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visit distilleries throughout Scotland and taste whiskies I’ve only ever heard of before (and in a few cases, never heard of before), but I doubt it’ll make that much difference; it’s hard to believe there are tastes as dramatic as the Islay malts that have somehow escaped the attention of me and my pals.
    The reason I’ve taken to them so much is, I suppose, that Islay whiskies are just generally bursting with flavour. Actually, make that bursting with flavours, plural. I came to the realisation many years ago that I like big, strong, even aggressive tastes: cheddars so sharp they make your eyes water, curries in general, though preferably fairly hot, Thai meals, garlic-heavy Middle-Eastern mezes, chilli-saturated Mexican dishes, hugely fruity Ozzie wines, and thumpingly, almost aggressively flavoured whiskies (for the record the things I don’t like are: Brussels sprouts, marzipan, cherries and Amaretto. Plus one other category of foodstuff that we’ll come to later … it’s a bit embarrassing).
    Distinguishing between the different styles of Islays, the most obvious micro-area lies in the south, on the short stretch of coast – extravagantly frayed, wildly indented, profusely hummocked and multifariously cragged – facing south-east towards the Mull of Kintyre.
    The three southern coastal whiskies of Islay – with Laphroaig in particular providing the most radical example – constitute what is almost a different drink from whisky. The distinction is that sharp; I know several people who like their drink, love their whisky – be it the stuff you’d serve to somebody who’s severely overstayed their welcome or the special reserve you’d only bring out for the most special of special occasions – who hate Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig with a vengeance. Of the three, they usually especially hate Lagavulin and Laphroaig, and, out of that pair, reserve their most intense aversion for Laphroaig.
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    Pronunciation: a word
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    In the paragraph above there are, in order of appearance – and coincidentally alphabetical order – one that’s fairly self-evident (Ardbeg), one that’s not as tricky as it might look to the untutored eye at first sight (Lagavulin), and one definitely iffy example (Laphroaig). Here’s the trick: there’s a pronunciation guide at the back of this book, after the bibliography.
    I’ve even underlined the relevant bit to emphasise in each name because that might just make all the difference between success and failure when you’re trying to order a specific dram from a hard-of-hearing or just plain awkward bar person, especially late on when you might be drunk and slurring your words. Don’t say I’m not good to you.
    And can we please deal with the difference between ‘lock’–which is either a thing found on a door or a way of raising or lowering a boat on a canal – and ‘loch’, which is generally the name given to a body of water in Scotland which in England would be termed a lake? The ‘ch’ sound (as in loch, broch, and indeed och) is a soft, sibilant noise made at the back of the mouth with the tongue drawn back and upwards. It sounds a bit like distant surf, if you want to get romantic about it. What it does not sound like is ‘ck’.
    Well, unless we’re talking about either of the occurrences in Bruichladdich. Or Glen Garioch in Aberdeenshire.
    And let’s not even mention the Lake of Menteith.
    One last thing; back when I lived in London, in the early eighties, an ad agency was running a campaign for the Duty-Free shops at Heathrow and one of the posters I’d see in the tube stations showed a bottle of (if I recall correctly) Laphroaig, with the byline ‘Islay for less outlay’. This implies the two relevant words rhyme, and is wrong. The first bit of the island’s name sounds like ‘Isle’ and the end is just ‘la’. That simple. So let’s not have any more of these gratuitous cross-border mispronunciations.
    Now, those southern Islays. Some