Lagavulin occupies hallowed ground, both literally and figuratively. Tucked into a sheltered bay along Islay’s tempestuous south coast, it lies between its brasher neighbours (Ardbeg and Laphroaig) yet manages to speak in a voice entirely its own: measured, dignified, and deeply resonant with smoke-laced gravitas.

Though its formal founding came in 1816, distillation was likely taking place on the site well before that, albeit with more secrecy and fewer tax stamps. For much of its life, Lagavulin played the role of quiet powerhouse, treasured by blenders but known to few. That changed in the late 20th century, thanks in part to its anointing within Diageo’s Classic Malts collection and, perhaps less expectedly, a certain fastidious BBC character named Edmund Blackadder.

Lagavulin’s style is the result of deliberate patience. Fermentations are long, coaxing out rich, complex esters. The stills are tall, the distillation slow, and the result is a spirit that marries the maritime brine and medicinal peat of the south coast with an uncommon depth and elegance. Maturation typically takes place in sherry-seasoned American oak casks, which lend notes of dried fruit and leather to the already smoky symphony.

Where some Islay malts shout, Lagavulin murmurs like an old storyteller - deliberate, smoky, and endlessly layered. A dram to sip with reverence, preferably beside a peat fire as the Atlantic hurls its rain against the windows.