Читать книгу A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan - Udo Sonntag - Страница 13

Every human being is given a wonderful gift at birth, something that protects us from many dangers and can make us very happy. Unfortunately, many underestimate this gift. I am, of course, talking about the nose and its incredible ability to perceive smells. God has given us this precious feature, in both right and left nostrils, that is so incredibly enriching for us. There are small areas inside the nose, just about two centimetres by five centimetres, which form our receptors for aromas, scents and smells, offering 2,000 times more sensitivity than the tongue. What a fascinating experience to perceive odours and let them take their effect! How many of us actually think about our sense of smell? Not many I suspect, unless it has been temporarily nullified due to a cold, which you probably found unfamiliar and unpleasant. Yet it is really worth thinking about how vital this sense actually is. After all, none of us would think of eating anything that smelled funny or bad. You can rely on your nose to protect you from poisoning, for long before you see danger, you can often smell it. In the brain, olfactory stimuli interact directly with our emotions, meaning that, as soon as we smell something familiar to us, pleasant feelings are triggered. Every person has a unique smell, so think about this the next time you hug a loved one or your children in your arms. I could philosophise for hours about this wonderful faculty that has shaped my life so much.

Unfortunately, you can’t reproduce smells in a book, so I’ll try to put this magic into words. If there is anything we have plenty of on Islay, it is peat, a natural fuel that is cut and dried by hand. This fuel plays a role not only in whisky making, but it also once played a major part in the everyday lives of the people of Islay. Peat used to be a widely used heating material on the island, since wood is not available in the quantities needed, and it’s a fuel that doesn’t burn like wood with high flames, but smoulders and glows.

A peat fire is soothing and slow-burning. It can take a long time to light such a fire, but it’s one that lasts a long time. When it burns, it gives off a smoke that is so wonderful to me, full of character, voluminous, homely and familiar. Even if you can’t see the smoke, your nose can catch it. But it’s not just the smoke that our nose captures, for in a distillery, there are many other aromatic demands on our olfactory senses. For me, there was the rich smell of barley to discover: like rain in spring, which is how the grain smelled, having soaked itself with water before sprouting. This scent recalled something fertile, something powerful, something that was alive, something that was at the beginning of a journey: departure and home at the same time. I could also smell something deeply earthy, something that sprouted roots. As soon as the barley dried over the smoke, a new scent appeared, the scent of transformation, an enchanting, delicate sweetness in the air, reminiscent of caramel, a pleasant smell that sometimes also reminded me of honey. And then again, those grassy notes reminiscent of the lush salt marshes. Yet that was only the beginning.

Peat is not only suitable for whisky.

Those multi-layered aromas of the casks were a chapter in themselves, ranging from the wet, dark, coarse wood notes of the individual cask staves, marked by tannic acid, and stored in the rain, to a fruity freshness marked by vanilla. Then there were also the dark and sweet notes, reminiscent of chocolate, of the former sherry casks that were ready to be filled. This exciting backdrop for the nose was framed by the almost unbelievable abundance of all the maritime notes that the island had to offer. The salt, the moisture, the acidity, the freshness; in short, the whole character of the island. This abundance was also supported by the elemental force of fire, needed to burn out the barrels, make the metal glow, and produce the steam that drove the stills. Not to mention the lubricating oil that kept the time-honoured and historic machines and mechanics running. But all this would have been useless if it hadn’t been for the heroes of our childhood, the men of Islay who gave of their best and worked passionately hard in the distilleries. Their toil and sweat was required day in and day out. All this combined to create a magical blend that my nose was privileged to experience every day. And as the cherry on top, the scent of the ever-burning tobacco pipes pervaded each nook and cranny. It was quite unbelievable to me and almost impossible to put into words! This game of scents and smells had an immense attraction that I could not resist.

Even as children, we dreamed of one day working in one of Islay’s distilleries, just as each generation before had done, including my grandfather John McEwan. Even when I was a primary school pupil, Bowmore distillery captivated me, when every day I passed by its walls and gates at least twice on my way to school and back. I just couldn’t help it; I always had to look through the windows to the malt floors, the maltbarns, because behind those window panes, I saw a new and, for me, fascinating world. I saw men turning the barley with big shovels, the dust, shining golden, backlit by the sun, and spreading a wonderfully peaceful atmosphere. The barley turning was done by several men working in harmony and with complete understanding between each other, creating a synchronised rhythm that bordered on choreography. If one maltman lifted the shovel, the other lowered it – shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … shhh … pohh … That was the sound of the malt floors. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take my eyes off this scene. I wanted to stand on that very spot one day and work there myself. Around the age of 12, I received a call from within those sacred halls: “Jim, do you want to join us for a while? You’re not learning anything new at school today. Come and help us a little!” So I plucked up the courage to turn right, towards the maltbarns, long before reaching the school, knowing full well what would happen should anyone find out. For the first time, I was allowed into this world with which I was so fascinated, to sniff the aromas of the distillery, to pick up a shovel for the first time, becoming a part of the choreography and gliding through the grain to the same beat. A magical moment! On top of that, I was given empty lemonade bottles as my wages, earning my first pennies from the return of their deposits. How proud was I? My efforts had value and I was rewarded for a job that gave me pleasure and made me happy. “Jim McEwan – you’re a grown-up now, you can make money.” So I pretty much gave up going to school altogether and instead pursued an occupation that was of more interest to me. Besides shovelling malt, I was allowed to label barrel lids, and later even roll barrels. I felt so strong as a little boy behind those huge containers weighing hundreds of kilos. One day, however, came the moment when my life changed, as I entered the cooperage for the first time. That was the place where the barrels were made with hard, manual labour, and for me, it was a glimpse of paradise. I’ll never forget the sights, sounds and especially the smell, as I stood in the midst of these respected men. All were smoking pipes, making that tart, dark scent of tobacco part of this heady atmosphere. Martial forces, swinging hammers, charred oak, swirling sparks, alongside the distinctive smoke from the fire, and permeated by the smell of hot metal and a hint of whisky and blood, sweat and tears. There was something so masculine about it all, something so powerful and fundamentally honourable. To me, the barrel makers, the coopers, were highly respected and strong men. Nobody messed with them. They all had strong, muscular upper arms, because they held heavy tools in their hands all day long. I, Jim McEwan, to whom life sometimes threw a stone or two back then, wanted to become a cooper! I wanted to be one of those very men, for they were my heroes.

The complete Bowmore staff in 1928, including maltman John McEwan (back row, 4th from right).

The view through this window was to shape Jim’s life forever.

By the sweat of my brow I wanted to build barrels for the distillery, with fire and booming hammer blows. I wanted to smoke a pipe with these men. I also wanted hard, muscular upper arms like them and to look, with pride, at newly made barrels. I wanted to experience exactly the same satisfaction at the end of the day that those men did when they enjoyed a dram after work was done. The atmosphere in the cooperage so captivated me, that I preferred to help out in the distillery and earn a few pence, rather than be at school. I think more than just once, I came home to be asked by my mother what I had learned that day, replying that, in history we had discussed Robert the Bruce, how he had fought and won against England. She then grabbed me, sniffed my shirt and accused me of lying. Denial was futile. “You told me that last week. Jim, you’ve been in that bloody distillery again! Come on, off to bed, no dinner tonight! Don’t argue!” As painful as it was for me at the time, those punishments could not dissuade me that my future lay at Bowmore distillery.

My mind was made up. I was in the distillery almost every day, so I very cautiously and shyly asked for an appointment with the manager at the time, James McColl. He was the epitome of what a manager should be, always smartly dressed, and looking a bit like Cary Grant, with his grey temples. Midst all this rough whisky reality, he was the man who stood out for me, and I had great respect for him, symbolising as he did a respected personality with great charisma. The way he moved, the way he spoke, radiated a natural authority and, in addition, a humanity marked by personal values. I never once heard him swear or curse, a remarkable feat in a distillery environment. All in all, he was a person I could look up to.

At the age of 15, I had successfully completed my schooling and was eager to start working in the distillery to finally earn my own money, and to provide for the family. That, along with my fascination with Bowmore distillery, was what drove me on. But to gain a foothold in the distillery, I first had to get a job. To do that, it was a case of overcoming my reluctance and asking to speak to Mr McColl which, in turn, meant having to knock on his door. I was small and rather shy at the time, stood in front of this massive door that clearly stated ‘Distillery Manager’ in big, dignified letters. It was six o’clock in the evening and having taken a deep breath beforehand, I knocked timidly. There are moments in life that become etched in the memory forever, and the moment when that door opened in slow motion in front of me was one such moment. “Oh, hello Jim, come on in.” I was greeted by the sonorous voice of Mr McColl. “Well, Mr McColl, I’ve just finished school and I was hoping to maybe have a job here, maybe as a barrel maker?” I asked, with my eyes lowered somewhat meekly. Seconds passed that felt like half an eternity, but he finally answered: “Let me think for a moment … Okay, I’ll give you a job, but you have three months’ probation before you can start an apprenticeship, so you’d better behave yourself. I don’t want to hear any complaints about you doing anything stupid, not even in the slightest! If you work hard and conscientiously, then it might, I say might, turn into a permanent job in the cooperage. Remember, no mischief!” You can scarcely imagine how those words resounded. On the one hand, there was the possibility of realising the dream right there on my doorstep, along with the clearly worded warning: no mischief! James McColl knew me well, but believe me, I was not in the mood for mischief. I’d show him that he could rely on me 100 per cent, determined to convince him that he hadn’t made a mistake.

The entrance to the Bowmore distillery.

“If you work hard and conscientiously, then it might, I say might, turn into a permanent job in the cooperage. Remember, no mischief!”

James McColl

And so, at 7 a.m., on August 1st 1963, I started work at Bowmore Distillery, the beginning of a new era for me. I had a rough idea of what was in store, for after all, in the last few years I had probably been in the distillery more often than at school. I’d even been sent home by Mr McColl himself on occasion. Nevertheless, everything would be different from now on. Working at Bowmore would no longer be a leisure activity, but my job, my livelihood. From now on, I’d be the one who earned the money. So there I was, a small 15-year-old lad, on the cusp of adulthood, with the manager’s admonishing words fresh in my ears. If everything worked out, an apprenticeship as a barrel maker was on the cards, so I did everything I was asked to do. I helped wherever my help was needed, whether loading and unloading, turning malt, shovelling coal or peat, or labelling barrels. I rolled countless barrels in the warehouse, just doing everything that had to be done and doing what I was told. Soon after starting, one of my main jobs was stowing the barrels in the warehouse, though I freely admit that it was certainly not my favourite of jobs. Stowing barrels was an extremely demanding, back-breaking job that could be quite dangerous to boot. If you’ve ever seen the inside of a distillery warehouse, you’ll have seen long rows of barrels, usually stacked three high. Between those barrels are long, bulky storage timbers that function like rails, placed precisely atop the barrels so that the construct could support itself. In order that the whisky could mature properly, those timbers were used to roll the casks into their resting positions.

Bowmore is one of the few distilleries still malting today – with peat smoke, as is customary on Islay.

Back then, when the casks came into the warehouse, they had bung stoppers made of cork. It was only when they left the distillery that those were replaced with tight-fitting oak stoppers. The sole reason for using a cork stopper was to allow opening of the cask (at least that was the official justification) to subject the contents to strict quality control or measure the fill level. Believe me, the distillery workers wished for the return of the cork stoppers when the oak stoppers were introduced. Internal ‘quality controls’ were much more difficult to carry out from then on. So if you wanted to roll a cask into position on the storage timbers for maturing over the next few years, you had to know exactly where the bung was positioned at the beginning, so that, after you had rolled it into place, it was exactly on top, that is at the 12 o’clock position. This positioning was a science in itself, necessitating a conscientious work ethic. It was a method that ensured not a single drop leaked out, always assuming the barrel was tight in the first place.

You quickly got the hang of it, but what made it a sheer challenge for me as a beginner, was the fact that all the barrels had to be manoeuvred by hand. Today, it’s not a problem, because there are forklifts for that, but in those days, we’d only muscle power on which to rely. It’s why this job was so unpopular. A hogshead holds 55 gallons, which is pretty much 250 litres of whisky. Together with the weight of the barrel, that’s more than 350 kilos, which, once rolling, was impossible to stop with your bare hands. You had to concentrate at all times and you couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. The risk of accidents was quite high, even if it didn’t seem that way at the time. With the safety regulations in place today, it would no longer be allowed, but this work was carried out in exactly the same way as generations had done for decades, or even centuries. But it was a matter of not disappointing Mr McColl and getting through my probationary period without any reprimands. Imagine how quickly a finger could have been lost, or how an out-of-control barrel could have crushed someone. It’s a situation that doesn’t bear thinking about! Thank God I still have all my fingers. During those first days and weeks I gained an insight into the harsh realities of working in a distillery, though I could probably have guessed at some of them before I started my apprenticeship. Today, I figure that this was Mr McColl’s intention when giving me those hard, elementary lessons; however, they only strengthened my resolve to be a cooper! So I hustled, did every job asked of me, worked really hard, never looked at the clock and took extra shifts whenever I got the chance.

The trial period almost flew by and I learned an enormous amount, but most importantly, I gave Mr McColl no reasons for complaint, and he was happy with my progress. It was a very special feeling when I proudly brought home my first hard-earned money, totalling five guineas (five pounds, five shillings and five pence), which was a lot of money for me at the time. My mother Peggy also worked near the distillery, regularly cleaning for Mr Learmouth, the only lawyer on Islay. He had an uncanny sense for those matters that affected people’s lives, listening carefully, able to assess situations quickly, before drawing his conclusions to steer matters in the right direction. My mother had told him I was about to start an apprenticeship as a cooper, but neither I nor my mother knew that this wasn’t actually possible under the law in force at the time. According to the Coopers’ Trade Union, an apprenticeship could only be approved if there were at least five trained coopers working in a plant. But there were only four working at Bowmore distillery, one short of allowing me to realise my dream.

One of the abovementioned four was my idol and was soon to become my teacher. His name was Davy Bell. Just the sound of that name filled me with pride and anticipation, because Davy was an icon in the industry. There was probably no better barrel maker in the world in those days, a man respected and revered throughout Scotland, and it was he who was to train me. I was so close to being able to start my apprenticeship with this living legend, to learn from the best of the best, that I could hardly believe my luck. But then I heard about this clause in the Scotland-wide collective agreement, and my world came crashing down around me. Mr McColl told me about the situation as gently as possible, holding out the prospect of another apprenticeship elsewhere in the distillery. That was some consolation, but only a small one. My dream was shattering before my eyes, but at least I could stay at the distillery on Islay. I was understandably very dejected, but my mother came home one day and told me I was to visit Mr Learmouth’s office the following day, after I’d finished work, to hear important news. My heart was in my mouth. Why should I suddenly appear before a lawyer? I went through all possible misdeeds, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t guilty of anything except for the gooseberry incident, though I doubted that would bring a lawyer into action. You have no idea the feeling with which I went to bed after hearing this. I hardly slept that night, my mind racing. The next day at work, my head was probably not always in the right place either, for I was desperate to know why I had to see Mr Learmouth, now, of all times. I made sure to leave the distillery on time, and, very excitedly, I went to his office and, with sweaty palms, knocked on the door. He invited me in and told me to sit down, as he had something important to tell me. Spellbound, I sat in the armchair in front of the desk that my mother always kept clean. “Well, Jim,” he began, “your mother has told me that you want to learn the trade of barrel maker. As Mr McColl has already told you, the distillery is one employee short in that profession. So it would seem to be impossible for you to continue. But, in actual fact …!” The pause that now followed seemed endless, but he continued: “I have taken the liberty of looking into this matter and have written to Glasgow to point out that this clause makes no sense on Islay. You would have ideal conditions here in a well-established distillery and your teacher would be the nationally and internationally respected Mr Bell. Therefore, it should not be of any real importance whether four or five barrel makers accompany the training.” He had therefore moved that, in this case, a special exception should be made and that, under the circumstances, the apprenticeship be approved after all. Once again, he paused, and looked straight at me. There was something hopeful and positive flashing in his eyes. “Well, Jim McEwan, the reply arrived from Glasgow yesterday. I am extremely pleased to inform you that from next week you will be allowed to learn the trade of barrel maker with Mr Bell. Congratulations!” It was now I who paused, a long pause in fact. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. So my dream could come true after all? “Mr Learmouth, how will I ever thank you and how will I ever pay you?” “You don’t have to pay me. All I ask of you is that you take this opportunity and become a good barrel maker. And I expect a report from you from time to time on how that’s going. Now off you go, you’ve got a lot to do, budding cooper McEwan.” That evening I experienced what it feels like to be both happy and grateful. Here was a very busy man who had recognised the importance of my situation, written the right words to the right addressee, who had then made the right decision.

My world came crashing down around me. Mr McColl told me about the situation as gently as possible.

Could that have been a coincidence? But I don’t believe in coincidences. In retrospect, I am firmly convinced that these encounters were meant for me, both with Mr Learmouth and with Davy Bell. When I was in the early stages of my career, I had a long conversation with the Round Church minister, Frank Gibson. I had always had a special connection with him. When he preached, I hung upon his every word. He knew very well how to link the contents of the Bible with my life and my little world on Islay. In his own special way, he reached out to me with his thoughts and his personality. I loved going to the Round Church on Sundays and was very involved in church life. We were talking one day, about topics of great depth, during which he spoke of subjects that left a lasting impression on me. He talked about how our lives had been carefully prepared by the great man above, the book of our lives having been already written by the time we see the light of day. Our job is only to turn its pages. There are no coincidences – everything obeys a plan. I find these thoughts to be very comforting to this day, providing security and confidence in all our lives and actions. Everything has its higher plan; I am taken care of, the course for my future has been set, something I have been able to experience again and again in the course of my life. It was on that very evening at Mr Learmouth’s that I realised this for the first time. There are people around us about whom we have not the slightest idea, from one moment to the next, as to how important they can become in our lives. Isn’t that a wonderful concept?