A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag

      Bowmore is one of the few distilleries still malting today – with peat smoke, as is customary on Islay.

      Back then, when the casks came into the warehouse, they had bung stoppers made of cork. It was only when they left the distillery that those were replaced with tight-fitting oak stoppers. The sole reason for using a cork stopper was to allow opening of the cask (at least that was the official justification) to subject the contents to strict quality control or measure the fill level. Believe me, the distillery workers wished for the return of the cork stoppers when the oak stoppers were introduced. Internal ‘quality controls’ were much more difficult to carry out from then on. So if you wanted to roll a cask into position on the storage timbers for maturing over the next few years, you had to know exactly where the bung was positioned at the beginning, so that, after you had rolled it into place, it was exactly on top, that is at the 12 o’clock position. This positioning was a science in itself, necessitating a conscientious work ethic. It was a method that ensured not a single drop leaked out, always assuming the barrel was tight in the first place.

      You quickly got the hang of it, but what made it a sheer challenge for me as a beginner, was the fact that all the barrels had to be manoeuvred by hand. Today, it’s not a problem, because there are forklifts for that, but in those days, we’d only muscle power on which to rely. It’s why this job was so unpopular. A hogshead holds 55 gallons, which is pretty much 250 litres of whisky. Together with the weight of the barrel, that’s more than 350 kilos, which, once rolling, was impossible to stop with your bare hands. You had to concentrate at all times and you couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. The risk of accidents was quite high, even if it didn’t seem that way at the time. With the safety regulations in place today, it would no longer be allowed, but this work was carried out in exactly the same way as generations had done for decades, or even centuries. But it was a matter of not disappointing Mr McColl and getting through my probationary period without any reprimands. Imagine how quickly a finger could have been lost, or how an out-of-control barrel could have crushed someone. It’s a situation that doesn’t bear thinking about! Thank God I still have all my fingers. During those first days and weeks I gained an insight into the harsh realities of working in a distillery, though I could probably have guessed at some of them before I started my apprenticeship. Today, I figure that this was Mr McColl’s intention when giving me those hard, elementary lessons; however, they only strengthened my resolve to be a cooper! So I hustled, did every job asked of me, worked really hard, never looked at the clock and took extra shifts whenever I got the chance.

      The trial period almost flew by and I learned an enormous amount, but most importantly, I gave Mr McColl no reasons for complaint, and he was happy with my progress. It was a very special feeling when I proudly brought home my first hard-earned money, totalling five guineas (five pounds, five shillings and five pence), which was a lot of money for me at the time. My mother Peggy also worked near the distillery, regularly cleaning for Mr Learmouth, the only lawyer on Islay. He had an uncanny sense for those matters that affected people’s lives, listening carefully, able to assess situations quickly, before drawing his conclusions to steer matters in the right direction. My mother had told him I was about to start an apprenticeship as a cooper, but neither I nor my mother knew that this wasn’t actually possible under the law in force at the time. According to the Coopers’ Trade Union, an apprenticeship could only be approved if there were at least five trained coopers working in a plant. But there were only four working at Bowmore distillery, one short of allowing me to realise my dream.

      One of the abovementioned four was my idol and was soon to become my teacher. His name was Davy Bell. Just the sound of that name filled me with pride and anticipation, because Davy was an icon in the industry. There was probably no better barrel maker in the world in those days, a man respected and revered throughout Scotland, and it was he who was to train me. I was so close to being able to start my apprenticeship with this living legend, to learn from the best of the best, that I could hardly believe my luck. But then I heard about this clause in the Scotland-wide collective agreement, and my world came crashing down around me. Mr McColl told me about the situation as gently as possible, holding out the prospect of another apprenticeship elsewhere in the distillery. That was some consolation, but only a small one. My dream was shattering before my eyes, but at least I could stay at the distillery on Islay. I was understandably very dejected, but my mother came home one day and told me I was to visit Mr Learmouth’s office the following day, after I’d finished work, to hear important news. My heart was in my mouth. Why should I suddenly appear before a lawyer? I went through all possible misdeeds, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t guilty of anything except for the gooseberry incident, though I doubted that would bring a lawyer into action. You have no idea the feeling with which I went to bed after hearing this. I hardly slept that night, my mind racing. The next day at work, my head was probably not always in the right place either, for I was desperate to know why I had to see Mr Learmouth, now, of all times. I made sure to leave the distillery on time, and, very excitedly, I went to his office and, with sweaty palms, knocked on the door. He invited me in and told me to sit down, as he had something important to tell me. Spellbound, I sat in the armchair in front of the desk that my mother always kept clean. “Well, Jim,” he began, “your mother has told me that you want to learn the trade of barrel maker. As Mr McColl has already told you, the distillery is one employee short in that profession. So it would seem to be impossible for you to continue. But, in actual fact …!” The pause that now followed seemed endless, but he continued: “I have taken the liberty of looking into this matter and have written to Glasgow to point out that this clause makes no sense on Islay. You would have ideal conditions here in a well-established distillery and your teacher would be the nationally and internationally respected Mr Bell. Therefore, it should not be of any real importance whether four or five barrel makers accompany the training.” He had therefore moved that, in this case, a special exception should be made and that, under the circumstances, the apprenticeship be approved after all. Once again, he paused, and looked straight at me. There was something hopeful and positive flashing in his eyes. “Well, Jim McEwan, the reply arrived from Glasgow yesterday. I am extremely pleased to inform you that from next week you will be allowed to learn the trade of barrel maker with Mr Bell. Congratulations!” It was now I who paused, a long pause in fact. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. So my dream could come true after all? “Mr Learmouth, how will I ever thank you and how will I ever pay you?” “You don’t have to pay me. All I ask of you is that you take this opportunity and become a good barrel maker. And I expect a report from you from time to time on how that’s going. Now off you go, you’ve got a lot to do, budding cooper McEwan.” That evening I experienced what it feels like to be both happy and grateful. Here was a very busy man who had recognised the importance of my situation, written the right words to the right addressee, who had then made the right decision.

      My world came crashing down around me. Mr McColl told me about the situation as gently as possible.

      Could that have been a coincidence? But I don’t believe in coincidences. In retrospect, I am firmly convinced that these encounters were meant for me, both with Mr Learmouth and with Davy Bell. When I was in the early stages of my career, I had a long conversation with the Round Church minister, Frank Gibson. I had always had a special