#aberlour

[lostlibrariangirl]

Been missing due to my vacation, where I went to Scotland (Edinburgh) and England (London). I am in love with Aberlour city, where this pictures come from. It is small, lovely and absolutely beautiful. It reminds me of the Beatrix Potter books of Peter Rabbit, so bucolic and green, with so many perfect places to read and relax! I am crying since I came back to Brazil (˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )

[whiskyblog]

Aberlour Whisky 16 y.o.

Aberlour Whisky 16 year old is a highly regarded Scotch from the Speyside region of Scotland. It impresses with a complex blend of fruity flavours of dark berries and apples, accompanied by subtle spicy notes and a hint of oak. The flavour is full-bodied, creamy and slightly smoky, with a lingering, warm finish. An excellent choice for lovers of fine Scotch whiskies who appreciate complexity and sophistication.

Cask type : American oak casks and sherry butts

[thewhiskyphiles]

Aberlour 9 Years Old Batch 7

Aberlour 9 Years Old Batch 7 single malt scotch whisky from @BoutiqueyWhisky #review

1. What they say This right here is the seventh batch of single malt from the Aberlour distillery to be independently bottled by That Boutique-y Whisky Company! We’re no none the wiser as to why the chap in the top room of Aberlour’s Mash Tun hotel looks so scared. Will we ever know? It’s a question for the ages… While we ponder it, how about we enjoy some tasty Speyside single malt!? Batch 7…

[boozedancing]

Aberlour A'bunadh Alba Batch #5 Speyside Single Malt Scotch Whisky Review

@AberlourVC A’bunadh is a still-affordable high-octane Sherry Bomb #whisky that we love. For whatever reason, @AberlourVC decided to release an American Oak version. It sounds delish! But is it? Click the link to find out!

We’re no strangers to Aberlour and have enjoyed many of their whiskies over the years at whisky events and our neighborhood gatherings. One particularly fiery expression of theirs has been near and dear to our hearts. A’bunadh is its name and it’s released in batches throughout the year (Batch #28 is The Aberlour Holy Grail for a couple of us). Here’s what Aberlour has to say about it: Sherried &…

[maltrunners]

Aberlour 16 Year

Review by: dustbunna Distillery: Aberlour. Bottler: Distillery bottling. Region: Speyside. ABV: 40%. Age: 16 years. Bottled in 2021. Cask type: Vatting of ex-bourbon and ex-sherry casks. Price: Gift (though runs approx. $110-130 locally.) Color added, chill-filtered. Bottle open across approx. 4 months, notes taken leisurely across that period. Bold notes taken beneath the shoulder, no…

[angelitam]

Aberlour 18 ans

Pernod Ricard France présente Aberlour 18 ans. Aberlour 18 ans Un des whiskies emblématiques Pernod Ricard France, Aberlour 18 ans, un whisky qui vient d’un terroir d’exception, aux notes singulières, qui dévoile une histoire unique. Aberlour 18 ans Les Single Malts Aberlour puisent leur goût unique au nord de la région de Speyside, dans les terres d’Aberlour. La célèbre Maison élabore des…

[angelsportion]

Review - A’bunadh, Batch 64, Cask Strength, No Age Stated, 59.9%

Imagine for a moment that you’re at a funeral. Suddenly, a scratching sound becomes a somewhat shallow thumping from inside the coffin. What do you do? Do you open it? Now, hold on a second. You should think this one through because plenty could go wrong. For one, if you open it and out jumps the first zombie-virus-spreading beastie, long after you’ve been eaten, you’ll be remembered as the…

[realbadatpoker]

Playing a drinking game where every time I feel sad, I have some scotch.

Tonight, it's a very expensive game.

[whiskyconsidered]

Aberlour 16

Widely available Meh For the details… Aberlour (pronounced to rhyme with ‘power’) was founded in 1879 by James Fleming. There had been an earlier distillery nearby from 1825-1833. The new distillery on the current site burned in 1898, necessitating a complete rebuild. It was purchased by the French drinks giant Pernod-Ricard in 1974, and following on their 2001 acquisition of Chivas Bros, it…

[married-to-a-redhead]

Sunday scotch

[cirrus-ghoulette]

Ghouls teethe.

It happens for about a month after being summoned.

They're summoned with all their teeth, but no fangs. Those have to grow in over the canines they already have.

This leads to some very pouty ghouls.

Sunshine, the latest summon, is exceptionally pouty about it.

She's very bouncy normally, and when a sibling of sin teaches her to cartwheel, she cartwheels almost everywhere. But this toothache has her curled up in the common room, pouting to herself, her hand over her mouth.

The ghouls try to help.

Mountain gives her his drumsticks to gnaw on (she snaps them almost instantly between her teeth and steals extras from his room when he's not looking).

Aether offers his quintessence, which helps a little. It doesn't seem to alleviate all her pain, however, and it makes her very drowsy.

Cumulus offers a cooling touch, which helps with some of the burn in her gums.

Copia helps in a slightly unorthodox way.

He sees her struggling one practice, constantly running her tongue over her teeth and cupping her hand over her mouth, which really doesn't help with her part as a backup singer.

He walks straight up to her, which is pretty fucking intimidating when you've only been on the earth for two weeks and the Satanic Pope is making a beeline for you.

He looks her over for a moment, then lifts her upper lip with a gloved thumb and tuts at how red and swollen her gums are.

"You are teething, huh?" He asks, to which she nods, her face flushed red in embarrassment. "I see. Join me in my offices after practice, I will help you."

When she joins him in his offices, he has her sit on his lap. For easy access to her mouth, obviously. With one hand, he pours a dram of whisky. With the other, he pets her hair, murmurs soothing words, says that all ghouls go through this and he knows how uncomfortable it must be.

He caps the whisky, then asks her if she's tasted it before. She shakes her head. She's tried beer, and spritzers, and cocktails that Swiss comes up with, but whisky is... Fancy stuff. The ministry is not wasting its alcohol budget in ghouls that have high alcohol tolerances.

He tells her about how this is his favourite, an Aberlour 12, imported from the north of Scotland. You just didn't get good whisky in the States. American whiskey tasted of dishwater to him.

He dips two of his still-gloved fingers in the crystal glass, coating them in a thin layer of the beautifully amber liquid.

Then, he lifts her lip with his thumb, just like he had done in the practice session. He takes his whisky-soaked index finger and slowly swipes it over her gums. The relief is almost instant.

It tingles for a moment, then her gums go numb, and Sunny's almost sobbing in relief. She holds his wrist with her hand, sucks his fingers into her mouth, lathes her tongue over his fingers, fasting the firey flavours mixed with the earthy leather, then begs for more.

[zou-san]

Aberlour Distillery, Speyside, Scotland

[scotianostra]

September 13th 1929 saw the death of the architect Sir Robert Lorimer..

Lorimer was born in Edinburgh, the son of James Lorimer, who was Regius Professor of Public Law at Edinburgh University from 1862 to 1890. He was educated at Edinburgh Academy and later at Edinburgh University, and was part of a gifted family, being the younger brother of painter John Henry Lorimer, and father to the sculptor Hew Lorimer. In 1878 the Lorimer family acquired the lease of Kellie Castle in Fife and began its restoration for use as a holiday home

Robert Lorimer is renowned as being one of Scotland’s leading country house architects during the first two decades of the 20th century. He took a ‘traditionalist’ approach to architecture, drawing influence from the past whilst adhering to the Arts and Crafts ethos of simple facades built from local materials and rejecting the highly ornamental fashions of the mid-nineteenth century. Lorimer’s commissions included small domestic dwellings such as a series of cottages at Colinton, large country houses such as Rowallan in Ayrshire and remodelling of interiors at Aberlour House, Moray. It wasn’t all simple designs for Lorimer, one of his most famous work was the Thistle Chapel in St Giles, Edinburgh as seen in the third pic.

By 1919, Lorimer had been appointed an official architect to the Imperial War Graves Commission, and designed over 300 memorials in villages, towns, and schools in Scotland and England as well as cemeteries in Greece, Macedonia, Italy and Egypt. The largest, and perhaps the best known of these commissions, was the Scottish National War Memorial, Edinburgh Castle, see the second photo.

My favourite memorial designed by Lorimer is the one in Paisley, which looks more like a memorial to the old style wars during the struggle for Independence, and reminds me of Pilkingtons statue of The Bruce at Bannockburn, it depicts depicts soldiers from the western front accompanied by a medieval knight on horseback, as seen in the last

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

down to her place (you've always been her lover)

just a spur of the moment, quick little bit of fluff for @alittleposhtoad, featuring price x bug (her wonderful oc)! title lyrics taken from suzanne by leonard cohen bc holy fuck. SFW / 1.5k words

Herein is a place that reminds John Price of eras gone past, arenas of play he’d denied himself access to: Bug’s living space, far removed from the bays of the base’s motor pool. 

By his very nature—a man built to fight endlessly against life’s currents without question, only teeth-gritted determination, the sweat of his brow stinging his eyes, and the ache in his back from carrying a weight he cannot bring himself to name as anything other than responsibility—he’d not set foot into many homes. He himself was without one, though he does maintain a space unworthy of mention in Burnham, largely for the sake of paperwork and the proximity to Heathrow. 

Bug’s place, however, is lived-in. It is small, but well-kept. She’s made sure to build a place for herself well within her means, while not skimping on the important. There is purpose behind her purchases or repairs. Everything is maintained to best live a long life, simplicity and purposefulness. 

He knows it comes from the same wellsprings as his impulses; she was also raised blue collar, springing above and falling below it as work and seasons came and went. Tense red labeled, ‘LAST NOTICE’ bills always in the periphery as idle hands twitched for new work. 

She’d answered the door in a wool jumper, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, with jeans, wool socks, and slippers before that. Her grin had taken a second to kick in, but it had immediately burned bright, consuming the whole of her face and bringing out the apples of her cheeks. “Hello, y’old bastard, took your time getting here, didn’t ya?” she asks, musical as always in her accent. 

Price noted the smell of dish detergent on her, and the small beads of water clinging to her soft arm hair. He hummed a laugh and held out a bottle of Aberlour—cracked, but only a third empty. She’d told him not to buy a new bottle, so he’d just brought the one from his desk at the base. “Knew you were stripping your uniforms, decided you’d needed the extra time for it.”

The Welsh rolled out of her mouth as she took the bottle and looked it over, and, fuck, he wondered if he’s a fool. Does he really deserve this, at all? It’s not something he wonders on often. He tries to not question the good things he has in his life, however few they are. 

This woman might be the best of them, though. He knows she is, the only thing stopping him from admitting it fully to himself is a lacking expanse of time. But, down in the marrow, he knows.

“Come here, taste this,” she says, now that they’re in the kitchen together. Bottles of beer had been opened, and the drip condensation down their amber glass, cold water pooling around the base of Bug’s on the counter. She’s working on some kind of soup, kitchen sink in the extreme, and she holds a spoon out to him.

There’s a moment of thought where he considers taking the spoon from her, and perhaps she’s thinking of it, too, but there’s a glint of challenge in her eye as she looks up to him. Another game. The smile pulling at his mouth tells him he isn’t overly wary of it. This is no battlefield, this is no negotiation with lives on the line. It’s just him and Bug. It’s just a kitchen. It’s just soup.

He leans down and blows on the spoon briefly before helping out with the taste test, humming as the flavor hits his tongue. “Hmm. Salt’s fine, that’ll cook down, I reckon. What’s that pickle-y taste? Could use more of that, and the garlic.”

“Dill,” she provides, scanning his reactions.

“More of that. Reminds me of that Russian mess they make, with the sausage,” he snorts, warmed and calm, sipping his beer.

“Solyanka, boss,” she adds, beaming. Instantly, she’s going through her wares, adjusting to his recommendation. “Should make that for you at some point. One of the better hangover cures I’ve seen, to boot. With that dark bread and the pig fat, too? Forget it, you’re golden.”

“Think I’ll stick to hair of the dog, if it’s all the same to you,” he chuckles, leaning a hip up against the counter to watch her work. The smirk she throws his way puts a stutter in his chest–just a faint thing, just a small thing that makes him want more–and he imagines sliding his hand deeply into the dark red hair at the base of her skull. 

How’d she look if he massaged her scalp and turned her head, simply to study her face? She’d probably smirk again, pleased with him, and the sliver of her teeth revealed by the cut of her lips would catch the light and glint silver. Her freckles would sit darker and dust across her skin as it warmed. All over her body.

That thought is sending blood in the wrong direction for dinner, and it makes his tongue leaden. Might be best to veer off from it, for the time being at least. It’s a small deal to make with himself, but one he’s practiced at. He’s done it for everything that might distract or divert him for the last…entire life, really. 

“No skin off my nose,” she tosses back, slopping the spoon under the tap to rinse it off, dumping it next to the pot on a rest plate with a ladle. There’s a minute pause, and, again, Price isn’t keen to escape the feeling he’s being examined. It’s a rather nice feeling, being seen, estimated. 

“What?” he hums, raising a brow, inclining his bottle as she takes a pull from her own. 

“Nothin’, nothin’,” she teases, motioning her head, and smiling small, but with immense knowledge, when Price puts the lid back on the pot at her mere suggestion. “I was just thinking about that look you had on your face. Looked like you were thinking some heavy thoughts. Need help lifting them?”

It’s a blatant tease, and Price can’t help but feel slightly caught-out. But it’s nowhere near dire. It just makes him laugh a bit. “Uh-huh,” he starts, a smile crawling across his mouth, “was actually thinking over the fact you’d invited me over for beef wellington and foie gras.”

Her smile intensifies as he plays into her bit, crinkling her eyes. “Uh-huh,” she echoes him, stepping closer, “and you still decided to come over, not even knowin’ what I was going to fix for you. But—to be fair to myself, I did tell you that I needed to clean out my fridge and freezer. Sort of on you for jumping on the grenade, huh?”

“Little bit, yeah,” he laughs again. “Still works in my favor. Don’t generally go for gourmet unless it’s on someone else’s dime.”

A lump forms in his throat, hard to swallow around, when her hand comes to his forearm, sliding down to his wrist, massaging lightly. But her energy never softens or wanes, even with the intimate bit of contact, still meeting his face megawatt as she says, “Nah, I don’t reckon you would. Let me ask you something, though. You’ve been here more than an hour, now, and you still haven’t tried to kiss me. That off the table now or something?”

To his credit, Price doesn’t jolt, he only grows steadier in body language. Twenty years in this game made him thrive when put on the spot, as opposed to the alternative. He moves in closer to match her, lowering his voice and his gaze, mouth pulling toward a smirk. 

“Huh. Well, had been figuring that there’s not much of a call for rushing. Unless I misunderstood the ‘spend the night’ tone in your invitation. But the bit about breakfast in the morning seemed sort of obvious,” he says, drawling through his thoughts, sliding one shoe on the outside of her slippered feet, closing a bit around her body. 

Bug leans right into it, relaxing even further, crossing arms under her breasts with the bottle dangling from her fingers. She cocks her head, some hair shifting to spill over her shoulders. And, there it is, that silvery sliver of teeth he’d imagined earlier, catching his attention and stealing a bit of his breath, and suddenly, he is consumed with the thought of her lips and her body against his.

“Well, thank god, the man can read subtext,” she jokes, giving him a quick but savoring up and down. “I’d hoped I wasn’t being too subtle with all that. But I think I might be too subtle with what I’m asking right now, if you’ve still not gone ahead and done it.”

The laugh that comes out of Price this time barks. It’s no soft or retiring thing, it fills the room, pure delight and fun. “Copy, loud and clear,” he says, sliding his hand as deeply into her hair as he’d imagined, tipping Bug’s head back, grinning into the kiss he presses against her lips as she parts them and crawls her hands up his chest to grip the front of his shirt. And she is the one to hum pleasure and satisfaction in the slow moment, with a warm, lazy, and dark night ahead of them. 

[alexar60]

Whisky

Whisky ou le soleil me fuit. Voilà un thème qui ne m’inspire pas vraiment. Le soleil ? Mon premier poème s’appelait « Ode au soleil ». J’avais 10 ans et je ne m’en souviens plus. Et l’autre, autant dire que le whisky me fuit. Je n’en bois pas. Je ne déteste pas ça mais je n’en bois pas. Je devrais peut-être boire un verre de whisky, goûter, apprécier son arôme. Seulement, les whiskies qu’on trouve dans le commerce ne sont pas les meilleurs. Je laisse plutôt cela à un pote qui boit du ‘Aberlour’, un autre boit du Chivas. Eux pourraient mieux parler du Whisky.

En cherchant l’inspiration parmi les photos archivées dans mon ordinateur, j’ai imaginé des histoires qui, je le reconnais ne m’enchantent guerre. La première concernait un enfant de trois ou quatre ans appelant les secours parce que sa mère était dans comas, après avoir enfilé une bouteille de whisky. Je partais sur la discussion entre l’opérateur et l’enfant qui ne connaissait même pas son adresse. Seulement, il existe tellement d’histoires de ce genre dans la réalité, que je me sens mal à l’aise à la développer.

La seconde qui m’est venue était une prostituée alcoolique, qui après avoir bu un verre de whisky avec son prochain client, partait faire sa petite affaire. Aussi, le client en question était un célèbre tueur en série appelé Jack l’éventreur. Histoire écrite, réécrite, et corrigée depuis.

La troisième histoire aurait été au sujet du viol d’une amérindienne par des cowboys, après l’avoir saoulée au whisky. Rien de bien réjouissant et on trouve beaucoup d’histoires de ce genre dans les westerns. Je peux vraiment dire que le whisky n’est pas ma tasse de thé.

Je me suis posé cette question : quelle image j’avais du whisky ? Elle m’est venue avec évidence : Machisme, puissance et sexe. C’est marrant d’avoir cette opinion sur le whisky. Je parle du whisky bu sec ou avec des glaçons. Pas celui mélangé avec du soda. Après, j’ai repensé aux blagues dans lesquels on parle de whisky.

La première trouvée dans le film « la cité de la peur ».

Gérard Darmon: Vous voulez un whisky ?

Chantal Lauby : Juste un doigt.

Gérard Darmon : Vous ne voulez pas un whisky d’abord ?

La seconde de Coluche :

Un commandant de bord s’adresse aux passagers après le décollage de l’avion. Il n’éteint pas les hauts parleurs et continue de parler à son second : « Je bois un whisky et après je me tape l’hôtesse de l’air ». En entendant cela, l’hôtesse rougit et se précipite vers le cockpit. Soudain un passager l’arrête : « Ne soyez pas pressée, il a dit qu’il boit un whisky d’abord ! ».

Enfin, la troisième, ma préférée.

Un type entre dans un bar. « Sept whiskys, je fête ma première fellation ! ». Le barman le sert en disant : « Ah si c’est votre première, permettez-moi de vous offrir le huitième ». Le gars répond : « Merci, mais sept devraient suffire pour m’enlever le gout. »

Voilà, ça c’est fait. Je vous souhaite une bonne nuit.

PS: Notez qu'au pluriel, on peut écrire: Whiskies et whiskys.

Alex@r60 – août 2023

Photo : Gérard Darmon et Chantal Lauby dans la cité de la peur.

[maltrunners]

Aberlour 18 Year (1989) Scott's Selection

Review by: The Muskox This is another of those dusty Scott’s Selection bottlings that a bunch of us nerds tried on a Zoom call together. Aberlour isn’t seen naked, meaning without maturation in a strong cask, all too often. The cask type for this release isn’t specified, but given the light colour, it’s likely a refill ex-bourbon cask, offering a rare peek behind the curtain at how Aberlour’s…