Scotch Series 41: Drinking Whisky


Gazing into my glass swimming with clear, warm, liquid gold, I imagine standing on the highest diving board and looking down – the distances are comparable. Eye to glass; body to water.

I dive; down, down, air streaming passed my outstretched arms, rippling over my torso. My focussed intent takes 1.42 seconds to immerse me in a liquid other world.

In the time it takes to spring off a high board and plunge into the fluid state of the universe, I lift my glass of whisky to my lips.

I am immersed in whisky. Aromas swirl around my face. A golden halo encircles me.

I think of barley fields in Islay; first, a piercing, verdant green thrusting through dark, damp soil. Later, as days pass, vegetal turns to cereal and a golden haze suffuses the land.

Then, I see barley heads buffeted and bowed by a rain soaked summer. A too dark amber crop awaiting a dry harvest day. Scotland searches for sunshine. 

I smell sunshine in my glass. I smell sunshine from years ago. I see a man hefting peat with rivulets of sweat beading his naked spine. Women lay oblong shaped pieces of earth to dry on tough, old, springy roots of heather, a million midges dancing round their hair scarved heads.

Time passes.