible… or something), we were informed that there was a small crack in the side of it, but nothing to worry about. Scottish engineering at it’s zenith was there to help: ”we, eh, turned the cask the other way round, so you should be fine”.
A taste of the nectar proved to be revealing: a very young spirit, aggressive and as evilly strong as it’s cask number implies (we’d like to think it’s currently 66,6%, though the truth is it’s closer to 69%), and kicking and screaming with citrus notes and a few early notes of caramel. It definitely needs another few years to calm down, but should be a cracking malt when we get our hands on it.

After lounging in the sun by the water, curing those last whiffs of hangover, we drove south for a while towards Portnahaven. We’d love to tell you what a beautiful village it was, and how picturesque it lies at the far south, but we got bored of driving down that small road and headed back to Ardbeg for lunch instead.
Greeted by Jackie who recognised us all, we got served an immaculate lunch. It has been said before, and will be said many times again: you haven’t seen Islay until you’ve had lunch at Ardbeg. A quick walk up to the cliffs for the photo-opportunity, and more lounging before heading over to Lagavulin for a warehouse tasting with Iain MacArthur.

Now, after visiting a few distilleries, you pretty much get the hang of it (”…to make whisky, you need only three ingredients”, and ”…the cows are happy!”), but the guidance of Iain is something completely different. After 40 years with the company it’s safe to say he knows what he’s talking about, and the tasting of a number of casks with different styles and ages, explaining what they all do was both informative and fun. The high point being when, for a second or two there was total silence before Gordon suddenly, from absolutely nowhere spit out ”Butt Crack!”.
It took a while before it sunk in, and to this day, neither we nor Gordon know exactly what he meant.

After Lagavulin, we discovered a castle on the other side of the bay. Lagavulin is of course gaelic for ”bay that needs to be discovered by swedish whisky society, despite the surrounding grounds being very, very wet and swamp-like”. We headed over, we climbed and we, eh, walked back.

Back in Bowmore a few of us checked the latest on the ashes, and that’s not the cricket. Some of us who weren’t as concerned, headed up to the Bowmore distillery to be treated to a few drams with an exceptional view of Loch Indaal. Loch Indaal of course being gaelic for ”bay with a view permitting swedish whisky club members to drink a lot of very fine whisky”.

As dinner time arrived, several members meant that dinner was at 7pm. David, being the person who booked the evening, told them to stop being ridiculous, it was at 7:30, and he should know as he booked it. As we headed off in the van to arrive at 7:29 at Port Charlotte Hotel, we were met by an angry maitre’d who in no short words told us we should have been there at 7:00. It wouldn’t hurt to actually read the itinerary as it was printed, David.

Late or not, the food at Port Charlotte was absolutely nothing short of excellent, and a great night was had by all. On return to Bowmore we hit Duffies Bar again, had a few more Auld Acquaintances, and had the opportunity to meet Freddie Laing of Douglas Laing-fame. If you don’t know who Douglas Laing is, chances are you’re wasting your time reading this travel report all together.
Saturday was our first day of clouds and rain. Very scottish, yet a slight let down for us as we were quickly getting accustomed to the nice sunny weather (not a sign of ash anywhere, thank you very much). As the old saying goes: when in rain, head for Jura.

After getting over to Jura, visiting the distillery, having a few drams and a cup of coffee in the nearby café, we realised we’d more or less seen all of civilisation on Jura. Back to Islay then. With a few hours before the ferry to the mainland we visited Finlaggan (that’s the seat of the Lord of the Isles for all you history-noobs out there), a quick visit and photo session at Bruichladdich, and a brief stop at Caol Ila to take more pictures. We are truly the Japanese of the world’s whisky societies. Bruichladdich was eerily closed with a fire alarm ringing (it wasn’t us, milord, we promise) and the odd letter missing from the main sign.

Back on to the ferry, more great food and on to the mainland. Now the realisation that we weren’t going to get home as we’d planned hit us, and it hit hard. Reports from John that he’d hardly managed to leave Britain, as well as all our initial trials hitting nothing began to sink in. This is was a true challenge. But we wouldn’t be the Stockholm Malt & Metal Society if a challenge wasn’t in place. All troops, Man your iPhones! After a number of phone calls, more or less desperate Facebook-status updates and Twittering, we finally got hold of someone who knew someone who knew someone at a company who had a bus rented in Calais who could take us home. IF we could be there in a day. After massive co-ordination we got a driver to take us there, only to find out in the last minute that we still wouldn’t fit on the bus.

Glad to arrive in Edinburgh instead, we checked in at Mercure Point Hotel, which definitely can be filed under ”design hotels” in the phone book, we sat down to plan our escape in the only place we felt secure: the bar. Anders F pondered ”it’s times like these you wish you had Biffen (In Flames tour-manager/problem solver and general swedish legend) with you… hang on!” A phone call later, and Biffen phoned back with the news that Biffy Clyro’s (if you don’t know the band, you listen to far too little progressive scottish metal-based rock) driver was in town and could take us back home. Ten or so phone calls later, everything was set up, and we had a few hours to kill in Edinburgh. Life could be worse.

It could definitely be even worse when the two voyagers turned out to be one spacious Mercedes bus, and we all filed in with a fresh stock of both beers and bus-whisky (Inchgower 14yo, Bowmore, Yamazaki and Auchentoshan among others for the malt-nerds out there). The hotel were friendly enough to first offer us extra nights at more or less half rate, as we were stuck, and then cancelled our bookings with no hassle as we got lucky with the bus. Hearing all the stories of people being ripped off during the weekend, we can only bow down and lift our hats to the friendly, understanding service of the Mercure Point Hotel. If you ever go to Edinburgh, stay there, and tell them we said Hi.

A 42 hour drive from the north of Britain via the channel to France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark and then Sweden could be a nightmare, but not in the company of the dirty dozen. The band game was introduced (you say a band, and the next person has to name a band that starts with the last letter of the previous mentioned band. Simple but efficient time killer), Lagavulin-Glencairn glasses distributed, whisky poured and beer dished out, and before we could say ”how the fxxk could we miss border shop in Puttgarden?” we arrived in Stockholm on Tuesday morning. Oh, we saw the statue of Michael Jackson that was floated down the Thames standing outside McDonalds in an industrial area in Holland by the way.
Another great trip, and the big challenge now is to think of where to head 2011.

Until then, who’s got the bus-whisky?