A nose of white pepper, Dominican cigar ash, and Wisconsin cheese curds pulled by a cranberry rake into a burlap bag. A muted note of tar, perhaps a tar-molasses putty to seal retsina bottles. All of which is to say, this is Speysidian to the max.
[Bill: “Did he really just say that?”]
[Bill: “But isn’t it a Highland whisky?”]
[Stephen: “Yes, but I’m more concerned by ‘to the max’.”]
This has a delicious mouth, a standout mouth, a mouth as remarkable as that on a Promachoteuthis Sulcus. Leathery, like a key fob whipped vigorously into a meringue and then folded into greased ramekins. Anise grown in a bog, or vanilla pods dropped into bilge water, then wreathed with sweet flowers and given to school kids.
Returning to the nose, it now reveals notes of zinnia and Kartoffelsalat. Golden, vegetal essence; the successful harvest; ox eye daisies tied to the tales of blindfolded donkeys. Returning to the mouth, Stephen detected a whisper of sulfur and spoke of how this “clouded” the “horizon” of my bucolic image. Bill and I mocked him until he withdrew the suggestion. The finish glows warm and bright: pale embers about to be added to a vat of fat just to see what would happen; spicy flower petals yielding then blackening in a raging bonfire; mutant fireflies bred to cause arson in a new building.
The Tomatin 15 is the 500th anniversary of the first use of the word, “bilge”–First used in 1513, I can only hope I live to 2063 so that I can properly recognize this delightful word on its 550th anniversary. Until then, I shall pour this delightful whisky.