Sunday, December 05, 2010

You Take The High Road, But I Took The Low Road

One of the most anticipated events of the Blogging Calendar is, of course, Mr. Toast's Annual Christmas Tea, and following the rather unfortunate events of last year (the Swedish police are still wanting to speak to me in order to clarify some of the events that took place in that hotel in Lerum) I was determined to get to the right venue this year. Mr Toast himself has helped me avoid a repeat of last years' embarrassment by organising the event this year in Scotland, which - although not a part of Yorkshire - is not that far away. The event will be held at Torosay Castle on the Isle of Mull, and, despite the recent dreadful weather, I had managed to make it almost all the way there without mishaps. Until I got to Lochgilphead, that is, where I unfortunately took the low road to Kennacraig rather than the high road to Oban. And that was the start of a rather unfortunate series of events.

On arrival at Kennacraig, I realised my rather unfortunate mistake, but I discovered I could get a ferry from there to Port Ellen on the lovely Scottish island of Islay which, according to the map on the back page of my diary, was in approximately the right direction. Rather than having to retrace my virtual steps and head north to Oban and the main ferry service to Mull, I decided to hop over to Islay. Knowledge of Mr Toast's Christmas Tea must be widespread, all I needed to do was to ask a few friendly locals directions and all my problems would evaporate like a finely distilled malt whisky. Ah, dear reader, how right I was. Indeed, how right I was.

I arrived in the lovely little village of Port Ellen, but discovered few people on the street so I asked a passer-by whether it was early closing day. "It closed in 1983", was the somewhat strange reply, "but they still have a few bottles of the old stuff at the White Hart Hotel". My friend pointed me in the direction of a rather cozy looking hostelry and when I got inside I asked if they had any of "the old stuff" and was handed a small glass of a pale gold coloured liquid which, it appeared, I was supposed to drink rather than send to a laboratory for testing. It tasted like distilled seaweed laced with salt and pepper but it had a kick with it which must have made it a contender for a fuel source for the Apollo rocket programme. Whilst the strange liquid might have improved my motive power it seemed to interfere with my ability to pronounce words. I did manage to mumble something about looking for a party and I was sent up the road to a little settlement called Ardbeg.

"I'm looking for a party", I said to an old chap I saw leaning against a gate. At first I was a little reluctant to question him for, if truth be told, I was a little surprised to see a bearded cross-dresser in such a rural part of the community. But I'm a broad minded chap and his skirt seemed to have such a colourful pattern, I pressed ahead with my inquiry. He simply pointed me in the direction of a shed-like building and as soon as I entered someone gave me a glass of an amber-looking liquid which, according to the chap I found myself sat next to at a little trestle table "skips sweetly along at first, then becomes mean and moody in the lengthy middle of the encounter". Assuming the poor chap had been eating some less than ripe mushrooms I quickly left the place and headed down the coast for a mile or two until encountering a mill in a hollow.

"Lagavulin", said yet another cross-dressing local in answer to my unasked question. "What on earth does that mean", I asked. "A mill in a hollow", he replied giving every indication that he was addressing the kind of idiot who didn't understand the Gaelic. On discovering that I really didn't understand the local language his mood changed and he kindly invited me into the mill for a glass of the kind of amber precipitate that I was beginning to get used to. As I rolled the peaty liquor with charming hints of sherry around my mouth I expressed my appreciation at the charming but slightly unusual taste. "Unusual", he declared, "unusual: nay laddie ye need to go to Laphroaig" I tried to explain that I was really looking for an eccentric gathering of people unlike no others I had ever met. "Aye, that will be Laphroaig you'll be looking for", he said.

When I got to Laphroaig - which was only a short distance from Lagavulin - I was immediately invited into what I had now begun to recognise as a distillery. Seeing that I was beginning to look a little tired and emotionally worse for wear, someone handed me a glass of the most extraordinary tasting liquid I have ever sampled in my life. What can I say? Think of your old school nurse, and mix together a few drops of all the strange potions that she would dispense whenever you had a head cold, or head lice, or a head ache. Add a few drops of Castrol engine oil. Then bury in a peat-bed and surround it with slimy sea-weed. After leaving it to distill for a decade or two serve it in a glass and down it in one whilst proclaiming "Slainte Mhath!" The really odd thing was that by now I was getting used to the taste. I mumbled something about "Mr Toast" and my new friends immediately cried  "Slainte Mhath!" again and another glass was drunk.

Quite how I came to the village of Bowmore I will never know. I remember saying something about having an appointment on the Isle of Mull and someone indicating that it was somewhere in the north. A couple of my new friends agreed to walk north with me and we eventually came to the village of Bowmore and we stopped off at another distillery to restock on essential supplies. These supplies consisted almost exclusively of glasses of greeny-gold liquid that had the unmistakable taste of a garden spade. By now I had got to the point where the more bizarre the whisky tasted, the more I liked it. I was also beginning to hallucinate. These people who wandered aimlessly from distillery to distillery with me, where they new friends or strangers. Or were they old blogging friends who I had failed to recognise in the alcoholic haze of dusk on a remote Scottish island?


Was that Willow and Betsy I shared a dram with in the distillery at Port Askaig? Was that Baino behind the bar happily dispensing glasses of malt, and could that be Brian Miller in the corner penning another telling rhyme?  Was that Jayne H-H painting a mysterious mural on the wall of the bar at the Caol Isla distillery and could that be Jeffscape sat in the corner writing Chapter 47 of the Great Novel of The Third Millennium? That must be John Hayes playing banjo near the bar and I would recognise Kat Mortensen anywhere. When we got to the end of the road in Bunnahabhain, there was Kim Yanoshik and Roy Hilbinger capturing the event on film and my great friends Martin Hodges and Tony Zimnoch ready with a reviving glass or three of malt.

The only person I didn't see was Mr Toast himself and every time I asked someone about him I was handed yet another glass and made to drink it down in something of a hurry. However, I have found another ferry terminal and I think I have discovered my escape route. With luck I will see you all soon at Torosay Castle, just as soon as I have made my way across the Isle of Jura!

"Slainte Mhath!" 

21 comments:

  1. What an adventure! I'm stuck in snow near Glenkinchie :-(

    ReplyDelete
  2. Wheeeee! A virtual tour of single malt distilleries on Islay! My own favorite is Laphroaig; I have a bottle of 15 year old here. As far as I'm concerned the mixed flavors of whiskey, seaweed, and peat smoke combine to make the nectar of the gods! I think you ended up at a better venue than a party featuring tea and toast, Alan.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Holy smokes! Never saw so much booze on one post since last Christmas.

    Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my blogging buddies...

    Patty, and Abe Lincoln
    Brookville, Ohio

    ReplyDelete
  4. You, sir, are a freakin' genius!

    "I... was handed a small glass of a pale gold coloured liquid which... I was supposed to drink rather than send to a laboratory for testing." Hilarious.

    "I was a little surprised to see a bearded cross-dresser... and his skirt seemed to have such a colourful pattern..." Brilliant.

    ReplyDelete
  5. What fun I am having popping around to all the Christmas Tea happenings!

    Good health to you as well!!!

    ReplyDelete
  6. Oh Alan...you have my sides aching from laughing! You certainly are the life of the party...can't wait for you to arrive. We'll have some strong coffee waiting for you...sounds like you'll need it! :)

    ReplyDelete
  7. Yup - that reminds me of Scotland - the wonderful pubs - the wonderful accents! Do join our Family Christmas Tea with Mr Toast too!, here http://lenorita-lenoramoore.blogspot.com/

    ReplyDelete
  8. I'm looking forward to your post in around 12 hours - just as the hangover starts to set in... Now, do hurry up and get to the party before I eat all the mince pies!

    ReplyDelete
  9. well you certainly have found a way to keep us warm alan...smiles.

    ReplyDelete
  10. Looks like you were well stocked up with the bottles. You thought of everything! everything important, that is.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Alan, you finally made it I see! Brilliant. Too too funny you taking the low rather "wet" road, shall we say? I'm so glad you've been able to sample some of the Isle's finest distilleries..and how you managed to sing with Brian adn Birdie is any wonder. Well, I do see you managed to sor tof traverse the stairs adn I see you there now, happily snowing away for a few hours. If oyu happen towake, perhaps you;d liek to veture to the library--nice adn quiet there.

    I shall be announcing the after tea drinks social in a few hours yet. In the meanwhile, do take some well deserved zzz's.

    Thank you so much, btw, for taking the time to write all this down in your travelogue. It;s so superb, really. you have an incredibly wonderful wit, i must say. I've added you to my sidebar too.

    ReplyDelete
  12. Yes he made it but after all that booze on the way here, he collapsed into a fireside chair. You have to commend him on his determination though to get to the venue. We'll wake him later.

    I'm still laughing at his experience of seeing the cross dresser!

    ReplyDelete
  13. You didn't see me there at Ardbeg. When the cross dresser said, "skips sweetly along at first, then becomes mean and moody in the lengthy middle of the encounter", he was actually referring to me, not the drink.

    ReplyDelete
  14. Alan...wake up!!! The BEST part of the party is beginning now! :)

    ReplyDelete
  15. Oh my, what a muddle you have found yourself in. I hope it all turns out.

    ReplyDelete
  16. Yes wake up! A hair of the dog and all that.............

    ReplyDelete
  17. Hahaha at least you didn't fall over and knock yourself out on the kerbside!

    ReplyDelete
  18. Most fun following your adventure..I hope you are not too low under the weather after this one.

    ReplyDelete
  19. He went to bed! But he was great fun before disappearing.

    I bet he doesn't even have a hangover in the morning!

    ReplyDelete
  20. Bee, i suspect you are right there! LOL.

    Well, Alan, you did it GAIN! Pure creative genius. How you do that with all those libations, I have no idea!

    I;m glad you manged to muster and join us in the later hours too. And drink or not, you actually danced very well indeed I see. :)

    Oh, and VERY shrewd of you not to take Franck;s bloomers. no, no, no, that just would not do a=one bit! LOL.

    ReplyDelete
  21. Once went to stay with a school friend in Buckie and walked to Banf, which I believe is locally called the city of the seven stills.

    ReplyDelete