equivalent, poteen? Go to Ireland for long enough – blimey, stay in Scotland for long enough – and you’ll be offered poteen sooner or later, by somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody … But in over 30 years of sometimes casual, often determined and occasionally assiduous drinking in pretty much every cranny and indeed neuk of Scotland, I can’t recall ever being offered hooch which was actually made in the place, and none of my friends have either. This strikes me as odd. Given the nature of some of my friends, it’s practically preposterous.
I’m almost tempted to believe that the more likely explanation is that I’ve been offered whiskeen – or whatever it might be called – dozens of times and accepted it fulsomely on each occasion, only to, for some reason, forget all about it by the following morning, though this is of course a patently absurd suggestion and I’m mildly surprised I’ve even thought of it. Come to think of it, just ignore it. Actually, I’ll probably take this bit out of the first draft. In fact, I know: I’ll remove it tomorrow morning when I look back at what I wrote the night before.
Gosh, this ‘research’ stuff is fascinating. Now I know, from reading other books about whisky, that Scotch poteen is called peatreek.
Peatreek. It’s an old word, and has already fallen almost completely out of use, but that is the technical term for what I’m looking for. Actually, as a word, I quite like it. In common with a lot of writers and not a few readers, I kind of collect words, and peatreek seems like a good one to have in the collection.
But no sign of the stuff itself. Not so far, anyway. I’ve made a few inquiries and dropped a few hints, but to date nobody has come up with anything. I didn’t really think there’d be too much chance of illegal distilling on Islay just because there’s so much of the legal variety – you’d think that anybody with those sorts of skills could make a good, worry-free living working on the right side of the law – and Islay always feels quite civilised compared to some bits of Scotland, the bits I usually associate with whisky production. It really does feel like it’s part of Scotland’s central belt in places, certainly compared to the other Inner Hebridean islands, let alone the Outer Hebrides.
But then maybe if you’re a distiller in your day job and you find the whole process technically fascinating – and don’t just want to get away from it of an evening and put your feet up in front of the telly – you
would
try setting up a portable still somewhere in the wilds just to see if it can be done, and whether your skills translate to a smaller scale. After all, Islay is quite rugged in places, with its own relative remotenesses. I took a solitary drive out to the Oa, the nearly circular peninsula sticking out like a growth from Islay’s south-east corner, pointing towards Ireland, and it got really rugged and interesting down towards that fabulously fractured coast; all sea stacks, cliffs, ragged gullies and caves fronting the greyly shining sea and fringed by rocks covered with yellowing foam blown off the waves. You could hide a still on the Oa no problem. Goodness knows, the extravagantly cratered single-track road would be enough to put off any Excise man concerned about the springs and shocks on his government-issue car.
And though this is the fourth time I’ve been to this not exactly vast island, there are still a few roads I haven’t driven and lots of trackless hills and lochs scattered about which I’ve been nowhere near. These hills are walked on, and worked on by shepherds, foresters, estate workers and game keepers, but even so …
Whatever, if there is anything going on, nobody – probably very wisely – is talking about it, certainly not to a daft bumptious distillery-bagging scribbler from Fife. Book or not, research or not, I’m just a tourist here, but it’s a good place to be a tourist.
Some of the
I’m almost tempted to believe that the more likely explanation is that I’ve been offered whiskeen – or whatever it might be called – dozens of times and accepted it fulsomely on each occasion, only to, for some reason, forget all about it by the following morning, though this is of course a patently absurd suggestion and I’m mildly surprised I’ve even thought of it. Come to think of it, just ignore it. Actually, I’ll probably take this bit out of the first draft. In fact, I know: I’ll remove it tomorrow morning when I look back at what I wrote the night before.
Gosh, this ‘research’ stuff is fascinating. Now I know, from reading other books about whisky, that Scotch poteen is called peatreek.
Peatreek. It’s an old word, and has already fallen almost completely out of use, but that is the technical term for what I’m looking for. Actually, as a word, I quite like it. In common with a lot of writers and not a few readers, I kind of collect words, and peatreek seems like a good one to have in the collection.
But no sign of the stuff itself. Not so far, anyway. I’ve made a few inquiries and dropped a few hints, but to date nobody has come up with anything. I didn’t really think there’d be too much chance of illegal distilling on Islay just because there’s so much of the legal variety – you’d think that anybody with those sorts of skills could make a good, worry-free living working on the right side of the law – and Islay always feels quite civilised compared to some bits of Scotland, the bits I usually associate with whisky production. It really does feel like it’s part of Scotland’s central belt in places, certainly compared to the other Inner Hebridean islands, let alone the Outer Hebrides.
But then maybe if you’re a distiller in your day job and you find the whole process technically fascinating – and don’t just want to get away from it of an evening and put your feet up in front of the telly – you
would
try setting up a portable still somewhere in the wilds just to see if it can be done, and whether your skills translate to a smaller scale. After all, Islay is quite rugged in places, with its own relative remotenesses. I took a solitary drive out to the Oa, the nearly circular peninsula sticking out like a growth from Islay’s south-east corner, pointing towards Ireland, and it got really rugged and interesting down towards that fabulously fractured coast; all sea stacks, cliffs, ragged gullies and caves fronting the greyly shining sea and fringed by rocks covered with yellowing foam blown off the waves. You could hide a still on the Oa no problem. Goodness knows, the extravagantly cratered single-track road would be enough to put off any Excise man concerned about the springs and shocks on his government-issue car.
And though this is the fourth time I’ve been to this not exactly vast island, there are still a few roads I haven’t driven and lots of trackless hills and lochs scattered about which I’ve been nowhere near. These hills are walked on, and worked on by shepherds, foresters, estate workers and game keepers, but even so …
Whatever, if there is anything going on, nobody – probably very wisely – is talking about it, certainly not to a daft bumptious distillery-bagging scribbler from Fife. Book or not, research or not, I’m just a tourist here, but it’s a good place to be a tourist.
Some of the
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