A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag
abundance of all the maritime notes that the island had to offer. The salt, the moisture, the acidity, the freshness; in short, the whole character of the island. This abundance was also supported by the elemental force of fire, needed to burn out the barrels, make the metal glow, and produce the steam that drove the stills. Not to mention the lubricating oil that kept the time-honoured and historic machines and mechanics running. But all this would have been useless if it hadn’t been for the heroes of our childhood, the men of Islay who gave of their best and worked passionately hard in the distilleries. Their toil and sweat was required day in and day out. All this combined to create a magical blend that my nose was privileged to experience every day. And as the cherry on top, the scent of the ever-burning tobacco pipes pervaded each nook and cranny. It was quite unbelievable to me and almost impossible to put into words! This game of scents and smells had an immense attraction that I could not resist.
Even as children, we dreamed of one day working in one of Islay’s distilleries, just as each generation before had done, including my grandfather John McEwan. Even when I was a primary school pupil, Bowmore distillery captivated me, when every day I passed by its walls and gates at least twice on my way to school and back. I just couldn’t help it; I always had to look through the windows to the malt floors, the maltbarns, because behind those window panes, I saw a new and, for me, fascinating world. I saw men turning the barley with big shovels, the dust, shining golden, backlit by the sun, and spreading a wonderfully peaceful atmosphere. The barley turning was done by several men working in harmony and with complete understanding between each other, creating a synchronised rhythm that bordered on choreography. If one maltman lifted the shovel, the other lowered it – shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … That was the sound of the malt floors. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take my eyes off this scene. I wanted to stand on that very spot one day and work there myself. Around the age of 12, I received a call from within those sacred halls: “Jim, do you want to join us for a while? You’re not learning anything new at school today. Come and help us a little!” So I plucked up the courage to turn right, towards the maltbarns, long before reaching the school, knowing full well what would happen should anyone find out. For the first time, I was allowed into this world with which I was so fascinated, to sniff the aromas of the distillery, to pick up a shovel for the first time, becoming a part of the choreography and gliding through the grain to the same beat. A magical moment! On top of that, I was given empty lemonade bottles as my wages, earning my first pennies from the return of their deposits. How proud was I? My efforts had value and I was rewarded for a job that gave me pleasure and made me happy. “Jim McEwan – you’re a grown-up now, you can make money.” So I pretty much gave up going to school altogether and instead pursued an occupation that was of more interest to me. Besides shovelling malt, I was allowed to label barrel lids, and later even roll barrels. I felt so strong as a little boy behind those huge containers weighing hundreds of kilos. One day, however, came the moment when my life changed, as I entered the cooperage for the first time. That was the place where the barrels were made with hard, manual labour, and for me, it was a glimpse of paradise. I’ll never forget the sights, sounds and especially the smell, as I stood in the midst of these respected men. All were smoking pipes, making that tart, dark scent of tobacco part of this heady atmosphere. Martial forces, swinging hammers, charred oak, swirling sparks, alongside the distinctive smoke from the fire, and permeated by the smell of hot metal and a hint of whisky and blood, sweat and tears. There was something so masculine about it all, something so powerful and fundamentally honourable. To me, the barrel makers, the coopers, were highly respected and strong men. Nobody messed with them. They all had strong, muscular upper arms, because they held heavy tools in their hands all day long. I, Jim McEwan, to whom life sometimes threw a stone or two back then, wanted to become a cooper! I wanted to be one of those very men, for they were my heroes.
The complete Bowmore staff in 1928, including maltman John McEwan (back row, 4th from right).
The view through this window was to shape Jim’s life forever.
By the sweat of my brow I wanted to build barrels for the distillery, with fire and booming hammer blows. I wanted to smoke a pipe with these men. I also wanted hard, muscular upper arms like them and to look, with pride, at newly made barrels. I wanted to experience exactly the same satisfaction at the end of the day that those men did when they enjoyed a dram after work was done. The atmosphere in the cooperage so captivated me, that I preferred to help out in the distillery and earn a few pence, rather than be at school. I think more than just once, I came home to be asked by my mother what I had learned that day, replying that, in history we had discussed Robert the Bruce, how he had fought and won against England. She then grabbed me, sniffed my shirt and accused me of lying. Denial was futile. “You told me that last week. Jim, you’ve been in that bloody distillery again! Come on, off to bed, no dinner tonight! Don’t argue!” As painful as it was for me at the time, those punishments could not dissuade me that my future lay at Bowmore distillery.
My mind was made up. I was in the distillery almost every day, so I very cautiously and shyly asked for an appointment with the manager at the time, James McColl. He was the epitome of what a manager should be, always smartly dressed, and looking a bit like Cary Grant, with his grey temples. Midst all this rough whisky reality, he was the man who stood out for me, and I had great respect for him, symbolising as he did a respected personality with great charisma. The way he moved, the way he spoke, radiated a natural authority and, in addition, a humanity marked by personal values. I never once heard him swear or curse, a remarkable feat in a distillery environment. All in all, he was a person I could look up to.
At the age of 15, I had successfully completed my schooling and was eager to start working in the distillery to finally earn my own money, and to provide for the family. That, along with my fascination with Bowmore distillery, was what drove me on. But to gain a foothold in the distillery, I first had to get a job. To do that, it was a case of overcoming my reluctance and asking to speak to Mr McColl which, in turn, meant having to knock on his door. I was small and rather shy at the time, stood in front of this massive door that clearly stated ‘Distillery Manager’ in big, dignified letters. It was six o’clock in the evening and having taken a deep breath beforehand, I knocked timidly. There are moments in life that become etched in the memory forever, and the moment when that door opened in slow motion in front of me was one such moment. “Oh, hello Jim, come on in.” I was greeted by the sonorous voice of Mr McColl. “Well, Mr McColl, I’ve just finished school and I was hoping to maybe have a job here, maybe as a barrel maker?” I asked, with my eyes lowered somewhat meekly. Seconds passed that felt like half an eternity, but he finally answered: “Let me think for a moment … Okay, I’ll give you a job, but you have three months’ probation before you can start an apprenticeship, so you’d better behave yourself. I don’t want to hear any complaints about you doing anything stupid, not even in the slightest! If you work hard and conscientiously, then it might, I say might, turn into a permanent job in the cooperage. Remember, no mischief!” You can scarcely imagine how those words resounded. On the one hand, there was the possibility of realising the dream right there on my doorstep, along with the clearly worded warning: no mischief! James McColl knew me well, but believe me, I was not in the mood for mischief. I’d show him that he could rely on me 100 per cent, determined to convince him that he hadn’t made a mistake.
The entrance to the Bowmore distillery.
“If you work hard and conscientiously, then it might, I say might, turn into a permanent job in the cooperage. Remember, no mischief!”
James McColl
And so, at 7 a.m., on August 1st 1963, I started work at Bowmore Distillery, the beginning of a new era for me. I had a rough idea of what was in store, for after all, in the last few years I had probably been in the distillery more often than at school. I’d even been sent home by Mr McColl himself on occasion. Nevertheless, everything would be different from now on. Working at Bowmore would no longer be a leisure