Tormore 12-year-old 40% Dram #17

Not quite dazzling

The cultured "pearl of Speyside".

Other jewels nearby.

I was fortuitously given this malt last year as a birthday present. I say fortuitously because I probably would not have come across it otherwise (the packaging hardly helps) and I would have been obliged to wait a while longer for a whisky that would challenge my scoring system.

Until this, I had been guilty of bald elitism when selecting what I tasted, informed/ lead by the nose by positive reviews and what reputations I could infer from Michael Jackson's Malt Whisky Companion. As a result, I was sampling the Balvenies, Lagavulins, Glenfarclases, Ardbegs and Bowmores of this world and they were all scoring well, partly because they were all very good indeed, but partly because they were supposed to be.

So along came the Tormore: no hype but no negativity, either. I would have to make my own mind up!

Through the Subaru Impreza blue of the label could be spied a rich, dark, honey-coloured whisky which, at 12-year's-old, screamed of considerable Sherry maturation or caramel. If it was the latter, it did not obtrude in the full strength sniff. What did was a soft, floral maltiness with a damp, thick vegetal sub structure. Cashew nuts and spice upheld the claim that Sherry butts had a hand in this malt's development. A full butter note clung to the sides of the glass and carrot cake came to mind in flavour and texture. Against this was a clean sheen of citrus.

Adding water had the effect of releasing the guy ropes, although I'm not sure the nose was better for it. The flowers of the undiluted sample became heather in the wind and the butter had melted, becoming richer, sweeter and slightly more pervasive. Some honey could be found, as well as mint toffee. There was a caramel facet to the malt, but it wasn't too sweet.

Taking a sip confirmed that this is a lighter Speysider. It was soft, gentle and very malty. This flavour concluded as a dry, cerealy firmness. There was a touch of chocolate as well as skinned grapes that were maybe a little too ripe.

The butter quality dominates in the finish and it is a little too lumpish and concentrated. Some honey manages to slide through before all flavour quite quickly deserts the tongue.

After some contentious inward debate, I realised that this could not score in the "60s", not because it is a bad malt - I quite enjoy one as an aperitif and it makes excellent hot toddies - but because there is neither the deft complexity and satisfying delivery of a "65+", nor the prevailing character of a "60+". Therefore, I feel "58" is a fair score. Interestingly, this places it in the bracket of "Fine, but I wouldn't pay for it".

Caol Ila Distiller's Edition 1996 43% Dram #45

Dearest Caol Ila

Has slept with the Spanish kind.

How will she be changed?

I was always going to procure this in Edinburgh. It had sucked up half of my £80 whisky budget in the preparatory phase of the trip; the remainder initially ear-marked for the Cask Strength, then a Dailuaine, then a Balblair, then a Glenlivet but in the end I did some poor mathematics and plumped for all that Talisker, after all.

Having no notes for this dram by either of my whisky oracles: Mr Jackson and Mr Lamond (Mr Murray, I'm buying your Bible this time around), I was curious as to what my favourite distillery with its light smoke, delicate malt and electric maritime qualities would taste like having spent its final period of maturation in a wood I'd never heard of: Moscatel.

It was too pretty a bottle (just try and disagree!) to open at first, and I needed reminding that, at my stage on the whisky voyage, there is no justification for spending lots of money and then not drinking the stuff. I like it when I talk sense.

It certainly looked like a Caol Ila when I poured a little out. The classic straw highlights embellished a fair, bright gold in this instance.

A first reverent sniff revealed a pronounced cerealy character that is estery and earthy. Perhaps it is the wood that accentuates the fruit flavours within the rich peat, over which flows green olive oil. The wood itself can be made out: smooth, hot and with a blueberry sweetness. I smelt honey in boiling water as well as an appetizing floral note blown close to the lush grass of a sea cliff by a warm Atlantic breeze.

With water I was relieved to locate the light, supple maltiness that I love in Caol Ilas. There was also a smooth cocoa note with more rich, leafy peat smoke. Garlic bread is an out-there hunch, but it would correlate with other Italian influences: the olives but also antipasti - smoked meats and even marinated artichokes. There is a popcorn sweetness, too.

The smooth, oily body was identifiably Caol Ila and on the palate I could appreciate the cask, something I especially enjoy in a whisky. It is rich and has a bursting fruitiness about it and this is set against smooth, sweet and dry malt. Smoke is permitted in controlled quantities.

I was warmed and charmed by the finish. It is stupendously long with the skins of stewed plums, a wine-y richness and a beach bonfire.

So why is it "only" a "71"? It's because I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too. I wanted more of the wood, but yet I was very impressed by how the finish still allowed so much of the distillery character to express itself. I wanted a colour boost to set off different aspects of the Caol Ila collage, but yet I appreciated the delicate balance of the malt. In truth, I didn't know what I was expecting: how a wood could assert itself and mould in its own image a spirit as headstrong as an Islay. I guess I was after a unique selling point, otherwise this could be summed up as a tenner more than the 12-year-old but minus its amorous, spirity joie-de-vivre. I'll keep investigating, though.

Talisker 10-year-old 45.8% Dram #44

This dram has foresight,

Shows smoke and rocks and seaweed.

I've seen Skye early.

I'm a late-comer to this malt whose reputation preceeds it. For a friend of mine, on the other hand, it was one of the very first he ever had and is an absolute favourite. For my benefit, therefore, he smuggled a drop into a school event.

My hasty nosing and sip of it from a wine glass reminded me, with its wood and seaweed characteristics, of Lagavulin but I hadn't expected it to be so much softer than the Islay giant. "But Michael Jackson said volcanic..."

In Edinburgh, I managed to bag three for (almost) the price of one courtesy of Diageo who, sympathetic to the concerns of penniless malt enthusiasts, club three outstanding malts together in miniature form. At last, I could put Talisker to the test.

From this malt onwards, all of my tasting notes have been improbably garrulous. The nose has everything, and that requires a lot of lines. It begins by introducing a motif for the dram: the relationship between seaweed and smoke. Initially, it is sweet and earthy smoke, parcelled up in savoury seaweed that has roast chicken/ mussels savoury overtones. There is maltiness to marvel at, too: zesty with a Sherry dip. Mossy oakiness reminds me of wooden fishing boats. In fact, the fleet is in the boathouse - dry with the suggestion of a wood-burning stove for the fishermen. There is the coppery heat of the still in evidence. A volcanic personality.

Adding water throws open the doors of the boathouse and I head down the jetty into Loch Harport. The maritime character is much more pronounced while peat smoke flutters in the breeze.

On the palate the whisky starts big and builds in a thrilling surge. It is a little similar to the Laphroaig in this regard, only the latter is more abrupt at making your eyes water. I adore the fierce peat fire impression in the mouth, the smoke shortly adhering to the malt and a caramelised fruitiness emerging. A sweet wood note contributes to a very complex taste.

At the finish we find heavy peated malt with a drying quality, a zing of salt and then a deft delicious interplay between the smoke and the seaweed.

I prize a malt that can grab me and set me down in the landscape from where it originates and even at such a young age this has the properties to achieve this. (I'm sitting at the picnic bench.) There is terroir in tonnes and I could not be more impressed. Almost, almost a "73".

The Dalmore 1263 King Alexander III 40% "One Sip Wonder"

Dusk on the Black Isle
Light enough to spy the dark
It runs with the stag.

Dusk is the perfect time for this mighty malt. However, with memories of how deeply affected I was when I tried it in broad daylight slow to fade, do so only if you aren't too unnerved by your own weeping.

Even before I selected this from behind the bar at the Scotch Whisky Experience, a romanticism for The Dalmore had been snowballing. In September of last year I sampled the 12-year-old, and it remains the highest-scoring Highland whisky in my notebook. Further exposure has had me entirely seduced on looks alone: those shapely bottles; that super-embossed stag of almost mythological charisma; the colour.

The 1263 is a rich dusky orange in the glass, but a belligerent, glowing, precious gem red in the bottle. In the geography of my mind (and the imagination is a powerful thing), sensuous shadows abound in the hills on one side of The Dalmore. It is warm there, still, and breathlessly mysterious. On the nose it is as if a storm front is rumbling in towards the Cromarthy Firth; soundless but thrillingly, physically powerful. The storm clouds themselves are berries: blackberries, strawberries, blueberries as well as blackcurrants, bloated raisins and sultanas and hot black grapes. They are sweet, laden with juice and seem eager to vent a deluge onto the medium-dry, rounded peat and biscuity malt. They never do, though. The joy is in the anticipation. The richness and depth is staggering with a soft, dark, vanilla wood presence. I shouldn't have added water for I experienced a repeat of the 12-year-old's problem, a flattening of the nose and an oppression of that berry complexity. It did allow other fruits to emerge - mango among them - as well as a gingernut maltiness of an intense rich sweetness. Soft petalled, bright flowers remained, but the atmosphere had sadly departed.

On the palate all was well: a sophisticated, mature richness prevailed. The malt was deep and floral while the Sherry wood was more multi-complexioned than anything I'd ever come across.

After it had all gone down, spicy cerealy malt hung around for some time, as did a rich creaminess.

With so much stimulation all about me I may have got slightly carried away with this dram. On the other hand, in the comparative calm of my own home, I did a bit of research into what I had drank and lost my head entirely. All of the fruit and wood flavours that had so floored me were attributable to no fewer than six eclectic sources: Bourbon barrels, Sherry casks, Madeira drums, Port pipes, Marsala barrels and French wine casks. Richard Paterson, I doff my hat to you for combining such personalities so wondrously. Actually, I think I'll just doff £125 to you (is cash alright?). Perhaps not quite just at the moment, but it is not an excessive price to pay for such genius which redefined whisky for me yet again, as well as justified beyond reproach the merits of unlikely wood finishes. I love you, Richard!

The Scotch Whisky Experience

It has taken until now for me to properly recover from my perplexing case of "whisky overload" (and there was me thinking I was immunised).

Last Tuesday my Mum/ whisky partner and I were in Edinburgh: paying ticket excesses, eating poached eggs, trying to second-guess the bus services as they circumnavigated the results of the city's worrying giant mole problem, wandering around the botanic gardens, getting drenched, and burning my tongue horribly on delicious chips, but mostly experiencing the Scotch Whisky Experience.

I had seen its write-up in The Scotsman and it was inevitable, really, that I shouldn't have been able to stay away from a five-star tourist attraction devoted to whisky.

So, after I'd finished my sorbet, a course made memorable by how feverishly desperate I was when eating it, praying that it would balm my blistered palate so that I might taste, without handicap, the various exclusive spirits I predicted would be available, we set off in search of it.

Now Edinburgh is beautiful, let's make that clear. I love its solidness, its variety and its views. But the closer you get to the castle, the more depressing the Royal Mile becomes. So pitched is it at a Japancese or American's idea of Scottishness: the tartan, the bagpipes, the miniature Loch ness monsters and such is its profusion and concentration the whole vista is deeply vulgar. Ducking into the Experience with my mind still reeling from its attempts to justify "Discount Scottish Factory Outlet" or something just as appalling had the effect of stumbling upon Diagon Alley out of the irrelevant London hubbub. Have you noticed that my magic metaphors have started?

Even from the revolving door you can smell whisky, and it isn't the odour of a teenage house party at 2 in the morning when everything smells unhappily of Jack Daniels. It is the perfume of distilleries: hot, organic and enticing. We bounded in.

We were behind some Taiwanese peopel in the ticket queue. I had difficulty penetrating one guide's Edinburgh accent so how they managed to secure places in the Silver Tour Ah dinnae ken.

It was the Gold Tour, however, that communicated with me on an irresistably shallow level. Gold is more precious than silver; the Gold Tour must be better than the Silver Tour; Mother, we are going on the Gold Tour. These are my logical thought patters. As it turned out, the £6 extra would not purchase for us a longer or more in-depth tour and reflecting on it, such a thing would be difficult to deliver.

Our steward for the beginning of the Barrel Ride asked us: "You won't want to listen in Mandarin, will you?" as our Taiwanese friends disappeared round the corner in their enormous oak cask. We said No, meaning Douglas McIntyre, our "ghost" guide, sounded as indigenous as they come.

In these past two years my whisky obsession has taken hold and one of the results, for there are some others, is that I know the whisky-making process like I do the shape of a Lamborghini Murcielago or what dress size would complement Megan Fox (a small one) but still that process was explained originally and thoroughly with the lighting effects, sounds and especially smells holding the attention completely.

We stepped out of our barrel for the penultimate stop on a young spirit's journey: the Cooperage Room. In here, we saw some of the tools a cooper uses to make a cask, the quite incredible share the angels demand as well as samples of whiskies extracted after certain increments of years from Sherry butts and Bourbon barrels.

Some stairs had to be climbed next, the ascent allowing us to appreciate the character of the building the Experice is housed in. There were various posters of evocative Scottish landscapes. Upon bagging the last couple of places for the latest "Sense of Scotland" talk, I realised that these had been preparing us for the idea of terroir. I am a big believer in terroir. For those who don't and James May out there who dismiss the idea that a landscape can influence a drink as being "cobblers" I'd advise you to try an Ardbeg.

The fifteen of us, the taiwanese included, reclined on our U-shaped bench while in front of us on a bar-like table sat a Glencairn glass and four mysterious jars. A new young and very enthusiastic guide explained in detail the four main whisky regions from the Lowlands, to the Highlands and Islands, Speyside and Islay. After each segment we were asked to open and sniff one of the glass jars whose contents would mimic the defining characteristics of a dram from a particular area. The first jar was the Lowlander, smelling very sweet, quite dry and biscuity. It was filled with malted shortbread, indded quite similar to the character of an Auchentoshan.

Next we nosed our Highland jar: perfumy, medium bodied and reasonably Glenmorangie-y. Then there was the Speysider: "acetone" was its contents lending a very full, soft and fluffy pear note like you might find in an older Glenfiddich. Finally we were advised to breathe in, with caution, the Islay jar which was, of course, smoky and medicinal. Our final instruction was to place our glasses on the coloured circle that corresponded to the jar containing the smell we liked the best. Both my Mum and I made coaster of the Islay spot. Before the glasses were to be filled, however, we were first informed about bledning which was equally fascinating and hitherto a gap in my knowledge. What goes in to a Grants or a Johnnie Walker is utterly incredible. Of course, it's technically the same for the Famous Grouse but that will never redeem it in my eyes...

At last, the four drams toured the room: Glenkinchie, Glenmorangie, Strathisla and Ardbeg. "Like chewing pencils" was the quirky and perfectly apt tasting note from our guide. However, she wouldn't let us drink it just yet.

We trooped out of the seminar room, along a corridor and into something like whisky Nirvana. I'd read about the Claive Vidiz Collection, I'd seen some pictures, but nothing prepares a whisky fan for it. I may even have sworn.

It's a custom-made cabinet and it would have to be for a collection only a smidgen short of 3,500 bottles. There were labels for whiskies I'd never heard of, bottlings I'd never seen before, novelty pieces that had no readily apparent connection to whisky. Single malts were in the minority, in fact, but here was a Black Bowmore; there was a Glenfiddich Vintage Reserve; here was an Ardbeg Lord of the Isles; there was every Balvenie known to this man. It was extraordinary, humbling, and the perfect location for sipping our measures. Our guide (I wish I'd asked her name!) tutored us in the art of whisky nosing and tasting and tried to make it clear to one chap that you couldn't tell everything by the colour. I foolishly thought that that was it, forgetting that she had postponed the answering of my question as to what the rarest bottle in the collection was and that she'd tell us all shortly. "Shortly" meant grouping in the lea of yet another garagantuan cabinet where she pointed to a rich, red angular bottle with Royal Salute 40 on the front. Apparently the title of "Absolute Rarest" is between that (filled into only 1000 Baccarat Glass bottles bought by Claive in 1969 for $1000, now worth several times that ) and a Strathmill centenary bottling. That Claive had it makes him technically a world leader or dignitary, so rare and prestigious are they.

Suitably impressed by these as well as a Glengoyne in a grandfather clock, a 40-year-old Bowmore and a similarly middle-aged Glen Garioch, I turned towards another wall of whisky. The bar.

Here I met Chris of Edinburgh Whisky Blog fame and he tutored me in a different art - the art of successful whisky-blogging. I bowed to his wise words and was again struck by how enthusiastic and knowledgeable the staff are. I owe Chris an apology, though. You and Lucas aren't in the Malt Whisky yearbook this year, but I'm sure you won't be left out in the 2010 edition.

Unfortunately, there wasn't an alcove behind the bar for a Glenlivet Cellar Collection. In fact, that was about the only thing they didn't have. I was torn between two 30-year-olds: the Glenfarclas and the Glenfiddich. Then I had a piece of inspiration, no doubt delivered by one of those tipsy angels: "Do you have The Dalmore 1263?" They certainly did. Not only that but I was the first to try some: before I arrived their bottle was pristine, new and full. This was where the Gold Tour ticket came into its own: gaining me a nice wee discount.

All I shall say here is that my tasting experience was sublime and peerless. Comfortable, spacious, good company, a proper glass, and bottled water for dilution. How it should be, I say! SEE THE DALMORE 1263 REVIEW.

Another of our Gold Tour privileges was a tasting tray: four more malts from around Scotland. We elected for the Homecoming Tray, tied into Scotland's initiative for 2009 to bring people back to Scotland who may have their roots there as well as anyone else willing to boost the local economy. This selection included Glengoyne (representatives from which were paying a visit at the time), Royal Lochnagar, Strathisla and Laphroaig which could be smelt several metres from the glass. It was appreciating the individual merits of this quartet that did for me. It didn't help that beside our nest of cosy armchairs was a display detailing unit allotments and how fast alcohol affects the brain.

Not that I needed to be told about the latter as a strong, whisky-laden breeze blew through my wallet, taking with it £86 in exchange for my Caol Ila Distiller's Edition and Talisker Gift Pack. I begged my Mum to get me out of this wonderful place that sold miniatures of the Highland Park 18 and 30-year-olds as well as The Glenlivet 15-year-old French Oak lest I slam my debit card onto the cash desk and get irrational.

And that, apart from passing The Whisky Shop on the way back to the station which induced a low shriek from me, was that for my eye-opening day into the glorious diversity of the Scotch whisky industry. Those five stars are truly deserved. Thanks are due to one and all behind the scenes and in front of them. It's a rare pleasure to meet people who love their work (alright, "work") to such a degree and in so doing affirming that, no matter what Diageo or any other mulitnational may do, the identity of Scotch is firmly rooted in Scotland.

Heathrow Terminal 5

This week I was very excited. I went to Wimbledon on the Tuesday, flying down in the morning and flying back the following day. Having never been to the Championships before and being a keen tennis fan, not even my powerful hypochondria, aroused with all this swine flu business, could dissuade me from taking the opportunity. Having never been to Terminal 5 before and being a keen whisky fan, only severely depleted funds prevented me from returning with a bottle of something. I'll share my experiences of this perhaps unlikely whisky emporium with you now.

From all I've read, I knew that there were certain bottlings released to mark the opening of Heathrow's latest and, if Greenpeace have their way, last outbuilding. Therefore, after my Mum and I had been photographed, waited, shuffled, disrobed, hobbled with a conferred guilty look upon our faces through the beeping arch and finally staggered away with our personal belongings like a couple of refugees emerging broken and starving from a winter mountain pass, I was in need of a drink, or at least a look at one. It was not until later that I spotted the other malt whisky outlet on the other side of the concourse but for the first fifteen minutes I perused with a kind of serene awe what was on display.

The bigger distilleries had their own portion of wall, these being Glenmorangie, Balvenie, Glenfiddich, Laphroaig, Highland Park, Glenlivet and the Classic Malts. Discounting the other sales islands, there were enough seriously rare, therefore expensive offerings: Signet, Hazelwood, the 30YO, a Sherry matured vintage of some description for about £300, everything from the Orcadians including the 40YO, the 25YO Glenlivet and so much rare Talisker. Am I the only one, though, that finds 1l bottles somewhat unsightly? I found the Highland Park 18YO in a 70cl and for a shade over £40, though! I was sorely put out being unable to capitalise.

Elsewhere there was to be found the 1263 King Alexander III from The Dalmore, a quite beautiful bottling, I think. I also found a few Bunnahabhains including that obscure Gaelically-named one that Dr. Whisky has just tasted, a 21YO Old Pulteney and a rare Royal Lochnagar - although, really, that applies to most of them.

Aberfeldy and Aberlour were others in attendance as well as the Lagavulin Distiller's Edition. But the highlight would have to be that Glenlivet 25YO. I saw its picture in The Malt Whisky Yearbook and made a fervent vow that I should one day possess such a thing. It is another dram whose presentation is absolutely first-class with a cleverly constructed wooden box.

So to the other side, pointed out to me by my mother who thought I was in it all along (she had gone off to look at something not quite so giddyingly wonderful, or expensive: perfume, maybe and had then panicked when she hadn't found me in our pre-agreed rendez-vous point). There I found the Highland Park 16YO, a Duty Free-only malt; the Balvenie Golden Cask, ditto, and a few independent bottlings. There was also - to prove that such a thing does really exist and merely intensify my desire - the Caol Ila Distiller's Edition. I noticed a glass case, though, and because such a thing usually indicates boutique quality and prices to match, I sidled over. Its contents were just a few Glenfiddichs, of course. Nothing too exciting. Although having said that, the cheapest was about £2,300. The dearest was a Family Reserve 1955 with that fetching gold/yellow label. £5000.

I ended up with a miniature selection of Balvenies - a snip at £11. I've already had the DoubleWood but there is also the Founder's Reserve 10YO, useful for they don't bottle it anymore. There is also a 15YO Single Barrel which will hopefully be an enjoyable sample.

The whole affair was more than a little bit incredible, though, and as was pointed out to me - it is best to give your money to Scotland, which is why I am now looking forward in the extreme to my visit to the Scotch Whisky Experience, newly re-vamped and brimming with fine whisky. Note to self for next time: have more money.

The Macallans: 10YO and 10YO Fine Oak 40% Dram #s 38 and 39

It was quite warm on the lawn, but with a fresh breeze goosing the stiff, fibrous leaves of the ornamental cherry in front of me. This handsome tree partially obscured the house but I could still make out, between the branches, the gabled facade, the chimneys at either end of the black slate roof and the two turreted windows protruding from it. It was old-looking, functional, smart, and reminded me rather a lot of the iconic "chateau" of the Macallan. When I heard a cough behind me, and after turning faced two large casks, I knew that the house must be the very same one.

"Hello," said one of them with the suggestion of a spanish accent. "I believe we have met before."

I wasn't sure we had at all and said as much.

"Ah," it replied, "perhaps not me, but my contents."

Duly called for, a memory of a Macallan surfaced.

"You're right, it was the first malt I ever tasted," I confessed. "I wasn't too impressed, I must say, but that was Before The Glenlivet."

"Just so," said the spanish cask, "and I think a re-taste is in order, don't you?"

I said I was quite willing. "And who's your friend?" I asked, for the other cask had been sitting there quite shyly.

"Thomas John Albany. From America," the european cask supplied.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," said Thomas John.

I assured him that I hoped the pleasure would be mostly mine.

"We were separated at birth," the first cask went on, "and this shall be an experiment for you as to how a different environment may shape a personality."

I reflected that this was assuredly my favourite kind of scientific enquiry and when I looked again at the pair of casks, through wood craft of some sort, a glass had appeared on top of each containing a little measure of gold.

"Compare," said the spanish cask.

I raised its glass to my eye and found that the whisky's shade was a very pleasing ochre-orange, the yank's a pale straw gold.

"Smell," implored the first cask.

I eagerly brought the glass to my nose and was hit strongly by the complete Sherry note, then a crisp, wood polish zestiness. Sweet flapjack and honey appeared and shrank back, allowing the oak flavours to emerge and a natural complexity with flowers, leaves and herbs, especially lavendar, finally with a trip to the woods where cinnamon floated beneath the boughs. Here, I kicked up dark, heavy peat. I sniffed again, and the weighting of fruit and malt made another change.

"Don't forget Thomas John."

This cask's offering was very different: light, soft with more delicate, sweeter flavours. The lavendar was still thrillingly there, however. I marvelled at how dry the peat was and how artfully the vanilla mingled.

"You see a difference?" the first cask asked.

"Definitely," I said, although admitted privately that for all his pleasant combinations, Thomas John hadn't appealed to me as much as this forward Sherry cask.

"The difference is the Fine Oak in which he has been raised. I have been sired in Sherry and, I like to think, I show some of the spanish passion and heat."

I asked if I might explore a little more with some water.

"That is what the jug is for," said Sherry, and sure enough a water jug was found at my feet.

After having drizzled a little into each I commented on how it sweetened and lightened both while cake and icing charmed my nostrils. Sherry added butterscoth sauce while TJ distinguished between butter and caramel. I could smell the cask with Sherry and more of the peat while TJ became chocolatey and spicy.

"Good," said Sherry. "Now taste."

I did as I was told without complaint and after swallowing I was incapable of it. The Sherry palate was a team of complete malt grains charged with gunpowder acting like fireworks in my mouth. TJ reminded me of a richer, desert-like maltiness with shavings of dark choclate and apples. The peat structures in both were outstanding. For TJ, there was more dark chocolate in the finish as well as a firm oak presence; raspberries under a malty sponge and citrus. Sherry kept me entertained and warm. The mash notes descended slowly and the chocolate here was Milk. Currants and nuts alternated superbly. A spanish musical reprise played on the bagpipes.

"Well?" asked the Sherry cask.

"Quite incredible," I said. "The contrasts are so spectacular and extensive, I may have lost track of some. May I have some more..."

"No, you have enough to be going on with," said the Sherry cask. "We have to get back to bed now. Come back in eight years."

I promised I would.

And I will. If this pair are such exemplary Speysiders at 10 years, at 18 they should be very special indeed. Initially, there was a four-point gap between standard and Fine Oak in standard's favour but after a second tasting, the charms of the latter elevated it by one, and my initial attraction to the former was tempered only slightly. It is quite brilliant. In fact, on the nose, I think it is on a par with my favourite Speyside: the Glenlivet 18YO. The Macallan has plainly earned its reputation, as its adverts in some magazines laconically demonstrate. The proof will be in the tasting of the older bottlings, once I can afford them, of course!