For one short week the website turns to ghost whiskies– those malts produced by distilleries that are no longer in operation, and have been, in many cases, completely demolished.

The whisky industry has experienced numerous cycles of boom and bust and its history is littered with lost distilleries– consider just Campbeltown whose three current distilleries are but a relic of the many dozens that once existed before the 1920s crash. That feels like ancient history at this point, and the most recent downturn was the whisky loch, literally an excess of whisky, that occurred in the 1980s, but had been building in the late 70s. With overproduction filling warehouses, distilleries cut production and some were shuttered. The consolidation and mergers that took place in the wake of this economic malaise left large companies, such as Diageo (and its forerunners) looking for ways to cut costs. This led to the closure of distilleries deemed surplus, sometimes due to the existence of neighboring operations, or operations that produced similar flavor profiles, or simply production inefficiencies that had not been addressed during the boom of the 60s and 70s when many distilleries were rebuilt or retooled.

The economic damage of the whisky loch continued to echo in the 1990s, so while the greatest part of distilleries shuttered between 1983-1985, closures continued to occur into the next decade such as Littlemill (1992), Rosebank (1993), Imperial (1998), and Caperdonich (2002). Even distilleries well-known today were mothballed, or very intermittently operated: Ardbeg (1981), Scapa (1994), Bruichladdich (1995), and Glen Keith (1999), among others. Obviously those all managed to come back, some sooner than others, with Rosebank also rebuilt and Imperial replaced by Dalmunach.

The history of the whisky industry in the twentieth century may be of fortunes won and lost, but I always find myself thinking about the people whose lives were turned upside down during the downturns, or communities that saw some of the few, if not the only, well-paying engineering jobs disappear seemingly overnight. I once heard a man discuss the effects of St. Magdalene’s closure and the fate of staff trying to find any job during a period that was not much better in other industries.

There is something romantic about pouring something from a lost distillery– the ephemeral nature of the whisky and life itself always feels heightened. There is that element of loss that clings to every bottle which makes me want to savor the moment even more than I usually do.

Maybe I overly romanticize lost distilleries, I am a historian so it’s not a stretch for me, but they are remarkable to try and even better to share with others.

The reviews this week all come from bottles shared: shared by old friends, with online friends, or while making new friends. So cheers to them, and all the men and women who toiled to make the whisky we love.

Artwork this week is my own; this was one of the first sketches I did after the “Penguin goes to Japan,” it was the first time I sketched what has since become the anthropomorphized “whiskery turnip” in my other drawings; you’ll note that I had no yet decided to color using pens and instead experimented with a wide variety of different brushes. In the picture is Millburn, the stills of Port Ellen, and Brora in the background.