Читать книгу A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan - Udo Sonntag - Страница 18

When I look back on my life, there are a number of wonderful people who have befriended and, above all, shaped me. One of those very important people is undoubtedly Davy Bell. I would certainly not have become who I am today if he had not existed. Davy Bell was simply the person who inspired me the most. That is why I would like to give a lot of space here to remember him and to thank him from the bottom of my heart. Davy was not only my teacher in the art of barrel making. He was much more than that, and I learned so much about life from him.

When I was a young apprentice just beginning to find my way in this world in 1963, the first days in the distillery were very exciting for me. I wanted to be good at what I did, with Mr McColl’s announcement that I would have a sort of probationary period first, during which I could do no wrong, always at the back of my mind. I had no concerns that I would deliberately cause trouble; rather, I was worried that I would make a mistake because I didn’t know any better. That’s why I needed someone to take me by the hand, Davy being exactly the teacher I needed, and believe me, there couldn’t have been a better one. He’d known me as a child and took me under his wing. He knew how to ease my fears with few words and gave me a great sense of security. My place was definitely by his side, and for whatever reason, he adopted me. I was so proud to be able to learn with him, to learn from the number-one barrel maker. Every barrel maker is given a number when they join the union and every time one of them retires, you move up one. When I started, I was number 782 – but Davy was and still is number one for me! He was number one not only in Scotland, but across the world.

Jim’s teacher Davy Bell (right).

Davy had always been a well-known and respected man on Islay. You could count on him attending church every Sunday to reinforce his beliefs. Although he certainly did not have an easy life and had seen a lot of death and suffering in the First World War, this hadn’t thrown him off the straight and narrow. Perhaps that is why Davy was a great man throughout his life, not only for me, with very firmly held and reliable values. I remember very well his first words as my teacher at Bowmore, “Stay away from drinking whisky, work hard, and don’t steal whisky!”

He had experienced all too often what happened when these rules were not followed. Too many didn’t follow them, and had to bear the consequences. If you were dishonourably fired from a distillery back then, it was hard to gain a foothold on the island again. Davy was familiar with such personal situations and knew that it was usually the families, the wives and the children who suffered. This was not unique to Islay, but was a phenomenon that occurred everywhere whisky was made, exactly what Davy wanted to protect me from. I, his apprentice, was not to meet this fate. For him, his craft as a passionate barrel maker was not just a profession, but a vocation. For him, it took much more than technical skill and ability. He was looking for a fundamentally honest, sincere character, for that is precisely why barrel makers were respected everywhere. They were special men who had a wonderful charisma, and I was apprenticed with the number one.

Jim at 21 as an apprentice cooper on a sherry butt in 1968.

August 1st 1963 was not only my first working day at the distillery, but it was also to be important in my life for another reason. I showed up on time for work, perhaps even overly-punctual, having dressed in what I thought was appropriate for the job. When Davy approached me, he looked me up and down and said, “You have a hole in your shoe.” He was right. In those days I didn’t worry about shoes. I had only one pair – that was all we could afford. Davy admonished me: “You can’t possibly work here with shoes that have a hole in them. You can’t! You really need decent boots to work in.” I tried to convince him to give me a month, after which I could afford new shoes from my first wage, but at that moment it was not even remotely possible to think about new shoes. But Davy was adamant, because he knew how important decent footwear would be. So he took me by the hand to the local shoe shop, and there picked out the best pair and bought them for me. They cost a guinea (one pound and one shilling), a princely sum for the day. “Listen, Jim, every Friday you get your wages and you give me five shillings. That’s how you pay me back. You need good shoes as a cooper.” You won’t believe it, but those were the first new shoes I’d had in my life – mind-blowing! I will never forget that. It was day one of a new beginning for me that started with a new teacher and ended with new shoes.

In those days, when I started learning the craft of barrel making, the hogshead was particularly popular, a type I first got to know when rolling countless numbers of these casks with my hands to various locations in the distillery. A hogshead holds 55 gallons of whisky. A gallon is an imperial measure of volume corresponding to about 4.5 litres. At that time, a hogshead was usually made from former American bourbon barrels, supplied by the puffers in the form of flat packages tied together with a wire, consisting of the individual cask staves and the lids. The American bourbon barrel only holds about 40 gallons, so the barrels could not simply be reassembled directly from a bundle of staves; you had to find the right staves from different packages. In addition, a new and larger lid had to be made. If you wanted to increase the volume of the American barrels in comparison to that of the hogsheads, you could only do so by increasing the diameter, because the height remained the same.

All in all, making a barrel is a very laborious business and sometimes a very dangerous one at that. Coopers work with extremely sharp tools and great heat to bring the hard oak wood into a precise shape. The barrel rings from America could not be used because they were too narrow, so they also had to be made new as riveted and precisely round iron bands. Heat, smoke, sharp edges, blades and dangers were everywhere. With a hammer, one hit the ring hard but evenly over the lid and the staves, to be able to build such a barrel. You can imagine that one wrong blow could have had devastating consequences. Those were not the only challenges back then, because barrel makers were not paid by the hour. The abbreviation ‘PBR’ – Paid by Result – applied. You only got paid if you produced a perfect, 100 per cent leak-proof barrel. If you worked sloppily and the barrel leaked, you had merely wasted material and time.

Davy Bell – cooper #1.

For Davy it was also a question of honour, adamant that only perfect barrels left his workshop. That meant a hard school for me, as Davy really wanted me to learn the craft from scratch. I soon learned that the word ‘craft’ would mean to complete the work entirely by hand. In the meantime, Bowmore cooperage had machines powered by electricity, removing all kinds of hard and dangerous work and making things somewhat easier. However, they were taboo for me. For a long time, Davy only let me work with the hand tools; I was only allowed to use the knives and the hammers. At one point I dared to ask why I wasn’t allowed to use the machines; after all they were safer and faster. Davy slowly turned to me, took his pipe out of his mouth, blew his smoke into the hall with relish and put his arm on my shoulder. Then he said: “You know, my boy, if the next power cut brings all the machines to a standstill and absolutely nothing works here in the distillery, you’ll be one of the lucky ones. Because you can still make barrels and earn money.” He was often right – power cuts were (and still are) not uncommon. He wanted me to learn how to make barrels, that I should master the craft, and become one with it. And I desperately wanted to become like him. This hard school I went through was my university of life, with Davy as my professor. I was allowed to learn so much more than just making barrels, Davy proving to be the greatest teacher I could ever have imagined. He was tough, consistent, strict, but always fair. On top of that, he was also a sincere and honest fatherly friend. I am so happy and grateful that I was able to spend so much time with him.

Davy and Jim are working on a sherry butt for charity.

I will never forget that magical moment when I had to gather all my knowledge and skills and build my first barrel alone, using only my hands and my tools. Davy watched the process very closely, with total, emotionless concentration. His gaze was critical and let me know that now the moment had come when I was to take the reins of my future into my own hands. My pulse was racing, sweat was on my forehead. The lid held, the rings were made. The staves had the right bend, fitted together and were precisely cut. Visibly gaining confidence, I skilfully joined the staves together to form a barrel, before the great moment of truth. Now it was time! Had all the learning been worth it or was it a waste of time? Would this first cask from my hands be a good one and one day serve as a mother for a special whisky or would it just become a planter? The answer came from the relentless quality test that each cask had to face. The cask was filled with water, litre by litre, under Davy’s watchful gaze. All eyes were fixed on this new container I had made. The workers around me stood still for a moment. The two Donalds, Sandy and Wally, also paused. Everyone wanted to see if my first barrel would be tight. Davy still didn’t let on. Inside my blood was boiling with excitement, but of course I didn’t want to show it. So I stayed pretty cool on the outside too and looked like it was nothing special. But when the barrel was full and not a single drop, however small, could be seen outside the McEwan hogshead, I burst with happiness and jumped around in the cooperage. It was done! I had made my first barrel. It was my first one and it was tight. It was a dream come true, I was a cooper! The boy who had looked through the windows on the way to school had now become a proud craftsman! Now I belonged and everyone in Bowmore could see it. I had grown up, I was a man. That benevolent and infinitely proud laugh of Davy’s still brings tears to my eyes today. That day was a milestone in my career. Now I wore the cooper’s apron with even more pride than before. My dream had come true, and I had Davy alone to thank for that.

It was done! I had made my first barrel. It was my first one and it was tight. It was a dream come true, I was a cooper!

Now that I was no longer his student but his colleague, a wonderful period of working together began. Davy and I became a kind of unit over time, a dream team. I became more and more familiar with all the practices at Bowmore distillery, and got to know all the people on an equal footing, despite my younger years. Being part of the number one team was an indescribable feeling.

This fact that Davy was number one never made a lot of difference to him, which says a lot about him as a person. He was always modest. Other values counted for him, important as it was to always achieve his goals the honest way, even if that way took more time. Take no shortcuts, always go the right way: this sentence stands like no other for his philosophy, for his view of things. He always stuck to this credo. I remember, for example, that he didn’t buy his house with a loan from the bank. He worked hard and saved until he could pay cash for his house in Bowmore. It cost around £8,000, an insane amount in those days. I was there for the transaction, when a gentleman by the name of Baldy McDougall came into the cooperage. Davy had a cupboard where all sorts of important things were kept. He opened the door and took out a tin that would usually have had whisky in it … and there was the money, carefully arranged in bundles. I had never seen so much money in one place before in my life. The reward of a lifetime’s achievement, printed on paper and manifested in numbers, was changing hands. For many, many years, this man, who was and is a living legend for me, had saved every penny, to buy something of major value with it, once in his life. And I was allowed to be there! It was so moving and so inspiring for me. And of course, I wanted to do the same: one day, I hoped, I too would have a house on Islay. That’s why I was always happy to take on extra shifts or special jobs. This episode impressed upon me that it would really be worth making an effort. Take no shortcuts – go the right way, even if it is sometimes the harder way. Then you reach your goal, your success, something of which I had become more aware. Davy didn’t have to preach his values, although he certainly could have; he lived them. And that made them shine all the brighter for me and enriched me and my career. What a man of unspeakable vision and great stature. Davy was one of those personalities of whom there are only a handful in the world – what a blessing to have known him.

“Take no shortcuts – go the right way, even if it is sometimes the harder way.”

Davy Bell

Working with Davy Bell, the day before Christmas was always a highlight for me. That was the day when a beautiful ritual, one that had developed over time, took place. The day before Christmas was the day we always made sure that our cooperage was sparklingly clean. We felt that the Christmas glow should be visible, so we always made a special effort. Often this meant working one or two ‘extra hours’. Christmas also meant that we all sat together around a fire with a good dram in hand, together reviewing the past year and telling each other what we planned to do over the festive holiday. There was never anything spectacular about it, but it was just nice. I enjoyed these special days very much.

Davy and Jim – a dream team.

Davy and I were always the last to leave, and I always knew exactly what was coming. When everyone else was already on their way home, he would pull me aside and say, “Jim, my boy, now it’s time for you to get your Christmas present from me too. I have brought something special for you!” He then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Inside was a carefully folded £1 banknote, which he solemnly handed to me. “Here, my boy, this will buy your Barbara a wonderful Christmas present.” “But Davy, there’s no need for that, it’s far too much,” I invariably retorted. But with a gleam in his eye and a kind, benevolent voice, he would always reply, “No, son, you’ve worked hard all year – you’ve earned it! Take it quietly and make me happy.” Only when that pound note passed from Davy into my possession, only then was it Christmas. Those were wonderful moments, symbolising what Davy was like, remaining humble in everything he did, but always with his loved ones in mind. It makes me incredibly happy that I was allowed to belong to this circle.

Most people retire at 65. Davy ignored this. He decided for himself when the time was right … and 65 was far too early. It was on a Friday like any other. We had all done our work and were nearing the end of the day. I was about to leave when Davy called me and asked me to wait behind. Then he came up to me and took my hand with both his hands in which I noticed was something hard and clattery. What he pressed into my hands, was nothing less than the keys to Bowmore distillery’s warehouses. Short and to the point, he simply said, “That’s it for me. Jim, now it’s your turn!” I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I had only been at Bowmore for about seven years and was still a relatively young lad of 22, yet suddenly I’d been given sovereignty over so many casks. It was almost too much. “But Davy, I’m still very young and I can’t …” “Yes, Jim, you can! Now it’s your turn!” He hadn’t hinted at anything before; it just came out of nowhere. I had expected several things in my career, but certainly not this, yet I was now to be in charge of all the casks in the distillery. The shoes Davy left behind were impossible to fill – an incredibly big challenge for me. All I had was Davy’s experience and encouragement. Without my knowledge, he had already arranged everything in advance, his departure having long been discussed in the executive suites and my succession decided. He wanted me to be the cellar master, a position in which he trusted me without a second thought. It was an incredible honour for me and a huge vote of confidence. In my five years of training, I had always followed his mottoes and ideals, always taken the right path, stayed away from whisky, always worked hard and precisely, and never stolen any whisky. Now I was reaping the reward, and what a reward it was. That was Davy, no big talker, no blowhard, simply a doer with ideals. What he did spoke far louder than what he said, but anyone who thought he was now resting was to be proved wrong. Shortly after his official retirement, he was hired at another distillery on Islay and pursued his passion once again, helping out with cask making at Bunnahabhain. At the time I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just enjoy his retirement and stop working, but I now understand him better. The cooperage was simply his life!

“That’s it for me. Jim, now it’s your turn!”

Davy Bell

We had a very close and, above all, deep friendship until the day I received a phone call. Many years had passed and I was no longer living and working on Islay, but as a blender in Glasgow. I learned that in Bowmore, Davy, now 94 years old, was seriously ill. Did I want to visit him again at his deathbed? I immediately flew to Islay and drove straight to his house. All the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were there in this little house that he had once paid for in cash. His son David escorted me to his bedside, to the man to whom I owed so much. There was not much left of his once handsome appearance and he had also become quite deaf. The big guns of the First World War and the noise in the cooperage had left their mark, for in Davy’s generation there was no ear protection. There he was now, lying in front of me, tired, soon to leave a whole life behind him. I took his hands, which, once bursting with strength, were now very thin and fragile. I looked into the face of an old man, but one at peace with himself. “Ah, Jim, it’s you. It’s you, Jim! How are you?” He asked me, how I was? I wanted and needed desperately to be brave when I faced him, but believe me, I found it immensely difficult. I realised that these would likely be our last moments together. “Davy, I’m fine. I feel great and I’ve come to build some barrels with you tomorrow morning …” I replied, but Davy interrupted me and shook his head a little. “No, Jim, I’m not going to build any barrels with you tomorrow. I’ve spoken to the big man up there and tonight I will leave for my great journey. But I have been waiting for you.” I could hardly suppress my sobs. “No, Davy, you have plenty of time here. You’ll see, we’ll …” “Listen to me, Jim, I’m leaving today,” he interrupted me, “but I’ve left you a gift. A precious gift. You’ll always have a penny in your pocket with it!” I had come to Davy to see him once more, to say goodbye, one of the most poignant moments of my life. “Davy, God knows you don’t need to give me anything. You have already given me so many rich gifts.” “No, Jim, listen to me, you know our secret place, where we’ve hidden a bottle or two of whisky, down there in the garden shed. That’s where you’ll find my present! You’ll always have a penny in your pocket with it …” Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Davy Bell and the Islay Boys Football Club. In front on the right are Lynne and Lesley.

Davy, a wonderful character and the best teacher I could imagine. He shaped me like no other. For that I am still infinitely grateful to him today.

Davy’s garden house held a valuable secret.

Deeply touched, I left his bedroom and looked back once more. There lay one of the most precious people to me and I could not help him. As he had agreed with the big man upstairs, Davy did indeed go that night. Peacefully, he was allowed to fall asleep forever. The sympathy shown to him at the funeral was large and worthy of the great man’s passing – the Ileachs were all agreed on that. Before I left for Glasgow again, however, I stopped and went to see Davy’s son Alan. I told him that his dad had left me a gift in a secret place. Alan was puzzled, “I don’t know anything about a secret place.” “Only your father and I knew about it. It’s in the garden house, come on, I’ll show you.”

Right here lay Davy’s hidden gift.

So we went into the shed and I showed him the loose floorboard. It was the fourth. I knew how to open it, pulling the board from the floor. Inside was supposed to be the gift that would always keep a penny in my pocket. What would be waiting for me? I cleared away some more and there it was in front of me. It wasn’t wads of money, it wasn’t whisky. It was something he had put there a long time previously.

He had carefully packed all his tools, all the axes, all the knives, all the things a barrel maker needs, in burlap soaked in linseed oil. Those tools wouldn’t rust for many years, shining as they’d done when new. Davy must have had prepared this gift many years before his death. All the tools were brightly polished and razor sharp. I had been entrusted with his tools, so that I would always have a penny in my pocket. No matter what happened to me in my professional career, as a barrel maker I could have started anywhere. What incredible foresight and even more touching generosity. It was the most poignant gift I have ever received in my life: the tools Davy used to create great things. Those tools are so inextricably linked to the cooperage in Bowmore that I didn’t take them to Bruichladdich when I moved later in life. Davy had nothing to do with Bruichladdich, having lived in Bowmore all his life. It would have been wrong for me to take this gift to the other side of Loch Indaal. If you ever find your way to Islay and visit Bowmore distillery, look out in vault #1 for the inconspicuous tool hanging on the wall … for me the most valuable tool ever.

Davy enjoys a dram from one of his barrels. Sláinte!