Advocates — if we can call them that — of the Scotch whiskys of Islay will always tell you that the sea runs through them, that gales and seaweed give these amber elixirs their salty, pungent power. After all, the isle of Islay (pronounced "EYE-la") is a peaty speck in the Atlantic six hours and several ferries from Glasgow. It is only 25 miles by 20, with a population of 3,400 and an airport that looks like a garden shed. Does the rain trickle into Islay's whisky, too? For when does it not rain on beautiful, desolately weird Islay, the so-called Queen of the Hebrides?
That's how it seems as you make your way past Morag's Caf, an airport lounge glittering with display bottles of local single malts. And what about the wind? You step out of the airport into Wuthering Heights. The bartenders sent all the way from Tokyo to learn about Islay malts wear a look of dismay as they clutch their Burberry raincoats and venture outside into perpetual gusts. "A bonny day!" the craggy locals cry at them. In Japan and, in fact, much of the known world, Islay is the malt of malts, but you feel these visitors haven't bargained for this: a place only a Viking, perhaps, could truly love.
On the Islay municipal bus that runs between Bowmore and Ardbeg (see next page), you pass along the southern coast road through peat heaths infested with sheep and crofts with gardens of twisted trees. The sea seeps in everywhere, and the two distilleries sitting barely a mile apart like the seafront castles of rival clans — Laphroaig ("la-FROYG") and Lagavulin — have their whitewashed walls built right on the water. The black letters of their names are written across them, making for photo ops that the Japanese have captured a million times. For these are the two lordly rivals of the isle, the hoary old kings of Islay, sitting a mere stone's throw apart.
At almost any serious bar in New York or Tokyo, you can see them sitting high up on the shelf together — dark, brawny, and implicitly in competition. In both its 10- and 15-year-old incarnations, Laphroaig's barley taste stands out, crisp and clear, and its intense peaty sweetness makes your tongue shiver. It is said to be Prince Charles's favorite whisky. Lagavulin is a little lighter, oily with the same intense peat, laced with subtle notes of vanilla. Tasters claim to find coffee and chocolate in the 16-year-old Lagavulin and licorice in the 12-year-old. (Many varieties of Laphroaig and Lagavulin can be found online at parkaveliquor.com>; from $43 to $300.)
In 1986, Lagavulin hooked up with the "Classic Malts" marketing juggernaut, while Laphroaig kept itself aloof. Followers of each, myself included, have pondered how this might have affected the whiskys. Laphroaig aficionados claim theirs is the purest, most aristocratic Scotch of them all. Lagavulin's legion of admirers admits there might be subtle differences between pre-Classic Malt and post. Did the whiskys perhaps become lighter, less massive?
