It was a bleak autumn night, the kind you wish you could just fast-forward. It was close to midnight and I sat with drooped head in my sofa with the TV on but nothing worthwhile to watch. I knew I had been reading too much Schopenhauer and listened abundantly to Leonard Cohen (a combination that, if taken in too great a dose, will give even the most euphoric optimist a bit of the blues). Life went by in slow-motion, hesitantly, aimlessly.
      Outside rain poured down, blurring my vision of the glaring lamp-posts and trees set in motion by the ferocious wind. It was lively out there, at least. But in my abode, not even Basil Fawlty, with his plethora of cynical insults (which usually cracks me up), could chase the gloom from my weary eyes.
      I decided to end the day by downing a sleeping pill. As I got my not very slim arse out of the sofa, I for no apparent reason cast an eye in the direction of my shelves on the wall that holds all my whisky. And then it dawned on me – divine intervention? – I have an unopened bottle of malt I’ve never tried before!
      It was a cathartic realization. Just the right energy-injection I needed. Oh dear, how could I have forgotten? Things were no longer slow-paced as I rushed to the kitchen and fetched water and glasses; pen and paper from my desk and, back in the living-room, the bottle from the shelf. It was a Clynelish that this evening would make my apocalyptic ponderings and weariness vanish as if it was not nothing more to it than to snap one’s fingers.
      Everything was now in place. I uncorked the whisky and poured a measure. Meanwhile, I sensed how the air filled with familiar and mouth-watering aromas. I got a big smile on my face. Hard to believe I was contemplating the end of the world only five minutes earlier.
      With glass in hand, I spent the next half hour nosing the whisky and taking notes. Each time I took the glass from my nose to jot down a note, I realized I was hearing the rain against my window and the wind. As I nosed again, the noise began to subside. When concentrating on the rejuvenating potion in the glass, everything else seemed to disappear. There was only the whisky and I.
      I took a sip and swirled it around my mouth for a little while, trying to ascertain the flavours, body, balance et al. My eyes were closed, and when I swallowed and gave it free reign, I knew that I was in a state of sheer bliss. If not before, I was then convinced that I had found a (spiritual) place of my own that no one will ever be able to take away.
      I headed for bed one hour and one more dram later, and as I turned out the lights, something Schopenhauer once said came to mind, “Treat a work of art like a prince. Let it speak to you first”.
      That night, Clynelish spoke volumes.

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On 31 May 2004, Peter Wilson added the next comment:

Oh, Clynelish is so totally awesome. Not one of the more well known malts, but deserves to be found much more on the shelves! At least on those of MY regular liquor shop!

On 02 June 2004, r0b added the next comment:

Peter, I agree 100 %, it should be made available more easily. I feel the sdame way about Longmorn. Another malt that is too hard to find. Another case in point: Glen Elgin 12 Yrs. Since the connoisseur market is growing, why is it not Clynelish more widely available? Thanks for your comment.