Everything about Glenfarclas is venerable. For almost 200 years, the distillery with one of the most enviable addresses in Scotland has remained fiercely independent and committed to quality. Where countless others have amalgamated and joined behemoths of the industry, Glenfarclas has remained family-owned – amassing enviable stocks of aged single malt in the process. Today, the sixth generation of the Grant family maintains many traditional practices, including direct firing its stills, to produce the highest quality, full-bodied sherried Highland single malt possible. This resolution and myriad difficult decisions made by the family during times of immense hardship have led to genuine innovation and secured Glenfarclas a place as one of the most coveted and collectable names in Scotch whisky. But just how has one of the only family-owned Scottish distillers become such an icon and which Glenfarclas bottlings are the most highly sought after? The history of Glenfarclas The Glenfarclas distillery was built on the River Spey in 1836 when Robert Hay was granted a licence to distil whisky. Cattle breeder John Grant took over the farm and distillery following Hay’s death for 511 pounds and 19 shillings and leased it to John Smith who left five years later to build Cragganmore. The site passed between Grant generations until the Glenfarclas-Glenlivet Distillery Company was formed with Pattisons of Leith in the 1890s. This partnership wasn’t to last long and Glenfarclas was fortunate to weather the Pattisons Crash in 1898 that threatened to bring the entire industry down with it. The distillery has firmly remained under the Grant family’s ownership since. George Scott Grant is one of the key figures in the distillery’s long history. During his 52-year tenure, which ended with his death in 2002, George built up Glenfarclas’s name and brand image. George had the foresight to restrict the supply of stock to blenders and squirrel away stocks. This decision has proven extremely lucrative as Glenfarclas now boasts a depth of stock that few other whisky distilleries can rival. John L. S Grant, the current chairman, has been with the company since 1973 and succeeded his father in 2002. The sixth generation is represented by George S. Grant who joined Glenfarclas in 2000. George works as the larger-than-life global brand ambassador, introducing the world to the remarkable Glenfarclas story and spirit. The distillery’s fortunes oscillated throughout various whisky booms and busts. Production has increased, been scaled back, and considerable stock laid down when times were hard. Throughout all this, the Speyside distillery can legitimately lay claim to a series of firsts – it was one of the first single malts to be consistently available when others were concentrating on blends and it was among the first Scottish distilleries to open a visitor centre. It was also the first to introduce a cask-strength single malt whisky. Today, Glenfarclas operates the biggest stills in Speyside and its Highland single malt accounts for two-thirds of the distillery’s annual production – sold in more than 90 markets worldwide. Glenfarclas’s distillery character The distillery, located one mile from the River Spey, is situated on a stretch of land that boasts the likes of The Macallan,  Balvenie,  Glenfiddich and Aberlour. The distillery sources its water from the neighbouring Ben Rinnes mountains. Glenfarclas is famed for its full-bodied, Sherry-matured expressions. The distillery only releases expressions at natural colour, often at cask strength, aged for extended periods of time. The unique still shapes and sizes, alongside the traditional ingredients and distillation techniques add to the distinctive distillery character. Glenfarclas new-make spirit is only ever matured in a combination of first-fill and refill ex-Oloroso casks from the highly regarded José y Miguel Martin. John Grant makes an annual pilgrimage to the bodega in Jerez to ensure his Highland single malt will eventually slumber in the finest quality oak. To this day, all six of Glenfarclas’s stills, which are the largest in Speyside, are direct-fired. The distillery team experimented with steam heating in 1981 to no avail as the family believed the final product to be inferior and lacking its characteristic full-bodied style. The distillery is capable of producing approximately 3.5 million litres of spirit annually. Normally, two of the stills are kept in reserve, while four work around the clock. Glenfarclas single malt whiskies Glenfarclas has consistently released single malt whiskies of exceptional quality from its enviable stocks. The Grant family has more than 50,000 casks slumbering in its expansive on-site warehousing at any one time to draw from. In 2007, Glenfarclas gave the world a glimpse at its incredible depth of stocks with the first release of its highly collectable Family Casks bottlings. The series of 43 (and counting) single-cask, vintage single malts spans seven decades and is highly sought after by whisky lovers. In addition to the limited releases, Glenfarclas bottles a “made to age” core range, which includes the 10 Year Old, 12 Year Old, 15 Year Old, 17 Year Old, 21 Year Old, 25 Year Old, 30 Year Old and 50 Year Old. The distillery also produces an incredibly popular cask-strength bottling named “105 Cask Strength”. Some of the most collectable Glenfarclas bottlings Notable limited releases include the Glenfarclas 50-year-old (released in 2005) and the 175th anniversary commemorative bottling, released in January 2011. The latter was an impressive vatted whisky from casks from 1952 and five successive decades. In June 2015, Glenfarclas launched the highly collectable limited expression £511.19s.0d Family Reserve to mark 150 years of the Grant family’s ownership of the distillery. The bottling was named after the amount (511 pounds and 19 shillings) John Grant paid for the Glenfarclas farm in 1865, and came with a copy of the original bill of sale for the distillery. One of the most remarkable limited releases is the Glenfarclas Family Trunk, released in 2018. Only 60 of the leather shipping luggage trunks containing 50 bottles of 200ml single malt from the Family Casks collection, dating back to 1954, were ever produced. Today, a single trunk, available to purchase from the distillery, costs £120,000. In 2020, the distillery released another highly collectable whisky for the Spirit of Speyside Festival, which was cancelled due to the global pandemic. Each year, a member of the team chooses a spirit to be bottled for the annual whisky celebration. In 2020, the responsibility fell to the men behind the still, and The Stillmen’s Dram was born – a 10-year-old matured in a first-fill Oloroso butt, bottled at cask strength. The Glenfarclas Family Casks Collection The Glenfarclas Family Casks collection is a highly collectable series of single cask bottlings from the family’s extensive stocks. Since the first bottle was released in 2007, the Family Casks whiskies have garnered a loyal following and become a real collectors’ item. The single-cask whiskies, which span seven decades, are some of the finest expressions from each vintage since 1954. Glenfarclas Pagoda series The highly collectable Pagoda series features two of the oldest Glenfarclas whiskies ever released. The extremely limited vintage whisky bottlings are inspired by the famous pagoda kiln which was decommissioned at the distillery in 1972. Each Glencairn crystal decanter is a unique work of art. No two are exactly the same and each element – from the side graphics to the exquisite pagoda stopper – have been painstakingly crafted. The Glenfarclas Pagoda Series is available in extremely limited quantities. Only 180 bottles of the 1954 vintage Pagoda Ruby Reserve (62-year-old), and 1953 Pagoda Sapphire Reserve (63-year-old) were ever made. The outrun of The Pagoda Reserve Trilogy (1956 vintage 59-year-old, 1967 vintage 48-year-old and 1971 vintage 43-year-old) was limited to 100 sets. Browse Glenfarclas whiskies or read more Editorial

Glenfarclas is an iconic, family-owned single malt Scotch whisky producer. As bottlings from the Grant family’s impressive aged stocks become ever-more collectable, Holly Motion charts the fascinating history of this fiercely independent whisky maker

A spotlight on Glenfarclas. We explore how the traditional, independent Scotch whisky distiller became one of the world’s most well-respected names.

Exploring the Scotch whisky icon, Glenfarclas 

Everything you need to know about Glenfarclas

Dalmore, Mortlach and Macallan fetch tens of thousands of pounds at auction today – but they likely wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for an independent bottler. In times of great economic hardship, Gordon & MacPhail provided cash-strapped distilleries with much-needed capital when they secured new-make spirit to mature and bottle as a single malt, rather than a blend. “The world was so focused on blends in the 1970s that to get the financial return on the malts was really challenging,” Gordon & MacPhail’s Director of Prestige Stephen Rankin says. To put that into perspective, a bottle of 35-year-old Macallan from 1937 that would fetch approximately £32,000 in today’s market would sell for a mere £4.54 then. A top-end blend might sell for £2. Rankin says if it wasn’t for his forebears’ patience and foresight, 50-, 60-, and 70-year-old bottlings wouldn’t be available today. “It’s not just matching spirit with oak,” he explains. “It’s actually matching the spirit with the oak and then time and the patience.”   The Gordon & MacPhail name has endured where countless others have not. Today, the fourth generation can pull out samples dating back nine decades from more than 100 distilleries. “It’s that lineage that stands us apart,” Rankin says. “As a company we have had this incredible respect for whisky and depth of relationships forged from 1895.”   “Business was done on the strength of a handshake when my father started the company in the 1940s,” Fred Hamilton Laing – Douglas Laing & Co Chairman and second-generation family member – says. “And so many of our filling programmes still continue today because there was a trust given and a confidence that there would be no abuse of the stock.” If it wasn’t for the “fairly substantial” stocks Laing’s father had built up since the 1950s then the Scottish independent blenders and bottlers might not have survived the 1990s financial crash in Asia Pacific. “All of a sudden our blended business was made very difficult to continue. We were constantly adding to our stocks of grain and malt whisky for these blends, so it was a survival instinct that took us into the single cask business in the year 2000.” This business proved to be “very good” and steadied the ship. Laing says it was with great delight the company was able to come back into the blending business with Big Peat in 2009, much to the dismay of the “crusty old men in the industry”. This launch, looking at younger, slightly more rebellious whisky consumers heralded a new era for the company and brought them full circle. It was the filling programme’s breadth of stock and the relationships with the distilleries that allowed Douglas Laing to carry out the same process for Big Peat and Scallywag into the Scottish Highlands for Timorous Beastie, into the Lowlands with the Epicurean, into the Campbeltown area with the Gauldrons, onto the Island distilleries with Rock Island and introduce the Remarkable Regional Malts. “It’s a busy game,” Laing adds.  Fledgling in comparison, That Boutique-y Whisky Company stormed onto the independent bottling scene in 2012 with their 50cl illustrated bottles. “We are all about throwing fun back into whisky,” Head of Whisky Sam Simmons says. “We take the whisky very seriously, but we don’t take ourselves seriously.” The goal here is simple: curate delicious whiskies you would never see from an official bottling. This disruptive attitude has led to a cult-like following which Simmons readily acknowledges “doesn’t speak to everybody”. The Boutique-y whiskies might originate from around the world, but they are all bottled in the Scottish tradition – bought direct from the distiller or from brokers and other independent bottlers. The retail price is always calculated from the cost of the liquid rather than market value or cost. “The kind of whiskies we want to bottle may not be delicious to everybody, but they are the kind of whiskies that make you say: you got to try this,” Simmons adds. When it comes to bottling exquisite liquids, few ventures are as compelling as “curators of the most remarkable spirits”, The Last Drop Distillers. “I really love the word remarkable,” Managing Director Rebecca Jago says with a smile. “Because it is not saying it is the oldest or the best even, but that it is intrinsically delicious. If I gave you a glass of something from The Last Drop, I would want you to find it as delightful as someone who has been nosing spirits for 50 years.” The company started by Rebecca’s father Tom and his long-term friend James Espey OBE in 2008 is somewhat unique in that it crosses category. The two drinks industry icons initially set out to bottle single malts, but that all changed when they tasted a certain 47-year-old blended Scotch. From that day onwards, the two men – who had previously developed the likes of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and Chivas 18 – broadened their brief to seek out exceptional old parcels of any amazing spirit. By the time the company was sold to Sazerac in 2016, The Last Drop had released seven remarkable liquids and both Espey and Jago’s daughters (Beanie Geraedts-Espey and Rebecca Jago) had joined the business. In addition to being a source of great pride for the two founders, the acquisition also brought new freedoms and opportunities for the team. The US drinks group backing enabled The Last Drop to source stock for immediate release, granted them a greater ability to lay down stock and create their own libraries of future stock, and gave them the opportunity to venture into liquid creation. “I think finding treasure is not just about uncovering it,” Jago says. “It would be disingenuous to suggest that we’re Indiana Jones in Scotland, going and hunting out that barrel that is hidden at the back of the cellar because it is not,” Jago says. As romantic as the image might be, every single barrel of Scotch whisky of any age, of any sort, is known about by HMRC.  “We can talk about some of the lovely discoveries that we have genuinely been party to,” Jago adds. “Going back to the very first release of three unassuming barrels of an old blend. The treasure in that was the liquid inside. It had perhaps been discounted or forgotten about.” Or the “genuine discovery” of a Cognac barrel that had been lying untouched in an outhouse for over 70 years that was happened upon by a family member doing renovation work at the distillery. “I think that is the sort of ultimate Indiana Jones story,” Jago adds, “not by us, but we were fortunate enough to be there and I suppose our story of making the liquid the hero is sufficiently compelling that they are prepared to let us put it in a bottle.” All four bottlers, whether in their infancy or maturity, are bound by a sense of honour and wanting to do right by the liquid. And everyone benefits.   Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

From traditional single malt Scotch to the weird-and-wonderful and everything in between, there’s every chance an independent bottler had a hand in bringing this liquid to your lips. Holly Motion spoke to four bottlers about the important role they play in the spirits world

Exploring the history of independent bottling with Gordon & MacPhail, Last Drop Distillers, That Boutique-y Whisky Company and Douglas Laing & Co,

Exploring the world of independent bottling 

Message in a bottle

In Sicily, for the feast day of San Giuseppe, they make a soup, a very plain soup of 
chickpeas, fava beans and wheat grains, all soaked and cooked separately before 
being combined with bitter wild greens and perhaps some broken pasta. It is a 
celebration not of poverty but in poverty. The richness of the meal comes from the 
time it takes, the hours of soaking and boiling, of picking leaves in muddy fields. 
The feast day of the patron saint of workers (and the stepfather of God) falls on 
the 19th March, full spring in the Sicilian countryside with the almond trees in 
blossom. San Giuseppe’s soup marks the last use of the previous year’s harvest, 
the last pulses and grains to be taken from the store which the summer’s baking 
heat and the rains of autumn had provided for the coming winter. It is both a soup 
and a celebration, but it is also a sacrifice – a sacrifice of time against an uncertain 
future, time given freely as a kind of guarantee. Cooking of any kind – but especially the lengthy processes of preserving, drying, 
pickling and curing – is really an act of optimism, an assertion that there will be a 
future in which to eat. And the more time and care you put into such a process, the 
more value you get out. For example, the longer a cure or a pickle takes, the longer, 
in general, it will last. In providing food for the future, this sacrifice also makes 
it much more likely that the future it was made for will indeed occur. A practical 
optimism, you could say. A spending of time, not just because you have little else 
to spend, but because it is prudent to do so. For much of the world now, of course, the situation is reversed: we can buy almost 
anything we want at any time we please and have it delivered almost immediately. 
And we seem to be encouraged to spend less time doing things like cooking. 
Time is a commodity, and rather than sacrifice our time, we’re encouraged to 
sacrifice time itself, to take shortcuts. Time is listed in any given recipe, along 
with the rest of the ingredients and equipment: two onions, one stick of celery, 
one carrot, 15 minutes preparation and two hours cooking time, but it is almost 
always consequently manipulated. Everybody knows – once they have followed 
a few recipes – that enough time is never given to cook an onion. ‘Sauté until soft 
and golden, about two minutes,’ writes the chef (or the editor insists so the recipe can fall into the category of ‘quick and easy weeknight suppers’ or ‘fifteen-minute 
meals’ or whatever it is they are currently trying to sell). The fact that nobody ever
sautéed an onion until soft and golden in less than 10 minutes is elided, sacrificed 
to the promise that this dish, now, will not cost too much of your time. Even recipes 
which can never be made quickly – soups, stews, cures – are touted as demanding 
just a little of your time and even less of your attention, your active time. The slow 
braise allows the cook to focus not on cooking, but on other things. To me, this 
is a lost opportunity. Yes, it is nice to know that dinner is safely squared away, 
puttering merrily to itself in a low oven. It is exciting to think that a jar of cabbage 
is slowly transforming into sauerkraut at the back of a dark cupboard. But if all we 
see is the prepared ingredients and the end result, how much do we miss of the 
metamorphosis in-between? Convenience is desirable, but over the last year, time has – for most of us – come at 
less of a premium. Even before that, though, I have always found a certain satisfaction 
in giving my complete attention to whatever I am cooking. This goes without saying for 
the quick and fast – for the doneness of a steak, or pasta, for deep-frying, or grilling 
delicate fish. However, it is also rewarding for the slower processes, for observing the 
slow changing of textures as liquids bubble and reduce.  If, for example, you are making marmalade, you could work out the setting 
temperature and, once the final boil has begun, insert a probe thermometer with 
an alarm set to sound when it reaches the precise temperature: all well and good. 
If, however, there isn’t a thermometer to hand – or, as is often the case, you only 
have one that is in sore need of calibration and therefore useless – you can fall 
back on the finger test your mother may or may not have taught you. Placing a 
stack of saucers in the fridge and – when you think the marmalade is nearly ready 
– spooning a little out onto a cold saucer, you prod the result with your finger to 
see if it wrinkles. What, then, if you don’t have a stack or even a single perfectly 
chilled saucer to hand? Then you have to watch the bubbles rise. 
The point of making marmalade or jam is not simply that you are cooking a liquid 
until it reaches approximately 105˚C, but rather that you are cooking a liquid until 
it becomes capable (as water is not) of reaching that temperature – which means it 
has to become thicker, stronger. The bubbles it creates, at first double the liquid in 
volume (bringing the inevitable worry that your pan is too small) before settling and 
lowering into a dense boil that threatens to catch on the bottom. Once you’ve seen 
it, that transformation is unmistakable, and if you had just stuck a thermometer 
in the pan and got on with something else, you would never have noticed. This 
(admittedly useful and in a working kitchen, essential) piece of technology would 
have removed you from the process, from the facts of cooking. This is true of any kind of technology – it is, by and large, its purpose. I am not necessarily suggesting 
that you replace your oven with a wood-fired stove and monitor the temperature 
with a questing hand (if you can’t hold it in there, it’s hot enough) – although that 
would, I think, be fun. Certainly, anything which makes our lives easier is not to be 
dismissed out of hand, but isn’t it always worth wondering what, at any moment, 
you can afford to lose? 
The point with cooking is that the time put in is not simply lost but rather spent 
or, invested – although sometimes you might not think it – wisely. A six-hour 
braise consumed in less than 30 minutes can seem hardly worth the effort, but 
only if you see the eating of food as the sole reason to cook it. When I think of 
meals I have cooked for other people, for birthdays or holidays or simply for 
the pleasure of company, it is rarely the eating of them – the few minutes of 
attacking a chicken or slurping up pasta or licking grease off fingers – which 
comes immediately to mind but rather their slow build-up. It’s the digging of the 
pit to build the fire that has to die before I bury the lamb, wrapped carefully in 
foil and sackcloth; the careful attendance to a boiling pan of stock, its bubbles 
changing in size and consistency as it gradually reduces into gravy; the oil 
slowly spitting out of a pot of ragù, its surface barely moving as it stews. These 
are the things I remember fondly, the nurturing process of bringing a meal 
together. And these moments aren’t solitary meditations – with any meal there 
is more to be done than just cooking something. There are salads to be made 
and dressings to be whipped, pasta to be rolled, tables to be set, cocktails to be 
mixed, and wine to be poured. The making of a meal is only a chore if you begin 
to do it wishing it were already over. If instead you begin to do it because you 
want to do it, with the end result of ‘something to eat’ as almost a by-product 
of a rewarding activity, then the pleasure you find in it changes. 
Although for most of us, it’s no longer – as it was for the Sicilians celebrating 
San Giuseppe – a matter of life or death. This choice to involve yourself 
purposefully in the everyday act of cooking, and otherwise preparing food, still 
has an air of sacrifice, of time exchanged in the promise of something greater. 
It is, I suppose, literally a sacrifice, as the time you allot to cooking is time 
you could have made available for emails, or exercise, or simply to idly scroll 
through Netflix adding films you will probably never watch to your list. But, as 
is the way of all such propitiatory acts, it is a sacrifice which contains the seeds 
of its desired outcome. What you put in determines what you get out, in the 
straightforward terms of a meal you can eat – but it is also its own reward. You 
know, as you reverently chop, or soak, or simmer, that you are investing your 
time to create something better than good. That whatever you are making will 
have a special richness to it. The richness of chickpeas, or water or gold.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen.

Illustration by Stewart Walton.

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen

FONDATA: Time for Food

Time for Food

The Scotch whisky world is a fickle beast. In its 500-year history, the number of distilleries in Scotland has swelled and contracted many times. There have been myriad casualties, and very few have lived through these downturns without shedding stills and stocks to stay afloat.  The less fortunate were shuttered temporarily, mothballed for inordinately long periods of time, or were ghosted with no hopes of revival. In many cases, everything – lock, stock and, quite literally, barrel – was sold to pay off debtors, and the site was razed to the ground. In the years that have followed, these silent or so-called ghost distilleries have taken on an almost mythical new name: lost distilleries. While these producers were invariably unknown while in active production, the allure of what is no more has made them astoundingly popular, sending prices into the tens, and in many cases, hundreds of thousands. In the 40-plus years since the last whisky loch, when a devastating number of distilleries were forced to close, some producers have languished in relative obscurity, with only the most devout knowing of their existence and diligently sourcing their precious nectar. Others have developed a cult-like status and become exceptionally collectable as a consequence. So collectable, in fact, that their owners have moved heaven and earth to bring them back to life. The most famous are those considered the “Holy Trinity” of lost distilleries: Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank. “They are the lost history of Scotland’s distilling and whisky heritage,” Stephen Rankin, Director of Prestige at independent bottler Gordon & MacPhail, says wistfully. “They are from a time when whisky was made slightly differently from today. It’s a lost character. We cannot go back and make these whiskies like they were originally made. They reflect both the time as well as the people and place in our history,” he adds. When the vast majority of these distilleries were in production, huge quantities of their output was destined for blends. Their young single malts simply were not available, or more accurately, were not widely available, as distillery bottlings. If it hadn’t been for independent bottlers like Gordon & MacPhail, who prudently bought stock and squirreled it away, when distilleries were closing down in their droves, then these whiskies would almost certainly have been consigned to the very dusty history books. “I think the popularity has a lot to do with the mystery of times gone by and what older whiskies used to be,” the newly appointed Rosebank Distillery Manager Malcolm Rennie tells me. “There’s a certain element of the misty-eyed past being better in some way,” he muses. “Not always the case in my opinion – the exception being Rosebank, of course,” Rennie quips. For James Mackay, Head of Rare & Exceptional Spirits at Diageo, which owns Port Ellen, Brora (and Rosebank until 2017), it’s all about the experience. “Due to the very nature of ghost distilleries and their finite stocks, these are whiskies we will never be able to taste again. When you share a whisky from a ghost distillery with a friend, they’ll know that they're being treated to something completely irreplaceable and there is something very special about that.” This special experience is a costly one. Collectors – and flippers – have driven the price of lost distillery bottlings to exorbitant highs. Questions have been raised about what the reawakening of these lost distilleries will do to the prices of existing bottlings and where these new-old whiskies from the likes of Port Ellen, Brora and Rosebank will sit in terms of price and taste profile. On this last point, Mackay says: “This is the big question we’re all asking ourselves.” He continues: “We are confident that the new Brora and Port Ellen whiskies will sit amongst the best in the world, however we’ll have to wait two or three decades before we know for sure!” In terms of taste profile, Rennie says the new Rosebank will be a “very accessible” whisky “on the lighter end of the scale with a typical fresh, fruity smooth character but with an additional dimension of distillery character giving some depth also”. On the question of price, he says “I couldn’t comment.” Adding: “It would depend on age, I’m sure. Safe to say Rosebank will be viewed as a premium whisky.” In many ways, Rosebank was the least likely lost distillery revival, as Diageo offloaded the distillery site to British Waterways in 2002, and the original three pot stills and mash tun were stolen by thieves in 2008. Rennie says it has been a real honour to be entrusted with resurrecting the distillery, which was mothballed in 1993. When we speak, three new copper pot stills are being delivered to the site – a landmark moment in any distillery’s history, old or new. A new distillery team is being assembled and the goal is clear: emulate the original, heavy and oily triple-distilled style of Rosebank spirit. The new Distillery Manager says no expense has been spared on equipment and operating systems to give the team as much control as possible. He acknowledges there will be a lot of trial and error to get the spirit character to where they all want it to be, but he is confident the finished article will be “as good as, if not better, than the original”. “It may take a few goes but we will get it,” Rennie adds determinedly. When asked why he thinks the Lowland distillery has become such an icon, Rennie says: “I think the fact that Rosebank was always a sought-after whisky way back in time says a lot. It was in demand 100 years ago by blenders, so the spirit was always special. It didn’t become special only because it closed, not like some other lost distilleries. “Rosebank has always been seen as the ultimate Lowland whisky and deservedly so. When it was closed in 1993 that reputation was only going to be enhanced and [it was] a real loss to the local area and overall whisky industry.” Rosebank’s location on the banks of the Forth & Clyde Union Canal was integral to its prosperity and eventual closure. In many ways the distillery’s fate was sealed when the canal which connected Scotland’s two main cities, Edinburgh and Glasgow, closed in 1963. When the whisky industry spluttered and stalled in the 1990s, the then-owners made what many believe to be the wrong decision to officially mothball the distillery. To great surprise and delight, Ian Macleod Distillers announced in 2017 that Rosebank would be revived having secured the site from Scottish Canals – a former division of British Waterways – and acquired the remaining stock from Diageo in preparation for the £10 million project to bring Rosebank back to life. The decision to restore Brora and Port Ellen was also made in 2017, 34 years after their closure. Mackay says this was partly a response to the demands from whisky enthusiasts but also as a result of the strong growth in single malt Scotch and the opportunity to create a new generation of whisky consumers. He says the £35 million restoration process – which started at the same time for Brora and Port Ellen – has required enormous support from local communities, teams of highly skilled engineers, whisky noses and the Diageo archives. Brora, in the Highlands, took little under four years to bring back to life and opened in May 2021. Port Ellen on the isle of Islay has taken slightly longer and should begin distilling in spring 2023.
 With an eye to the future, many speculate which ghost distilleries could be earmarked for revival next – Diageo alone owns another 15 of them. Rankin believes there are very few left that could come back, but when pushed suggests there could be one or two, depending on the condition of the buildings, their current broader environment and land use around them, and the financing structure in place of those doing the resurrection. He remains tight-lipped on which. Regardless, there has arguably never been a more exciting time in Scotch whisky, with lost distilleries being brought back to former glory, a glut of new distillery builds and collectability at an all-time high. “It is a unique time for whisky lovers,” Rankin agrees. “Scotland shall be seen as the home of single malt and blended whisky. Those overseas are starting with a blank canvas and are making their own history, while those new in Scotland have the legacy of a 500-year-old industry to build upon. “Even if the whisky that draws them in is one distilled in Japan or the USA, India or Switzerland, they will find their way to Scotland and in turn to past bottlings from our history, as well as to new expressions from long-established brands, resurrected ones, or brand new ones. “As my grandfather said: ‘The future is shaped by what you do today, while today reveals what we did in the past.’” As the past and present meet, there will be a keen eye on these formerly lost distilleries and what their resurrection means for those fortunate enough to own bottlings from a bygone era. Five of our favourite lost distilleries Glenury Royal Highland whisky distillery Glenury Royal has a rather ill-fated history. Severe fire, a distillery worker death in a boiler-incident and ultimate closure in 1985 have all befallen the distillery which once stood near Stonehaven in Aberdeenshire. Despite all this, the Glenury Royal name has survived, and very aged bottlings are increasingly scarce and collectable. Diageo has released some remarkable aged Glenury Royal bottlings (including a 50-year-old) as part of its highly sought-after Cask of Distinction series. Gordon & MacPhail has also bottled some rare Glenury Royal single malts. Littlemill Littlemill is the oldest licensed whisky distillery in Scotland. Whisky from the Lowland producer is incredibly rare and is no longer being produced after the distillery was closed, demolished and consumed by fire. Some independent bottlings and very rare own labels have been released. To date, Testament – a 44-year-old limited expression distilled in 1976 – is the oldest single malt from Scotland’s first distillery. Celestial Edition (40 years), Private Cellar (25-, 27- and 29-year-old) and a 1991 vintage have all been released in extremely limited quantities. Port Ellen The  Port Ellen distillery on the south coast of the Hebridean island of Islay is responsible for some of the rarest peated single malts on the market. The distillery, founded in 1825, was a victim of the whisky downturn and eventually shuttered for good in 1983. As stocks decreased, secondary market demand for Port Ellen intensified and bottlings regularly fetched five-figure sums. The distillery is being brought back to life with two copper pot stills that are faithful replicas of the originals, and two smaller stills which will produce more experimental and innovative spirit.  Brora Brora distillery – or Clynelish as it was originally known – was established in 1819 by the Marquis of Stafford, later the Duke of Sutherland. Sadly, Brora was a casualty of the 1980s whisky loch and closed its doors in 1983. In the years that followed, Brora has become one of the most highly sought-after Scotch whiskies. Some of the most expensive bottles ever sold have included the 40-year-old Brora bottlings from 1972 which have sold for upwards of £26,000. Many believe bottlings from the late 1960s and early ‘70s to be the most exciting in Brora’s distilling history. There are some remarkable official and independent bottlings from the early 1970s as part of the Rare Malts series and Douglas Laing & Co’s whiskies. Rosebank Rosebank is a highly sought-after and respected Lowland producer, famed for its triple-distilled whisky, that was mothballed in 1993. In the years that followed, Rosebank joined Port Ellen in Islay and Brora in the Highlands as one of the hallowed, and highly collectable, trinity of lost distilleries. The so-called “King of the Lowlands” developed a cult following for its triple-distilled whisky – a practice that is highly irregular in Scotland as most double distil. With new whisky from the distillery unlikely to appear until 2030, there will be heightened interest in and demand for the last remaining bottles from the original distillery. Browse all Scotch whisky listings or read more Editorial 

Some of the most collectable whiskies are those from distilleries that no longer exist. These ghost or lost distilleries hold a unique allure – but as attempts to revive Scotland’s so-called “Holy Trinity” get underway, Holly Motion explores whether it’s really possible to turn back the clock

We explore how Scotland’s most coveted and iconic distilleries have come back to life, including the Holy Trinity of Brora, Port Ellen and Rosebank. 

Haunting the present: ghost whisky distilleries

Haunting the present: ghost distilleries

It is hard to imagine The Balvenie without David Stewart MBE and vice versa. The story of each one is so entwined with the other that it’s nigh on impossible to unpick where one starts and the other ends. Since joining William Grant & Sons in 1962 as a whisky stocks clerk, Stewart has gone on to become of the most well-known and respected names in the Scotch whisky industry. He is, for many, the pioneer of cask finishing, and his achievements are far too numerous to list. When the incredibly humble man “hangs up his boots” after a 57-year-plus career, Kelsey McKechnie will become the youngest-ever female Malt Master. “Everyone always jokes and says do I feel the pressure and what does it feel like getting into a role like this. There definitely is an element of pressure around it but it’s funny, you really don’t feel it. I enjoy this role and I love being here. I’ve been very lucky, so I’m saying ‘let’s ride it out for as long as we can’,” the 29-year-old says with unfettered excitement. The Malt Master role is a very different one today than it was in the 1960s, something McKechnie and William Grant & Sons Master Blender Brian Kinsman continually rib Stewart about. “Obviously, way back in the ’60s we had very little to nose,” Stewart says in a flash. When he joined the family-owned business under Master Blender and Balvenie Malt Master Hamish Robertson, Glenfiddich and The Balvenie weren’t being bottled as single malts and Grant’s Standfast blend was the company’s bread and butter. Today, the triumvirate nose samples from Ailsa Bay, Girvan Distillery, Kininvie, Glenfiddich and The Balvenie. From the new-make spirit to mature samples, bottling runs to all the vat samples, everything produced at the William Grant distilleries in Scotland and Ireland passes under the noses of Kinsman, McKechnie and Stewart. This equates to approximately 40-50 Scotch, Irish whiskey, Bourbon and rum samples per day. There are a number of parallels in Stewart and McKechnie’s stories, which they don’t even seem to realise. Both started in very different roles and eyed an interesting opportunity to nose spirits. Through serendipity and, one suspects, a tremendous amount of inherent skill and hard graft, the two found their way into the nosing lab. And once faced with row upon row of whisky samples, the pair knew in an instant that they found their calling. “I always say I have been very lucky,” McKechnie says. “I’m such a firm believer in timing. I came into the team at a time when I had built up enough technical process skills to understand how whisky is produced and carry out analysis, and do all these different things and apply it to blending.” In 2018, Kinsman and Stewart approached 26-year-old McKechnie to ask if she would be interested in learning all things regarding Balvenie and eventually moving into the Malt Master role. She’d been with the company for almost four years at this time, working her way from the lab to the whisky stocks team, from the Lowlands to the beating heart of the business in Speyside. So, what does it take to become a Malt Master and what did the two whisky patriarchs see in the young female scientist at the infancy of her whisky career? According to Stewart, one of the biggest things is the nosing aspect. “We can identify what’s right and what’s not, just by nosing the whisky,” he says. “And that’s what takes the time to learn.” Stewart had already been through the process of training a successor with Brian Kinsman from 2001 to 2010. It might be hard for some to fathom why this apprenticeship takes the best part of a decade, but so much of the role is about instinct and the finest of margins. In the same way Robertson brought in samples for Stewart – albeit not quite as many – all those years before, Stewart to this day brings in spirit samples for Kinsman and McKechnie. “Really, it’s nosing together; pointing out things,” Stewart adds. “I bring in samples from different cask types and different ages. Brian just worked with me and gradually he took over and I was doing less and less.” When asked if she thinks she has a natural gift, McKechnie says it’s curiosity above anything else that’s required to be a good noser. “I think everybody just needs to be curious enough to want to nose. Most often – apart from a few people where it is genetic and there’s one reason or another that they don’t have a sense of smell – I actually think so many people will be fantastic nosers.” And the difference between Joe Bloggs and the youngest-ever female Malt Master? The word association piece, according to McKechnie. “So often we’ll see when people are starting up that they can nose something and they can say ‘this is different’. So we do difference nosing. We have one glass and we’re just nosing it against another and saying ‘pick up the difference or not’ – it’s often easy for people but they can’t put into play what they can pick up.” Like any other skill, McKechnie says it takes years of practice and fine tuning. “It’s like using a different language,” she says. “To remain fluent, you need to continually keep nosing and to be able to relate those words to what you’re picking up in nose and taste. I actually think everyone has a gift, if that’s what you want to call it, or the ability to do it. It’s just about really working out what flavour this is and what do we call it.” Sometimes tasting notes for spirits and wines can be a little, shall we say, creative. For this reason, at William Grant & Sons, free words are banned. “We’re really strict about what people can call the different spirits,” McKechnie explains. “It could be too easy for somebody to say ‘this smells like a walk in the park’ and we can find ourselves in a bit of a pickle.” When starting out, as a professional or merely an appreciator of spirits, this word association piece can be a barrier, according to McKechnie, but it shouldn’t be. “There is no need for whisky to be intimidating at all,” she says. “For me, I think it’s because people are so passionate about it. It gets everyone a little bit puffed up – I’m guilty of it as well. But there really is no need for it at all because it really is such an open area that there isn’t one strict answer so I’ll always say that to people – if you are new to it, make sure you get lots of water in there because whisky is just such a flavour bomb. I think people don’t really know what they’re nosing because there are 50-100 different flavours coming at you at once.” So, do the three professional nosers ever disagree? “Because I’ve only ever learned to nose and blend from David who has learned from Brian and vice versa, we don’t often butt heads or have a difference of opinion –  but it does happen,” McKechnie says with a coy smile. Rather than being daunted by the spectre of the longest-serving Malt Master and Kinsman – who has racked up a fairly daunting 24 years in role – McKechnie seems energised by the legacy and is visibly thrilled at the prospect of one day imparting this knowledge to her own apprentice. “I think it would be a massive compliment to be able to give someone the knowledge you have gained,” she says. “I really like the thought of actually one day being able to train someone.” When it comes to the future at The Balvenie, McKechnie says they have “many things bubbling away in the warehouses” and they have “a few more Balvenies tucked up our sleeves”. But, on a personal note, “it’s working with Brian and David day-in-day-out and gaining more of the understanding about what makes Balvenie so unique. Understanding more around the stock model and that 50-year horizon and ensuring that I’ve got the skills to make sure the next 50 years is looking good and that we’re not laying down all the wrong things.” The Balvenie maintains a lot of the traditional whisky-making traditions. It is the only Scotch whisky distillery to grow its own barley, use traditional floor maltings and keep coppersmiths and coopers on site. Rather than being gilded handcuffs, these ties to traditions allow the team to experiment at the point of distillation and Stewart has spearheaded a number of trials that have come from the maltings throughout his career. “I think if there is one thing that David has ever taught me, it’s about how important innovation is,” McKechnie says. “We always talk about the fact we’re the home of cask finishing. It was something that was second nature in David’s role until people started calling it innovation. “And it’s something that we always want to pass on. We’re constantly thinking about what’s next and how can we do something unique and what exciting things we have in the distillery that we could release and bring to everyone. “Obviously the Scotch Whisky Association is pretty strict, in a good way, so that no-one is going to mimic us, but we also like to push the boundaries a little bit and say, what can we really get away with here?” With a glint in her eye and an unmistakable enthusiasm in her voice, you can’t help but feel The Balvenie, when it comes to honouring tradition and driving innovation, is in very safe hands for the next 50 years and beyond. Browse all whisky or read more Editorial

David Stewart MBE is the longest-serving Malt Master. Kelsey McKechnie is the youngest female Malt Master Apprentice. Holly Motion speaks to the two Balvenie record-breakers about passing the baton, the weight of a legacy, and what it really means to lay down stocks for the next generation

Balvenie's longest-serving Malt Master David Stewart MBE and his successor Kelsey McKechnie on upholding tradition while driving innovation at the distillery.

The Balvenie, making of a master

The Balvenie: the making of a master

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Rome’s Baths of Caracalla fell into ruin in the 6th century. This illustrated reconstruction appeared in Hutchinson’s History of the Nations, published in 1915. Credit: Classic Images (Alamy Stock Photo). It took a shock to the system on the scale of the Covid-19 pandemic to demonstrate how much our lives can be reshaped by the humblest of objects. When restaurants, hotels, cafés and night clubs have all been closed for months on end – and when we are excluded even from each other’s homes – then park benches and patio heaters become stand-ins for the more elaborate architecture of everyday life that usually enable the interactions we depend on to function as social beings. For much of 2020, only the most rudimentary tools for conviviality were left to us. This works better at some times, than others. On a warm sunny day, all it takes to create an instant convivial space is a bench. This simple structure is the means for people to meet, share a view, a conversation, and perhaps a picnic. Add a back, arms, and a USB charger plus a Wi-Fi connection to the bench, and the proposition grows layers of complexity. It has become a people-attractor and a conversation starter too. This last year has helped us to understand better how to appreciate, through their absence, the things that make us the most human: being together, sharing food, drink and conversation, and marking the key moments in life. While we were forced into isolation, our attempts to replicate some of these experiences, with the use of a screen and a fitful broadband connection, showed us how inadequate they inevitably are. The experience suggests that social change, when it comes, is about an acceleration of what already exists – more than it is about a complete reinvention. Buying more online than we ever did in department stores is going to be a permanent shift. Some of us are less likely to fly to Australia for 24 hours for a business meeting than we were in 2019. But there are other things that will not change. We will still want to celebrate birthdays and weddings in the company of others. We will always want to meet our friends and look for chances to make new ones. And we enjoy doing all those things in the kind of spaces and places that make the most of the moment, which can make the seemingly routine into an occasion. Even at the basic level of the park bench, there are nuances to deal with. Chatting side by side is not the same experience as a face-to-face conversation. However, for some people, direct eye contact is as aggressive as an all-caps text message. It is why a walk in the park can be the best way to share a secret, and why Sigmund Freud conducted his consultations from behind the back of his couch. What we sit on is as significant as how we sit. In the average western living room in the 1960s, the armchair was the seat of power, occupied by family patriarchs. The matriarch, if she was lucky, got a slightly smaller version to herself. The sofa was designed in the same style, just large enough for two, and was for the use of supplicant sons-in-law. As the domestic world has expanded, so the sofa has taken on the dominant role over every other piece of domestic furniture. Sofas have been getting bigger for some time and are now reaching the size of lifeboats. They’re expected to cope with everything from conversation to work, assuming multiple roles as stand-in dining table, desk and bed. Social spaces, from the most intimate scale to the grandest, form an essential part of both our personal domestic worlds – in which we share our privacy with a selected group of friends and family – and the public one that we all share. It is a scaled sequence that runs all the way from a candlelit interior with a couple of chairs, a plain wooden table with two wine glasses, to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, which, with its heroic iron-roofed arcade, has a strong claim to be regarded as the mother of all shopping malls. When it opened in 1877, the newly empowered bourgeoisie (in their straw boaters and stiff detachable collars) took to it as the setting for their daily promenades on the way to and from the Duomo, Milan’s cathedral, where they celebrated Mass, or en route to a performance of a Verdi opera at La Scala. Stopping to take coffee and pastries, they would meet each other for an aperitif at Biffi or dinner at Savini, and explore the exotic wares that the shops in the Galleria had to offer. As futurist artist Umberto Boccioni demonstrated in his painting from 1910, Riot in the Galleria, there was a darker side to such spaces. He portrayed the agitated response of a turbulent crowd of well-dressed spectators to the sudden violence of a fight between two women – sex workers perhaps. The disturbing scene, depicted in pointilliste style (and based on an incident that actually took place), is bathed in lurid electric light, evoking the frenzied atmosphere of this giant outdoor room and its extraordinary impact on the behaviour of a mass society. An unintended consequence of the lockdown has been the enforcement of the monogamy-based model of the nuclear family. It made the year particularly difficult for all those who don’t subscribe to it. We will need places we can dress up for again, places we can show off in, even places in which we can behave badly. The painting is, in some senses, a reminder that urban life is essentially about tolerance. Complex spaces have always been a vital part of urban life. Almost 2,000 years ago, the Romans built the Baths of Caracalla on a lavish scale, with three separate pools, libraries and gymnasia – and gardens large enough to accommodate 1,600 people at a time in comfort. Its mosaic and marble floors, its frescoes and sculptures made it one of Rome’s essential landmarks, not only as a monument to the glory of the emperor who built it – though it certainly was that – but also as a place to be used by people, day and night. Its magnificence, and the sense of the joy of a great shared civic space, inspired the American architect Charles McKim when he designed New York’s Pennsylvania Station, one the most sublime railway stations ever built. The central waiting room, barbarously destroyed 50 years after it opened, was a convincing recreation of the baths of Caracalla that lifted the spirits of anyone who passed through it. The months of isolation have taught us how important shared spaces of all kinds are to the way that we live. They are the places in which we meet each other to celebrate the important rituals of life, as well as to pursue the seemingly trivial (actually essential) compulsion to gossip about one another. As an essentially self-conscious species, we need alibis to give ourselves permission to be convivial. We construct reasons to meet each other, like the 19th century clubs of Pall Mall, or their democratic paraphrase – with its provision of gender segregation, and games room, and its mix of intimacy and ceremony – the Victorian pub full of mirrors and cut glass. Or in today’s context, a bowling alley configured to allow players and their friends to sit at a table, order food and drinks, and watch each other play, and to hear each other converse. Some public spaces do better at conviviality than others. The Las Vegas casino, for example, is designed to be the opposite of convivial. Slot machines on an industrial scale obviate the need for any form of human interaction. With its glass dome, and 25 miles of bookshelves, the old round reading room at the British Museum is certainly a very special space, although it has now lost its intellectual raison d’être and has become a dead monument. In its day, a reader’s ticket conferred membership of an exclusive club that included Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and George Orwell. But as the museum’s insistence on silence suggests – beyond unspoken flirtation over the book stacks – it was not a place that was fundamentally about conviviality. The Berghain Club, the raw, concrete world capital of techno music based in a redundant power station in Friedrichshain, in what was once East Berlin, is another very different kind of public space, and – in its own way – an equally spectacular social space. It has a pickier door policy than the British Museum but a similarly committed membership. In this case, the limit on conviviality is not silence, but the sheer volume of sound that makes the 18-metre-high main spaces vibrate, and which makes conversation inconceivable. A truly convivial space needs to work on multiple levels, to offer a variety of zones, some of which can encourage concentration, and others that can be distracting. Some may be more intimate than others. It’s a drive that is leading to an interesting range of cross-fertilisation. Cinemas that serve food more ambitious than popcorn and hot dogs are being equipped with sofas instead of tip-up seats. Health spas come with restaurants. However, not all convivial spaces encourage multiple uses. Orchestration and control are part of the experience at those English clubs that frown on members showing any signs of working, to the extent of asking them to put away notebook and pencil – never mind laptops – over lunch. Some aspects of what we have learned from the last year will colour life well into the future. The private dining room is a long-standing restaurant tradition, which has been given a new lease of life. We can also expect to see signs of change in the workplace. The Silicon Valley model has aspired to look as domestic as possible, furnished with sofas and kitchen tables, surrounded by vintage and deliberately non-matching chairs. A year of working at home is likely to encourage a more formal environment. But while we continually try to find new tools to make conviviality possible, the objectives remain the same. In a year in which all our assumptions about how we live together have been turned upside down, the world’s designers and architects have had to face the challenge of how to deal with the impact of the pandemic on our homes and our cities. As city centres empty out, and people avoid crowds, how can we find ways to socialise? 
Deyan Sudjic asked four leading designers and architects to explore the future directions that conviviality can take for FONDATA. John Pawson Architect John Pawson has always focused on the idea of designing the architecture of conviviality. In his recently released Home Farm Cooking book, produced with his wife Catherine and published by Phaidon, we see what matters most. Every Pawson interior is designed with how it will feel to use it in mind – is it to be enjoyed by somebody on their own, or with others? He takes away the distractions and lets us focus on how we use and feel in a room. He makes some spaces in which to read and to concentrate, others in which to share the preparation of a meal, and yet another to enjoy the result in company. Intrinsic in his philosophy is the importance of creating a setting where one can appreciate light at different times of the day – whether it is the shades of white as revealed by degrees of sunlight or the warming effect of firelight by night. johnpawson.com AB Rogers Ab Rogers was inspired by the spontaneous street life of the neighbourhood in 
East London in which he lives and works to come up with a range of furniturelike structures to give social spontaneity a helping hand. “Whether it’s planned 
or serendipitous, we wanted to design a set of colourful pieces that could help 
to turn a momentary catch-up on the street into an impromptu drinks party, 
anchored by a tuned-up bollard. Or make a surprise anniversary dinner possible 
under a street lamp … or make a breath of fresh air turn into a long lunch with 
new friends at a long table under the trees.”  abrogers.com Paloma Strelitz Paloma Strelitz, an architect, and co-founder of the Turner Prize winning 
collective Assemble, took an overview of how shopping streets might recover 
from lockdown, to generate new life: “convivial, accessible, sustainable and 
enjoyable for all”. The experience of negotiating streets in which precautions 
against the pandemic had caused restaurants and food shops to migrate to 
the pavement, made her think about ways to make this a permanent quality.
“It’s an opportunity to empower local business. Shops could open their 
facades to the street, creating an expanded space of public interaction, and 
daily theatre.” She would keep the car in its place, with priority for pedestrians and bikes, 
and banned altogether at weekends. What were once parking places would 
become green borders, combining play space, raised planters, flower beds 
and trees, allowing the street to become a promenade. Meanwhile the street 
would be animated not just by cafés, but studios and workshops putting the 
making process on show. Oh, and a mobile bar too.  assemblestudio.co.uk Jon Marshall  Jon Marshall, an industrial design partner at Pentagram in London, found himself 
thinking about ways to bring together two very different kinds of object: a hamper, 
designed to carry utensils food and drink securely, and a shooting stick. “They 
aren’t really about shooting,” he explains. “The shooting stick is actually a very 
convenient way of carrying the means to sit anywhere with you.”  The hamper allows for the sense of anticipation that comes from preparing for 
a pleasurable occasion. The two objects have very different aesthetics – one is 
vaguely mechanical, the other has a kind and rustic quality. For Marshall, the idea 
of the shared walk – with the chance of stopping for a picnic – is the very essence 
of conviviality. pentagram.com/about/jon-marshall This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

The past year has seen a huge change in our ability to interact, and opportunities to be social. Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

FONDATA: The Importance of Being Convivial

The Importance of Being Convivial  

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