BenRiach Peated Cask Strength

It smacked me about the head and chest with relentless zeal. I would have loved to be able to walk into my doctor’s office to get checked out, but my health care benefits from my job only vested in June after having worked for six months at the new position. 

At that time, Mrs. Shaw and I looked around for a new primary care physician and discovered the first opportunity for an initial appointment would be in mid-August. So, with that reality, I was only able to “see” a doctor through tele-health. And, so, I logged into a video chat with a doctor who appeared to be sitting on her back porch. I described my symptoms and what was happening, what was aching, and that I felt like the floor of a taxi cab. After a five minute give-and-take (my grandfather, a family physician, was surely rolling in his grave), prescriptions were provided and filled, and after a week of dosing and trying to ebb my activities, I felt almost human.

No doubt, the euphoria of a long-planned trip to Spain most likely fueled some of the good vibes and good feelings. In mid-2023, I and three colleagues from Connecticut, were selected by a vetting committee to present a lecture at an international conference to be held in Barcelona in mid July 2024. The presentation was now honed and ready, and Mrs. Shaw and I were rather excited to turn my presentation opportunity into a broader week-long vacation in a country and city that we had had on our radar for many years.

With what appeared to be a new lease on good health, on a Friday in mid-July Mrs. Shaw and I drove five hours to Washington, DC to leave our car and the dog with our son, Connell. The dog was elated to be with “her boy”. Mrs. Shaw and I were excited for our journey. Connell drove us to the airport, and all seemed on track. We were elated with anticipation.

The weather forecast – which turned out to be 100% spot on – was amazing for the entire week of our stay. Each day was roughly 80ºF (27ºC), bright sunshine, and low humidity. We stayed in the Les Cortes neighbourhood, and had mapped out our stay with one day devoted to the seminar presentation and the others going to explore the Las Ramblas, Gothic, Born, Poble Sec, and Eixample neighbourhoods.

The trip to Barcelona was, however, effectively sabotaged and ravaged as the variant of Mortalitas clawed back and levelled me two days into the trip. Instead of local restaurants and sites, the Spanish I was able to dredge up from my junior high school lessons was primarily used in conducting interesting chats with the folks at the nearby Farmacía. Ultimately, I was not able to present with my team as neither the venue nor my cohorts wanted me around while I was hacking up a lung. After a few days of isolation in the hotel, Mrs. Shaw and I did manage to get out and explore for a few days when the pharmaceuticals kicked in, but spending several days on vacation in a hotel room with chills, fever, and coughing was…let’s say…not ideal. 

When we lived in Connecticut, I ran my own law office and, frankly, after thirty years of doing what I do, I was not shy to close my doors for vacations and days out for mental health breaks. However, part of the trade-off in moving to North Carolina was the need to land a job with a firm, which I have done. As my name is not on the door, I cannot simply close shop and head off as I used to do. The vacation days and paid time off are limited, and to have a week’s worth of vacation days end in frustration and disappointment left a bitter taste. That said, as has been ingrained in me by my parents as well as my lovely better half, I do always try to view the world through a lens of hope and positivity. (Sometimes those efforts are easier to carry out than others, and admittedly there are times that I am not always successful and need a reminder to be humble and grateful for the blessings that are around but not readily apparent.)  We pledged to make it back to Barcelona to experience the city at a better and healthier time.

We re-packed our bags with more than a little disappointment. One week after we arrived, we awoke at 6:45am to get ourselves ready, made our way downstairs to check out of our hotel, and to find our ride to the airport. We reached the airport at 8:30am for our 10:30am flight. A few queues, some microwaved food for breakfast, and onto the plane. Eight hours in the air, and we landed around 2:30pm EST. Luggage was temporarily mis-placed by the airline, but after waiting for an additional 45 minutes, the Shaw bags were secured. My usual ability to let things roll off my back was not fully evident. We located Connell and our very excited dog in the passenger arrival area. Into the car, and off to Connell’s residence – approximately an hour away thanks to the traffic congestion that is ever-present in and around our Capitol region.

Mrs. Shaw had suggested that we might want to consider staying in DC that evening instead of another five hours in the car, as we would have been up and travelling for almost twelve hours by the time we got to Connell’s home. I wasn’t feeling particularly well, I was tired, but damn it… I was going to sleep in my own bed that night and have a leisurely Sunday at home before heading back to work Monday morning.

Sitting in the car after leaving the airport, I had blinders on as a singular focus was the topic of thought between my ears… I just wanted to get to Connell’s house, get in the car, and tackle the five hour drive to arrive back home. I am afraid I was not good company during that drive from the airport as I still had the fog of fatigue, the fog of not feeling well, and that continued thought of getting on the road to head back home.

As we were getting closer to Connell’s residence, even with my fatigue, the map in my head showed that we were not going directly to his home. 

“Connell, I’m not completely familiar with the DC area, but I get the sense we’re going a bit out of the way.”

Without moving his eyes from the road in front of him, he simply replied, “yep.”

I paused for a few seconds as an initial bit of anger flushed through me, fueled by my fatigue and the desire to get on the road back home. I composed myself, and turned to him, and asked, “is there a reason why we’re taking the scenic route?”

Connell grinned, turned to me, and said, “it’s a simple stop we need to make.”

As he was driving, there wasn’t much I could do other than shut my trap, and appreciate the fact that he came to pick us up at the airport. Be appreciative, Ogilvie, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath, and centred myself. 

Roughly twenty minutes later, after going through the streets around American University, Connell parked along a curb beside a series of storefronts. One of those stores had a sign over the door that read, “Ace Liquors”. It took a second to have it sink in, but a humbled Ogilvie had a grin come over his face that could not be diminished by fatigue or illness.

“You’ve had a rough couple of weeks, and before you got on the road to go home, I thought you could use a smidge of happiness.”

My wife, as surprised as I was with Connell’s planned stop, beamed as her son had done her proud. She volunteered to stay in the car with the dog while Connell and I exited the car. I walked around to the driver’s side and I hugged that young man heartily. I was humbled and proud, too. He was raised right. All of the grey on my temples and in my beard – perhaps much of which was caused by parenting — was worth it. Connell just smiled, knowing he did a good thing.

“Beside… I put a significant dent in your Royal Brackla, and you need to replenish your stocks,” Connell said with a wry grin. I gave that boy another hug and said, putting my arm around his shoulder as we walked toward the store, “whisky is for sharing, my man.”

We walked into the store and – after seven months of living in the North Carolina whisky desert – this was an oasis, for sure. I stood and soaked in the beauty of five or six large shelves stocked with Scotch single malt whiskies. Connell selected this store, as the proprietor clearly populated his shelves with the eye of a whisky botherer. 

Yes, Connell and I talked about the bottles on the shelves, but Connell’s thoughtful gesture truly made me take off my blinders. We started to talk about the week that had come and gone, being reminded of perspectives, being grateful, talked about his recent job adventures, and even chatted up the shop’s employee. Then, we re-examined the shelves and re-focused to consider which bottle each of us would choose. Difficult but gleeful decisions. Ultimately, Connell grabbed a Craigellachie 13 Bas Armagnac as he thoroughly enjoyed sampling the bottle he muled for me a few months back. I took it from him and brought it to the register as my treat to him – it was the least I could do to express appreciation for watching the dog, ferrying us to/from the airport, and to show appreciation for his good heart. 

As for me, my eye kept returning to a canister with an older branding. It was clearly a dusty. And it was cask strength.

It came home with me.