Whisky Magazine Issue 32
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The Speyside Festival was both a blur of activity and a civilised and leisurely jaunt through the heart of the whisky world. Dominic Roskrow reports
Over the years, there have been many occasions where I've looked around me and asked ‘how on earth did I get here?'
Admittedly, most of them have involved alcohol, strange floors and couches, and in one highly unmemorable case, the toilet compartment of a high speed train from Leeds to London.
But the most recent case of this phenomenon occurred on a sunny Sunday morning in Speyside, and while it would be a lie to suggest alcohol wasn't directly involved (I was in Speyside, for heaven's sake!), I hadn't had a drink for at least 10 hours when I glanced through the window of the car I was travelling in, across the streams and rolling fields, and questioned the journey that had brought me to such a good place.
It would be easy to write that it doesn't get much better than a sunny morning on Speyside, but in actual fact it does. If you're accompanied by a Filipino who's not quite sure which side of the road to drive, or the person in the back is a Swede who does a great line in cocktails and an even better line in world anecdotes, or your CD system is pumping out ambient jazz, then the whole experience just cranks up another notch.
So while I'm marvelling at life in general, and asking myself how I got to be in such a sublime place with such sublime people, on this occasion I was actually able to answer the question.
For while I never actually planned to be driving up to Glen Grant Distillery, I had meandered through the 48 hours in beehive fashion; with lots going on, but...