Laphroaig 10-year-old 40% Dram #34

If this whisky had a first name, it would be short. Maybe Bert... Bert Laphroaig.

The reason I say so (and the thinking behind a male name) is because I have seen this dram. It sat in the window of a little coastal pub, little more than a bothy with a picnic table outside (no takers for this item of furniture what with it being five o'clock at night and unmistakeably January). I was perched at the bar, feeling obtrusive and a touch nervous, believing that the barman offered some sort of asylum from the Atlantic ocean and the folk who managed, year on year, to avoid sliding into it. This Laphroaig is as much that location: unique, and introverted, confident of its own business, as the character who later, once I had made in roads into my reviving dram and endured his measured stare for some minutes, extricated himself from his window seat, introduced himself as Bert and then gently but firmly squashed my head into his thick woollen jumper.

I guessed that he worked at the Port Ellen maltings yet I was surprised by how soft the smoke that teased my nostrils was. Maybe it was a new jumper. The overall aroma was one of driftwood slowly smouldering after it had done its job as a beach barbecue. In addition to that there was a matte saltiness, no doubt the sea spray clinging to him after his walk along the harbour wall in order to enter the pub. I was a little surprised, and wasn't comfortable with asking him about it at the time, to smell seaweed, too, rubbery and mineral-rich.

He released my head yet would not let me return to the dram I had bought. Instead, he beckoned me to follow him out of the pub. I stopped in the porch as it was quite plainly raining. Bert Laphroaig, however, was standing in the deluge. He winked at me, then walked back towards the pub and stood beside me in the doorway.

"Better when a bit wet," he said to me, and before I could evade him, he had my nose pressed into his jumper again. He was right. The scents were much stronger than before, more assertive, and seeping out of the wool was a richer maltiness. I pulled myself free, but nodded at him with approval. As I straightened up there was a memory of something else, something entirely unexpected. Bert Laphroaig held a note of marshmallow and... yes... Peach. Who could have guessed?

I wandered back into the pub but couldn't find my dram. I was on the verge of getting upset when the barman pushed another tumbler of straw-gold liquid at me.

"Bert's home stuff," he said. I brought it to my nose and had to take it away again. It was uncannily like Bert's jumper. I sipped. The taste didn't assail me straight away. It coiled and wriggled in my mouth before delivering in smoke, peat and dusty malt.

"Interesting," I said as the spirit slid to my stomach. "It's sort of green, isn't it?"

The barman raised an eyebrow.

"The malt is almost still alive. There's a slight bitterness... Chorizo."

The barman raised the other eyebrow.

"Yes, chorizo." I finished the measure. Upon handing him the glass, I felt a thin film of sand in my mouth. As I walked away, I wondered how often Bert Laphroaig washed his jumper.


I'll do a few back-catalogue posts - but I had the Laphroaig last night and so the ideas were still very much in action. This was my second taste of Islay back in 2007 (I'd had Bowmore prior to that but before I knew what single malt was) and it rather put me off. The smoke was just so ferocious! However, in the year and a bit since I have been logging all sorts of whiskies in my notebook and Caol Ila is my absolute favourite. It just demonstrates how different the malts from this island can be. However, despite being able to appreciate it now, the body, palate and finish just aren't of the style that I enjoy. Not much to be done there, then. Next, I'll have to talk about some Auchentoshans I met recently...