A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag
on paper and manifested in numbers, was changing hands. For many, many years, this man, who was and is a living legend for me, had saved every penny, to buy something of major value with it, once in his life. And I was allowed to be there! It was so moving and so inspiring for me. And of course, I wanted to do the same: one day, I hoped, I too would have a house on Islay. That’s why I was always happy to take on extra shifts or special jobs. This episode impressed upon me that it would really be worth making an effort. Take no shortcuts – go the right way, even if it is sometimes the harder way. Then you reach your goal, your success, something of which I had become more aware. Davy didn’t have to preach his values, although he certainly could have; he lived them. And that made them shine all the brighter for me and enriched me and my career. What a man of unspeakable vision and great stature. Davy was one of those personalities of whom there are only a handful in the world – what a blessing to have known him.
“Take no shortcuts – go the right way, even if it is sometimes the harder way.”
Davy Bell
Working with Davy Bell, the day before Christmas was always a highlight for me. That was the day when a beautiful ritual, one that had developed over time, took place. The day before Christmas was the day we always made sure that our cooperage was sparklingly clean. We felt that the Christmas glow should be visible, so we always made a special effort. Often this meant working one or two ‘extra hours’. Christmas also meant that we all sat together around a fire with a good dram in hand, together reviewing the past year and telling each other what we planned to do over the festive holiday. There was never anything spectacular about it, but it was just nice. I enjoyed these special days very much.
Davy and Jim – a dream team.
Davy and I were always the last to leave, and I always knew exactly what was coming. When everyone else was already on their way home, he would pull me aside and say, “Jim, my boy, now it’s time for you to get your Christmas present from me too. I have brought something special for you!” He then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Inside was a carefully folded £1 banknote, which he solemnly handed to me. “Here, my boy, this will buy your Barbara a wonderful Christmas present.” “But Davy, there’s no need for that, it’s far too much,” I invariably retorted. But with a gleam in his eye and a kind, benevolent voice, he would always reply, “No, son, you’ve worked hard all year – you’ve earned it! Take it quietly and make me happy.” Only when that pound note passed from Davy into my possession, only then was it Christmas. Those were wonderful moments, symbolising what Davy was like, remaining humble in everything he did, but always with his loved ones in mind. It makes me incredibly happy that I was allowed to belong to this circle.
Most people retire at 65. Davy ignored this. He decided for himself when the time was right … and 65 was far too early. It was on a Friday like any other. We had all done our work and were nearing the end of the day. I was about to leave when Davy called me and asked me to wait behind. Then he came up to me and took my hand with both his hands in which I noticed was something hard and clattery. What he pressed into my hands, was nothing less than the keys to Bowmore distillery’s warehouses. Short and to the point, he simply said, “That’s it for me. Jim, now it’s your turn!” I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I had only been at Bowmore for about seven years and was still a relatively young lad of 22, yet suddenly I’d been given sovereignty over so many casks. It was almost too much. “But Davy, I’m still very young and I can’t …” “Yes, Jim, you can! Now it’s your turn!” He hadn’t hinted at anything before; it just came out of nowhere. I had expected several things in my career, but certainly not this, yet I was now to be in charge of all the casks in the distillery. The shoes Davy left behind were impossible to fill – an incredibly big challenge for me. All I had was Davy’s experience and encouragement. Without my knowledge, he had already arranged everything in advance, his departure having long been discussed in the executive suites and my succession decided. He wanted me to be the cellar master, a position in which he trusted me without a second thought. It was an incredible honour for me and a huge vote of confidence. In my five years of training, I had always followed his mottoes and ideals, always taken the right path, stayed away from whisky, always worked hard and precisely, and never stolen any whisky. Now I was reaping the reward, and what a reward it was. That was Davy, no big talker, no blowhard, simply a doer with ideals. What he did spoke far louder than what he said, but anyone who thought he was now resting was to be proved wrong. Shortly after his official retirement, he was hired at another distillery on Islay and pursued his passion once again, helping out with cask making at Bunnahabhain. At the time I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just enjoy his retirement and stop working, but I now understand him better. The cooperage was simply his life!
“That’s it for me. Jim, now it’s your turn!”
Davy Bell
We had a very close and, above all, deep friendship until the day I received a phone call. Many years had passed and I was no longer living and working on Islay, but as a blender in Glasgow. I learned that in Bowmore, Davy, now 94 years old, was seriously ill. Did I want to visit him again at his deathbed? I immediately flew to Islay and drove straight to his house. All the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there in this little house that he had once paid for in cash. His son David escorted me to his bedside, to the man to whom I owed so much. There was not much left of his once handsome appearance and he had also become quite deaf. The big guns of the First World War and the noise in the cooperage had left their mark, for in Davy’s generation there was no ear protection. There he was now, lying in front of me, tired, soon to leave a whole life behind him. I took his hands, which, once bursting with strength, were now very thin and fragile. I looked into the face of an old man, but one at peace with himself. “Ah, Jim, it’s you. It’s you, Jim! How are you?” He asked me, how I was? I wanted and needed desperately to be brave when I faced him, but believe me, I found it immensely difficult. I realised that these would likely be our last moments together. “Davy, I’m fine. I feel great and I’ve come to build some barrels with you tomorrow morning …” I replied, but Davy interrupted me and shook his head a little. “No, Jim, I’m not going to build any barrels with you tomorrow. I’ve spoken to the big man up there and tonight I will leave for my great journey. But I have been waiting for you.” I could hardly suppress my sobs. “No, Davy, you have plenty of time here. You’ll see, we’ll …” “Listen to me, Jim, I’m leaving today,” he interrupted me, “but I’ve left you a gift. A precious gift. You’ll always have a penny in your pocket with it!” I had come to Davy to see him once more, to say goodbye, one of the most poignant moments of my life. “Davy, God knows you don’t need to give me anything. You have already given me so many rich gifts.” “No, Jim, listen to me, you know our secret place, where we’ve hidden a bottle or two of whisky, down there in the garden shed. That’s where you’ll find my present! You’ll always have a penny in your pocket with it …” Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Davy Bell and the Islay Boys Football Club. In front on the right are Lynne and Lesley.
Davy, a wonderful character and the best teacher I could imagine. He shaped me like no other. For that I am still infinitely grateful to him today.
Davy’s garden house held a valuable secret.
Deeply touched, I left his bedroom and looked back once more. There lay one of the most precious people to me and I could not help him. As he had agreed with the big man upstairs, Davy did indeed go that night. Peacefully, he was allowed to fall asleep forever. The sympathy shown to him at the funeral was large and worthy of the great man’s passing – the Ileachs were all agreed on that. Before I left for Glasgow again, however, I stopped and went to see Davy’s son Alan. I told him that his dad had left me a gift