A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan E-Book

Jim McEwan

• Herausgeber: Plassen Verlag
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 476

Beschreibung

For whisky professionals, connoisseurs and lovers, Jim McEwan is an icon like Steve Jobs, Paul McCartney and Pelé. Growing up in the small village of Bowmore on the "whisky island" of Islay, he started his career in 1963 at the age of 15 as a cask maker in the Bowmore distillery. This developed into an unprecedented career in which Jim was to shape and revolutionise the world of whisky like no other. The worldwide success of single malt whisky is inextricably linked to him. The highlight of his work was the revival of the Bruichladdich distillery, today one of the most innovative and respected representatives of the whisky world. How a journey began with two men and a dog that would lead to new universes of whisky is only part of the story that Jim McEwan tells here anecdotally and with much humour. Lavishly designed, lavishly illustrated and sumptuously appointed - a delight for lovers of wonderful books and wonderful drinks alike.

Leseprobe

ISLE OF ISLAY

The Island of Whisky

© Alba-Collection Verlag 02/2021 · www.alba-collection.com

Reference

Malt Distillery (working)

Malt Distillery (closed)

Port Ellen Maltings

Other tourist feature

Information centre

Lighthouse

Tidal area

I would like to dedicate this book to my wife Barbara, because without her support this journey would not have been possible.

To our two daughters, Lynne and Lesley, who have made every step of the way home worthwhile. Our sons-in-law David and Damien and our four wonderful grandchildren Lily, Beth, Eoghan and Ruaridh.

We as a family have been blessed in so many ways.

Jim McEwanApril 2021

A JOURNEYMAN’S JOURNEY

The Story of

JIM McEWAN

Jim McEwan | Udo Sonntag

Contents

Prologue

1This is Where I Come From

2From the Potato Holidays Into the Wild West

3Follow Your Nose

4Inspiring People – James McColl

5Davy Bell – Always a Penny in Your Pocket

6The Lifeline of Islay – the Puffers

75 O’Clock – Tea Time?

8Queen of Port Charlotte

9Arrival in Glasgow Bridgeton

10From Bridgeton to Bellshill

11Back to Bowmore

12Giving Something Back to the Community – Swimming Pool

13A New Era Starts

14Being on the Road is Not a Holiday

15Big in Japan

16With Suntory on Top

17Farewell From Japan

18Legendary Drams – a Piece of Home

19Don’t Mess With Jim

20Expensive Hangover

21Where Did it All Go Wrong For You, Jim McEwan?

22Judgement Days

23Bringing Cinderella to the Ball

24Soulmates – Duncan McGillivray

25Recruiting Allan and Adam

26First Drops

27The Botanist

28The Story of Ugly Betty

29Ursula

30Yellow Submarine

31Legendary Drams – Port Charlotte

32Legendary Drams – Octomore

33Legendary Drams – Black Art

34Legendary Drams – Space Mission Bruichladdich One

35Retirement?!

36Height of the Hollow

37Babylon Bags

38Highland Toast

39Thank You at the End

Mary’s Poem

Hall of Fame

Epilogue

List of Illustrations

Prologue

To the whisky world he is ‘Jim McEwan’ but to me just Dad. Even now as an adult and seeing the positive impact he has had on the whisky world, I am exceptionally proud of his professional career but prouder of his personal one. We are a close family and for years Dad was the only man in the house with three women. He travelled a lot, especially during Lynne’s and my teenage years and I am sure at times he was delighted to get on a plane to escape the teenage angst, boyfriend chat and mood swings that come with two teenage daughters. Nowadays, the numbers have evened, with two sons-in-law in his corner that he can talk football with and walk the hills without any mention of PMT or dieting! Being a grandad (known as Pappe) is possibly his favourite role, as he gets to retell his stories and make up new ones, walk the places he used to take us as kids and then hand the grandchildren back to us when they get tired and grumpy, or he does!

Dad was a fun dad. Mum handled the day-to-day disciplining and raising of us, while Dad would work at the distillery and travel for long periods of time to many different countries. We did not know any different and while he was away we kept in touch with phone calls and awaited the arrival of the postcards he always sent us, which were inevitably full of nonsense and funny stories and always addressed to ‘Tiger mouse’ or ‘Scooter’ (I have kept them all, and they still make me smile to this day). On his return I remember the excitement at picking him up from the airport and listening as he told us tales of his adventures and the places he had been and holding my breath while he opened the suitcase to unpack, knowing that somewhere in there was a giant duty-free Toblerone just for me!

When at home, he was in charge of the bedtime routine. The success of this was always questionable as more often than not, we would end up more excited and wide awake than at the start. He would do Unstoppable Plod, where, slow and zombie-like, he would go from one end of the hall to the other, with Lynne and I frantically and by any means necessary trying to stop him and never succeeding. Super-hyped and excited, he would then try and calm us down with a bedtime story, but Dad’s stories were never from books – they were mostly made up and full of excitement and adventure, with just enough of the truth that we believed every word. When he would finish the story and wish us a good night, we would eventually drift off believing that we too could escape ten crocodiles if the need ever arose (unlikely, living on Islay!).

At weekends, Dad would take us out for walks, bike rides or horse riding on our horse Oliver. The walks would start off along one of the beaches and always involved the challenge of getting onto a rock before the next wave hit, often ending up on it for several minutes waiting for the water to subside enough to get back to the beach, or getting bored waiting and just jumping in! These walks would generally involve some perilous cliffside ascent, especially on a stormy day when we would plead for Dad to take us close enough to the edge that we felt the spray off the waves crashing into the cliffs, feeling a sense of pride when you got soaked the most as it meant you were the bravest!

Saturday mornings when home were spent coaching the Islay Boys football club. We would sometimes go with him, but mostly this was his time to be around like-minded football fanatics. The only downside to his coaching was that every boy on Islay was terrified to date his daughters as they knew him as their coach and apparently his ability to motivate using profanities was unrivalled!

Nowadays, we still love hanging out as a family. Dad has the grandkids to play with and Damien and David to chat about football. His personality has aged but not changed. He will still not settle on the first spot we find on a day out and instead make us follow behind him until the right spot is found (carrying picnic bags for what seems like ages until he is happy with the destination). He loves the beach and regardless of season and outside temperature, will be found down to his pants and in the water within minutes of arrival. His imagination is boundless and he is the best storyteller I have ever met. He is not one to sit down and tell a story: his comedy actions run parallel to the words and only add to the humour. We have tried many times to secretly video him in full flow of a story; however, we are always unsuccessful and so I am delighted that his life will be recorded in this book for us to keep and pass down to generations of our family, and his stories will never be lost or forgotten.

Damien, Eoghan, Lesley and Ruaridh Whearty.

From whisky shows in Germany to Russia, Belgium to Canada, when I say my name, it takes a second, sometimes two, then people’s eyes light up and they say, “Are you Jim’s daughter?” They tell me the story of how they met Dad and it’s always a defining moment in their whisky journey; they can recall every detail. Incredible for a wee boy from Bowmore who started work when he was 15 years old, with a magnetic attraction to Bowmore distillery. He wanted to emulate the men of that era – the characters, the stories by the kiln, the smell of tobacco and malt; it was intoxicating and would prove to be the genesis of a lifelong love for single malt. His life has been uniquely, doggedly and spiritually of his own making but he has been influenced by a few that have left a profound impact on him: mentors that have taught him as much to be a man as to make whisky, and his legendary stories bring these people to life, their influence as powerful on him today as they were then.

When we were kids, Dad walked us over every inch of the Rhinns of Islay, and the thing that sticks with me most was that he never looked back. As a parent myself I now see how unusual this is. He marched ahead and we followed; he never checked to see if we were falling into ditches or over cliffs. He walked and we followed, he let us find our own path and while we ended up at the same place there was no, “Be careful, don’t step there,” and for sure we never said, “Are we nearly there yet?” He gave off an unchallengeable aura of “you can do this” and of course because of that, we did. I remember one occasion when we pestered him over and over to go sledging. To his credit, with Islay being warmed by the Gulf Stream there was rarely snow, so it was an odd request, yet pester we did. Finally, on a sleepy Sunday he took us in the distillery Land Rover to The Big Strand, a stretch of seven miles of golden sand, edged by dunes and machair. He tied a huge length of rope to the back and to that he tied a sledge, and for a whole afternoon we slipped and slathomed over the dunes. Today, he takes the grandkids off on these same adventures and they come back soaking wet, filthy and full of stories of millions of stone beaches, starships and castles. Grownups are never allowed and I will admit to being jealous that my turn has passed but delighted that my kids experience Islay as I did; it’s a truly magical place when viewed through Dad’s eyes.

Jim’s grandchildren Lily, Ruaridh, Beth und Eoghan.

There is no Jim McEwan without Barbara McEwan: married when he was 23 and she 19, their marriage was given six months, but 49 years later she is the north point that keeps him true. Through the early Bowmore days when Dad was manager, there were few restaurants on Islay. Dad would call Mum up late in the afternoon to say he was bringing six Japanese guests home for dinner and when he walked through the door that same evening, Mum would have cooked something incredible, Lesley and I would serve and it looked as if it had been planned for months. Often the guests would speak no English but through the international language of whisky, arm waving and quite often the sharing of songs, amazing connections were made. They are the ultimate team, Mum keeping home and hearth but always ready for a party and a song. Dad travelling the world spreading the gospel of whisky to eager disciples. Very often these same people would one day make a pilgrimage to Islay and knock on the door. On my husband’s first New Year on Islay, we were seated for dinner and there was a knock at the door. There were two smiling German men standing there. Mum welcomed them in and got them settled. My husband asked, “Do you know them?” Mum, replied, “Of course I don’t but we will soon, go get the whisky.”

In 1986 Dad was offered the role of manager of Bowmore distillery, going full circle from the apprentice cooper at 15 to now be in charge of both the men and the whisky. It’s hard to believe but at this time the Islay malt phenomenon had not begun; heavy peat was such a polarising flavour that the majority of single malt made on Islay was destined for blends. However, Dad never just talked about Bowmore; he talked about whisky, about Islay, about the spirituality of it. He would take visitors to the water source, show them around the island and walk on the beaches. He would take them to my grannie’s or to Kilchiaran farm to see Margaret and Neil. This was not the norm: distillery managers managed distilleries, their role not about education or PR, but Dad had such a passion for Bowmore and for Islay that he couldn’t help but share it. The more people that met him and saw whisky and Islay through his eyes, the more followers he drew and his reputation began to grow. Many times around the world later and people started calling him Master Distiller. It’s a common term today, and you can even apply for such a role, but he had earned it through years of whisky making, travel and education and it was a title reverently bestowed upon him.

I remember exactly where I was when Dad came in and told us he had been approached to join a private investor group buying Bruichladdich distillery. After 37 years at Bowmore this was an incredible next step but it was a huge risk. We look around today at the huge numbers of new, independent distilleries and we see only progress and opportunity but in 2001, just seven years after Bruichladdich had been mothballed, the long shadow of the closure still loomed large and to outsiders it was a crazy move. However, when he described what he wanted Bruichladdich to be, the whisky he wanted to create and the values it would stand for, it didn’t seem crazy at all and I immediately knew I wanted to be part of it. Dad’s first recruit at Bruichladdich was Duncan McGillivray, who had been made redundant from Bruichladdich on three occasions and knew the distillery like no other, but despite his experiences he had no hesitation in coming back. They put together the Laddie crew, which I am privileged to still be a part of today. Just as when I was a kid, Dad led with the unshakeable conviction that Bruichladdich could do anything and so we all believed it too. Duncan charmed, hammered and engineered the physical distillery back to life while Dad created the spirit – both liquid and emotional. It has been an incredible journey and we have all had the most extraordinary experiences, some heartbreakingly sad, others ridiculously funny, many terrifying but overall we are all different because of it: with Bruichladdich, we have not just remade a distillery but ourselves. While Bruichladdich may be Dad’s greatest legacy, it has been a collective effort, not just on Islay but for the support we have had from all around the world. The people who could see what we were trying to do and their faith and energy were the fuel that kept us going. There are too many to mention but you know who you are and we will never forget. You are the giants whose shoulders we walk upon.

From Bowmore to Bruichladdich and around the world in between, Dad’s story reminds us of a time in whisky that no longer exists but crucially about a truth that we must never forget. Whisky is about people, it’s about community and the work is never done. There is a Bruce Springsteen song that Dad loves called ‘Working on a dream’. There could be no better metaphor for his journey, and like The Boss he continues to rock on.

Lynne, David, Lily and Beth.

1This is Where I Come From

It was a Friday when life decided to open the doors and send me off on my journey into the world. On that sunny Friday, 23 July 1948, life was obviously in a good mood and wanted to do something decent for me, of all people. Life sent me to the west of Scotland, where I was allowed to see the light of day on my beloved island of Islay. This legendary, historic and wonderful island is known and loved, far beyond the borders of Scotland, as the ‘Queen of the Hebrides’. There couldn’t have been a better place. It’s an island of perfect combinations: at a distance from the hustle and bustle of many a big city on the Scottish mainland, joined with a colourful and indescribably beautiful, primaeval nature, with all its many facets. I’d like to introduce you to Islay; I want you to be able to see a picture of it in your mind’s eye.

“You don’t choose the way you come into life and you don’t choose the way you leave. It’s the part in-between – that’s what it’s all about.”

Jim McEwan

Islay is part of the Inner Hebrides, situated to the west of the Kintyre Peninsula on the southwest of Scotland. It’s one of Scotland’s flagship islands, yet, only since the 13th century has it been regarded as Scottish. Before then, the island belonged to the feared Lord of the Isles, the terror of the seas in those far-off days. Perhaps the Ileach, as the people of Islay are called, still harbour some of his spirits? Who knows? The title ‘Lord of the Isles’ still officially exists today, but, thank God, he is no longer to be feared, for he resides in London; his name is Charles and his mother is the Queen.

The Paps of Jura.

To the north of Islay lies the almost deserted island of Jura. Although only about 300 people live there, you will find a whisky distillery in the village of Craighouse, beautifully framed by palm trees. The Inner Hebrides are particularly spoilt by nature, as the Gulf Stream flows along here and provides a special climate in which nature and plants can thrive. Admittedly, not every plant on earth, but a few more than you might think. The island of Jura can be recognised from afar by the three mighty and, at the same time, benign-looking peaks called the ‘Paps of Jura’: unwooded hills that also feature snow-covered white peaks in winter. Every spring, when the melt-water cascades down from the peaks, I yearn to climb all three to see Islay from this high vantage point.

About 20 miles further south, as the crow flies, lies Ireland. On sunny days, you can see it clearly from Islay’s south coast. Sometimes it even seems close enough to touch. The oldest officially mentioned and legalised distillery in the world, built in 1608, is situated in the north of the Ireland. Its only drawback? It’s not Scottish.

And just as far to the north as Ireland is to the south, is the neighbouring island of Isle of Mull, the hills of which can be seen from Islay on a clear day. You get exclusive views of this island world, if you are an intrepid walker of the lonely paths in the north of Islay. However, to the westernmost point of Islay, you’ll search in vain for any near neighbours, for the next landfall is the eastern seaboard of Canada. All along Islay’s west coast, you can experience the infinity of the Atlantic seascape and the freedom of that horizon. Those who claim that there is parochiality to island life have never stood on the rocks at Portnahaven and watched the sun go down, glowing red and silhouetting the seals. Those are unforgettable moments.

There are only two ways to get to Islay. You can either board a small, 32-seater aeroplane at Glasgow Airport, arriving at Islay Airport (‘Portadhair Ile’), some 35 minutes later, often more shaken than stirred. When booking the outward flight, I’d always recommend making sure you get a window seat on the starboard side. Whenever weather conditions permit, the pilots will approach the south coast, and if you direct your gaze downwards towards the Islay coast (and believe me, you will), three white warehouses with large black letters on their walls come into view. You can read three names that make the hearts of whisky connoisseurs beat faster: Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. A minute or so later, you have solid (or should I say peaty) Islay soil under your feet.

The second means of travelling to the ‘Queen of Hebrides’ is by car. This involves driving one of the most beautiful routes in this part of Scotland. Leaving from Glasgow, passing the western shore of Loch Lomond, you’ll arrive at a wonderful castle hotel in Tarbet. At this point, the road to paradise begins. On increasingly narrow roads, you travel deeper into the Argyll landscape, passing dreamlike, seemingly untouched fjord landscapes, seeing beautiful, enchanted, abandoned bridges to the right and left of the road. In places, it’s an almost fairy-tale landscape.

And then there are the hills. You will eventually drive up and over a high road with the wonderful and highly appropriate name of the ‘Rest and Be Thankful’. If you’ve time to look around, you can understand why this place is so named. The views from the top are incredible. Inevitably, because there is only this one road, you’ll also drive past one of Scotland’s most beautiful castles at Inveraray. However, you will likely only be able to see it from the corner of your eye as you drive over the single-track road bridge. On arrival at Inveraray, take a short break and enjoy the flair of the harbour pier with Highland mountains in the background. Finally, your drive along this scenic route ends at a remote ferry port, south of the village of Tarbert, called Kennacraig. From there, boarding the CalMac ferry will take you farther west and during the two-hour crossing, your anticipation of what is ahead will grow by the minute. Finally, you have arrived and Islay, my island, welcomes you.

As you can see, Islay is not perhaps the easiest of places to get to, but I assure you, it’s worth it. Those who undertake this sometimes arduous journey will not regret it, because Islay has so much to offer. I hope you will allow me to show you around.

Jim in Bowmore harbour, not far from the distillery.

As you’re probably already aware, Islay is world famous for its single malt whiskies. This is principally due to the fact that nine of the world’s most famous and popular distilleries are located here. In alphabetical order, these are: Ardbeg, Ardnahoe, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila, Kilchoman, Lagavulin and Laphroaig. But, in addition to these icons of the whisky world, the island is home to a number of other spectacular sites. For example, in the south-east, away from the main roads, you will find an early example of the spread of Christianity across Europe: this consists of the well-preserved and beautiful ‘Kildalton Cross’, one of the finest examples still in existence, surrounded by the ruins of Kildalton church.

To the southwest, an impressive new world opens up on the Oa peninsula. Passing through Port Ellen village, you’ll come to a road that appears to wind its way to the end of the world. Along this route, it wouldn’t be at all unusual to suddenly find yourself in a traffic jam, caused most likely by a flock of sheep, running around freely. I’m sure most of you won’t have experienced traffic like this before. The destination of this road, however, is not the end of the world, but the ‘American Monument’ overlooking the rugged sea cliffs of the Oa. This round brick tower was erected as an impressive memorial to American soldiers who died off Islay’s coast during the First World War. The troopship ‘Tuscania’ sank in 1918 after being torpedoed by a submarine. Though most of the 2,000 American soldiers survived, about 230 of them died. You can’t help but be emotionally moved.

From Port Ellen, the A846 leads north towards Bowmore, a road affectionately known as the Low Road. Most of you will know what Islay whisky is famous for: peat, peat and more peat. The Low Road offers a good ten kilometres of dead straight road with only peatland surrounding you. (You will get to know the village of Bowmore in more detail later in the book.)

Islay is almost divided in half by two sea lochs: Loch Indaal and Loch Gruinart. Their shallow waters provide unique retreats for a wide range of birdlife, which attracts many ornithologists to the island every year. In complete contrast to Loch Indaal is the north-west of the island, still largely undiscovered by tourists. From these coasts you can witness the dramatic power of the North Atlantic. Whether from the cliffs of Sanaigmore, or the bays at Saligo or Machair, you can feel it everywhere. Islay is surrounded by occasionally shallow, eternally moving, stormy waters, all of which are quite magical places for me. However, I’ve not told you everything about Islay – I’d like to keep a few secrets for myself. Probably the best thing to do would be to familiarise yourself by way of a map. The vastness, the peat, the mountains, the sea, the cliffs, the waves, the wind – all this has had a great impact on my life and has provided me with a very strong sense of home. It makes me deeply happy and satisfied to be an Ileach.

This island gave me my start in life, for which I am more than grateful. It is such a good mother to the children who grow up here, for as an Ileach, you are bestowed with rich gifts for life. The first thing you learn is humility in the face of Mother Nature. Depending on where you are on the island, at any given time, you can actually experience all four seasons in one day – a fact once featured in a Laphroaig advertising campaign: Islands in the sun are not for everyone.

In autumn, heavy storms often arise, with dark, threatening clouds creating an apocalyptically dark backdrop. Then the peace and quiet is quickly over. In times like these, I’m grateful for a warm house and a glass of whisky by the fireplace – a moment of perfection! On Islay, everything has its value and you inevitably learn to appreciate the little things in life. Life here is rarely dictated by a schedule; Mother Nature is calling the shots here. But, honestly, could you put yourself in better hands? I doubt it. I love this, my island.

If you have previously visited Islay, you have probably felt the attraction for yourself, the magic of this place. If you haven’t yet had the pleasure of this unique corner of the world, then I hope I can at least give you an idea of its appeal. These mere 250 square miles are far more than just my birthplace. In truth, they are a source of great pride. My Islay roots nourish and sustain me, and I doubt it’s just me who sees it that way. Living on Islay also means that you are part of a community; believe me, on an island like this we all know and respect each other and know pretty much everything about each other. When it comes down to it, the islanders stick together in a way that might be hard for visitors to understand. The island community is strong.

For instance, pay attention to what happens when you are driving on Islay. When we meet another vehicle on the road, we raise our hand briefly to greet each other – the Islay Wave. It is obligatory here, no matter who is behind the wheel, and it’s taken for granted. But it sometimes irritates a number of visitors. I often see people who, having experienced it for the first time, slow down or even stop because they think there is something wrong with the car. The local paper has printed letters from visitors who were convinced they had been mistaken for someone else. However, it’s just a wonderful gesture indicating, “Hello, good to see you!” Does it cost us anything? Not a thing, not a single penny – but it brings so much and it helps sustain our sense of community. When you come to Islay, you’re part of the family, a wonderful and natural hospitality. Team spirit works, and we feel comfortable with this team spirit; you might even say we need it. We share our lives here in a limited space – so everyone has to accept that, a fact that the majority have understood. This island is famous all around the world, because it’s a veritable hotspot for whisky, a detail about which we will talk later. Nine of the world’s most important whisky distilleries exist here, apparently for good reason. Legend has it that God was once asked why he entrusted the art of whisky distilling to the Scots, to which He replied that the Scots could easily handle the responsibility of preserving the art. Show me a single spot on this earth where over 20 million litres of pure alcohol are produced a year and where the crime rate is so low as to be virtually immeasurable? Statistically speaking, that’s over 50,000 litres per Ileach … and yet almost zero crime. Such paradisia can only be found on Islay. And it works, having done so for generations.

The port of Bowmore.

The Loch Indaal Lighthouse Rubh an Duin.

Islay is a success story of a very special kind, yet not only to do with the water of life, the whisky. When I talk about Islay, what resonates is the wonderful landscape, the untamed force of nature, the special location, the people, the community. That’s what I mean when I talk about Islay. I would like to take you with me, to let you share my adventurous and often almost unbelievable journey of a lifetime.

To be a part of Scotland, be a part of the whisky world, be a part of Islay and be an Ileach for a moment, sit down in your armchair, treat yourself to a dram and join me …

2 From the Potato Holidays Into the Wild West

I have always seen the fact that I was born on Islay as a stroke of luck, for which I am very grateful. This island is still the perfect place for me and always has been. Looking back, however, many, many things have changed over these past 70 years. Life on Islay today is nothing like it was then. I was born at a time when the aftermath of the war was still very present, having ended only three years before I was born, leaving clear traces and wounds. Although the war was over, the price of victory had been high and painful. On Islay, husbands, fathers, sons, brothers had lost their lives, now missing from the island, but more importantly, missing from their families.

In the late 1940s and early 1950s the economic situation was still dire, with a lack of money everywhere in the country, while food was still rationed. Those were conditions that we can scarcely imagine today, and thank God we don’t have to. Fortunately or unfortunately, you don’t choose your way into life! Those were very hard times, but they are undeniably a part of my life, helping make me who I am today, and making it possible for me to lead the life I’ve lived. And to be honest, it’s been a pretty good life. I am firmly of the belief that our lives are already planned, even before we take matters into our own hands, this personal book of life having been written prior to our birth. If life was not easy in Scotland as a whole, it was even more difficult on Islay, but still uniquely beautiful. I would like to tell you a bit more about my childhood.

Jim at the age of about five.

At the centre of the island lies the beautiful village of Bowmore. Protecting and watching over everyone is a church perched at the highest point of the village, the only round church in the whole of Scotland. It was built in this shape in 1769 so that the devil could not hide in any corners. Unsurprisingly, the devil has never been sighted in Bowmore.

Jim’s birthplace.

My birthplace, at 7 Main Street, was about halfway between the church and Bowmore distillery, in a building that currently houses the Royal Bank of Scotland. That means there is a lot of money in the house today, but when I was born that was hardly the case. It was sorely lacking then. There were four families living in the building, each in very small flats. I lived on the top floor with my mother Margaret, who everyone called Peggy, and my grandmother Kate. Next door to us lived a woman with her son. On the ground floor, on the right, lived an elderly, retired woman, and a fisherman lived opposite. It was all quite crowded. Our small flat consisted simply of a kitchen-living room and two bedrooms in which my mother and grandmother slept. I usually slept on the sofa, because we couldn’t afford another bed. Poverty was part of our everyday lives. To keep us all warm, there was a small, coal-fired stove on which we also cooked. We had few, if any, luxuries, focussing solely on the essentials. However, we had a roof over our heads that we could call ‘home’, a safe place in which to live, and where we could eat and sleep.

Life in those days was much slower – not easier, just slower. Production in the distilleries had yet to resume, and in those war-torn times, life really demanded a lot. With hardly any jobs in the early 1950s, even we children had to do our bit in order to survive. I recall very clearly that we had special holidays at school, referred to as the ‘Potato Holidays’. This meant that all the children went out into the fields, in all weathers, at harvest time to pick potatoes. Outside all day, bending down, picking up and then carrying the heavy baskets together, it was pretty hard work for children, but it didn’t stop us from having some fun too. Every day we were dirty and covered in mud from top to bottom, for when it rained there was no slacking; the job had to be done. And there are many rainy days on Islay. However, we received a small wage, the equivalent of about 50 pence a day. It wasn’t much, but it was honestly earned and much needed income, on top of which, we were also given a sack of potatoes. In the evening, when we ate them together, they tasted even better. My mother and grandmother were great cooks, always able to make a great meal out of very little. Today, you really only know about all the hardship and poverty from old black-and-white films, yet life was anything but black-and-white. For us as children it was often very colourful. When I recall my childhood, what comes to mind most is what it meant to live on an island. Though today, regular ferry and air services provide the island with everything it needs, Islay was far less accessible back then. Sea links to Scotland’s western islands were served by the so-called puffers, coal-fired steamships, though modern for the time. I will tell you more about these ships later.

Bowmore harbour was the stomping ground for us kids, one of the best adventure playgrounds you could imagine. Of course, it was strictly forbidden to play there. “Don’t go to the harbour! If I see you on the raft, I’ll spank you and you’ll go straight to bed!” – was my mother’s clear message, but then, that was precisely the attraction. How I loved watching all the boats sail out in the mornings, after which they’d cast their nets and return with a rich catch. Every now and then a fisherman would take me out and let me help him with his work. To go out to sea, steering my way through the waters, was total freedom. For a small boy, the sea had no end, and how I wanted to sail out into the world, travel to foreign countries, and get to know of other, far-off cultures. With the sea as a gateway to the world, the fascination was there even then. As young pirates, we fought sea monsters, sailed the seven seas and captured many a well-laden frigate. Every day there was a new story to be experienced. You’d scarcely believe how many small fortresses, prisons, treasure chambers and dungeons are to be found in a small harbour, countless corners that captivated wee boys looking for adventure. Each of us knew where we could and could not go, but the forbidden areas were the most exciting. We were always looking towards the shore, where our parents might be standing, for you desperately wanted to avoid being caught exploring these banned zones. What you didn’t count on, however, was a state of affairs that rarely exists today: you didn’t just have one mother on the island, but several. “Jim McEwan! You know very well that you’re not allowed to do that – surely your mother told you that!” This exact sentence echoed through Bowmore, clearly and unmistakably from a wide variety of voices. Even though I didn’t like it at the time, it gave me a feeling of familiar security, knowing there was always someone looking out for you. On Islay it was the manifestation of a responsibility for others, back in a time before mobile phones. More than once, my mother pulled me off the raft, dragged me up Main Street by my ears, before giving me a slap or three and I was sent to bed without supper. However, when that happened, my ever-faithful ally was my beloved grandmother Kate. She would always tell my mother, “Let him be, he’s only a boy and he just wants to play like a boy. Come here son, here’s your supper.” Granny Kate understood me so well – though, of course, my mother understood too, but she was more concerned for my well-being.

Unfortunately, I never got to meet my grandfather. Though I’m sure he could have taught me a lot, I can only repeat what everyone who knew him said: John McEwan was a kind and gracious man, having lived a spectacular life. Like almost all male Ileachs, he went to sea, having hired out as a horse whisperer on a ship taking horses to Cuba. As a result, he was nicknamed ‘Cuba’. He always travelled below decks with the animals, calming them down whenever the seas became rough. On their passage, the horses undoubtedly learned Gaelic, for my grandfather spoke the language fluently. On his return to Islay, he found work as a maltman, a barley turner, in Bowmore distillery, and like almost all men of those days, he smoked a pipe. When I look at old photos of him, he was always to be seen with a pipe in his mouth. I loved that familiar smell of tobacco, but smoking eventually took its toll, and he died much too young from cancer of the throat. I missed my grandfather John very much, even though I never got to meet him.

The harbour was also a welcome place in which to swim in the summer, though sometimes we were to be found swimming as early as Easter. We even loved to go into the sea when it was raining. Now you probably think I’m exaggerating, for after all, we’re talking about the west coast of Scotland, a stone’s throw from the oft-times stormy Atlantic. But we’re also talking about Islay and the distillery, a place not entirely unknown for the amount of heat generated during the distilling process. And when the heat has done its job, it has to be dissipated, and the stills have also to be rinsed with hot water. All this hot water was discharged into the sea, as, apart from a few mash residues, there were no pollutants involved. We knew, of course, at which point from the distillery wall the pipe with the warm water flowed into Loch Indaal. We therefore had our very own, always warm, swimming pool, a heated outdoor pool that was always open and, above all, could be visited for free from Easter onwards. Islay could be like an island in the South Seas. The more I think about it, the more I realise just how good my childhood on Islay was. How many of you reading can claim to have such an enjoyable and free facility on your doorstep all year round?

But life is not only about play and leisure. The serious side of life was every bit as much a part of it. In my case, that meant having to go to school. As the crow flies Bowmore village school was only a few metres away from our house, but I’d be lying if I said I liked going to school. However, I had two wonderful school friends in Eddie MacAffer and Angus ‘Innis’ McKechnie, the three of us getting up to as much nonsense at school as we probably did anywhere else.

Much later, Eddie became manager at Bowmore Distillery and Angus was my best man, but together we had an incredible amount of fun. I remember having to tend and harvest the school garden, probably the most boring thing to do at school, but it at least offered the bonus of getting us out of the classroom. Back then, gardening didn’t interest me at all, but our headmaster, Mr Crawford, was a keen gardener. He really cared about the school garden and ensuring our responsible use of it, hoping to educate us to be great garden lovers. Harvest time showed how conscientiously you had worked over the year, a time that only served to show how little Angus and I cared for our carrots. When time came to harvest the season’s crop, we invested a few pence in a fresh bunch of carrots from the grocery shop and smuggled them into school, carefully ‘planting’ them in advance, only to re-harvest them in front of Mr Crawford. He was visibly thrilled and we were highly praised for our achievements, never having seen such magnificent carrots in the school garden.

“Jim McEwan is a true Ileach! And I am very proud of what he has achieved in his life. I love to see the boys of Islay do great things and he has truly achieved extraordinary things. I’m delighted to be able to call him a true friend.”

Eddie MacAffer

Master Distiller, Bowmore Distillery

But school days were not all plain sailing. Though I can’t remember exactly what, we had once done something wrong and were punished by having to clean out Mr Crawford’s chicken coop. This was hardly a favourite chore, but one that had to be done nonetheless. Mr Crawford led us to the chicken coop, with the birds still inside. However, after the headmaster had left, we decided to otherwise occupy ourselves, emptying the small metal water pot, using it as a drum kit, while wailing at the top of our voices. This startled the chickens, all of which flew around in a wild panic, colliding with each other in the air, feathers flying everywhere and the panic-stricken birds screaming in terror. In a panic of our own, we ran away. Though Mr Crawford never said a word about the matter and never punished us in that manner again, those chickens probably never laid another egg in their lives.

But we didn’t just have a great headmaster who loved the garden; we also had a wonderful teacher. She had us Islay boys well in hand, and most importantly, she had something that other women didn’t. Our Mrs McArthur had a television! Wow! Brand-new technology that few could afford in those days, there were very few televisions in Bowmore, but we knew there was one in our teacher’s sitting room. This was easy to discover; you needed an aerial to receive television, aerials that were so big that they could be clearly seen from a distance. I’m sure even NASA didn’t have aerials that large, but these giant masts, more like the posts on a rugby pitch, were necessary to pick up the TV signals from Ireland. However, we’re hardly talking about ultra-high definition quality here, but a rather mediocre black-and-white picture. Once a week there was a children’s programme on TV, called ‘The Lone Ranger’, a western series starring Clayton Moore. He was our hero, the cowboy who stood for good and put many a bandit to flight. It’s hard to imagine, that once a week there was such an exciting programme for us little Ileachs, yet none of us could actually watch it. Mrs McArthur, however, had a big heart, knowing well that we children didn’t have a television at home. So when, purely by chance, almost all the children were hanging around her house just before ‘The Lone Ranger’ started, she invited us into her little living room. Can you imagine? We squeezed together, older ones standing in the back, the little ones sitting huddled right in front of the tiny screen. At first I thought all the programmes depicted winter scenes, because it always seemed to be snowing – that was until I realised it was related to the poor reception. ‘The Lone Ranger’ was the highlight of the week for us, particularly when his adventures ended happily in each episode. ‘The Lone Ranger’ brought a new world to Islay for us: the Wild West, and as soon as we’d left Mrs McArthur’s house after the show, Main Street turned into a vast prairie. From High Street came the Indians and from the harbour you could hear the loud, unmistakable trampling of the great herds of buffalo. Most of the time, on Jamieson Street, the bandits with their kerchiefs in front of their faces lay in wait for the cowboys. I must have been shot 4,000 times between the church and the harbour. There were plenty of cowboys on Islay, but I was almost always one of the Indians. Even then, I never wanted to go with the crowd. To be the Indian in the midst of cowboys, that was the McEwan story.

As children we had vivid imaginations, creating our pretend worlds without computers. When we weren’t chasing Indians, cowboys or bandits, or making boats, we sometimes got carried away snacking on forbidden fruit. These grew in our pastor’s garden, surrounded by a small stone wall. I can still remember mustering all my courage to steal gooseberries from the parish garden, sneaking up with others, and paying close attention that no one saw us. At least that’s what we thought. Then I’d creep over the wall, crawl through the tall grass to the bushes and steal as many berries as I could carry in my hands. Then quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, I crept back and over the wall once more. In supposed safety, I shared with my friends the ill-gotten treasure from the pious garden. How delicious these gooseberries tasted! They were probably the best gooseberries in the world, if only because we took enormous risks to get them. But no sooner had the spoils been consumed than we were nabbed. “Jim McEwan! You know very well that you’re not allowed to do that – your mother must have told you that!” The oft-heard cry from one of the ubiquitous mothers that followed us everywhere. So, thankfully, my childhood criminal career came to an abrupt end – and only later did I discover that the priest had seen us, but was glad to let the gooseberries go, because he didn’t like them.

When we couldn’t watch TV, we loved the radio, again something that not every household owned. There was a large snooker hall in Bowmore, referred to as the ‘British Legion Hut’. It was used for gatherings of all kinds, though for us kids it was a magical place, situated right on my doorstep. Today, in Bowmore, it has been replaced with a big open square and the tourist information office, but back then it was a meeting place par excellence. The ambience in this wooden barrack was unique. People met, played snooker, had their hair cut or told each other stories about times long gone. Only men, those who worked hard in the distillery and the old war veterans, were allowed in, though sometimes we boys were allowed in too. I loved listening to the stories of the old men, for in times before smartphones, television and the internet, that was our entertainment. We children somehow belonged there too, as long as we behaved decently and, above all, quietly. From today’s perspective, the times to which I refer, are from long ago and may sound strange to most of you. All the more so, were the stories I heard as a child about adventures on the high seas or about the two world wars. There were war veterans who had never left the island before they were drafted, dragged out into a hostile world without any certainty of a safe future, only the hope of a safe return. That’s mostly what the men talked about, or what it was like to go to the Scottish mainland for the first time, and to see Islay from the outside. For me as a boy, these were captivating stories that I absorbed completely. The old Ileachs were fantastic storytellers and I was part of their appreciative audience. There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.

There was a lot more talking and, above all, a lot more listening done in those days, on top of which was an aroma in the air that was so fascinating to me – this masculine melange of whisky, pipe tobacco and fire.

The highlight of the week was Saturday, because every week at 3 p.m. football was broadcast live on the radio. From 2:45 p.m., everyone started gathering around the radio, with us children allowed to sit on the floor, but only if we made absolutely no noise. Otherwise we would have been thrown out faster than we would have liked, Mr McNeill making sure that there was total silence from us. He was in the Navy, could cut hair and, in the British Legion Hut, his word was law. As a little boy, those were unforgettable moments, surrounded as I was by old veterans, some of whom had even lived through both world wars. I loved the atmosphere, the flair and, above all, the privilege of witnessing the football broadcast in this legendary company. I also really wanted to smoke a pipe and drink whisky! I was sure that when I grew up, I would become one of them! On a Protestant island, of course, everyone was a Glasgow Rangers fan. All except little Jim McEwan, who, for whatever reason, was a Hibernian Football Club supporter. I didn’t mention that too loudly though, because most of the time they lost, but on the rare occasions when they did win, I’d let everyone know. Sometimes for weeks. When Scotland played, we all stuck together. If there were 50 people listening, there were at least 50 experts, all equipped with sufficient knowledge to be the national coach. When Scotland played, there was unity across all club boundaries – especially when it was against England, but then there were usually more than just 50 people in the hut. I’ll never forget the goosebumps when I got to listen in on a football match. “… Jim Baxter in midfield wins the ball, plays steeply to Willie Stevenson. He races through the midfield with the ball, leaving three opponents in his wake, then passes forward to Max Murray. Brilliantly he takes the ball, turns, takes heart, pulls the trigger and … Goooooooal!” When that happened, young and old were in each other’s arms, celebrating. Football was life, emotions ran high, yet everyone had a different game in their mind’s eye. None of us had ever seen the inside of a football stadium, but we all felt as if we’d scored the decisive goal. You won together and you lost together, unfortunately more often the latter than the former. But you shared this experience, this enthusiasm, these unique emotions. Unfortunately, Scotland lost many more games than they won, probably why I learned such a wide vocabulary that I couldn’t have found anywhere else – Gaelic rants. This Gaelic poetry, as I would like to call it, was much different than all the swear words that are used today. The F-word did not exist then. People simply found very vivid comparisons with which to compliment each other. Despite all the ill-will that existed during an argument, people insulted each other with respect and rarely with cursing. Often comical comparisons were made, but if it came down to an argument, the one who had the last word won. “I’m pretty sure that was in 1642!”; “I’m sorry, Wallie, to have to tell you that it was in 1643, exactly on the 22nd of July in the evening, at half-past seven. That was the exact date, sir!” Lying they both had been, but it didn’t matter. Those were really wonderful times and I remember them very fondly. So many generations from different families under one roof and all with the shared joy of having a good time together. Happy days indeed!

3 Follow Your Nose

Every human being is given a wonderful gift at birth, something that protects us from many dangers and can make us very happy. Unfortunately, many underestimate this gift. I am, of course, talking about the nose and its incredible ability to perceive smells. God has given us this precious feature, in both right and left nostrils, that is so incredibly enriching for us. There are small areas inside the nose, just about two centimetres by five centimetres, which form our receptors for aromas, scents and smells, offering 2,000 times more sensitivity than the tongue. What a fascinating experience to perceive odours and let them take their effect! How many of us actually think about our sense of smell? Not many I suspect, unless it has been temporarily nullified due to a cold, which you probably found unfamiliar and unpleasant. Yet it is really worth thinking about how vital this sense actually is. After all, none of us would think of eating anything that smelled funny or bad. You can rely on your nose to protect you from poisoning, for long before you see danger, you can often smell it. In the brain, olfactory stimuli interact directly with our emotions, meaning that, as soon as we smell something familiar to us, pleasant feelings are triggered. Every person has a unique smell, so think about this the next time you hug a loved one or your children in your arms. I could philosophise for hours about this wonderful faculty that has shaped my life so much.

Unfortunately, you can’t reproduce smells in a book, so I’ll try to put this magic into words. If there is anything we have plenty of on Islay, it is peat, a natural fuel that is cut and dried by hand. This fuel plays a role not only in whisky making, but it also once played a major part in the everyday lives of the people of Islay. Peat used to be a widely used heating material on the island, since wood is not available in the quantities needed, and it’s a fuel that doesn’t burn like wood with high flames, but smoulders and glows.