I'd heard people say whiskey takes them back to certain memories. Their grandmother baking apple pie. A back road they accidentally turned onto the summer they were 17. Reading a certain book for the first time.
I enjoyed the notes--the creaminess, woodiness, fruitiness--but I just tasted whiskey. Not that I was discontented; I enjoy whiskey. But when I got a pour at Westland, I was transported back to a grove of birch trees in a forest in Poland, two summers prior. I could taste it all. The overcast sky that later stormed; the single oak we climbed in the sea of birch; the soft grit of moss and bark that ground into my palms. They say you can't go home again. At least you can have whiskey.