The buildings were weathered gray stone, and in the center rose the distinctive twin-pagoda roofs of the kilns, complete with rustic waterwheel.
“Oh,” breathed Gemma. “It’s like a storybook.”
“It is, arguably, the prettiest distillery in Scotland,”
Donald admitted. “Tho’ I am a wee bit biased.”
He pulled the car up in front of the house that sat to one side of the distillery complex. Heather’s Audi already sat empty in the drive. “Come on; we’ll join the others,”
he said, pulling the baskets from the back of the Land Rover.
“This is your house?” Gemma slid out of the car without taking her eyes from the prospect. Built of the same weathered gray stone as the distillery, the house was a conglomeration of gables, turrets, and rooflines that echoed the pagoda shape of the kilns. It should have been hideous, she thought, but somehow it wasn’t.
“Neo-baronial excess,” said Donald, following her gaze. “Built by my great-great-grandfather in .”
Gemma followed him as he headed, not towards the front door, but around the side of the house. “I think it’s marvelous.”
“You don’t have to pay the central heating,” Donald answered lightly, but she thought he was pleased.
As they came round the corner, Gemma saw a green lawn flanked by rhododendrons and, at its edge, the bluff overlooking the river.
The rest of the party had already spread traveling rugs on the lawn, and Heather called out, “Hurry it up, then.
We’re famished.”
Donald and Gemma joined the group, and as they un-packed the picnic baskets and tucked into their lunch, Gemma watched Heather Urquhart curiously. The other woman seemed relaxed, without the sharpness Gemma had noticed in Hazel’s presence, and her exchanges with Donald had the easy familiarity Gemma had noticed earlier.
Along with the fruit, cheese, and the wedges of cold pheasant pie provided by John, Donald had brought a bottle of whisky and a half-dozen squatty, tulip-shaped glasses. The bottle, however, carried not the Benvulin logo that Gemma had already come to recognize, but a simple paper label with a handwritten number.
“This is a single cask whisky,” Donald explained as he handed round the glasses and poured a half-inch in each.
“Do you know the distinction?”
She shook her head. “That’s different from a single malt?”
“A single malt comes from one distillery,” put in Heather, with more patience than Gemma had expected.
“But the whisky is drawn from many different casks, to
achieve a uniformity of taste—a style. A single cask, on the other hand, is just what it sounds, a whisky bottled from one single cask. Each cask is wonderfully unique, and once it’s gone, it can never be replicated exactly.”
“It’s also very strong,” cautioned Donald, “and so should be drunk with care.” He held up his glass. “First, look at the color. What do you see?”
“It’s a pale gold,” Gemma ventured. “Lighter than the amber one we drank last night.”
“That pale color means it was aged in American bour-bon oak. The darker colors usually mean the whisky has spent some time in a sherry cask. Now”—he nodded towards Gemma’s glass—“sniff.” He demonstrated by holding his own glass under his nose. “What aromas jump out at you?”
Gemma inhaled gingerly. “Um, a sort of spicy vanilla.”
“Verra good. Now take a tiny sip—you don’t want to burn your tongue.”
Complying, Gemma found that although her nose prickled, her eyes didn’t tear as they had last night. “It’s sharp, acid. With a sort of burnt-sugar taste.”
“Brilliant. Now we’re going to add some water, and taste again.” Donald pulled a bottle of spring water from the basket and poured a few drops into her glass.
Gemma sipped, holding the liquid on her tongue and frowning in concentration before letting it slide down her throat. “It’s much more flowery now,” she said in surprise. “With a hint of . . . could it be peaches? And honey—it definitely tastes like honey.”
“That’s very good.” Donald beamed at her as if she were a prize pupil. “And the more you taste, the more complexities you’ll be able to discern. We’ll turn you into a whisky connoisseur yet.” He splashed water into the other glasses, then raised his own. “Slàinte.”
This time, Gemma took a more generous swallow and felt the warmth work its way down into her belly, then out towards her fingers and toes.
They finished their drinks in companionable chat, and although Martin stretched out and promptly went to sleep, Gemma found that rather than experiencing the groggy sleepiness often induced by wine, she felt vi-brantly alive and alert. “Could we see the distillery?” she asked.
“Of course,” replied Donald. “We’ll take a wee tour.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Heather, lazily. “That’s too much like work.”
“And I, as well,” echoed Pascal, pouring himself another finger of whisky and lying back on his elbow.
“Right, then. I don’t think we’ll disturb young Martin.”
Donald stood and held out a hand to Gemma, pulling her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a thistle.
She snatched her hand back and rubbed it against her jeans as she followed him across the lawn, trying to dispel the lingering warmth of his touch.
Donald turned back to her as they reached the distillery buildings. “The kilns and the mill are just for show now, of course. The gristmill has been steam-powered since the turn of the century, but my father restored the mill wheel to working order. It impresses the visitors.”
“And the kilns?” asked Gemma, admiring the twin pagodas.
“Almost all Scottish distilleries now buy malt from professional maltsters, although each distillery specifies the amount of peat smoke required.” He led her into the large building behind the kilns. “We do still grind the malt here—that’s the gristmill,” he added, pointing at a large, steel box with a funnel-shaped bottom. He lifted a handful of barley grains from a bowl on a display table.
“The barley goes in like this”—dipping into a second bowl, he held out what looked like coarse-ground oatmeal—“and comes out like that. Grist.”
Gemma touched the coarse meal with a fingertip, then followed Donald upstairs onto a steel mesh catwalk.
They stopped before an enormous vat with a wooden cover.
“The grist is conveyed up here into the mash tun, where hot water is added to it.” He lifted a section of the cover, and Gemma peered in. The vat was half filled with a frothy liquid that smelled good enough to eat.
“What is this?”
“It’s called wort. The successive washes of hot water leach the sugars from the barley, leaving a sweet barley water. As children, we were given it as a treat. It’s nonal-coholic at this stage.”
“And over there?” Gemma gestured towards the series of smaller tubs she could see across the room.
“Those are the washbacks. That’s where yeast is added to the wort, and it begins to ferment. The brewer in my grandfather’s day used to say it was nae whisky if ye didna chuck a rat in the wash to give it a boost, but we don’t do that these days.”
“Rats?” Gemma couldn’t repress a shudder, although she was sure he was teasing her.
“Aye, the vermin were everywhere, living off the malt.
There were always a few wee cats on the distillery pay-roll.” This time the twinkle was unmistakable.
“Well-fed cats, I should think,” Gemma rejoined.
“As well as well-watered staff. The distillery crew was allowed three drams a day, straight from the still. Must have had cast-iron stomachs, those lads.”