BY early evening, the whisky is calling. I’ve spent the afternoon in a sun-struck daze, walking the south-west coast of Islay. Think white-sand beaches, snoozing seals and the kind of lonely, craggy, wave-bashed bays where you can imagine it’s still the 1920s. The September weather has been kind, setting the Atlantic a-glitter, and, with the notable exception of an otter and several dozen oystercatchers, I’ve barely seen a soul. It’s been a day that deserves a fitting full stop—which is where the whisky comes in.
An Islay single malt is
