Day Four: Lagavulin

The next stop on our journey of distilleries is the home of the preferred beverage of Ron Swanson: Lagavulin.

Since we had seen just about enough washbacks and stills to last a lifetime, E had booked us for a warehouse tasting at Lagavulin. When we arrived, the interior was appropriately Swanson-esque, furnished in dark plaid armchairs, wooden tables, fine oil paintings and lots of leather. It was like Ron Burgundy's dream library in there.

The warehouse tasting means that we basically sit around in small chairs in the warehouse and drink what we're given and try to learn something from it.

Our leader on this excursion was the redoubtable Iain. Our companions were a group of four American lawyers, who were attempting to visit several distilleries and play a round of golf on Islay throughout the course of one day (this was as admirable a goal as it was foolhardy).

The setting for our adventures 

Iain had worked for Lagavulin for longer than E or I had been alive. What he lacked in height, he made up for in experience, and he walked us through the life of Lagavulin from beginning to end. The end part was quite lovely. The beginning part honestly almost killed me.

When what eventually becomes whisky is put into barrels, it is what is called "young spirit". It's clear, vaguely sweet smelling, high proof and tastes like a punch to the face. Since E was our designated driver, I was drinking for two... and it took me a little while to realize that I could surreptitiously pour out the whiskey into the ground behind me if I wasn't able to finish it before Iain came back along.

My lawyer friends had the same problem and we both babbled quickly and drunkenly about law, the death penalty, practice and various other nonsense. He was quite interesting, actually. As was Iain.

E and Iain. Everyone leaves Iain's warehouse tastings with a smile

The piece de resistance of the Lagavulin experience was when Iain decided to share a 31 year old whisky with us. Because I was already quite intoxicated and because I'm quite a good sport, I gave E about half of mine. But even to my obliterated and unsophisticated palate, the smoothness and rich flavor of the 31 year old whisky was amazing. I've really never tasted anything quite like it, and, although I'm no expert, I had been tasting whisky for two whole days at that point, so clearly, I know my stuff.

Our inebriated countrymen and Iain

The source of the whisky that's older than I am

Afterwards, we stepped outside. I remember this all as sort of a "the world is swimming" moment. All that grappa-esque young spirit was swirling around in my head, preparing it for a wicked hangover. We did meet a lovely German couple who gave E their card and told him to get in touch if he or we should decide to go to Oktoberfest at any point (I love how friendly other whisky tourists were on the Island, everyone was welcoming like that). I also attempted to take our traditional photograph.

"Go further back! You're drunk!"

(Relative) success 

We also went for the less successful but much more photographic option. 

As we left it started to properly rain again, and I gave thanks that E was driving. I certainly was in no shape to do so... all I wanted at that point was a solid meal in my stomach to absorb some of the clear spirit permeating through my veins.