Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 8: Fàilte gu Dùn Èideann ("Welcome To Edinburgh")

I. Welcome To Scotland

It's time for a little game of free association. Ready? What's the first thing that pops into your head when I say Scotland?

Bagpipes and haggis. Loch Ness monster.
The Highlands. Whisky.
Franz Ferdinand.
Fat Bastard and Scrooge McDuck.
Desmond from Lost, bruddah.

Uncle Scrooge: You Wish You Had This Much Bank

I don't know about you, but that's all I could come up with before arriving in Edinburgh, capital of the land of Scots. Thus, I was hoping to learn much, much more. Especially considering the pesky fact that, in my especially convoluted bloodline, there's some Scot kicking around in there as well. Just doing my part for the Guthrie's in the US, who, judging by the utter lack of Guthrie Clan souvenirs I scoured high and low for, probably only number in the single digits (i.e. my mom's side of the family).

I'm 1/16s related to this street sign!

Sitting on a spanking new Easyjet plane, we listened attentively as the flight attendants gave the safety instructions. As I tried to pay attention to the particularly buxom lass before me, Sandra was busy stifling an insane fit of laughter. She poked my shoulder and motioned for me to turn around. What I saw shocked me to the core.

In stark contrast to the circus that accompanies an average mainland Chinese domestic flight, everyone, and I mean every single person, had stopped what they were doing and were concentrating their undivided attention on the demonstration. There was a complete and unnerving silence. Beady British eyes poked up from behind head rests, their faces rapturously glued forward, listening closely to every last word. It looked exactly like this:

Timon would be proud.

As the plane took off, I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to recall all those Lamaze breathing lessons from my first pregnancy to keep from cramping. We eventually regained our composure and our fellow passengers had already resumed whatever it was they were doing before the safety demonstration meerkat time freeze. Before I even had time to finish listening to Viva La Vida in its entirety, we had landed on Scottish soil.

Blow me!

II. Edinburrrrrrgh Castle

Edinburgh - the capital of Scotland, ancient seat of the Scottish throne and current home to the architectural miscarriage that is Parliament - is a marvel of medieval might and modern flair. Streets are lined with bustling bars, charming cafes and restaurants, and a variety of shops that infuriatingly close at 6pm (unless you're lucky enough to shop on a Thursday evening, when closing time clocks in at 8pm). These ordinary buildings hover close to the ground, none climbing too high, lest they exceed any of the numerous architectural wonders that pepper the downtown area. Most impressive of all is Edinburgh Castle, which sits high atop Castle Rock - a dead volcano - and overlooks the entire city. It is indeed a humbling sight to behold.

Edinburgh Castle: Cooler Than You

Parliament: At the Western end of the Royal Mile stands this joke, which took over 5 years and over 400 million pounds to complete. 400 MILLION POUNDS. Have you looked at this thing?! It looks like an undergrad architectural workshop prank. That or a huge joke perpetrated by an English mole to really stick it to the Scots. I've never seen an uglier piece of shit in my entire life, this morning's BM notwithstanding. I side with the locals on this one: it's an embarrassment to the country.

Scott Monument, The Most BADASS Building IN THE WORLD. It's frickin' Mordor!

I Worship You, Victorian Architectural Wonder

The castle itself has never been breached by an invading army. Take that, you filthy English knnnnnn-iggits. Cheeky tour guides make sure to point out the fact that, by even standing at the castle entrance, we tourists have already gotten farther than any foreign enemy ever managed. It makes sense. Perched precariously on the top of an igneous mass, the castle has the enviable position of power and authority simply by locale alone. If I had to venture a guess, the combination of jagged slopes, high walls, whizzing cannonballs and burning hot tar raining down upon witless enemies was probably a very effective deterrent.

View From The Top

View From Below: Prime Real Estate

Inside the castle walls, there is so much to see and do that it may be a little overwhelming to an inexperienced (or lazy) traveler. Behind every turn, up every crumbling stairway, and inside each gate, lies something hidden with an engrossing history attached to it. With our handy audio guides and a very sensibly laid out tourist map, we managed to see everything in barely over 5 hours. Feeling a little overwhelmed (or lazy) at the prospect of writing about every nook and cranny, I'll summarize the highlights. So if you don't have the luxury or patience to commit to an entire day like us, make sure to visit the following:

Detailed Layout Here

-Cemetery For Soldiers' Dogs: For the Scottish troops, most regiments had a pet dog as a mascot. They lived with the soldiers and saw battle as well. So when the loyal pups inevitably died (and went to heaven), the soldiers had enough respect to bury their fallen comrades. Surprisingly touching and much more effective than a movie with talking animals. I'm a sucker for stuff like this.

Doggy Cemetery

This little guy, Greyfriar's Bobby, was not a soldier dog. But since we're on the topic of canines... He was the loyal partner to a monk that lived in Greyfriar's Kirk. When his owner died, Bobby maintained vigilant watch of his master's grave for 14 years. FOURTEEN YEARS. Blimey! Getting a woman to do the same would require a ring, unwavering fidelity and lots of handbags. If you're lucky... Locals were so touched that Bobby has his own statue (and pub!) on George IV Bridge, while his master's rotted corpse has already been consumed by creepy crawlies in the graveyard soil. Scots and their pups...

-One 'O Clock Gun: As its name clearly states, the One 'O Clock Gun is a big old beauty perched high atop a turret on the Northwestern corner of the castle. It is fired every day at 1PM - to help you keep track of time, of course - to a crowd of happy onlookers that aren't aware of the impending terror they are about to experience. Pictures and words cannot convey the power of this thing. When it went off, I think half of us ducked for cover. I could feel the puncturing blast deep in the pit of my gut, like someone punched me directly in the chest. A guy holding his toddler daughter on his shoulders almost chucked her off the castle walls. A nearby employee captured the sentiment nicely:

Me: "So is it this bad every day?"

Employee girl: "Yes... Everytime I see the clock close to one..."

At which point, her sentence actually drifted off and she turned her head away into the distance with closed eyes and an uncomfortable cringe. The unmistakeable look of conditioned fear scarred into her consciousness, like an escaped POW.

BOOM

-Honours of Scotland: I know what you're thinking; at first I was confused too - "What the hell are these so-called Honours?" The sword, crown and sceptre of Scotland. The story of their turbulent history is something ganked from a medieval quest. Either that or the exhibition curator is an excellent storyteller. Over the years, transported, hidden (under a mattress in Kinneff, for a stint), stolen and nearly lost forever, the Honours are marks of Scottish sovereignty, a clear symbol that they were not always tied to the English throne. They are housed at the top of a David's Tower, within an industrial-sized vault and protected by enough security to make balding Prince William seethe with repressed envy.

Jump For Honours!

-National War Museum of Scotland: Not as boring as it sounds and more interesting than it seems, the Scottish War Museum is an in-depth, enthralling, and highly entertaining look into the history of the Scottish military. From the early days of kilt-wearing barbarians and warring tribesmen to the modern pride of the land sent to help clean up the mess that Bush started in the Middle East, this modest museum provides a great deal of multimedia and a bevy of artifacts and weaponry to inspire an erection in even the most pussified pacifist.

WWII Close-Range Gutting Blades

HOT.

Check out dude reclining on the hill, staring at his buddy's ass. The life indeed.

However, past the piles of guns, sexy uniforms, and don't-ask-don't-tell soldier drafting propaganda, there is a bleeding heart that lends an emotional undercurrent to it all. Most especially, in the WWI and WWII area.

My two favorite pieces in the museum were personal letters to/from soldiers on the front lines. In one postcard (1899-1900), a soldier named Harry has lost all hope and writes an optimistic note to his friend, who I imagine didn't feel any better about his buddy's predicament after receiving this lovely bit of inspiration:

"God knows when will be the end of this deplorable business. I'm half starved. Goodbye."

Next to the postcard, there is a letter from Gladys to her brother Douglas Cox. It is a lengthy one, filled with words of hope and reminders of the life and family that patiently wait for his return. Unfortunately, Douglas was killed the day before she wrote the letter (Feb. 8, 1945), so it was returned to sender with a stamp that read:

"It is regretful that this item could not be delivered because the addressee is reported deceased."


While antique swords, tattered flags and paintings of war scenes may affect most people, small human connections like this drive the point home for me, inspiring more than nationalistic propaganda ever could. For an even graver reminder of the cost of war, visit the Scottish National War Memorial up the hill in Crown Square.

Real Men Fight In Skirts

-Castle Prison: In a more hokey attempt at pleasing tourists, the castle houses an entertaining "peek" into the life of a foreign prisoner of war. Deep in the bowels of the ancient fortification, these POWs were locked up and forced to carry out unspeakable acts. Like moving big balls.

This picture never gets old...

Great way to earn money: get arrested for being French.

Just like camping!

Though exhibit looks more Disney than Prison Break, there are some interesting bits, such as prison doors dotted with graffiti carved by French and American captives. Since the Americans were considered traitors at the time, they were given half the rations allotted to the other prisoners. When a Frenchman receives better treatment in the UK than your Yankee ass, you know you've done something very, very naughty.

Frenchy wuz here

Between points of interest on our overwhelming tour of the castle grounds, we were nearly blown off the friggin' building by the insane wind gusts pounding us from all directions. The middle of June and yet still cold as balls. Frostbite was delayed by a quick stop for hot soup, but that was only short repose. By the time we exited the castle, my hair was blown into a Jew-fro and Sandra looked like Elvira.

On that note... During the trip, it was generally colder than expected. On the first day, I was actually shocked. It felt like winter in Australia or New Zealand. Perhaps something to do with latitude? Even in London - relatively more landlocked than Edinburgh - I wore thick jeans and had a jumper handy for whenever the sun suddenly disappeared behind the clouds. In Edinburgh, at some points, we had on 3 to 4 layers to protect from the sudden and jarring cold spells. And that was before the rainstorms. Hilariously enough, Edinburgh hoochie mammas live life with the same disregard as the ones in the US, wearing barely nothing for a night of hard clubbing, lips turning blue while waiting for the bus. Utterly hilarious. Shivering in June was an entirely new experience for me. It actually was quite enjoyable, but next time I need to pack warmer clothing. Especially if I plan on spending more time underground.

II. Underburgh

Edinburgh is world-renowned for its abundance of ghosts and ghouls. The supernatural and paranormal play an important part in the city's complicated history and, nowadays, the tourist trade. Those with an insatiable curiosity for the spooky, such as myself, can find dark and terrible tales, unexplained events, unsolved mysteries, traces of catastrophic plagues and deadly diseases, and a haunted underbelly that lend to the ominous aura that creeps throughout the entire old town atop the Royal Mile.

The close goes down

During the late 1600s, with old Edinburgh's population booming, overcrowding caused the city's inhabitants to cramp into what little space was available in the city on the hill. Towering housing blocks rose upward along the spine of Castle Rock, with underground basement levels digging deeper and deeper into the earth. These precariously hulking tenements - 3 to 4 levels above ground level and 3 to 4 levels below - were demarcated by alleyways called closes, which formed a system of veins amongst the clutter.

Close Ghost!

Each close usually served a specific purpose, often market related. They were bustling corridors where townspeople handled their daily business in very close and stinky quarters, probably like the Shanghai fake markets on a weekend. With a comparable stench. So you had the Fishmarket Close, the Butcher's Close, the Lacy Knicker Close and so on. Some closes, however, were named after people. The most famous being Mary King's Close, which we had the great fortune to visit.

Mary King's Close
Across from Mercat Cross and St. Giles Cathedral (Royal Mile)

In the close system, the richer you were, the higher you lived, with the poorest of the poor relegated to the pits at the bottom, where sunlight barely ventured and stink and disease could fester. The poorest residences were cramped rooms with bare stone walls and dirt floors, sometimes housing multiple families and their animals, with ceiling height barely high enough for a 6 foot man to have headspace. Claustrophic, to say the least. Without windows or ventilation to filter the stale, fetid air, the impoverished close housing must have been a jolly place to go about your daily business. Proper training for any ancient Scottish expats moving to China.

From The Bottom Of The Close

In those days, all the garbage and refuse were just dumped outside your stoop. Subterranean slaughterhouses would also join the party, adding blood and guts to the cocktail. But it gets so much better: without proper plumbing, your buckets of shit, piss and vomit were also hurled out the door. With a warning holler of "gardy loo," all the family's leavings made their aerial exit without any regard for passing pedestrians.

Chambers? Maid? Har har har, I get it!

Trivia tangent: the first loo in Mary King's Close was owned by a wealthier resident who was so proud of his toilet that he put it in direct sight of his front door for all jealous onlookers to gaze upon. He affectionately named this mighty throne his Thunderbox. One of the first Real Men Of Genius.

I know you've nearly lost your lunch at the thought of getting ambushed by a bucket of hot, fresh feces, but let's keep going. You can imagine the wonderful stew that formed as the accumulated waste slowly slopped downwards along the cobblestones of the close, level by level, collecting at the bottom of the close in a stinking swamp of filth, and completing its long and heroic journey downhill into the Nor'Loch ("North Lake"). I've never heard of a better incentive for upward economic mobility.

1830 view of Edinburgh: Castle at the bottom left, Prices Street Gardens where Nor'Loch used to be. Can you imagine that ENTIRE area filled with crap?

Current View of the area (courtesy of Edinphoto)

The Nor' Loch, formerly located north of Castle Rock at the site of the current Princes Gardens, was basically Edinburgh's toilet and garbage disposal. The modestly sized lake was a natural separation between the old town on the hill and the new town below, the current shopping mecca of Princes Street. Imagine this: in addition to all the trash and fecal matter hurtling down the hillsides into the lake, there would also be fish and animal remains from the meat closes tossed in as well. Maybe some corpses. They even used to drown suspected witches into this fetid cocktail, the cruel cruel Christian bastards. That stink must have been horrendous, something no amount of witchcraft could combat. It is said that when the lake was drained, you could actually walk across to the other side, atop centuries of raw sewage. Holy Lord, that is fucking nasty. The locals attribute the modern Garden's extremely lush and ripe condition to all those miles of free, top-grade fertilizer.

Back in the closes, which probably didn't smell any better than Nor' Loch, the Black Plague also had some fun times with the folk of Edinburgh. Ticks from rats brought to port ravaged the city and I imagine the lack of circulation in the closes didn't help matters much, especially in Mary King's, which officials locked up, quarantined, and built the Royal Exchange over. Doctors treating their bubo-covered patients - which involved popping the swollen lymph nodes to drain fluid - wore full leather trench coats, hats, and face masks with frightening raven beaks poking through. Ravens were thought to be good luck, a sentiment the Scots interestingly shared with their brothers in Northeast Asia, the Manchus. Go figure. Must be a Dongbei thing. Anyway, the raven beaks were filled with herbs and sweet smelling stuff, anything to mask the stench of death and decay. Interestingly, these beaked masks are said to be the origin of the term "quack," because they looked like duck bills. As if the people on their deathbeds didn't have enough to be scared of, check out what this entire get-up looked like:

Scaaaary! Dude looks like a maniacal demon from a Dali painting. Bird Flu has nothing on this...

While the full tour through Mary King's Close remains fairly grounded in true life stories that are disturbing enough on their own, it is also a purported hotbed for supernatural activity. In the most famous case, a Japanese paranormal psychic investigating the close "discovered" a very strong presence in a stuffy and claustrophobic back room of the lowest level. To her surprise, it was a young girl named Annie, who was very sad to have lost her favourite doll. Boo-hoo, cry me a river. I think being dead should be more of a concern than a stupid doll. True or not, the story registered with overly sentimental visitors and now there is a huge pile of dolls in Annie's room, left behind to ease the child's pain.

For a brilliant full tour (including Annie's room) with UK television show, Most Haunted, check out parts one, two, three, four and five, ghost hunters.

Dolls freak me out already - with their unblinking eyes and evil smiles - so I was glad that little rotten Annie didn't find a need to play any tricks on us. Being slightly superstitious, we did worry about possibly offending her by forgetting to bring a gift (an Olympic Friendly would have been nice), but luckily she'd already been appeased that day. Frankly, I'd like to see her try and find me in Shanghai. Stupid brat.

The Royal Exchange, built on top of Mary King's buried close

In a city with such a healthy supernatural tourist trade, ghost tours abound like kilt shops on the Royal Mile or boils on a plague victim. The most famous, City of the Dead, run by Blackhart ghost tours, is billed as one of the most terrifying and dangerous of them all, with confirmed sightings, paranormal presences and unexplained phenomenon documented in newspapers around the world. After reading about the growing list of attacks on tour participants that leave them physically injured, how could we resist?

The tour's biggest selling point is the MacKenzie Poltergeist. Responsible for hundreds of attacks, this famous spirit is said to be of the late George "Bluidy" ("Bloody") MacKenzie, ruthless persecuter of the Covenanters, a Presbyterian sect who opposed the state-sanctioned Episcopal church in the 17th century. His ghost dwells within Greyfriar's Kirkyard, in a looming mausoleum adjacent to the former prison grounds where MacKenzie tossed his naked Covenanter prisoners to freeze to death in the Scottish winter. Pleasant fellow, this MacKenzie.

MacKenzie's Mausoleum

In the 90s, a filthy hobo seeking shelter from a blizzard broke into the mausoleum. Falling through a grate in the floor, he ended up in the crypt surrounded by 5 coffins (one including MacKenzie). Enterprising bugger as he was, he decided to make a quick buck and grave rob. As he banged and smashed on the coffins, the groundskepper heard the racket and went to investigate. Meanwhile, as the bum opened a coffin to see the horrifying skeleton within, he freaked out and clamored up to ground level to escape the crypt. What did he expect, the bleedin' idiot? Just as the groundskeeper opened the creaking doors and peered into the rank and dusty abyss, the terrified vagrant crawled through a hole in the floor.

Interior shot: that's the hole (back wall) the bum crawled through

Now, I don't know about you, but if I opened a crypt in the dead of night and saw someone vaguely resembling a ZOMBIE crawling through the floor, I'd have opened fire on his undead ass like Ash, Army of Darkness style. Unfortunately for entertaining storytelling, nothing came of the encounter, save for a near-miss heart attack. If you want colourful, fast forward to 2004, when some dumbass teenagers stole MacKenzie's head, raped the shiny orifices, then propped it atop a spike on the Kirkyard's gate. Those slightly disturbed chaps were swiftly hurled into the slammer, where their asses probably met a fate similar to the ones experienced by MacKenzie's eye sockets. As they duly deserved.

Lucky for you, dear reader, I wasn't arrested for grave-robbing or skull-fucking. Winding from Mercat Cross, the former close market on the Royal Mile, to Greyfriar's Kirkyard, a graveyard filled with over 5 layers of illegally dumped corpses, we arrived at the gates of the Covenanter's prison, which was chained shut with a huge, rusted lock. Until recently, this area had been closed by the local government because of the amount of unexplained attacks occuring on the site. In the late 90s, a deal was struck with Blackhart, who have the exclusive rights to conduct their controlled tours on a nightly basis. Luckily, we joined the 8:30 tour and there were still traces of light in the night sky. The 10:15 tour would have given me a heart attack.

Greyfriar's Kirkyard ("Church yard")

Standing in the graveyard, air chilled with mist and the hard ground cold and damp, we remained nervously silent as the guide gave us some precautions. She advised that if our feet started to feel a change in temperature, such as a sudden freeze or intense heat, to quickly shift positions, lest we fall victim to the poltergeist. Literally. On past tours, participants have been known to feel nauseous, get light-headed, or even pass out from whatever supernatural (or psychological) force haunts this place. We were also advised not freak out if we heard or saw anything unnatural. Like a queue of quiet and orderly mainlanders waiting at a bus stop. Zing!

Despite a little anxiety, I honestly was more curious than scared, since most of the guide's stories sounded believable enough. Suspicious that she would try to pull a fast one on us, I tried my best to remain composed and absorb everything with a healthy dose of skepticism, channeling my inner Dana Scully. But once we entered the first mausoleum, it was hard to ignore the sheer creepiness of our surroundings.

I'm not quite sure when you last visited a crypt at nighttime, so let me refresh your memory. The walls, covered in centuries of grit and growth, dark and damp with age, stained black from years in darkness. The smell, moldy and fetid, intensified by the closed quarters and wet earth below. The cold air, stale and still, home to what may or may not be a malicious spirit with intentions to harm silly tourists. Haunted or not, sharing an enclosed space with corpses inches below your feet won't help you sleep easy.

The second mausoleum was worse. The ceiling crept uncomfortably close to our heads, the walls were black as tar, and the smell was increasingly more overpowering. The group's anxiety was palpable, a perfect opportunity for the guide's inevitable bait and switch.

As I mentioned before, this tour is actually world-famous for the documented attacks. Scare tactics aside, the case investigations have been aired on numerous television shows and tracked in newspapers around the globe. Huge bruises, deep slashes, scratches and cuts. Even puncture marks. Our guide was quick to point out that not all tours guarantee an attack, but that the percentage of people who are either attacked on site or discover a wound on their body after returning home is high enough to warrant the attention. Enough said. So for the sake of deeper connections, she decided to share her most frightening encounter...

Months back, conveniently in the *very same* mausoleum, she began to tell a group the story of that crypt's recurring haunt. About the ghost of a young shirtless boy who was frequently sighted standing near the doorway, back to the crowd, face in the corner, Blair Witch-style. Next to him stood a tall man, who was unidentifiable. As she told the tale to that group, the Zippo lighter she had been flicking on and off suddenly jerked, as if someone had grabbed it. The force would not let go and the guide began to panic. As she looked down, she swore she could see the boy pulling her hand.

Our group listened intently to her account, leaning forward and frozen in place, huddled together as the guide wove her tale and flicked the very same lighter by the mausoleum entrance. We all focused intently on that lighter, waiting breathlessly for the story to continue, perhaps catching our own glimpse of the young phantom. Then, out of thin air, a towering masked figure, over 6 feet tall and the size of a healthy linebacker, came barreling through the doorway at a sprinter's pace, screaming like a banshee and inspiring an immediate flood of incontinence that left a big shameful surprise in my underpants.

Instantly and without thinking, I released an inhuman exclamation that sounded something like WHOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAGGGGHHH HO-HO-HO! I'm not sure if that extra Santa Claus bit at the end was instinctual, but my bellow echoed off the walls, intensifying in volume and setting off the rest of the group in a chorus of screams. Immediately following the last "ho", I realized that it was just a fake, a so-called "jumper 'ooter" employed to scare the bejeezus out of tourists, and I broke out into intense, nervous laughter. I've previously never released such a powerful noise from my body and my throat and diaphragm hurt for the rest of the night.

The guide apologized for purposely causing us to soil ourselves, but added that it served a purpose. Supposedly, since ghosts are made up of pheromones (did you know this?), they are attracted to people who release large amounts of the stuff, especially when it's produced by fear. Just like a dog. So in that minute of intense, concentrated fright, we had apparently unleashed a flood of fear pheromones for the ghosts in the building to eat their fill. A little sacrificial offering for sparing us any physical harm that night.

My lucky card: Had I picked the "right" one, I would have had to go into the crypt first, alone.

As the tour ended, my heart was still racing and my throat was scratchy. In our attempts to assuage the fear filling us inside, we tried to break it down scientifically. Of course we'd feel sensations of cold, the ground was damp and freezing! Of course our pictures would have strange anomalies appearing in the frame, since most shots of dark interiors use flash that reflects off floating dust! Of course my arms are covered in scratches, that lady next to me almost ripped my arm off when that dude jumped out at us! And so on. But even as we returned to our B&B, we still couldn't shake that sense of dread that lingers after a really good ghost story and spent the night huddled in a corner, taking turns at watch duty with a flashlight and Ecto Blaster.

III. Whisky A-Go-Go

OK, class, enough ghost stories. It's analogy time again. Here we go:

Italy : Wine :: Russia : ?

Vodka! That's pretty much a no brainer, since they drink so much of the stuff it could double as cologne. How about another?

America : Beer :: Scotland : ?

No, not the blood of the English. Whisky! Or, should I say, "uisge," the water of life and alcoholic pride of the land. Don't confuse it with whiskEy, for the real Scottish stuff doesn't need that pansy "e" at the end (save that for American, Japanese, or Irish stuff). In fact, in order for it to legally be called whisky, it has to be aged for at least 3 years on Scottish soil. And, please, there's no need to call it Scotch either. That's more inexcusably redundant than ordering French Fries in France.

As everyone knows (and has been incessantly asking about), when in Scotland, you must try the whisky. And try I did. But what some may not know is just how extensive and complex the art of whisky making and tasting can be. Like any other fine spirit, the culture and history behind this liquid gold is fascinating.

On our journey, we made a morning stop at the Scottish Whisky Experience, located just outside the castle gates on the Royal Mile. In order to understand a new culture, there's nothing better than living like a local; so getting drunk before noon would be wholly authentic. And they even give a discount before 12. I love this place!



As a novice whisky drinker and wannabe connoisseur, I paid rapturous attention to our tour guide, professor of Whisky 101. From the grain to the bottle, the Experience tour is a comprehensive and understandable lesson in the art of whisky making and appreciation. Although the corny video presentations and goofy Disney animatronics were a little lazy, they were packed to the brim with useful information. I'll try my best to break it down in the simplest fashion possible, since I myself am still new to this.

Whisky begins as most things on this planet: a seed. Barley, to be exact. This barley can be malted, creating darker malt whisky, or it can be unmalted and mixed with other grains, such as maize or wheat, creating a lighter grain whisky.

Thus, we have malt whiskies and grain whiskies, which can be combined to create a third type, the blended whisky.

Assuming a malt whisky is from one distillery and is not mixed like its blended brothers, it is called single malt. These are the studs of the bunch, generally preferred over the others for its purity. I personally take offense to that Third Reich-style of thought, since I've heard things that are mixed tend to be quite tasty and enjoyable. Pretty good writing skills, too.

So how do they make the whisky? Well, you take that grain and toss it into a big metal thing. After festering in there for a while, fumes are released and collected in another metal thing. This run-off is the colorless and possibly lethal alcohol that will eventually graduate the whisky academy. Expert sniffers stuff their noses into these spirits, judging and calculating any number of secret factors that only they can mysteriously understand after decades of being in a perpetual state of contact-high inebriation. You can tell by my lack of technical prowess that my whisky-making skills are not yet up to par, so I recommend reading up on the process if you really care.

The glorious liquid, still potent enough to kill a small horse, is dumped into a big cask and left alone to age for years and years. Cheaper varieties can be bottled after a few years of waiting; while the big guns take anywhere from 15 to 25 years and above to properly age. The colour of the whisky is sucked from the cask's wood, creating noticeable differences when comparing young, amber whiskies with their mature, golden siblings.

Depending on where the distillery is located also plays a huge part in the flavour of the whisky. Let's take the two whiskies I sampled as examples:

First, our group enjoyed a dram of Ben Nevis, a 21 year old, 111% proof Western Highland whisky categorized by its full amber colour, sweet nose and full body. Distilled at the foot of the eponymous mountain, the tallest in the UK, Ben Nevis is one of many distilleries that is foreign-owned (in this case, by the Japanese). In fact, of the 76 distilleries in Scotland, only 14 are wholly owned and run by Scots. That shocking statistic seemed a little depressing to me, almost like outsourcing American jobs to cheap slave labour in Mexico and Southeast Asia. While we're on the topic of foreign involvement, even the aging casks used by many Scottish distilleries are imported: Jack Daniels, for example, tosses it's barrels after a single use (wasteful Americans!), so the Scots snatch those up for discount prices. Why waste a perfectly good cask? Anyway, back to the bottle.

On first sniff, the Ben Nevis was pleasant and light, the fumes bearable enough for me to retain consciousness. The flavour had hints of toffee and caramel, leaving a nice sweet aftertaste. But those were hints, mind you. Nothing too overpowering to distract the drinker, like the delicious honey whiskies or heather cream whiskies (similar to their Irish cousin, Bailey's) we tried in Spean Bridge.

My second sample was a complete sensory opposite. After the tour, at the fully-stocked whisky bar, visitors with enough money can try any whisky they desire with staff on hand to explain and offer advice. Rather than being a dick and ordering the generic "best" they had, I requested a dram of whisky that could give me a more unique and authentic understanding of what a truly special Scottish whisky was supposed to taste like. Almost unanimously, every staff member recommended the Lagavulin, a 16 year old, 85 proof Islay Malt.

Lagavulin

Islay Malts - and any whisky created near the sea, for that matter - are uniquely distinct from their inland counterparts in their full and savoury taste. Distilled along the Scottish coast, the whisky has hints of peat, sea air and salt, immediately apparent upon first sip. I admit that my initial sniff caused me to shiver like a baby tasting a lemon for the first time. The first taste, harsh and very strong, resulted in an even more violent gag. It was pretty fucking foul. However, after my nose stopped burning and my tongue registered that this was supposed to be pleasurable, the flavour set in. A smoky bouquet like BBQ beef jerky filled my nasal cavity, the thick peaty odor drifting around my head like a cloud of burning compost. The salty ocean air made a brief appearance before it all evaporated and left a curiously fruity aftertaste.

Surprised by the entire experience that had just transpired in under a minute's time, I continued to sip my 4 quid dram to the very last drop. Talking with the staff, they professed their love for Lagavulin because of its special taste and true representation of Islay Malt character, many citing it as their #1 choice for best whisky in the land. [Pessimists, don't think I haven't thought of you during all this. Before you think that they were pimping Lagavulin so hard because it was the most expensive shot, you're wrong. It was actually midway on the price-range of the whisky menu. This isn't China, people.]

Sweet, sweet whisky

Seeing the excitement and twinkle in the eyes of each tour guide, I was convinced. After finishing my glass, I cannot say I'm a huge fan of that pungent, smoky taste, but I can see how people can fall in love with its sheer complexity. When I accidentally asked about putting ice in whisky (a HUGE no-no, only spring water is acceptable), they reacted as if I just stomped a kitten to death with my bare feet. It's like ketchup on rice, mixing red and white wine, or ordering chicken at a steak house. Faux pas central! When they regained composure and pulled the new guy's hands from my throat, one guide actually admitted that there is no "right" way to drinking whisky, as long as you enjoy the experience. I couldn't have agreed more. The taste lingered for the rest of the day, reminding me of its presence with every burp, and I was just happy that I walked out of that place on my own two feet.

Order a dram or three!

Coming up next, the penultimate chapter of these here adventures: Episode 9, Monster Hunting In The Highlands...