On a quest for the perfect single malt scotch.

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Leaving Scotland’s capital on a BMW Rockster, I saw in my rearview mirror the parapets of Edinburgh Castle standing stark against a pre-dawn sky. The muted colors of the firmament bounced off the granite fortress, echoing the mysteries of its bloody history.

Winding through the quiet Sunday morning streets, past the mighty Forth Bridge, then north on the M90 to Perth and down miles of two-lane country roads that beckon away into the Highlands, I motored on toward my destination, the Speyside District. This quest led me about 185 miles north of Edinburgh, where 43 distilleries— the heaviest concentration anywhere in Scotland—currently operate. 

In this region gas stations are as scarce as hen's teeth.

My interest in single-malt whisky began last year while riding in central Scotland, exploring the environs of Sir William Wallace and receiving my first “nosings” at various country hotels. Nosing (smelling, not swallowing) is one of the most trusted methods of “tasting” single-malt whiskies without allowing any to pass your lips—a particularly useful technique if one happens to be traveling on two wheels.

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In this region, where gas stations are almost as scarce as hens’ teeth, a full tank can be a source of considerable reassurance. Having refilled mine, I carried on under rain-loaded, darkened skies. My object was Culloden Moor, east of Inverness, site of the last battle on British soil. It was here that the Young Pretender to the English throne, Bonnie Prince Charlie, after nearly seizing London and regaining power for the Stuarts, finally faltered. His Jacobite army was demolished here by the English/Hannoverian forces on April 16, 1746. In the fading light, I respectfully contemplated the ancient carnage before heading east along single-track and two-lane back roads, skirting the northernmost rim of the Monadhliath Mountains. As I came to Grantown-on-Spey, the rain fell heavily, and my destination for the night, Craigellachie, lay 25 miles farther to the north.

Riding through enchanted surroundings steeped in history.  (Click image to enlarge)

On my arrival at the Craigellachie Hotel in the heart of Scotland’s Speyside district, I received perhaps the most civilized greeting a hotel can extend—a quaiche full of whisky inscribed with the words, “Welcome to Craigellachie.” Lore has it that if the quaiche—a two-handled friendship cup—is offered with both hands, as it was, it is a sign of friendship; if offered with only one hand, then look for the “sgian dubh” (dagger) in the other.

I spent the evening in the Quaiche Bar, tasting whisky and speaking with the barkeep. The walls of this single room are lined with 530 different bottles of single-malt scotch, leaving no space for the customary faded prints of noblemen or royals. Among these many vessels are spirits ranging from the humblest dram to the opulent 40-year-old Glenfarclas, which can be enjoyed for $250 a glass, not to mention esters and flavors as sublime as the most finely spun Scottish wool, or as different from that as Irish linen.

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Monday morning. With rain hanging in the air, and mist clinging to my helmet visor, I sped along the narrow country lanes, bidding good day to the local fauna and looking forward to my first appointment. The stretching landscape so captivated me that I rode past my destination by five miles before I realized what I’d done. Fully applying the servo-assisted, ABS-equipped brakes, I reversed direction. This Rockster is pure fun to ride. Scottish backroads are a major workout for any suspension, but this motorcycle handled them with aplomb. Although late, I finally arrived, smiling broadly, at Tamdhu Maltings and Distillery, where I could learn how the process of making whisky begins.

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The basic ingredients in whisky are barley, water, yeast and a touch of peat, but, as in haute cuisine, the ingredients are merely the beginning. The barley is first malted, meaning the starch is converted to the sugar maltose for later conversion into alcohol during fermentation.

From Tamdhu, the malted barley is shipped to the neighboring Macallan Distillery, which sits on a gorgeous estate, complete with the fishing rights to more than one mile of the River Spey. I was lucky enough to meet with Bob Dalgarno, the whisky maker and keeper of the black magic of distilling whisky at The Macallan. Dalgarno weaves his spells to create particular tastes. It can be said it’s all in Dalgarno’s nose before it graces your palate. 

Reminders of bygone eras abound in the Scottish Highlands.  (Click image to enlarge)

Malt whiskies can only be designated Scotch whisky when the spirit has matured in oak casks for a minimum of three years. Dalgarno further explained that, when you drink a 10-year-old Macallan, the whisky could be a combination of several older years, but by law it is labeled according to the youngest whisky in the blend.

Much of the finest single-malt whisky spends between 10 and 25 years maturing in casks before it is bottled. The Macallan matures its spirits in oak casks that are first used to house sherry in Jerez, Spain. This “sherrying” of the oak allows some of the sherry to be absorbed by the porous oak fibers, and later assimilated into the maturing whisky spirit, adding various flavor elements. Whisky, as it leaves the still, is perfectly clear. It gets its color from the oak and whatever elements are contained within the oak fibers.

	The passing of time may have introduced modernity to the process, but the end result is still a perfect single malt.  (Click image to enlarge)

Dalgarno patiently explained nosing and the specialized terminology employed by the cognoscenti to describe a particular whisky. Terms like smoky, medicinal, winey, nutty and floral all have very specific meanings to connoisseurs. They serve as agreed-upon descriptions to establish standard frames of reference by which whisky drinkers can compare whiskies from different casks, years and distilleries.

My head aswim with newfound information rather than whisky (thankfully), I rode 25 miles southeastward to the Minmore House in Glenlivet. Few vehicles of any kind traveled the roads, which—other than the main north/south A9—were very narrow and wet from the day’s showers. Pheasants scampered across the road or, if particularly brave, stood still in the center and gazed as I sped by them. As dusk approached, I found myself in a pleasant rhythm. The narrow blacktop rose and dipped, leaning into left and right bends of ever-varying radii.

Another day passed and yet there were more distilleries to explore while putting mile after mile on the Rockster. The well-surfaced roads provided plenty of switchbacks that encouraged spirited riding, which helped me to accustom myself to the wide, flat handlebars. When I first picked the bike up, I did not like its extended-hand riding position; but the more I aimed the Rockster along the twisting Highland roads, the more I came to appreciate its practicality. However, the servo-assisted brakes, great at hauling the bike down from speed, did not inspire confidence when maneuvering slowly in tight situations.

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Late that afternoon, I had an appointment at Balmenach Distillery, nestled in the hills behind the village of Cromdale, about five miles north of Grantown-on-Spey. Inver House, a small independent whisky company with great ambitions for the single-malt, has recently given this once boarded-up distillery new life. Dennis Malcolm conducted a personal tour of its facilities, acquainting me with its traditional methods of making whisky. Licensed in 1824, Balmenach is one of the oldest distilleries, hailing from a time when illicit distilling was a way of life. 

 The next morning was so clear and cold (“Aye, there’s a wee dusting o’ snow on the ben,” said one local) that I was afraid of black ice on the roads. I very cautiously guided the BMW back toward the A9 and north to Ballindalloch Castle. The road surface, although delivering good grip, glistened in the filtered sunlight, making me concerned that any little change in direction might result in an icy slide. On the road down to the Castle, I was again brought to ground by the sight of a farmer and his assistant herding cattle from one pasture to another, across the road in front of me.

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“It’ll nay be a problem, stay exactly where you are,” the farmer shouted. I waited with the engine turned off as he ushered the cows out of the field and toward me. The lead cows, upon seeing my Rockster, were sufficiently spooked—enough to jump a 4-foot-high stone wall into the wrong field. Far from upset, the farmer laughed and said,  “I did na’ realize I had a herd of show-jumping cows!”

My last stop, Glenfarclas Distillery, founded in 1836, is one of few that have remained in private hands. Glenfarclas means “valley of the green grass,” and the name is apt, as its building stands in the meadows at the foot of Ben Rinnes. Purple in autumn, when I saw it, and snow-clad in winter, the ben rises up majestically behind the distillery. The Glenfarclas visitor center features a marvelous Ships Room, which is fitted with the original paneling and furniture of the Empress of Australia. The ocean liner ferried passengers, troops and royalty to and fro between 1913 and 1952. A fitting place to taste the subtleties of Glenfarclas’ fine product.

Before bottling, spirits from the Macallan distillery spend as many as 25 years maturing in oak casks that first housed sherry in Jerez, Spain. (Click image to enlarge)

Far too soon, my “uisge beatha” (water of life) sojourn was coming to a close. I left early the next morning under a cloudy and threatening sky. “I’ve seen the best of the weather,” I thought as I headed north through Glen Rinnes to Dufftown along the B9009. The roads were almost deserted, except for a few agricultural vehicles whose operators—either in admiration or in pity—paused to glance at this lone cyclist motoring by so late in the season.

 I cut west through Craigellachie along the A941, waved a mental good-bye to the Craigellachie Hotel and The Macallan Distillery, and headed toward Rothes and Elgin. Passing through the small village of Fogwatt, I glanced about for Hogwarts, the wizard school, certain that J.K. Rowling had to live close by. In fact, she spent several of her “Harry Potter” millions on a Scottish castle, but not close to Fogwatt.

Edinburgh lay about 200 miles to the south, through the wilds of the Caingorn Mountains and the Spittal of Glenshee. The country appeared gloriously open and rugged, awaiting the first snows of winter and the ski season. I needed to be in Edinburgh by dinnertime, so I kept the motor wound up to Blairgowrie and Perth, then joined the M90 motorway to Edinburgh.

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My last evening found me at the lovely Bonham Hotel, Drumsheugh Gardens, in the heart of Edinburgh, dining with Chris Close, the photographer who chronicled my Highland days. We nosed and sipped Macallan, Balmenach and Glenfarclas whiskies as I planned my next motorcycle tour of Scotland...because the quest for the perfect single-malt probably never ends.

--Getting there
From Los Angeles – Virgin Atlantic Airlines –
www.virgin-atlantic.com
800.862.8621

London to Edinburgh – Virgin Trains –
www.virgintrains.co.uk

--Where to stay
--Edinburgh
Sheraton Grand Hotel and Spa
+44.131.229.9131

--Bonham Hotel
www.thebonham.com

--Speyside
Craigellachie Hotel of Speyside
www.craigellachie.com

--Spey Valley/Glen Livet
The Minmore House
www.minmorehousehotel.com