To Islay, for a firsthand look at how Caol Ila has spent its share of the £185 million that Diageo, their overlords, have recently allocated to whisky tourism in Scotland.
Our day actually starts off on the Isle of Jura. Despite admonitions by a local friend that hitchhiking ‘is not the done thing’ in these parts, we end up in conversation with a pair of Americans while touring Jura’s distillery, scoring a lift to Port Askaig via the Feolin ferry, but not without hemming and hawing as to whether such a laughable ‘full-size’ car hire could actually seat four adults (“Look, I drive a Grand Cherokee at home.”) Thankfully luck is on our side as we fold ourselves into the back seats, finding room for Charles’ day bag as well. Bless!
As is often the case when Canadians and Americans get together, we spend the ride nodding politely as our new friends recount the trials and tribulations of their Scottish adventure, from being downgraded on the flight to London (“Delta said they’d try to get us Business Class the next day, but let’s face it, trying is the first step to failure,”) to CalMac’s unreliable ferry schedule (“I’m booked on the second most expensive tour at Highland Park this Thursday so they need to get their act together,”) to the woeful lack of merch at Jura (“C’mon, just smalls and mediums for hoodies? They’re leaving money on the table!”) nevermind their overall disappointment with the distillery’s tour (“And there’s half a day wasted, you know what I’m saying?”)
Our original plan upon reaching Islay was to walk from the ferry terminal to Caol Ila, but after hearing of an upgraded visitor centre our hosts graciously offer to drive us the rest of the way. It’s a quick five minutes to the distillery, the pristine asphalt of its new car park unfolding as we turn the final bend. Having already wasted half a day our American friends figure they may as well join us and have a look inside.
We follow a series of stairs that lead to an elevated footbridge connecting the parking lot to the roof of Caol Ila’s former warehouse, though the original carpark at ground level is still accessible for those who require an elevator. To our left we can see the administrative office that previously received visitors for tours when we were last here. With just a handful of bottles for sale, it was, at the time, a reasonable proposition from a workhorse distillery with the bulk of its output destined for Johnnie Walker. Outside a few picnic tables are still scattered by the water’s edge, a nice touch that encourages visitors to loiter on a warm day, though I’ve always suspected that they were meant to be a staff amenity.
Ten years on (and several million pounds later), and we are now crossing the threshold of automatic doors to enter an expansive floorplan that has thought of everything: reception counter, bottle shop packed with limited edition whiskies (and helpful reminders of their scarcity), filling station for bottling your own whisky, lounge seating with wool throws, café with grazing platters and ample seating, fully stocked cocktail bar (boasting a handsome selection from Diageo’s portfolio, including the latest round of Special Releases), and tasting booths in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with beatific views of the Sound of Islay and the Paps of Jura across the way.
Not to mention shelf upon shelf (upon shelf!) laden with merch. Unsurprisingly, there’s no shortage of Johnnie Walker branded everything, Caol Ila’s revamped visitor centre having been christened as Johnnie’s brand home on Islay (and formally baptized as such with a life-size statue of the Striding Man channeling Willy Wonka – tag us on Instagram, please!)
But Caol Ila’s fanbase is equally served with branded t-shirts, ball caps, hoodies – in all sizes! – whisky stones, whisky-scented candles, art prints, tasteful leather coasters, ice cube trays, hip flasks, water bottles, Caol Ila tiki mugs – want! – Christmas ornaments, tartan, tweed, books, glassware, bar accessories, and still more stuff.
So. Much. Merch! The Mall of America vibes are strong, and our new friends are pleased, subtly nodding their heads in approval as they take in the Crate&Barrel aesthetic, and feast upon the sight of blonde wood and artful product displays set against exposed beams and the clean lines of mid-century mod furnishings.
We wander aimlessly in our own respective directions, our companions taking ease in the silven glade of what’s essentially a copy and paste of the commercial sanctuaries that can be found in any large urban centre, be it London, Paris, New York... and now Islay! That said, for the weary traveller, it’s as welcome as a rest stop off the interstate, albeit with cleaner, more spacious toilets, and more comfortable seating. Not to mention freshly ground coffee beans: upon spying the stainless steel of the barista kit Charles is smitten, and takes full advantage of the situation by ordering a cappuccino with a slice of ginger cake.
In short, unbridled consumerism beckons at every turn, and while the whisky purist in me is eager to pan this as nothing more than a corporate stage set (imported piecemeal, from London), I recognize my hypocrisy as I tuck into a foamy golden latte (made with oat milk, yep!) And I won’t lie, the millionaire shortbread hits, as does the Scottish cheese platter, which I’ll be pairing with whisky on my next visit. Because yes, I fully intend to return; this isn’t a genie that you can stuff back into its bottle. Charles opts for the venison charcuterie platter served with oatcakes and a side of chutney, and orders his second cappuccino of the day. No, this may not be the intended purpose of our visit, but these kind of luxuries are hit and miss in the Highlands, and it feels like manna from heaven when you come across them, believe you me.
Judging from the number of residents who have stopped in for a chinwag with their flat whites, these urban indulgences seem to be an equally welcome respite for locals. The expanded visitor centre has also brought more employment to the island; shift work with no benefits, aye, but convenient from a scheduling perspective I am assured by a few. Nevertheless there are grumblings in the hospitality sector as to whether distilleries should be running cafés that compete with local businesses and have the potential to siphon away their customers. Fair point, and food for thought (see what I did there?)
Charles has booked us on a tour so we bid farewell to our American cousins as they ring up their purchases, clearly grateful for the opportunity to unburden themselves of extra cash in exchange for hoodies (yay!) scented candles and tweed accessories, with a bottle of Caol Ila thrown in for good measure.
Our tour starts in forty-five minutes. The tasting booths (and their breathtaking views) are being manspread by a group of finance bros comparing notes on their whiskies and watches, so I find a sofa and curl myself under a wool throw. Over in the book section, Charles pages through a reissue of Jefford’s ‘Peat, Smoke and Spirit’ to kill a bit of time. I’ve no sooner sat down before I feel restless, and get up to browse (again) in what feels like an increasingly soulless room. With the grazing done and the coffee drunk, the subtle yet sustained marketing push slowly grates on my nerves, as does the persistent thrum of elevator music in the background. I also notice that I seem to be the only one affected: all around me are families in a comfortable stasis with drinks, food and free WiFi while their loved ones take an hour (or two) for a tasting or a tour, or maybe even both.
I sit back down and this time Charles joins me, opening the book he keeps in his day bag, for purgatories like these. I’m antsy so get up to admire the tiki mugs again; in truth I’m having trouble deciding whether I like them better in blue or gray.