Volume 2
The Dawning Of Awareness
I am not drawn gently back into my memory to think of my associations with the ‘Tech’. Oh no, certainly not! No delving into my memory is required. So many wonderful and memorable events associated with the College, either directly or indirectly, are so very much in the forefront of my mind that they jump out at me.
This time in my life was The Dawning of Awareness and very much more besides. My love of sailing, my great and lasting friendships and, of course, Joyce and our four children, all resulted from those days. At a later stage of my professional career, in the late 1950’s, I became the quantity surveyor for the multi-million pound extension of the College. It was a very broad canvas. For me the ‘Tech’ had more tentacles than an octopus.
It is a sobering thought, and I admit somewhat frightening, that a slight twist of fate could have altered all that. But first of all, let me slow down and discipline my thoughts.
Back then it was known to generations of us as ‘The ‘Tech’. Formed in the year 1796 Strathclyde University as it is now, went through its metamorphosis originating as The Anderson College, then The Royal Technical College, transforming to The Royal College of Science and Technology, to its present University status.
Before I embark on this journey I must clear up one early incident that gained unwarranted notoriety and has cluttered up my mind for more than half a century. I am referring to what was somewhat grandly called ‘The Whisky Barrel Plot’.
Various people have come up with various tales and their individual interpretations of this event and throughout the many years I have listened to their claims and apocryphal stories but remained silent. Now, I have nothing against College folklore but in fact and in reality, this was a small event given legs by the oxygen of publicity and propaganda, and by the fanciful storytelling of one or two people.
I will break my silence now, in the hope that by recording the bare facts I will exorcise this event from my memory as it has occupied too much space for too much time. In doing so, however, I will try not to name the characters involved, other than myself, and of course Billy, who was in fact the real personality. I am doing this in an effort to protect their identities though they will be easily recognised by those who know.
If nothing else, I feel obliged to try to save it from entering the realms of mythology. As we all realise that, on the road to old age, many of our illusions take on a reality all of their own, and that is no bad thing. It is also quite natural that bit players take on the role of major luminaries in their telling. But, I owe it to the actual star performer ‘Billy the Barrel’ to tell it as it was. After all he was there from conception to delivery.
It all started one evening in the Student Union tea room. After classes a small group of us were having the ubiquitous pie and chips. There were four of us; an architectural student, one studying civil engineering, one marine engineering and myself, quantity surveying.
The conversation was about nothing in particular, probably football or girls; likely the latter. It was our first year for most of us but it had not taken long to register that there were only about 80 female students; many of them absolute stunners, surrounded by over 2000 males. Regrettably, from our point of view, many of the men were big, tall, handsome Norwegians.
We were later joined by an older chap, a postgraduate, naval architect who, as I recall, was puffing a foul-smelling pipe. He just broke into our conversation, wanting our attention because he was canvassing for new members for the recently formed College Sailing Club.
However, before he had a chance to do justice to his subject, a very excited friend joined us. He was final year, industrial chemistry student who had just returned from a recruitment day with the Distillers Company at Port Dundas, situated up the hill from the College building. He was proudly, and somewhat loudly, telling us in a high-pitched, excited voice, which belied his large bulk, that they had offered him a job upon graduation. He then proceeded to tell us, with great enthusiasm, the whole process of whisky distilling.
There was no stopping him. In his mind's eye he was already an expert, describing the copper pot stills as giant onion-shaped containers; being unique to each individual distillery, and mainly responsible for the distinct quality of its alcohol. He was determined to pass on his new found knowledge and self-importantly went on to explain that while water plays its part, it was not the be all and end all as the copper gathers up different flavours from the inside of the still and extracts the sulphur content from the alcohol. With a flurry he concluded, "Gentlemen, you probably do not realise it but, that is a very important factor in giving malt whisky its unique character."
Without knowing it, he had triggered off the first of three thoughts that entered my mind that evening; each of which, to a greater or lesser extent, would have a future bearing on my life, as I was to learn later.
In this case he had unwittingly sparked in me an awareness of what he was saying, and as years went on I developed an academic curiosity in the mysteries of malt whiskies and can now better understand the compulsion he had to express his knowledge, no matter how limited and no matter whether the listener was interested or not.
Even today I still find it intriguing that the less sulphur retained the more fiery the malt, and the more sulphur left in the softer the whisky. At that stage the spirit has no colour and is of three different qualities - the head, the heart and the heel. The only spirit used for malt whisky is the heart spirit, The head and heal spirits are then combined and distilled once again to become more heart spirit which then goes into the casks to mature.
An elementary understanding of all this together with some indication as to how the barley was initially washed and dried, (the famous island distilleries using peat in the drying), has given me some little, admittedly very little, skill in identifying the many different malts.
What am I like? I have just realised that I have displayed all the same characteristics illustrated by my young friend all those many years ago, doggedly taking advantage of one's audience with an unsolicited teach-in to the point of being a possible bore. I do apologise.
So let us return to that particular evening. At the end of his interview our big friend had been given a sample of their fine malt whisky (and the first time in his life of tasting whisky), and with a voice beginning to slur, but still with an air of self-importance, he told us grandly, “Remember gentleman, always warm the glass. Malt whisky should never be drunk cold. The glass should be warmed to release the flavour and aroma, with only two or three drops of water added.”
He was getting quite drowsy and noticeably more tongue-tied but even as his delivery became flustered, if not confused, his initial grasp of the subject was quite impressive, leastways I for one, thought so. The next thing we heard from him was a gentle snore - he had fallen asleep. Someone was overheard to say, “I think, clearly more than one sample of the finished product went down his particular throat.”
At that point he surprised us by becoming suddenly awake, loudly protesting, “Oh no, certainly not! If anything it was the strong alcoholic fumes coming from those hundreds of empty barrels ready to be refilled. That alone is enough to intoxicate one. Just imagine, you could get drunk just walking past them.”
“No, you are wrong on one point there,” a soft West Highland voice cut in. It had come from my pal, an electrical engineering student who had joined the group without us noticing. He went on, “Those casks you saw were American or European oak and will not be used in their present condition. They will be sent to the coopers, who will take them apart and check them for damage or breakages and then remake and reshape them, putting back the metal hoops. And before they put the top and bottom back on, they clean the inside of the cask, remove a very thin surface from the inside about half a millimetre and then burnish it, after which, the casks are returned to be filled with sherry and left for some three to six months. Then, and only then, they are emptied and ready for reuse.”
I was taken aback. I knew he had come from Islay, an island of the Inner Hebrides, famous for its many whisky distilleries, but I had no idea of his knowledge of the subject. After some questioning it turned out that his father was the Foreman Cooper at the White Horse Distilleries at Port Dundas; the very same place that our big friend had just returned from.
It was at that point the idea, the second of the three that evening, entered my mind. For my plan to work, the first thing was to get hold of a whisky barrel so I asked him straight, “Would you ask your father if he would let us borrow one of those barrels for a few days?” He was prepared to put it to his dad but reckoned it was unlikely as it would involve several others.
At that point our senior colleague, the naval architect, stated quite pompously that, being an established figure, he would have to count himself out of any scheme and, if it came to it, would even deny being part of the conversation or, for that matter, in our presence that night.
As I recall, our opera-loving young architect, not usually noted for his quick repartee, in a whispered aside said, “What is he like? He is to risk-taking as Iago was to open marriage.” Our industrial chemist, now still slightly tipsy, in spite of several cups of what was euphemistically called coffee, had to be disregarded on the basis that he would have divided loyalties and the division line would lay very much towards his future employers.
In any event, as happens, the interest on the subject waned and we carried on talking about the sailing club. That was the night I got hooked on sailing. Future events were to highlight the fact that our naval architect friend was a very experienced and competent yachtsman and his pompous front was, for the most part, a façade, behind which lurked quite a sense of humour. Indeed, for two years in succession I sailed round the Western Isles with him and enjoyed his company but that was some way down the line.
As for the plot, well all was forgotten until a few weeks later when I was told that we could have the use of a whisky cask under certain conditions. The cask had to be picked up at the end of the evening shift and returned 24 hours later before that day’s morning shift. The game was on and I quickly gathered the team together, the five of us. I swore them to secrecy, being a little apprehensive about our position regarding Customs and Excise, the College and other bodies.
We decided, in true Adam Smith fashion, the division of labour. There was the young would-be architect, who, either by nature or nurture, had already acquired the characteristics common to many in his chosen profession; a good grasp of the overall scheme but an inability to produce the finished details or drawings to complete the job. We were short in the sciences and reckoned we needed a replacement for our industrial chemist so he was assigned the task of recruiting one. Our two engineers, civil and mechanical, were big rugby types, robust, rowdy, and always game for any escapade. Their task was to supply the muscle and labour involved, find and supply empty whisky bottles (cleaned out with labels removed and ready for the big event).
My electronic engineering pal; the most intellectually mature in the team, but more importantly, had the connections, the inside information, and transport, (a motorbike, his main attribute), not to mention his home being in Balmaha, on the edge of the famous Loch Lomond. He was a natural choice to be put in charge of logistics, including the timing of uplifting and returning of the barrel, and the delivery of 4 gallons of fresh Loch Lomond water to be delivered at the right place and time.
The scientist, once found and appointed, would be assigned his duties at the appropriate time which would include testing and bottling. That left me. I would coordinate the whole operation, managing and defining our agreed objective at each stage.
The plan was set. The barrel was to be picked up at Port Dundas, the water poured into it, the barrel sealed, then rolled down the hill all the way to the student union in John Street to be left overnight. The contents would then be funnelled into the bottles and thereafter the barrel rolled back up the hill again and returned as promised. It would be a very smooth operation and the details finalised at our next meeting but secrecy and confidentiality were considered essential.
So much for confidentiality. It was apparent at the next meeting that the whole thing was becoming a charade. The group had now become eight in number. How come, you may ask? Well, we had seemingly recruited a pharmacist, or rather a microbiologist, and if we wished to use his laboratory, his friend, who happened to be the lab assistant, also had to be included.
The other two engineers turned up with an eighth man; a student from the College of Building and Printing. His inclusion was justified by the fact that his father ran the public house in nearby George Street and could supply us with empty whisky bottles. In addition, as a sweetener our latest member offered to get labels printed for our "product". The title of which he suggested should be ‘Slainte-uisge beatha’. This is Gaelic and freely translated means, ‘Welcome to the Water of Life’. This in itself brought about far-reaching debate and discussion at the expense of much more relevant items.
It was a classic example of Parkinson's Law of Triviality, briefly meaning, ‘the time spent on any item on the agenda will be in inverse proportion to the importance involved’.
The operation was taking on all the appearances of a farce with ideas and suggestions flying in all directions - you can imagine. The means had become much more important than the end. I do not mind admitting that I had a hard job damping down the team's enthusiasm and bringing back some order and a touch of reality. Be that as it may, I will cut a long story short because it was at this point that the main character took centre stage.
The barrel was collected, as arranged, but it was obvious to me from the beginning he was no ordinary cask. Standing there, separate from all the rest, he proudly awaited to join the team in its great adventure. From that moment on he was ‘Billy the Barrel’ and with 4 gallons of fresh Loch Lomond water sealed inside his belly, noisily sloshing around we set off, rolling him down the hill towards the college building.
At this point I must make it clear that, contrary to the stories generated, it was by and large an uneventful journey. I can state categorically that some of the stories that circulated about our journey downhill would not stand up to the slightest scrutiny. Admittedly, it did get out of control once or twice but that was only to be expected and we soon realised that Billy, in spite of his age, had plenty of energy and certainly the character that befits a barrel that had given the world many gallons of the finest malt whisky over the years.
It was early evening, it was raining and the beginning of the rush-hour traffic and had I taken notes they would read thus:
In Milton Street a young mother backed in to us with her pram. Embarrassing laughter and apologies ensued all-round, not helped by our young architect setting off the baby crying by attempting to have a baby talk conversation. He really was a nice likeable guy, always eager to be helpful, but not quite of this world, as I evidenced when sailing with him years later.
In Port Dundas Road a group of workmen heading for the local pub had to get off the pavement to let us pass. Wisecracks and comments about long-haired students and liberal use of the ‘F’ word followed, otherwise quite a friendly encounter, that is until our architect friend took to debating an ‘academic and intellectual’ issue over one of their rude remarks.
In Cowcaddens a gentleman was pulled off his feet by his two large retrievers trying to avoid being barrelled. He was very angry, and became more so, when our young architect in a spirit of helpfulness said his dogs were clearly of a nervous disposition and highly strung.
It is conceded that in Cambridge Street we had some trouble when we knocked over some pavement displays outside one or two shops. The shopkeepers became quite angry and even more so when, true to form, our young architect told them that, for future reference, that they may be breaking some public by-law. One went off threatening to phone the police.
There was no truth in the story of the barrel running into the back of a moving bus in Bath Street as the bus was actually stationary at the bus stop at the time. This had all gone unnoticed until our young architect debated, in the name of public safety, with an alighting passenger and the conductress no less, the illogical siting of the bus stop.
As for the car crash in West Nile Street, well that was a much exaggerated incident and not really Billy's fault. It was minor collision between two cars - one car braked suddenly and the driver behind ran into him and both drivers got into an argument with each other. Our young architect was firmly told, just in time, to, “Please, keep your mouth shut!” and we made a hasty retreat.
It is true that the policeman on traffic duty in Bath Street threatened to arrest us for showing ‘undue care and attention to pedestrians and road users while in charge of a whisky barrel’ and threatened to take Billy into custody for ‘travelling while in a state of incohol which, he explained, that in human terms, it would mean an excessive intake of alcohol.
He was clearly joking. A friendly, Highland policeman whose son was in his third year at the School of Navigation and who coincidentally I got to know later through the sailing club.
There is absolutely no truth at all in some of the outlandish stories attached to this episode!
I admit, however, that at the top of John Street, near the end of our journey, we were confronted with a group of about 20 boisterous students, loudly chanting the wartime song ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ - so much for secrecy! However we had reason to be grateful to them for their help in arresting Billy's headlong rush down the steep street in his last attempt to break free. If he had succeeded in his final bid for freedom he certainly would have caused mayhem in George Street, as it was in the middle of the rush hour traffic.
Billy was eventually smuggled into the lab where we joined up with the other members of the team to carry out their allotted tasks. This was in effect to leave him overnight to mature his contents then empty them into the bottles supplied, prepare him for return and then be ready for the grand finale the following evening.
We set off the next morning for the return journey. It was a bright, sunny morning with little traffic at that early hour, but, to state the obvious, it was to be a much greater effort going up hill to return him to Port Dundas. Billy now deprived of his freedom and recently acquired personality was sadly home again and back to being just another barrel, but he was duly returned on time.
I only knew Billy for a few days but he had become a special friend and I felt sorry leaving him standing alone and apart from the hundreds of other barrels. To our shame we left him, without so much as a good-bye and, without a backward glance, went off to wait with some excitement for the evening and the result of our great efforts.
When the time came for the culmination and fulfilment of our grand plan, in anticipation of the golden liquid, I arrived only to be handed the first bottle of what looked like dirty water. It was one of only 16 and I was assured that made up the total contents from the barrel .You don't have to be Archimedes to work out that 4 gallons of liquid into a sealed casket, should have resulted in more than some 24 pints coming out!
Our scientist and his lab assistant were quite adamant and looked innocent, if not a little excited and over eager, to tell us that they had tested our ‘whisky’ with a hydrometer, or some such instrument, and that it had an alcoholic strength of 15% proof, and concluded that it was safe and pleasant to drink
They were two happy fellows. It was obvious to the rest of the team that the pair of them had jumped the gun with the celebrations and had been somewhat generous in handing out samples. They maintained, under questioning, they had had no choice, and were at the sharp end, and had to buy off a lot of people's silence. However, at the ‘official tasting’ it was judged to be quite pleasant to drink, tasting of sherry, with the smell of whisky (none of us having an idea of the taste of whisky at that time) and that it had a decided ‘kick’.
Some of the participants in the telling have built this venture into a great escapade. Well it was not, it was indeed a shambles - a fiasco!
One final confession I have held secret until now- it was some months later I learnt that Billy the Barrel had in fact come to the end of his lifespan and was never intended to be refurbished and put back into service, and so the tight time schedule, the security, the Customs and Excise etc etc, was all a con!
I was too young and brash then, too filled with the confidence of youth, but I've often sadly wondered since, Billy being no normal cask, was a veritable Prince among barrels. Twice during his working life he had adopted clear spirit, matured it with loving care for 27 years, giving it its flavour, aroma and colour and finally releasing it on to the market to take its place as one of the unique and great malt whiskies.
Few served their company, industry or, for that matter, their country better. Yet now, at the end of his 54 year working life, his effort and contribution remained unrecognised. Did Billy know then that his life’s work was done? Did he know his end was near? If so, how must he feel, that having given so much pleasure to so many, for so long? Did we unwittingly strip him of all his dignity, humiliate and destroy what little self-respect was left to him in his old age, by our egotistical effort to extract what diminutive spirit he still retained?
Could there be an allegory there? If so, I can relate and sympathise with such thoughts. But then, on the other hand, I would rather like to think there was perhaps some consolation for him in sharing in our mad adventure before ending up as firewood or, as more likely, sawn in two to become garden flower tub. If there is some hidden message there, until I find it, and while I can, I will salute Billy and continue to toast him and his spirit.
I decided, in future, to leave whisky distilling in the hands of the great Scottish whisky families, the Teachers, Dewars, Grants, Ballantynes, Gloags and many others. Would they have been relieved? Would Ronald Teacher be heard to say, in the words of Lord Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo, “By God, it was a dam close-run thing”? In my dreams!
By the way, it was somewhat coincidental that within three years of that time I, as a student, was crewing in an offshore race on Ronald Teacher's magnificent yacht, Mariella. I never got to tell him how close he was to having a trade rival!
But that is a different story and for another time; the third, and most important part to come out of that evening’s meeting.
Posted February 2009 The Dawning Of Awareness