Chapter 3
The Spirit of a Scotsman
Amanda
Amanda could never tire of this landscape.
The glistening blue waters that stretched out from the foot of the verdant distillery lawn were mesmerising.
She had to tear herself away and get to the whisky, but away from her dad’s direct expectations and scrutiny, she could slow down and enjoy the experience.
Inside Butler’s Distillery smelled of stone and old oak, similar to the Kincaid distillery, but something here was softer. Amanda couldn’t say what exactly. Maybe it was the lighting or the lower ceilings or the staff’s infectious enthusiasm.
In the reception and shop area, rows and rows of gleaming bottles of Butler’s whisky lined the shelves, like spotlessly uniformed soldiers.
There were a few other items for sale, the customary glasses and tasting notepads.
Amanda spotted some older expressions in glass cases, such as Butler’s Eas Inchafallon, the most prestigious of all the Butler whiskies.
She had never tried any of Butler’s expressions, but their reputation went before them.
Amanda signed up for a distillery tour with a cheerful guide.
The distilling process was ingrained in her mind, but she wanted to take in as much of this place as possible, to discover if they did anything different on their tours.
Her dad would grill her and if she said she hadn’t taken the tour, the repercussions wouldn’t be worth thinking about.
Down in the depths of the distillery, the tour group learned from a young man named Peter that Butler’s whisky was founded in 1798 by Jack Butler, who set up the distillery on the current site.
‘Jack was a pioneer in all things whisky,’ said Peter, ‘and Butler’s was the first distillery on the Kintyre Peninsula.
He grew the business by word of mouth and even held events which could be described as festivals similar to the one we are having here today, where he invited his friends and friends of friends round and they drank a lot of whisky, told stories and gambled.
The distillery was passed onto Jack’s sons, and their sons, and so on, until most recently to Joseph and James Butler, who built on the legendary reputation.
Joseph emigrated to Canada, and it was left to James to keep things going, but Butler’s reputation has only grown.
Sadly, James recently passed and the distillery ownership has moved to his sons, Archie and Jimmy, who you may meet here today.
They are excited about the future of whisky and see many opportunities for development.
Butler’s is a business with a bright future. ’
This was all business rhetoric, but Amanda could also sense the opportunity and excitement in the air.
However, as Peter guided them through the rest of the tour, her attention wandered from his words about the distilling process.
Once you’d met one mash tun you’d met them all.
Instead, she cast herself into an imaginary world running tours here, engaging the customers with tales of distillers of old.
There would be a roguish distillery owner who poached her away from her own family distillery.
He’d hide in the crowd to witness her show-stopping delivery and as the customers filtered out of the old dark barrel store, there would be a rough grip on her soft palm pulling her back into the dark.
Then firm lips on her own, the graze of rough stubble and the scent of whisky mingling with the scent of a brawny Scotsman.
Amanda sighed heavily.
‘Is everything okay?’ Peter frowned.
‘What? Oh, absolutely fine.’ Amanda’s face flushed, as if people might read her mind. ‘Sorry, don’t stop, it’s fascinating.’
Peter recommenced his talk about the fermentation process. Amanda tried to maintain an interested composure, whilst her mind ran wild with the feverish idea of the distillery owner taking her over a barrel of his most expensive malt.
Once the tour was complete, Peter led the group back into the reception and gestured to a set of double doors at the back of the reception room and shop. ‘Through there is a banquet of delights. Please sample away, then come out here to purchase your favourite Butler’s whisky.’
As Amanda stepped through the double doors to the tasting room, her eyes widened.
There were stalls adorned with the familiar names of whisky companies, and glistening bottles waiting to be emptied into tasting glasses.
The air was thick with the malted scent of whisky, and the sound of enthused chatter filled the space.
People were sniffing and gesticulating and swallowing and nodding.
She moved further into the room, her heart racing at being part of this.
There was so much to take in that Amanda couldn’t settle on a stall at which to begin, instead digesting everything but nothing.
But enthusiasm was only part of the reason she didn’t stop at any of the tasting stands.
She was worried she’d give the game away and introduce herself as a brand ambassador for Kincaid’s.
People might be interested – they usually were – but what if they worked out she was there to spy or steal ideas?
So, she wandered anonymously, observing and absorbing.
What surprised her most was that there were several distilleries running tastings.
What would her dad make of the fact that Butler’s embraced the competition?
Eventually, Amanda drifted towards the largest stand in the room – The Butler’s whisky stand – which, oddly, was unmanned.
Perhaps they had nipped away for a minute.
She examined the bottles sitting on the counter.
The traditional Butler’s logo that remained loyal to the origins of the company gave a classical elegance to the bottles, yet they still fit with the contemporary direction of the company.
Next to the bottles, there was an array of tasting glasses waiting to be filled with whisky for thirsty customers.
Amanda glanced around hoping someone would appear to offer her a sample.
‘Why don’t you help yourself?’
She spun on her heel to see a gentleman with a kindly face and large moustache smiling at her from the neighbouring stall.
‘Archie Butler was here a minute ago, but he had to nip off,’ the man explained. ‘Help yourself to a wee dram.’
Amanda hesitated for a moment, then agreed. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘Aye, that’s what the day is for.’
‘It is, indeed.’ Amanda lifted a luxuriously heavy bottle of Butler’s ten-year-old single malt, loving its solidity.
Popping open the cap felt a little sinful as, despite being invited to do so, it was like trespassing on private property.
Still, she followed the familiar routine of pouring a small measure into the curvaceous Glencairn glass and holding it up to the light, witnessing its amber glory, before swinging the glass to her nose and inhaling scents of vanilla, apples and burnt toffee.
As the dram hit Amanda’s taste buds, she was bounding through golden fields of wheat, biting down on crunchy apples and lying on a blanket eating toffees.
This whisky was delectable. For a moment, she savoured the aftertaste.
The ten-year-old expression was Butler’s flagship malt – simpler than the others – but anyone who took one taste could tell that Butler’s didn’t do simple in the understood definition of the word.
Amanda understood now why she’d been sent here.
When the ten-year-old had relinquished its hold on her palate, Amanda reached for a Butler’s twelve-year-old. She was enjoying the promising rush of another dram pouring into her glass when a voice made her jump.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t stealing the…’ Amanda stopped. There was a young Japanese woman staring at her, expectantly.
‘May I taste some samples?’ the woman asked.
Does she think I’m in charge here? Well, I suppose there’s no reason I can’t help her out.
‘Sure, try this one.’ Amanda pointed to the first whisky she’d sampled. ‘It’s delicious. Has a creamy apricot finish.’ She poured a glass and kept talking to her rapt audience. ‘For a ten-year malt, it’s quite a complex expression. On the nose there’s vanilla, apples, maybe even a hint of pear.’
The woman nodded and stuck her nose so far in the glass, Amanda thought she might get stuck.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
‘Then, take a drink and see if you can notice those things. You might even get a hint of cloves.’ Amanda scrutinised the woman’s face as she swallowed the whisky, nodded and smiled.
‘Delicious,’ she said.
There was nothing quite like the expressions of pleasure when people enjoyed a good malt. How Amanda wished her dad would let her do more tastings rather than spying trips.
‘So, let’s move on to this.’ Amanda pulled forward the twelve-year-old single malt and poured two glasses. ‘Mmm.’ She inhaled what smelled like a punchy nectar. ‘This is a bold one. Sea spray, brine and peat. I love a big peaty lass.’
Again, the woman laughed and poured back the whisky.
‘This area used to be a hotbed for whisky,’ Amanda explained, deciding to complement the tasting with some detail she’d learned about Kintyre and the type of whisky it produced.
‘But things declined. Butlers is one of the few distilleries operating out of Kintyre, and from drinking this, it’s easy to see why. ’
Soon, Amanda’s rhapsodising drew a small crowd, people assuming she was in charge.
Emboldened by their assumption, she continued sharing her thoughts on the different tastes and flavours of the whiskies.
As she spoke, her confidence grew, and her speech flowed effortlessly.
The visitors leaned in, hanging onto her every word.
Amanda was surprised at her own eloquence and how at ease she felt, considering this was not her home ground.
‘Okay, folks, well, the only expression left to try is this one here.’ Amanda reached for a bottle of Butler’s Eas Inchfallon. ‘This is the crème de la crème of the Butler’s flight. A big peaty seafarer that packs a punch.’ What was she talking about? She hadn’t even tasted the drink yet.
At least ten people were waiting expectantly for their glasses to be filled. Amanda decided it would be easier to get behind the stall and pour from there. But the crowd was building and she’d need extra tasting glasses.
‘Just a moment. I’m sure there are some fresh glasses down here. Amanda disappeared under the stall to search. But as her eyes settled on the glasses, a commanding male voice resonated from up above her.
‘Can ah help you find something?’
Amanda, remembering where she was and why she was here, and realising she was probably in trouble, travelled her gaze slowly upwards, her heart beating hard.
The first thing she clocked were sturdy tree-trunk legs in thick woollen socks.
Oh my God, those are exceptional legs. Then she hit a hem of tartan.
A kilt. Well, he’s got the legs, so let him.
And a sporran slung under a tightly leather belted waist. Strange things were happening to Amanda looking the waist of a man whose face she hadn’t yet seen.
She cast her sights up some more, her eyes scanning over a crisp white shirt and pressed waistcoat covering a chest broader than the peninsula.
Then there were shoulders as wide as the channel.
Oh my God! He’s built like a distillery truck.
And when she moved beyond his shoulders and neck, Amanda’s breath hitched in her throat as she locked onto intense green eyes of possibly the most handsome face she had ever seen.
A man with a jawline rugged like the Kintyre coastline, lightly tanned skin, and an expression that said business is my priority.
Amanda dropped her gaze back to his chest and the badge pinned to his waistcoat that said Jimmy.
Oh God!
This was Jimmy Butler. The owner of Butler’s Distillery.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Would he turf her out of the festival?
What if he found out she was an interloper on a mission from Kincaid’s?
Would he take her to his study and question her intentions?
Maybe then he’d kiss her and ask her to join his team instead.
Amanda would do it. If things happened like that and he was a good kisser, she would definitely do it.
Then she remembered she’d hijacked Jimmy Butler’s whisky tasting.
On jelly legs, she stood to meet his piercing, emerald gaze.
Keep cool, Amanda. Be the heroine in your own story, for goodness’ sake.
‘I was getting some Glencairn glasses,’ she said. ‘We’ve got quite the crowd.’
‘Aye, we have.’ Jimmy’s tone was steely and hard to decipher. ‘Far be it from me to interrupt your tasting session. Please…’ he stood back and gestured with a wide arm, ‘continue.’
Amanda examined his expression for signs of sarcasm. She was used to insincerity from her dad, and wasn’t sure how to react. One minute he encouraged her and the next he tore her down.
‘Och, no. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I’m sorry for taking over. The man over there said I could try a dram, someone thought I was in charge, and it all snowballed from there.’
Jimmy Butler scanned the crowd and spoke slowly. ‘Aye, it would appear it has snowballed. Luckily for you.’ His gaze bore into her. Never had such alluring eyes intimidated her so much. ‘So, why don’t you carry on with the tasting and show me what you know about Butler’s whisky.’
Amanda took a moment to consider if she should run.
This Jimmy was a formidable character. But she had muscled in on his tasting stand.
Her dad would have come down far harder on anyone who’d done that at Kincaid’s.
So, forcing herself to unfix her gaze from those gorgeous but intimidating eyes that were staring at her so intensely, she turned to the whisky, twisted open a bottle of Butler’s Eas Inchfallon and poured.
***