By the time I reached the thin beach trail the sun was low, the light pastel, and the rustic traits of autumn harkened to a quiet time in my travel memory. Certainly, Islay was of the purest, prettiest places on Earth. Photo: Kew
I walked holding a green 35cl bottle of Laphroaig’s flagship 10-year-old whisky, taking intermittent swigs while absorbing the environs. A cool, light breeze blew offshore, and flocks of birds squawked overhead; I strode through swampy fields and across untracked dunes, and all afternoon I saw just one other person.
“Lovely day!—a fine day,” the old bearded man said to me. His brogue was loose and breathy. Binoculars hung from his neck—we’d been observing the same pair of golden eagles. He pointed at my bottle. “I see you’ve been sampling our local.”
“Laphroaig’s my favorite. I drink it all the time back home. Basically, it brought me to Islay.”
“Aye, many people come for the whisky foremost. It’s our ‘water of life,’ so the saying goes. You Americans, you have your bourbons and that. I really fancy a drop of Maker’s Mark. Have you had it?”
“Countless times.”
“Aye, and I’ve had that Laphroaig countless times,” he said, chuckling. “I reckon it’s better than water!”
With dusk the sky flared ocher; thin clouds threaded the rural twilight. In lieu of light pollution, vast constellations appeared, followed quickly by a vigorous cold front. It was time to repair to the sandy shore of Loch Indaal and Port Charlotte, its classic whitewashed village slated for the site of Islay’s ninth whisky distillery, a retrospective push by Bruichladdich, Islay’s “sophisticated” single-malter. Like Port Charlotte Hotel, Bruichladdich was within walking distance from my hostel, but the distillery had no bar, which didn’t matter because Port Charlotte’s was aglow warmly with drink and peat fire and live bagpipe with fiddle, a boozy clime of Scottish cliché. And I was excited to drink in a pub where no one knew my name.
“Well, if it isn’t Michael Kew!” Heather sat on the barstool nearest the doorway; she cocked her head and looked at me slyly. “I thought I might find you here,” she said. Her hair was up, her glasses gone, and she looked sassy, somewhat lubricated, yet she was sober. In a utopia of booze, the woman didn’t drink. This was unfathomable.
“What brings you here this stormy night?” I asked.
“The live music. And I could walk here. You?”
“To drink whisky, and I walked here, too. This bar recently won a whisky award, you know.”
“I had no idea,” she said, rolling her eyes. She patted the stool next to her. “But if you want to get to know me better, why don’t you sit and have some tea with me?”
“No thanks. I’m going to sink a few drams by the fire, near the musicians.”
“You don’t want to talk to me?”
“Not really.”
“Has anyone ever called you an arsehole?” she asked.
I nodded to the barkeep, who’d heard the exchange. “I’ll have a dram of Octomore 140, please.”
“Whisky wins, mate,” he said, laughing. “Whisky always wins.”
