Ardmore 10yo Whisky Broker
2009 Ex-Laphroaig Cask | 58.2% ABV
A tale of tragedy, but a lesson in life.
On the face of it the story of the brothers from Ardmore, tasked with gathering cones to replenish the felled forests for the war effort, is a simple one.
Neil and Calum are quiet, humble folk who remain in the motherland during the Second World War on account of Calum suffering from Kyphosis, or by another less kind term, of being a hunchback and thus unable to enlist. Calum is also simple of mind but as a result finds daily life stuffed full of love and happiness. Calum abjectly adores all things in nature, from the trees he climbs to the animals that surround him every minute of the day. He connects with them all, big or small, in a way that most others can’t understand or reason with - he resonates on their frequency.
The older of the two, Neil, is Calum’s carer and looks out for him, sheltering him from the rigours of daily life and providing Calum with a path limited in resistance. It’s because of Neil that Calum is able to exist in relative ease, not in the way of home comforts and wealth, but within society and avoidance of the pressures of daily living. The locals in the nearby town warm to the brothers because they work hard, keep to themselves, and enjoy life’s simpler pleasures: a drink at the local pub now and again, a fish supper and maybe a new pipe if enough money has been saved. It’s not pity or shame that draws this warmth, but love and kindness for two people making the most of the cards they’ve been dealt.
Calum, owing to his physical form, is able to scale great pines and firs with deftness, delicately working his way around every branch with a lightness of touch such that every branch, no matter how precarious, is stripped of its seed. Even in near darkness can Calum find his way around at perilous height, often assisting his able-bodied brother down when Neil’s confidence falters, lovingly guiding his feet on to sturdy pegs. Calum is, without a shadow of doubt, at home in the trees. When the brothers are seconded to a private estate to gather the cones before their forest is felled, they are unexpectedly thrust into an end-game scenario, orchestrated by the gamekeeper Duror, that will see all horrors of the human condition play out, over the course of five days, with devastating consequence.
I first read Robin Jenkins’ The Cone Gatherers in high school, reluctantly. We’d been given it to read as an assignment, with a 1,000 word summary to be submitted in a fortnight’s time. Me being the lazy, good for nothing teenager decided I’d play it cool, shunting the task to the back of my priority list far behind football, Playstation and pizza. In astonishment akin to witnessing a UFO land in my back garden, I realised it was due the following day. Affording the English teacher such lack of respect that it is, even 20 years later absurdly insulting, I took the synopsis on the back cover as all I needed to write a comprehensive assessment of the book in just over 1,000 words - give him a couple for free, I charitably reasoned. Sashaying into the English class the following day I nonchalantly plopped the paper on the teacher’s desk and took my seat with vested interest: English class was always fantastic fun as it was the only lesson within which all my pals featured; a rare congregation of nitwits that spent the full hour poking fun, prodding, teasing and shirking work each day, much to the teacher’s silent fury I’m sure.
The next day after another hour spent in the infinite chasm of time wastage, I was ordered to stay behind at the end of the lesson; a ripple of electric excitement charged around my classmates - Dougie’s getting it - and I knew immediately I was in deep trouble. Typically what transpired if such a command was given, especially so after a flagrant abuse of time and lack of respect was perpetrated, was a “punishment exercise” being dished out. This was a sheet of paper, colour coded to severity, that required the felon to copy ad nauseam a line of text much like Bart Simpson does in each episode introduction of The Simpsons. “I will not take the teacher for a fumbling buffoon ever again. I will not take the teacher…” If I recall correctly yellow paper was very light punishment, with only an hour or so spent copying the sentences out before punishment had been served, but a colour change meant longer, and more challenging exercises. Green paper was usually reserved for calling the teacher a name, white was really severe for those unable to be tamed by voice, and pink was like a hanging.
I never received many “punnies” in my time at school, with one or two yellows for breaches of silence orders or lack of substance in homework assignments. But when someone was dealt a pink punnie, oh holy Christmas, the air was sucked out of the room like a vacuum by collective gasps, as the condemned soul was watched eagerly by the entire class with wide, wild side-eyes and stifled smirks as the offender slowly realised the gravity of the situation. The moment we were all outside the guilty would be dealt a second punishment: teased by everyone, even the quiet ones, about their busy night of writing that awaited. They'd take it on the chin too, knowing it was rarified air to receive a pink slip.
My English teacher waited until everyone had departed and the door had closed with a soft hiss - all the doors were soundproofed to attenuate the blistering admonishments that sounded each hour of the learning day, like clockwork. I was quivering in my boots. Gone was the bolshy swagger, replaced by a hasty roll-out of reinforcing walls to resist the incoming pink missile. What he did next would define my formative years, recalibrate my compass and gift me one of the most enduring companions I’ve ever had… after my wife of course. (She’ll say she endures plenty, mind you). He sat down and said simply: “You didn’t read the book, did you?” Of course I hadn’t so I shook my head in shame and waited. “This,” he said, tapping my pristine unopened copy of The Cone Gatherers and taking a deep breath of imminent schooling, “is one of the most beautiful books ever written. It’s everything life is, bound between two covers. It’s love, it’s fear, happiness, anger, spite, jealousy, revenge, pity and everything in between. You’d be a fool to not want to read it and you, little Dougie Crystal, with your knackered broom hair and overbearing aftershave that you stole from your dad, have been very foolish. Take this book and read it this time, writing 1,500 words by Friday. Got it?”
I’ve never exited a classroom so quickly, but as I stood outside the door I realised my stay of execution wasn’t the most important point here, more I was given actual advice. I was given a second chance at something that could open my eyes to greater things, which was a rare concept in the 1990’s Fife education system. I dutifully went home that evening and cracked open the un-creased cover to read anew. The opening paragraph had me glued to the pages, and I read the whole thing in two long sittings. It seems a bit far fetched to say it marked a changing point in my life, but that’s exactly what it did. This novel is so beautifully, expertly woven in Jenkins’ flowing voice, a bonafide masterpiece by any other name, that it formed a waypoint - before and after The Cone Gatherers. It struck me at the core of my being, and showed for the first time the full spectrum of emotion available to us as humans. The naivety of youth, the struggles of adulthood and the persecution of innocence through the prism of deflected hatred. It gave me inspiration to read. Inspiration to write. Inspiration to look underneath the oft orchestrated facade of other people and really question what their actions are, and why they might be conducting themselves so.
I wrote the extended summary the next evening and handed it in, a changed person. I asked sheepishly if I could keep the book and I was granted my wish with a knowing smile and, dare I say it, a look of pride. He had shown me a book that had the power to change the world for someone, and he was happy to release it. Over nearly three decades since that point, I’ve read The Cone Gatherers more than 25 times - almost once a year, sometimes twice. When I have moments of strife in personal or professional spheres I find myself reaching for this book because, through the absorption of Jenkins’ writing, I find balance again. I am calibrated once more. It still inspires me each time I read it. I think back also to the kindling of youthful flame that the English teacher afforded me, and wonder how different I’d be as a person had he taken the easy route and handed me a punnie instead.
So when I saw a whisky called Ardmore, you better believe I didn’t just see whisky, I saw the brothers, Lady Runcie-Campbell, her social class elitism and her son Roderick with his compassion for equality among all people; Dr Matheson with his greedy fingers and Duror, the embodiment of tortured evil. As I became enamoured with whisky I kept looking at Ardmore because of this connection, but the more I returned to it, the more I fell away from it. The only official bottling around is the 40% Ardmore Legacy - a blend of peated and unpeated whisky, coloured and chill-filtered. That’s not really my current tempo, so I’ve been forced to avoid it. Forced! However when browsing the Scotch Whisky Auctions website recently, I noticed a bottle of Ardmore sitting unloved, and plopped a wee bid in - £35 won it.
This is a bottle of Ardmore from the Whisky Broker: Quality is at the forefront and typically limited in release, the WB bottlings are regarded as solid purchases at RRP. I think I managed to get this one slightly under RRP, so I’m keen to see what it means and what Ardmore tastes like when presented naturally at enthusiast levels of ABV.
Review
Ardmore 2009, 10yo Whisky Broker, Ex-Laphroaig Cask, 58.2% ABV
£45 RRP, (£35 paid at auction)
There’s not too much to know about this whisky other than it has been distilled at Ardmore distillery in Kennethmont, up in the eastern outskirts of the Speyside region. This is a Highland distillery founded by William Teacher’s son Adam, of Teacher’s blended whisky fame and is now owned by Beam Suntory, who also have Glen Garioch, Laphroaig, Auchentoshan and Bowmore under their umbrella. It’s likely why a lot of Ardmore is casked in ex-Laphroaig barrels, like this particular one. Ardmore is used completely in Teacher’s to give the smokier notes beside other grain whiskies, and in the one official bottling. There have been other OB’s such as the 12yo 46% Port Wood Finish, and the travel retail exclusive “Tradition” and “Triple Wood” but it's within the independent bottlers that we find most expressions of Ardmore, and plentiful at that.
Ex-Laphroaig casks for someone who hasn’t explored Laphroaig yet (I know) means I’m coming to this blind. I expect some bold peatiness - ashy, dark, dense smoke. Laphroaig tends to be associated with the heavier peaty bams in whiskyland given its pretty high 35-50 phenols ppm spec, so not exactly a shrinking violet. Will that translate over to the Ardmore by association with the same wood? The contents of said ex-Laphroaig cask were decanted nine years later into an oloroso quarter cask for a year: a finish to inject sweet red juice to the otherwise yellow matured spirit? Being a yoof in my whisky journey, I wouldn’t normally think much of the re-racking but something was said a while back that cask finishes are typically used to bring something to the party that was lacking before - sweetness, saltiness, sharpness or whatever. So when I see a cask finish, I wonder what the original spirit lacked that demanded it be put in something else to boost it.
Only 125 bottles were produced from this outturn, of which mine is number 66, and delivered at a nice high 58.2% ABV. Whisky Broker never colour their whiskies or chill-filter, so this is naturally presented peated Ardmore spirit matured in an ex-Islay cask, with a brief dalliance with some sherry pops at the end. Off we go.
Nose
Dunnage warehouse.Toasted Soreen. Barbeque Sauce. Jet fuel at an airshow. Buttered white bread. Bright grassy earth. Brambles. Minty raspberry. crème brûlée with an overdone top. Runny caramel now. Fireworks. Cedar sauna. Petrichor. Fruit pastilles - sugary and moreish.
Palate
Earthy monster woody smokey spice bomb. A tidal wave of flavour, but not heat, which is interesting. It’s clearly a peated whisky but it’s not a peat monster. Dark reddish brown followed by bright red fireworks. Bready, a bit salty, juicy, jammy, sharp red. Soily peat. Fudgey bacon. Maple syrup on the side. Barbeque-glazed ham. Fresh ream of paper.
The Dregs
This is the first whisky that’s transported me fully into a warehouse within the first moments of smelling it. Dark, earthy, sweet. The colour of the whisky in the bottle is superb, a vivid dark umber that looks equally as special in the glass. Smelling this whisky is tricky as it flips from flavour to flavour very quickly, and covers a lot of ground too - barbeque sauce to buttered bread.
The tasting is massive, with a big wave of flavour crashing over me. It’s not got burning heat though, like the Glen Scotia Seasonal where the sweetness was enrobed in flames. It’s powerful but rounded - no sharp edges if that makes sense. The smoke is beautifully integrated among all the other flavours, not dominating at any point, instead receding into the distance sometimes and being gently present at other times. A lovely fresh sweet thread runs through it all - maple syrup drizzled luxuriantly over crispy bacon springs to mind, although this isn’t what I’d put under an overly oily or viscous dram. It’s got weight but it doesn’t hang about.
The first couple of pours down to the shoulder presented quite tame - a burst of flavour and then quickly receding to a medium sweetness. With a little bit more time and a drop in bottle level, it comes alive and is offering some really delicious variations of sweet, salty and earthy - that’s the biggest take away from Ardmore for me, the earthiness. A freshly-watered summer damp soil - not foosty but a clean, fresh dirt. Like the topsoil in a just turned-over garden. Brilliant.
In terms of cask finishing and the impact it’s had, I can only assume the maple syrup and red notes are because of the year of maturation inside oloroso. If I try and conceptually take those notes away I guess the whisky would be overtly earthy and smokey, probably too much - which is why this fleeting romance with sherry would be important: it brought those much needed sweeter notes, perhaps. It’s a mystery to me and guessing is probably going to land me in naive trouble, but I like that reasoning and I’m sticking with it.
Ardmore isn’t a distillery you often see in the rounds, despite there being an astonishing amount of it in the world through the indie bottlers - honestly, check out the shops, it’s everywhere. Ardmore certainly isn’t a whisky I immediately think of to try, but winning this bottle at auction through a chance lowball bid has revealed another fascinating facet of the giant whisky rockface. The kicker is the price I paid: £35 for all this cask strength, naturally presented excitement? Money well spent.
One last thing to note. Ardmore has an obverse of the coin called Ardlair: the unpeated version of Ardmore spirit and something I reckon I’d enjoy quite a lot - take those smokier elements away and it might well be a lovely counterpoint to the many more grassy bourbon matured whiskies out there - earthy and sweet? Worth a shot. It’s not as abundant as Ardmore in the wild, but there are some expressions sitting out there, unloved, from reputable bottlers at very reasonable prices.
Score: 7/10
Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. DC