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01 January 2000
The Maturing Process
By George Duffus

My introduction to whisky was less than inspiring. My mother's family were members of the Ancient Order of Rechabites, and were all avid supporters of Neddy Scrimgour, the only Member of Parliament to win his seat on a Temperance ticket, beating none other than Winston Churchill into second place.

My father was, and still is, a temperate chap. Thus, our national beverage entered our house but once a year, on Hogmanay, in the shape of a half bottle of blend. This was for the sole purpose of providing traditional hospitality to any chance first-footer after the bells, and perhaps for atoddy or two during the year to come. Invariably, the dregs saw in the next New Year as well!

My next encounter with 'the broon wine', as my mother would call it, so as not to shock the family elders, the 'meenister', or the aforesaid Mr Scrimgour, was on a visit to the home of a relative. His identity and the location must remain a mystery for reasons that will become apparent.

To celebrate the arrival of the clan, Mr X would produce 'the dram'. To my amazement, it was not kept on a shelf, but under the floorboards in the kitchen press. And it wasn't broon, but clear. I understand now, but didn't then, that the loveable rogue was the stillman at the local distillery, and this raw spirit was part of the perks.

Many years later, he was to be found asleep on the night-shift, with 50 years service and 50cls of the cratur under his belt. He was unceremoniously carted home, the expected gold watch returned to the jeweller, but, in a break with strict company rules, his pension was allowed.

Mr X lived to a ripe old age, the healthiest specimen imaginable, and was one of life's great characters. The great whisky mystery lived on!

My next encounter with the water of life was soon after I married. My wife and I bought a house near Edinburgh, and our neighbour was a tailor. This sweet-talking salesman had myriad customers, including, surprise, surprise, some employees of the local distillery. They too produced white 'broon wine', which my neighbour passed on at cost  £1 a bottle. I'll have five of them., I heard myself say. It was the last thing I heard myself say for some time.

After a few 'domestic nips', I turned green and fell down crying, 'It must have been something I ate'.

My wife poured four and a half bottles down the sink. We had no further trouble with our drains!

To escape from the neighbour and the distillery, we moved to Speyside. (Well, how was I to know?) After a short spell, my car was flagged down by a new acquaintance, who thrust two bottles through the window. I was furious, these windows were £80 each!

When I arrived home I eyed the gift suspiciously. It was labelled, it was 'broon', but the bottles were not sealed. 'Two out of three's not bad' I told my wife, as I poured the first of many. It was rough, it was raw, but it was free!

'Now you know why it's free', said my wife as she poured the second bottle down the sink. 'I don't know why you don.t buy a bottle of good stuff to see what it's really like'.

Pay for it. I snarled, huh! But the idea preyed on my mind, and after a year or two's debate, I broke the habit of a lifetime. I purchased a bottle of lovingly distilled, patiently matured, golden nectar. My taste buds exploded with delight, and there began a love affair that has lasted for years, and I didn't even need a week off work. Whisky matures, but men grow up, eventually!

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