One barrel. One filling. Drawn at full strength and bottled without compromise. What was lost to the angels over twenty seven years cannot be returned, and what remains will not be made again.
A first-fill oloroso butt, seasoned for two years in Jerez before it ever met spirit. The new make went in pale and fierce. Then the doors closed.
Through the damp Highland cold the cask exhaled and drew back. Tannin softened. Colour deepened from straw to old gold. No one opened the door.
Two percent a year, vanished into the rafters. What was a full butt is now a fraction. The remainder is darker, denser, and impossibly rich.
No water. No chill filtration. No colouring. Drawn straight from the cask into 312 numbered bottles, each one signed by the cellar master who waited.
Pour at room temperature. Add nothing. Wait a moment, then let it open.
Beeswax, dried fig and a thread of orange peel left too long in the sun.
Walnut, black cherry and treacle, wrapped in old leather and clove.
Thick on the tongue. It coats and lingers, undiluted and unhurried.
A slow drift of charred oak and damp moss that refuses to leave.
Of three hundred and twelve, a handful remain. Join the register and we will write to you, by name, when your bottle is set aside.