still ‘spirit’ until those 36 months are up.
Most whisky spends at least twice that amount of time in the warehouse (wonderful, cool, beautiful,
fabulously
-fragranced places) and most single malts will age for a minimum of ten or twelve years before being allowed anywhere near a bottle. The reason these dark, quiet, usually earth-floored warehouses smell so damn wonderful (it is hard even for a heathen like me not to think of them as hallowed) is that, not to over-sharpen the point, even the best-made wooden barrels leak. The fumes find their way out of the casks and into the atmosphere; they even penetrate the usually very thick walls of the average bonded warehouse, turning those walls black because there’s a particular airborne fungus which thrives on just those vapours (and which, umm, is black). This happens at a rate of about two per cent per year, so a cask that’s been sitting for ten years will have lost about a fifth of its contents.
This sounds wasteful but it isn’t; it’s a bit like the infant human brain losing synaptic connections as it grows and matures; what’s left – the network of strengthened pathways in the brain or the concentrated flavours remaining in the barrel – is all the better for what’s been given up. This two per cent per year loss is usually called the Angel’s Share. Presumably because the Fungus’s Share doesn’t sound quite so romantic.
Once bottled, whisky doesn’t mature or deteriorate as long as the seal remains tight, though if it is uncorked and then – for some unfathomable reason – not finished, it will eventually go off in a year or two. (I am mildly horrified that this has been discovered.)
Oh; and store it upright, not flat.
That’s it.
‘Hello, ma darlin. How are you—?
‘The phone won’t stop!’
‘Won’t stop what?’
‘Ringing! I’ve had all these newspapers calling the house wanting to talk to you about us burning our passports! I’m going crazy!’
‘But we didn’t burn—’
‘Why are you always away when these things happen?’
‘Good timing? Ha, just kid—’
‘It’s not funny!’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘I’m going insane here. I had some woman from the
Scotsman
on earlier—’
‘I though this was why we went ex-directory. How did those—? Never mind.’
‘I don’t know what to do!’
‘Well, take the phone out.’
‘I’m worried they’ll come to the house!’
‘That’s a point; the fucking
Daily Mail
doorstepped me that time I said, Drugs; just say Yes.’
‘And I’m missing you. Help!’
‘Well, why not come out here? Come to Islay. Harriet and Toby were, like, dreadfully disappointed when I turned up without you. A less secure person than myself could almost have formed the impression it was you they were really looking forward to seeing, not me. Bizarre though that sounds, obviously. But yeah, come on out.’
‘How?’
‘Drive?’
‘Oh, come on, you know I hate driving.’
‘Well then … train to Edinburgh, another train to Glasgow, then … I think there’s a bus to Kennacraig. Or something like that. Probably.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Right. Well. Umm … Fly?’
‘There are no more flights till Monday.’
‘You’ve checked?’
‘I’ve checked.’
‘Ah, what the hell, just charter a plane.’
‘What?’
‘Charter a plane. Drive over to Embra airport or get a taxi and charter a light plane from there.’
‘What, really?’
‘Well, no, not really, I was just—’
‘I could look into it, I suppose.’
‘Well …’
‘Is that okay?’
‘Ah, well, umm.’
‘You really wouldn’t mind?’
‘I, well, I, umm, no. No, I suppose, if you’re really missing—’
‘Where would I find that sort of thing? Yellow Pages, I suppose. I’ll call you back. Bye.’
Which is how, after a succession of false starts and on-again, off-again phone calls, John Jarrold and I find ourselves at an otherwise deserted Islay airport on a Sunday afternoon, meeting Ann off a
Most whisky spends at least twice that amount of time in the warehouse (wonderful, cool, beautiful,
fabulously
-fragranced places) and most single malts will age for a minimum of ten or twelve years before being allowed anywhere near a bottle. The reason these dark, quiet, usually earth-floored warehouses smell so damn wonderful (it is hard even for a heathen like me not to think of them as hallowed) is that, not to over-sharpen the point, even the best-made wooden barrels leak. The fumes find their way out of the casks and into the atmosphere; they even penetrate the usually very thick walls of the average bonded warehouse, turning those walls black because there’s a particular airborne fungus which thrives on just those vapours (and which, umm, is black). This happens at a rate of about two per cent per year, so a cask that’s been sitting for ten years will have lost about a fifth of its contents.
This sounds wasteful but it isn’t; it’s a bit like the infant human brain losing synaptic connections as it grows and matures; what’s left – the network of strengthened pathways in the brain or the concentrated flavours remaining in the barrel – is all the better for what’s been given up. This two per cent per year loss is usually called the Angel’s Share. Presumably because the Fungus’s Share doesn’t sound quite so romantic.
Once bottled, whisky doesn’t mature or deteriorate as long as the seal remains tight, though if it is uncorked and then – for some unfathomable reason – not finished, it will eventually go off in a year or two. (I am mildly horrified that this has been discovered.)
Oh; and store it upright, not flat.
That’s it.
‘Hello, ma darlin. How are you—?
‘The phone won’t stop!’
‘Won’t stop what?’
‘Ringing! I’ve had all these newspapers calling the house wanting to talk to you about us burning our passports! I’m going crazy!’
‘But we didn’t burn—’
‘Why are you always away when these things happen?’
‘Good timing? Ha, just kid—’
‘It’s not funny!’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘I’m going insane here. I had some woman from the
Scotsman
on earlier—’
‘I though this was why we went ex-directory. How did those—? Never mind.’
‘I don’t know what to do!’
‘Well, take the phone out.’
‘I’m worried they’ll come to the house!’
‘That’s a point; the fucking
Daily Mail
doorstepped me that time I said, Drugs; just say Yes.’
‘And I’m missing you. Help!’
‘Well, why not come out here? Come to Islay. Harriet and Toby were, like, dreadfully disappointed when I turned up without you. A less secure person than myself could almost have formed the impression it was you they were really looking forward to seeing, not me. Bizarre though that sounds, obviously. But yeah, come on out.’
‘How?’
‘Drive?’
‘Oh, come on, you know I hate driving.’
‘Well then … train to Edinburgh, another train to Glasgow, then … I think there’s a bus to Kennacraig. Or something like that. Probably.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Right. Well. Umm … Fly?’
‘There are no more flights till Monday.’
‘You’ve checked?’
‘I’ve checked.’
‘Ah, what the hell, just charter a plane.’
‘What?’
‘Charter a plane. Drive over to Embra airport or get a taxi and charter a light plane from there.’
‘What, really?’
‘Well, no, not really, I was just—’
‘I could look into it, I suppose.’
‘Well …’
‘Is that okay?’
‘Ah, well, umm.’
‘You really wouldn’t mind?’
‘I, well, I, umm, no. No, I suppose, if you’re really missing—’
‘Where would I find that sort of thing? Yellow Pages, I suppose. I’ll call you back. Bye.’
Which is how, after a succession of false starts and on-again, off-again phone calls, John Jarrold and I find ourselves at an otherwise deserted Islay airport on a Sunday afternoon, meeting Ann off a
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