Demijohn Bottling | 58.3% ABV

I love Campbeltown, even if I have to watch opportunists at play.

Truth be told I was not in a good place as I left the house. I wasn’t hungover - I’d not touched any whisky since Wednesday evening, and this was Friday morning. Drained of all energy is probably how I’d put it.

Whisky does that to you though, doesn’t it? If you over indulge, or saturate yourself over the course of a day with high-power whisky, despite sucking in water like a jetski and eating your bodyweight in food, the whisky still manages to permeate through it all and leave you sapped. That, maybe, and having the time of my life.

We spent a day inside the warehouses of a 2014-built west coast peninsula based distillery of cyclical renewability fame. It wasn’t even a pinch yourself moment because I was well aware of how lucky I was to be standing in the place I was, with the people that were, with the casks that are.

Are what? Are maturing with astounding complexity. With unbridled enthusiasm and quality.

Anyway I’ll not dwindle too much, because after the warehouse fun we swam in Loch Sunart, tearing my feet to shreds on barnacles, spilling most of my dinner down my jumper, falling asleep in an armchair as people talked about vintage wine, before clambering into a bunk bed for a night of cooking under a sun-warmed ceiling.

Back home for one night then off to the west coast again, this time heading for another hallowed place: Campbeltown. The trip in the car by myself was a sombre affair and, after holding it in for an hour in an ever increasing state of emergency, I almost peed my pants when the car lost traction on a greasy hairpin bend coming into the Viking town. When the car suddenly lurched sideways in the direction of a drystone wall, it took all my core strength to keep my pants from being joined by the contents of my stretched bladder.

The bright white and blue Moody 31 sailing yacht was prepped to go when I arrived in Largs Yacht Haven, where my uncle spends most of his time now sailing and singing his way around retirement. I parked beside a Ferrari, because why not, then clambered aboard the wee boat with a box of liquid treats and an unreasonable amount of spare underwear. Thank goodness for willpower, for I should have been deploying a fresh set already. A few minutes later, with things stowed neatly inside and lifejacket properly affixed, we were slipping off into an overcast morning with a course set for the Wee Toon, via the north coast of the Isle of Arran.

We had a good sail over to the island but as we left the Firth of Clyde and rounded the Cock of Arran, the weather shifted on us putting tide and wind directly on our bow. It made for a washing machine of a journey down and after eight hours of tumbling through the chop, we were thankful to see Davaar Island in the distance. Campbeltown Loch, protected by Davaar and the spit of land that disappears at high tide, was much calmer and allowed us to get prepped ready for mooring up to the pontoon in the marina. A call ahead to the harbour master on our impending arrival revealed they were already at capacity, meaning we’d have to raft - tie ourselves sideways on to someone else's boat. A situation that all the moored yachts, currently sitting peacefully in the marina knew, for as we approached them suddenly all the bodies we’d seen dotting about the place were nowhere to be found.

Rafting is a bit of a pain for everyone, because for the rafting boat it means tying to another bobbing object, clambering over someone else’s deck to get to land and no shore power or services. For the rafted it means someone else is always clambering over your deck to get to land, and pulling your otherwise relatively stable boat about the place. Also not ideal if the rafter is constantly going back and forth - someone walking on deck is a noisy process if you're underneath in the saloon, twice as annoying if those people have lead feet.

After manoeuvring around the marina twice to try and catch someone’s eye, we finally managed to find a wee boy inquisitively poking his head up, and asked that he bring the skipper up on to deck. Eventually the dad appeared and he graciously allowed us to raft to his boat. A young family from Ballycastle, they were over for the weekend for some sights and sounds before heading back Sunday morning. Even more reason for us to remain, once we were tied up, safely inside our boat for the evening - nothing could be more inconvenient than some loud Scotsmen tripping over sheets and shrouds, waking up the kids below. We had gas, water and battery power anyway so spent the evening eating, chatting and having a few drams from the 30 or so bottles of whisky on board.

Saturday was forecast to be grey with a chance of sunshine, and started off slightly wet. As we were making breakfast, a yacht next to us set off, leaving a space that we could fit into nicely; a confirmation call to the harbour master and we quickly pulled our boat into the space, allowing us to hook up to shore power and refill the water tanks, relinquishing the anxiety of being rafted - a speedy getaway for the Irish family, if the weather changed or they had to leave for emergency’s sake, would be hindered by having our boat lashed to it and owner nowhere to be found. Although thinking about it now, if it was a true emergency they’d be flying back to Ireland, not chugging for 12 hours by sea. By the time we got ourselves up and out into the Wee Toon, the sun was blasting down.

The plan of attack today was to head up to the Springbank shop for opening time - 10am - and see what’s what. I had no burning desires to snag anything in particular other than a hand-fill, but if I had the opportunity to get something nice, I would. Then we’d take in a tour at 11:30am, find somewhere for lunch and, at 3pm, settle in for the Cadenhead’s Creation Blending Experience. It was remarkably hot wandering up to the gate between the boat and the street; a buzz of people making their way past the small yacht marina and over to the main commercial harbour caught our attention. Something was afoot.

That something was a 110 metre super yacht owned by Nancy Walton Laurie, heiress to her father Bob Walton’s stake in Walmart, worth more than $9 billion. I’m not easily impressed by grand displays of wealth. Neither were the locals, who looked on in confusion and mild apprehension as to why such an absurdly gigantic boat even existed, and why it was berthed here, of all places. Refuelling for a long onward voyage, it was said. Kaos, it was called. Not sure if they are referring to the state of a world in which one person can own such a thing, or the outcome of what their gleefully stocked killing machines enable, but anyway, it was all we heard throughout the weekend: “Would you like sugar with your coffee and have you seen the super yacht in the harbour?”

We left the locals shaking their heads and wandered up to Longrow, where the heat of the sun was causing all manners of distress. I could feel my skin turning to lava as we walked along - it’s only 9:30am for goodness sake - but soon the shade of Well Close offered respite. A queue had formed already and, going by the two blokes lounging in folding camping chairs, had been established for a while. Two separate families were behind them and then a group of bikers, clad head to toe in leather - they must have been absolutely baking in this heat. We took up position behind them and listened, or rather endured owing to the power of his transmission, to the guy taking orders over the phone for six bottles of 15yo Springbank and two cage bottles, if he could fit them all in his panniers.

The chat in the queue was openly and overtly about collecting - all the people in front of and behind us were here to buy bottles to buy and sell immediately, or collect and pass on to children. My uncle chatted to the guy that arrived behind us who said he didn’t drink whisky at all. He was here to try and snag a Hazelburn 21. I was too hot so moved over to stand in the shade beside the entrance to the Washback Bar, at which point a wide broom swept some dust over my feet. I turned to see Joyce looking at me.

I met Joyce last year in Cadenhead’s shop where I chatted for ages about our plans and she forced convinced us to book the Springbank tour the following day. A super person, who just bought a camper van and is about to lean into the wonderful part of life, exploring and living. I can’t tell you how jealous I am. Joyce now takes up position at the Springbank distillery complex as a tour guide and is really informed on all things C’Town.

Springbank shop was operating an initial six-person maximum, so when the gates finally creaked open, the two camping chair boys rushed in past the staff member, who was still securing the ground bolt for gate. They appeared 20 minutes later each carrying a case under both arms and decanting it into a nearby VW camper van, before heading back into the shop. They did this three times and, sensing the growing disquiet among the patiently waiting patrons, announced to us all they’d been here for three days already, and had done the same thing each day. Between eight and 10 cases each day means they took quite the haul - potentially 140 or more bottles of whisky between two blokes. Some in our queue looked impressed.

As the queue slowly shortened, those inside appeared eventually with cases under arms too. I was still chatting to Joyce who’d moved over with me as we approached the front of the queue, and knowing how clued up she was, I quietly asked her what cage bottle, if any, I should go for. She assessed what remained and Hazelburn was the call. I did as I was told. My uncle wasn’t fussed for cage action but procured a Springbank at my behest, and then we made our way into the main shop to see that, of the eight bottles laid out of each core range expression this morning, only two bottles of Springbank 10 on the shelf remained. As many bottles of Hazelburn, Campbeltown Loch, Longrow and Kilkerran as you could ever want - Sherry and Bourbon 8yo, Heavily Peated, 12 and 16 included. My uncle took a Springbank 10 and a Campbeltown Loch for himself.

The demijohn bottles all looked smashing - loads of pre-prepared bottles available and stacked right to the edge of the shelf; the previous patrons hadn’t touched these. Many different bottling dates, tints and ABV’s were available but, not knowing what goes into these ever-rotating infinity bottles, I just made a call based on the colour of the whisky. I picked up both a Longrow and a Kilkerran - these bottles are always fantastic value and I’d already had a few messages the previous week to say that the Longrow was especially magic at the moment. I’ve tried very little of Longrow or Hazelburn, so I was only too excited to pick them both up.

We’d asked for tasters of all the demijohns to inform our decision a bit more, but Scottish alcohol laws means that, despite being able to sell alcohol at 10am, shops can’t have open, flowing whisky going until 11am. Hey ho - I did notice a lot of the pre-filled demijohn bottles had dates on them as far back as May - goes to show that despite holding incredibly whisky, the focus for ransackers is not these wee bland looking bottlings - perhaps because you have to put a name on the label.

Payment sorted we headed back into the sunshine, waving to Joyce as we went and feeling like we’d done really well in the shop - to get a cage bottle was a big surprise after all those other people had been in before us, so even against the biggest of odds you might still have a chance at something interesting.

As we wandered back to the boat to decant our wares, we surmised that despite knowing this sort of behaviour goes on every day, and that people are well within their rights to do such things, and that I’m totally at peace with it because I could also be doing it if I was motivated enough by money to do so, it still smarts a bit to see it happening directly in front of our faces in such openly brazen ways. Joyce mentioned that the week before there was a legitimate fight in the shop when a woman decided she wanted a cage bottle that had been placed on the desk by another patron. Literally wrestling over a bottle of whisky - we laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

The key word we kept coming back to as we shot the breeze, was entitlement, and maybe fairness too. Yes it’s allowed to happen and yes it’s legally acceptable and yes it’s available for people who have the wits, energy and finances to leverage it, but it doesn’t mean it’s fair to do so. Some travel hundreds of miles to Springbank and adhere to the generally appreciated decorum of buying what you are personally going to consume. Yet most people arrive at this hallowed ground, where dreams are formed, to find that there’s nothing left in the shop at 10:20am, having been cleared out by people taking orders over the phone. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

By now the sun was heating up my soul and the boat was like a plastic tub left in the sun: melty. We rehydrated and wandered back up to the distillery to find that at 11:20am, the shop was empty of customers and there were no such limitations on access - some cage bottles still remained. We announced we were here for the 11:30am tour and the woman said that they’d already set off because it was an 11:15am tour. Blushes and apologies quickly followed. We ran along to where the group were now standing and I was delighted to see the woman teasing us for our tardy timekeeping was Joyce.

The tour around Kilkerran distillery, or Glengyle to be more accurate, was really informative and interesting. The underside of the roof above was lined with metal strips to try and prevent crafty fellows from entering this room, now a grain store but previously the dunnage warehouse, through the heavens. The Boby mill in the corner was gifted to Glengyle by Craigellachie although, as Joyce pointed out, not exactly gift wrapped. Reconditioned to operating condition, this wee mill now squishes out four tonnes of grist an hour.

The mashtun and washbacks were aligned in a long, thin upper level at the end of which stood two bright stills. We were shown the “iPad of Glengyle”, a small buttoned and switched board through which all the various pieces of equipment throughout the production area can be monitored and controlled. There was no production happening today, which I’m eternally grateful for because with the sun beating down on those dark tiles and those thick insulating stone walls, it wasn’t exactly cool inside - adding some boiling liquid to the equation would’ve been abject punishment.

It seems Glengyle really was created on a shoe-string budget because the stills, bright tall copper with red and blue flanges to indicate wash or spirit status, were procured from backup stills at Ben Wyvis, a now demolished distillery in Dingwall that operated for only six years in the 1970s. Not to be confused with GlenWyvis, the new distillery also situated in Dingwall. I’m not sure if they’re related but, going by the blurb on the GlenWyvis website, there’s no mention of Ben Wyvis and thus no direct connection to be seen. Anyway, Glengyle took those stills and cut them up, welding them back together in the shape they wanted and craned them both in via the roof to where they now sit beautifully.

Next we were down the metal stairs and into the adjoining casking room, where the big vat and fuel pump nozzle resides, before walking around to the hole in the wall through which we can usually see the Lorne & Lowland Parish Church made famous on the Kilkerran label. The owner of the obverse side of the wall (not WM Cadenheads) is not very good at weeding clearly, or communicating either, so the view through this wee hole was limited. Then it was back to the Washback Bar to try a wee dram of Kilkerran 12 and get our glass and Distillery Exclusive miniature for the road; the two miniatures were gifted to the Irish family as thanks for allowing us to raft to them. We chatted to Joyce for a bit longer before sitting down with a fellow Barfly and police officer who had travelled up from Bradford to view a house - the prospect of moving to Campbeltown, especially on a day like today, sounds like a dream. The only crimes to be found in Campbeltown are sitting comfortably in deckchairs outside the Springbank shop.

As we were leaving the Washback to get lunch, I saw Joyce again, so thanked her one final time and asked for a suggestion for lunch - she reeled off four places before realising that Cadenhead’s have a tasting room which also offers light bites. Perfect for us, I said, knowing it would put us directly adjacent to our next port of call, and set off into the blistering sun for some refuelling and a bit of a sit down. A great morning spent in the Wee Toon. For kicks I’ve just looked back on last year’s experience to see what my thinking was and it’s interesting to see a few developments since I was last here.

Firstly the cage bottles last year were sat openly on a shelf, allowing patrons to float in and pick one up. I remember my uncle and I being one of the first people to this shelf and standing broadside preventing others from elbowing in; the rustle of impatience behind us was palpable. This year the bottles are back behind a screen, with a member of staff waiting to take you through what’s available, log your name and details into their logbook before removing the bottle with lock and key. It prevents those opportunists, like the guy last year, from plonking four bottles down and announcing it’s already been okayed by the management.

The staff apparently reload the cage at some point during the day so that afternoon meanderers have a shot at getting something too - I think they also recharge the core range shelves going by the stacked rows of the Springbank 12 cask strength and a few Springbank 15 when I popped in at 3pm. There’s also that rolling six-person maximum enforced at opening, to avoid the rush of people and, as Joyce mentioned, altercations forming. It’s ridiculous that people need to be policed like this, that some people have such little self control that they need child bumpers put in place.

We spoke a lot about the implications for Springbank, with people taking cases of their product and leaving none for others. I mentioned the groaning Hazelburn shelf untouched in the shop, and thought Springbank would far rather have no product on shelf and crotchety customers than loads of product on shelves and indifference. Life isn’t fair and I’m not sure why I expect this to be any different. We take our chances. We pick our paths. We do what we think is inherently right. We afford others the level of fairness to which we expect ourselves - some believe all is fair in love and war.

I subscribe to an “everyone's happy means I’m happy" methodology, but that’s just naive when it comes to Springbank, or indeed any product inside and outside of whisky that has supply unable to satiate demand. Some will always exploit that type of situation for their own gain - some might argue it’s an inbuilt human condition and complaining about it means next to nothing in the overall scheme of things.

Looking over to the large imposing Victorian houses lining the coastal front of Campbeltown, and all the way back home again around Arran, past Millport and into Largs, each one constructed from the profits of the spice, cotton, tobacco and alcohol trades that exploited slavery and fervent demand for exotic products. It certainly feels like no matter what era we live in there’s always someone with lower moral standards, boosted by a sense of entitlement and the financial clout to leverage opportunities of questionable practice, making themselves immeasurably wealthy in the process.

There’s millions of people like this right now who are able to turn unfathomable profits to the detriment of the less fortunate or opportunistic - we need look no further than the people who govern us. Despite not being anywhere as huge or impactful to the public, it’s happening in low level whisky speculation and auctioneering too, but where the profits are certainly made the detriment is arguably to profiteers; money all smells and tastes the same after all.

It’s everywhere you look, if you take a moment to see and understand it. Some are subtle, like the big brown mill-owner mansions rising up the hillsides around busy ports, grateful to the slave trade. Others are less subtle, like the Walmart superyacht sitting in the harbour glittering like the Cullinan Diamond in the midday sun, grateful to those who feel safe at night sleeping beside an AR-15 semi-automatic assault rifle.

Review

Longrow NAS Hand-fill, demijohn bottle from Springbank distillery, 58.3% ABV
£55 paid.

Nose

Smoked crisps. Bacon. Sweet maple glazed ham. Coastal saltiness and sandy rocks. Bright, clean, almost freshly laundered sheets. Big salty potato. Not as dirty as I expected at all. Reds, browns. Yellows. The odd sky blue. Creels, ropes, seaweed. Engine oil. Harbour. Fresh coastal air. Salted caramel shortcake - biscuitty and dense. Burning paper.

Wee bit of water opens up a match striker element. Fresh grey clay, the fibrous stuff you used to use in high school. The sweet smoke character is also amplified. Wood appears for the first time; sweet oak. Oh wow, a peppery note appears too, vegetal in parts. I can almost picture a downwind chip shop, with everything on it. Salt, vinegar and sauce.

Palate

Coastal salt, big and enveloping. Wow, it keeps rising to a huge crescendo of salt ahoy. This is massive. The sweet toffee arrives at the back, hot and viscous, tapering off quite quickly to a malty salt - sourdough bread studded with wee bits of dried fruit. Brick paint.

A deft touch of water takes the salty edge down a notch or two. The sour earthiness arrives, jostling with dark reddish brown notes - dark dried fruits, chewy almost. Mint. Caramel sauce. Oily chocolate crisp. Meaty Campbeltown funk kicks into overdrive yet still remains very coastal. This isn't a tarry peaty dram; it's bright and fresh, standing in a summer coastal squall. At the death the oak appears in a beautifully rounded sweet little ball, like a bon bon of wood.

The Dregs

I never took the time to understand, for reasons unknown to anyone, the differences between Springbank, Hazelburn and Longrow. I assumed the latter two were heavy peated drams and, given how strong a character Springbank is, just gave them a pass. That Springbank character plus extra peat = too much for Auld Doog. However last year my uncle picked up a 20cl Hazelburn hand-fill which, it transpires, didn’t resonate for him so he sent the last couple of drams to me and I really enjoyed it. Turns out Hazelburn isn’t peated at all!

This year as I approached the “Whisky Dash to Campbeltown” weekend, I was being messaged to say that the Longrow hand-fill was really good right now - as it’s a constantly revolving system and knowing that things move quickly at Springbank, I was keen to pick one up and see for myself. Of the many available on the shelf, I chose one with a date a week or so ago to try and nail this sweet spot. This happened to also be one of the darkest sitting there and happily paid the price of entry: £55.

Peated whisky, despite the tendency for me to rest a blanket character trait over it all, is a world unto its own with huge chasms of difference depending on how high the peaty parts are, as well as how the whole process interacts with each underlying spirit. Lightly peated has whiffs of smoke and can add so much dimension to a whisky - Ardnamurchan core range is sensational because of the lick of bonfires on the wind permeating through the toffee seaside.

Peated can be medicinal or ashy, meaty, salty and requires a dedicated sit-down if I want to really enjoy it - an evening sipper beside a television, peated whisky is not. Heavily peated is where I feel the anoraks live, and should be dark and brooding, dense and unforgiving - Octomore, despite never having tried it sits in this bracket for me, just by the very nature of its genre defying 140ppm. Yet this Longrow, the so-called heavily peated side of Springbank, in this example, is nothing of the sort.

In the overview of what makes Springbank so incredibly popular, it’s that it has the Campbeltown funk - dirty, coastal, oily, dark, moody, weird, rocky, treacle, salty and sweet. Of all the expressions available in the shop, it was Springbank that was rinsed before we got close to it. Longrow was there. Hazelburn was there in droves. The hand-fills were full to the gunwales, untouched and unloved. Yet herein lies magic.

Given my love for brighter drams, Longrow maybe isn’t the obvious go-to for me, but then again Springbank is not the go-to for me either. It was surprising to me just how much I adore this whisky. It’s peated, clearly, but it’s tremendously turbulent. It goes from a salty super-soaker to glorious ribbons of salty caramel, sandwiched between smouldering chunks of oak, malt, crackers, biscuits, fresh laundry and coastal majesty. Peppery spice, greens, blues and pinks, even. Earthy, minty, saucy and delightfully rich.

I pour another to sanity check that the saltiness isn’t just a shockwave from my recent voyage across the sea, but there it is again, huge, crashing over all my firing senses. The more I get used to it, the more I find notes inside that salt, but the overall character is of the great seas. I messaged the Dramface team to see if they had any experiences like this and Ardnamurchan 07.21:04 was mentioned as another overtly salty dram. I checked my illuminated supershelf because I was sure I had that very one, but I have the 07.21:05, one digit difference. I pour it and it’s not salty at all compared to this long sucker. It’s sweet and lightly smokey and gorgeous too, but nothing compared to the Longrow’s power.

With water added this Longrow expression shifts gears entirely. The saltiness is decreased by a big factor, the sweetness, oak, a bit of mint even, are all amplified. It’s like an over-salted fish supper saved at the death by a bit of diligent scraping and a hit of maple syrup. It is a force to be reckoned with, and I’m still finding new things inside each pour enough that my review of it has been revised more times than I care to admit. Just now a stick of rock licked alongside a Frazzle crisp.

While big salty drams are not something I actively seek out, to have this in the arsenal is a boon. For £55 I’m both astounded at the quality and delighted that this is a whisky borne of happenstance, of randomness. This is a fleeting moment in time where a congregation of unknown Longrow casks have joined together briefly to sing their sea shanty, but no sooner have they started is half the choir replaced. Perhaps that’s the reason that these hand-fills are left untouched by the ransackers.

There’s no guarantee of flavour, despite a belt and braces guarantee of quality. The whisky from these demijohns is never the same, and will never be the same; by default they’re not generating the legendary status of the traffic light labels of Springbank’s core range through a consistency of product. The Kilkerran I bought last year was incredibly bright and creamy - nothing like any Kilkerran I’d tried up until that point, and definitely something that others might not be drawn towards. This year it’s completely different. Isn’t that the pinnacle of throwing caution into the whisky wind? I love it.

In conclusion I have here before me a whisky that’s fascinating, different to what I expected, expansive in flavour and compelling. It might not be a whisky I’d naturally gravitate towards for an evening of easy-going drams that are decadently moreish, but as a powerful experience it’s a joy to behold. It resonates with the journey through which I took to acquire it, and the overall sentiment of our whisky dash to Campbeltown: Salty, magical and magnificent.

Score: 8/10

Tried this? Share your thoughts in the comments below. DC

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