Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The four-wheel drive makes putting one or two wheels off-tarmac in a passing place a
much less nervy experience too, and sometimes you can get round another car between
passing places - it's almost like the 911 is drawing itself in and holding its breath for you.
The upper reaches of the A851 are newly widened but still curvy; bliss in the 911,
especially in this weather. The main road is the A87 and it's a peach too; not too heavily
trafficked and basically a glorious, gratuitous succession of gob-smacking views over hill
and sea, huge straights, long, spooling curves, torque-hungry gradients and just enough
slow bits through villages to trickle through while allowing one's passengers a better look
at the view.
As we drive, it occurs to me that Skye, bridge or no bridge, still feels like an island.
I look at the road, then at the relatively modest speed we're doing and think that on ex-
actly the same road on the mainland, I'd probably be going faster. I've noticed this be-
fore; islands slow you down. I think it's something to do with knowing that, on an island,
nowhere's too far away from where you are now, so what's the rush? Maybe, also, it's
because by their nature islands are usually your destination on a holiday, and so you're
not in any hurry to get anywhere else.
Having said that, we go straight through Broadford - Skye's second town after Portree
- even though it's looking fairly groovy these days. Cool-looking craft shops and the like
will have to wait for another visit; we are men on a mission and there's research to be
done. At Sligachan we head west for Carbost, and the Talisker distillery. The hills rise
rotundly all around, with the great jagged forest of peaks that is the Black Cuillins rearing
over everything a few miles to the south. The Cuillins are probably the most intense piece
of large-scale verticality in Britain; a dark snaggle-ridged near-circle of rearing fractured
geography bursting out of land and sea like a vast staggered series of frozen rock explo-
sions.
Basking, I think, is the only word for Carbost on a day like this. The white of the
distillery's walls reflects the sunlight like a ship's sail against the blue of sky and loch.
We do the tour. Talisker should really be called Carbost because that's the name of the
village; Talisker Bay lies over the hill five miles away. But what the hey. They use Black
Isle barley here, malted at Glen Ord. There's a fair amount of peatiness (25 p.p.m. for
those of you who were paying far too much attention back in
Chapter 3
; five times more
than is in Glen Ord itself, though a lot less than the big peaty bruisers of Islay), however
the water used is very peaty too, and it's reckoned this contributes to a marked degree
of peatiness in the nose. The use of traditional outdoor worm tubs rather than the more
modern column condensers sited inside next to the stills is reckoned to produce a more
flavoursome result.
Talisker has produced whisky since 1831, with a break for World War Two and some
rebuilding after a fire in 1960 (somebody left the access door on a still open, the low
