Smoky spirits, blazing skies: Fèis diary
Shore leave: Gordon enters the realm of the senses (drams may have been taken)
Sunshine, swimming, live music and heavenly liquid shared with friends and strangers: a few days on Islay at the annual whisky festival is a tonic for the soul, finds Gordon Thomson
Like the clouds parting to reveal a piercing blue sky on a summer’s afternoon on the shores of Loch Indaal – and oh my we got a few of those – my festival hangover has finally lifted and, through its happy fog, I look back fondly on another joyous Fèis Ìle, memorable for so many reasons.
This isle beguiles, bewitches and entrances anew on every visit. It didn’t fail to conjure all kinds of magic this time around. Old friends gathered and many new friends were made. The days were long – dreamlike and golden, a bit like the perfect dram.
There was a campfire party in the gloaming, hosted by Elixir whisky’s head blender Oliver Chilton next to a hidden bothy, revealed perfectly in a glade above a brook. BBQs fired out venison burgers, charred scallops and tender lamb chops. Wispy smoke rose from a firepit where marshmallows were being toasted on spits, before being served as a toothsome s’more, the ideal companion to Oliver’s smoky new Elements of Islay Campfire whisky.
Smoke gets in your eyes: the Elixir bothy campfire gets underway
We swam at Saligo Bay, on the stillest of late May mornings, plunging deliriously into the cool clear water with just a dog walker and whistling lapwings for company.
And, of course, there were streams of whisky, poured out in those proud, austere courtyards of Victorian splendour, the whitewashed warehouse walls echoing to the sounds of soul-nourishing music, throaty laughter – and countless noisy choruses of slainte!
I was there for three days this year, and visited some places for the first time in years.
Bowmore. Laphroaig. Kilchoman (my first trip). Port Ellen (likewise), revered places that always put on great carnivals of whisky, music and food for Fèis.
At Bowmore, our effervescent host Daryl Haslane, treated us to a stately 1965 expression, summoned from some blessed barrel, and we sighed and sniffed it contentedly in a dreamy walled garden festooned with palm trees.
‘There were streams of whisky, poured out in those proud, austere courtyards of Victorian splendour, the whitewashed warehouse walls echoing to the sounds of soul-nourishing music’
Kilchoman – Islay’s only farm distillery – cooked up fun tastings in the steamy still room, floor maltings and warehouse, and served cocktails, Finlaggan ales and dozens of hard-to-source expressions in their enormous indoor bar and shop, which was rammed all day long. It’s hard to believe they’ve been going for 20 years already. I can still taste the juicy fresh sweetness of the sublime 13 year old ex-bourbon cask expression a friend kindly bought for a few of us to sample. It was one of the standout whiskies of the week.
Hands off! Kilchoman’s bottles are a prize worth seeking
At Port Ellen, things were different. The distillery is still shiny and new, reopened last year after a 40-year long hibernation. They have plenty of tradition and heritage to draw on of course but, for now, with only new make spirit coming off those pristine stills, they’re looking forward. An ambient Philip Glass-like soundtrack floated up across the forecourt, as we wandered through to sip some strong house stout and Caol Ile highballs. There were DJs rather than fiddly-diddlers, scannable QR codes instead of Quaichs. It will be interesting to see where this journey takes them.
Got any Runrig? Port Ellen’s resident DJs about to unleash their ambient set
Every day brought conviviality and capers. New whisky to try. Favourite pours to revisit and share. Groups of lads and lassies dressed up for the day/ whole week in matching outfits – orange wigs with reflector sunglasses; biker jackets with distillery names emblazoned on the back like cherished bands. You’d run into them at every distillery open day and smile at the familiar cluster of identical drinkers readying for another salvo.
At Laphroaig, a bunch of people I was with had a go at archery, having spied some targets set up beneath the warehouse wall on the shore. The budding Robin Hoods had a fine old time trying to outdo each other with their longbows, though as arrow after arrow whizzed harmlessly over the target into the long grass, it was mainly the local rabbits who were running for cover.
‘Groups of lads and lassies dressed up in matching outfits – orange wigs with reflector sunglasses; biker jackets with distillery names emblazoned on the back’
Wonderful music from local bands played from makeshift stages at every distillery: tear-jerking folk and country, sprightly Highland reels, generations-old laments. Accordions and fiddles soared. Guitars lashed. Drums pounded. Everyone danced. There was funk. Electronic. Punk. Pop. And, at one point, all of that mixed together (or that could have been one too many whiskies). Certainly there was AC/DC with bagpipes. Why the hell not.
Bowmore’s band with no name: available for Waterboys covers and other classics
In the courtyard at Bowmore, a tight, modern-sounding four-piece whose name I never found out – does anyone remember? – played a lovely version of The Whole of The Moon by The Waterboys, and I stood looking out beyond the stage to the distant peaks of the Paps of Jura, the warm sun on my face, as the crowd sang along to the refrain – ‘Too high! Too far! TOO SOON!’ One of many blissful moments.
You were never far from something incredible to eat. I scoffed half a dozen Guinard Bay oysters every day from the Islay Oyster Shed stall like they were a local cornershop snack. It’s easy to take the food of the gods for granted here. Salmon. Langoustine. Lobster. Beef. All of it as fresh as the dew. A middling morsel did not pass my mouth all week I swear.
On a quick solo jaunt to Bruichladdich for a nose around the distillery shop and a lunchtime sip of their Fèis releases, I stopped off at the local mini-market/café to wolf down a square sausage sandwich. A woman walked in with a three-legged dog and announced she’d just returned from a month in remotest Ardnamurchan, where her only company had been some sheep and cows. Her companion nodded and returned to sipping her coffee. Nothing to see here.
There’s a genuine sense of community spirit on the island, of course. And a fine, sometimes hard to read, sense of humour.
Take the taxi driver that we encountered, standing by his people carrier with a pal, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, as we got lost driving to that campfire party.
Lutz, Susan and Tommy with some very special Kilchoman pours
‘Who’s the responsible adult here?’ he asked, in a tone of friendly menace, after admonishing us for being late to the soiree (how did he know?). Peering wearily into our vehicle, he was clearly unimpressed by the youthfulness of our driver. But also by our collectively mute response to the mind-boggling directions he’d just given us to get back on track – a series of left-turns, straight-aheads, right-past-the-white-gates, across-the main-roads (‘make sure ye stop and look both ways!’) and down through the woods – all of this accompanied by rapid-fire hand signals, like he was conducting an orchestra through a particularly sprightly movement.
‘A quick jab to the ribs, followed by a playful ruffling of the hair and then a protective arm around the shoulder – Islay folk in a nutshell’
In the end he harrumphed loudly and told us to follow him. He’d lead us up there. And he did, at a fair old lick (my friend’s car’s suspension may never recover). We all of us had a good laugh together about our group’s general uselessness, before he sped off to greet his next unsuspecting mainlander.
For me, this is Islay folk in a nutshell. A quick jab to the ribs, followed by a playful ruffling of the hair and then a protective arm around the shoulder. These are people you’d want in your corner.
I met so many great people, from all walks of life, brought together by a shared love of whisky, Scotland, nature, beauty, and the pursuit of a good time with like-minded people in one of the most special places on earth.
Saligo Bay, wild swimming nirvana
Special, truly, was the gorgeous country pile I was fortunate enough to be sequestered in (and no I’m not going to tell you where it is), as a guest of the man who created The Macbeth Whisky Collection. Friendly and interesting folk came and went all week, and we enjoyed great nights there, with incredible food, terrific whisky and much laughter.
What will I truly remember when it all fades? That. The people. The craic. The craggy shore and the copper glow of the stills. The freezing hot chill on my legs as I walked out of the water at Saligo Bay. A sleekit wildcat scorching into the gorse as we drove the road to Kilchoman. The wooly conversations that only seem to unfurl in places like this, when time is untethered.
I’m smiling as I recall a cloudy orange sunset over Bowmore as we sat in the garden of Lucci’s bar – which felt like the centre of the universe for the time we were there – sipping cold Tennent’s and talking about nothing much at all.
We drank it all in.
And we’ll drink it all in again next year.
