Review – The GlenDronach, Port Wood, (No Age Stated), 46%
Somehow, the “If I were God” topic arose during a casual discussion with my family. Barely at its midpoint, a determination was made.
“It’s a good thing I’m not God,” I said. My wife unhesitatingly agreed, but that’s only because she knows my darker, less compassionate self. My children, on the other hand, do not, which is probably why my first proposed act as the Divine, although shocking, was entirely acceptable.
“What would you do first?” my eldest daughter asked.
“Well,” I started, “I’d put every pedophile, child groomer, and child sex trafficker together on an island.”
“That’s a great idea,” a different one replied. “With the way our world’s turning,” another continued, “you’d need something the size of Australia to fit them all.”
“This is true,” I added.
“Would you destroy—?”
“—Oh, no,” I interrupted, anticipating the question. “I wouldn’t destroy the island.” Leaning toward my eager listeners, I continued, “You know the Yautja, the creatures from the Predator films?” I asked this, knowing that they most certainly knew what a Yautja was. I have a life-sized one on display in my basement. “Well,” I resumed, “Yautja would no longer be fictional. And I’d let a few hundred of them loose among the island’s new residents, you know, for fun.”
This is only one reason why it’s to the benefit of many that I am not God. Justice would be far different beneath my rule—brutally messy and suffering-filled. Another reason is that Scotch would enjoy special privileges in the spirits world. Because Scotch is by far one of the most fantastical imaginings of inspired man, I’d make its exceptional status that much more incomparable. For example, a lifted two-finger swirl would change the weather, drawing sunshine through clouds. A sniff would relieve headaches. A long draw would cure cancer. A sip would match its name—aqua vitae, the water of life. It would reverse aging, adding years to the imbiber.
Of course, with such qualities, all other spirits would fade into the unknown. Tequila, that marvelous Mexican potion, would be extinct in many cabinets. Cognac, France’s delightful serum, would lose its history and future.
Oh well. That’s what I’d do. And from among the distilleries, some would enjoy my favor more than others, ultimately receiving extra dashes of invigorative potency. The GlenDronach is one such distillery that has already proven its worth. The less-expensive Port Wood edition is no exception.
A blend of Christmas sugar cookies, summer’s fresh blackberries, and an autumn pie—apple, perhaps—the Port Wood’s nose teases and influences multiple seasons at once. A sip brings a malty nip sprinkled with warmed tangerine drops. It’s calming and more than capable of curing whatever sadness might be vexing its owner.
The finish is a medium savor of the sip’s malt and the nose’s blackberries. A moment more, and it’s oily. However, not in a bad way. It’s an almondy sensation and really rather enjoyable.
Indeed, GlenDronach appears to be already laboring in the otherwordly spaces. So many of their drams bring an encompassing joy with each taste. If I were divine, I’d most certainly have a GlenDronach in my ethereal hand while smiting evildoers.
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