A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag
that not every household owned. There was a large snooker hall in Bowmore, referred to as the ‘British Legion Hut’. It was used for gatherings of all kinds, though for us kids it was a magical place, situated right on my doorstep. Today, in Bowmore, it has been replaced with a big open square and the tourist information office, but back then it was a meeting place par excellence. The ambience in this wooden barrack was unique. People met, played snooker, had their hair cut or told each other stories about times long gone. Only men, those who worked hard in the distillery and the old war veterans, were allowed in, though sometimes we boys were allowed in too. I loved listening to the stories of the old men, for in times before smartphones, television and the internet, that was our entertainment. We children somehow belonged there too, as long as we behaved decently and, above all, quietly. From today’s perspective, the times to which I refer, are from long ago and may sound strange to most of you. All the more so, were the stories I heard as a child about adventures on the high seas or about the two world wars. There were war veterans who had never left the island before they were drafted, dragged out into a hostile world without any certainty of a safe future, only the hope of a safe return. That’s mostly what the men talked about, or what it was like to go to the Scottish mainland for the first time, and to see Islay from the outside. For me as a boy, these were captivating stories that I absorbed completely. The old Ileachs were fantastic storytellers and I was part of their appreciative audience. There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.
There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.
The highlight of the week was Saturday, because every week at 3 p.m. football was broadcast live on the radio. From 2:45 p.m., everyone started gathering around the radio, with us children allowed to sit on the floor, but only if we made absolutely no noise. Otherwise we would have been thrown out faster than we would have liked, Mr McNeill making sure that there was total silence from us. He was in the Navy, could cut hair and, in the British Legion Hut, his word was law. As a little boy, those were unforgettable moments, surrounded as I was by old veterans, some of whom had even lived through both world wars. I loved the atmosphere, the flair and, above all, the privilege of witnessing the football broadcast in this legendary company. I also really wanted to smoke a pipe and drink whisky! I was sure that when I grew up, I would become one of them! On a Protestant island, of course, everyone was a Glasgow Rangers fan. All except little Jim McEwan, who, for whatever reason, was a Hibernian Football Club supporter. I didn’t mention that too loudly though, because most of the time they lost, but on the rare occasions when they did win, I’d let everyone know. Sometimes for weeks. When Scotland played, we all stuck together. If there were 50 people listening, there were at least 50 experts, all equipped with sufficient knowledge to be the national coach. When Scotland played, there was unity across all club boundaries – especially when it was against England, but then there were usually more than just 50 people in the hut. I’ll never forget the goosebumps when I got to listen in on a football match. “… Jim Baxter in midfield wins the ball, plays steeply to Willie Stevenson. He races through the midfield with the ball, leaving three opponents in his wake, then passes forward to Max Murray. Brilliantly he takes the ball, turns, takes heart, pulls the trigger and … Goooooooal!” When that happened, young and old were in each other’s arms, celebrating. Football was life, emotions ran high, yet everyone had a different game in their mind’s eye. None of us had ever seen the inside of a football stadium, but we all felt as if we’d scored the decisive goal. You won together and you lost together, unfortunately more often the latter than the former. But you shared this experience, this enthusiasm, these unique emotions. Unfortunately, Scotland lost many more games than they won, probably why I learned such a wide vocabulary that I couldn’t have found anywhere else – Gaelic rants. This Gaelic poetry, as I would like to call it, was much different than all the swear words that are used today. The F-word did not exist then. People simply found very vivid comparisons with which to compliment each other. Despite all the ill-will that existed during an argument, people insulted each other with respect and rarely with cursing. Often comical comparisons were made, but if it came down to an argument, the one who had the last word won. “I’m pretty sure that was in 1642!”; “I’m sorry, Wallie, to have to tell you that it was in 1643, exactly on the 22nd of July in the evening, at half-past seven. That was the exact date, sir!” Lying they both had been, but it didn’t matter. Those were really wonderful times and I remember them very fondly. So many generations from different families under one roof and all with the shared joy of having a good time together. Happy days indeed!
3 Follow Your Nose
Every human being is given a wonderful gift at birth, something that protects us from many dangers and can make us very happy. Unfortunately, many underestimate this gift. I am, of course, talking about the nose and its incredible ability to perceive smells. God has given us this precious feature, in both right and left nostrils, that is so incredibly enriching for us. There are small areas inside the nose, just about two centimetres by five centimetres, which form our receptors for aromas, scents and smells, offering 2,000 times more sensitivity than the tongue. What a fascinating experience to perceive odours and let them take their effect! How many of us actually think about our sense of smell? Not many I suspect, unless it has been temporarily nullified due to a cold, which you probably found unfamiliar and unpleasant. Yet it is really worth thinking about how vital this sense actually is. After all, none of us would think of eating anything that smelled funny or bad. You can rely on your nose to protect you from poisoning, for long before you see danger, you can often smell it. In the brain, olfactory stimuli interact directly with our emotions, meaning that, as soon as we smell something familiar to us, pleasant feelings are triggered. Every person has a unique smell, so think about this the next time you hug a loved one or your children in your arms. I could philosophise for hours about this wonderful faculty that has shaped my life so much.
Unfortunately, you can’t reproduce smells in a book, so I’ll try to put this magic into words. If there is anything we have plenty of on Islay, it is peat, a natural fuel that is cut and dried by hand. This fuel plays a role not only in whisky making, but it also once played a major part in the everyday lives of the people of Islay. Peat used to be a widely used heating material on the island, since wood is not available in the quantities needed, and it’s a fuel that doesn’t burn like wood with high flames, but smoulders and glows.
A peat fire is soothing and slow-burning. It can take a long time to light such a fire, but it’s one that lasts a long time. When it burns, it gives off a smoke that is so wonderful to me, full of character, voluminous, homely and familiar. Even if you can’t see the smoke, your nose can catch it. But it’s not just the smoke that our nose captures, for in a distillery, there are many other aromatic demands on our olfactory senses. For me, there was the rich smell of barley to discover: like rain in spring, which is how the grain smelled, having soaked itself with water before sprouting. This scent recalled something fertile, something powerful, something that was alive, something that was at the beginning of a journey: departure and home at the same time. I could also smell something deeply earthy, something that sprouted roots. As soon as the barley dried over the smoke, a new scent appeared, the scent of transformation, an enchanting, delicate sweetness in the air, reminiscent of caramel, a pleasant smell that sometimes also reminded me of honey. And then again, those grassy notes reminiscent of the lush salt marshes. Yet that was only the beginning.
Peat is not only suitable for whisky.
Those multi-layered aromas of the casks were a chapter in themselves, ranging from the wet, dark, coarse wood notes of the individual cask staves, marked by tannic acid, and stored in the rain, to a fruity freshness marked by vanilla. Then there were also the dark and sweet notes, reminiscent of chocolate, of the former sherry casks that were