The Singing Still
Things are pretty peaceful at the Aberlour Distillery
any time of year. But these still, cold nights of the dead of
winter are the most peaceful of all. I usually pop down late in
the evening just to see how the night shift is getting on, and
the only sounds you hear are the muffled rumble of the boilers,
the distant rushing of the Spey and maybe the hooting of a few
owls up in the woods.
Sometimes, though, there are other noises which
aren't so easy to identify. I well remember a story told me by
Kenny Fraser, who was my predecessor here as manager. In those
days, he lived in a little cottage in the middle of the distillery
site itself.
One chilly night, Kenny was sleeping happily in
his bed when he was awakened by one of the night shift workers
pounding on the door. "Come quick! There's something wrong
with the spirit still!" called the man, obviously in a state.
Kenny pulled on a pair of trousers and hurried out across the
moonlit yard towards the still room.
"Listen!" whispered the man. They listened.
Gradually, Kenny became aware of an unearthly note rising above
the usual noise of the furnaces. It was as if, he said later,
you were hearing music in the background - a sort of murmuring,
humming sound. But he knew exactly what it was.
"Don't worry," he told the shift worker.
"That's just the still singing." Apparently, when a
still has been running for about twenty minutes, you very occasionally
get this amazing resonating effect, something like a singing kettle
but far more beautiful. Kenny had been in distilling all his working
life, but he'd only ever heard a singing still twice before. It
was a good omen, he believed, "because you always had a record
week of production afterwards!"
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