to not miss out on our adventure, but Celia threw the book of company liability at her. Simone’s furious that the trip wasn’t postponed. “I’m the Marketing Concepts person. What’s the point of anyone going without me?”
I heartily agree with her, of course, as I take another photo for luck and hit the send button. Not that I’m a total bitch. When we get back, I’ll buy her a drink at Finnegans and we’ll share a good laugh about it.
Once we’ve passed through the domestic arrivals baggage reclaims, we’re greeted by a black-suited man holding a placard that reads, Diamond Designs. Our designated driver, I presume.
8
A LONG BRIDGE takes us across the Moray Firth and then we’re winding up and around into the rugged mountains, deep into the heart of the snowy-capped highlands.
I’m shuffled up to Liam on the backseat. The heating in the car is turned to max, but the stark cold scenery outside demands a little inner warmth. His arm drapes behind me and my cheek is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, my gaze mesmerised outside the window.
I don’t know how long we travel, I think I might have dozed off for a while, but we straighten into our own space when the road loops around a peak and descends, giving me a bird’s eye view of Kleighnorm nestled in the valley below.
The estate house is a blunt U-shape, the two wings folding in a shallow courtyard. Set apart from the main residence, the distillery is housed in three timbered structures half-buried in the velvety pine forest that stretches into the lower slope of the mountain backdrop.
The homestead and grounds would swallow the entire village I grew up in just outside Dublin, and yet it is much smaller than I’d envisaged from the photos we’ve been working with. Maybe it’s not even the aspects from which the photoshoot was done. I think my mind just saw a south and west wing and jumped to its own conclusions.
Black wrought-iron gates swing open as we approach, and the driveway circles around a moss-stained fountain to deposit us at the base of wide, stone steps.
I climb from the car, my eyes widening on the intricate detail carved into the front façade. Gargoyles guard each side of the door, clawed hands reaching over the massive arched, double-door entrance. The walls are dark grey, porous stone that has clearly absorbed centuries of elemental nature.
A feeling of absolute awe envelops me and now I know why Roman paused the project and insisted we start over. The generations of tradition seeped into this imposing building are tangible, a taste on my tongue, a rich scent that coats my veins.
Connor Kleighnorm may have tripled production for this international venture, but Kleighnorm Whiskey will never be a commercial product. This is exclusive, elusive, a luxurious secret to be savoured and rarely shared.
The door opens and a grizzly bear of a man comes out to greet us. He’s built broad and sturdy, at least six-foot-five, and he wears a smile that dances in his eyes. His hair is a shock of white that flies around his face and covers his jaw in a full beard. His coat flaps open on the breeze and I swear that’s only a t-shirt he has on underneath.
Connor Kleighnorm, we soon learn as introductions are made.
“I’ll be thanking you to call me Connor,” he insists as he helps us transfer our luggage and leads the way inside. “No call to stand on formality out here. Sweet Mary , it’s bitter today and expected to get worse before the day is out.”
His voice drones on, a pleasant background to the anxious thoughts crowding my head as Roman Rocchi takes front and centre on my mind. I can almost hear his deep baritone ask, “ Do we have a problem, Ms. Lynch?” and hot shivers tremble down my spine to melt into the pit of my stomach.
I try reminding myself that this trip is supposed to be about business.
Ha!
So was the boardroom.
So was the summons to his office.
Look where that ended.
I know, with every tingling
I heartily agree with her, of course, as I take another photo for luck and hit the send button. Not that I’m a total bitch. When we get back, I’ll buy her a drink at Finnegans and we’ll share a good laugh about it.
Once we’ve passed through the domestic arrivals baggage reclaims, we’re greeted by a black-suited man holding a placard that reads, Diamond Designs. Our designated driver, I presume.
8
A LONG BRIDGE takes us across the Moray Firth and then we’re winding up and around into the rugged mountains, deep into the heart of the snowy-capped highlands.
I’m shuffled up to Liam on the backseat. The heating in the car is turned to max, but the stark cold scenery outside demands a little inner warmth. His arm drapes behind me and my cheek is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, my gaze mesmerised outside the window.
I don’t know how long we travel, I think I might have dozed off for a while, but we straighten into our own space when the road loops around a peak and descends, giving me a bird’s eye view of Kleighnorm nestled in the valley below.
The estate house is a blunt U-shape, the two wings folding in a shallow courtyard. Set apart from the main residence, the distillery is housed in three timbered structures half-buried in the velvety pine forest that stretches into the lower slope of the mountain backdrop.
The homestead and grounds would swallow the entire village I grew up in just outside Dublin, and yet it is much smaller than I’d envisaged from the photos we’ve been working with. Maybe it’s not even the aspects from which the photoshoot was done. I think my mind just saw a south and west wing and jumped to its own conclusions.
Black wrought-iron gates swing open as we approach, and the driveway circles around a moss-stained fountain to deposit us at the base of wide, stone steps.
I climb from the car, my eyes widening on the intricate detail carved into the front façade. Gargoyles guard each side of the door, clawed hands reaching over the massive arched, double-door entrance. The walls are dark grey, porous stone that has clearly absorbed centuries of elemental nature.
A feeling of absolute awe envelops me and now I know why Roman paused the project and insisted we start over. The generations of tradition seeped into this imposing building are tangible, a taste on my tongue, a rich scent that coats my veins.
Connor Kleighnorm may have tripled production for this international venture, but Kleighnorm Whiskey will never be a commercial product. This is exclusive, elusive, a luxurious secret to be savoured and rarely shared.
The door opens and a grizzly bear of a man comes out to greet us. He’s built broad and sturdy, at least six-foot-five, and he wears a smile that dances in his eyes. His hair is a shock of white that flies around his face and covers his jaw in a full beard. His coat flaps open on the breeze and I swear that’s only a t-shirt he has on underneath.
Connor Kleighnorm, we soon learn as introductions are made.
“I’ll be thanking you to call me Connor,” he insists as he helps us transfer our luggage and leads the way inside. “No call to stand on formality out here. Sweet Mary , it’s bitter today and expected to get worse before the day is out.”
His voice drones on, a pleasant background to the anxious thoughts crowding my head as Roman Rocchi takes front and centre on my mind. I can almost hear his deep baritone ask, “ Do we have a problem, Ms. Lynch?” and hot shivers tremble down my spine to melt into the pit of my stomach.
I try reminding myself that this trip is supposed to be about business.
Ha!
So was the boardroom.
So was the summons to his office.
Look where that ended.
I know, with every tingling
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