In the heady days of Distillery “press trips”, after a wonderful evening spent at the Craigellachie Hotel , I recall the not uncommon experience of “the morning after”. The “snapper” shall not be named!
Day 2: Craigallachie & Aberfeldy
…and the morning. An early rise (06.50) and down to breakfast for 08.00. A couple of phone calls to fellow travellers, to politely enquire regarding their time of breaking fast, is met with some “terse”, pillow bitten, hoarse throated, and to be honest, objectionable language requesting that I frequent some faraway place. So breakfast would have been alone save for one of our company with whom I have a wonderful early morning chat, picking apart the events of the night before, and anticipating the delights to come.
I want to take a few photos – the Spey, the Iron bridge, the early morning sunshine, the clear, bronzed flowing river, the sputter, spit and lick of water over stone and under bridge, the half laugh, hyena heckled call of oyster catchers frenzying about their familial duties. I want to share the experience, and who better to share with than my friend, who I shall call ” the snapper”. I hasten back to the hotel, but he is nowhere to be found, a few guests have materialised in the breakfast room, one of whom is also looking for him. Another cup of tea on the patio in the early morning mid-summer sun – a quintessential Speyside tableau (well it would have been if you’d substituted a dram for the tea).
I re-enter the hotel and there he is, flumbling down the stairs – a ghost within a ghost, a man both distant and present, he recognises me but doesn’t seem to know what comes next….as I approach, he seems both relieved and fearful at the same time. His demeanour smacks of someone who has had, to put it mildly, a somewhat heavy night.
His hair is telling a story, every follicle narrating the events of the evening/early morning, refusing to shut up, refusing to stay in place, wafting like emaciated kelp in some unseen breakfast bar current. The face muscles are relying on memory to effect the bare minimum of affect, all masked behind a hapless but totally endearing smile and eyes that were pleading, penitent, begging for answers to the question “What the fuck happened last night?”……and possibly “Who am I?”
I am moved to care for him, to ease his troubled brow, to be the nanny that he hasn’t seen for many a year…. but he has other ideas. Apparently, he’d seen some quality drammage on sale at Costcutter in Dufftown and had arranged a bone jolting, knee jarring, head rolling, jeep ride to pick up a few bottles before our next distillery visit. Oh the pain of that journey but so sweet the reward…such dedication, wars have been won on less. Time moves on and we’ve got more distilleries to visit. Onward and dramward, we walk the short distance to Craigellachie distillery.