CIVILISATION, in the opinion of the author William Faulkner, began with distillation. A whisky connoisseur might add that it flowered with maturation. For, without ageing in the right environment, whisky remains a raw, brutal firewater, quite bereft of any refinement. That would have been of less concern to the famously boozed-up Faulkner, who held that there was no such thing as a bad whisky—it was only that some whiskies were better than others.
Nobody knows who discovered the alchemy of leaving the water of life— in the Gaelic—in a wooden barrel to acquire patina some centuries ago. It must have been a man of rare patience back in those thirsty days. Or, perhaps, it was the legendary Highland smuggler who forgot where he had hidden his hogshead, retrieving it years later to discover his beast had transformed into a beauty. Nonetheless, a or vat of Roman times.
