or bad. You can rely on your nose to protect you from poisoning, for long before you see danger, you can often smell it. In the brain, olfactory stimuli interact directly with our emotions, meaning that, as soon as we smell something familiar to us, pleasant feelings are triggered. Every person has a unique smell, so think about this the next time you hug a loved one or your children in your arms. I could philosophise for hours about this wonderful faculty that has shaped my life so much.
Unfortunately, you can’t reproduce smells in a book, so I’ll try to put this magic into words. If there is anything we have plenty of on Islay, it is peat, a natural fuel that is cut and dried by hand. This fuel plays a role not only in whisky making, but it also once played a major part in the everyday lives of the people of Islay. Peat used to be a widely used heating material on the island, since wood is not available in the quantities needed, and it’s a fuel that doesn’t burn like wood with high flames, but smoulders and glows.
A peat fire is soothing and slow-burning. It can take a long time to light such a fire, but it’s one that lasts a long time. When it burns, it gives off a smoke that is so wonderful to me, full of character, voluminous, homely and familiar. Even if you can’t see the smoke, your nose can catch it. But it’s not just the smoke that our nose captures, for in a distillery, there are many other aromatic demands on our olfactory senses. For me, there was the rich smell of barley to discover: like rain in spring, which is how the grain smelled, having soaked itself with water before sprouting. This scent recalled something fertile, something powerful, something that was alive, something that was at the beginning of a journey: departure and home at the same time. I could also smell something deeply earthy, something that sprouted roots. As soon as the barley dried over the smoke, a new scent appeared, the scent of transformation, an enchanting, delicate sweetness in the air, reminiscent of caramel, a pleasant smell that sometimes also reminded me of honey. And then again, those grassy notes reminiscent of the lush salt marshes. Yet that was only the beginning.
Peat is not only suitable for whisky.
Those multi-layered aromas of the casks were a chapter in themselves, ranging from the wet, dark, coarse wood notes of the individual cask staves, marked by tannic acid, and stored in the rain, to a fruity freshness marked by vanilla. Then there were also the dark and sweet notes, reminiscent of chocolate, of the former sherry casks that were ready to be filled. This exciting backdrop for the nose was framed by the almost unbelievable abundance of all the maritime notes that the island had to offer. The salt, the moisture, the acidity, the freshness; in short, the whole character of the island. This abundance was also supported by the elemental force of fire, needed to burn out the barrels, make the metal glow, and produce the steam that drove the stills. Not to mention the lubricating oil that kept the time-honoured and historic machines and mechanics running. But all this would have been useless if it hadn’t been for the heroes of our childhood, the men of Islay who gave of their best and worked passionately hard in the distilleries. Their toil and sweat was required day in and day out. All this combined to create a magical blend that my nose was privileged to experience every day. And as the cherry on top, the scent of the ever-burning tobacco pipes pervaded each nook and cranny. It was quite unbelievable to me and almost impossible to put into words! This game of scents and smells had an immense attraction that I could not resist.
Even as children, we dreamed of one day working in one of Islay’s distilleries, just as each generation before had done, including my grandfather John McEwan. Even when I was a primary school pupil, Bowmore distillery captivated me, when every day I passed by its walls and gates at least twice on my way to school and back. I just couldn’t help it; I always had to look through the windows to the malt floors, the maltbarns, because behind those window panes, I saw a new and, for me, fascinating world. I saw men turning the barley with big shovels, the dust, shining golden, backlit by the sun, and spreading a wonderfully peaceful atmosphere. The barley turning was done by several men working in harmony and with complete understanding between each other, creating a synchronised rhythm that bordered on choreography. If one maltman lifted the shovel, the other lowered it – shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … That was the sound of the malt floors. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take my eyes off this scene. I wanted to stand on that very spot one day and work there myself. Around the age of 12, I received a call from within those sacred halls: “Jim, do you want to join us for a while? You’re not learning anything new at school today. Come and help us a little!” So I plucked up the courage to turn right, towards the maltbarns, long before reaching the school, knowing full well what would happen should anyone find out. For the first time, I was allowed into this world with which I was so fascinated, to sniff the aromas of the distillery, to pick up a shovel for the first time, becoming a part of the choreography and gliding through the grain to the same beat. A magical moment! On top of that, I was given empty lemonade bottles as my wages, earning my first pennies from the return of their deposits. How proud was I? My efforts had value and I was rewarded for a job that gave me pleasure and made me happy. “Jim McEwan – you’re a grown-up now, you can make money.” So I pretty much gave up going to school altogether and instead pursued an occupation that was of more interest to me. Besides shovelling malt, I was allowed to label barrel lids, and later even roll barrels. I felt so strong as a little boy behind those huge containers weighing hundreds of kilos. One day, however, came the moment when my life changed, as I entered the cooperage for the first time. That was the place where the barrels were made with hard, manual labour, and for me, it was a glimpse of paradise. I’ll never forget the sights, sounds and especially the smell, as I stood in the midst of these respected men. All were smoking pipes, making that tart, dark scent of tobacco part of this heady atmosphere. Martial forces, swinging hammers, charred oak, swirling sparks, alongside the distinctive smoke from the fire, and permeated by the smell of hot metal and a hint of whisky and blood, sweat and tears. There was something so masculine about it all, something so powerful and fundamentally honourable. To me, the barrel makers, the coopers, were highly respected and strong men. Nobody messed with them. They all had strong, muscular upper arms, because they held heavy tools in their hands all day long. I, Jim McEwan, to whom life sometimes threw a stone or two back then, wanted to become a cooper! I wanted to be one of those very men, for they were my heroes.
The complete Bowmore staff in 1928, including maltman John McEwan (back row, 4th from right).
The view through this window was to shape Jim’s life forever.
By the sweat of my brow I wanted to build barrels for the distillery, with fire and booming hammer blows. I wanted to smoke a pipe with these men. I also wanted hard, muscular upper arms like them and to look, with pride, at newly made barrels. I wanted to experience exactly the same satisfaction at the end of the day that those men did when they enjoyed a dram after work was done. The atmosphere in the cooperage so captivated me, that I preferred to help out in the distillery and earn a few pence, rather than be at school. I think more than just once, I came home to be asked by my mother what I had learned that day, replying that, in history we had discussed Robert the Bruce, how he had fought and won against England. She then grabbed me, sniffed my shirt and accused me of lying. Denial was futile. “You told me that last week. Jim, you’ve been in that bloody distillery again! Come on, off to bed, no dinner tonight! Don’t argue!” As painful as it was for me at the time, those punishments could not dissuade me that my future lay at Bowmore distillery.
My mind was made up. I was in the distillery almost every day, so I very cautiously and shyly asked for an appointment with the manager at the time, James McColl. He was the epitome of what a manager should be, always smartly dressed, and looking a bit like Cary Grant, with his grey temples. Midst all this rough whisky reality, he was the man who stood out for me, and I had great respect for him, symbolising as he did a respected personality with great charisma. The way he moved,
