Читать книгу A Journeyman's Journey - The Story of Jim McEwan - Udo Sonntag - Страница 7

To the whisky world he is ‘Jim McEwan’ but to me just Dad. Even now as an adult and seeing the positive impact he has had on the whisky world, I am exceptionally proud of his professional career but prouder of his personal one. We are a close family and for years Dad was the only man in the house with three women. He travelled a lot, especially during Lynne’s and my teenage years and I am sure at times he was delighted to get on a plane to escape the teenage angst, boyfriend chat and mood swings that come with two teenage daughters. Nowadays, the numbers have evened, with two sons-in-law in his corner that he can talk football with and walk the hills without any mention of PMT or dieting! Being a grandad (known as Pappe) is possibly his favourite role, as he gets to retell his stories and make up new ones, walk the places he used to take us as kids and then hand the grandchildren back to us when they get tired and grumpy, or he does!

Dad was a fun dad. Mum handled the day-to-day disciplining and raising of us, while Dad would work at the distillery and travel for long periods of time to many different countries. We did not know any different and while he was away we kept in touch with phone calls and awaited the arrival of the postcards he always sent us, which were inevitably full of nonsense and funny stories and always addressed to ‘Tiger mouse’ or ‘Scooter’ (I have kept them all, and they still make me smile to this day). On his return I remember the excitement at picking him up from the airport and listening as he told us tales of his adventures and the places he had been and holding my breath while he opened the suitcase to unpack, knowing that somewhere in there was a giant duty-free Toblerone just for me!

When at home, he was in charge of the bedtime routine. The success of this was always questionable as more often than not, we would end up more excited and wide awake than at the start. He would do Unstoppable Plod, where, slow and zombie-like, he would go from one end of the hall to the other, with Lynne and I frantically and by any means necessary trying to stop him and never succeeding. Super-hyped and excited, he would then try and calm us down with a bedtime story, but Dad’s stories were never from books – they were mostly made up and full of excitement and adventure, with just enough of the truth that we believed every word. When he would finish the story and wish us a good night, we would eventually drift off believing that we too could escape ten crocodiles if the need ever arose (unlikely, living on Islay!).

At weekends, Dad would take us out for walks, bike rides or horse riding on our horse Oliver. The walks would start off along one of the beaches and always involved the challenge of getting onto a rock before the next wave hit, often ending up on it for several minutes waiting for the water to subside enough to get back to the beach, or getting bored waiting and just jumping in! These walks would generally involve some perilous cliffside ascent, especially on a stormy day when we would plead for Dad to take us close enough to the edge that we felt the spray off the waves crashing into the cliffs, feeling a sense of pride when you got soaked the most as it meant you were the bravest!

Saturday mornings when home were spent coaching the Islay Boys football club. We would sometimes go with him, but mostly this was his time to be around like-minded football fanatics. The only downside to his coaching was that every boy on Islay was terrified to date his daughters as they knew him as their coach and apparently his ability to motivate using profanities was unrivalled!

Nowadays, we still love hanging out as a family. Dad has the grandkids to play with and Damien and David to chat about football. His personality has aged but not changed. He will still not settle on the first spot we find on a day out and instead make us follow behind him until the right spot is found (carrying picnic bags for what seems like ages until he is happy with the destination). He loves the beach and regardless of season and outside temperature, will be found down to his pants and in the water within minutes of arrival. His imagination is boundless and he is the best storyteller I have ever met. He is not one to sit down and tell a story: his comedy actions run parallel to the words and only add to the humour. We have tried many times to secretly video him in full flow of a story; however, we are always unsuccessful and so I am delighted that his life will be recorded in this book for us to keep and pass down to generations of our family, and his stories will never be lost or forgotten.

Damien, Eoghan, Lesley and Ruaridh Whearty.

From whisky shows in Germany to Russia, Belgium to Canada, when I say my name, it takes a second, sometimes two, then people’s eyes light up and they say, “Are you Jim’s daughter?” They tell me the story of how they met Dad and it’s always a defining moment in their whisky journey; they can recall every detail. Incredible for a wee boy from Bowmore who started work when he was 15 years old, with a magnetic attraction to Bowmore distillery. He wanted to emulate the men of that era – the characters, the stories by the kiln, the smell of tobacco and malt; it was intoxicating and would prove to be the genesis of a lifelong love for single malt. His life has been uniquely, doggedly and spiritually of his own making but he has been influenced by a few that have left a profound impact on him: mentors that have taught him as much to be a man as to make whisky, and his legendary stories bring these people to life, their influence as powerful on him today as they were then.

When we were kids, Dad walked us over every inch of the Rhinns of Islay, and the thing that sticks with me most was that he never looked back. As a parent myself I now see how unusual this is. He marched ahead and we followed; he never checked to see if we were falling into ditches or over cliffs. He walked and we followed, he let us find our own path and while we ended up at the same place there was no, “Be careful, don’t step there,” and for sure we never said, “Are we nearly there yet?” He gave off an unchallengeable aura of “you can do this” and of course because of that, we did. I remember one occasion when we pestered him over and over to go sledging. To his credit, with Islay being warmed by the Gulf Stream there was rarely snow, so it was an odd request, yet pester we did. Finally, on a sleepy Sunday he took us in the distillery Land Rover to The Big Strand, a stretch of seven miles of golden sand, edged by dunes and machair. He tied a huge length of rope to the back and to that he tied a sledge, and for a whole afternoon we slipped and slathomed over the dunes. Today, he takes the grandkids off on these same adventures and they come back soaking wet, filthy and full of stories of millions of stone beaches, starships and castles. Grownups are never allowed and I will admit to being jealous that my turn has passed but delighted that my kids experience Islay as I did; it’s a truly magical place when viewed through Dad’s eyes.

Jim’s grandchildren Lily, Ruaridh, Beth und Eoghan.

There is no Jim McEwan without Barbara McEwan: married when he was 23 and she 19, their marriage was given six months, but 49 years later she is the north point that keeps him true. Through the early Bowmore days when Dad was manager, there were few restaurants on Islay. Dad would call Mum up late in the afternoon to say he was bringing six Japanese guests home for dinner and when he walked through the door that same evening, Mum would have cooked something incredible, Lesley and I would serve and it looked as if it had been planned for months. Often the guests would speak no English but through the international language of whisky, arm waving and quite often the sharing of songs, amazing connections were made. They are the ultimate team, Mum keeping home and hearth but always ready for a party and a song. Dad travelling the world spreading the gospel of whisky to eager disciples. Very often these same people would one day make a pilgrimage to Islay and knock on the door. On my husband’s first New Year on Islay, we were seated for dinner and there was a knock at the door. There were two smiling German men standing there. Mum welcomed them in and got them settled. My husband asked, “Do you know them?” Mum, replied, “Of course I don’t but we will soon, go get the whisky.”

In 1986 Dad was offered the role of manager of Bowmore distillery, going full circle from the apprentice cooper at 15 to now be in charge of both the men and the whisky. It’s hard to believe but at this time the Islay malt phenomenon had not begun; heavy peat was such a polarising flavour that the majority of single malt made on Islay was destined for blends. However, Dad never just talked about Bowmore; he talked about whisky, about Islay, about the spirituality of it. He would take visitors to the water source, show them around the island and walk on the beaches. He would take them to my grannie’s or to Kilchiaran farm to see Margaret and Neil. This was not the norm: distillery managers managed distilleries, their role not about education or PR, but Dad had such a passion for Bowmore and for Islay that he couldn’t help but share it. The more people that met him and saw whisky and Islay through his eyes, the more followers he drew and his reputation began to grow. Many times around the world later and people started calling him Master Distiller. It’s a common term today, and you can even apply for such a role, but he had earned it through years of whisky making, travel and education and it was a title reverently bestowed upon him.

I remember exactly where I was when Dad came in and told us he had been approached to join a private investor group buying Bruichladdich distillery. After 37 years at Bowmore this was an incredible next step but it was a huge risk. We look around today at the huge numbers of new, independent distilleries and we see only progress and opportunity but in 2001, just seven years after Bruichladdich had been mothballed, the long shadow of the closure still loomed large and to outsiders it was a crazy move. However, when he described what he wanted Bruichladdich to be, the whisky he wanted to create and the values it would stand for, it didn’t seem crazy at all and I immediately knew I wanted to be part of it. Dad’s first recruit at Bruichladdich was Duncan McGillivray, who had been made redundant from Bruichladdich on three occasions and knew the distillery like no other, but despite his experiences he had no hesitation in coming back. They put together the Laddie crew, which I am privileged to still be a part of today. Just as when I was a kid, Dad led with the unshakeable conviction that Bruichladdich could do anything and so we all believed it too. Duncan charmed, hammered and engineered the physical distillery back to life while Dad created the spirit – both liquid and emotional. It has been an incredible journey and we have all had the most extraordinary experiences, some heartbreakingly sad, others ridiculously funny, many terrifying but overall we are all different because of it: with Bruichladdich, we have not just remade a distillery but ourselves. While Bruichladdich may be Dad’s greatest legacy, it has been a collective effort, not just on Islay but for the support we have had from all around the world. The people who could see what we were trying to do and their faith and energy were the fuel that kept us going. There are too many to mention but you know who you are and we will never forget. You are the giants whose shoulders we walk upon.

From Bowmore to Bruichladdich and around the world in between, Dad’s story reminds us of a time in whisky that no longer exists but crucially about a truth that we must never forget. Whisky is about people, it’s about community and the work is never done. There is a Bruce Springsteen song that Dad loves called ‘Working on a dream’. There could be no better metaphor for his journey, and like The Boss he continues to rock on.

Lynne, David, Lily and Beth.