I dip my hands in the salty, brittle ocean and smell the sea. With my eyes, I see what I imagined when I first tasted that remarkable Springbank malt. A hard place, touched by economic struggle but with a strong spirit. A place that makes beautiful things from what they have in their hand.
I remember, 5 o’clock sherry, the awful, cheap, puckering kind. In the lounge room of his house with half-completed wallpaper and an old boxset television, he would pour a glass of sherry from the sideboard . And then he’d look sideways at me, at all of twelve years old and say, ‘Want a little?’