September 2017 Inverness, Nairn, Ballachullish, Fort William

Day 1

JS and I arrive in Inverness with the Caledonian Sleeper at the scheduled time, or thereabout. We go to the usual place for breakfast (café Artysans). I have a savoury waffle, which is disappointing. Will not stop us coming back, though!

Bacon on toast

Savoury waffle

We take a stroll into town, call at the Whisky Shop (aka high-street robbery) and end up at Leakey's, a second-hand book shop in an old church. Amazing shop if I know one!

Many old prints, some of castles, some of birds, maps, and some of  unsuspected places. JS giggles when she finds one of Namur... only to find one from Huy a minute later.

Bingo!

After a inordinate amount of time looking at books and prints, we board a train to Nairn, which we reach hours earlier than scheduled.
The first person we meet on the road out of the station insults me because he feels I force him onto the road -- I have a huge backpack and a tent, he is empty-handed. There is no traffic.
At the B&B, the room is ready. that will save us from wandering about with our backpacks.
The host is a David Cameron, who complains that someone down in London has been cashing his cheques for a while.
We settle down, take a walk alongside the river Nairn and onto the harbour, where it starts raining. I spot what I think are oystercatchers, but quickly turn out to be ringed plovers (first time), and two curlews, which JS assured me (correctly) are redshanks (first time too). Good day, then. :)

The rain vanishes as we reach the seafront. The promenade west takes us past an exercise park, where we exercise (there is a ski simulator -- ha! ha!) Further on, right before the golf club, we meet a friendly cat in a residential area, then we go back inland.

Wochu lookin' at?

Time for a shower, then food at The Classroom. I have mussels, then trio of pork, while JS has the soup of the day, then the catch of the day (I forget what it is).

We round it off by splitting a plate of churros and I sip a Longrow 12yo 100 PROOF. The whole is very nice, though the whisky is served in an inadequate glass.

Day 2

Healthy start

Heavier finish

A bit of a lie-in, on this nice Friday. Breakfast (full Scottish) puts me in the right mood, yet the long train journey from yesterday is taking its toll: three naps by lunch time. \o/
Around 14:00, JS and I take the shuttle to Cawdor castle, where registrations take place. It is also where competitors retrieve the hired bikes.

As a side note, it is a picturesque castle

Ugh? Competitors? Bike hire? Yes. JS really wanted to take part in RatRace's Coast to Coast. Since part of that is done in pairs, I (a little reluctantly) accepted to accompany her. I do not do organised races, you see: the people, the noise, the competition aspect... I like solace in my exercise. However, I love Scotland (there is a piece of news and a half!); that made it easier to give in.
There are too many people for me already at the registration. Bah. All those will certainly be spread out during the race itself. We are given the bib and kit, before we collect and try our bicycles. Good gear, it would seem. More and more competitors arrive, forming huge queues. Luckily, we are done.

Let the suckers queue

The below becomes stuck in my head for the rest of the trip. The lyrics will give a clue as to why. :-)

While on site, we visit the castle grounds -- no time to see the inside of Cawdor castle, unfortunately. All the same, the grounds are wonderful, with tidy hedges, lots of manicured bushes and flowers, a maze (unfortunately shut) and many birds (robins and one song thrush, among others). From the back of the castle, several forest trails meander. No time to follow them.

I have a similar picture taken 26 years earlier

Butterfly sunbathing

The maze

A less well-known angle

Forestry

It takes us a long time to get the shuttle back, and we quickly understand why when it finally appears: the driver, in a bid to be helpful and nice, offers to stop anywhere; lack of decision means we stop too often and too long, which delays the following courses. Argh.
Regardless, after a ten-minute journey, we are back in Nairn and head for the Classroom again: soup of the day (different day, different soup) for JS, haggis balls for me, seafood tagliatelle for JS, trio of pork for me. Great again.


Early-ish night. Tomorrow is a big day.

Day 3

We arranged to have breakfast early, and a lighter breakfast it is too (porridge, fruit and salmon on toast). Most at the B&B this morning are doing the same, all here for the race as they are.

Healthy

Still healthey

Healthy again

But I am brave (and a bit foolish)

Time to head for the departure with Wave 3. We drop off our baggage, which is transported to tonight's destination by lorry. Then, it is the enclosure by the start line. The enclosure is full as we arrive, packed with Dutch and Belgians.

The smell of beer and cheese is almost unbearable

The briefing we get is really: a weather forecast, a call to help each other, and a warning that a piece of wind turbine is being transported around midday in the Fort Augustus area; should anyone be there at that time, the road will be closed for almost an hour, thanks for your understanding. The bloke adds that we would have to be pretty quick indeed to be impacted, as that is so soon and far away, yet he had to say it. A huge murmur of disapproval comes from the runners at his doubting our capabilities, which amuses me greatly. And finally, it is on.
It is an easy, if muddy run alongside the Nairn river, then into the woods, past the Royal Brackla distillery and to Cawdor castle, eleven kilometres away. The pace is very leisurely for me and I do not even break a sweat. The day is young, though and the route is so crowded, it is irritatingly difficult to progress any quicker.
At Cawdor, we struggle to find our bikes amongst the hundreds of them. We eventually meet them exactly where we left them. D'oh.
A bit of stretching, then we begin the bike ride: eighty kilometres on road. The weather is brilliant. The road is mostly flat and the ride uneventful. Again, it is too crowded to be comfortable, or even enjoyable. I am also furious at the amount of rubbish left on the ground by other cyclists. I cannot stop each time to pick it up, though.
Towards the end, the final hill pass is rather challenging, though it corresponds more to my recollection of cycling in Scotland than the previous seventy kilometres. Once at the summit, a photographer snipes everyone, as an organiser yells that we only have two kilometres left -- all downhill.

I am ogling the horizon
Yet I see no challenge

Downhill it is, too, with steep 12% descents. Any incident would be lethal, yet we suffer none. The disc-brakes are put to good use, though -- it is open road, after all ("we did not manage to close Scotland for you," they said). I will discover tomorrow that I have been using the front brake almost exclusively; somehow, the front brake is on the right-hand side, opposite to every bicycle I have ever ridden. Flipping Brits!

JS shows them pushers how a bike is supposed to be used

We reach Fort Augustus easily, in glorious sunshine. Short run to the kayak line, where we have to queue for twenty minutes (that count in our total time) to take our shoes off (on gravel -- aouch!) and embark. The navigation is a pathetically short loop around two buoys. Is that what we trained for? Ah well.

Don't stop moving baby
All that paddling drive me crazy

Some take a well-deserved dip. The loch water is blistering cold.
We return to the campsite, pitch the tent, take a shower, then queue for a hot dog (the wait for a pizza is an hour). Staff are flying drones above the site.

Foot-long hot dogs
Classic above
Krakauer below

The amount of litter everywhere is quickly out of control. In fact, the whole feels like a frat trip, with a band that plays until late, lots of smoking (cigarettes) and copious quantities of beer. Strange way to approach a physical challenge, I tell myself.

Good to sleep in a tent again, though

I fall asleep easily, though I do not sleep particularly well and wake up several times.

Day 4

It is raining. Shit. When camping, what can be worse than unpitching a wet tent? We do it anyway, and easily too -- modern tents present no challenge, any longer. Speaking of tents, some have been "deposited" in the communal skip, alongside insulation mattresses and other pieces of kit, sacrificed on the altar of performance. Why bring your tent back, when it cost £20 and dumping it can help you shave off two minutes off your overall time? Disgusting waste. The rubbish everywhere is now shocking too. Breakfast (fruit and porridge) is as squandered as everything else, with apples being tossed in the rubbish untouched, energy-bar wrappings littering the floor, half-eaten porridge cups etc. Revolting.
Our first challenge today is cycling. Fifty kilometres, to be precise -- almost nothing. Oh! Off-road cycling. The first half is deliciously flat and follows an old train track (where we spot a red squirrel crossing the path), then a towpath. It would be a wonderful day out, were it not for the downpour. A weir about a third in makes my feet all wet. My toes start freezing and will never recover whilst on the bike. We are also covered in mud. The best is yet to come, though: half of the route is a trail through the woods with sharp slopes -- ups and downs. The ups are steep and hard to negotiate, with all the riders who stop and go, and the downs are very dangerous. One false move and we fly over the handlebar, scrape our mugs on the rocky ground and look forward to disfigurement, if not death. Again, not too difficult to manoeuvre, if it were not for the vast number of competitors everywhere. Where do they come from anyway? We wanted to leave early, yet managed to be in the last batch of thirty-or-so to leave the campsite. Collision is always near, though we dodge it successfully. JS's chain comes off once, which is quickly fixed.
Although much shorter than yesterday, this ride feels longer and more challenging. It is the crowd and the weather that make it hard. For a seasoned mountain biker (which I am not), this is a piece of piss. For a casual rider (which I am), it is a sporty ride.

We arrive in Fort William in decent time (by my standards), after three hours of riding. Neptune's staircase on our left, then Ben Nevis distillery, then Glenlochy. Beautiful. No time to gaze, though: we are on the Highland equivalent of a motorway. Fucking dangerous traffic.
The arrival is on a sports pitch. It is the wettest piece of lawn I have ever seen, sometimes ten-centimetre underwater. We hand the bikes back, then have a bit of time to catch our breath. I wolf down Jaffa cakes (they're a palm oil-laden, inferior version of PiMM's, but I cannot help it; I am not even hungry), a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps (great), and force myself to drink a bit (I have had nothing since we left this morning).
Here too, the lack of respect is shocking. Apples all the way up to the toilet floor (which is covered in mud), wrappings every-fucking-where, half-eaten, half-drunk everything tossed with no manner, energy bars and drinks plagueing the whole area.

On a more positive note, I am very happy I thought of taking a spare pair of socks, which I put on my still-humid feet in my still-wet trainers. All the same, that feels like luxury -- little do I know what is coming. I force myself to pee (never stopped once to do it in two days, which is hardly surprising, considering I did not drink).

Off we go for what I fear is going to be the most challenging part of this race: a twenty-five-kilometre trail run. We run indeed, all drowsy from cycling and heavy from the wet shoes, but we do run for a couple of kilometres. Considering we have twenty-three more to go, we decide to take it easy on the long uphill on the flank of Ben Nevis, and then we find out we will actually never do any running, anymore. The trail is a mixture of Ben Nevis hike, West Highland Way and old military trail. What that really means is: it is a rocky hike that would be a struggle with hiking boots in good weather. For the second half of it, we are walking in a riverbed. In pouring rain. The water is occasionally ankle-deep. And that is the route. After crossing half a million streams on a downhill slope alongside a hill, we reach an outpost. A pitched tent, torches and food supplies. None of that is for us. The two guys there are staff, then. I look around and see no way forward: a torrential stream blocks our way. One of the blokes yells at us: "Groups of five, grab each other by the coat arms, form a circle and we will cross like that." Funny lad, I think. Where is the bridge? Oh! shit, he is not joking. I ask him anyway. "Consider yourselves lucky: this morning, the water was chest-deep. All the morning runners had to be rerouted to Kinlochleven for a twelve-kilometre detour." On we go, then. It is actually very amusing, in a rock 'n roll sort of way. The downside is that the trail is another ten kilometres on even worse terrain than before, under more rain, in soaked shoes and socks. And it is uphill too.
We carry on strong all the same. We progress much more slowly, however, stuck behind the group who crossed the river with us. The law of the herd -- as quick as the slowest individual in it. Said individual is right before us and, if I manage to overtake him several times, JS does not, so narrow is the trail. I am convinced we lose at least thirty minutes because of that.

More streams, more bogs, more slopes, slips, (others') tumbles. The final downhill is boggy and muddy as anything I have seen. It is also ravaged by hundreds and hundreds of racers passing through it, trampling the grass in a (doomed-to-fail) bid to avoid the mud. So much for nature preservation. More litter, more frustration, more being stuck behind people (who keep falling to boot). We make it to the end after a stretch that is particularly demanding on knees and quads.

During that trail hike, I pick up all the litter I can collect, and drop it with staff at relays, where some congratulate me. I find it depressing. As I unload, one asks me if it is my first Coast to Coast.
"Yes."
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Not really."
"Will you do it again?"
"I don't think so. It is so crowded I cannot enjoy the scenery, there is so much litter my blood boils constantly. I do not want to be associated with a crowd that behaves that way."

The kayaks are waiting -- yes, we will kayak after all, despite the execrable weather, and despite being past the cut-off time. The weather has calmed down a bit, and the sea loch seems quiet. We are told it is three kilometres to the finish line and we are to paddle in a straight line; the tide will take us around the island we need to go around. It does not. In fact, the current takes us all sorts of ways, seemingly at random. We go between the islands we were supposed to go around, which sees us cut the route short. Two grey herons take off  under our noses whilst we do that, making it worth our while. We reach the shore fairly easily, after a much more physical kayak journey than yesterday's, but them were good times nonetheless. We even muster up the energy to run to the finish line, where the heating fan is so hot I immediately feel drowsy.

The next step to take with our recently-awarded finisher-challenger medal (that reads 105 miles in 1 day -- that is the expert route), is the soggy, horribly dirty hut, where we are offered a soup in a polystyrene cup (so much for eco-friendliness) and a dreary roll. It hits the spot, of course. Warms us up, puts the machine back in working order and brings us back to the land of the living. I pause and realise I have not eaten or drunk anything since Fort William, almost seven hours ago, yet did not feel hunger, nor thirst, nor need to wee, and actually no fatigue either. The final hike down was a bit hard, but apart from the weather conditions, the wetness and the frustration at being stuck behind slower competitors, and most importantly, the irrational (?) hatred stemming from all the littering and general lack of respect shown by the participants, I have the feeling I could have gone on for much longer. Still, it is with a certain sense of relief that we reach the B&B.
The host reassures us that he is hosting other racers and that the place is already a smelly mess, he insists we do not need to take our shoes off. A bit of stretching, a hot shower, and off to bed.

Day 5

The full Scottish does the usual trick (although no haggis, nor pudding!) An Australian guest starts chatting to the German couple a the other table (unsuspecting holiday-makers), then the place quickly swarms with Rat Racers. "Have you looked at the results?" asks one. "The result is: we finished it." Yup, my kind of answer. Competition against others is for kids. Competition with one's own limits is my take on a challenge.

With scrambled eggs...

...with (overly) fried eggs.

We bid good bye to the wonderful ballet of a robin, on the bins enclosure, and head to the bus stop. We are heading back to Fort William, today. The journey is as quick (hard to swallow that the bus covers in thirty minutes what we just about hiked in seven hours) as the scenery is beautiful (the game of light the sun plays on the hill flanks is breathtaking). We drop off the bags at the station and stroll through town.

Aaaaaaaaaand, yes, of course!

The book shop catches our attention (if only we could buy every book in there!), as does the Lochaber Geopark (fascinating geological presentation). We have lunch at Crannog (of course), where the food is still the donkey's and the whisky selection tasteful. After mackerell crostini and fillet of seabass, I have a pistachio fondant with a Glen Grant 21yo Adelphi. Shamefully, they have not learnt anything in terms of glassware, over the last five years, since we were here. A gigantic tumbler. I am given a replacement glass, which is an oversized Cognac vessel. Nae bother. The whisky is as good as the meal nonetheless.

It starts raining. We head to the West Highland Museum, which is packed with interesting stuff, from a history of the green berets to taxidermy, period dresses and more geology shenanigans. Recommended! It closes at 17:00, though.

We find shelter in the book shop again, then head towards the station for a beverage. The coffee shop is closed, the pub is open. Tea for JS, Bowmore 18yo OB for me. It is surprisingly fruity, behind the earthy peat. I love it. Again, poured in a totally inadequate glass (water glass straight out of the 1970s). I find it depressing. One would not imagine the French serving quality wine in a mug, nor the Belgians serving an abbey beer in Champagne saucers. Aside from supermarket blends, whisky deserves a nosing glass!

The time has come to leave. The train is there and boarding soon starts. Lots of racers are returning home. The staff members are vastly unequal, in terms of efficiency, and the whole boarding takes a while, when logic dictates it should take five minutes. We make it on board easily enough and it is off to bed early. We reach London in the morning, with a lot of washing and tidying to look forward to.

Conclusion

Glad I took part in this once -- really, one could choose a worse race to take part in. At the same time, so many have a different take on a race than mine -- with technical help, controlled food intake, energy drinks, looking for performance vs. own limits, yelling, littering... Organised races are definitely not for me. The weather on Sunday made is more challenging and rendered the route rather inadequate for any mode of transportation in any gear, but really, it is the other racers who spoiled the experience for me. Glad I did it once, I do not need to do it again. I exercise not to beat others, but to test my own limits. I love Scotland's open spaces because they are devoid of humans and allow one to connect with nature. Something we could hardly do, this weekend.

July 2017 Islay -- Glasgow -- Edinburgh

Day 1

TC, JK, JS and I  have business to do in the land of kilts and sheep. We all board an early train from London to Glasgow, where we pick up an automobile.
It is then an easy drive north to Loch Fyne, although the roads are busy, especially at the base of Loch Lomond. We make it barely on time for our lunch reservation at Loch Fyne Oysters, where we are joined by B.
It is a mad seafood meal: I have a crab as big as my head, which I cannot finish, due to lack of time. The claws are so big that the nutcracker I was given is inadequate. It breaks my heart to have to leave three legs untouched, but the time is really tight, now.
We have to speed up to Kennacraig. The roads are busy again, though more manageable than further south. Still, we have no time to stop in Inveraray -- in fact, I have to squeeze it to an almost dangerous point, considering I don't know the roads very well. We also seem to always be stuck behind a small, blue car. Whenever we manage to overtake it, another small, blue car is ready to be an obstacle. Argh.
We reach Kennacraig with less than a minute to spare. The CalMac guy tells me he was about to close the gate and reallocate our spot -- phew!

And this makes up for all the prior stress

Landing in Port Ellen

It is an easy and relaxed crossing (even if the urinals are overflowing by the end), then a short drive to Bowmore, where we will be based for the next few days.

After a shower, we make our way to the bar. JS orders a Bowmore Tempest VI; it is not available any longer. JS asks for something fruity as a backup plan: "None of them tastes fruity; they all taste like whisky." She goes for the Bowmore Small Batch, which I realise I still love... and is very fruity indeed, despite what the helpful staff might think.
Short stroll onto the pier to unwind, then off to bed.

Day 2

Full Scottish breakfast with crispy bacon, yay. Hard to beat such a start to the day. JS has eggy bread with bacon and maple syrup, JK has eggs and salmon.

Can't

go

wrong

Today's plan is to drive to the Rhinns for a hike in the Loch Gruinart RSPB reserve. There, two dogs welcome us.

"Pet me, already!"

A guide advises us he is doing a guided walk in ten minutes; we happily join.
As he starts his explanations of what we are about to see, the Broom family enters. I greet Dave, who pretends very convincingly that he recognises me.

DB -How are you?
tOMoH -Fine. Surprised to see you here.
DB -Why?
:-)

DB later tweeted that lichen photograph

The "hike" is a sluggish walk alongside moorland and through light forestry, but the wildlife is plentiful: wrens, buzzards, chaffinches, robins, and even a linnet or two -- a first, for me.

Lots of lichens, flowers and plants, elm trees, deer, the biggest dragonfly I have ever seen, and many other things we would not have noticed without a guide. Highly recommended!

It was really around 15 cm tall

After that "exhausting" hike, we drive to Ardbeg for a bite: the Old Kiln Café has never failed to impress, and today is no exception. My cauliflower soup is excellent -- the waitress is lost when I ask her if it is Caol Ila-flower, JS's fish pie is great and TC's haggis chicken is to die for.

"Is this made with Caol Ila?"

Our next stop are the Kildalton crosses. Third time on Islay, for me, and the first time I am going to make it there. I suppose being motorised helps: it looks close on the map, but it is 15 or 16 km from Ardbeg, and no bus goes there.
The place is peaceful, mystic. B spots a handful of deer from a hillock.

The large Kildalton cross

Italians were here

Fern on the wall of the ruined abbey

Lichen on gravestone

View from a cross
Can't take any more

The presence of the dead does not prevent local humour

The small Kildalton cross

The rain becomes heavy; we have a dram of Gerston to warm up before we call it a visit.

We drive to the Laphroaig museum and shop. No 32yo left in the shop, nor much of interest that is affordable, in fact. The museum has a 40yo and a 1974 on display; my two favourite expressions.

Hello, you!

The view from the pier is still very nice

We drive to Oa for another hike -- the road is very sporty, this time. I have a lot of fun at the wheel, but I am glad there is no traffic at all!

That is not a salary increase, btw

We spot herons, a huge curlew, jackdaws, hooded crows, buzzards and... a Guinea hen, in the middle of the road.

And reach this

The hike on Oa is ambitious, seeing as it is 17:30 when we set off. To make matters worse, we stop swiftly to observe seals and goats, surrounded by cows as we are.

Friendlymoos

The seashore is packed with howling seals

Off to the American memorial, where we see gannets and have drams of Gerston.

Where is the flag!?

"I hereby declare this land mine."

The heather is not far from blooming

Harmless goats

The journey back to our ride takes us through pastures, very close to a muscular bull (yes, we are inside his enclosure), then another with lots of cows and calves. JK is attacked by a shaggy calf she found cute a minute ago. I try to scare him away, unsuccessfully. Slow movement it is, and it works. We make it to the car safely. With a story to tell.

He comes closer, probably curious

Wochoo lookin' at, eh?

It is an eventless drive back to Bowmore for a shower, then supper at PeatZeria.

Boom-tsch

Margherita, Glas Raich, Meatballs and bbq sauce, and pulled pork pizzas. All good in the hood.

Pulled pork

Margherita

Glas Raich (top)
Meatballs and bbq sauce (bottow)

Need to hit he sack: we are now truly exhausted.

Day 3

Full Scottish breakfast with crispy bacon again, yay! JS has eggs and salmon. JK joins us later and I cannot remember what she orders.

The Harbour Inn View's conservatory.
Living up to the name.

Slow start, today. We have an 11:00 engagement, but nothing before. We set off around 9:30 and arrive very early.

Destination: Abbey Road!

It is 10:00 and Bruichladdich is very busy already. We meet Americans who are here for the same reason we are (it will become clearer on Day 6). TC recognises them and chats ensue.

11:00. We embark on the warehouse tasting. This is not a tour, but a sit-down in a dunnage warehouse, with three casks and a valinch. The Americans discover the concept of a valinch. By the way, there are eleven people on this session, and I am the only non-American.

Bruichladdich 28yo d.1989

The highlights of the event are very generous pours of a 28yo Bruichladdich from 1989, a 2004 Port Charlotte, finished in a Mouton Rothschild cask since 2012, and a 2005 Octomore, a 60.04% beast. All of them are splendid, but the first is truly special. Unfortunately not available to buy. I am driving, however, which means I do not even have to hide to sample it.

Port Charlotte d.2004

Octomore d.2005

Another punter, who looks like Chief inspector Clouseau, pressures the poor girl into serving huge measures -- he says he is filling up for both him and his wife, plus he is driving, so his share goes into samples.
The girl who leads the tasting has a voice extinction, which makes it hard for her to speak. Some of her answers to our questions are well off regardless:

tOMoH -Tell us about the cask! I don't think Rothschild give their casks to just anyone.
Bruichlassie -We are owned by Rémy Cointreau and they have access to those casks.

Rémy Cointreau bought Bruichladdich in 2016. If the whisky was re-racked in 2012, that answer makes no sense. I decide not to point out to her that the previous owner's family had a wine business for decades and all the connections that go with that and that the cask comes from there. Although I do not like wrong information being given to unsuspecting visitors, I also do not want to be that guy.
She further confuses a barrel, a hogshead and a butt, at which point I cannot refrain from correcting her. One has to know where to draw the line, and I love saving butts.

After the tasting, we do a bit of shopping, then drive to Port Charlotte for lunch at Yan's Kitchen. I have the soup of the day (I am far from hungry and think we eat too often), JS has fish and chips. The Bruichlassie, who recommended the place to us, shows up. A family business, likely. :-)

This herring gull seems interested in us

We undertake the short walk from the parking lot to the lighthouse. The weather is brilliant.

Rains all the time, in Scotland

JK shows us the secret of chamomile: it smells of pineapple!

We drive across the island to Lagavulin distillery for their Core Tour. A group of French cyclists take the same tour. They are a bit puerile and noisy, and they seem to struggle with the Scottish accent a bit. We try to pay no notice.
It is a standard tour, not super exciting, but honest. The girl knows what she is talking about, although she plays down her answer when I ask about Malt Mill.

One would think having
this in a glass cabinet
would be a matter of pride

Back in the tasting room, we try the core range indeed -- with a twist. First is the 8yo for the 200th anniversary (to commemorate Alfred Barnard's visit, during which he had an 8yo). It is a very dispensable dram, one-dimensional and quite boring, if not undrinkable. Second up is the Double Matured, more interesting, if still not something I would buy. Lastly, we have the Feis Ile 2017 -- this one is very well made; we all like it.

We drive back to Bowmore for a shower and supper (fast becoming a routine) at the Harbour View Inn.
Service is very slow (almost an hour), but we are not really hungry and there is a wonderful rainbow to entertain us in the conservatory.

It was really that sharp

When it eventually shows up, my lamb is exquisite. Well worth the wait.

Baaaah!

JS's lobster macagrat is also not to scoff at

B wants ice cream for dessert. He buys it pre-packed from the local grocery shop... and buys too much. I have to help him out, since no-one else will.
We have a nightcap on the shore of Lochindaal, near the distillery: Bowmore 13yo 2003/2016 (56.7%, Cadenhead Wine Cask, Hogshead, Refill Burgundy Cask since 2011, 264b) (Thanks RO)

Superbly picturesque. B plays ricochet on the calm Lochindaal, JK takes a few 360° snaps, and TC fills his memory card with photos too. We all agree that life does not suck, right now.

Day 4

Something missing?

Last and early full Scottish breakfast. Well, it was ordered last night for 7:30 and we are served today at 8:05, later than the Belgians who turned up at 8:00. I am slightly annoyed. JS is more annoyed: her eggy bread with bacon and maple syrup are served without maple syrup. Or bacon. I give her mine instead of kicking up a fuss. Change an Ileach's routine and it seems they lose all their marks.
The early-but-not-quite-as-early-as-planned drive to Port Ellen is hassle-free, despite the busier-than-usual roads. We stop at the distillery to stretch legs. B goes satisfy a natural need at the ferry terminal, while TC, JK, JS and I drink a sample from a private cask of 1967 Port Ellen in front of the distillery. Special.

This, my friend, was made... here

Breakfast of champions

It is an easy, if slightly sad, crossing back to Kennacraig, then a long, but easy drive to Inveraray.
The shops there have interesting things, yet the prices are ludicrous. It is obvious Inveraray is milking the fact it is the midway halt of buses to Campbeltown -- even the public toilet has seen pay-gates installed, since we were here in May this year.
Heavy rain starts falling on the town full of tourists. I hate Inveraray, today, for the first time.
B wants food whilst we shop. It results in many phone calls to determine who is where, which frustrates me. What happened to deciding on a meeting point and a meeting time and sticking to them?
Finally reunited, we drop B off at the Loch Fyne Oysters restaurant, where his car is parked. The four of us contemplate lunch there, but decide against it, due to the rain: it will make the drive miserable, let us not delay it on top.
We head back to Glasgow, pick up the recent haul on hold (don't ask), drop off the bags at the hotel, then return the car. We drove over 570 km with half a tank of petrol (29 l). That is 5.1 l/100 km on country roads. This Golf Blue Motion is the bee's knees!

Time for a shower, then we proceed to the Butterfly and the Pig for supper. It is fully booked, but they are happy to sit us in the bar area. The food is excellent, as usual (black-pudding salad, then piglet burger with blue cheese -- unfortunately, the haggis chicken I had ordered has run out).

Black-pudding salad for me

Haggis and tatties for JS

Piglet burger for me

Baked salmon for JS

TC takes us all to karaoke at Cosmopol, where all the Glaswegian stereotypes are represented. TC nails it and it turns out to be quite some fun.

We decide to have a final dram in the hotel lounge before bed: the 10 cl bottle TC bought in Inveraray.

Day 5

We are tired and some of us are hungover, which means we have a late start to hit G-town. Interesting things here and there, but we resist temptation in every shop.

Poor Wellington lost his cone to his horse

Genious product

What we do not resist, however, is Bread Meats Bread for brunch. Killer, as usual.

Americans meet burgers

My Caribbean burger

JS's BBQ pulled-pork sandwich

JK's Reuben pastrami sandwich

TC's fried chicken, cheese and bacon burger

Sweet-potato fries

We chill out at the hotel lounge for an hour or so -- a waste of time, perhaps, but we are properly wrecked. The intense days on Islay are taking their toll, now. Later, we head to Queen Street station to take the train to Edinburgh. It is pouring, by now, and does not look like it is going to calm down any time soon.

In Edinburgh, we part ways to our separate accommodations and stay separate for the day.

We do not eat here, but I make a note for next time

JS and I end up in the botanical garden to see and smell their amorphophallus titanum. Big plant, though not much is left, in terms of smell, sadly. The other greenhouses are nice too.

Amorphophallus titanum
Yes, that translates into: giant, shapeless dick.
You're welcome.

Oh! It is nicknamed New Reekie.
For those who do not know, Edinburgh is known as Auld Reekie.

Leanopteris deparioides

Yellow-and-red flower

Giant, green quiche pans

Nymphea lotus, variety: thermalis

Opuntia crassa

Early(ish) night.
You will observe that we ate once, today. Phew!

Day 6

Auld Reekie from above

Sluggish start again, then JS and I go up to the Royal Mile and its usual shops.

Usual shops

Everything is overpriced, there is not much of interest anywhere. The city is so overrun by tourists for the Fringe it is painful. Contini is not a deli any longer, only a chichi restaurant; the whisky experience and the Amber bar are fully booked. Edinburgh is as appealing as Inveraray, today!
We end up in Albanach (which is surprisingly empty) and enjoy a delicious meal. No whisky.

Haggis pie for me

Chicken Balmoral for JS

With fuel in, we go home for a nap. Somewhat rested, we make our way to Borthwick Castle, which is a half-hour away by cab.

This seems an appropriate time to explain why we are all here.

JS, JK and TC went to the same school: MIT. There, TC was a member of a fraternity, the name of which is not important for this story.
A decade ago, another MIT friend told us how three brothers of that fraternity travelled to Scotland in 2002 and, young and foolish, were lured into buying a cask of whisky. The three spoke of vague plans to open and drink the whisky with their friends, which we thought was funny, yet knew would probably never happen.
Fast forward almost fifteen years and those vague plans have slowly solidified, much to my surprise. In August 2017, a mix of seventy-five-or-so MIT alumni and their partners (and children) would go to Scotland to drink the fabled whisky cask.
Although the possibility of sitting with a collection of Yanks who do not know the difference between a malt and a blend, surrounded by screaming children, worried me, when I realised I was given the chance to sample something as exclusive as a private cask on Scottish soil, with many friends (since many of them are indeed friends), I was kind of interested. I signed up.
Until very late, I was utterly convinced it would not happen. For example, the initial idea was to host the party at the distillery and drink straight from the cask, so as to dodge the tax man. Of course, that was not possible; I thought that would kill the initiative stone-dead. But no. The owners soldiered on through the "minefield" (sic) of the whisky industry. The product has to be bottled in Scotland by an accredited bottler (which they found). Tax has to be paid for consumption (which the bottler sorted). That was a huge obstacle, however: if they could not have the whole cask at the distillery, the owners understandably wanted to enjoy their whisky from the comfort of their homes... in the USA; that meant finding an importer, a distributor and a retailer: one does not smuggle two hundred bottles of whisky to Uncle Sam's in a suitcase. One would easily understand that, if the whisky had to be taxed in the USA and, therefore, could not be consumed in Europe, that would axe the whole idea of a party in Scotland.
But they made it happen anyway.

Forty bottles were HMRC-taxed for consumption in the UK (albeit with a US label), whilst the other one hundred and eighty-eight will be shipped to the States -- and will all be bought by the owners, before you ask.
That is right: you buy a cask, you pay tax on it, you pay for it to be bottled, then you sell the bottles to the importer, who passes them on to the distributor, who supplies them to a retailer, from whom you can purchase them. Purchase the bottles that you paid to bottle, containing the whisky you bought in the first place.
But they made it happen anyway.

And here we are. American friends have flown in from far away to partake in this. Many of them had never been to Scotland. Some of them had never been to Europe, even. Naturally, JS and I were happy to show those closest to us who were interested around. That meant a trip to Islay and a few days in Glasgow and Edinburgh before the party.

And here we are. A grand castle in Scotland, men in kilts (likely a gaffe from our friends from across the Pond), friendly atmosphere and anticipation.

The hosts have a dram of the stuff as we arrive. I am curious. They say it is brilliant. No point gauging their references; we will be trying it ourselves shortly.

We are served apéritif in what looks like an old-school library. It is a bit of a frat reunion and I have little to contribute to it, personally. The mood is inclusive, however, and there is no awkwardness anywhere.
Soon, we are called downstairs for supper in the dining hall. It is there that the glasses are lain, with whisky breathing in each of them.

A piper welcomes us all and proposes a toast to Bruichladdich, the distillery where the whisky was made. It was no coincidence that that is where we had the warehouse tasting, a few days ago.
Incidentally, this is the point the lid on the camera lense refuses to open. No more photography, sadly.

A toast it is, then. it is welcomed with all the subtlety of a herd of buffaloes -- whistling, shouting and yells of "Sláinte mhath."

Nae bother, though: it feels almost as if we are at theirs.

I start nosing the whisky, rather than neck it, because, well, because.

Oh! my word. It is amazing. The mouth and finish confirm my impression.

Supper is swiftly served, which is just as well: those hungry Americans are not used to 60+% ABV. I chose the vegetarian menu, for some reason: heritage tomatoes as starter. Wonderful.

The piper comes back for another round. The menu says we are having a (vegetarian) haggis taster. In this setting, it is not going to be a discreet event. The piper does the address to the haggis with the theatrical performance of an actor used to Shakespeare plays, causing the audience to cheer and roar multiple times. He even picks on me -- and I fight back, much to the audience's pleasure.

The haggis, too, is spectacular. As is the grilled aubergine tart that follows, then the tonka bean poached william pear.

David Stirk, from The Creative Whisky Company, is here. He bottled the cask. We chat for a while about whisky, people and international etiquette. He confirms he is impressed by the whisky. He expected a random cask of Bruichladdich, not this fantastic Port Charlotte (the heavily-peated expression made at Bruichladdich). He hoped to keep the cask for himself.

DD spots me with a hipflask and tells me I am the craziest person he knows, coming to a cask party with my own hipflask. I reply I did not bring one hipflask. I brought two.

I pour Bruichladdich 1989 and Gerston a lot from those flasks. Most importantly to tonight's hosts, to thank them for organising this and having us. The main protagonist, who is of Scottish ancestry and harbouring his clan's tartan, spends ten minutes telling us the story of the cask, how they visited Bruichladdich and were asked whether they would be interested in buying a cask ("Who does that?"), before being given some whisky to sample (after which the question became: "Who doesn't do that?"), how they went for a hogshead, because it sounded much cooler than a vulgar barrel, how they chose to make that hogshead a sherry hogshead out of pure lack of wit and, ultimately, how difficult it was to go through the hoops of HMRC and US imports. That is the point he asks JS and me who we are and how we managed to get an invitation. The easy answer leads to an offer for a small sample, which means I will be tasting this properly again in the future.

All at the party agree how lucky it is that the whisky turned out to be so marvellous, and how different the party would have been, had it been dreary. One says he is relieved; he hoped for it to be excellent or plain disgusting, not middle ground. He wanted it very enjoyable for all, or so bad that one would spit the first sip, then be able to laugh about it. Certainly not mediocre, meaning one would have had to pretend it was good.

It is a hectic night. The pours (someone poured me 15 cl in one sitting) and the high alcohol strength make me think there will be a lot of sore heads, tomorrow morning. We know our own limits, used as we are to this game.

JK, JS and I take a late cab ride to town (with a much better driver than on the way to the castle).
Our hosts are still up, watching baseball. I have a dram of smoky Corsair whiskey with them, then aff tae bed.

Day 7

We sleep in -- kind of: I am up at 8:00. I rush to the shop to buy a souvenir, then back to my hosts' to veg out until 14:30. At that point, JS and I have a lunch meeting with our hostess -- at Spitaki, which is Greek for "Crash Here."
Greek mezze: melitsanosalata, taramosalata (typo on the menu?), grilled octopus, kalamari, gigantes (giant beans), all finger-licking good.
We make our way back to our hosts', finish packing, then off to the station, where we meet TC and JK. The train leaves on time, and the good bit stops here.
Trespassers on the track cause a forty-minute delay, loud crowds board in York (Friday night, innit), the auto-opening door means the quiet carriage is as "quiet" as whoever stands between the carriages (see: loud crowds), an old couple is bickering for hours, which would be cute, if it were not in the quiet coach, the guy ends up whistling, he attacks (verbally) me when I point it out to him and two people take phone calls. There are no manners, anymore.
In bed at 2:30, much, much later than anticipated.