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.