A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag
For him, it took much more than technical skill and ability. He was looking for a fundamentally honest, sincere character, for that is precisely why barrel makers were respected everywhere. They were special men who had a wonderful charisma, and I was apprenticed with the number one.
Jim at 21 as an apprentice cooper on a sherry butt in 1968.
August 1st 1963 was not only my first working day at the distillery, but it was also to be important in my life for another reason. I showed up on time for work, perhaps even overly-punctual, having dressed in what I thought was appropriate for the job. When Davy approached me, he looked me up and down and said, “You have a hole in your shoe.” He was right. In those days I didn’t worry about shoes. I had only one pair – that was all we could afford. Davy admonished me: “You can’t possibly work here with shoes that have a hole in them. You can’t! You really need decent boots to work in.” I tried to convince him to give me a month, after which I could afford new shoes from my first wage, but at that moment it was not even remotely possible to think about new shoes. But Davy was adamant, because he knew how important decent footwear would be. So he took me by the hand to the local shoe shop, and there picked out the best pair and bought them for me. They cost a guinea (one pound and one shilling), a princely sum for the day. “Listen, Jim, every Friday you get your wages and you give me five shillings. That’s how you pay me back. You need good shoes as a cooper.” You won’t believe it, but those were the first new shoes I’d had in my life – mind-blowing! I will never forget that. It was day one of a new beginning for me that started with a new teacher and ended with new shoes.
In those days, when I started learning the craft of barrel making, the hogshead was particularly popular, a type I first got to know when rolling countless numbers of these casks with my hands to various locations in the distillery. A hogshead holds 55 gallons of whisky. A gallon is an imperial measure of volume corresponding to about 4.5 litres. At that time, a hogshead was usually made from former American bourbon barrels, supplied by the puffers in the form of flat packages tied together with a wire, consisting of the individual cask staves and the lids. The American bourbon barrel only holds about 40 gallons, so the barrels could not simply be reassembled directly from a bundle of staves; you had to find the right staves from different packages. In addition, a new and larger lid had to be made. If you wanted to increase the volume of the American barrels in comparison to that of the hogsheads, you could only do so by increasing the diameter, because the height remained the same.
All in all, making a barrel is a very laborious business and sometimes a very dangerous one at that. Coopers work with extremely sharp tools and great heat to bring the hard oak wood into a precise shape. The barrel rings from America could not be used because they were too narrow, so they also had to be made new as riveted and precisely round iron bands. Heat, smoke, sharp edges, blades and dangers were everywhere. With a hammer, one hit the ring hard but evenly over the lid and the staves, to be able to build such a barrel. You can imagine that one wrong blow could have had devastating consequences. Those were not the only challenges back then, because barrel makers were not paid by the hour. The abbreviation ‘PBR’ – Paid by Result – applied. You only got paid if you produced a perfect, 100 per cent leak-proof barrel. If you worked sloppily and the barrel leaked, you had merely wasted material and time.
Davy Bell – cooper #1.
For Davy it was also a question of honour, adamant that only perfect barrels left his workshop. That meant a hard school for me, as Davy really wanted me to learn the craft from scratch. I soon learned that the word ‘craft’ would mean to complete the work entirely by hand. In the meantime, Bowmore cooperage had machines powered by electricity, removing all kinds of hard and dangerous work and making things somewhat easier. However, they were taboo for me. For a long time, Davy only let me work with the hand tools; I was only allowed to use the knives and the hammers. At one point I dared to ask why I wasn’t allowed to use the machines; after all they were safer and faster. Davy slowly turned to me, took his pipe out of his mouth, blew his smoke into the hall with relish and put his arm on my shoulder. Then he said: “You know, my boy, if the next power cut brings all the machines to a standstill and absolutely nothing works here in the distillery, you’ll be one of the lucky ones. Because you can still make barrels and earn money.” He was often right – power cuts were (and still are) not uncommon. He wanted me to learn how to make barrels, that I should master the craft, and become one with it. And I desperately wanted to become like him. This hard school I went through was my university of life, with Davy as my professor. I was allowed to learn so much more than just making barrels, Davy proving to be the greatest teacher I could ever have imagined. He was tough, consistent, strict, but always fair. On top of that, he was also a sincere and honest fatherly friend. I am so happy and grateful that I was able to spend so much time with him.
Davy and Jim are working on a sherry butt for charity.
I will never forget that magical moment when I had to gather all my knowledge and skills and build my first barrel alone, using only my hands and my tools. Davy watched the process very closely, with total, emotionless concentration. His gaze was critical and let me know that now the moment had come when I was to take the reins of my future into my own hands. My pulse was racing, sweat was on my forehead. The lid held, the rings were made. The staves had the right bend, fitted together and were precisely cut. Visibly gaining confidence, I skilfully joined the staves together to form a barrel, before the great moment of truth. Now it was time! Had all the learning been worth it or was it a waste of time? Would this first cask from my hands be a good one and one day serve as a mother for a special whisky or would it just become a planter? The answer came from the relentless quality test that each cask had to face. The cask was filled with water, litre by litre, under Davy’s watchful gaze. All eyes were fixed on this new container I had made. The workers around me stood still for a moment. The two Donalds, Sandy and Wally, also paused. Everyone wanted to see if my first barrel would be tight. Davy still didn’t let on. Inside my blood was boiling with excitement, but of course I didn’t want to show it. So I stayed pretty cool on the outside too and looked like it was nothing special. But when the barrel was full and not a single drop, however small, could be seen outside the McEwan hogshead, I burst with happiness and jumped around in the cooperage. It was done! I had made my first barrel. It was my first one and it was tight. It was a dream come true, I was a cooper! The boy who had looked through the windows on the way to school had now become a proud craftsman! Now I belonged and everyone in Bowmore could see it. I had grown up, I was a man. That benevolent and infinitely proud laugh of Davy’s still brings tears to my eyes today. That day was a milestone in my career. Now I wore the cooper’s apron with even more pride than before. My dream had come true, and I had Davy alone to thank for that.
It was done! I had made my first barrel. It was my first one and it was tight. It was a dream come true, I was a cooper!
Now that I was no longer his student but his colleague, a wonderful period of working together began. Davy and I became a kind of unit over time, a dream team. I became more and more familiar with all the practices at Bowmore distillery, and got to know all the people on an equal footing, despite my younger years. Being part of the number one team was an indescribable feeling.
This fact that Davy was number one never made a lot of difference to him, which says a lot about him as a person. He was always modest. Other values counted for him, important as it was to always achieve his goals the honest way, even if that way took more time. Take no shortcuts, always go the right way: this sentence stands like no other for his philosophy, for his view of things. He always stuck to this credo. I remember, for example, that he didn’t buy his house with a loan from the bank. He worked hard and saved until he could pay cash for his house in Bowmore. It cost around £8,000, an insane amount in those days. I was there for the transaction, when a gentleman by the name of Baldy McDougall came into the cooperage. Davy had a cupboard where all sorts of important things were kept. He opened the door and took out a tin that would usually have had