Laphroaig Triple Wood

Ah, old friend: you've got sophisticated


And so winter draws ever closer - and with it, frosty mornings and peaty fires.

Evenings lose much of their warm, comforting charm and those lighter, more playful malts that may have been enjoyed on the balcony, watching the final embers of the sun fade over the horizon, may be consigned to the back of the cupboard in favour of something a bit more warming.

By some coincidence, today's post brought a package of a certain size; the sort of size that my colleagues now recognise. Today's package brought momentary confusion as I wasn't expecting anything, but a moment's reflection dredged from the depths of the memory the recollection of what it was that I held.

About ten days back, I'd received an email from Laphroaig, offering to their 'Friends' the second batch of 400 bottles of their Triple Wood. I'd received the email whilst under the influence of a single malt; had briefly weighed up the pros (several) and cons (few); and been thankful that I don't need to reach for my wallet to remember the important numbers.

This was something originally intended for Duty Free shops, but had been re-allocated to be sold to those who've entrusted their details to Laphroaig. The Duty Free connection has something of a bonus that this is a whole litre, which - at £49.50 - represents very decent value for something produced in such small numbers, indeed not much more than a barrel's worth.

The Triple Wood is a slightly strange beast: matured first in Bourbon refills; then in Oak Quarter Casks; and finally in large butts that previously contained Oloroso sherry. In effect, it's a sherry-finished version of the Quarter Cask, non-chill filtered and bottled at 48%. 

So: what it is?

The brain gets the first vote, which is cast in favour of the peaty monster, albeit wearing a velvet glove. Peat, for sure; and a hint of something medicinal, twinged with something sweeter.

It's a pretty obvious conclusion and so staringly obvious that a tasting will merely confirm it. That, of course, is not the case. 

Tasting it blind might only cause confusion: there's strong evidence that it must hail from Islay, with enough phenols to narrow that down to the Laphroaig. Yet, there's a bit of doubt that lingers for long enough to put thoughts of... well, something as strange as Japan into the mind.

I wouldn't go so far as to accuse the nose of being disappointing, but whilst it may not live up to the strict traditions of the bog monsters of Laphroaig, they're still there. Albeit tamed a little and enhanced, perhaps, by something a bit sweeter.

The palate? Well, it's a Laphroaig: there's enough peat and - more crucially - enough phenol for this to be nothing else. Again, it's masked by a new-found sweetness and although it's perfectly balanced, it nevertheless asks questions of the taste that can't be quickly answered.

As it slips away, there's a definite smokiness, yet also embers of sweetness, just like those beautiful moments just after the sun has disappeared over the horizon. Yet, it's a warming finish, better suited to winter nights when the rain is pounding on the windows and the wind is probing down the chimney.

Overall: as is increasingly the case, this is more of a passing dragonfly than an ever-lasting rock. The 400 bottles are sold out and whilst some may appear for sale, in reality this is only a malt that you'll ever have the one bottle of. 

In a way, that suits it best: there's something unresolved about the flavours that might be best left that way. A happy memory of something that came and went; of something that was beautiful while it lasted; and of something that's a Laphroaig, yet not quite the original article.

A fine whisky, one for winter nights and one for reminiscing over - and ultimately for reminiscing about. Rating: 93/100


Postscript

Returning to where I started: a brief inspection of the cupboard this evening revealed three white stoppers, marking the first time that so many bottles of Laphroaig have shared the space. 

Whilst I wouldn't usually place the Laphroaig amongst my favourite single malts, I can't overlook the fact that it was a single bottle of it that started me along to road that brings me here.

As the evenings draw in and we head towards the winter, there could be many worse things to contemplate than a few Laphroaigs.

The Bowmore 15

An airport romance 


Rewind about three weeks and Vanoord is in what passes for Duty Free in Manchester Airport, although Europe being the happy cluster**** that it it now is, Duty Free is nothing of the sort.

Fearing a week without whisky in the barren wasteland that is Greece (well, as far as whisky is concerned - otherwise it's rather pleasant) and at the same time fearing that a litre of whisky can not be consumed within a week if the days are to mean anything, Vanoord's eyes alight on a three-pack of Bowmores.

The thing is, Bowmore lives in the Duty Free shop. Yes it's an Islay single malt, but of the Magnificent Seven, it's the dull one which keeps the receipts. 

The Laddie is the expressive one, Lagavulin is the old hand and Coal Ila hasn't shaved for a week; Bunnahabain hasn't changed his clothes for at least a week, the Ardbeg is the professor and Laphroaig will is the doctor who'll smack you round the head to calm you down.

Yet the Bowmore is the accountant of the group: for sure, it may have its pretensions of grandeur, but in reality it just produces Scotch that happens to come from The Island.

And so to the 12 year old, which occupies Vanoord for the week in Greece. Yes it's a single malt with a hint of peat, but - to be brutally honest - it's something which finds its home in Duty Free. A friend from home, but not the sort of friend you'd like beside you at a mass brawl in a Shanghai brothel.


Which brings me, neatly, to the 15: a whole different kettle of aquatic life-forms.

The bottle claims the following:

Nose: peat is complimented with toffee and fresh green apples.

Palate: creamy oak smoothness with sweet stewed fresh fruits and just a hint of sea salt.

The finish is long, complex and subtle.


To be fair, they're not far wrong.

This is a much more interesting experience than the 12, with a lot more going on. I'll just about agree with the apples on the nose, but the toffee must be for schnozes far more subtle than mine. For an Islay, it lacks the general violence that's generally associated - but to an extent that not necessarily a bad thing.

The palate definitely heads towards oiliness - not necessarily that of a Louisiana sea bird, but there's certainly an underlying nature of it that's more prominent than the oak. It's certainly a son of Islay, though, with a fair burst at the back of the mouth as it departs.

As for the finish, well... it disappoints, then it promises great things, then it fades away. Perhaps that's the complexity? 

This is an interesting dram, for sure: it's at its best on the back of the tongue with something approaching fireworks, but in the end it leaves you wondering quite what all the fuss was about.


At this point, I turn to Jim Murray's Whisky Bible and notice the following:

there is something not entirely right here

And there, I fear, is where we are.

Balance is lacking: there is promise but no delivery. There is complexity, yet simplicity. There is something, yet nothing. 

A perfect airport romance: a brief glimpse of something beautiful; a nagging doubt that it may not be quite right; and then forgotten about.


The 18 beckons...