Drumroll, please. It's summer 2013. And there was I - me, who has anticipated this liquid like Britain anticipated the little Kate-lliam or its long-waited British Wimbledon champion. And so, my baby daughter is finally sleeping, it's time to dig in. The Nose. The unmistakably-Ardbeg whiff of damp stables serves the first ball of the match, then it gets a return from flavours much more fresh and mild, like candies and green tea … It's a long rally, where the more syrupy notes get the edge and win the first game by eventually converting a break-point. We're approaching the end of the first set with some apple skin and camomile honey (the one that mom used to make during the summer in the country - if yours didn't, just think regular honey). You sit down for a breather and find some toffee lost in a grass - perhaps a ballboy has dropped it from his pocket. Is it starting to sound a little awkward? OK, let's finish all this tennis-talk by just saying everything of the above has that subtle yet ever-present racquet-slice of peat lingering in the air. Some sauna stones and a well as well.
The Taste. Is it still relevant to talk in tennis terms? The answer is quite simple: NO. It's the whole different game now. It's huge, so huge it feels like a reason the word 'huge' was invented. You take a sip and then your senses think they're about to cling onto something, it's just a matter of fractions of a second before you will identify the flavours…uh oh - BAM… it knocks you out before you can get your thoughts around it; it's like getting punched while kissing. It's an avalanche with Big Foot riding it on two snow tigers. Except it's HOT, very hot, bloody hot, it burns like bonfire and feels like putting a torch into your mouth. Somebody call the fire brigade.
… And then some saltiness, caramelised salty peanuts; carrot juice (hello, Quarter Cask). This is a whisky that doesn't negotiate. It's a malt you cannot invite for a drink, show up in summery shorts and say 'hey there', no, you have to make an appointment and buy some regular trousers. In fact, if you're reading this in shorts, you seriously should be ashamed of yourself.
It's like Magelan siding with Marty McFly and travelling in a time-machine to wrestle with the dinosaurs. The woody finish is so long it could time-travel barefoot, without needing any machines.
From the Ardbeg range, Ardbog is closest to Corryvreckan; only more straightforward, honest and down-to-earth. If Corryvreckan is Zidane, Ardbog is Cantona. But don't get it wrong - it has the same complexity, it's just that probably it's the fiercest Ardbeg there is. 'Bog is the sort of dram a conquistador, a bearded braveheart explorer would take on a trip.
It's like a book; you have to sit, shush, and read it from cover to cover, until you find the meaning of life - or at least, find out why the dinosaurs have extinguished (there was a hint in there somewhere).
P.s. A sequel. Now, I’m not a person who puts water in his whisky, I very very rarely do so – almost never, but Ardbog seemed to have some kind of secret it wanted to reveal. So there I was – a couple of evenings later – with a teaspoon of water in a Glencairn glass… I sat back in a cool balcony, swirled and took a minute. And then, I felt an immediate kick of cinnamon – you know the kind of kick that rockstar guitarists do... The very distinctive flavour of cheap bitter-ish cinnamon biscuit cake from the 90s school canteen. Very cinnamony indeed. The water really calms down Ardbog. The taste? The quite Lagavulin–y pine nuts spring forward. And they remain quite comfortably there in the finish, which is rather nutty. Some 80s’ tin-box candies, something very herbal too. The mouthfeel is bitter and grassy ... the bitterness is so close to tasting like crushed pills in a spoon, but it knows when to stop and doesn’t cross that line. At times you feel you could briefly be tricked into thinking it’s actually Lagavulin 16. I usually don’t stop after one or two (or five , actually) glasses, but Ardbog is the kind of whisky you get overwhelmed with after that one hug. It’s a whisky I know I’m gonna enjoy on those cold evenings, sharing with two best friends (Magelan and Marty McFly, perhaps) and sip it in a friendly silence.
P.p.s. The bottle is finished. Sorry.