No trip is better than the one crossing distilleries where the stills resting and the barrels breathing in time with the wind as though gathering momentum to take flight.

My first sip of this 31-year-old whisky, and it begins. A warm nose, reassuring and in fact somewhat paternal. Popping grains emanating wet hay aroma laden with ripe fruit caress us and prepare us for a second movement rich in flowers, resin, and autumn leaves. In the mouth, peace, and the sense of satisfaction a child experiences on his high chair just between the last spoonful and his afternoon nap.

Sated with the dimension and balance of alcohol, wood, and time that only this ponderous aging process can bestow, we prepare to unearth the interstitial tones within this work of art. Fruit in. Syrup, bread straight out of the oven, proving dough all the way to the waft from an oven newly lit with fresh wood.