A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan. Udo Sonntag

      To the whisky world he is ‘Jim McEwan’ but to me just Dad. Even now as an adult and seeing the positive impact he has had on the whisky world, I am exceptionally proud of his professional career but prouder of his personal one. We are a close family and for years Dad was the only man in the house with three women. He travelled a lot, especially during Lynne’s and my teenage years and I am sure at times he was delighted to get on a plane to escape the teenage angst, boyfriend chat and mood swings that come with two teenage daughters. Nowadays, the numbers have evened, with two sons-in-law in his corner that he can talk football with and walk the hills without any mention of PMT or dieting! Being a grandad (known as Pappe) is possibly his favourite role, as he gets to retell his stories and make up new ones, walk the places he used to take us as kids and then hand the grandchildren back to us when they get tired and grumpy, or he does!

      Dad was a fun dad. Mum handled the day-to-day disciplining and raising of us, while Dad would work at the distillery and travel for long periods of time to many different countries. We did not know any different and while he was away we kept in touch with phone calls and awaited the arrival of the postcards he always sent us, which were inevitably full of nonsense and funny stories and always addressed to ‘Tiger mouse’ or ‘Scooter’ (I have kept them all, and they still make me smile to this day). On his return I remember the excitement at picking him up from the airport and listening as he told us tales of his adventures and the places he had been and holding my breath while he opened the suitcase to unpack, knowing that somewhere in there was a giant duty-free Toblerone just for me!

      When at home, he was in charge of the bedtime routine. The success of this was always questionable as more often than not, we would end up more excited and wide awake than at the start. He would do Unstoppable Plod, where, slow and zombie-like, he would go from one end of the hall to the other, with Lynne and I frantically and by any means necessary trying to stop him and never succeeding. Super-hyped and excited, he would then try and calm us down with a bedtime story, but Dad’s stories were never from books – they were mostly made up and full of excitement and adventure, with just enough of the truth that we believed every word. When he would finish the story and wish us a good night, we would eventually drift off believing that we too could escape ten crocodiles if the need ever arose (unlikely, living on Islay!).

      At weekends, Dad would take us out for walks, bike rides or horse riding on our horse Oliver. The walks would start off along one of the beaches and always involved the challenge of getting onto a rock before the next wave hit, often ending up on it for several minutes waiting for the water to subside enough to get back to the beach, or getting bored waiting and just jumping in! These walks would generally involve some perilous cliffside ascent, especially on a stormy day when we would plead for Dad to take us close enough to the edge that we felt the spray off the waves crashing into the cliffs, feeling a sense of pride when you got soaked the most as it meant you were the bravest!

      Saturday mornings when home were spent coaching the Islay Boys football club. We would sometimes go with him, but mostly this was his time to be around like-minded football fanatics. The only downside to his coaching was that every boy on Islay was terrified to date his daughters as they knew him as their coach and apparently his ability to motivate using profanities was unrivalled!

      Nowadays, we still love hanging out as a family. Dad has the grandkids to play with and Damien and David to chat about football. His personality has aged but not changed. He will still not settle on the first spot we find on a day out and instead make us follow behind him until the right spot is found (carrying picnic bags for what seems like ages until he is happy with the destination). He loves the beach and regardless of season and outside temperature, will be found down to his pants and in the water within minutes of arrival. His imagination is boundless and he is the best storyteller I have ever met. He is not one to sit down and tell a story: his comedy actions run parallel to the words and only add to the humour. We have tried many times to secretly video him in full flow of a story; however, we are always unsuccessful and so I am delighted that his life will be recorded in this book for us to keep and pass down to generations of our family, and his stories will never be lost or forgotten.