They walked round the crescent of Port Ellen’s main street, a slate sea and gritty beach to their left, a row of twee, whitewashed fishermen’s cottages on the right. Snowclouds were breaking up into a dappled sky as a sharp westerly brought salty freshness to their noses.
As the only previous visitor, Adam was tour guide. They’d already dumped their bags in the B amp;B at the other end of Frederick Crescent and were heading to the closer of the town’s two pubs for a liquid lunch. After that the plan was to head out the coast road for some distillery visits. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg were all within four miles. Three of the best whiskies in the world, all made on the same stretch of remote, craggy coastline. Adam could taste the peat and seaweed already, or maybe that was the finish of Roddy’s single-cask Port Ellen still on his tongue.
The Ardview Inn was indistinguishable from neighbouring B amp;Bs and homes, sea-blasted white walls and black window frames, stunted palm tree planted in a half barrel across the road. As they approached, a slim figure came outside and lit up. She was young and tall with a long mess of scraggy black hair, and she shivered against the wind in skinny T-shirt and combats.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Roddy. ‘High Street honey at twelve o’clock.’
The rest of them had already noticed, of course, but only Roddy would comment. As they reached the door she lifted a shoulder to let them past, Roddy going first, passing close and eyeballing.
‘Hi, there,’ he said, lingering at the door.
She raised a weary eyebrow and put on a smile that said she had his number.
Roddy checked her out a moment longer then fired in, the rest in his wake.
Inside, four locals turned and stared. An old couple with collapsed faces and blood-burst noses turned back to their cloudy half-and-a-halfs, two younger guys in Meatloaf and Maiden sweatshirts getting back to swapping bullshit over shiny Kawasakis in a magazine. Adam looked at his watch and resisted the urge to press the button.
‘Grab a seat, amigos,’ said Roddy, ‘I’ll get them in.’
They sat at a scuffed wooden bench with shiny grey leatherette padding.
‘So what’s the plan, like?’ said Luke.
Adam grinned and rubbed his hands together.
‘Couple of distillery visits this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Laphroaig, Ardbeg and Lagavulin are all just along the coast, I thought we’d take in a couple of them.’
Ethan nodded keenly. ‘Did you see that Ardbeg’s Uigeadail got World Whisky of the Year in Jim Murray’s new Whisky Bible?’
Adam snorted. ‘That old hack is obsessed with Ardbeg. There are eight bloody pages of Ardbeg in there. Don’t get me wrong, Uigeadail is a fine malt but the basic ten-year-old is better, so’s that Corryvreckan they’ve been punting.’
‘Have you tasted Lord of the Isles?’ said Ethan.
Adam nodded. ‘Way more fruity than the others, cherries and tangerines. Stupidly overpriced, though, it’s?200 in the distillery shop.’
‘That Ardbeg at the Society was the business, man,’ Luke drawled.
It always surprised Adam what a good memory Luke had, considering how much he toked. All four of them were members of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society back in Edinburgh where they had nights out every couple of months, usually at the ancient Vaults bondhouse in Leith or occasionally in the corporate-whore cash-in joint on Queen Street. A few months back they’d tried a young first-fill sherry-butt Ardbeg, only nine years old but complex and challenging.
Their expeditions to the Society were just about the only time they saw each other these days, twenty years on from when they’d first met as fellow maths students at Edinburgh Uni, four outsiders who didn’t fit the geeky cliques and nerdy stereotypes. Over those years their lives had drifted apart, but their love of whisky had somehow kept them tethered together, that and a shared reluctance to give up entirely on the promise of their teenage years.
Adam looked around the bar. The low ceiling and small windows made it feel like they were in a ship’s hold, with wood panelling, battered chairs, seafaring memorabilia and cheap tiles all straight out of the seventies. There was an acrid stench coming from the bogs. He’d been in here a few times on previous visits to the island, only for a nightcap, as he didn’t like nursing a pint on his own, especially when the locals were all shitfaced. Why expose yourself to that when you’ve got a bottle of quality malt back at the B amp;B?
He’d been six times in the last ten years, always on his own, a busman’s holiday away from the shop. He’d worked at Edinburgh Whiskies all that time and had talked about leaving for most of it. The shop sat amongst all the tartan tat sellers at the top of the Royal Mile, and as a result made most of its money selling Bell’s miniatures, whisky fudge and malt-scented soap to ignorant tourists. They actually stocked some of the best malts in the world, but trying to get vacant-headed visitors interested was like pulling teeth. He got plenty of perks — free tastings, staff discount and occasional jollies to industry events — but that didn’t compensate for the daily grind of explaining the basics to arseholes, and punting shortbread and branded golf balls. Adam grimaced as he pictured his daily walk to work up the length of the Royal Mile, trudging past the endless string of garish, embarrassing tourist traps, elbowing through gangs of foreigners taking pictures of crumbling buildings, a dark cloud over his head the whole way.
All the time he’d worked there he’d never made it near management, always been passed over. He knew he wasn’t a team player; he couldn’t give a fuck about promotional campaigns or innovative stock control methods or whatever, so he wasn’t surprised. These days his boss was an amiable Canadian with a beer belly and a mullet, and he worked alongside a student with model looks who spoke Japanese, German and Swedish, and a keen little shit doing night classes in business management.
He looked over at the bar. Roddy was chatting away to the girl from outside, who turned out to be the barmaid. Her body language was aloof but she was smiling as he leaned over to her, then she laughed and played with her hair as he offered his money.
‘He’s well coked, man,’ said Luke, following Adam’s gaze. ‘Still buzzing from last night?’
All of them had been invited to Amber, Roddy’s idea of a pre-weekend whisky warm-up, but Ethan and Luke had perhaps wisely declined. Adam had a vague memory of stumbling out of the place into a taxi, leaving Roddy chatting to a waitress as the place closed up.
‘Could be.’
‘He needs to calm down,’ said Ethan.
‘Fat chance,’ said Adam.
Roddy quit flirting and brought the drinks over. Adam noticed the barmaid checking out Roddy’s arse as he walked towards them. Jesus, how did he do it?
‘Man, that is one dirty little minx,’ said Roddy.
‘Don’t be a twat,’ said Adam. ‘You only spoke for two minutes.’
‘Long enough.’
‘Did you even get her name?’
‘I did as it happens. Ash.’
‘And how did it go with the waitress last night? Can you remember her name?’
Roddy gave him a pitying look. ‘Her name was Julie. I should remember, I was howling it all night long.’
‘You were up all night?’ said Ethan.
Roddy nodded. ‘In both senses of the word, Mortgage Boy. A few lines and a couple of little blues.’
Adam knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t help himself. ‘Little blues?’
‘Viagra, you fuckwit, get with the twenty-first century.’
‘You take Viagra?’
‘Got to keep up with the ching. Hard as a fucking brick for six hours. Still got a semi now.’
Roddy didn’t have an off button, no sense of embarrassment could penetrate his shield of self-delusion. On the other hand, he was the millionaire at the table, so maybe the delusion was all Adam’s.
He couldn’t resist. ‘And how’s Imogen? Wedding plans going fine?’
Roddy didn’t flinch. ‘Midge is great, thanks. And yes, plans for the nuptials are proceeding apace. Invites will be in the post in a few weeks. I know what you’re getting at, Mr High Ground, but it’s human nature, I’m just sowing my last few wild oats before taking the final plunge.’
‘So all this will stop when you’ve got a ring on your finger?’
Roddy grinned. ‘Of course.’
Only Roddy would have the bollocks to screw around behind the back of a gorgeous model fiancee, but then only Roddy could’ve got a gorgeous model fiancee in the first place.
Roddy pointed at the table. He’d bought four double nips.
‘Come on, then, gaylords,’ he said.
They went through the routine of eyeing and swirling, nosing then sipping. Adam looked at the bar. It was only a crappy wee local but they had dozens of malts on the gantry. Whisky was soaked into every facet of life on Islay, eight distilleries amid a population of only three thousand producing millions of gallons of the stuff every year, generating billions of pounds which all left the island to multinational owners in Italy, Japan and America.
They guessed in turn. Ethan nailed his maker, Caol Ila, but not the age, while Luke was way off with his Bruichladdich seven-year-old Waves, guessing at Bowmore. Luke didn’t really have the palate for tasting but didn’t seem to give a shit; he liked the whole vibe. Ethan was better but a bit trainspottery, while Roddy didn’t care as long as he got to flash his cash and buy them. Adam took another sip. It was smoky, all right, and salty, but something wasn’t quite right. There was a shitload of spice and pepper in there, chocolate too. Then it clicked.
‘Talisker,’ he said as Roddy beamed. Skye whisky, not Islay.
‘Thought I’d get you by going off the island. What age?’
Adam sipped again. Not the basic ten, but not a pensioner either. ‘Eighteen?’
‘Spot on,’ said Roddy and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a great fucking weekend.’
They all clinked.
‘And to unleashing a couple of little blues on that number over there,’ he said, nodding at the barmaid.