Raw Spirit by Iain Banks

yet more wonderful Islay food. I’m convinced I can feel my belt tightening as we eat. Toby explains that a lot of Islay produce is almost-but-not-quite-organic because the farmers have agreements with the RSPB and the Nature Conservancy people that they’ll let the vast flocks of migrating geese use their fields when they come through; this means that they have no choice but to use fertilisers to bring on their crops and harvest them before the geese get here; otherwise the birds would neck the lot.
    Fooded, we meet up with Stuart Thomson, the distillery manager. We’d actually said Hi the day before, when Martin and I were wandering around the place taking photos and Stuart was watching one of his children learn to ride a bike (a lot of distillery managers live on site). Stuart has been busy over lunch with a party of French food and drink writers, on Islay to sample what the island has to offer.
    We end up in one of the warehouses, sampling a couple of astoundingly good whiskies. One is a 12- or 13-year-old, about 62 proof, out of a bourbon cask; very phenolic, slightly carbolic but zesty, and – once it’s pointed out to me – yup, has notes of American Cream Soda, which was my favourite sugary drink when I was young. This is deeply wonderful whisky, and tasting it in the fume-heavy coolness of the dark warehouse while the clear spring sun beats off the pure white walls opposite and illuminates the golden liquid in the sampling column can’t help but heighten the experience. Oliver and I swap superlatives, but I’m not sure that Stuart hasn’t made a mistake here; I’d have led with whatever comes next and finished with this, because this is simply wonderful; one of the best whiskies I’ve ever tasted.
    I am, however, wrong, and Stuart knows exactly what he’s doing.
    The second whisky is 28 years old, is down to about 46 proof and is from a fino sherry cask (most sherry casks used for whisky have held oloroso). This stuff is just colossal. One taste (albeit a taste that takes a few minutes, from first amazed sniff to last lingering sensation at the back of the throat) and it goes straight to the top of the list. Very peaty, smoky and salty, but that’s just the start; there’s a rich creaminess here too, powerfully but sharply sweet in a way that would swamp a less muscularly peated dram but which here is part of a kind of dynamic of phenolic smoke and something like musky perfume. It’s a changing dynamic, too, like having some immensely complicated integrated equation of taste working itself out in your mouth, developing as it’s held there to swirl from wood-smoke to sea-spray to sherry and back again; one moment it tastes like barbecued licorice, next it’s changing to honey-glazed fruit (though at the time my principal impression was, Wow!).
    I look at my empty glass, then at Oliver the Editor.
    ‘This is the best whisky I have ever tasted,’ I tell him.
    ‘You mean we’ve found the perfect dram?’ He looks worried. ‘This could be a short book.’
    I smile at Stuart and nod at the cask. ‘Is it possible to buy any of—?’
    Stuart is already shaking his head. ‘All already spoken for, I’m afraid.’
    I nod sadly and tell Oliver, ‘I think the search has to continue.’
    ‘Your readers will appreciate the efforts and sacrifices you’re so determined to make for them.’
    For a moment I think I detect a hint of irony, but surely not.

4: To Jura

 
    JURA. AN UNBAGGED island. Always wanted to go there, never been. Jura lies aslant between Islay and Argyll, and is very sparsely populated – well, by homo sapiens, anyway; there are only about 200 human residents. There are, however, zillions of red deer, though from what I could gather these don’t seem to have developed the same skills regarding ambushing innocent Land Rovers as their demoniac cousins on Islay, presumably through lack of practice and opportunity. Jura’s a steeply, roundedly mountainous, deeply rugged island that looks