while in oban, scotland, we took a tour of the oban distillery, where a fine example of single malt scotch whiskey is produced.
after learning about the process, i’m convinced that the whole thing was a fluke.
with all the weekend viking forays, with all the clans fighting and pillaging each other monthly, and with all the yearly wars against invading countries to the south, the idea that a barrel of whiskey could sit unfettered for years, rather than be consumed as a spoil of battle in celebratory orgy, is a certain impossibility.
the only answer is that a bunch of kegs were lost—many to be found ten years later, some twelve years later, a few fourteen and one or two eighteen years later.
the fact is, aged single malt scotch is the result of chance—and a fine piece of dumb luck it be.