A trip to Scotland inspired me to open my rarest bottle of whisky
My uncle's bottle of The Glenlivet Special Jubilee Reserve, released in 1977, is worth an estimated $3K
This First Person column is written by Adrian Ma, who lives in Toronto. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
Nearly everyone I know is into collecting something. Some people collect comic books, others store vinyl records. My kids hunt for sea glass whenever we visit a beach.
Me? I love whisky.
For nearly two decades, I've been curating a modest collection of this liquid ambrosia. I've got sweet American bourbons, spicy Canadian ryes, Irish varieties and a couple of award-winning Japanese bottles.
However, my absolute favourite is single-malt Scotch. Scotland has an incredibly diverse whisky culture rooted in centuries of craft, heritage and regional pride.
When I want to get serious about a drink, it's got to be single-malt whisky. Good whisky is meant to be sipped and savoured — slowly. It's the perfect libation when the moment calls for reflection or reverence, not raucousness.
For most of my adult life, whisky has been there to mark the most profound occasions: job promotions, my wedding, the birth of my children.
So when, several years ago, I received a bottle of Scottish whisky as a gift from my Uncle George when I visited him in Hong Kong, I was excited.
Then he showed me the bottle's label: The Glenlivet, Special Jubilee Reserve, aged 25 years.
Even if you're not a whisky fan, you may have heard the name The Glenlivet. It's one of the oldest, most popular distillers of single malt Scotch.
This particular bottle was from a limited edition batch, distilled in 1952 and released in 1977, to mark Queen Elizabeth's Silver Jubilee. I would later learn that bottles from this release were worth upwards of $3,000 — easily 10 times more than anything else in my own collection.
"Thank you so much, Uncle George, but are you sure you want to give this to me?" I asked him.
He's unmarried and never had children. I'm the closest thing to a son he has. And I'll never forget his reply.
"I don't have a reason to open this," he said. "You should have it."
WATCH: Adrian Ma takes a tour of the Glenfarclas Distillery:
I was honoured by this gift, but I also found myself feeling a strange sense of unease. Should I keep it, hoping the value increases? Should I sell it now and spend the money? Or should I open it, perhaps to mark a special enough occasion? And if so, what occasion would be appropriately special?
I resolved that if I was going to open the most valuable bottle of whisky I've ever owned (and possibly ruin all other whiskies for me), I would first learn everything I could about it. So I decided to go to Scotland's famed Speyside region in the rugged Highlands, where most of the country's whisky production happens.
I would visit distilleries and meet the people who make it. I would learn how best to drink it. And, most importantly, I would decide afterwards whether to keep it, sell it or open it.
A week in whisky-land
There are seemingly endless varieties of Scotch whisky, yet the methods and ingredients remain true to how it was produced hundreds of years ago.
"It's not something that's overcomplicated," said Callum Fraser, manager of the Glenfarclas distillery. "It's water, yeast and malted barley. Mix it together, make alcohol, boil it up, put it in a cask and drink it."
Fraser had kindly been leading my wife Liz and me on a tour through the Glenfarclas plant. We saw for ourselves the massive mash tuns, where the grains and water are mixed, and the different stages of the distillation process.
The relentless churning, pumping and whirring created a constant din, but what really hit us was the heat. We arrived in Scotland in mid-June, amidst an extended heat wave that ratcheted up the already steamy, sauna-like conditions from all the boilers.
I learned quickly that making whisky is damn hard work. This was reinforced on a visit to the nearby Speyside Cooperage, where whisky casks are repaired and renewed by hand, using traditional techniques and tools.
Whisky derives much of its flavour and all its colour from the wood casks it matures in — oak in the case of Scotch whisky. Part of the process of revitalizing these casks is to re-char the barrels, releasing the complex flavour compounds so the liquid can absorb them. The blasts of fire are quite a sight to see, but even more incredible to feel.
I had never given much thought as to exactly how whisky makes its way onto liquor store shelves. But seeing firsthand the amount of work and time it takes to prepare a bottle has added a new dimension to my appreciation of it.
'A pinnacle of a man's career'
During the course of our travels, from Glasgow to the Highlands back down to Edinburgh, we visited celebrated distilleries, whisky bars and got the opportunity to drink some mind-blowingly rare Scotches.
But all roads eventually led me to one place: The Glenlivet's legendary distillery, which is nestled among verdant, rolling hills that feel untouched by time.
Kevin Balmforth, blending manager and cask expert for Chivas Brothers — the company that manages The Glenlivet — told me that despite advances in production technology, The Glenlivet continues to make whisky largely using the same methods used when it was founded in 1824. This includes blenders, like Balmforth, who are nosing, tasting and adjusting the batches themselves.
This means that every release of Scotch has a unique imprint on it from the people who nurtured its creation. In many cases, with whiskies taking decades to mature before bottling, these Scotch producers don't always see the fruits of their labour.
Balmforth says, in this case of my whisky, a fellow named Robert Arthur was the general manager at the time. And he was something of a Speyside whisky legend.
Arthur became the general manager in 1952, the year my bottle was distilled. And he retired in 1978, one year after the bottle was released. Balmforth tells me he would have been in the distillery, laying down the stock and then bottling the whisky 25 years later.
"So I mean, that bottle would have been the pinnacle of his career," Balmforth said.
It turns out that when you open a bottle, you get to be a small part of someone's story and legacy — people like Robert Arthur.
The decision
People often collect whiskies because the rarer the release, the more money it's worth. But the value of sharing an amazing whisky, ideally with people you care about, is much harder to put a price on.
I've come to realize that the simple act of drinking whisky is special in many ways: it's a connection to centuries of tradition, it's the fulfillment of a whisky maker's years of hard work and it's the creation of a shared experience that can stay with you for years.
"You want to enjoy it. You want a memory. That's what it's for," I remember Glenfarclas's Fraser telling me.
When my Uncle George gave me this bottle, he insisted I should have it because he "didn't have a reason to open it." Well, I do. I am blessed with a beautiful life, filled with good friends, friends I've had since childhood.
And so, we made the decision to open the bottle, over a beautiful summer weekend at a cottage party where we celebrated a group 40th birthday party. Did it taste wonderful? Yes. It was unbelievably smooth, with a fruity sweetness and the most gentle touch of smoke.
Did it taste 10 times better than anything else in my collection? No. Do I regret not selling it? Not for a second.
For now, the bottle remains in my collection. I've saved just a bit because I'm planning to return to Hong Kong. I'm going to pour out two drams — one for me and one for my Uncle George. Because being with people you love — that's always reason enough to share an expensive bottle of whisky.
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