Nosings and musings at Talisker

In the morning, after a breakfast of blood sausage and French toast, we motor past the Isle of Soay and shrouded Cuillin Hills with waterfalls spilling tinted water the color of whisky from the peaty hillsides into the sea. By noon we are anchored at Loch Harport and the Talisker Distillery, the end of my Classic Malt Cruise.

Graham and I spend the afternoon with Charlie Smith, the genial distillery manager, drinking and talking about the whisky Charlie makes. Whisky may have come from the Irish, Charlie says, “but it’s the Scots who took it to heart. Life here is hard and just making a living in Scotland has always been difficult. I suppose you could look on whisky as being God’s consolation to the Scots. It brings us together and gives us warmth on bitter winter nights.”

That night, the distillery puts on a ceilidh up on the hill overlooking the calm sea as slow-flying gulls swoop low over the silvery surface. I sit outside, despite the midgies, and soak it all in. Beside me are Charlie and Graham.

Inexplicably, I feel melancholy. Sad to be off the boat, I suppose. End of the whisky cruise and all that. I even feel like I’m going to miss Graham. In fact, I have this sudden crazy notion to call Michael back in Glasgow and see if he’s able to drive me around Scotland for a couple more weeks. Or maybe I should just stay here, in Loch Harport, and do something purposeful with my life like be a shrimp fisherman. Or open a tapas bar. Everything here just feels so…peaceful. And in its proper place.

Perhaps sensing my mood, Charlie, who, with his flashing blue eyes and firm chin looks a bit like a kilt-wearing Paul Newman, holds his glass of whisky out in front of him and says, “Sitting here, it’s easy to forget what year it is. It’s just the way it was a hundred years ago. It’s not hard to imagine someone sitting here, a very long time ago, looking at this same view, taking warmth and solace from a wee dram of whisky, just as we’re doing.”

I gently stick an elbow in Charlie’s side, ribbing him for being sentimental. “That’s just the whisky talking,” I say.

“Nay, it’s true,” says Graham. “There’s a kind of sacred notion in the drinking of whisky in a place like this.” Then he pauses for a moment as the three of us take in the magnificence of our surroundings. Far away in the distance, I hear the bleat of a lamb. “I mean, here we are,” he continues in a low voice, “looking at the ageless sea and the green hills, sipping our whisky, and it’s all just…heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

Ever the wise guy, I tell Graham that I’m considering staying here and opening a tapas bar.

“You should think hard about it,” Graham says in all seriousness. “Really hard.”

And for a fleeting moment, I do.

That night, after the ceilidh, I call Michael. He can’t drive me around next week but he’s got a buddy who’s available.

“His name is Charles,” Michael says. “I should think you two will hit it off just fine.”

I’m looking forward to it.