The Weekly Mash, Friday 31st October

Samhain. When the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is at its thinnest. A liminal place, the dark encroaching, temperatures dropping. A sigh in the air, the wind soughing through the trees. Spider webs catch the morning dew, smoke rises from the fireplaces. A time for preserving. 

The flavours of whisky’s seasons move once more. The blossom and grass of spring, the plump sweetness of summer now replaced by damp earth, late-harvested fruits, deeper, richer. There is more resonance and depth. As the year turns, so we sit and contemplate.

Now is the time when sherry casks start seem to fit. These are drams of comfort, and depth. It could be a higher amount of sherry, or maturity, it could be a richer pot still, a full-bodied blend. 

Scotland has five seasons (and yes, they can come in the same day). Spring, summer, and hairst (harvest), then  before winter arrives, the ‘back of the year,’ which is where we now are. It’s a period when we are more conscious of the passing of time and, with that, so the separation between the worlds begins to fray. 

As I write this I’m looking at a photo of my Dad. He’s in his Army uniform, a lance corporal. On the back is ‘Billy 12/9/42’ in my grandmother’s handwriting. In two years from its taking, he’d be in France, heading towards the German border.   

It’s posed, official looking. Maybe they all got them done. To send to loved ones to show that all was well – there’s a slight smile on his lips – yet in its taking lies a second purpose. He knows it, as she must also have. 

I never had a dram with him A shandy, yes or a cider. I was too young for whisky when he died, but I’d learned by then how to pour his nightly dram, ready for him when he came back from work, sitting in the front room, tired, lighting his cigarette. 

Cut glass tumbler, glug of Black & White, then cold water from the tap, ‘straight from Loch Katrine. Glasgow’s water’s the best,’ just enough to start the threads coiling in the liquid. Whisky smell, tobacco smell on his moustache, the faint scent of it as he kissed me goodnight.  

He never taught me about whisky or how to drink it, or more importantly how not to. I never sat in the pub with him and just talked. How I ended up here doing ths I know not. Osmosis maybe. 

The photo is opposite the table where I sit and taste. Every time I raise a glass to my lips I’m looking into his eyes. This wasn’t deliberate on my part, it just happened that way, the angle, the space on the shelf, the wanting to have it, have him, somewhere close by. Maybe, deep down, taking in the subtext of the image, the memento mori that could have been for a mother, and is now for a son. 

Every tilt of every glass therefore is a little toast to him. Not looking for approval, just the knowledge that he is there. The smile confirms that he’s happy. 

The toast could be of anything. The aromas of the world fill this room. With them come the thoughts and hopes and intent of the people who made the drams. Memories locked into the year’s store cupboard. A glass, raised. Emptied. 

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Holding Out For An ‘E’

Good to see that the new owners of Coleburn have released their first tranche of blended malts, though a letter seems to have been missed from the label. Unless they’re commemorating an Amazonian fish or a New York sandwich … which these days is entirely possible.

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In My Glass

Back of the year is also the time for Diageo’s Special Releases to emerge. The days of the press tasting with distillery managers seems to have gone (there again, I might just not be invited), but being able to have a quiet look at home allows a degree more thought. I’ve picked out a quartet, one of which fits the season perfectly. 

Roseisle 14yo (55.9%/£145)

The first Roseisle, a 12yo, was one of my favourites from last year, a clever blending of the distillery’s multiple styles. This year’s mixes light nut notes with a precise, jasmine-like aroma which shifts to heather pollen and gorse flower. 

Give it some time in the glass, and it becomes bolder and more assured – there’s even a hint of peanut oil. Strangely, I found that water closed it down.

The palate is soft but has enough drive. There’s some grassiness along with sweet spice and chocolate. It finishes with almond custard, and redcurrant.   

Clynelish 18yo (51.5%/£175)

I was excited to try this as it apparently contains some of the spirit from when the blending team isolated the point where Clynelish’s new make goes all pineapple-y. A small moment captured, but probably not enough to fully commercialise. It must have happened 18 years ago… God I’m old.

The nose is lifted, soft, and slightly distant – almost distracted. There’s a touch of green fruits – if you’re looking for pineapple then it’s an unripe one – some lychee and melon rind. Water helps to bring out white bread and honey, honeysuckle blossom but it remains cool.

The palate I equally light with little of the classic waxiness on show. You do however get a mix of lime and ginger (Lilt?) and green banana. Though it ripens with some water, it’s a fragile beast.  

Teaninich 8yo single grain (60.3%/£76)

After trialing at the secret Leven pilot distillery, rye production was scaled up at Teaninich. Why? Because it has a mash filter which can handle this sticky, foamy grain with ease. The result can only be called ‘single grain’ rather than ‘Scottish Rye’. Releasing it at a young age makes sense – you want that rye character coming through before it’s softened with time and oak. 

Initially, it is on the dry, earthier side of rye, then comes brass polish/old coin, rye flour and, in time, fresh dill and a hint of cacao. The palate hits a clever balance between the almost naked grain (rye husks/crispbread), and wet plaster with a thick texture. It’s hot, so add water. The darker fruits and chocolate come through more strongly along with increased herbal notes on the finish. It’s more aligned to Nordic rye than Kentucky. I like its uncompromising nature.

Dailuaine 21yo (54.4%/£335 )

I have a soft spot for Dailuaine – one of the workhorses of the whisky world whose character flits between nutty to fruity to meaty depending on the whims of the blenders. Whatever guise it is in, there’s always a central sweetness. Here it’s been sitting in a Spanish sherry butt rather than one from the Hillfoots Triangle.

It has a classical nose of treacle tart, fruit cake, (brown) shoe polish, candied walnut and raisin. Glossy, sweet but controlled. Water adds a little butteriness. The palate is sweeter than you might expect with plum jam and sultana. If anything, it’s almost too soft. Watering gently makes sense as it bring out mature notes (polished brogues) and some grip. Now there’s a firmer touch to the palate stopping things becoming just that bit too slippery. On the end the bitterness of cocoa nibs and treacle comes through. A (pricey) goodie. 

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In My Ears

This time of the year calls for a suitable song. Here’s the great Dick Gaughan singing one of Robert Burns’ finest pieces, Now Westlin’ Winds.