There are few
pleasures, I believe, which elicit more frowning approbation than
drinking by oneself. I don't know, maybe taking heroin or watching
Take Me Out might result in the same staid disapproval – not really
my field of expertise. Anyway. Drinking alone is something which must
be done with a certain degree of both preparation and decorum. This
is not something you can approach by buying eight cans of Strongbow
and shoving a Steven Seagal film on a TV; or it shouldn't be, anyway.
You need a classic of cinema or television; I chose Jurassic Park,
but something with artistic merit might work too. Or any of the
current spate of really, really brilliant Danish TV shows would do
nicely. Once you've got the entertainment sorted some serious thought
has to be given to the evening's spirit, discussed below. Once all that has been sorted out all that remains is to settle down, pour a glass and luxuriate in the glow of absolute self indulgence.
This is not the forum
for anything which may be described as having the astounding depth,
or the infinite complexity, or the untempered searing power which
many whiskies may claim. This is a situation which calls for
subtlety, for a whisky which possesses all the characteristics of its
home region, but veils them behind a delicate, floral and honey sweet
film of, well, reticence – I suppose. In this regard a twelve year
old Caol Ila swiftly steps forwards as the perfect candidate. An
Islay malt, produced at Port Askaig on the island, the first thing to
notice is the fact that this whisky is practically colourless. This
stands it in stark contrast with its island brethren, which tend
towards dark, faintly imposing amber shades.
Port Askaig was once
the main link between Islay and the mainland, and this whisky
demonstrates a blending of the two worlds. On the one hand all the
wealth of flavours, the pervasive oil and salt of a windswept shore,
and the fierce peatiness of the island's water are present here. This
is not a malt which could ever be thought to have come from anywhere
but Islay, or perhaps that fine distillery located in Scotland's wild
North which was once only accessible by boat. On the other is the
fine, smooth and accessible characteristic more normally associated
with its East coast brethren.
While this scotch will
not win awards for complexity, or possess the sheer power of some of
the other fine spirits reviewed here, it captures perfectly just how
refined and delicate whisky can be and still retain its wonderful
potency. This is not an anaemic Lowland or Speyside, it is absolutely
a product of Islay, possessing the island's wonderful mix of sea and
smoke, yet it smooths over these with a fascinating floral blanket
without in any way smothering them. As the bottle itself says this is
Islay 'elegantly expressed with clarity and balance'. And it does it
very well indeed.
As a vital aspect of an
evening spent with a bottle and one's choice of entertainment it also
succeeds with flying colours. The delicate nature makes it far more
drinkable than most Islay malts, which tend to be so complex as to
exhaust the palette after three or perhaps four drams. This does lead
me on to my main criticism of Caol Ila – the light and delicate
body is a little unsatisfying. Considering this is a fairly young
malt from Islay the finish tails off with worrying rapidity.
Conversely this also makes it one of the more intriguing expressions
from that wonderful island – it is a malt that leaves one wanting
more. It is, as Oscar Wilde didn't quite say on the topic of perfect
pleasures, exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.
Oh, and it's pronounced
Cull Ee-La.
James
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