Day 20 - Expert Whiskey Tester

A fellow traveller on the Scotland trip had remarked that at the beginning of the Jameson Distillery tour, wait for the guide to seek 10 or so volunteers for whiskey tasting. I keep my arm cocked, ready for the question, and when she asks, "I need 10 people for whiskey tasting at the end of ...," my hand shoots up before her sentence is complete.

Having already been to Bells Distillery I'm eager to reinforce the whiskey making process. An expert can tell a good batch of barley merely by looking or feeling a grain, although this takes ten years experience. Then there's the washing, the mashing, the roasting, distilling and maturation in casks.

Some of the casks have glass covers, allowing you to behold the liquid's rich copper colour. These casks were initially full. The longer a whiskey is left to mature, the greater the evaporation - hence you can see why mature whiskey is more expensive - it takes longer and there's less of it left!

  

* * *

The whiskey testers-elect take their places on the long bench, observed by the rest of the tour group (perhaps wishing they'd also had foreknowledge of the ultimate taste testing). Three shots are laid before us.

"There are no right or wrong answers," we're told. "I'm going to ask you questions about look, smell and taste. The three samples are Scottish, American and Irish."

Apparently the point of the exercise is to gather feedback for the distillery's benefit.

I adjudge the American whiskey (or bourbon to be more accurate) as having the best smell, but kindly judge the Irish as having the best taste. Perhaps I'm a bit harsh on the Scotch - the Irish like to say their whiskeys have none of the smokiness that marks Scotch, but this is one of the pleasures of Scotch - a full, peaty palate. 

Nonetheless, I am now an expert whiskey tester! 

(... and a little bit tipsy ...)

Day 20 - Writers Museum

I rise early enough to acquit myself of the free breakfast, although early risings are increasingly a struggle. The host of the B&B prepares a passable bacon, eggs and sausage, giving me enough carbs to support the long walks I invariably undertake as a traveller. When you're exploring a new city, an hour's walk is a stroll in the park. New streets and boutiques, different fashions, houses the like you've never seen with gaudy coloured doors flanked by classical pillars (my host has a poster of 'Dublin Doors' in the lobby). 

Nothing looks far apart on a tourist map.  Around the corner is the Writers Museum and this is where I immediately head. It's actually a half hour walk but this takes me through what I think is Chinatown in Dublin - at least there are lots of Asian eateries and mobile phone stores. At one of these stores I ask for an international sim card but the seller can't clearly explain the benefits of the card he offers me. I'm used to Lyca or Lebara which give you international calls from 1c a minute. As the shopkeeper really can't say anything more than that the card fits in your phone and works, I decline his offer.

The Writers Museum is in John Jameson's old house and this is good place to start my day as I'll go to his  distillery later. An audio tour is included in the admission price - I've tried to avoid these as they usually don't say anything more than what is written on the placards. And it's a bit antisocial walking through a museum holding a black box to your ear.

Just what should one find in a writers museum? Indeed is it worth having museums for writers at all? Behold tourists, come and read about writers, see their relics, typewriters, unpublished masterpieces scrawled on table cloths.

The Irish Writers Museum is quite handy for me because apart from patches of Joyce and Yeats what else have I read of Irish flavour? I know of Shaw, haven't read him. I've read a fair bit of Wilde but he's only Irish-born, spending his professional years in London before his exile to Paris. I learn that Joyce also took a similar path, believing a writer shouldn't confine himself to a particular culture - at the age of 22 Joyce left Ireland for the continent. Yeats was more parochial, searching out Irish identity, confounding Dublin's Abbey Theatre over a hundred years ago.

The musuem has Joyce's old piano in the centre of one of its rooms and although of course it's locked, I'm tempted to touch it, to feel the very wood of this inspired man where he passed his more leisurely hours. For some reason I refrain, though I'm the only soul in the room and the piano literally begs for an idolatrous caress. Perhaps I believe that if I ever make something of my writing it's not going to be because I touched Joyce's piano.  

Day 19 - The Incredible Zany Ineffable Opentop Bus Tour

Yes, I said in London "why do a tour?", especially one of those open top bus tours. I studied history at university and literature - a large part of this was of the English variety hence I was well equipped to explore London on my own initiative. Dublin is a different story. I know James Joyce hung out here for awhile before heading to the continent. Yeats is Dublin's darling poet. Guinness, Kilkenny. But what else do I know about Dublin, let alone Ireland? I therefore submit to an open top bus tour.

As opposed to most of these tours  I am given commentary by the actual driver, and not a cheap pair of plastic ear buds that keep falling out and a pre-recorded voice that is out of sync with where you are. The tour is acceptable. I must go to the Guiness Factory, Trinity College, the Jameson Distillery ... The Writer's Museum. For most of the circuit I'm the only one aboard. In Sydney you see a lot folks cruising through Pyrmont atop these red double deckers. This could be frustrating: I worked in Pyrmont and seeing these people cruise past as if there wasn't anything else to do in the world made me, well, want to hop on.

The driver points out a statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining in gaudy clothes and grinning at the house where he lived before he left Ireland to become part of the English establishment.

I hop off at O'Connell St, the main thoroughfare north of the Liffey and have a beer and meal at the pub chain Madigans. A typical Irishman of the last generation recounts tales of the town. I can't understand a word he says. Yes he's got a thick Irish accent, but he's drunk more than camel at a refuelling stop on route to Mecca through the Sahara carrying seven bags of trinkets while draped in five Persian carpets for sale at the bazaar. One thing I do understand. His round blue eyes sparkle when he says, "Better get a taxi if you're heading to Lower Gardiner - that place is a bit rough. Rather be safe." He sways. "Wouldn't want to see you" - he rocks back and forth - "knifed would I?" This statement is accompanied with an upward stabbing action. "This city has drug problem."

I take my leave during a pause in his ramblings and eat a hearty Irish stew. Later I forget his advice, luckily without consequence.

Day 19 - My abode for a week

Lower Gardiner St is my destination after hopping off the airport bus. Aren't these airport buses and trains convenient. London's is of course the best, costing less than three pounds. Sydney's? Daylight robbery at $15.

As I make my way to Lower Gardiner St the road side becomes increasingly strewn with rubbish, the pavements covered in fresh spittle; the gait of the pedestrians is tough. They're all walking with homey purpose, wearing trackies or hoodies like apprentice gangsters. This doesn't look promising. I can't find my guesthouse either. In fact, there is no sign of a guesthouse at the number I'm seeking. Next door there is. I try there and am greeted by a friendly middle aged man who proclaims he owns both guesthouses, the once nextdoor being without signage. However as there are problems with the shower in the room I was to originally stay, I am given a small upgrade.

South of the Liffy it's a bit cleaner

 I have a few difficulties piercing his Irish accent and at one point show him my hearing aids and ask him to speak up. He admits he's also got a hearing loss and needs aids - he says his loss is about 75% but he must be exaggerating a little. Either that or he's an expert lip reader.
"Are you lip reading?" I ask him.
He leans forward. "What?"

The furnishings inside are markedly different from the scrappy street below my window. Opposite is a church, classical style with five pillars, Mary atop the pediment. Every second person who passes the church crosses themselves.

Day 19 - Rub a dub Dublin

I get to Edingburgh airport without a hitch and am glad I upgraded my accomodation from dorm to single room. Yes, I'm getting old. Nothing worse than rising in the morning and having to pack your things in the dark so you don't wake any groggy Australian tourists.

But at the airport I'm unaware of EU regulations. I chuck out by Bic disposal razor when I don't need to. You see, these orange Bic disposable razors are the best you can get and beat any quintuple blade Gillete by a far shave. Those stupid multi-blade razors always get facial hair stuck in them and are designed to cut you after three shaves to make you replace the blade. But those cheap-as-chips Bics? Smooth and comfortable. But this is a travel blog not a men's grooming site. Suffice to say I lost my last precious Bic.

Little did I know that no liquids over 100ml are allowed on EU flights and any under this amount must be sealed in plastic sachets. Those fucking terrorists have made life so hard. I almost throw away the whiskey I've bought for a friend, but the security attendant informs me that I can check the whiskey in and expedite my way through security the second time.

I follow her directions and skip the security line-up. But I'm confronted with a burly shaven blonde boofhead standing after the scanning gates who gets his kicks feeling me up. I mean, a quick frisk is acceptable, but once he starts juggling my balls he's crossed the line. Yes, they are my gonads dickstrap, not sacks of cocaine.

The flight to Dublin is most pleasant. Seeing the Irish coastline edge its way into view is a treat. The disembarkation is smooth, and there is no one at customs asking me if I have anything to declare, to which I would have to reply, a-la Oscar Wilde, "only my genitals."

Day 18 - Come Aussies come Aussies come

Third day of the tour and we get up close and personal with Loch Ness, although no sign of the monster. Our guide is adamant there is something in the loch, and is equally adamant that it's not a monster.
"Aye, I'm sure there's something there, but it's not right to call it a monster. It's not a monster," he says with the Scottish downward inflection.
"Are you sure it's still there?" I query. "The legend of the Loch Ness Monster has been around for a while. The monster might have died of old age."
"It's not a monster."
"That may be the case," I think to myself, "but if it can't show its slimy neck to a bunch of hungover Aussie tourists then it's lost my sympathy." Then again, maybe it hasn't been paid by the warders of the loch, or quite reasonably it doesn't like Aussie tourists.

Our cries of "come Nessy come Nessy come," are not heeded. The chant our guide shows us has gestures that resemble a rugby haka - perhaps the Scottish rugby team could adopt it. I can see the Wallabies quivering in their boots as the Scotch cry, "Come Aussies come Aussies come!"

At the end of the tour we're invited to contribute to the visitor's book for the amusement of "the ladys in the office." I inscribed these lines of doggerel:

     In the Highlands wild and windy cold
     Goes Busabout with tourists bold
     Mostly Aussies, a Brit and a San Jose,
     In unison we all shout AYE!
     Yay Aye it is more whisky please
     In the Isle of Skye we did not freeze
     But kilted Joe did warm our hearts
     With lusty tales from these old parts.
     Aye aye we sang, "come Nessy come",
     And stood on the field of Culloden,
     We also saw the Wallace tower
     Cometh the man cometh the hour.
          Bye snowcap peaks
          Farewell ye lochs
          Adieu bog peats
          Hello warm socks.

Day 17 - Holy Coo

We get our first glimpse of Loch Ness, that 40km long tranquil loch with its gleaming waters. Nearby is a paddock with some Hairy Coos, shaggy things who are more than eager to have their photo taken by a bunch of equally dishevelled Aussie tourists.

But the highlight of the day (pun not intended) is sculling a few drams of whiskey near the cliffs of Skye. The fuzzy warm feeling in the chest dispels the wanton wind, and for those who do not want their dram, there's someone else to take it. We are now well prepared for a visit to Bell's distillery. All mobiles must be turned off, lest they interfere with the equipment that now produces this smokey Scottish liquor. I switch my mobile to "Distillery Mode."

One wee girl drank so much the night before she has spent the entire day in a stupor on the bus, and misses a chance to prolong her intoxication by inhaling the distillery fumes.

The evening is more sedate than the one that preceded it. A couple of pints of Tennent's Lager and a couple of flicks starring Jedi Master Ewan McGregor: Trainspotting, which also has a strong performance from Robert Carlyle; and the very watchable Shallow Grave.