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For all it would be entirely reasonable and merited, this post shall not be turned into a petulant tirade against the

I'm pretty sure Captain Scott hated it more than I do, but I'm still no fan.

 British weather. After all, complaining about a fourth straight day of rain once I hit the West Coast in May isn’t going to help anything. Suffice it to say, in that case, that it has snowed quite a lot, the temperature has returned to the inner suburbs of freezing and I had no other option but to resume my relationship with the turbo trainer.

Whilst not whining, it was doubly frustrating when the white stuff came down again because on the Wednesday I succeeded in getting out. With no small amount of anticipation or ceremony (at least in the instance of my practised movements for clothing myself in neoprene and Lycra) I pedalled onto the highway. It was not the most auspicious beginning. What was intended to be an eighteen mile circuit finished as a twenty mile effort when, after only a mile, I accepted that the squeak made by my overshoe on the left crank was intolerable, returned home again, and had to repeat the distance. With masses of Vaseline applied to the crank, my sanity suffered no further aural assualts. I know what can happen to the red-hot brain when it has something annoying and constant to fixate on for any considerable amount of time, and it isn’t pretty.

Back on cold wet tarmac, the bike handled nicely. The first instance of my leaving the saddle on an incline presaged the challenge I shall face when the panniers are attached. Just the unaccustomed weight of the rack was enough to affect the behaviour of the rear of the bike. I shouldn’t have been out of the saddle, anyway: I need to practise seated climbing for I really will have no choice on the matter in April.

In maintaining a steady rhythm and pace, again an attempt at simulating my enforced approach when I begin touring for real, I could appreciate how far bike technology has come in the handful of years since we bought the road bike. Gear changes were super-smooth and the gear ratios made it easier to proceed at a slower pace than I’m used to without feeling embarrassed for merely crawling along. The frame was a lot stiffer than I had expected, and been led to believe, and initially the impacts with potholes were an alarming occurrence, but not just because of their repercussions on the body parts in direct contact with the machine. The sound of the mudgaurds and pannier rack rattling about was nothing less than cacophonous.

The ride as a whole was an interesting dichotomy: at once a confidence boost that I should be capable of completing immediately quite long distances in relation to my previous experience; but also rather daunting as I imagine undertaking bigger hills with more weight over greater distances. But it was my first authentic ride of the year so I can only improve.

How foolish I was, though, to think that I could consign the turbo trainer back to its corner in the dining room for the remainder of my preparations. I awoke on Friday to what I thought, peeking through the warped glass of the bathroom window, was merely a hard frost. On opening my curtains, however, I soon learned that this was not so. It was snow. I had to train, but couldn’t face admitting defeat to the turbo so soon after my glorious escape attempt on the Wednesday. I went for a run in the blizzard, instead. Two minutes in I already felt knackered but I endured for the full twenty out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

I spent the weekend working, witnessing further snow falls out of the restaurant windows and wishing it would have just f****d off by Monday. How cruel, but the opposite greeted me when I pulled aside the curtains yesterday. It was a veritable Winter Wonderland, but a serious kick in the teeth for my outdoor cycling aspirations. In the end, the freezing cold decided it in conjunction with the risk of hitting a patch of ice, breaking a leg, and rendering all of my travel plans, ambitions and this blog obselete. So I swapped the pedals over again and inducted myself back into the torture chamber.

I had as a target one hour and twenty. My real world ride ought to have done much for my legs and lungs, I reasoned, so a longer session should mean an even longer circuit whenever I next have the opportunity to ride on the road. To see me through it I had Snakes and Arrows Live again; the second CD. As it happened I went from ‘Spindrift’ to the last Dutch roar in the wake of ‘YYZ’ over the course of my ride. One hour 25 minutes! I had achieved, and for all the weather made me miserable, I couldn’t scold myself for how I just got on with it anyway. My fingers are crossed for better luck over the next ten days or so, which is about the limits of my capacity to influence things in this regard.

It has been a similar week of contrasts as far as my tasting progress was concerned. A successful, and indeed revelatory encounter with the Balblair 1997 (see below) was soon forgotten after a period browsing on The Whisky Exchange site. When I have a bit of time to kill I will often take a look at the reviews of malts I have tasted, and especially those which I have felt moved to provide my own reviews for. I was surprised to find that someone had recently taken me to task, not just on my opinion on the malt concerned, but on my manner of expression and whisky experience. I was less offended and more shocked at this stranger’s attack, the retaliation I sent back at the time fortunately less incendiary than others I composed that afternoon. I admit my written style can get a bit out of hand, and even more so when whisky is involved, but the only reason this was singled out and derided was because my take on the malt was contrary to that of the other reviewer. Similarly, I don’t see, in the context of a consumer site like The Whisky Exchange, that my experience or lack thereof is at all relevant. The site is used by the casual whisky drinker and the fanatic alike, and precisely because of that the views of anyone inclined to post a comment regarding a particular whisky are as valid as the next person’s, and the number and supposed quality of their other tastings has no bearing on it whatsoever. I know that my opponent most likely did not intend his piece of banter to offend, but I am new to people I have never met mocking what makes me me; and my use of language has always been central to that.

Consequently, I was somewhat distracted when I poured out a measure of the 1993 Talisker Distiller’s Edition for analysis. By the time I had washed up my glass, however, my priorities and concerns had been adjusted back to their original orientations:  the spirit coming first. While I read the notes of other tasters on this malt and the snow fell with almost vindictive application outside, a wave of essential clarity, not unlike those of Loch Harport which break against the distillery walls, engulfed me. So perfect was the malt, and in that moment, that even if disagreement as to its quality were possible, it could be entirely discounted irrespective of how that disagreement were to be expressed. Due to this reminder of how the drink acts on me, how I can barely explain it myself, I realise that it is only me for whom I may speak, and whose perspective is at all significant in any case.  But I shall talk more about the Talisker next week.

For now there is the Balblair, and with the 1989 at only £43 I might just have to acquire some so delicate yet satisfying and vivacious was its younger brother. Speaking of the analysis itself, it was an interesting and important lesson in the body as a suggestible and variable assemblage of apparatus. I feel my first tasting notes captured the ’97′s character

A marvellous little malt. Fortunately I have this second miniature of it!

 better, with dominating flavours I re-interpreted or missed altogether at the second attempt. Yet I scored it higher second time through. Bizarre.

Bruichladdich 10-year-old 46%

Colour: Glossy and rich amber.

Nose: (FS) Maritime sweetness with a rounded fruit character (honeydew melon?). Quite salty with a smooth, delicate touch of seaweed. Hot and runny strawberry jam with vanilla Swiss roll. (WW) A little sweeter and maybe saltier, too. Passion fruit pavlova. Gentle, hay-sweet cereals and increasingly grainy.

Palate: Very complex. Tart, spiced fruitiness runs alongside gripping saltiness and soft sweet oak. Sticky and peppery.

Finish: A gentle but solid bed of peat. Still lusciously fruity with honey and mascarpone cream. Sandy and oaky at the end.

Balblair 1997 43%

Colour: Very full gold.

Nose: (FS) Fresh, clean and light with impeccable, mouthwatering sweetness. A drizzle of honey then lots of creamy-smooth vanilla. Deliciously soft with a building warm cloud of cereals. (WW) Sweeter, more moist and compacted. Again that achingly sensuous vanilla wood steps forward. Heathery smoke – subtle but there lending marvellous depth and contrast.

Palate: Full and sweet with firm, lightly-peated malt. Smooth vanilla from the soft though spicy wood soon envelopes everything.

Finish: Buttered digestive biscuits and some milk chocolate. Fruity with butterscotch. Creamy vanilla wood and honey.

So it looks like I’m going, then. A month after I was first told by the man at the station that I was keen but too early to reserve tickets for the spring, I strode into the waiting room just after the peak commuter period and secured the keys

These shall get me and my noble steed deep into whisky country.

 to my whisky odyssey. However concrete a statement of intent I thought booking my accommodation to be, this is a step beyond that again. £22.50 gets me to Edinburgh and then on to Stirling. The man was kind enough to reserve a space for my machine, too, although if I miss my 16:33 train to Stirling I may be a wee bitty screwed in that regard.

Speaking of the machine, I made another unequivocal stride towards Scotland before lunch yesterday. I succeeded in swapping the clipless pedals from the road bike to the Giant (although only with the help of a neighbour’s spanner); adjusted the saddle height and handlebar set-up, and changed the saddle itself. Not only did I have my passport to the distilleries as a physical actuality in the shape of those train tickets, but my bike is now road-ready and will look little different when I pedal out of Waverley station. The effect this transformation has had on my psychology is monumental: replace the garage with the Cairngorms or Skye as a backdrop and this adventure has gained dizzyingly vivid dimensions. So much so, in fact, that numerous irrational fears frightened away sleep last night as the darkness offered a platform for concerns which, in the light of day, are simply questions of the unfamiliar. I have to do this tour, though, by way of exterminating them. 

As far as looking the part is concerned, my physique is at last resembling that of a Highland-conquering cyclist. Two

Me on the rack.

turbo trainer sessions last week, each of an hour’s duration, and more than 15 hours spent running around a restaurant have brought encouraging tone to those crucial quadriceps. Yesterday’s run (I would have ventured out on the bike but due to all my mechanic tasks time slipped away from me) was the longest of my training to date yet I returned feeling strong, having possessed sufficient reserves to muster up a credible kick in the last 150 metres. I hope to have seen the last of the turbo now. Focused exercise it may be, and with tangible results, but I find clipping my toenails more interesting. Wednesday should star my first outdoor ride, and I’m aiming for an 18 mile circuit following the endurance preparation in the garage and the cardiovascular work on the streets. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Getting the word out about my whisky journey has been more natural and instantaneous than I  initially realised. A few comments on my favourite blogs and Facebook saw a record spike of visitors on the Saturday. With Whisky Magazine editor Rob Allanson on board and full of praise for the undertaking, I may even see more sustained traffic in the near future. Hows about dropping a few comments, readers? The figures tell me you’re reading but are you enjoying?! Whilst I hadn’t intended it to be the blog’s sole function when I set it up, your support will be as key in the lead-up to my adventure as during. In addition, if you have any queries about any of the places or distilleries I’ll be touring, let me know and I’ll do my best to root out the desired information once I’m there and see that it is included in the relevant post.

And so to my tastings for this week. I would have included more – I had time for at least one extra tasting note – but the weekend deprived me of any opportunity (besides a Talisker Distiller’s Edition on the Sunday night for the sake of my nerves) and I couldn’t get my mind off the Tomatin. As you shall see in the notes, there were aspects which weren’t to my liking and you can infer this from the terminology and structure of my observations. However, they are the third attempt at evaluating this malt; the first giving me the impression of a good but largely unexciting dram and the second of a deeply horrid one. I felt it deserved another effort on my part to try and divine the middle ground. I feel I succeeded.

I also sampled, for the first time, the Bruichladdich 10-year-old and what an astoundingly fabulous malt it turned out to be. One of the best I’ve enjoyed for a while. Full notes should be available next week, unless the second tasting suspiciously underwhelms.

Another Islay begins my report, however: a Laphroaig I tasted first in November and  had then sat on my desk, dormant, since then.

Laphroaig 10-year-old Cask Strength 55.7% (See ‘Most Hotly-Awaited’)

Colour: Dark, full and glowing amber.

Nose: (FS) Very very dry and dustily oaty. The peat notes are heavily seaweed-accented and they derive a kind of rich sweetness from this. Slightly nutty. Thick rimes of salt lend intriguing texture. Creosote. (WW) A stupendously powerful peated malt profile. This contains a moist grainy sweetness which provides a delicious smoothness. Raw vanilla. Medicinal: antispetic bandages.

Palate: Bewildering feral heat and peat smoke dryness.

Finish: Peat smoke blown about the bay. Quite sweetly peaty. Very long with developing honey and berries.

Look elsewhere for fireworks, but a worthy everyday malt.

Tomatin 12-year-old 40%

Colour: Clean, bright amber with sherbet lemon highlights.

Nose: (FS) Oak, principally, and a pear note drizzled with fudgy chocolate sauce. It is this that recycles back into the wood but the connection is a fairly prominent combination of cloying sweetness and sulphury, rotten-cask uneven dryness. This fades with airing to muted maltiness with good Highland freshness and light doses of heather and honey. (WW) Everything is a touch fuller and moister, but sadly that includes the suspect woodiness. Overall, however, a pleasant, firm Highland panorama with butter-rich shortbread.

Palate: Barley and gentle earthiness: almost a full tobacco note, in fact. Stewed fruits: peaches and plums.

Finish: Cerealy and malty. Clean with some runny honey and stewed fruit juices. Becomes oaky and quite dry.

I believe that in the writing of this post I am entitled to feel deeply sanctimonious, in marked contrast to that of last week. True to my word, after captioning the last of my images that day, I donned all the skin-tight clothing I own and set about sweating.

Maybe it is a trusim I shall now coin, but with turbo training the more you sweat the more effective the session was. With my frighteningly insulating Vanguard base layer and overshoes, it may have been hovering around freezing outside, and indeed inside, the garage, but I looked like a businessman enjoying some Swedish corporate hospitality. My hands went from numb with cold to more emitters of personal steam. I worried I might deserve some blame for global warming. After maybe 10 minutes I started pulling at the bidons and 50 minutes later I dismounted having almost drained both of my 750ml bottles. Despite there being nearly 1.5 hastily-ingested litres of water in my system, I felt drained, too, but the overriding (no pun intended) emotion was that of elation. In the summer I compiled some CDs of my my favourite music, one of which I put into the CD player for my session. Drowning out the whir of the trainer itself were Aerosmith, Dire Straits, Fleetwood Mac, Dream Theater, The Cult. The list, fortunately, went on, and what could have been purgatory flashed by whilst also reassuring me that my careful excesses of the week before had not hindered me too much.

My run on the Friday was similarly encouraging. It lasted just over 15 and a half minutes, but this was seven seconds quicker than the last time I trained over that circuit.

Three successive days of waiting-on taught me various things about endurance, not all of them relating to the purely physical. I cannot deny that it was worth it, however, for my Sunday pay packet was greater than all bar a couple of my summer weekly earnings. A few more like that and I shall feel a lot more placcid getting on that train in April. Money is still a concern, however. The only outstanding expenses needed before I leave are maps, another pair of shorts, a lock and those train tickets, but how I am to pay for everything once north of the Tweed is a matter of no small delicacy, for obviously carrying vast amounts of cash is not at all desirable. Plastic may be my saviour as I head into the second half of my journey.

Back to fitness issues, though, and anxious to maintain consistency, for I will be consistently knackered from

Still as yet unridden. Hopefully this should no longer be the case by next week.

 the middle of April onwards, I completed another turbo sesh yesterday. In truth, there was nothing meteorological stopping me from cycling in the open air; the sun was even shining. Next week, though, is my target for beginning the amassing of real road miles. Equipment needs to be swapped, you see, so I’m persisting with the indoors for now until I can trust that the snow has given up its evil schemes.

This most recent period with the stationary bike was not quite so euphoric. Air temperature was a little higher than last week and I thought foregoing the jersey would counteract this but at 40 minutes in, I could see the perspiration condensing on the outer fibres of my base layer. I made sure I completed a full hour, however; an effort that I repaid with two huge sandwiches, a mug of soup, some raisins (high GI, so good for speedy muscle recovery) and an oat bar. I’m a finely-tuned machine, I thought to myself as I lounged in front of ‘Two and a half Men‘ .

Ahead of my body, my senses have seen a return to authentic service. On Friday I sampled my first new whisky since the op: the Tomatin 12-year-old. I’ll share my findings of this dram with you next week, once I’ve conducted a second tasting. Otherwise, The Dalmore 15-year-old was my final reacclimatisation malt, and its terroir factor-oriented notes are below. I also completed notes I started last year for the Clynelish 14-year-old and the Tomintioul Peaty Tang which I’ve included as well.

As far as the blog itself goes, Google Analytics is a wonderful tool. The glut of my visitors are UK-based, but I also have readers in France, Norway, the USA and even a few visits from Russia. Hello, all of you! I hope you’ll carry on visiting all the way to April when this site shall really come into its own. Speaking of realising potential, I’ve been in touch with a number of whisky outposts, trying to wheedle a link to me. The Whisky Directory has attached me to their impressive database; the whisky section of The Scotsman website got back to me but I haven’t heard anything further; I’m going to re-send my email to Whisky Magazine once finished here and perhaps the perfect partner for my whisky

Oh, it's good. It's so so good...

 journey, www.scotlandwhisky.com, has yet to make contact, but then I only emailed yesterday afternoon. So yes: it is incredible how things can propagate on the web, but I believe a little more focused exposure can allow me to reach those I think would benefit most from learning about my odyssey, Scotch and Scotland.

The Dalmore 15-year-old 40% (See ‘Most Hotly-Awaited’)

Colour: Round, smooth and glowing log fire orange with golden syrup highlights and pistachio green edges.

Nose: (FS) Acres of smooth, nutty Sherry wood: fine-grained and oily. Full and rich malt with a dry, green peat husk. Walnut shells, only moister than you would expect. Building heathery floral notes. (WW) More open. Nutty vanilla. Soft, crumbly and cake-like peat lends a complex dryness. Warmed satsumas. Glorious breadth across the whisky ingredient spectrum.

Palate: Sweet, slightly peaty with a delicate oaky firmness. Nutty, dry Sherry.

Finish: Hints of caramel, honey and heather. Milk chocolate, hazelnut and cranberry.

Clynelish 14-year-old 46%

Colour: Clean gold with lemon highlights.

Nose: (FS) Medium-bodied and medium-dry with a light sandy texture. Strong scents and further textures of seaside wood. Mayonnaise with a considerable mustard kick. (WW) Sweeter and smoother with a little more cohesion. Develops an interesting damp/rich peaty smokiness. Vanilla sponges and vanilla cream.

Palate: Cerealy, semi-sweet and well-defined. Very unobtrusive peatiness underpins everything.

Finish: Lightly, sweetly grainy. A touch of juicy fruitiness to the front of the mouth and lips. Very good balance with

Angus Dundee: this was the wrong malt to subject to over-peating.

 dryness and a touch of salty seaweed.

Tomintoul Peaty Tang 40% 

Colour: Bright honey gold with blackened amber highlights.

Nose: (FS) It is an Ardbeg-esque smokiness to start with: sharp and woody with an underlying sandy quality. The smoke grows softer and more heathery. Citrus antibacterial cleaner. (WW) Still retains an initial Islay-style smoke profile. Underneath this, though, is the gentle softness hinting at its true origins with runny heather honey and toffee apples. 

Palate: Gentle and smooth lightly-peated malt and honey is quickly conquered by full and aggressive, heathery peat and smoke.

Finish: Sweeter notes struggle against the peat blanket. Occasionally this yields an interesting exchange, but overall the lither, more dextrous dancer has been smothered by the sumo wrestler. The gentle dram never stood a chance.

Alright, alright. So I cannot actually speak of any real training since my last post because there hasn’t really been any since my last post. In my defence, however, it isn’t my socialising at the stiletto’d feet of which I must place the blame, rather that which has moved to joint pole position as the most important use of my time before April: work to earn money so that I can do this at all. 

Four hours of sleep (whilst a luxurious lie-in compared with Wednesday) was not sufficient rest to allow me to start my shift in the restaurant at full throttle. This was unfortunate because January 30th felt more like July 30th such were the hungry hordes which only Lauren and I were available to seat, serve and tidy up after. When she had to stay past the departure of the last bus, I volunteered to take her back to where she lives, in the depths of snowy Northumberland. Not having driven on the snow since I expensively dented the car before Christmas, and fully aware of how my sleep-deprived person was approaching the limits of his attention span, I was both drained and delighted when I finally returned home at 11.30PM, not having killed anyone. Another mammoth shift the next day, during which we served almost as many Sunday lunches as we would in the summer only, with it being winter, one waiter less, floored me utterly.

As far as living is concerned, then, it has been one of my busier weeks. I would not have had it any differently, though.

My friend’s birthday night out was a revelation. After the meal, organised by me at the very last minute, I was bracing myself should our group end up wending their way towards The (Hateful) Gate. As it was, the birthday girl took us in the opposite direction and this is how I now know about Baby Lynch.

To the left of Newcastle Central Station as you approach it from Gray’s Monument, this was to be my first Newcastle club. After having had my ID checked (both irritating and intimidating) in I went. I was impressed. The decor was original and comfortable, the music good without being deafening and they had five single malts behind the bar. This

"Lookee! Bowmore!" I can't tell you how overjoyed and relaxed finding this unlikely outpost of malt made me. Ross was happy with his mojito, too. Photo by Frances Hawkins.

 bar looked like the floor of the London Stock Exchange after everything started to go wrong. Bartenders rushed between tills and bottles and glasses, mixing all sorts of incredible drinks. To my complete surprise I felt at home. I bought a mojito and a double Bowmore 12-year-old. Although these totalled more than £12, it was entirely worth it for the sensation of soaking up this new atmosphere whilst drinking something I actually like. Would you believe it, but this has never happened before. Sipping and sniffing, this drink lasted me for the remainder of our time at Baby Lynch. As we roamed around trying to get into other places (too much to get in to Tup-Tup Palace; ticket-only night for Digital) it started to snow. While sitting in Gotham Town and juddering around in a couple of other places prior to leaving for our taxi, it started to snow a lot.

2AM arrived, but no taxi. We were standing in the huge concourse of the station with streams of people emerging from the blizzard, hopelessly under-dressed and trying to track down a taxi of their own. Charlotte was one of these under-dressed folk, and because she isn’t really of Northern origins, I feared she was going to perish of hypothermia. After donating my hoodie to her, I thought I was. The taxi came at long last, though, and on the way back we saw why he had taken a bit longer to reach us. Everything was white. Someone plainly doesn’t want me riding on the road.

Therefore, it is another turbo session once I have posted this, plus overshoes and one of my new base layers. I don’t need a cold on top of everything else! For one thing, it would get in the way of my other branch of training, which has been going very well indeed.

As you can see from the picture, I have been giving my senses a refresher course and I feel they are back up to speed.

"Ten green bottles..." Some of my favourite malts, and a great test of my sensory abilities.

 To my delight, I have discovered a heightened sensitivity (or would that be imagination?) regarding terroir-related flavours. It is these aspects of the whiskies I’ve sampled which I have use to compose the tasting notes below. The originals were much much longer!

Bwmore Legend 40% (See ‘Most Hotly-Awaited’)

Colour: Fresh gold with smooth ambery depths.

Nose: (Full strength) The sea experienced in a close driftwood shed. Salt and spray fly above a solid, heavily-peated base. Cool and moist: a warehouse on the shore. (With water) Smokier: thick, fragrant palls of the stuff. Rich, iodine-y seaweed.

Palate: Initially it is an island of peat on an energetic ocean. Lots of seaweed.

Finish: Salty and seaweedy. Peat smoke lingers in the background but reservedly.

Mortlach 16-year-old 43%

Colour: Deep burnished ochre with amber/bronze highlights.

Nose: (FS) Very intense, rich, moist and round Sherry wood aromas. Fudgy. Not quite “outside”, not quite “in”. A quiff of heather essence and within a closely-contained peat/smoke note. (WW) Becomes drier, sweetly earthy and floral. Fruitcake and honey. Wonderful caramel.

Palate: Very sherried malt with spoons of rich honey and a dab of fruit. Dries a lot and there’s an explosion of peat smoke.

Finish: Long, thick and moist. Bitter chocolate. Figs. Orange and cloves.

Old Pulteney 12-year-old 40%

Colour: Bright broom-yellow gold.

Nose: (FS) Very pronounced May seashore sweetness: dry grasses and flowers. A light dash of dessicated coconut. Seawater in a plastic bucket. (WW) The butter and sugar have become a full sponge mix with lemon zest. Still quietly floral only these flowers are wilder: broom and sea cliff flowers.

Palate: Medium-sweet, hot, lots of honey and increasingly malty.

Finish: Flavours of flora: flowers again, but also grass and the dark shade of a tree.

Ardbeg Uigeadail 54.2% (See ‘Most Hotly-Awaited’)

Colour: Smooth nutty Sherry brown with golden highlights.

Nose: (FS) A powerful humidity is first out of the glass with the characters of Sherry wood, dry malt and some smoke. Tarry notes and pencil lead. Finally we reach equilibrium: smooth and authoritative with marram grass and hot white sand. (WW) Not quite the same smoke and a little clearer. Leather tarps, tarry buckets and well-used wood. A delicate, smooth, sweet and fragrant vanilla/citrus note. Dried peat put back in the bog. You could nose it forever.

Palate: Very intense and aggressive. Wash-like fruity malt which is soon overtaken by thick black peat smoke and burning heather roots.

Finish: Burning cask staves. White chunks of peat. I even taste the whitewashed stones of the distillery itself. Takes an age to diminish.

Longmorn 15-year-old 45%

Colour: Full yellow/gold.

Nose: (FS) Honey and vanilla ice cream with a herbaceous border of floral notes. Butterscotch. A definite, soft fudgy sweetness with fresher minty qualities. (WW) Lighter and more moist with added juicy fruitiness. Warm and spicy oak. All light and delicate flavours with a lot of space between them.

Palate: Very lively malty sweetness leads into a drier biscuitiness, then assertive and flavoursome seasoned oak.

Finish: Vanilla and flowers dominate the quiet, measured and creamy finish.

Talisker 10-year-old 45.8% (See ‘Most Hotly-Awaited’)

Colour: Polished fireside brass with clean gold highlights.

Nose: (FS) Very dry, smoky and peppery. Volcanically powerful. Smoked molluscs. Subtle heather honey. (WW) Much more easily-defined smokiness: burning driftwood and smokeless heat from the peat. A wooden rowing boat on the sea loch. Clinging sea mists.

Palate: Begins with heat, raw wood and peat. Then you taste the peat fire.

Finish: Long, salty and seaweedy. Lovely smokiness in the rounded wood flavours.