we were kids, Dad walked us over every inch of the Rhinns of Islay, and the thing that sticks with me most was that he never looked back. As a parent myself I now see how unusual this is. He marched ahead and we followed; he never checked to see if we were falling into ditches or over cliffs. He walked and we followed, he let us find our own path and while we ended up at the same place there was no, “Be careful, don’t step there,” and for sure we never said, “Are we nearly there yet?” He gave off an unchallengeable aura of “you can do this” and of course because of that, we did. I remember one occasion when we pestered him over and over to go sledging. To his credit, with Islay being warmed by the Gulf Stream there was rarely snow, so it was an odd request, yet pester we did. Finally, on a sleepy Sunday he took us in the distillery Land Rover to The Big Strand, a stretch of seven miles of golden sand, edged by dunes and machair. He tied a huge length of rope to the back and to that he tied a sledge, and for a whole afternoon we slipped and slathomed over the dunes. Today, he takes the grandkids off on these same adventures and they come back soaking wet, filthy and full of stories of millions of stone beaches, starships and castles. Grownups are never allowed and I will admit to being jealous that my turn has passed but delighted that my kids experience Islay as I did; it’s a truly magical place when viewed through Dad’s eyes.
Jim’s grandchildren Lily, Ruaridh, Beth und Eoghan.
There is no Jim McEwan without Barbara McEwan: married when he was 23 and she 19, their marriage was given six months, but 49 years later she is the north point that keeps him true. Through the early Bowmore days when Dad was manager, there were few restaurants on Islay. Dad would call Mum up late in the afternoon to say he was bringing six Japanese guests home for dinner and when he walked through the door that same evening, Mum would have cooked something incredible, Lesley and I would serve and it looked as if it had been planned for months. Often the guests would speak no English but through the international language of whisky, arm waving and quite often the sharing of songs, amazing connections were made. They are the ultimate team, Mum keeping home and hearth but always ready for a party and a song. Dad travelling the world spreading the gospel of whisky to eager disciples. Very often these same people would one day make a pilgrimage to Islay and knock on the door. On my husband’s first New Year on Islay, we were seated for dinner and there was a knock at the door. There were two smiling German men standing there. Mum welcomed them in and got them settled. My husband asked, “Do you know them?” Mum, replied, “Of course I don’t but we will soon, go get the whisky.”
In 1986 Dad was offered the role of manager of Bowmore distillery, going full circle from the apprentice cooper at 15 to now be in charge of both the men and the whisky. It’s hard to believe but at this time the Islay malt phenomenon had not begun; heavy peat was such a polarising flavour that the majority of single malt made on Islay was destined for blends. However, Dad never just talked about Bowmore; he talked about whisky, about Islay, about the spirituality of it. He would take visitors to the water source, show them around the island and walk on the beaches. He would take them to my grannie’s or to Kilchiaran farm to see Margaret and Neil. This was not the norm: distillery managers managed distilleries, their role not about education or PR, but Dad had such a passion for Bowmore and for Islay that he couldn’t help but share it. The more people that met him and saw whisky and Islay through his eyes, the more followers he drew and his reputation began to grow. Many times around the world later and people started calling him Master Distiller. It’s a common term today, and you can even apply for such a role, but he had earned it through years of whisky making, travel and education and it was a title reverently bestowed upon him.
I remember exactly where I was when Dad came in and told us he had been approached to join a private investor group buying Bruichladdich distillery. After 37 years at Bowmore this was an incredible next step but it was a huge risk. We look around today at the huge numbers of new, independent distilleries and we see only progress and opportunity but in 2001, just seven years after Bruichladdich had been mothballed, the long shadow of the closure still loomed large and to outsiders it was a crazy move. However, when he described what he wanted Bruichladdich to be, the whisky he wanted to create and the values it would stand for, it didn’t seem crazy at all and I immediately knew I wanted to be part of it. Dad’s first recruit at Bruichladdich was Duncan McGillivray, who had been made redundant from Bruichladdich on three occasions and knew the distillery like no other, but despite his experiences he had no hesitation in coming back. They put together the Laddie crew, which I am privileged to still be a part of today. Just as when I was a kid, Dad led with the unshakeable conviction that Bruichladdich could do anything and so we all believed it too. Duncan charmed, hammered and engineered the physical distillery back to life while Dad created the spirit – both liquid and emotional. It has been an incredible journey and we have all had the most extraordinary experiences, some heartbreakingly sad, others ridiculously funny, many terrifying but overall we are all different because of it: with Bruichladdich, we have not just remade a distillery but ourselves. While Bruichladdich may be Dad’s greatest legacy, it has been a collective effort, not just on Islay but for the support we have had from all around the world. The people who could see what we were trying to do and their faith and energy were the fuel that kept us going. There are too many to mention but you know who you are and we will never forget. You are the giants whose shoulders we walk upon.
From Bowmore to Bruichladdich and around the world in between, Dad’s story reminds us of a time in whisky that no longer exists but crucially about a truth that we must never forget. Whisky is about people, it’s about community and the work is never done. There is a Bruce Springsteen song that Dad loves called ‘Working on a dream’. There could be no better metaphor for his journey, and like The Boss he continues to rock on.
Lynne, David, Lily and Beth.
1 This is Where I Come From
It was a Friday when life decided to open the doors and send me off on my journey into the world. On that sunny Friday, 23 July 1948, life was obviously in a good mood and wanted to do something decent for me, of all people. Life sent me to the west of Scotland, where I was allowed to see the light of day on my beloved island of Islay. This legendary, historic and wonderful island is known and loved, far beyond the borders of Scotland, as the ‘Queen of the Hebrides’. There couldn’t have been a better place. It’s an island of perfect combinations: at a distance from the hustle and bustle of many a big city on the Scottish mainland, joined with a colourful and indescribably beautiful, primaeval nature, with all its many facets. I’d like to introduce you to Islay; I want you to be able to see a picture of it in your mind’s eye.
“You don’t choose the way you come into life and you don’t choose the way you leave. It’s the part in-between – that’s what it’s all about.”
Jim McEwan
Islay is part of the Inner Hebrides, situated to the west of the Kintyre Peninsula on the southwest of Scotland. It’s one of Scotland’s flagship islands, yet, only since the 13th century has it been regarded as Scottish. Before then, the island belonged to the feared Lord of the Isles, the terror of the seas in those far-off days. Perhaps the Ileach, as the people of Islay are called, still harbour some of his spirits? Who knows? The title ‘Lord of the Isles’ still officially exists today, but, thank God, he is no longer to be feared, for he resides in London; his name is Charles and his mother is the Queen.
The Paps of Jura.
To the
