Sea Breezes at Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

  The Highland Park distillery was just outside Kirkwall, which meant their route took them past the Brodgar standing stones. The sky was iron grey, with dramatic dark clouds and a definite threat of rain, and Merry had been looking forward to seeing the ring of tall monoliths outlined against the spectacular backdrop. But the view was nothing like the one she’d been anticipating; the stones were hidden by serious-looking trucks and a multitude of smaller vans that filled the makeshift car park and grass verges. There were a couple of executive coaches parked by the side of the road and it was almost impossible to see past to the stones at all.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Niall’s gaze flickered to the trucks and then back to the road. ‘Location filming for some movie or another. It happens fairly often around the islands, although it’s hard to get permission to film at the stones themselves.’ He glanced across again. ‘This must be a Hollywood blockbuster or something equally big budget.’

  Merry craned her neck to stare as they passed and thought she caught a glimpse of a camera swinging around on a crane over the stones. ‘I wonder what the film is.’

  ‘I could probably find out,’ Niall offered, as the stones receded behind them. ‘The crew will be staying locally – someone is bound to know what’s going on.’

  Merry shook her head. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m just curious.’

  Niall gave her a sideways look. ‘I’d have thought you’d have seen loads of film sets, what with living in London. It feels like every movie made has a scene set there these days.’

  ‘I’m a writer,’ Merry reminded him solemnly. ‘I don’t get out much.’

  The rest of the journey was uneventful, until Niall pulled into the car park next to the grey stone buildings of the distillery. ‘I’ll leave the car here,’ he said, as Merry got out and stretched her grumbling muscles. ‘Pick it up tomorrow. But don’t worry – I’ve arranged transport for later.’

  As usual, he’d thought of everything, Merry observed. It was going to be a shock when she eventually went back to London and had to start thinking for herself again.

  Iron lanterns glowed invitingly against the gloomy skies, even though it wasn’t long after midday, and lit the doorway to the visitors’ centre. Merry followed Niall inside, where he was greeted with a broad smile by a curly-haired, russet-bearded man in a navy blue checked shirt.

  ‘Good to see you, Niall,’ the man said, moving from behind a solid-looking cash desk to extend a hand. ‘And this must be Merina.’

  ‘It is,’ Niall said. ‘Merry, meet Andrew Driver, master craftsman and one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever met.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said as she shook his hand, noticing the rough skin and calloused fingers. Whatever his role at the distillery, she was willing to bet he didn’t spend much time behind the cash register.

  ‘And you,’ Andrew said. ‘So, I hear you’re a whisky drinker?’

  ‘I am,’ she answered, wondering what else Niall had said. ‘Although I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve only just discovered Highland Park.’

  ‘Better late than never,’ Andrew said. ‘And you’re about to discover a whole lot more. I hope you brought your drinking boots.’

  Merry opened her mouth to reply, but Niall beat her to it. ‘We talked about this, Andrew. Remember what happened the last time you said that?’

  ‘Not really,’ Andrew said cheerfully. ‘But I know a very good time was had by all.’

  ‘Until the hangover the next day,’ Niall said, grimacing.

  Merry glanced from one man to the other with some amusement. ‘I’m looking forward to learning about the process of distilling whisky too,’ she said. ‘If there’s time in between the sampling.’

  Andrew smiled. ‘We’re giving you the full Orcadian Vintages tour, which usually takes around three hours and includes some parts of the distillery not usually open to the public. It finishes up in front of an open fire, with some of our finest vintages to taste.’

  Niall gave her a pained look. ‘And that’s where things started to get hazy last time. But I’m sure you’ll be more sensible than me.’

  ‘We encourage everyone to drink responsibly,’ Andrew said, shaking his head at Niall. ‘But some of us are more responsible than others.’

  This was a different side to Niall, Merry thought, as she followed the two men through a door in the stone wall. So far, he’d been the consummate professional in all his dealings with her, but she sensed he was more relaxed – more off-duty – today. It was almost certainly because of Andrew, who was obviously a good friend, but Merry liked to think it was a sign that he was starting to consider her a friend too, rather than part of his job. She had no intention of over-indulging on whisky, however. No matter how good the vintage samples were.

  She found everything about the tour fascinating, from the aged barrels in the warehouse to the smoky scent that filled the air as they neared the rooms with the kilns. Andrew talked as they walked, explaining that the distillery officially dated back to 1798, but there had been an illegal operation selling contraband on the site long before that.

  ‘And the techniques we use are even older,’ he said, with more than a touch of pride. ‘Most of the senior staff have Viking ancestors and we work hard to preserve the knowledge and skill that’s been handed down for centuries, whether that applies to the whisky itself or the way we craft the casks that hold it.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ Merry said, admiring the fierce orange glow of the wide kiln. ‘Is that peat you’re burning there?’

  He nodded. ‘From Hobbister Moor, a few miles away from here. It’s around four thousand years old and is what gives our whisky its rich, unique taste. If there’s one thing Orkney isn’t short of, it’s peat.’

  ‘Have you noticed there aren’t many trees?’ Niall asked Merry. ‘Our climate is mild, but we’re open to the elements and the winds can be pretty fierce. There are a few woodlands tucked away here and there, but you won’t find the views obscured by swathes of forest.’

  ‘Which is ironic, considering we’re an island nation with a strong tradition of boatbuilding,’ Andrew said, grinning. ‘Do you suppose that’s got something to do with the lack of trees?’

  ‘Well, the peat smells amazing,’ Merry said, knowing the aroma would linger on her hair and clothes for days. ‘No wonder your whisky wins so many awards.’

  ‘Speaking of whisky, I think it’s high time we drank some,’ Andrew said. ‘Let’s head back to the warehouse and you can try some straight from the cask.’

  He led them back through to the warehouse, where he introduced them to a shaven-headed man called Jamie. ‘He’s in charge of the 100,000 or so oak casks we keep on site and I’m pretty sure there are some that only he knows about,’ Andrew said, as Jamie shyly shook Merry’s hand. ‘We’d be in deep trouble if he ever left us, which is why he gets paid more than me.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘I wish!’

  Andrew tipped his head. ‘I thought Merry and Niall could try one of the 2015 casks – might be a nice contrast with the older vintages they’ll be sampling later?’

  ‘Aye, that’s a good idea,’ Jamie said, and thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got just the ticket. Follow me.’

  The sheer number of casks made Merry’s head spin; row after row of dark brown barrels that all looked the same. She’d known Highland Park whisky was good, but she’d had no idea just how big the distillery’s range was. But Jamie obviously knew his way round the labyrinth of barrels and after a brisk minute’s walk, he stopped beside a row that appeared to be exactly the same as its neighbours. He placed a hand on one of the casks. ‘This one is still maturing – it won’t be ready for a few years yet. We taste a sample from each cask on a regular basis, to make sure the flavours are developing in the way we’re expecting.’

  Merry frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘We’re careful about the casks we use – only the best US and European
oak. Our staff are pretty knowledgeable about wood and the art of barrel-making – we even consult with a boatbuilder in Kirkwall from time to time, to draw in more expertise.’

  Merry’s ears pricked up at that. How many boatbuilders could there be in a place the size of Kirkwall?

  She could only think of one.

  Jamie continued to speak, oblivious to the curious look she sent his way. ‘But occasionally we get it wrong,’ he went on. ‘If a cask isn’t stored in the right way or the wood is too green, that might affect the flavour of the whisky.’

  ‘And sometimes it’s the peat,’ Andrew said. ‘The acid levels have to be just right for the smoky flavour to permeate the barley in the way we need it to.’

  Niall leaned towards Merry. ‘Distilling whisky is a dark art,’ he said solemnly. ‘Wait until they tell you about the full moon sacrifice.’

  Reaching behind the cask, Jamie pulled out a cluster of small tasting glasses and filled them one by one from the cask. Amber liquid danced in each glass as he handed them round.

  Andrew inhaled deeply above the rim of his glass. ‘You’ll notice the peaty smell is strong – it hasn’t had time to mellow.’

  Merry watched Niall breathe in the aroma and followed his lead. Andrew was right, the scent from the whisky in her glass was earthy and strong – she thought she detected more than a hint of moss too, although she had no idea if it was just her imagination. And then Andrew took a sip, rolling the liquid around his mouth for several long seconds before swallowing.

  ‘Coming along nicely,’ he told Jamie. ‘In a few more years it’ll be smoother than your head.’

  Jamie rolled his eyes. Merry hid her smile with the rim of her glass and took a warming mouthful of the golden liquid. Her tongue tingled with sudden heat and immediately, she understood what Andrew had meant: the whisky was good, but it wasn’t a patch on the bottle Niall had given her when she’d first arrived on Orkney. It was rougher, somehow, and lacked the aged quality and polish of the whisky she had back at the croft. It felt unready.

  She swallowed, and felt the liquid burn its way down to her stomach. ‘It’s still wonderful.’

  Jamie put his empty glass down. ‘Aye, it’s not bad. But I’d be interested to hear what you think once Andrew has stunned your taste buds with the vintage malts.’

  ‘And on that subject,’ Andrew said, passing his glass back to Jamie. ‘Let’s head that way now. We’ve got a private tasting room all set up – not that we really need it today, since there aren’t any Saturday tours running at this time of year, but there’s a lovely open fire in there that should be just about roaring now.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Merry said, with a grateful smile. She’d have to find a way to thank Niall for organizing this; it was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

  She was just about to follow Andrew’s lead out of the cask labyrinth when she saw a familiar mane of hair swish by the end of a row. Stopping, she peered after its owner. ‘Magnús?’ she called, blinking incredulously. ‘Is that you?’

  There was a brief silence, then a tanned face appeared around the line of casks, framed by long golden hair that almost glowed like a halo under the lights. Green eyes stared at Merry for a moment, then the face split into a delighted beam. ‘Merina! This is a most unexpected pleasure.’

  She couldn’t help smiling in return. ‘It is. How are you?’

  Andrew turned back to see what was happening and gazed back and forth between them. ‘Ah, I see you two have already met. Magnús is the consultant boatbuilder Jamie mentioned earlier.’

  ‘I wondered if it might be,’ Merry admitted. ‘You did say most of your staff were Vikings.’

  Andrew grunted. ‘Although none of us look the part quite so heroically as Magnús here.’

  It was true, Merry had to concede; even in jeans and a white t-shirt, Magnús somehow managed to look as though he’d stepped straight from the ninth century. It was the long hair and impeccable beard, she thought, not to mention the chiselled features and unavoidable muscles and towering height. Magnús made every other man in the room look ordinary, including Niall and he was practically Superman.

  ‘How are you enjoying the tour?’ Magnús asked. ‘Is this book research or purely for fun?’

  ‘Both, probably,’ Merry said honestly. ‘There’s definitely a story or two here and I’m sure a bottle or two of whisky will be coming home with me later.’

  ‘I recommend the Valkyrie,’ Magnús said. ‘And not just because I can totally imagine you swooping into Valhalla on a winged steed, sword in hand like a glorious avenging angel.’

  The flattery was so outrageous, and the overall image so unlike her, that Merry almost blushed. ‘I don’t know about that – the last time I met a horse it tried to eat my dress.’

  Andrew shook his head and sent a dry glance Jamie’s way. ‘Forget your bald head, I think we should aspire to making our whisky as smooth as Magnús’s chat-up lines.’

  Everyone laughed as Magnús accepted the obviously familiar teasing with good grace, although Merry had the fleeting impression that Niall’s laughter was less enthusiastic than the others. His gaze met hers for a moment, as though gauging her reaction and she wondered at the slight coolness she saw there. But then he looked away and she decided she must have imagined it; there was no reason for him to be anything other than amused by the banter between Andrew and Magnús.

  ‘And I agree that the Valkyrie would suit Merry very much,’ Andrew went on. ‘But we’ve several vintage whiskies to try, and I’m under strict instructions from Niall not to get anyone drunk, so perhaps we’ll save it for another time.’

  ‘Of course,’ Magnús said, firing an easy smile Merry’s way. ‘You’re here for six months – plenty of time to work your way through everything on offer.’

  He only meant the whisky, Merry told herself, but she couldn’t prevent a tiny fizzle of excitement at the thought of trying some of Orkney’s other Viking temptations. And then she gave herself a stern mental shake. This was Jess’s doing, she decided – Jess and Sheila’s. All their talk of being snowed in and grand romantic gestures had turned her head, encouraging her to see more than was actually there. She cleared her throat and sought a reply that covered all the conversational bases. ‘I’m looking forward to trying everything.’

  There was a momentary silence, during which Merry had the horrible suspicion she’d somehow managed to say the wrong thing, then Niall stepped forward with a brisk smile. ‘In which case, we really should get on.’

  ‘Of course,’ Andrew replied. ‘Follow me.’

  Merry only had a few seconds to say a hurried goodbye to Jamie and Magnús before Andrew ushered them back the way they’d come. He kept up his stream of fascinating information about the distillery as they walked and Merry asked the occasional question, but Niall was quiet, listening without comment. She glanced at him once or twice, wondering whether she was imagining the set jaw and tension around his eyes. It must be her writer’s imagination, she decided, as they entered a tastefully lit room with a glorious fire crackling in the hearth. A low table sat in front of four winged armchairs, with a tray of black, silver-stoppered bottles and glasses that sparkled in the firelight. Music played quietly in the background, an acoustic melody that Merry guessed was probably a traditional folksong, and the atmosphere was so inviting that she almost wanted to move in.

  ‘This is the Eunson Room,’ Andrew said. ‘Named after the distillery founder, Magnus Eunson, who was quite a character by all accounts.’

  Another Magnús, Merry noted, and wondered if this one was descended from Vikings too – probably, with a name like that. The cathedral in Kirkwall was called St Magnus, after the Viking Earl who had been martyred in the 12th century, and she was sure that had something to do with the popularity of the name on Orkney, although the Magnús Merry knew had been born in Iceland. She imagined the name was pretty popular there, too.

  Andrew waved Merry and Niall towards the chairs and proceeded to pour
the first of what would be several generous measures from the array of bottles. He explained what they could expect from each vintage as they went, but Merry was still surprised by the subtle differences in flavour; her favourite was the oldest vintage they tried, from 1968, but she didn’t dare ask how much a bottle would cost. More than she would be willing to pay, even in the warm and slightly tipsy glow of whisky good enough for Odin himself.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Niall said, after draining the last dregs from his tasting glass. ‘It almost makes me want to give up being a librarian and getting a job as a taster here instead.’

  Merry gave him a half smile. ‘Some people say you should never turn your passion into a job. Not if you want to stay passionate, that is.’

  She’d heard it said of writing – that making it into a career killed the love – but it had never been that way for her and she was sure it wasn’t the reason for her writer’s block. She’d just grown tired and each story had become harder to write, and taken longer, until at last she found she had no energy to write at all. That was when her problems had really started. But those dark days seemed to be behind her, thanks to the breath-taking wonder of Orkney.

  Beside her, Niall shook his head. ‘I’ve been a librarian for ten years and I’m as passionate about books as I’ve ever been. I can’t see that changing.’

  ‘No, I know,’ Merry replied. ‘But books are different – there will always be authors who take a well-worn idea and make it fresh again. Whereas whisky . . .’ She paused to take a breath and ploughed on. ‘Whisky doesn’t have quite the infinite variety that books can offer. It might lose its appeal after a while.’

  She glanced across at Andrew, hoping she hadn’t accidentally insulted him. But he simply smiled, raising his glass in the firelight to swirl the vibrant gold-hued liquid around the glass. ‘It hasn’t yet,’ he said, and tipped his glass in her direction. ‘Skál!’

  Dusk was falling when Andrew finally conceded they had tasted enough and allowed them to leave the distillery, on the understanding that they came back again soon. Merry held up the bag containing her purchased bottle of Valkyrie, plus the souvenir tasting glass and bottle of ten-year-old Viking Scars whisky that Andrew had presented to her as a gift. ‘Just as soon as I’ve worked my way through this!’