barley was smoked over a huge peat fire, each of them chucking a lump of the stuff in. The cloggy smell and fierce heat from the furnace were remarkable. At the mill they tasted the malt, little seeds that burst with smoky flavour in their mouths. Adam watched as Molly chewed along with the rest of them. They saw the grist mixed with water and turned to wort in the mash tun then combined with yeast in the washbacks. They all had a glug of the liquid, a warm, yeasty eight per cent beer that had the Swedes making surprised faces. Ethan got his phone out and snapped the rest of them necking the stuff.
Then the wash was fired into the stills, seven huge bulbous copper constructions with swan necks, surrounded by gangways and pipes in the large stillhouse. The double distillation made low wines in the wash still which were pumped into the spirit still then boiled off into the spirit safe, a Victorian brass box with levers where the stillman had to siphon off the drinkable middle cut between the foreshots and the feints.
Adam smiled as Molly rolled the terminology around her tongue. He loved the unique language of the whisky-maker, the depths of ancient knowledge about the craft that those words contained. Molly mentioned in passing that only nine people were employed in the actual whisky-making at Laphroaig, producing two million litres of pure spirit a year, a fact Adam found astonishing every time he heard it. How could such a hugely lucrative operation rely on just a few experienced souls?
From the stillhouse they visited the filling store to see new spirit pumped into casks, air-dried American oak, first-fill Maker’s Mark bourbon casks which lent the whisky its vanilla and caramel nuances. They each got a sip of new spirit, sixty-eight per cent by volume making their eyes water. It was raw and rough but discernibly Laphroaig already, even before maturation.
At the warehouse on the edge of the seaweed-strewn bay Molly fielded questions from the Swedes about phenolic ppm in the barley, tannins and lignins from the barrels, the percentage of taste that came from the terroir compared to wine. The Swedes knew their stuff but Molly wasn’t flustered. Even though they all knew, she told them about the angel’s share, the two per cent lost per year from the barrels due to evaporation, adding up to a shitload of whisky vanishing into the atmosphere and contributing to the pungent air around them.
Adam felt light-headed for a moment. The burn of the new spirit was still in his nostrils as he watched Roddy joke with Molly about rolling a barrel out of the warehouse and into his car. He ran a hand over a nearby cask. The date on it was 1995, already past the ten-year bottling stage and heading for something richer and more complex. He thought about the to and fro inside, the spirit and the oak from different sides of the world blending and lending flavours to each other, mingling to create something utterly unique. That was partly why he loved whisky: for all the science involved there were completely unpredictable factors, influences that made two adjacent casks of the same spirit turn into whiskies with different characters. Even the location by the sea made a difference — if the whisky inside could evaporate, surely some of this briny air could seep into the casks? Much was made of the subtleties of winemaking, but to his mind whisky distilling was infinitely more complex, with a wider variety of influencing factors and a far greater range of tastes in the end product.
His finger snagged on the rough wood of the cask. He lifted it and saw a dark skelf lodged under the skin. He tried to pick it out but couldn’t get any purchase.
‘Looks like Roddy’s moving in on your turf.’ It was Ethan next to him. Adam followed his gaze to see Roddy still flirting with Molly. He felt a twinge in his finger, a soft throb beneath the surface.
‘She’s not my turf,’ he said. ‘She’s not anyone’s turf, she’s married.’
He thought about the lack of a ring on her finger and found himself walking towards her. She looked up and he thought he saw something in her eyes, something meaningful.
‘I was just telling your friend here it’s time for a tasting,’ she said.
‘Perfect,’ said Adam.
Molly corralled them out of the warehouse and across the courtyard back to the visitor centre. She brought out a tray of nosing glasses and lifted bottles of ten-year-old and quarter cask down from the shelf. She poured out healthy measures and they all went through the rigmarole, checking the colour and legs, taking a noseful then a sip. The Swedes monopolised her with more questions about tasting notes, expressions and rare bottlings.
Roddy sidled up to Adam as he drank. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘You gonna make a move, Loverboy?’
Adam shook his head. ‘You’re like a dog with a bone, Roddy.’
‘A boner, more like.’ Roddy looked down at his own crotch, Adam following his gaze.
‘Made you look,’ Roddy laughed. ‘Fucking hellfire, you think I’d be walking about a distillery with a hard- on?’
‘Nothing would surprise me.’
‘You crack me up, Tiger.’ Roddy slapped his back.
‘What do you think?’ said Ethan coming over.
‘About what?’ said Adam.
Ethan raised his glass. ‘The quarter cask. It’s pretty special, isn’t it?’
‘Too sweet for me,’ said Adam. ‘Laphroaig doesn’t need bloody citrus overtones.’
Roddy snorted and shook his head. ‘Never mind all that shit, what about the cute girl?’
‘What about her?’
‘Just go talk to her.’
‘What about?’
‘What do you fucking think? Whisky, you dolt.’
‘She’s busy with the Swedes.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Roddy raised his head. ‘Hey, Molly.’
She looked thankful for the interruption, made her excuses and headed over. ‘Yes?’
Adam pressed the button on his watch. Ninety-nine bpm. Shit.
‘We’re looking to party tonight,’ said Roddy. ‘Any idea where four guys might find a bit of action on this island?’
Molly smiled. ‘It’s not exactly party central. Where are you staying?’
‘B amp;B in Port Ellen.’
‘The Ardview is your best bet on a Friday night. You know it?’
‘Sure, we’ve been in already. What are you up to this evening? Fancy joining us for a wee snifter?’
Molly looked from Roddy to Adam, then back again. Adam felt the skelf in his finger ache. ‘Actually I’ve already got plans to meet my sister in there tonight. Maybe I’ll see you at the bar.’
‘It’s a date,’ said Roddy. ‘Looking forward to it.’
Molly began tidying as they finished their drams, the Swedes cornering her for more information.
‘There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ said Roddy.
‘It’s not a date.’
‘We’re meeting her and her no doubt equally cute sister in the pub, it doesn’t matter what you fucking call it. It’s a gold-plated snatch opportunity is what it is.’
Adam looked at Molly, who smiled at him. He looked at her hand on the Laphroaig bottle, definitely no ring. He looked at his own finger and noticed the skelf had worked its way a little deeper under the skin. He was never going to get it out now.
7
Adam lifted an embossed leather dog collar from a shelf. The Ardbeg gift shop took branded tat to a whole new level. Cufflinks, memory sticks, rucksacks and little tins of peat cones, there was nothing they couldn’t stamp their wee Celtic logo on. He threw the collar down and walked back to the table where Luke was slouched, drumming his fingers on a menu.
The other two had gone on the tour, but Adam and Luke had stopped in the Old Kiln Cafe to grab something to eat. Ethan had been keen to see round the distillery, Roddy joining him when he saw the tall, perky redhead taking the tour. Adam had been round the place before, of course, and besides, he wanted a bit of time to think about Molly.
