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Another reminder of what Brianna and I don’t have in common. The castle is gorgeous, to be sure, but I tend to live in the present, not in the past. History—other than music and art—doesn’t interest me much, so I doubt I would have had any issue with being back on time to meet the tour group. My littlest sister, though, loves history and culture…and apparently so does Brianna.
I tuck the thought in the back of my mind. No need to dwell on how Brianna and I will never work in the long term. I arranged this whisky tour for her, and I plan for both of us to enjoy it.
The whisky experience has its own address and everything. These people take their whisky seriously. I’m surprised when a young man greets us.
“Welcome!” he says. “My name is George, and it’s my pleasure to guide you through your experience today.”
He’s tall and blond, and I don’t particularly like the way he looks at Brianna.
“We didn’t sign up for a tour,” I say, not smiling.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “We offer guides to individuals and groups to help you get the most out of the experience.”
“We don’t need a?—”
Brianna tugs on my arm. “Let’s go with him, Jesse. He’ll make sure we get the most out of this.”
“I’m happy to oblige, pretty lassie,” George says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. I’m not sure he gets the hint. “Fine,” I say dryly.
“We’ll start with the whisky barrel ride,” George begins. “It’s a simulated ride that takes you through a virtual tour of the whisky-making process, from the barley fields to the distillery and beyond.”
“How exciting!” Brianna’s eyes are wide.
George guides us to barrel-shaped seats. Seriously, barrel shaped. I feel like I’m in an amusement park. Was this really my idea? Brianna somehow ends up in the middle of us as George lowers the safety bar. The lights dim, and our barrel pushes forward.
This is so not what I had in mind.
I thought Brianna and I would taste different whiskies, not be shoved into Edinburgh’s version of Pirates of the Caribbean.
I need an attitude adjustment, but apparently that part of the experience happens later.
Despite myself, however, I find the tour interesting. We “travel” through the various stages of whisky production, including mashing, fermentation, distillation, and maturation, though the “scenic views” of the Scottish countryside pale in comparison to the real thing. Not that I’ve seen much of the countryside, nor will I, as we leave for Glasgow tomorrow. I guess I’ll see it through the train window.
The ride takes about twenty minutes.
“I hope you enjoyed that immersive experience,” George says.
“Yes, it was fabulous!” Brianna gushes. “When do we taste?”
Ah, yes… Brianna is my girl.
George laughs. “You like whisky, then?”
“I like bourbon,” she says. “I don’t know a lot about Scotch, but I’ve had it a few times back home.”
“Where are you from?”
“The US.”
“I know that, lassie. Where in the States?”
“Oh. Sorry. Colorado. The western slope.”
“I see. I doubt you’ve had much good whisky. Or Scotch, as you yanks say. You’re in for a treat.”
Brianna takes George’s comment in stride, but clearly he doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Bree and her family drink only the best liquor.
