Book Islay

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Golf, Marathons, and Single Malt
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A Challenge on Scotlands
Queen of the Hebrides
Robert Kroeger
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Copyright 2014 by Robert Kroeger
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
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To the Caballo Blanco in each of us.
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Free spirits never die.
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AUTHORS NOTES
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thank the Scottish people for their generosity, honesty, and

humility, traits Ive witnessed again and again on my visits to
the auld sod. Without their superb hospitality towards me, I
would never have made the long, convoluted journey to Islay in
search of the perfect golf course and in search of myself.
A huge thanks to one Scot in particular, an Ileach, whose
kindness towards my companions and me on our initial stay on Islay
motivated me to write this book. So, if you dont like it, blame him.
He knows who he is and so does everyone else on Islay. On the
other hand, if you like the book, buy him a dram when you visit.
Just ask around; youll find him.
I am most grateful to Stephen Harrison, deputy head of the
Islay High School, for his help, ideas, and service as assistant race
director. Without his unselfish dedication and willingness to take a
risk, the first annual Single Malt Marathon would not have
happened. Not only did Stephen run his first marathon, he learned
how to organize one.
Id like to thank my wife Laura, a non-golfer and non-runner
but an experienced journalist, for her input as this tale got spun and
as its many disjointed themes linked together. I also must mention
Andrew Jeffords marvelous work, Peat Smoke and Spirit, a book
on the whisky and history of Islay. Its a must-read for any whisky
connoisseur.
I offer deep appreciation to the three experts who gave their
comments. Alex Miceli, a busy journalist for Golfweek and the Golf
Channel, found time to help me. Gary Allen finished his preface less
than three weeks before the Mount Desert Island Marathon, which
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The Secrets of Islay
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he founded and directs. And many thanks to my friend Donald Steel,

not only a brilliant golfer and golf course architect but a skilled
writer, evidenced by his clever afterword. Donald finally got the last
word in.
I also thank Rob Reid, a Kintyre Scot, ultramarathoner, and
race director, who carefully reviewed the entire manuscript,
correcting my many mistakes and lending a Scots perspective.
More thanks go to my friend, El Guapo, the handsome one, for
trying to educate me in the finer points of single malt drinking but
more importantly for showing me what a caregiver and human being
is all about. Without being preachy or seeking sympathy, Guapo
leads by example.
One note about names. Some Ileachs in this book and some
runners in the Single Malt Marathon have requested privacy. To
comply with their wishes, I have used first names only or a fictitious
name. Others have consented to have their full name published. If a
fictitious name in this book matches that of a real person, it is
coincidental.
I have decided not to reveal the identity of Caballo Blanco, who
wishes to remain anonymous. Obviously, he will be known to some
Ileachs and participants in the 2014 challenge. In truth, the real
essence of Caballo Blanco lies in each of us, if we look hard enough
and take time to listen to our inner free spirit.
Apologies
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English is a difficult language that has evolved over centuries.

Some on Islay choose to speak in Gaelic or British-English. Many in
Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis speak Gaelic or Gaelic-English.
Scots in Macduff speak Macduff-English with such a thick brogue
that I understand an occasional word, though I act as if I understand
everything. They know I dont. And, being American, I speak
American-English. In confronting this lack of uniformity in our
common language, I have chosen to spell some words in BritishEnglish (woollen vs. woolen) and others in American-English
(honor vs. honour). That way, I can irritate readers on both sides of
the Atlantic. I ask for your tolerance. After all, our people fought
side by side in two world wars. By the way, lorries (British) are
trucks (American).
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Secondly, I offer an apology to my fellow golfers for

suggesting that they subject their bodies to running 26.2 miles.
Horrors! Although completing a marathon ranks high in tests of
human stamina, I think a reasonably fit golfer could complete a
marathon more easily yes, it might take six hours than a runner
could master a golf course, especially a links with 15 blind shots
an experience that might take six hours, too. You dont have to be fit
to play golf, but you must be fit to complete a marathon in under
four hours.
Heres an apology to my fellow marathon runners for implying
that they take up golf, which consumes much more time than
running does. Nor would I want to deprive anyone of Saturday
afternoon chores, which often are neglected if too much time is
spent on the golf course. Ah, the advantages of a round of golf.
Lastly, I apologize to connoisseurs of single malt and especially
to those who have acquired a taste for the many brands produced on
Islay. While blindfolded, such aficionados can tell one spirit from
another. Truthfully, I cannot and I do not profess to be a whisky
expert nor am I much of a drinker. Still, if and when I do have a
drink, Islay single malt is my first choice.
I also dont want to offend the Ileachs in case I dont paint as
beautiful a picture of Islay as it deserves. Words can only do so
much; yours is an island and a culture that stands alone. In my many
travels to the U.K. and Eire, Ive found the Highlands and their
islands to be captivating.
Treat this book as you would a single malt tasting: gently smell
the aroma of the beginning chapters, splash the middle parts about
your face, and drink up the end when it comes. And, if you like it,
please sing its praises on Amazon. If you dont, thats OK, too. Just
keep a lid on it.
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Robert Kroeger
Cincinnati
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FOREWORD
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hen Dr. Kroeger asked me to write the foreword to his

book, I must admit that the idea of a combined golf and
marathon competition seemed bizarre. But after I
thought about the career of one of the famous amateur golfers, Frank
Stranahan, and the speed golf events popping up around the country,
it didnt seem so preposterous.
Stranahan claimed more than 50 amateur titles including two
British Amateurs and he won six PGA Tour events, twice as a pro
and four times as an amateur. Early in his life he began a
weightlifting program and was nicknamed Muscles by Arnold
Palmer because he looked so fit. When he retired from competitive
golf in 1964, Stranahan began running, years before it became
popular, and competed in the New York and Boston marathons. He
continued to keep in shape in his golden years and declared he
would live to 120. Well, not quite. Stranahan died in 2013 at 90
but his legacy showed that golf and marathon running can be
compatible.
Sitting comfortably on my porch and shutting my eyes, I can
imagine a typical clubhouse conversation of the future following
the Saturday morning round. Well, James, now that weve spent
the morning golfing, what shall we do in the afternoon? Hate to go
home to the Mrs. too early, you know. All those chores. As Frank
bent over to lace up his running shoes, he replied, I think we should
go for a leisurely jog in the park. About 26.2 miles should eat up
most of the afternoon. Right. But, lets face it, there are worse
reasons to run a marathon.
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On a similar note: perhaps in response to Americas slow play,

that current dilemma that forces golfers to endure rounds of five
plus hours, the new phenomenon of speed golf has emerged. Carry a
few clubs and jog in between shots, turning a long round into a short
one. At the 2013 Speedgolf World Championships in Bandon
Dunes, Irelands Rob Hogan won the pro division with an average
time of 40 minutes per round. Some slowpokes spend more time
than that in searching for lost balls.
So my answer to the question of the Lords of the Isles
Challenge is simply: why not. Why not step outside the box of
normality and do something absolutely out of your comfort zone?
But, trust me, unless youre already a runner, youd better start
slowly, lose weight, and hook up with a running gear store to guide
you through a proper training program.
Who knows, we might see this golf-marathon challenge migrate
from Scotland (where rounds longer than four hours are rare) to the
USA just like golf did in the 1890s. Lets hope it wont take four
centuries.
And, believe it or not, maybe Ill rise to the challenge. Let me
plan this out: buy some running shoes and cool jogging clothes, get
on a diet, start slowly, run a 5K, a 10K and then a half-marathon
But, on second thought, as I adjust my recliner and sip my Arnold
Palmer, Ive often found wisdom in the timeless words of Scotlands
favorite bard, Rabbie Burns, The best laid schemes o mice an
men gang aft a-gley.
Alex Miceli
Virginia, USA
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Alex Miceli writes for Golfweek magazine and is well known

for the interviews he conducts on the Golf Channel. He holds a law
degree but prefers to work in the field of journalism, leaving his
mark on television and in print media rather than in the courtroom.
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PREFACE
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he rules for single malt whisky are simple: its made in

Scotland at a single distillery and malted barley is the only
grain ingredient. It matures in oak casks in Scotland for at
least three years. However, most single malts are matured even
longer.
Unlike Scotch whisky, a marathon can be held almost anywhere
but only the best qualify as the most beautiful. As director of the
Mount Desert Island Marathon based in Bar Harbor, Maine, I can say
that our marathon might literally take your breath away. Both Runners
World Magazine and ESPN have bestowed upon it the title, Most
Scenic Marathon in the USA!
Although I have yet to travel to Scotland, I am certain that
Islays Single Malt Marathon would give us a run for our money in
the category of scenery. The route around the villages lining Loch
Indaal and then up the hills of the moors sounds blindingly
wonderful. I also love the fact that our two marathons are separated
only by ocean. It makes them feel reassuringly connected though far
apart. As a marathoner, this event is on my radar.
I find the Lords of the Isles Challenge equally intriguing.
Although I am not a golfer, I have been hustled off many a course
over the years. As a runner, I find these rolling green lawns
stretching over hill and dale particularly irresistible. Its like asking
a cat not to chase a mouse.
That said, I am amazed to read about the athleticism of Frank
Stranahan, the golfer turned marathoner who had incredible success
as both an amateur and a professional links man. When he retired
from competitive golf at age 42, he began running marathons. His
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Gary Allen
Maine, USA
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work ethic, focus, and attention to detail helped him qualify for and
run in the iconic Boston Marathon. I like to think of this race as the
common persons Olympic Games.
It was also inspiring to read how Dr. Kroeger skillfully weaved
the legend of Caballo Blanco into his pages, giving credit to the
original Caballo for helping people who never asked for help. The
new Caballo has most certainly followed in his footsteps by
bringing the marathon and a golf event to Islay. The legend
continues!
Lastly, the theme of quid est veritas certainly hit home with
me. Many times Ive faced tough decisions both on foot and in life
and each time I hope Ive responded well. In marathon running we
are taught that its not IF it gets difficult but WHEN it gets difficult.
When it gets difficult in life, how will we respond? One certainty
after reading this book is that Islay, past and present, answers this
question. Visiting Scotland and Islay is on my bucket list.
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Gary Allen is the founder and race director of the Mount Desert
Island Marathon, ranked Americas most scenic since 2002. A
marathon runner himself, he is one of only 30 individuals worldwide who have recorded a sub-three-hour marathon in five
consecutive decades, a record he hopes to add to in 2020. He has run
the Boston Marathon 22 times, 68 sub-3-hour marathons, and over
100,000 lifetime miles and counting. Home, where Gary has
recorded the majority of those miles, is a small island off the coast
of Maine, where his training road is two miles long.
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When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
and say weve no money for butter
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
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From Warning by Jenny Joseph, English poet
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few years ago, seven of us sat at a round wooden table and

listened to Robbie, a master ambassador of single malt
whisky, as he prepared us to taste the water of life from
five tiny glasses in front of us. We felt comfortable here,
enchantingly secluded from the modern world on Islay (EYE-lah),
Scotlands southernmost outpost of the Hebrides, the island known
as Queen of the Hebrides. Once she was the seat of the Lords of
the Isles but that was centuries ago.
Islay measures 25 miles from north to south and 15 miles from
east to west. With 240 square miles, its not huge but its not small.
It has seven villages and many of its people speak and write Gaelic,
which is taught in schools. Head 25 miles south and youll reach
Ireland. Go east, 72 miles away, to Glasgow. Go north, eight miles,
to Colonsay, ancient land of the McPhees. And, if you sail 2,076
miles due west, youll come to Hopedale on the Labrador coast. On
Islay you wont find any big box stores, mega-fuel stations, or
shopping malls. None of its restaurants seat 100 patrons. What it
does have is peace. And thats what draws outsiders. That, and the
single malt.
Today her population has dwindled. Young people have moved
out, looking for jobs, trying to survive on the mainland or in other
countries. Chalk one up to the Great Recession or to the Not-So1
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Great Recovery. Yet, despite such losses, Islay has retained its
charm due, in part, to its lack of traffic jams, its eight whisky
distilleries (a ninth coming soon), a golf course that reeks of a
bygone era, and, of course, Robbie and his fellow ambassadors.
Map of Islay
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Nattily dressed in a pink oxford shirt and a timeless dark blue

wool blazer, Robbie stood before us and reviewed what we would
taste products of his distillery, Laphroaig, the only Islay whiskymaker to bear the royal crest, thanks to His Majesty, the Prince of
Wales. The first dram wed taste would be the spirit called Aged 10
Years, the Princes favorite, followed by Quarter Cask, Triple
Wood, Aged 18 Years, and, finally, Cairdeas-Ileach. Robbie began
with a plea, World peace thro whisky, one dram at a time. What a
stage performer! We all nodded yes.
Our credentials dubious, we were a strange lot: Caballo Blanco
an American golfer and runner, his fellow Yank and sidekick El
Guapo, a long suffering surgeon who got hooked on single malt 20
years earlier, Donald, a middle-aged scratch golfer who justifiably
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abhorred running unless it was to the dinner table, Grahame, a

young, rotund whisky connoisseur from Glasgow neither a golfer
nor a runner but a master in downing drams, Karen, an
accomplished marathoner, and Gustav, a tall but heavyset Swedish
banker who was drawn here like so many of his countrymen by
the distilleries. I, the author of this tale, a golfer with a junk-yard
dog pedigree, was an average runner at best. Like the rascals in
Musicians of Bremen, we were all searching for answers about life
though we were here ostensibly to taste Scotch single malt whisky.
Maybe Robbie had the answers but, more likely, he viewed us
merely as another crew to entertain. The first step in tasting
whisky, he explained, is to waft the aroma from the vial towards
your nose. Smell it, he exhorted us, theres no smoke without
Laphroaig. Robbie was right: it did smell like smoke, making me
feel as if I were hiking in one of Islays peat bogs where the brown
water flows, eventually finding its way into distillery vats to
enhance this unique flavor.
Next, he told us to wet our hands and wipe the whisky on our
faces. Let it soak into your skin. Savor it. We did as he
commanded, first feeling it on our cheeks, then putting a drop onto
the middle of the tongue, continuing the experience, being careful
not to rush it. Just sense it. And finally, like watching the last putt drop
in the best-round-you-ever-played or feeling your body wearily but
joyfully crossing the marathon finish line, we took a swallow of
the brew. Laphroaig Ten Year rushed into our bodies, up our noses,
through our sinuses and into our souls. Wow! Flushed, we listened
as Robbie sang an old Scottish drinking song, ending with Slainte
mhath, a Gaelic wish for good health (SLANJ-jayvah).
Robbie kept weaving his magic spell as we tasted Laphroaigs
offerings, smelling, rubbing, and finally drinking each. His singing
seemed to improve after each dram went down our throats. Imagine
that. Was it his voice or was it the single malt? Finally at the blurry
end, he said something that we would remember for the rest of our
lives, Quid est veritas?
Like a clairvoyant, Robbie stared into our eyes and spoke, In
the movie, Passion of the Christ, the Roman governor Pontius Pilate
worried about what to do with Jesus of Nazareth, presented to him
by the local hierarchy for the crime of blasphemy. Vexed, he
consulted his wife Claudia who advised him that Jesus taught the
truth. His reply to Claudia was simply, Quid est veritas, Claudia?
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Translated from Latin What is truth? At that, Robbie stared at us,

winked, and quietly left the room. Our appetites whetted, we delved
into his riddle.
Donald ventured that veritas had to be found in the grand game
of golf. He had seen the legendary Seve Ballesteros play and wiggle
his way out of trouble and into the winners circle with the effortless
grace of a master thief. Surely, veritas comes when you play on a
difficult course in a prestigious tournament and, when the pressure
mounts in the last few holes, you play your best. Donalds words
made us think he had been there. Caballo and Guapo nodded in
respect. Grahame, the young Glaswegian, had another drink and the
Swedish banker agreed, as any good banker would.
It was little wonder that feisty Karen challenged him. Donald,
you golfers think you are athletes. But, I ask you, where is the
athleticism in riding in an electric buggy for a few miles, getting out
only to swat a little white ball? Karen glared as she explained the
rigors of a marathon. We run marathons because we want to test
not only our physical stamina but our mental strength, especially in
the last five miles. Ive watched golf tournaments on TV where two
players take well over four hours to finish. Crikey, I can run a 26mile marathon in less time than that. Quid est veritas?
Caballo nodded in respect. Guapo and Grahame had another
drink and, as you have guessed by now, the Swedish banker
concurred. Following the current recessional swamp, bankers avoid
risk and dislike dissension, something that Gustav had figured out.
Au contraire, Donald-the-golfer blurted out, Lassie, wheres
the pressure in running down the street? You put one foot in front of
the other and move. How hard is that? Let me see you make a sixfoot putt when it counts, Karen.
To which she countered, Run a mile with me, Donald. All you
have to do is keep up with me. Karen chuckled, gazing at the belly
that extruded over his belt buckle.
The elderly Caballo, both golfer and runner, tried to soothe
these adversaries, Yes, Donald, there is probably more mental
pressure in golf. Sometimes golf puts you in a headlock: you have
lots of time to think about a shot and lots of time to worry about its
outcome, about what it means, about what might happen if you win
or if you lose. But give Karen her due. Running 26 miles in
under four hours requires ultimate fitness, something golf does not
require. My guess is that most overweight golfers trying to complete
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a marathon would drop to their knees, either exhausted or dead. And

most marathoners playing golf would drop dead from boredom,
waiting forever to take the next shot.
So that brings up an interesting question, my amigos, Caballo
continued, making no pretense about his expertise in both sports.
Can someone excel at both golf and marathon running? Is that
where we would find veritas? Or does Islay hold the answer to
Robbies question? Will we find it in one of her eight distilleries? At
that last query, Guapo, Grahame, and the banker all raised their glasses
and gave a mighty, Hell, yes, we will.
Karen wondered, out loud, why a runner would want to play
golf, especially in Islays early spring weather well known for its
wind, rain, and cold. Or, for that matter, why would a runner want to
play golf at all? But, having run races in agonizingly inclement
conditions, she looked at extreme heat or cold as a challenge.
Weather in Scotland can display four seasons in one day, as Scots
admit unapologetically.
Donald agreed that Scottish weather could be as fickle as his
girlfriends heart and confessed that he had played golf in the best
and the worst of it the weather, that is. But he couldnt understand
why on earth a golfer would want to run 26.2 miles. Even though
most Scots walk when they play golf, the worldwide trend is to ride
in a buggy. Me, I laid low and listened, trying to make sense of this.
We all wondered: Can a man or a woman be both a good golfer
and run marathons? Is this how we can discover veritas? Or is the
answer hidden somewhere on the isle itself, an island with roots that
stretch back to the Stone Age? Donald and Karen glared at each other,
both highly skilled in their sport, but, after a few more drams, they
mellowed and grinned like two Cheshire cats. Ah, the magic of whisky.
Caballo again queried, Quid est veritas?
The Swede, in polished eloquence, explained that veritas might
be what some want to disguise. For the Pied Pipers of the financial
world the Bernie Madoffs and R. Allen Stanfords veritas
differed dramatically from what their trusting clients thought veritas
to be. Gustav, too, wondered if someone could compete both in a
golf tournament and in a marathon. His suggestion for a cross
country skiing competition fell on deaf ears since Islay doesnt get a
lot of snow.
Grahame and El Guapo muttered to each other. Then, as if a
light bulb went off in his brain, Guapo exclaimed, Islay has eight
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single malt distilleries and Jura has one. I suggest we visit each one
to search for veritas. Each offers daily tasting sessions, perhaps not
the best way to prepare for a marathon but no worse than
overtraining. Maybe well find veritas in the water of life. Nourish
your imagination and, of course, your palate.
To which, Grahame raised his glass and shouted to us all,
Slainte mhath. We toasted him back. Not a bad idea, I thought.
About that time, Robbie returned and listened to our rants on
golf, whisky, running, and searching for truth. He assured us that we
would find veritas on Islay either on the isle itself in its Stone
Age forts, monastic ruins, medieval castles, at one of its distilleries,
on one of its secluded beaches, or perhaps on its golf links. Robbie
was also a master of the tourist trade. He was selling Islay.
Then Caballos eyes lit up. He proposed that we search for
veritas in a dual competition, The Lords of the Isles Challenge the
name emerged magically a two-sport contest to see who could
have the best combined finish in the golf tournament and in the
marathon. Stunned, we mulled this over, hoping that another dram
would make his idea more attractive. How does the Queen of the
Hebrides Open sound? How about Islays Single Malt Marathon?
Caballos creative juices flowed like lava down Mt. Vesuvius. Still,
it seemed to verge on the ridiculous.
Robbie liked this idea, something of a triathlon: a round of
medal golf, a 26.2 mile footrace, and a stint of single malt drinking.
He also reasoned that this would help the local economy in April, not
the most popular time to visit Islay. Weve never had a marathon here,
lads. Its bound to draw tourists.
We sat around the table and swallowed more of Laphroaigs
liquid heat and thought about the challenge. It cant appeal to many,
we thought. Only a select few. The irrepressible Caballo smiled. I
thought his idea had merit but the rest werent so sure.
Donald speculated that he might try the marathon, although his
plump belly meant he needed serious training. He knew damn well
he had a good chance to win in the golf tournament with his
experience of playing countless rounds of links golf and he assumed
it would be easier for him to run the marathon than for a runner to
tackle links golf, especially on the Machrie, Islays crown jewel. His
competitive fires had been stoked.
Glimmering with enthusiasm, athletic Karen thought the
marathon was a splendid idea, Runners love an inaugural marathon
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and will endure heartless wind and bone-chilling rain if thats

what it takes. But I wonder if I could hit that little white ball. I tried
golf when I was young but gave it up. Not the easiest sport. She
also wanted adjustments for sex and age to which we all agreed.
Karen could be persuasive.
Not breaking a sweat despite having drained a dozen vials of
Laphroaigs finest, El Guapo, the Swede, and Grahame thought
theyd try the golf part of the challenge but would be content to sip
their whisky while being spectators and volunteering at the finish
line: every marathon needs fans and volunteers. On second thought,
Guapo announced, we single malt connoisseurs might be tempted
after a breakfast of single malt we might even enter the race or at
least show up at the start. How far wed get is anybodys guess. And,
all else failing, we could cheer on the real runners. Grahame and the
Swede toasted to that. Caballo had a personal chat with each one, trying
to find their hot buttons. I took more notes.
By now everyone was convinced that wed find veritas here. And
so Caballo, the wily one, resolved to ask his friend, Malcolm, a proud
Ileach (Islay born and raised), to look into coordinating both the golf
and the marathon for the inaugural Lords of the Isles Challenge.
Malcolm agreed to start the ball rolling.
And that, dear reader, happened in 2011. The seeds had been
sown. The Lords of the Isles Challenge had been issued. Caballo and
Guapo couldnt wait. I had doubts but was willing to give it a try.
Whats to lose except some pride, I reasoned. Karen said she was
going to learn golf. Donald planned to lose weight and start jogging.
Grahame and the banker, well, they purchased more whisky and
didnt make any promises. All of us wondered if we would find the
answer to Robbies burning question, Quid est veritas? We finished
our tasting, vowing to return in three years, prepared to do battle.
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TWO
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The Players
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Oh! Conall, said the king, thou art full of words. Thou hast
freed the soul of thy son with thy tale. Conall Cra Bhuidhe, a
Gaelic highland story as told by James Wilson, a blind fiddler
from Islay.
From Popular Tales of the West Highlands, Volume One. Compiled

by J.F. Campbell. Published in 1890.
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lmost a century after Campbell published his volume on

the folktales of the Highlanders, Caballo travelled to
Scotland and Ireland in 1989 harboring the notion that
the Irish were fun-loving and the Scots were dour and stingy. Not
true, he discovered. His Irish heritage made him feel empathy with
Eire as its people struggled to regain their island. He could sense
angst in the country. But a bigger surprise came in Scotland; he had
never met a people so gentle and so generous. That trip which
included visits to the courses of St. Andrews, Carnoustie, Prestwick,
Gleneagles, Muirfield, and Turnberry left him with Scottish friends
and an unrelenting thirst for links golf.
To quench that thirst meant that he must someday play Islays
Machrie, a links featuring 15 blind shots in 18 holes. Some of the allure
came from the remoteness of the course on an island accessible only
by airplane a 45-minute puddle jumper from Glasgow or a twohour ferry ride from Kennacraig, a port tucked away on the western
shore of the Kintyre peninsula.
But the real stimulus to play golf on the Machrie came when
Caballo listened to a mainland Scot enthusiastically recalling a
holiday trip. He and his pals stayed in the Machrie Hotel, adjacent to
the course, and played two rounds a day wearing their
waterproofs in driving wind and rain. Being a novice in Scottish
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golf at that time, Caballo wondered what would prompt anyone to play
36 holes a day, for two days, in horrendous weather. Must be a
remarkable course, he figured. The seed was sown. Come hell or high
water, Caballo would play the Machrie someday.
That day arrived in May of 2011. After dozens of trips that
included playing on over 300 courses in the U.K. and Eire, Caballo was
fired up, feeling the fervor that enthralled him on that first trip. Like a
drooling ten-year-old with a pocketful of money in a candy store, our
boy was ready for a dream come true.
Thats when I met him El Caballo Blanco on a Caledonian
MacBrayne ferry, steaming towards Islay. With two hours to kill, he
told me his story. In his early days, the White Horse was merely a
recreational golfer no high school or college golf and, in his 20s,
motivated by Dr. Ken Coopers Aerobics, he took up jogging, figuring
running might replace the need for costly life insurance. Explanation:
joggers jog to take off pounds while runners run to take off minutes.
Caballo was a jogger. He eventually married, started a business, and
raised five children in suburbia. But the free spirit that haunts so many
of us lurked inside his soul, unfulfilled.
Caledonian MacBrayne ferry
As his children grew older and he transitioned into his senior

years, his golf game improved as his time for practice increased,
helping him win tournaments and qualify for USGA championships,
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the Holy Grail among serious amateur golfers. Life was good for
Caballo: his youngest nearly out of high school, two of the
ducklings in college, and two delightfully on their own. The epic
struggle of raising teenagers had almost ended. There were only two
noticeable problems his bulging 36-inch waist and his
embarrassingly tight pants. He was more than pleasantly plump. He
was obese. Welcome to the club.
So, in January of 2005, Caballos New Years resolution
included tackling something on his bucket list running a marathon.
OK, a 26.2 mile footrace doesnt appear on most folks bucket list
but it had been on his for many years. In fact, 15 years earlier when
he tried to prepare for one, he became injured in training and
decided his body was ill-designed for such a test. Bucket list or not,
he reasoned that he wouldnt have to purchase a new wardrobe if he
could run a marathon. Caballo was frugal.
Six months later, after finishing his first marathon with all body
parts still working, he was hooked. Weight dropped and energy levels
soared. He felt young again. His pants fit. Hopelessly captivated by his
new passion, he ran another marathon in October and did so well that
he qualified for the Boston Marathon, the Mecca for marathon runners.
Life was great. Then his world crashed.
His wife of 33 years, mother and nurturer of their children,
received the death sentence of terminal cancer a painful type that
attacked with vengeance. During those last 14 months of her life,
Caballo kept his spirit alive by running marathons an obsession
that saved his life. Perhaps the grueling struggle of the marathon and
the ecstasy of crossing the finish line dulled the pain of seeing his
wifes daily suffering. Playing golf did not help and his desire to
compete in golf events plummeted: the game seemed
inconsequential. Golfers need a strong fire in their hearts for
competitions. And Caballos fire for golf had died. But running,
especially running marathons, was different. It kept his fire burning.
Years passed and Caballo remarried, starting the second chapter
of his life, thanks to a patient, supporting soulmate who tolerated his
running and even encouraged him to return to serious golf. And so
he did, winning, but not at the same level Caballos best days in
golf were behind him. Maybe a trip to Islay would restart his engine.
Hell, we were lucky to reach the island on that trip, let alone
play golf on it. A few days earlier the gales emerged winds of 80
to 120 mph strong enough to cancel Islays ferries and strand us in
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Campbeltown. Winds so powerful that they doused Campbeltowns

electricity for an afternoon. Highlanders are used to dealing with
gales. Americans are not.
The next morning, despite high winds, the ferry resumed, safely
carrying us to Islay where we sped to Machrie links to meet Malcolm,
our consummate Scottish host. This cheerful fellow not only treated us
to golf but arranged a tasting at an award-winning single malt whisky
distillery. On top of that, Malcolm agreed to play five holes with us
before he had to leave for work.
There we stood on the first tee, a chip shot from the old hotel, a
white stucco structure in need of major repair, a shell of its former self.
The wind roared, intimidating us and making us question our sanity.
We also questioned Caballo, he who led us here and who now had
trouble standing, preparing to hit, as gusts whipped his Gore-Tex pants,
highlighting his slender running legs. Ignoring our chuckling and in the
face of the 50-mph semi-gale, he managed to make contact, advancing
the ball a whopping 180 yards down the fairway. Even the touring pros
dont play in wind this tough.
The match was set: Malcolm and Guapo would take on Caballo
and me for five holes. Guapo, Im sure, would rather have toured a
distillery, a sensible idea at the time. But these links, sacred to the
golfing connoisseur, were the reason for the trip and Caballo quickly
reminded us that the choppy ferry ride, the distilleries, the wonderful
Scottish people, their castles, and their food were secondary to our
main purpose testing our games on the Machrie. Were not here to
have fun; were here to play golf, Caballo barked. So we struck off
down the windswept fairway.
A subtle rise hid the first green and its pot bunker, making the
approach a blind one. Welcome to the Machrie, I thought. In these
conditions Caballos bogey seemed like a par and Malcolms par
seemed like a birdie. One down. The second, a new hole, revised by
Donald Steel 30 years ago, bordered a burn as it doglegged around a
farmers field, blending in well with the original 1891 layout. By the
time we reached the fourth green, high on a hill, a hailstorm erupted,
pelting us with tiny ice bombs.
And, it was there, on that hilltop, that a formerly staid and proper
citizen adopted the nickname, Caballo Blanco. Imagine it: howling
blasts strong enough to bend iron flagsticks sideways, ice pellets
stinging your cheeks, cold cutting through your skin. Suddenly Caballo
had his epiphany the name dropped on him like a bolt from the sky.
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As he announced this heavenly revelation to his playing partners, I

challenged him, Who in the hell is Caballo Blanco? With a windchill hovering somewhere close to freezing, we werent in the mood for
any philosophical meanderings. Movement meant warmth. No time for
needless delays. As we walked, we listened to Caballos narrative.
Our friend, standing on Machries fourth green, was not your
average runner. He was a marathoner. He explained that years ago he
had read about the life of the American long distance runner, Micah
True, the original Caballo Blanco. Yes, Micah was a legitimate free
spirit, working odd jobs in Colorado summers and spending winters in
northwest Mexico, an area known as the Copper Canyons, remote and
barren. What drew him to this no-mans-land was an ancient Indian
tribe called the Tarahumara, or the Ramamuri, which means running
people. Wearing crude sandals made from old car tires lashed with
leather thongs, the Tarahumaras run and run and run. They run miles to
see relatives. They run to the next village, often more than 20 miles
away. They run to get their mail; the nearest post office does not
deliver. When you dont have cars or even roads to drive them on, you
use the old-fashioned shoe express. When you dont have money to
buy shoes or stores to buy them in, you make your running shoes out of
old car tires.
Micah wasnt tied down by a marriage and children; he was free to
run ultramarathons, races longer than 26 miles often 50 or 100 miles.
So, listening to inner voices, he found these canyons and he met the
running people. He came in good faith and made friends with these
reclusive Indians who named him the white horse after his long,
blond hair. Caballo learned about life from this tribe and adopted their
ways, leaving only in the summertime to earn enough money in
Colorado to get him through winters in Mexico.
Gradually he became so attached to the Tarahumaras that he
staged an ultramarathon, with the intent of raising money for the tribe
a thoughtful gesture and helpful, especially in lean growing seasons.
Caballo invited elite American ultramarathoners, whose reputation
enticed others to come, making the race a success and giving the
Indians additional prosperity. Their history fascinated him. First came
persecution by the Spanish, then by religious leaders trying to convert
them, and then by Mexican farmers. Now the drug traficantes,
bandits that shoot first and ask questions later, are the latest scourge to
threaten them. Will the Tarahumaras survive and maintain their
culture? Only time will tell.
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Sadly Micah did not survive. In March of 2012 he died at 58,

about a year after our golfer-runner adopted the same nickname.
Naturally, the newly-named Caballo was shocked and saddened. Why
had he chosen this name? Was he attracted by Caballos benevolence
towards the indigent Tarahumaras or by his life as a free spirit? Dont
we all have a free spirit inside us? Maybe it was because his pal and
classmate already had a catchy nickname El Guapo. Who knows
why? It just happened. Anyway, the new Caballo was determined to
give back to the people of Scotland for the many times they had
received him so generously. And what better place to give it back than
on Islay.
But does Islay need help? True, with its paved roads, the Internet,
two seaports, distilleries, farming, a timeless golf course, and even a
small airport, Islay is centuries ahead of the Tarahumaras. But, like the
rest of Europe, Islay and nearby Jura are still mired in recession. More
troubling is the huge population loss on Islay down from 15,000 in
the 1800s to about 3,200 today. Neighboring Jura fares worse with her
200 residents living under the threat of their island being closed down.
Deer, outnumbering people, would take over.
Islays whisky industry fluctuates with the prosperity of
consumers and with the whims of the corporate world. In 2014 the
Japanese conglomerate Suntory bought Jim Beam, the owner of one of
Islays distilleries, Laphroaig. Will the Ileachs jobs, the few that
distilleries provide on the island, be safe? Another economic question
involves tourism, which blossoms from May through August, the
months that offer Islays warmest weather. Outside of those four
months Islay tourism declines. And so, Caballo hoped that The Lords of
the Isles Challenge would help fill hotel beds and restaurants in April, a
month when theyre mostly vacant.
Our other Yank, El Guapo, Spanish for the handsome one, a
nickname he not-so-modestly chose for his sons-in-law to call him, was
a university classmate of Caballo. They shared another similarity
wives with incurable cancer. Caballos died. But Guapos wife
survived, undergoing years of sophisticated and costly medical
treatment and many anxious moments. Guapo stood proudly beside her
throughout this ordeal, suffering a heart ailment of his own along the
way. Nothing was more important to him than his wife and children.
Single malt, golf, and his profession helped him not necessarily in
that order.
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In 1993 Caballo took Guapo on his first foray to the Highlands

of Scotland a whirlwind tour that included playing a mindblowing 21 courses in 10 days. But 20 years ago they were younger,
had more stamina, and had much less common sense. On one of
their side trips, they visited the Glenmorangie distillery, an
experience that convinced Guapo that single malt scotch was indeed
the water of life. Enamored by this magic nectar, he became a
connoisseur of Glenmorangie as he continued his life journey,
drifting through a grisly divorce, entering wedlock again, and
fathering two sons, complementing his three daughters from his first
marriage. Life was good until the cancer hit. And then, after
years of helping his longsuffering wife deal with cancer, Guapo
made the pilgrimage with Caballo to Islay in 2011 and likewise fell
in love with the island, its golf, its people, and its single malt.
Their infatuation with Islay started with Malcolm, a member of
the Machrie Golf Club, who befriended them like a brother and
encouraged them to return. Would they have returned, were it not
for Malcolms kindness? I doubt it.
It was here during Feis Ile 2011, Islays annual festival of
Gaelic song and dance a week now crammed with whisky lovers
that we met Robbie and the other characters in this story. I
remember them well.
Donald, the 50-year-old scratch golfer, wouldnt have let a little
gale bother him. Blond-haired and brown-eyed, he looked like a
middle-aged Johnny Miller and sounded like Sean Connery. A club
champion of a golf club near Glasgow, he knew how to play golf in
the wind and, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, this bulldog
didnt back down from anyone. But, as he aged, his days of golf
supremacy dwindled. He struggled with a beer belly that got larger
each winter, zapping the energy of his youth. In his younger days,
walking 36 holes a day was nothing. Today, a mere round of 18 holes
takes a lot out of him. Would this trip to Islay rekindle his competitive
fire? What called him here?
Grahame, the young man from Glasgow, had dedicated his life
to his job and to his hobby of being a single malt aficionado.
Blindfolded, he could guess a spirit correctly. Incredible taste buds.
Nor will I forget his face: chubby cheeks hid his black eyebrows and
dark eyes, his silvery-black goatee partially covered a flabby double
chin, and two gleaming silver earrings proved he was still young.
Wisps of premature gray stood out on his head of tightly-cut black
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hair. A tech genius, he loved his work but he knew something was
missing. People. Lacking self-confidence with the opposite sex, he
gave up dating and abandoned his body to eating and drinking.
Now, 100 pounds overweight, he struggled with high blood
pressure. His doctor told him diabetes was next. He was lonely,
something even the Internet couldnt fix: he assumed no one would
want to date a 300-pound hippo. Maybe he would find his answers
here. Maybe in a distillery. Maybe during the marathon. Maybe not.
Gustav, the tall, well-dressed Swede, he of the quiet look of
affluence that came naturally with the distinction of being a highpowered banking executive, had the hallmark blue eyes and blond
hair of Scandinavian stock. Take off his thick bifocals and youd
feel his sparkling eyes penetrate your soul. His shy smile and
calming, undemanding voice were even more arresting. But Gustav
wasnt much of a golfer nor was he a runner. Beleaguered by the
many financial challenges caused by the crash of 2008-2009, he
now put in 12-hour days sometimes six, seven days a week. Work
all day, come home, have a drink, and go to bed. No time to
exercise. Gaining too much weight. Hardly any time for himself.
Depressed, he came to Islay on holiday, searching, and hoping that
hed find the key to a fresh start.
Karen, on the other hand, exuded health. I noticed her eyes,
highlighted by pale blue eyeshadow that flashed with happiness,
evidence that she was comfortable in her life: a husband, two
children, her running, and a job she loved. Her brown hair bound in
pigtails accented her heart-shaped face, reminding me of a cherub, and
her impish smile told me she was confident. A runner in high school
and in college, she had considered a career in the sport but the
profession of nursing made a stronger bid she enjoyed helping others.
But how could she squeeze golf in to her busy life? Working at the
hospital, spending precious time with her husband and children, and
finding an hour to run each day was all she could handle, she thought.
But maybe not. And, being a competitor and champion for womens
rights, she wanted to rise to the Islay challenge. But could she?
Yes, they all were searching for truth in their lives. Why was
life so hard sometimes? Why cancer? Why depression? Quid est
veritas? Where are the answers? Would they find them on Islay? As
they listened to the sirens song, Ceud Mle Filte, Gaelic for a
hundred thousand welcomes, our players felt certain Islay would
answer their questions.
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Bitter is the wind this night

Which tosses up the oceans hair so white.
Merciless men I need not fear
Who cross from Lothland on an ocean clear.
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Written by an Irish monk in the early ninth century in hopes that

rough seas would thwart Viking invasions.
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aballo spent hours, days, months significant pieces of his

life in 2011, 2012, and 2013 in his quest to learn about the
history and traditions of the people of Islay. He read books.
He subscribed to the islands newspaper. He searched the Internet. He
looked at other April marathons in the U.K. and Ireland: there werent
many and most sold out quickly. One by one, the pieces fell into place:
the challenge, the marathon, and the golf.
From the start, he had not intended to organize these events but,
for a number of reasons, our man had no choice but to be in charge.
Golf was the first to land in his lap. No sweat, Caballo reasoned small
golf tournaments arent difficult to handle. Hed played in plenty; he
knew the rules; and he doubted that more than a dozen would enter
since these golfers would also have to run the marathon. He wondered
if even this many would be willing, or able, to do both. On the other
hand, runners could enter only the marathon without having to deal
with golf. If so, they would be eligible for only marathon awards.
Either way, the numbers would be small for the inaugural
challenge but, if done well, the event would grow. And, as long as
someone else would take care of the marathon, Caballo would be
comfortable with the golf part. And, as luck came his way, a local
runner on Islay said hed help with the marathon and suggested a route
that stretched around Loch Indaal from the tiny village of
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Portnahaven, through whitewashed hamlets, ending in Port Ellen,

another town on the waters edge. How incredibly scenic, Caballo
thought.
With the help of his computer-genius son Rob, he set up a website
for the events, anticipating success, though nothing had been
formalized. So, early in 2013 Caballo made airline reservations to visit
Islay in the autumn for several reasons: to check on local support, to
meet the local runner-marathon director, and to meet seasoned Ileachs,
ones with lives touched by Islays colorful history.
Now it was Thursday morning in early October and he reached the
island barely quickly discovering why locals call FlyBe, the
Glasgow-to-Islay airline, Fly Maybe. Arriving in Glasgow two hours
late on US Airways, Caballo sprinted to the FlyBe counter, hoping to
reschedule for the afternoon flight, only to learn that the morning one
had been delayed. The 25-mph wind wasnt the problem. The island
was fogged in. What happy news! If Caballo had missed the morning
flight, he might not have been able to catch the only other one offered
late in the afternoon. That would have meant staying overnight in
Glasgow and missing Fridays crucial meetings. Yes, the Islay fog
came in handy.
After a few hours, the plane left and was able to maneuver below
the clouds to land. Being several hours late didnt matter. He made it on
Thursday and wouldnt have to cancel Fridays busy plans for
sponsorships. Malcolm met him at the airport and extended Islay
hospitality once more, lending his car for a few days. After that Caballo
rented one at Islay Car Hire, located in the airport.
Overall, his six-day trip was successful. Managers of two facilities
agreed to accept revenue from golf and marathon entry fees in
exchange for volunteers, although one of them was skeptical about
staging a marathon. The manager wasnt a runner and had visions of
hundreds of entrants. Caballo knew, the first time around, the Islay
marathon would draw small numbers and be fairly easy to manage.
Caballo also drummed up sponsors, not a difficult task for him
since he had founded a 5K race back home that once attracted over 700
and was supported by dozens of sponsors. Enthusiasm sells, something
he learned from Jim Barnett, the race director of the highly-rated Akron
marathon. After a few days, Caballo got his sponsors.
However the days passed quickly and he didnt get a chance to
meet the local runner who had supported the marathon idea over the
past two years, nor did he meet Brian Palmer, the cyclist, webmaster
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and IT wizard at the local newspaper. Brian, originally from England,

lived and breathed Islay. Caballo also missed meeting Lord George
Robertson, the Ileach who rose to be Secretary General of NATO. Of
course, Lord George is hard for anyone to meet.
However, he did encounter a few islanders with flairs of their own.
He met one while hiking up a hill above Loch Finlaggan, the former
seat of the Lords of the Isles. Pausing next to an ancient standing stone,
a giant gray paddle protruding from the grass, he daydreamed about
these Scottish islands called the Hebrides. The Greeks called them
Hyperborean, the mythical lands up north but to the Romans they were
merely a part of Caledonia, the name they gave to Scotland, although
Pliny the Elder called them Hebudes. Later, the invading Norsemen
called them Havbredes, isles on the edge of the sea. As Caballo mulled
over these musings, deep in thought about this land of mystery, he was
startled by an old man who appeared out of nowhere. His reddish face
wrinkled by years of buffeting by Atlantic winds, he smoked a pipe and
looked like the wisdom of ages. Dressed in a weathered black fleece
jacket, dark blue pants and Army-green Wellingtons, a brown plaid cap
pulled down over his trimmed white hair, the man smiled as Caballo
emerged from his dreams.
Alasdair at Finlaggan
Visiting our island, lad? For a minute of silence they stared

out into the fields together.
Yes, Caballo replied, I wanted to soak in the history Ive
read about.
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The old man, an Ileach of 95 years, with roots stretching back to the
1600s, introduced himself as Alasdair Macdonald. Means defender of
mankind, my name does, though Im not sure Ive lived up to it.
Caballo wondered aloud if Alasdair could unlock quid est veritas.
If youve got time, lad, Ill tell you about this place and maybe I
can answer your question. Mystery shrouds Islay.
Caballo, he who always tried to cheat time by cramming more into
each minute than would reasonably fit, finally realized that he should
slow down. Yes, Alasdair, Ive got plenty of time. Tell me your story.
Smiling, he began, This stone dates, as do the other monoliths
scattered around our shores, to the stone ages. Finlaggans burial
chambers the ones on the tiny island in the distance also testify to an
ancient settlement here, probably about 3,000 BC, the same time as when
the Stonehenge circle was built in England. Archaeologists recently
discovered flint workshops older even than these burial chambers that
trace to an era when Mesolithic hunters roamed our land, making
arrowheads and other tools. These flints date to about 8,000 years ago.
Standing stone at Finlaggan
He rubbed his hand on the stone, covered with gray, green,

yellow, and brown patches of lichen large enough to resemble
the tail of a sperm whale about to submerge. We have other ones
on our island a long, narrow one at Port Ellen and another one at
Claggan Bay. The stone at Scarrabus farm is rugged, and the one at
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Uiskentuie lies on an ancient raised beach. My favorite is the tall

one at Ballinaby that guards acres of sheep and pasture. Lots of
standing stones on our island, laddie. Theyve seen a lot in their
time, those stones have.
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Caballo I like your name by the way Im old. My kids

are tired of listening to me and my grandkids think I should be
six feet under by now. But you seem interested. So Ill keep
going. You need to know where we Ileachs come from, whats
really inside us.
Alasdair continued, Centuries passed and generations
endured Islays winds and rain. Mighty Roman legions conquered
the land now known as England but, accustomed to warm
summers and mild winters on the Italian peninsula, they seldom
ventured into chilly Scotland. In the year 82 AD, about 130 years
after Julius Caesar first invaded Britain, the Roman general
Agricola defeated Scottish tribes and came close to Islay when he
invaded Kintyre. Two years later he won campaigns in northern
Scotland, near present-day Inverness, which marked the end of
the Roman conquest of Scotland, a land they called Caledonia.
Alisdair delighted in watching the spellbound American
listen to his history lesson. In 117 AD when Emperor Hadrian
toured Britannia, a term the Romans used to describe England, he
became concerned about invasions from the northern tribes and
ordered a massive wall to be built for protection. This 72-mile
stone wall, begun in 122 AD and finished six years later,
stretched from east to west across northern England another
marvel of Roman engineering. Hadrian appointed Aulus Platorius
Nepos as governor to undertake this work and, for protection,
Aulus brought the Sixth Victrix legion with him from Lower
Germany, which replaced the famous Ninth Hispana legion,
whose disappearance is still questioned.
Did the Picts defeat a mighty Roman legion? Caballo
asked. He referred to The Eagle, a movie that tells the tale of a
young Roman centurion searching for a lost legion that his father
had commanded in northern Scotland.
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On reflection the old man went on, Aye, maybe so, but
those Picts just as nasty as our weather proved troublesome
for Romes well-trained soldiers, who became content to stay
behind Hadrians Wall. Our forefathers, the tribes of the north,
had succeeded in defending their land.
After Hadrian, Emperor Antonius Pius ventured further
northward and built another long wall about 100 miles north of
Hadrians wall. The next one, Marcus Aurelius, the philosopheremperor, retreated from this new wall and wisely kept his forces
behind Hadrians, unwilling to confront the Picts anymore. The
year was 164.
Over the next 200 years, Rome developed Britannia into a
thriving colony, supported by over 50,000 soldiers, many of
whom intermarried with local Britons, which produced a culture
based on Roman knowledge and customs. They built forts, roads,
aqueducts, public baths, and coliseums. They mined gold and
iron and traded with the continent but they never strayed north of
the great wall. These days, Caballo, every now and then a lucky
Englishman unearths a horde of Roman coins on his farm. Buried
them in the ground, the Romans did.
Meanwhile, the old Ileach continued, the Scoti as the
Irish were known and the Picts pestered the English coast with
raids on Roman villages. The tribes who lived on Islay may have
joined in these attacks, which intensified around 380, shortly
before the Roman withdrawal in 400. In one of these raids, Scoti
pirates captured a young 16-year-old Roman, whose father was a
deacon and whose grandfather was a priest. You know, Caballo,
in the early days of the church, priests could marry. This young
Roman, after being a slave in Ireland for six years, would have
great influence on both Ireland and Islay. His name was Patrick.
In those days Roman Christianity competed with many
pagan religions but Patricks faith blossomed in the six years he
served in slavery. After escaping and returning to his Roman
family in England, he became a priest and felt it was his mission
to bring his faith to Ireland, which he did during the first half of
the fifth century, by which time the Romans had abandoned
Britain due to military campaigns against Germanic hordes in
mainland Europe. As you know, St. Patrick is Irelands patron
saint.
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Irish Missionaries
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Caballo knew that the barbarian invasions spared Ireland, allowing

Christianity to flourish there, spawning monasteries that launched
missionary-sailors, such as Saints Brendan to Greenland and Iceland,
Columba to Islay and Iona, and Columban to mainland Europe. In
Ireland and the western isles of Scotland the monastery became the
centerpoint for villages and the abbot became its leader. Ireland kept
Christianity alive during these dark ages, he added.
Quite true, Caballo, Alasdair agreed, and let me tell you
about this ground where we stand. St. Findlugan, after whom this
site was named, established a monastery here. He was a disciple of
St. Columba. Yes, centuries ago monks lived, worked, and shaped
our culture on this very land where we stand now.
And please dont miss our magnificent Kildalton Cross on our
east coast. In the eighth century an unknown artist chiseled this
nine-foot high masterpiece out of bluestone the dense rock has
withstood twelve centuries of rain, gales, snow, and hail, a tribute to
its sculptor. Its the only complete Celtic cross that survives in
Scotland. Visit it its not far from here. You know, lad, nothings
far our islands only 25 miles long. And, if you have time, visit
our two other Celtic crosses at Kilnave and Kilchoman further
evidence of the Irish sailor-monks.
Celtic cross in Kildalton churchyard
23
Along with religion, the monks brought their Gaelic dialect to

Islay, although there may have been more Scoti peoples here at that
time than Picts. That was Islay from the fifth to the ninth century:
feudal kings and Christian monastic villages.
LY
The Vikings
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As Alasdair talked and Caballo listened, they walked down the

hill and past the museum, in the direction of the blue water, the
beginning of Loch Finlaggan. Alasdair cringed when he began to talk
about the Vikings, The scourge of Scandinavia arrived in 793 when
the Vikings attacked Lindisfarne, a monastery on an island off the
eastern coast of England. Two years later the Vikings murdered monks
and burned their monastery on Iona, a Scottish island north of here, one
that was considered the center of Christendom of the isles. These
successful raids opened the floodgates for the bloodthirsty warriors
from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway: their sophisticated weapons
gave them power to pillage, steal, rape, and murder.
At first, the raiders moved swiftly, content to plunder and
return to their homeland with treasure and captives. But not all raids
succeeded. Irish kings occasionally mobilized rapidly enough to
defeat these pagans. By the 830s the Vikings penetrated further
inland, using large fleets of ships to carry enough men to sack
monasteries and villages and, by the middle of the century, they had
established small kingdoms in Ireland, Scotland, and England.
According to monastic writings, the best historical narratives of that
era, after several generations, the blond-haired Norse and the darkhaired Scoti became one society, a Gaelic-Norse conglomeration,
which was governed by the Lords of the Isles, the masters of the sea
feared and respected by mainland Scots.
In fact, Dublin had become a Viking town but finally in 902
AD the Irish kings drove the Norsemen out of Ireland. Like the
Romans, the Vikings had trouble with the fierce Scoti and
accordingly turned their ships towards Iceland, Greenland, and
England.
And then, as if he had just hooked a ten-pound salmon and was
reeling it in, the old man continued without so much as a thought of
giving Caballo a chance to talk. The Norse left their legacy behind,
stamping our people with their sailing culture. Islay, Skye, and the
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other western isles have numerous settlements with Scandinavian

heritage. Names of our farms end in -bus, which is derived from the
Norse word for farm, bolstadr. Cornabus, for example. Other names
such as Oa, Octofad, Tormisdale, Ardtalla, Storakaig, and Rhuvaal
remind us of the Vikings.
The tenth century witnessed more invasions, more battles and
more intermarriage. These sailor-warriors had turned Ireland,
Scotland, and Wales into a sea-kingdom: he who had the mightiest
fleet became the ruler. By now the Scoti, their sailor-monks, the
Picts, and the Vikings had colonized Islay. Having established the
Gaelic language, they continued to mix blood with the Vikings,
many of whom, having converted to Christianity, were content to
live year-round in Islays more temperate climate rather than return
to their land of snow and cold. Yet, despite the efforts of the monks
to convert both sides to Christianity, combat between the Vikings
and Scoti-Picts continued into the 11th century. Ireland became
known as Hibernia or sometimes Scotia in Latin, the language used
by the scholar monks who recorded and copied extensively. They were
busy lads, those monks always writing. They gave the name Scotia
Minor to the Scoti-colonized area of northern Britannia, which
eventually shortened to Scotland. And so we became the Scots.
Viking grave on Islay
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The Warrior-Lords
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Wistfully, Alasdair continued, Now, Caballo, let me reminisce

about our greatest years when the Lords of the Isles ruled the sea
lanes. On Islay in January of 1156, our Gaelic-Norse people fought
the forces of the Viking chief Godfred, heir to the Isle of Man.
Historians recorded this as the Battle of the Epiphany, which took
place on the north coast of Islay. Somerled, Islays local warlord,
commanded an incredible force of 4,000 men in 80 ships, a number
perhaps exaggerated in the archives, against the Vikings. The
fighting lasted all night, with huge losses of lives and limbs on both
sides. Come morning, neither side could claim a victory; so the
leaders made peace and divvied up the lands. Godfred took Skye
and Man while our chieftain chose Islay, Jura, and Mull. Two years
later when he decisively defeated Godfred, Somerled became the
all-powerful Lord of the Isles. To further flex his muscles and
suspecting an attack from the Scottish king, Malcolm IV Somerled
led 160 ships to attack Glasgow in 1164 even though it cost him
his life. The lords fought side by side with their men in those days.
Grave slab of a Lord of the Isles, Kildalton

Our Somerled, half-Norse and half-Gaelic, sired many sons
who survived him and became Lords of the Isles, giving rise to the
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Clan Donald, Clan Dougall and Clan Ranald. These powerful

families held the power of western Scotland and ruled the seas. They
made laws, granted lands, made alliances but, most of all, they
intimidated the chieftains of Glasgow and Edinburgh. For hundreds
of years little Islay was home to the Lords of the Isles and here, right
here where we stand, is where the lords conducted their business.
Impressive was all Caballo could utter before Alasdair cut
him off.
Caballo, do you see that island over there? Its called Eilean
Mr, which means the large island. Its covered with ruins from the
13th century to the 16th century. Lots of buildings including a great
hall where the Lord of the Isles would entertain. You can walk there
when the tides out.
Just beyond that, can you see the little spit of land in the distance?
Thats Eilean na Comhairle, the ancient council island. Thats where
Reginald, son of Somerled, presided over the council meetings, taking
advice and making decisions. Reginald, one of the Lords of the Isles,
gave rise to the MacDonalds. I trace back to him.
Caballo finally managed to interject, Lets head down there,
Alasdair, and Ill try to imagine what life was like here a thousand
years ago.
Without hesitating, the elder resumed his lesson and led the
way across the wooden footbridge leading to Eilean Mr. But those
were the glory days, aye, they were. When the Lord of the Isles was
crowned, it was a remarkable ceremony. Visualize it, Caballo. Fix
your eyes on that wee island and go back in a time machine. The
Bishop of Argyll and seven priests usually attended, along with
chieftains of all the principal families. The lord stood on a square
stone seven or eight feet long that carried the imprint of a mans
foot. He placed his foot in the indentation, which meant that he
would walk in the footsteps and uprightness of his ancestors. His
regal garb, all in white, showed his innocence and purity of heart, in
hopes that he would lead his people well and maintain the Christian
religion pagan gods were still worshipped in those days. The
bishop placed a white rod in the Lords hand, indicating that he
should rule with power and justice, not with cruelty. He gave the
lord the sword of his ancestors, handed down from one generation to
the next, as a symbol of his duty to defend his realm against
aggressors, of which there were many. After the ceremony, the
bishop said Mass and the people prayed to god for blessings for
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their new ruler. Afterwards, the newly-crowned lord took them to

the great hall where he wined and dined them for a week. Must have
been something, eh?
EV
The great hall, Eilean Mr, Finlaggan
FO
Caballo nodded, gazing at Eilean Mr, hoping he would feel the

spirits of the ancient lords.
Yes, Caballo, we stand on hallowed ground. Finlaggan has
been occupied since early times, but it achieved most fame in the
14th and 15th centuries under the MacDonald Lords of the Isles. My
ancestors.
Caballo had not anticipated a history lesson but thanked him for
his time, finally summing up the courage to ask him, Quid est
veritas? At that, Alasdair gave a sly grin and returned to telling his
story.
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FOUR
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He either fears his fate too much

Or his deserts are small
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.
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Lairds of the Land
IE
Spoken by James Graham, chief of Clan Graham, the

Marquis of Montrose, as he led the Highlanders to victories in
1645 in Scotlands civil war. Three centuries later, General
Montgomery read this to his troops on the eve of the D-Day
invasion of Normandy, 1944.
FO
EV
aballo listened attentively to the professor of Islay but he

grew impatient. Alasdair, I love your brogue, but Im
mostly interested in my search for veritas. How much
longer? I have others I want to meet. Memories flashed back
immediately, reminding him of when his children, packed tightly in
the station wagon, asked the same question when on vacation and
heading to the beach, Are we there yet, dad?
Caballo, I hope youll pardon an old Scot for being long-winded,
but theres more to my story, which will make sense in the end.
Judging from your demeanor, I know youll find your answers on our
island. Humor me a while longer. Caballo nodded, impressed by how
someone his age remembered so many facts and dates.
These Gaelic-speaking people, the Western Highlanders,
centralized into families and communities that became known as
clans. Each adopted its own unique pattern of dress and political
allegiance. After Somerled, the first Lord of the Isles, died in 1164,
his descendants gave rise to the Clan Donald. In those days,
surnames didnt exist: you were Donald, son of Donald, son of
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Donald, son of Donald a very male-based nomenclature. Other

Islay clans arose and for 500 years they ruled the western seas.
As I mentioned earlier, in those days the grand council of
clans met at Finlaggan where we stand today as they dealt
land grants and titles, made trades and treaties, and discussed
strategies for ruling their sea-kingdom. Meanwhile, England was
growing into a formidable power and by late in the 13th century
the English King Edward I had built his iron ring, a circle of
massive stone castles around Wales to subjugate the Welsh and to
expand English rule. England was moving north.
You know, Caballo, we Ileachs are mixed breed Viking,
Irish, and Picts. Were a proud people and we dont like to lose
battles. Surely you remember the story of William Wallace, our
hero who rallied Scotland and defeated Edwards troops at
Stirling in 1297. Less than 20 years later we beat the English again,
this time at Bannockburn, even though our force was tiny, compared
to theirs. With 2,000 soldiers on horse and 16,000 on foot, Edward
II was determined to conquer Scotland for once and all.
As he re-created the battle, Alasdairs eyes lit up and his
cheeks turned rosy in the crisp island wind, Our leader, Robert
the Bruce, took a chance at the beginning of battle. He was riding
on his mount, not wearing armor and carrying only a battle axe.
A young English nobleman, armed with long lance, armor, and a
great steed, noticed the unprotected Bruce and made a charge as
the Scottish army watched, horrified. But the Bruce stood his
ground as the Englishman thundered towards him, and, at the
very last second, he turned sideways, rose up in his stirrups, and
swung his axe at the knight with such furor that it split his helmet
and head in two. Chastised by his commanders for this
recklessness, the Bruce expressed regret only that the blow had
broken the shaft of his axe. His troops, seeing this selfless
courage, became wildly inspired and charged into battle a fight
that ended the next day with a Scottish victory and over 11,000
dead English soldiers. That was in the summer of 1314.
Not quite like the movie, was it, Alasdair? Caballo finally
got a chance to comment, still wondering what this history lesson
had to do with his veritas riddle.
No, not exactly. But the movie was good, I must say. It
showed Scottish bravery and our desire for independence. And,
even though Islay was far from Bannockburn, Im sure that
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Ileachs fought on that ground. Anyway, for the next 300 years we
continued to rule the seas from our island. Yes, we feuded among
ourselves. Clan versus clan. Brother against brother. Must have
been that Viking blood in us.
In the centuries that followed, England matured and, with
the barons united, English rule extended not only on land but on
the seas as well. In fact, our nautical kingdom ended when James
I, King of Great Britain and Ireland, formerly James VI of
Scotland, issued an order to destroy our Dunyvaig Castle in 1614.
These days you can see the castles ruins on our southeastern
shore a stones throw from Lagavulin distillery.
We had been warring with Clan Maclean, those thieves who
stole our cattle on the Rhinns. The Campbells were our enemies
as well. Our constant feuding displeased the king, which is why
his ships blasted our castle for three days. She sat high on the
rocks, a proud fortress her walls eight feet thick although our
perpetual storms and gales were her best defense.
Dunyvaig Castle
The English began their barrage in February of the new

year. With our castle crumbling, the Macdonalds had no choice
but to flee and became hunted Highlanders. We moved on to
control Skye and Sleat but lost our island and, with that defeat,
Islays Lordship of the Isles ended.
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Alasdair cast his eyes down at the ground as a faint haar

blew in from the sea, covering the council island and then Eilean
Mr. Clan Campbell took over Islay and owned it from 1615 to
1847. Those Campbells didnt care about our island, just
themselves. Terrible times, they were. The native Macdonalds
were driven out and poor weather for decades meant crop failure
and widespread poverty. The Campbells lack of family wealth led
to Islays demise and many of the Campbells, either through
inexperience of youth or basic ineptitude, were poor businessmen.
One exception was Hugh Campbell who built the family mansion in
1677, called Islay House, a sprawling white baronial structure,
high on a hill overlooking Loch Indaal. Twenty-four bedrooms
and nine bathrooms. Servants quarters. Not bad, eh? Not far from
here either, Caballo. But now its a private home and open to the
public only occasionally. Sorry, old boy.
FO
EV
Alasdair continued, Hugh Campbell was the first real laird

of the island. Owned the whole thing, Hugh did. But he spent
much of his time at Cawdor, his ancestral estate in northern
Scotland, a castle reputed to be the inspiration for a play written
in 1606 by Shakespeare. You know the story of Macbeth, right?
Out, damned spot! out, I say! Caballo exclaimed, affirming
his love for the bard.
Well said, Caballo, but let me continue. The last of the
Campbells of Cawdor, John, inherited Islay and the colossal Islay
House when he was only two. By 1716, island rents were so far
behind, Islay was a mess: island-wide poverty, a growing unrest,
and failed crops. Food, imported from Ireland, barely kept the
commoners alive and, in the end, Hugh sold out to another
Campbell, one far wiser in the affairs of business. Daniel, by now
a wealthy Glasgow merchant, paid 12,000 for Islay and a part of
Jura. Shrewd fellow, he was. The year was 1726 about 50 years
before your colonies decided to rebel.
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Islay House, Bridgend
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In 1753, Daniel The Younger at 16 inherited his

grandfathers estates on Islay and built the town of Bowmore after
convincing islanders that moving to this new village would be
better for them. Of course, Daniels real motivation came from a
desire for privacy. Perhaps feeling guilty, he constructed a round
church in Bowmore, not square as originally intended with
separate halves for Gaelic-speaking and English-speaking people
but round so that the devil would have no corner to hide in, as the
legend goes. You cant miss the church, Caballo youll drive by it
on your way back to Port Ellen. So, yes, he built Bowmore and its
church but he was a spendthrift, incurring skyrocketing debt. With
his untimely death at 40, this bachelor-laird passed his 90,000
indebtedness to his brother, Walter Campbell in 1777.
A kings ransom in those days, Caballo ventured.
Aye, laddie, it was. But Walter was a good man, a lawyer, and
a smart businessman, saavy enough to provide a better work
environment for the Ileachs who came to respect him. Walter even
brought in several King George III cannons to defend his estate
against the likes of an American named John Paul Jones who sailed
into the Sound of Islay and captured the island ferry in 1778. Later,
in 1813, The True Blooded Yankee, a U.S. privateer, sailed into
Loch Indaal and raided 25 merchant ships docked there, making off
with about 40 million in todays money. Damn Americans!
Hold on, Alasdair. Yanks fought with Brits, side by side, in
two World Wars, Caballo countered.
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So you did. And well never forget it, lad. In fact, that
observation might unlock your veritas puzzle. Anyway, Walter died
in 1816 and his grandson, Walter Frederick, took over as laird of the
land. He was 18, awfully young to own an island, at that time home
to 15,000, five times our populace today. Most were peasants
scraping a living off the land, living in shanties and byres with their
animals, and dreaming of owning a cow one day. With frequent crop
failures, farmers couldnt pay rents. The lairds debt rose, though he
lived a life of luxury in Islay House. Sadly, evictions forced Ileachs
to leave their homeland and move to Canada and America. Islays
population began to decline.
Then, with the economy in full hemorrhage in 1845, the potato
blight hit, killing millions in Ireland and starving our islanders as
well. The laird owed so much money that by 1848 he went
bankrupt. Campbell debt had risen to an astonishing 815,000. And
then, my goodness, a commoner bought our island in 1853. James
Morrison, a self-educated gent and a self-made millionaire from
England, possessed that rare gift of turning everything he touched to
gold. It still fascinates me that, aside from a weeks stay at the
Bridgend Hotel in 1849, he never set foot on Islay again. The island
was merely an investment for him.
His son took over when he died in 1857 and Charles Morrison
immediately sought a return on capital by selling southern parts of
the island. Today the Morrison family remains the largest land
owner.
Those southern sections of Islay passed through various lairds,
Caballo, but I must tell you about one of them, Talbot Clifton, one
of the most unique individuals Ive ever met. In 1922 he purchased
the entire Kildalton Estate which included several distilleries, three
hotels and the golf course, the lovely Cairnmore House, and
extensive hunting grounds on the 54,000 acre parcel.
Talbots roots traced back to the 1600s when his ancestors
purchased vast lands north of Liverpool, England and eventually
built their famous home, Lytham Hall, in the mid-1700s. Talbot was
born there in 1868. His father died when Talbot was only 11 and,
when his grandfather died two years later, Talbot became head of
the family estate at the tender age of 13. English law dictated the
transfer of estates through male heirs, which meant his mother, who
didnt get along well with Talbot, had to bow to her son. She left,
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remarried, and Talbot was raised by his grandmother, Lady Eleanor

Cecily Clifton.
He attended Eton with other affluent young Englishmen and
moved on to Cambridge. But aristocratic education didnt satisfy
him. Essentially a free spirit and a rich one at that, he had a yen to
travel, which would be his real education. And, being one of the
wealthiest bachelors in the world, he became a one-man financial
stimulus, fueling the local economy wherever he went. Before he
turned 20, he had twice traveled around the world. One adventure
led to the next.
He played polo in Los Angeles, raced horses in steeplechases,
and reveled in Mexico. He learned the ways of the Wyoming
cowboys who were rugged men in the mid-1890s and, flush with
confidence, he traveled to Alaska and later to the Arctic Circle in
Canada. There he endured a frozen winter, living with Eskimos in
igloos, to hunt musk-ox. His mustache and beard froze solid. Had to
cut them off. Fingers froze, too, but he managed to keep them.
His wanderlust took him to remote regions in Siberia, Burma,
Malaysia, and Indonesia. Funds for these exotic trips came from his
family wealth. Money was never a problem for Talbot his Lytham
estate brought in cash from the rents of hundreds of tenant farmers.
He roamed wild frontiers from Tibet to Central Africa, determined
to make a man of himself in search of answers about life.
Reminds me of my own searching for veritas, Alasdair,
Caballo added.
Yes, lad, I understand, but pay attention to these clues Im
leaving. I never said your quest would be easy, did I? Back to
Talbot. He loved to hunt, you know, and his skill with weapons
often saved his hide on those daring expeditions. They even named
a Siberian ram after him, Cliftons Bighorn, Ovis canadensis
borealis, which he shot after weeks of trekking over frozen tundra
with natives. In fact, he told me that in 1901 when he was 33, he
served a most unusual Christmas dinner in Siberia: an appetizer of
soup and paws from a bear he killed and, for the main course,
roasted Ovis canadensis borealis, a species no sooner discovered
than eaten. Ever so thoughtful, Talbot donated a male ram to the
British Museum. For dessert, they feasted on woolly mammoth,
thanks to a German archaeologist, Professor Hertz, who had recently
excavated it from the permafrost. Ever taste anything 8,000 years
old, Caballo?
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Talbot in Siberia, 1901
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No, Alasdair, I cant say that I have, although some dinners

Ive had seemed that old.
Wait, Caballo, it gets better. On a trip to South America, he
learned that an Englishwoman, Violet Beauclerk, daughter of a
British diplomat, unable to continue riding her favorite horse, had it
shot since she couldnt bear the thought of someone else riding it.
Hearing that story, Talbot wanted to meet her, which he did in
Peru. Smitten, Talbot, the loner, bachelor still at 38, decided it was
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time to marry. The couple returned to London, got married, and

sailed away on their yacht, Maoona. Despite being a generous
benefactor to the towns of Lytham and St. Annes, Talbot preferred
to stay anywhere but at his sprawling Lytham Hall estate.
Violet bore Talbot five children rather quickly and entrusted
them to the care of servants. In 1911, five years after marriage, she
wrote a book about their travels to India, Burma, and the Far East
in search of wild orchids. Its hard to say which one was more
eccentric. Violet wanted to buy two African pygmies but was halted
by English law; so Talbot instead bought her an Icelandic pony that
shared the dining room with them each night.
Simply amazing, exclaimed Caballo, mesmerized by the old
mans narrative.
At the outbreak of World War I, they raced off to the war zone
in northern France where Talbot drove the wounded and the officers
around in several of his luxury cars that he brought across the
Channel. Next, under orders but still a civilian, he took his new
yacht, the White Eagle, up the Stornoway coast to patrol for German
U-boats. Later, he sailed to Ireland to police the Connemara
coastline, which he fell in love with. In fact, its pristine ruggedness
impressed him so much that he purchased Kylemore House. Money
was no object.
When the war ended, Talbot brought his family to live in
Connemara. But life was never simple. Soon, problems developed
with the local Sinn Fein troops who appropriated his favorite
Lanchester, which irritated him. Athough he generously offered a
Ford to the IRA to replace the Lanchester, Talbot couldnt make
them budge and, in a rage, he shot an IRA captain, forcing the
family to flee back to Lancashire where they required police
protection for a year.
It was around this time that Talbot fulfilled his dream of living
in the Scottish Highlands. In 1922 he bought the estate on Islay and
moved his family there. As Violet later remarked, it was the only
home where Talbot ever really found happiness. I hope that says
more about Islay than about Talbot, Caballo.
Indeed it does, Alasdair, indeed it does.
He loved to hunt our deer, our stags, which is when I first met
him, sometime in the mid-1920s, I think. He had just returned from
a trip across the middle of Africa and had brought back a black
servant from Chad whose name was Mohamed Noa. A few years
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later in early 1928, again leaving the children behind, Talbot and Violet
took Mohamed on an adventure to Timbuktu. I was always amazed that
he didnt want to take his children on his exotic travels. Maybe he
thought there was too much danger and there probably was.
Anyway, Talbot grew ill on this trek to Africa. It was hotter
than blazes; the journey was long; the transportation was primitive
by todays standards; and Talbot just wasnt his durable self. An
examination in a hospital in the Canary Islands revealed advanced
lung cancer. You see, Talbot always took three things with him on
his trips a copy of Shakespeare, his flute, and his pipe. He died
three weeks later, at age 60, and lies buried on the Kildalton estate,
which is owned by the Middletons these days. Violet wrote The
Book of Talbot, a fascinating look into his diary, his travels, and his
swashbuckling life. It won a literary award in 1933.
Funny thing, Caballo said, Talbot had a golf connection as
well. Years ago I played golf in north-western England with a
member who gave me his club history book. Talbot was in it. When
he was six, Talbot (officially John Talbot Clifton) laid the
foundation stone of the St. Annes Hotel in 1875. The locals wanted
to promote tourism.
Later a golf club formed and, showing their appreciation for
their generous benefactor, gave Talbot, only 21 at the time, honorary
presidency in 1890, a title he kept until his death in 1928. In 1892 he
donated a silver iron as a prize for a competition, which, to this day,
is the premier tournament in the club. And this is no ordinary golf
club, my friend. Royal Lytham and St. Annes is one of the elite few
to host the Open championship. Past champions at Lytham include
Gary Player, David Duval, Seve Ballesteros, and Tom Lehman.
Caballo mentioned that he would have loved to have met him.
Talbot had to be the most incredible chap you ever met, Alasdair.
Aye, Caballo, but we view him through rose-colored lenses:
Talbot passed his legacy of an unhappy childhood to his own
children. His profligate spending hurt family finances, a trait
acquired by his eldest son Harry, heir to the estate and a proverbial
international playboy, who sold Kildalton in pieces, eventually also
parting with the family estate at Lytham. According to Fiona
Middleton, Harry left the final fragments of his inheritance to a
fortune teller at the end of the Blackpool pier, which is an
amusement park near Lytham. Guess she told his fortune correctly.
Or her own.
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Estates and Trusts
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Alasdair lowered his voice and explained the final evolution of

Islay land ownership. His tenants loved Talbot, quirky as he was,
but, with his passing, so went the last laird of Islay. Islays lands are
chopped up today, owned by various families, trusts, charities, you
name it. We call these estates. Some estate owners have sold small
plots to common farmers, but thats rare. Still, if the laws allowed it
and if a tenant farmer could scrape together enough money, he could
buy his farm. The laws favor the estates; so most crofters struggle.
You see, Caballo, in using British trusts, landowners can pass
title from one generation to the next, which can continue for
centuries. So, unless our laws change, well never have land
ownership like you do in America. Our Ileachs will continue to farm
on estate lands and hope for the best. My grandchildren have left the
island. Some to Europe and some to North America. Jobs, you
know, are scarce on Islay.
But one of our own did well. George Islay MacNeill
Robertson was born on the first floor of the Port Ellen police
building in 1946. His father, a policeman, hoping to brand him an
Ileach forever, named him after the island. After growing up on
Islay, he worked in the labor unions, rising to Labour MP for
Hamilton in mainland Scotland and in 1999 our own George
became the 10th Secretary General of NATO. How about that,
Caballo? Hes now Lord George Robertson of Port Ellen and spends
time quietly here when he visits. Hell always be an Ileach and he
plays golf on the Machrie. He has been awarded 12 honorary
doctorates and America gave him their prestigious Presidential
Medal of Freedom. Were proud of our boy.
Caballo thought about the old mans stories about Robertson
and Clifton and asked him again, Quid est veritas? Do you think
they found it on Islay, Alasdair?
Well, Lord Robertson returns to his roots on occasion. So I
suppose he finds peace here. And I know that Talbot, even though
he was a troubled man, found veritas on Islay. Caballo, I think you
will find it here, too. Be patient.
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The Ileach
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Eagles rise on soaring wing,

Herons watch the gushing spring,
Heath-cocks with their whirring bring
Their own delight to Islay.
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The Praise of Islay, a traditional Scottish song.

Translated from the Gaelic by Thomas Pattison.
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aballo thanked Alasdair for his time, his advice, and his
colorful stories. What an inspiring man, Caballo thought,
and at 95 what a treasure lode of Islay history. It
piqued his curiosity about the modern islander, the Ileach, the Gaelic
term for a man or woman born on Islay. So he hoped to pick the
brain of his friend, Malcolm, at whose house he was staying for a
few nights.
They walked along the seaweed-strewn beach at Port Ellen,
enjoying a calm afternoon. October weather on Islay can be terrible
but not this year: no need for a Goretex jacket when the temperature
hovered in the high 60s. It was so warm that golfers on Machrie
wore shorts. Weather on Scotlands islands is always a crapshoot.
Malcolm, Ive enjoyed hearing Alasdair Macdonald tell me his
tales of Islay. He should have been a history teacher. And, although
Ive learned about the early days, I want to understand the Ileach of
today and I cant think of a better source than from an Ileach like
yourself.
Yes, Alasdairs a good man. And, no problem, Caballo. Ill tell
you as much as I can. It hasnt always been easy living here but the
beauty and serenity of the island, coupled with our many friendships,
make Islay the only place I want to live. Does this make sense?
Caballo nodded. Go ahead, Malcolm, Im all ears.
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Sure, Caballo. Im proud to say I was born here along with my

three brothers and one sister. My mum was also born on Islay, one
of 13 four girls and nine boys. Six of her brothers served in World
War II. One didnt come back.
So sorry to hear that, Malcolm, Caballo replied softly.
My father, born in England, came to Islay during the war years
and was stationed with the RAF at our little airport. Thats when he
met my mother. Sadly, he died young at 47 after a long illness,
just when our family was getting on our feet financially. That left
my mother, a widow, to bring up five children in tough economic
times. We managed the best we could. Were Ileachs.
Indeed, Malcolm had the look of an Ileach: deep, determined
brown eyes, close-cropped dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and a
robust smile that radiated confidence and kindness. His eyes told
you he was going to clean your clock on the golf course and then
buy you a dram after the round. He was a Highlander at heart and,
had he been born centuries ago, would have been at the front of the
Highland charge at Culloden, waving his leather shield and
broadsword. Clan courage is endemic in the Ileach.
I had my first job when I was 13 all day Saturday as a
message boy for the local co-op a lad who delivered groceries. I
built a four-wheeled trolley that I loaded boxes in and delivered
them to customers in our village. I got paid a pound, which I gave to
my mother, but I got to keep the tips, which were great most were
empty lemonade bottles that I turned in for the deposit. Not much
but, then again, times were hard.
Amazing, chimed in Caballo, you were a resourceful rascal,
Malcolm.
No choice in those days, my friend. Two years later, when I
was 15, I began to work full-time in a distillery for 11 pounds a
week. Six pounds went to my mum and five to me. Like hitting the
bloomin lottery! Two years later, now 17, I transferred with the
same company to the newly-built Port Ellen Maltings and worked as
a console operator, which was serious responsibility for a young lad.
Many nights I would lie awake, worrying about the next days work
conveyors, dust plants, elevators, all of which had to be started in
sequence. One mistake would screw up the entire process. One of my
co-workers, in his 40s, would climb the stairs to the top of the building
only to see the barley flying out the end of a conveyor and over the
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storage bins, rather than into them. What a nightmare it could be! But it
was great experience for someone as young as I was.
I stayed at Port Ellen for many years before I decided to take a
retirement package because I wanted to see more of my wife and
children. Reality was kicking in two of my close relatives passed
away, which made me realize the importance of spending time with
family. So I agreed to train the replacement managers for the next
year and a half. I left the company on good terms.
I purchased a small fishing boat with some of the funds but,
within six months, I hurt my back and had to give up the fishing-fora-living idea. Oh well. Luckily for me, a job popped up at another
distillery and I took it. Been there over ten years now. Long hours
but good wages.
Caballo couldnt help admiring this Ileach. Well said,
Malcolm. Indeed, youre the rare bird whos mastered the art of
being humble. Too many American children have never heard the
word no and never want for anything. I often wonder about this
me first generation and I applaud people like you who put others
ahead of themselves. What else have you got for me?
Well, Caballo, thats it for now: I must leave for work. But I
know one of our locals who loves to talk. Shes older, probably in
her 90s, but sharp as the proverbial tack and shes a natural
storyteller. Shell talk your ear off. Tell you anything you want to
know about our island. There isnt a soul here that she doesnt
know. Her name is Mrs. MacLeod and about this time of day you
can find her having tea at the Bridgend Hotel, not far from here. See
you later, Caballo, and good luck.
So, Caballo dashed up the B8016, a single track, called the
high road by locals, which leads to Bridgend, an old village with a
Spar shop and petrol station, the hotel, and the old Islay House
manor. He reached the hotel in ten minutes.
And, looking at it, he thought, what a beautiful, really beautiful
old stone building. The white front of the building is only a plain
Jane, but a walk around back reveals a magnificent piece of Scottish
masonry where hewn stones are arranged randomly, kept together
with gray mortar. Two stone chimneys on either end of the roof
complement three triangular eye-browed dormers, an artists dream
of balanced simplicity. In fact, the sight stimulated an American
architect to sketch it. He entered the drawing in an international
competition and won recognition.
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And, just as Malcolm predicted, there, sitting in the bar next to

the fire, was the 90-something, Mrs. Edna MacLeod in all her
loveliness. Its impolite to ask a woman her age; so Caballo didnt.
She was an Ileach and looked like one: her golden white hair curled
in a perm, the style preferred by older ladies, and a face dotted with
tiny brown freckles and lined with wrinkles caused, no doubt, by
years of wind and gales. Her teeth, much too white and perfect to be
real, showed a welcoming smile, regardless of their authenticity.
Edna MacLeod radiated Islay.
As she sipped on her still-steaming cup of tea, the grand lady
explained that this place was called Katies Bar. Its refined for
Scotland, you know. We even allow well-behaved dogs in here. No
airs about this place, laddie. And its old, just like our island.
In 1849 when the wealthy Morrison family visited Islay on
holiday, they stayed here. It was called the Bridgend Inn in those
days. A few years later in 1853 James Morrison bought Islay the
entire island. This was the first time a commoner owned Islay and it
was the last time anyone would own the entire island. Funny thing,
he never came again he just made a smart investment.
Yes, Edna, Alasdair Macdonald told me about him. Dont his
relatives still own an estate here?
Yes, Caballo quirky name youve got, by the way. James
Morrisons son sold off parts of the island to other families but kept
the central and northern part of Islay, which includes Bowmore,
Bridgend, Port Askaig, and this hotel where were sitting. Another
thing this was named Katies Bar after an 80-year-old barmaid
who worked here. A lovely person. I miss her.
Hows Islay doing these days? queried Caballo, deciding to
indulge in a cup of tea, as well. Alasdair gave me a nutshell of
Islays past. But I want to understand todays island and its people.
Well, lad, if youve talked to Alasdair, you must be a good
listener. He never knows when to stop talking. And he probably said
the same thing about me.
Actually, it was Malcolm who told me you like to talk.
Oh yes, everyone knows Malcolm. Good lad, he is, she said
as she adjusted the loosely-fitting collar of her white blouse, hidden
mostly by a red pullover. Well, Caballo, our islands losing people.
Weve lost 300 in the past 10 years and that should tell you
something about our economy. Our youngsters go away to college,
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get jobs, and come back for holidays. Thats it. They dont stay and
they dont want to farm and our farmers grow older each year.
Yes, we have a lot of farms here. Some make barley for the
distilleries. There are still a few dairy herds around but most Islay
farmers raise sheep and beef cattle. Our problem is that cheaper
overseas beef makes it difficult for our boys to compete. And the
damn geese dont help, either.
Geese? Caballo wondered aloud.
Greenland geese spend the winter here and feed on farm grass
but farmers cant get rid of them since European law protects the
birds. Hard to believe but about 35,000 of the winged nightmares
descend on us for about six months every year. You can find them
around Loch Gorm, Loch Indaal, and at the head of Loch Gruinart.
Nasty birds. One farmer compared them to a swarm of locusts
they eat everything. When they leave, theres nothing but mud, he
said. Not quite true, but close.
Barnacle geese, Loch Indaal
FO
Caballo wondered if tourists come to see this mass migration.

Yes, I guess we should be grateful for the bird watchers. They
hire cars, rent hotels and B&Bs, and eat here. But, damn it,
sometimes they stop, point blank, in the middle of the road just to
take out their binoculars for a look. Theyre a special lot, they are.
Well, we also have golden eagles, the rare chough, brown buzzards,
and lots of other birdies to keep them occupied. They come back,
year after year the birds and the birders. Tourism is good for Islay.
Another interesting part of our past is ship building. Irelands
Saint Columba and Saint Brendan constructed primitive boats called
currachs basically wood frames covered with seal skins to sail
around the Irish and Scottish coasts, bringing Christianity to the
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islands. Well, in our second annual Festival of the Sea in the

summer of 2012, an Irish currach builder, with help from our locals,
built a currach and launched it a stirring moment down at Port
Ellen. I was impressed and it takes a lot to impress someone as old
as I am.
Mrs. MacLeod poured herself more tea and seemed to be
getting her second wind. We also have about 20 commercial
fishing boats. Cant fish for herring anymore theyre gone. But
these waters are loaded with scallops and crabs. We ship them to
Spain. Theres some sport fishing, too, but the weather can change
quickly. The sea offers no mercy.
Caballo agreed, standing to stretch his hamstrings, tightening
now from sitting, We dealt with gales on our last trip. Even the big
ferries wouldnt run. Winds up to 120 mph. But enough of that.
What else drives the local economy?
As I said, agriculture is king. Lots of estate farms and some
crofts. You understand crofting, Caballo? A tenant farmer rents a
small plot from an estate and tries to raise animals or crops, hoping
to support his family and perhaps make a profit after paying rent.
This was the lifestyle of the majority of Ileachs a hard life and
terribly dependent on the weather.
From the early 1800s to the late 1800s, the estate owners
decided to consolidate these small farms into large ones either for
sport hunting or for sheep grazing. They imported thousands of
sheep and they moved the crofters to lands near the sea, hoping that
they would take up fishing. But they didnt like fishing; fishing is
not farming. Many left for Canada or America, as did the Irish in
those famine years. We call these the clearances, which was a dark
side of Islay for decades. If the crofter had made any improvements
on the land such as a house or a byre or a barn it passed freely to
the estate owner when the crofter left.
In 1976 a law passed that allowed a crofter to purchase the
land, a big step in democracy in the Highlands, the only place in
Scotland where crofting continues. Some crofters now own their
land, but the estate can impose restrictions, terms, conditions,
whatever they want. They have the power. But at least the crofter
has ownership.
Caballo raised his cup of tea and reflected, I guess were lucky
in the States since we own our land, free and clear. No feudal
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lordships or favors conveyed from this duke or that earl. Funny what
we take for granted.
Aye, thats so true, Caballo. But theres one estate I think
youll find fascinating Callumkill. Very tiny only about 3,000
acres near Ardbeg distillery on the south side of Islay. It was a
small piece broken up by the Morrisons who sold it to John Ramsay,
a big name on Islay in the late 1800s. It passed from one owner to
another until Dr. Macgown bought it in 1952. The Macgowns
restored the original farmhouse, built about 1800, with stones from a
chapel built by Saint Columba on the very site of the house. You
see, Caballo, the earliest written reference to our island was that
Columba, sailing from Ireland, visited Islay in the year 563 on his
way north and instructed his monks to build chapels.
Further up the road is the famous Kildalton Cross, which is
similar to a cross on Iona, an island near Mull, where Saint Columba
founded his famous monastery. We go back a long way, Caballo. In
January of 2013 a German couple bought Callumkill. Thankfully,
they appreciate our traditions since they allow two locals, Donnie
MacNeill and his wife Fiona, to keep running the place hunting,
farming, and two guesthouses as they have since 1981. Nice story.
Youd enjoy meeting them.
Caballo still had questions about the economy. Edna, you
make it sound as if Islay is on the brink of bankruptcy. I heard that
the islanders organized fundraising for a young Ileach with a brain
tumor who traveled to the States for therapy. I heard they raised
over 63,000 for her. Mighty impressive for an island with a
dreadful economy.
Yes, we were pleased with that, Mrs. MacLeod replied. Its
tough to have cancer when youre so young. I guess we cant
complain: we have good tourism here and we have the distilleries,
though both have been down lately.
Tourists come here for many reasons, the old woman
continued. Some come to play on our golf course but more come to
hunt and fish on our estates. Hunters come for deer and for those
wee birds called woodcocks that spend the winter on our island.
Beaters, lads with long sticks, flush the birds out of the brush so that
the paying guests can shoot them. Good eating, Im told. And, one
weeks fishing on an estate-owned river can cost over 1,000.
Caballos ears perked up. Reminds me of when we stayed on a
farm near the River Spey about 20 years ago, he added. The lady
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in our B&B kept complaining about the exorbitant rent she paid to
the absentee landlord. He owned fishing rights on the Spey and in
those days he charged 1500 a week for fishing with a limit of two
salmon. Each to his own, I guess.
Aye, we should appreciate our estates. Some of them
generously share their wealth with the Ileachs. They also employ
gamekeepers, the men who take out hunting parties and maintain the
land so that its conducive to keeping the birds coming and the deer
thriving.
When you return, you should catch a special performance of
the Scottish opera. They visit us sometimes. Or you might enjoy our
jazz festival in August. Or come and watch our Highland games in
late April or our pretty Highland dancers. A local lady teaches
young girls how to perform.
And, of course, tourists come for our single malt distilleries,
which Im sure youre aware of, eh, Caballo?
Oh yes, we booked a trip here during the annual whisky
festival in 2011 totally by accident. Lucky for us, the island wasnt
too crowded because the gales disrupted transportation. Thats one
thing about Islay that appeals to me no crowds, no traffic.
Caballos blue eyes sparkled at this thought. Peace. Tranquility.
Something that traditional tourist sites cant provide.
Mrs. MacLeod sighed, Indeed were not crowded and thats an
important aspect of our island that brings people here. The quietness
broken only by the waves crashing on the rocks. Folks come here to
hike on our hills and along our beaches. To decompress, I suppose.
Its a big change from the city. And we also maintain our Gaelic
culture, you know.
Caballo couldnt resist asking, Do you speak Gaelic, Mrs.
MacLeod?
Aye, but not well, the old lady answered. Ionad Chaluim
Chille le, which means Columba Centre on Islay aptly named
after Saint Columba is a fairly new enterprise 2002, I think
designed to teach Gaelic, written, spoken, and sung, to anyone who
wants to take lessons. Children, teenagers, adults. Even oldies like
me. You should stop in. Its just past Bowmore, not far. A slew of
Scottish institutions support it and its connected with Sabhal Mr
Ostaig, Scotlands Gaelic College on the Isle of Skye a step in the
right direction to maintain our Gaelic roots. Our primary schools teach
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Gaelic and we even have Gaelic church services now. The king tried to
erase our Gaelic ways about four centuries ago, you know.
OK. But what do Ileachs do for fun? Caballos curiosity
continued to mount.
Outside of enjoying our traditional high tea, lad, we have
sports. Some like to golf at the Machrie. We have a rugby team and
a football team, which you Americans call soccer. We also do lawn
bowling when the weather allows. I mustnt forget our angling and
canoe clubs, which are popular.
And we have a splendid Ileach pipe band well respected
pipers in smart looking kilts. They travel often. Shame they wont
be playing while youre here. Come back during whisky week to see
them in action. Thats one more reason to return.
And, before you leave Bridgend be sure to stop in our
brewery, a lovely addition to our island. A couple of Englishmen,
probably tired of traffic jams, too, started the ale production about
10 years ago and seem to be making a go of it. Thats what we need
more people willing to take a risk and start a business here. Our
farm life is fading. Pay the brewery a visit right here on the square
and tell them Edna sent you.
Will do, Mrs. MacLeod. But, first, one more question. What
really makes the Ileach tick? What keeps you here even though the
young crowd is in mass exodus?
If you stay here long enough, youll find out, Caballo. Theres
a spirit, one thats deep inside us, one that penetrates our bones. A
free spirit. I get up every morning and walk outside and smell the
crispness of the ocean air, I taste the salt in the spray when I walk on
the beach, and I watch the sun set over Machir Bay. I feel the
presence of the Lords of the Isles and I feel the holiness of Saint
Columba when I look at the ruined chapels. I can rub my fingers on
a standing stone, the same one that our ancestors held when they
buried it in the ground 5,000 years ago. Yes, Caballo thought,
heres a lady whos the master of her domain: she has no need to
drive a BMW, nor must she take an Alaskan cruise to impress her
neighbors. She doesnt carry a Kate Spade purse and she doesnt
wear Gucci harness buckle boots she can think of other ways to
spend a thousand pounds. Yes, Islay is enough for her. Shes the
master here.
I know the government subsidies help the farmers, she
continued but we Ileachs rely on ourselves, on each other. Were
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isolated on this island, exposed to the fickle winds of the Atlantic,

whether they be mild and gentle or harsh and destructive. Weve
persevered through crop failures and depressions and well survive
the latest European crisis were a hardy bunch. Our blood comes
from the lines of strong warriors and were proud to live here. My
hunch is that the young Ileachs who are leaving may one day return.
I hope Ive helped, Caballo.
Well done, Mrs. MacLeod. Where shall I head to next?
The old lady scrunched her forehead and said, One place Id
like you to see, although you may want to visit on another day since
its a far stretch from here, is Rockside Farm, a working farm and
next to our newest distillery, Kilchoman, opened in 2005. The farm
produces barley, raises Angus cattle and black-faced sheep, and
offers pony riding for tourists. And stop at the distillery. Mr. and
Mrs. Anthony Wills own it. Smart folks, they are.
And one fella who knows a lot about distilleries and our
famous single malt is Duncan Livingstone, a retired peat cutter who
likes to hang out in a wee bar in the Lochside Hotel. Not far from
here in Bowmore. The bar has over 300 different brands of
Scotlands finest and Duncan has tasted tasted them all. If you offer
to buy, he might share his stories with you, Caballo. Slainte mhath.
Caballo wished this spirited lady a cheerful goodbye and
headed to the Lochside to find a certain Mr. Livingstone who might
have some clues to his quest.
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Islay Single Malt
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O thou, my Muse! guid, auld Scotch Drink!

Whether thro wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an wink,
To sing thy name!
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Robert Burns, poet of Scotland, 1759-1796
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ithout doubt, Rabbie Burns loved his whisky. The

irony is that he worked as a Dumfries tax collector in
1791. Illegal stills were commonplace in Scotland
then and the tax mans job was to find bootleggers and arrest
them, something our Rabbie presumably did not enjoy.
In parting, Caballo gave Mrs. MacLeod a hug and made the
short hike across the road to Islay Ales, the islands only
brewery, in hopes of understanding how two Englishmen and a
German amalgamated themselves into Gaelic culture. Islays only
brewery sits in a square courtyard, surrounded by buildings
formerly part of the Islay House estate that were used for
stables and housing for 120 workers in the 1800s. In 2001 the
estate owner James Morrison rehabbed the dilapidated buildings
and rented them to several businesses including the brewery.
Caballo opted out of the brewery tour, instead choosing to
learn about its founders, Englishmen Paul Hathaway and Paul
Capper and Walter Schobert, a German who retired after a career
as curator of the German Film Museum in Frankfurt. A brewery
worker told him that the trio spent many holidays on Islay before
eventually deciding to make it home and, one step further, to take
a risk and establish a brewery in 2004. Their gamble paid off: the
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business thrives today, producing nine brands of ales and

providing much-needed jobs for the island. Islay draws people to
her like a magnet, Caballo thought. The island needs more
entrepreneurs like these three.
After the visit to Islay Ales, Caballo drove down the twolane A846 to Bowmore, Daniel Campbells new town that he
built in the late 1700s. Caballo remembered Alasdair telling him
that Campbell wanted privacy at his mansion in Bridgend and
cleared the commoners out of the little village called Kilarrow,
convincing them that they would have a better life in Bowmore,
evidenced by the impressive round church he built for them.
Money talks, he reasoned.
So, his curiosity growing as he passed many whitewashed
buildings overlooking the blue waters of Loch Indaal, Caballo
finally saw it, Campbells round church, standing majestically at
the top of Main Street. A real eye-catcher, he thought. After
parking, he found the Lochside Hotel easily enough, less than
100 meters from Bowmore distillery, the second oldest in
Scotland. A lady he met in the hallway said she knew Duncan
Livingstone. Oh yes, youll find him quite content, just down
the hall in Duffies Bar.
As he walked in, Caballo knew he was in the right place
the bar was authentic Scotland. Wood was everywhere floor,
walls, cabinets, chairs and stools. Solid, secure, traditional. And
over 300 choices of Scotch whisky. Whew, we could be here a
long time, Caballo figured. The owners converted Kentucky
bourbon casks into tables, perhaps buying them from their nextdoor neighbor, Bowmore distillery. Black and white photos of
Islays past adorned the walls. And there, on a stool, sat an older
fellow, clad in a green corduroy jacket, warm enough for the
outside chill yet comfortable enough for inside the bar. As he
turned towards the man, Caballo noticed two distinct features, his
neatly trimmed bright white beard and his orange and green plaid
tweed cap placed next to him on the counter. Duncan
Livingstone? Caballo inquired.
Oh Lord, what did I do now? You arent the constable, are
you, lad?
Very funny. No, Im here to get answers. A lady in
Bridgend, Mrs. Edna MacLeod, told me you could help.
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Depends, Duncan answered hesitatingly as he concentrated

on the flavor of the dram he was currently involved with. Two
black eyebrows dominated his round face, the rest of it reddishbrown with wrinkles, weather-beaten by many harsh Highland
winters. He wore a simple blue sweater over a white tee shirt, gray
trousers, and black scuffed shoes. His blue eyes twinkled.
Caballo explained his desire to learn about Islays whisky, its
history, and its heritage. Im also on a quest, quid est veritas,
and Im willing to supply you with drams until we figure it out.
Well, laddie, Im not sure I have the answers but, being
born on Islay and having spent the better part of 80 years on its
shores and in its fields, Ive got a few stories.
Lets go, Duncan. Ive got all night, Caballo encouraged,
and Ive seen whats behind the bar. Understand, I came here to
start a marathon and a golf tournament but I want to know the
people. Ill buy; Ill listen; you talk. Deal?
Aye, lad. Fine. Lets start with the basics, the old man
said, gazing ahead at the wall, his steeled eyes set deep in their
sockets. Ours is whisky, not whiskey (he spelled them out).
Know the difference? No, Caballo did not.
Scotch whisky differs from Irish and American whiskey,
not only in spelling but in taste and fabrication. Most Scotch
whisky is made from barley. Kentucky bourbon and Irish
whiskey are made from something else like corn, rye, oats, or
wheat. Ours has to be aged for at least three years in oak casks to
be labeled Scotch whisky. But, Caballo, you normally wont find
any single malts aged less than ten years.
Duncan was neither slim nor fat. Compact and solid, he
wouldnt blow away in the wind, which had left its mark on his
leathery face. He continued, The next distinction is single malt
versus blended whisky. Single malts, as we make on Islay, are
distilled from one hundred percent malted barley and come from
one distillery. Blended whiskies like Chivas Regal, Cutty Sark,
and Johnny Walker, the kinds that appeal to most Scotch
drinkers, are made by combining malt and grain whiskies, often
from various distilleries. So the Mister or Missus who likes single
malt whisky would be considered a connoisseur of such spirits.
Or at least an aficionado. Only about five percent of Scotch
whisky is single malt.
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Kentucky bourbon casks, Islay
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Thirdly, experts admire Islay single malts for their peaty, smoky
flavor. Some say it comes from our barley. Others claim its from our
brown water. Still others insist its from drying the malt with peat
fires. You know, lad, the distilleries have their own secret formulas
much like cooks have a special recipes and theyll never reveal
them. Cant say I blame em. Trade secrets. Valuable stuff.
Caballo began to doze, feeling the effects of the alcohol. Is this
where I find quid est veritas? Inside a bottle of whisky? Without
much body fat, our boy had trouble holding his liquor ever since he
became a marathon runner and shed 50 pounds.
Duncan continued, smiling, becoming animated but not agitated
as he nudged Caballo, Wake up, son. In fact, we have so many
different single malts right in front of you that we could taste them
for days and not run out of adjectives. Smoky, rich, smooth,
delicate, fruity, light apricot, heavy plum, nutty, salty, sweet heather,
burning embers, velvety, elegant, earthy, powerful, terrifying, wild,
subtle, full-bodied, intense, oaky, golden, honey-flavored, caramel,
chocolate, sweet berries, newly-mown hay, roasted nuts, citrus-rich,
lemon sweet, floral complexity, peppery, silky dreams, plump
raisins, robust toffee, hidden gold, pale straw, cinnamon-spiced,
intense smoke, blazing bonfire, soft liquorice, passionate ,
whispering pine, hint of nutmeg, angelic mint, or ghostly grandeur.
Want me to go on, Caballo?
Whoa! I think thats enough. Well done, Duncan. Why so
many words to paint the picture?
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Good question. One that may take days to answer. But well
have fun trying. The process of making our single malt may seem
complex to an outsider. So, to simplify, Ill avoid terms such as
washback, fermentation time, wash still capacity, malt storage, mash
size, second and third water, strength of wash, lyne arm, spirit stills,
floor malting, purifiers, condensers, spirit cut percentage, type of
casks, foreshot run.
Hey, Caballo interrupted, Duncan, we need to keep this
elementary. I drink it; I dont want to make it.
OK, lad. We start with the barley. We grow some of it here on
the island but most is imported. Wet barley eventually changes into
malt, a kind of sugar. Then we age it and smoke it with peat the same
peat that I cut from our fields in my glorious career. Some families heat
their homes with peat. Makes a welcome fire, you know.
Love that aroma. Love it. Mucho, Caballo added.
Once the malt is dry, its ground into a flour called grist,
which we mix with hot water usually a couple of times. And the
water, Caballo, comes from a special source a stream or spring
that is unique to each distillery. You might have seen the brown
water that flows in our streams. Then we add yeast to ferment the
mixture essentially into a beer of about eight percent proof.
Duncan fingered his orange and green cap. My clan tartan, he
explained as he continued his lecture on Islays most popular tourist
attraction.
Clan? Caballo asked. Livingstone sounds English to me.
Duncan nodded, Aye, lad. My clan claims its roots from a
physician to the Lord of the Isles. Originally it was Mac-an-leigh
Gaelic for son of a physician. The English language turned it into
Livingstone. You remember the famous phrase, Dr. Livingstone, I
presume? dont you? Well, the same Dr. David Livingstone
descended from the Argyll Livingstones, my clan.
Returning to the whisky, Duncan continued, Then we distill, a
process that separates the water from the alcohol. This happens when
the mixture is heated in copper stills and the alcohol moves up the still
faster than water. After two or three distillations, the whisky we can
almost call it that now goes into oaken casks, many of which come
from Kentucky, believe it or not.
Not far from my hometown, Duncan. Kentucky is the whiskey
capital of America.
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Well, each distillery ages its whisky in various casks for

different lengths of time. Generally, the longer the whisky ages, the
more it costs. After aging, the whisky gets bottled and labeled and
becomes a thing of beauty. Most of the bottling is done off island.
Then its sold to consumers like you.
Thanks, Duncan, that helps.
To be honest, Caballo, Islay had countless stills many years
ago. Came over from Ireland, this stuff did. You see, we can blame
this whisky problem on the monks. The earliest record of distilling
alcohol dates to Italy in the 13th century. From Italy it spread from
one monastery to the next, finally reaching monks on Eire. In those
days, the term was aqua vitae, Latin for water of life. Alcohol was
used as medicine in the medieval era. Once in Ireland, the term
became uisce beatha water of life in Irish Gaelic. After the Irish
monks brought it to Scotland, the term converted to uisge beatha,
Scottish Gaelic.
Caballo pondered this. Aqua vitae. Water of life. Veritas. Is this
my answer? OK, Duncan. How about some more water of life?
Kilchoman this time?
Yes, good idea, lad. Theres a little booklet behind the bar
about our whisky heritage. Let me read it. In 1494 the first written
evidence of Scottish whisky distillation comes from the tax records.
Eight bolls of malt be sent by order of the king, to make aqua
vitae. That was enough malt to make about 500 bottles.
When King Henry VIII split from Rome, he dissolved the
monasteries between 1536 and 1541, sending the monks out into
public life. Some of these newly-unemployed friars got into the
whisky business as the fledgling industry transitioned from the
monastery into farms and private homes. Whisky soon became part
of Irish and Scots lifestyle and, two generations later in 1608,
Bushmills Distillery in Ireland became the first licensed whiskey
distillery. Over the next hundred years, our whisky evolved from a
crude drink to a commercial product.
But then England grew greedy and imposed a penal malt tax in
1725, which forced many Scottish and Irish distillers to make
whisky illegally often at night. With the whisky smoke rising into
the sky against a full moon, the locals called it moonshine, a term
still used in the backwoods of America. The tax men kept busy as
they hunted for illegal stills. Funny thing, Caballo, through an
oversight, Islay was not included in this governmental crackdown.
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So it was up to local lairds to collect the tax from their tenants.

Unwilling and probably unable to pay these outrageous taxes, the
Ileachs made whisky in hidden stills.
Bowmore distillery was established in 1779 and paid the taxes.
But most of Scotlands whisky was produced secretly until 1817
when politicians lowered the tax substantially. Within 10 years, the
number of whisky-related arrests in the U.K. dropped from 14,000
to 85. And, with the failure of the vineyards in France and the loss
of their beloved brandy in the late 1880s, whisky took over as the
worlds preferred drink.
Caballo chimed in, Not back home. Hell, everybody in the
U.S. drinks wine. Funny, 40 years ago hardly anyone drank wine.
Now its trendy and everybody drinks it except Guapo and me,
that is and the residents of the fine state of Kentucky who love
their Makers Mark. But thats only one state. These days wineries
flourish. Everybody wants to jump on the bus.
Right, Caballo. Our single malt fits our lifestyle after a day
in the cold rain, a dram or two will warm your inside like nothing
else can. And were pleased to see a number of international Scotch
malt whisky associations ideal for the connoisseurs. Even with this
messy recession, its survived. If you look closely, you may find
answers to your question hidden in our aqua vitae.
I hope so, Duncan. Maybe I should take a look at the distilleries.
But which ones? Caballo always seemed to be on a tight schedule:
golf, running, traveling, marathons. Go, go, go. But Islay seemed to be
telling him to slow down, slow down, slow down.
Well, lad, I think you ought to give them all a chance. Call
ahead before you visit. Ill give you a little synopsis of each and
then you can decide. Each has its merits and each produces a fine
spirit. Lets start with Jura only a five-minute ferry ride from here.
Its one of the few islands where deer about 5,000
outnumber people 200. One hotel, one road, one distillery. They
call themselves the Diurachs, Gaelic for people of Jura. The word
derives from the Norse-Gaelic term, Dira, which means,
appropriately enough, deer island. So these are the deer island
people. And their distillery is well respected.
In 1810, spurred on by a witch in a dream, the laird of Jura
founded a distillery, which didnt last. Much later, after the island
changed hands, the owners built a new distillery, opening it in 1963.
It produces four main single malts, each having won awards: Origin
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10, Superstition, Diurachs Own, and Prophecy. Names have

character, eh?
Like Islay, Jura boasts palm trees and salmon. You might be
interested doing their race in May, Caballo. From what I hear, its
quite the test. Up and down mountains, over rocks and rivers. Right
up your alley.
Caballo scratched his head, I dont know, Duncan after I ran
Colorados Pikes Peak marathon, I swore I wouldnt do another
trail race. Especially at 14,000 feet.
Makes sense to me. Now after Jura, ride the ferry to Port
Askaig and head up the road to Bunnahabhain (boona-HAY-venn), a
Gaelic term for mouth of the river. Located near the northern tip of
Islay, this distillery is isolated more than any other and perhaps this
adds to its charm. If youre really ambitious, Caballo, you can walk
from the distillery to the lighthouse at Rhuvaal and soak in our wild
scenery. Youll see a ship stranded on the rocks, the Wyre Majestic
crashed in 1974.
A partnership erected these long buildings in 1881 and, as
happens here, ownership changed often. Corporations like to buy
and sell, dont they? Anyway, it produces several fine spirits 12-,
18-, and 25-Year-Olds along with a blended whisky intriguingly
named Black Bottle. Sounds sinister. Maybe Ill have a dram of that
now. Oh, and be careful if you drive theres only a single lane
road. Lorries have the right of way.
Caballo ordered the dram, making the old Scot smile once more
as he smelled, fingered, and finally tasted the drink. Duncan
continued, Just south of Bunnahabhain is Caol Ila (cool-EELAH),
Gaelic for Sound of Islay, the site of the famous battle of the Lords
of the Isles centuries ago. A bloody one, it was.
Yes, Alasdair told me about that, Caballo remarked.
Built in 1846, this distillery, like Bunnahabhain, has a pier
which they used for transport years ago. Now everything goes
through Port Askaig. Caol Ila shut down during the Great
Depression and the second great war but has been going strong since
then. It supplies the malt whisky for the well-known Johnny Walker
blends. Even though its so isolated, it ranks as the largest distillery
on the island about six million liters a year.
You should see it, Caballo. Like its northerly neighbor, Caol
Ila is tucked into one of Islays most scenic hideaways. Incredibly
beautiful, it is sitting below a sheer rock wall and next to a beach.
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On a stormy day the surf crashes over the seawall onto the
buildings. Take your camera.
Guess I dont want to miss them, Duncan.
Indeed you dont. Theyre picture postcards. But lets move
south, past Bridgend, around the top of Loch Indaal, to Bruichladdich
(broo-ick-LADDIE), a combination of Norse and Gaelic words,
meaning hillside by the shore, which is not completely accurate since it
sits on a flat spot next to the beach. My guess is that the laird had too
much to drink when he named the town.
Copper still, Bruichladdich
Their claim to fame used to be that they were proudly and

fiercely independent and not owned by some corporate boardroom
located in London, Japan, or Paris. But in 2012 the distillery became
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part of Remy Cointreau, the French company. So much for

independence.
They produce many variations of both peated and non-peated
whisky: eight different selections of both Port Charlotte and
Octomore, a new spirit named after the farm that supplies its water.
And thats a nice tribute to Octomore farm, an old distillery that
closed in 1852. Port Charlotte whisky is named after another defunct
whisky producer just down the coastal road. Rumors are that it
may re-open.
Caballo said he found it interesting that these nine distilleries
trade hands so often. Are all the Islay operations owned by major
players, Duncan?
All but one. Lets look at er. Go back up the road and then
turn west and well reach Islays only independent, Kilchoman (killHO-mann, the c is silent), established by Anthony Wills in 2005.
Anthony married Kathy whose family owned a farm on Islay, which
helped fulfill his dream of establishing a small, independent
distillery. I give credit to them. Theyre proud being local and they
want to stay that way. They named one of their spirits Machir Bay,
after a beautiful raised beach just south of them. You should visit
that one, too, Caballo. Gorgeous scenery of Atlantic waves crashing
into our west coast. More picture-postcard material.
Kilchoman rates as the first distillery to be built on Islay in
124 years. The name comes from a chapel nearby, called Cill a
Chobhain, built by Saint Comgan, an Irish abbot from the eighth
century. Their spacious visitor center would be a good choice for
lunch, lad. Home-made food. Im glad theyre successful.
Caballo agreed that Kilchoman sounded like a breath of fresh
air and hoped that their whisky would prove popular in overseas
markets. Duncan, what else?
OK, Caballo, lets move around Loch Indaal to Bowmore
distillery, Islays oldest, opened in 1779, during those heavy tax
years. Remember when you go there that this village was built by a
Campbell in 1768 for the tenants he evicted from around his estate
in Bridgend. The lairds ruled the land then.
Oh yes, Duncan, Ive heard the story, Caballo shrugged.
Lairds owned it all.
Duncan nodded his head in agreement. Despite laws and
lairds, there were plenty of illegal stills on farms in the late 1700s,
which is why tax-paying Bowmore (bow-MORE) stood out. Like
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our other distilleries, Bowmore changed ownership and locations

over the next two hundred years, closing during the Great
Depression and the Second World War. The Morrisons, huge estate
owners, sold it in 1993 to Suntory, a Japanese firm. For the last 20
years theyve been good stewards. They love their single malt.
I like the Bowmore brands most are heavily peated. They
make one called Legend, and then a 12-, 15-, 18-, and 25-Year-Old.
Of course, they feature limited editions and special releases it
depends on how large your wallet is. And Bowmores a popular
place with about 10,000 visitors a year. Youll want to be one of
them, my friend.
Duncan finished his dram and requested one final shot.
Caballo, Ill need one more sip, this time a royal one as we head
down our main road, past your golf links, through Port Ellen, and
come to Laphroaig, the only Islay distillery to bear the regal crest.
So pour me a taste of Laphroaig Ten Year, the princes favorite and
mine, too.
Caballo complied with this final request and wondered to
himself, Why are these last three distilleries so close together,
especially compared to the more isolated northerly ones? Whats
the connection here, Duncan? Do these three Laphroaig,
Lagavulin, and Ardbeg have something special?
Sure do. They all watch over the ruins of Dunyvaig Castle on
the little spit of land just offshore, the last stronghold of Islays
Lords of the Isles. And they all use brown peaty water from the
same nearby hills, ending the myth that the water makes the taste
unique. Seriously, though, lets start with Laphroaig (lah-FROYG),
Gaelic for a beautiful hollow by the broad bay. In 1994 His Royal
Highness Prince Charles gave them his royal warrant, you know, his
patronage. Of course, the prince had a wee accident upon arrival.
The planes chief pilot gave into the princes request to fly the royal
jet, which probably thrilled Charles as he approached the island.
But, despite having earned his wings in the RAF as a group captain,
he had not taken refresher flying courses in decades. It showed. As
the plane landed, pushed by a mighty tailwind, Charles couldnt stop
it in time, overshooting the runway and getting stuck in Machries
boggy peat field. After a repair bill of a million pounds, the plane
returned to service. A year later the pilot and navigator were found
negligent for not controlling the landing. How does one say no to a
Royal? Caballo thought.
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The prince announced he would never again fly a royal

airplane. Thank God, we said. Anyway, he gave his royal patronage
to an Islay whisky; so we like him. In fact, the whisky writer,
Andrew Jefford, claims that this 10-year-old is Islays most exciting
spirit the same one Prince Charles calls his favorite.
Taking a deep breath, his head beginning to whirl from all the
drams, Caballo clicked glasses with Duncan. Yes, there was no question
that Duncan could hold his whisky and Caballo, a social drinker at best,
could not. Cheers, our marathon runner slurred. Duncan, its the same
thing in golf British royalty has put their stamp on Scottish golf clubs:
Royal Troon, Royal Dornoch, Royal Musselburgh, Royal Aberdeen,
Royal Burgess, even Royal Tarlair. Ive played them all. Guess single
malt and golf have something in common.
Well put, lad. But the real connection comes at the 19th hole,
Im told nothing like a dram to warm the innards after golf on a
chilly day. Anyway, back to my story. Laphroaig claims a founding
date of 1815, second only to Bowmore. The Johnston family leased
a thousand acres on this site to raise cattle in those days and had
extra barley left over, which they began distilling. Despite the fatal
plunge of Donald Johnston into a hot vat of Laphroaig liquid in
1847, a tumble that cost him his life, and despite the turbulent times
of the potato famine, recession, and clearances, Laphroaig kept
going. Finally in the 1920s the estate owner allowed all three
distilleries to buy their land.
An interesting part of Laphroaigs history involves the gentler
sex. In the Great Depression of the 30s, Laphroaigs dictatorial
owner, Ian Hunter, hired young Bessie Williamson, a graduate of
Glasgow University a college degree being a rare accomplishment
for a woman in those years for a summer job as an accountant. She
arrived with her suitcase for the summer of 1934 and ended up
staying for 40 years. Without any heirs he liked, Ian Hunter decided
to leave the entire distillery to Bessie when he died in 1954. Ian
never married and neither did Bessie ... until seven years after
Hunters death.
Her able leadership expanded the international Laphroaig
brand and she eventually sold it, part by part, to the American
company, Schenley. Then Jim Beam took over. And the Japanese
Suntory bought it in 2014. Next year, who knows?
But Bessies whisky sells, not just in the single malt variety
but in plenty of blends the mainland distilleries love this stuff.
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And, as if that werent enough, Laphroaig began a charming tradition

of establishing a society for its whisky consumers called Friends of
Laphroaig. If you buy a bottle, you can join online, which entitles you
to a lifetime lease of one square foot of ground at Laphroaig. When you
visit, you can collect your annual rent a free dram.
Despite his eyes beginning to close sporadically, Caballo
explained, Yes, Duncan, Im a member. My lifetime lease is
framed inside my bar at home. My friend Malcolm arranged a
tasting at Laphroaig years ago.
One of Duncans friends, Dougie, walked in, Duncan, you
devil, youre taking advantage of yet another visitors hospitality.
You crafty dog.
Caballo, ignore him. He exaggerates. Let me continue,
Duncan said. So, you must know about their other spirits besides
the Ten Year Old Cask Strength, Quarter Cask Strength, 18 Year
Old, 25 Year Old, and Triple Wood. And you must have enjoyed the
tasting, eh, lad?
Yes, great fun. In fact, it was Robbie, their ambassador, who
posed the riddle, quid est veritas, which Id hoped you would help
me with, Duncan. Remember?
Youre searching for truth, Caballo. Arent we all? But keep
listening. Im almost done.
Next door to Laphroaig sits Lagavulin (la-gah-VOO-lin), a
neighbor that tried to make the same whisky as Laphroaigs about a
hundred years ago. It really didnt need to be a copycat; it made a
fine spirit then. Its name, mill hollow in Gaelic, seems inaccurate
since its buildings sit on the edge of the water, directly across from
the remnants of Dunyvaig. The owners, Diageo, put 100,000 into
fortifying the castles ruins, even though the governments Historic
Scotland owns it. Nice gesture.
Duncans energy knew no bounds as he added, By the 1700s
there were about a dozen illegal stills on this property and, in 1816,
John Johnston made the distilling legal by buying a license. The
distillery rolled through names such as Johnston, Graham, and Mackie
before becoming corporately owned. As many others did, Lagavulin
closed during the Great Depression and the two world wars.
Lagavulin wins many awards as all Islay distilleries do and
offers three main expressions, 12 Year Old, 16 Year Old, and a
Distillers Edition. It also supplies the mainland, just like Caol Ila.
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Now we come to our final stop, Ardbeg (ard-BEG), a short

jaunt down the road from Lagavulin. It takes its name from two
Gaelic words meaning small height. Like Laphroaig and Lagavulin,
it sits next to the sea, close enough to be splashed by big waves.
Many treasure the Ardbeg cycle racing jacket with its Gaelic logo.
They sell quickly.
Ive seen them, Caballo interjected, and, youre right they
are cult-like.
Expensive. But wearing one makes you a member of the club;
so its worth it. So much for that. Duncan seemed to be tiring. Or
were his eyes half shut from the last two hours of drinking? Caballo
urged him to finish his story.
From 1798 the MacDougalls farmed this land and they, too,
operated illegal stills. By 1815, the same year as Laphroaig, they
bought a distillery license and Ardbeg was born. After a series of
owners and closures during the wars and depression, the distillery
fell into corporate hands. When this happens, plants can be shut
down and Ardbeg fell into that trap, closing, off and on, from 1982
to 1996. Times were hard for those employees.
In that year, Glenmorangie, the Highland single malt distiller,
bought it and, through a complex arrangement of ownership, the
title traces now to Diageo. They market Ardbeg aggressively,
claiming that its been voted the best whisky in the world for three
years in a row. I wonder who the judges were for that competition. It
also claims to be Islays smokiest and peatiest. Really, Ardbeg?
Nonetheless, Ardbegs spirit is respected in all expressions
ranging from its fine Ten Year, its expensive Galileo the label
features a rocket taking off, Blasda, Uigeadail, named after its water
source, and the expensive Corryvreckan, Gaelic for cauldron of the
speckled seas. That refers to the infamous Strait of Corryvreckan
between the islands of Jura and Scarba and home to the third
largest whirlpool in the world, a dangerous stretch to navigate.
One thing you dont want to miss, Caballo, is having lunch in
Ardbegs Old Kiln Cafe, which, as it sounds, occupies the former peat
kiln of the distillery. Im told the clootie dumpling is out of this world.
Whatever that is, Caballo wondered. One last question,
Duncan. You mentioned that these distilleries get bought and sold
on a regular basis. Who owns them now?
To answer your question, yes, distillery ownership is a neverending story. Jura used to be owned by Whyte and Mackay but now
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its part of United Spirits, a large conglomerate owned by an Indian

tycoon by the name of Vijay Mallya. Diageo, the big boy, owns
Caol Ila, Lagavulin, and most of Ardbeg. Kilchoman is locally
owned by Anthony Wills. Remy Cointreau recently bought
Bruichladdich. Burn Stewart owns Bunnahabhain and Suntory
claims Laphroaig and Bowmore. Some experts think that our
remoteness poses a problem and that companies may move distilling
to the mainland, which is not a pleasant thought for Ileachs. I admit
were not easy to reach but that just adds to our charm and I hope
the big boys feel the same way.
And guess, what, Caballo. Islays distilleries may be
expanding. Frenchman Jean Donnay already operates a small single
malt distillery in Brittany and plans to build another at Gartbreck, an
old farm south of Bowmore. Hes in love with our island. Should be
running by late 2015. And theres another exciting project in Port
Charlotte, even though its been delayed since 2007, which may
give us a tenth distillery.
Nice. More jobs for Ileachs, beamed Caballo.
At that, Duncan stood up and shook hands with his new friend
and suggested that, after visiting the distilleries, he delve into the
finer points of local golf, the Machrie, where he might come closer
to uncovering quid est veritas. In parting, Duncan simply said,
Caballo, Cirdeas Ile. Caballo vowed to continue his search for
veritas, hoping that Duncans advice would help.
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The Machrie
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Gae bring to me my clubs ance mair,

Gae, caddie, bring them fast,
For winter snaws are past and gane
And spring has come at last.
LY
SEVEN
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For weel I loe the game, my lads,

Thats played down by the sea,
On breezy links and benty knows,
Oh! Thats the game for me.
Well drink success to Scotias game
Wi a the honours three.
EV
Scotias Game A. Gilmour,

Edinburgh Academy master, 1890
FO
aballo thought about Duncans farewell, Cirdeas Ile,

friendship from Islay in Gaelic. He mused, What a nice
thing for him to say. Would it carry over to golf? For, to
stage a golf tournament, one must secure a golf course our mans
next objective.
Exiting the A846, he drove down a long, corroded narrow lane,
careful to dodge potholes a challenge in itself and parked the car next
to the Machrie Hotel, an old white building desperately longing for
repair. Entering the lounge, Caballo addressed a solitary figure sitting
beneath a trophy case, Cirdeas America, adapting Duncans Gaelic.
Ah, Caballo is it? Been expecting you and Ive been warned.
Heard youre a golf historian. But, dont worry, lad, Ive done my
homework. Im ready. Fergus Allans the name golfs my game
ask me again and Ill tell you the same. His shock of silky gray hair
gleamed in the sunlight passing in through the windows.
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Fergus, well into his 80s, was a golfer, his rugged face molded by
countless rounds in wind, sun, and rain the distinguished look that
some golfers earn after braving the elements for decades, sinking crucial
putts, and having a pint with their buddies after the round. A trimmed
white goatee partially concealed his long jaw, a feature more English
than Scottish. His gentle Highland brogue put his visitor at ease.
Caballo chuckled, Glad to see youve got a sense of humor,
old chap. And, yes, I do cherish golfs traditions, but Im also on a
quest to find quid est veritas. My friend Duncan told me your golf
course might have answers.
Aye, it might. And, yes, youre correct: Im ancient just
celebrated my 87th birthday last week. Been playing on these links
for 80 years now. Played off scratch for nearly 30 of them. Now Im
happy to finish a round with the same ball I started with. You know
we have a lot of dunes here.
Yes, Fergus, I know. Ive played the course. Most Americans,
especially our PGA Tour players, detest blind shots. They like to
know where theyre going. Caballo sized up this Ileach, dressed
casually in jeans and a dark green fleece embroidered with the
Machrie logo, a sea eagle in gold, surrounded by The Machrie Golf
Links, 1891. Handsome, Caballo thought.
Fergus grinned, Sometimes in life we must take a blind shot,
you know, just make a decision on faith based on our belief in
ourselves or in someone else. And, since I knew you were coming, I
brought an old book, even older than I am The Badminton
Library: Golf, a stocky little volume, written by the first great golf
writer, Horace Hutchinson. My copy is the fifth edition, thoroughly
revised in 1895, four years after our Machrie golf club began.
Mr. Hutchinson, an Englishman who took lessons from Old Tom
Morris, allowed others to contribute to this book. Among them was
Lord Wellwood who wrote the second chapter. Let me read what this
English lord observed. Remember, Caballo, that the game was fairly
new to both England and America in the early 1890s, even though we
Scots had played it for centuries. Fergus read from the musty book.
Golf affords a wide field of observation for the philosopher
and the student of human nature. To play it aright requires nerve,
endurance, and self-control, qualities which are essential to
success in all great vocations. On the other hand, golf is
occasionally peculiarly trying to the temper It must also be
admitted that in some aspects golf is a selfish game in which each
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man fights with keenness and calculation for his own hand,
grasping at every technicality and glorying in the misfortunes of
his opponents.
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Fergus commented that the lord referred to golfers walking the

course, not riding in an electric buggy. I agree somewhat, Fergus,
Caballo countered, but I like what our Bobby Jones had to say
about competition. Bobby always wanted his opponents to play
well; he just wanted to play better than they did. I think thats a
noble attitude.
Yes, Caballo, I admire those words. But, pay attention to what
I have to say next. This may help you to understand your veritas
riddle. I love what Hutchinson has to say about blind shots, Fergus
continued, and this passage comes right after he extols the links of
Machrihanish, a ferry ride from here. Fergus read a passage about
the original layout at Prestwick, home of the first Open.
EV
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For years Prestwick was celebrated as a twelve-hole course.

It went dodging in and out among lofty sandhills. The holes were,
for the most part, out of sight when one took the iron in hand for
the approach; for they lay in deep dells among those sandhills,
and you lofted over the intervening mountain of sand, and there
was all the fascinating excitement, as you climbed to the top of it,
of seeing how near to the hole your ball might have happened to
roll. There is still a measure of this pleasurable uncertainty there
are still several holes thus disposed in hollows
FO
Again, Fergus became animated, You see, Caballo, there it is

the pleasurable uncertainty of a blind shot, the sheer excitement of
walking up the dune to see how close your ball has come to the hole.
And we have 15 of those shots right here, more if your ball winds up
in the wrong place probably the most of any 18-hole golf course in
the world. Just like life, isnt it, the old man asked. Sometimes
you just hae to trust it.
Caballo agreed. Yes, Fergus. Trust and excitement. If we
strike a good shot, we can feel our heart beating as we walk over the
dune to see where it landed. But, lets go back to the beginning. Tell
me about how golf started here.
Fergus leaned back in his well-cushioned chair and began,
When Tom Morris presided over and played in the first Open at
Prestwick in 1860, there were only eight competitors. These early
professionals were common men, not wealthy ones. They made
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balls and clubs and they caddied for the gentlemen golfers. They
were the salt of the earth.
Those were hard times for Ileachs, too. Our people suffered
greatly during those potato famine years and many had to leave in
the clearances. I doubt if any played golf here then; most of the
aristocrats came to hunt and fish on our island. But next door, golf
was a different story. Golfers played on Kintyre in the 1870s and
hired Old Tom to expand their course to a full 18 holes in 1879. My
hunch is that some Islay estate owners played golf at Machrihanish
and brought the game back to our island.
Still, in those days crofters and laborers didnt have time or
money for golf laws favored the lairds and the business owners.
Later, as these wealthy ones began to play golf, they eventually formed
a golf club in 1891. They chose linksland near the sea and next to the
Machrie bog, a major source of peat in those days. The combination of
alkaline shell spray from the sea and peaty soil produced a fertile base
good for wildflowers and grass and short enough that there was no
need for any maintenance on the links, thanks also to the original
greenkeepers rabbits and sheep. Machair, a Gaelic word, refers to the
landscape on the Atlantic side of Scotlands Western Isles. In fact,
theres a beach on our western flank, called Machir Bay.
Fergus, delighted with his captive listener, continued his tale.
Islay Golf Clubs original members were men of wealth. Two of them
ran hotels in Port Ellen, Mackie owned Lagavulin, Hay owned Ardbeg,
MacBrayne owned a shipping company, Major Wise owned Islay
House, and Morrison and Ramsay held huge estates. All had a financial
interest in attracting visitors to the island. Now they could offer golf, in
addition to hunting and fishing.
A few months after the club formed, John Ramsay converted the
old farmhouse to a facility for golfers. Perhaps he heard about Irelands
Lord Leitrims gamble: a hotel next to a Tom Morris golf course.
Holiday travel was booming in the Victorian age, you know.
Caballo asked about the course designer. It was a no-brainer,
Fergus rambled on, feeling a surge of energy. We had natural
plateaus for tees, hillocks and dells for greens and lots of
sandhills. All we needed were holes and flagsticks. So the club hired
a golf professional named Willie Campbell to lay out the course. His
report glowed, it is the best ground for a golf course that I have
ever had the pleasure of viewing it will need very little more than
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cutting the putting greens and making a bridge here and there.
Remember, Caballo, blind holes were the rage in the 1890s.
Fergus shifted his gaze out the window, as evening colors crept
over the course. The early golf course designers, mostly golf
professionals, were barely one step up from crofters, economically
speaking. But they were masterful salesmen. When Old Tom Morris
saw the undulating links ground at Machrihanish, he exclaimed, as
he often did, The Almichty had gowf in his ee when he made
Machrihanish.
Caballo interjected, Fergus, Im a big fan of Old Tom and Ive
read his biography. One of his good friends, Dr. Tulloch, wrote it in
1908. He reported that Tom visited Islay in 1896 and supervised a
course layout. Maybe the author had his islands mixed up. But maybe
not. A prestigious golfer and member of Prestwick Golf Club, a Mr.
J.S. Higginbotham, well connected in golfing circles, joined Islay in
1894, becoming its Captain in 1896, the same year Tulloch mentioned
Old Toms visit. Merely coincidental, Fergus? Caballo persisted.
I think youre barking up the wrong tree, lad. Theres no
mention of Old Tom in our club archives, although that doesnt
mean he wasnt on Islay. He was! Tulloch was correct Old Tom
designed an 18-hole course for another group in 1896 on the shores
of Loch Indaal, about five miles from Bridgend. That was the
Uisguinatuie Golf Club, founded by a Mrs. Cullen who hit the first
shot to open the course. How about that, Caballo a lady striking
the first ball.
Maybe womens liberation arrived early on Islay, Caballo
speculated.
Fergus went on, intrigued by Caballos reference to the grand old
man of golf. Maybe Old Tom stirred up golf fever on the island since
he was the most influential man in golf in that era. Soon, two more
clubs sprang up. Gartmain Golf Club formed in 1907, using farm land
off the main road, just north of Bowmore. It boasted a membership of
100 during the 1920s but it closed during the Second World War.
And, a fourth Islay course opened in 1908, the Geisgeir Golf
Club. Another lady, Miss Ramsay of Cairnmore, possibly the daughter
of John Ramsay, a founder of the Machrie, struck the opening shot with
a sliver cleek presented by the owners, the Misses McCuaig. Our Ileach
women must have loved the game. But this golf club disappeared
before the First World War.
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So, imagine that, Caballo four golf clubs on Islay a hundred

years ago. Hard to believe, isnt it? Of course, our population was
over 7,000 then, more than twice what we have today. Regardless,
the golf clubs needed outsiders to survive.
Our finest club, the Machrie, realizing this need, rearranged the
course to start and finish right next to the golf hotel. Yes, Captain
Higginbotham, even though he wasnt a resident, loved the course and
wanted it to stand out from the competition. So he hatched an idea for a
professional tournament and convinced John Ramsay to offer 100 for
first prize. Other club members chipped in money for the runner-up and
semi-finalists. This would be a match play event.
In 1901, 100 represented a small fortune. It attracted James
Braid, who won his first Open at Muirfield only a week earlier. His
winnings were paltry, compared to the princely sum that Islay
offered. In fact, the 1927 Open winners money was only 75.
Ramsays monstrous carrot worked.
Not only did Braid make the trip, one that he must have hated
since his motion sickness forced him to lie on his back during the
long steamer ride from Glasgow. Along with Braid came Open
champions Harry Vardon and J.H. Taylor, who finished second and
third to Braid at Muirfield. Sandy Herd and Jack White, who would
both win Opens in the next few years, also entered as did other top
players. Ramsays money was talking. Harold Hilton, the amateur
who had already won two Opens, cancelled. In those days, Caballo,
golf was still a sport where amateurs could beat professionals. Your
young Francis Ouimet beat Vardon and Ray in 1913. And dont
forget the career of Bobby Jones in the 1920s.
You can imagine the surprise of these men when they arrived on
this remote island. The Scotsmans golf writer described it pretty well.
A group of caddies, barefooted many of them and bonnetless and all chattering in Gaelic, awaited the players in front of the
Machrie House. From among these Donalds, Ronalds, Dougalds,
Malcolms, and Anguses, Harry Vardon selected a sturdy little
barelegged chap, whose head barely reached to the band of the
professionals jacket.
Caballo smiled, Reminds me of the American amateur, Chick

Evans, who rose from caddy ranks to win our Open and Amateur
championships in 1916. Chick landed his first loop when he was
only eight years old, just before the turn of the century. The ladys
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bag was taller than Chick was. Later he wrote about how nervous he
was since his eyes couldnt follow her tee shots. Luckily for him,
she hit every one down the middle.
Aye, a few years earlier another writer must have been
fascinated by our culture when he summarized Islay in an issue of
Golf, Fergus added as he read the passage.
O
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It is a journey of about 8 hours from Greenock and it is

worth the extra time. You may find for your companions a
contingent of Gaelic speaking shepherds or farmers bringing
flocks of prize sheep or a few sportsmen bent on shooting on
Islay or some island further north Everywhere one hears no
language except the Gaelic, the sailors speak it, the shepherds
argue about the price and condition of their flocks in it, and the
lovers whisper it.
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Ah, cest lamour, sighed Caballo.

Nonplussed, Fergus resumed his story, So there they were
imagine it the best golfers in the world in the middle of an island
full of Gaelic-speaking Ileachs. But these pros, unlike many of our
current ones, were from the common ranks of mankind: Braid was a
carpenter, Vardon was raised on the isle of Jersey, and Taylor grew
up poor in the west of England. They had no airs about them and
they were hungry for the big prize, which in the end slipped out of
the hands of Braid as he rimmed out his final putt and into those
of Englishman J.H. Taylor. I wish I could have been there.
Ramsays tournament paid off handsomely as the hotel and
golf course began to prosper. By 1913 over 200 belonged to the
club. Furthermore, the links, hotel, and island benefitted from the
tourist trade. But two of the other golf clubs, Geisgeir and Gartmain,
couldnt keep pace with the Machrie and closed their doors.
Fergus then took Caballo for a walk, starting down the 18th
fairway. Well see a spectacular sunset tonight, Caballo. As they
walked along the springy turf, shadows fell over the humps and
hollows of the Machrie. Fergus spoke softly, After the war, much
changed. We lost a lot of boys over there. It was a time of many tears.
Our off-island members didnt come back. Even the owners had
trouble. Iain Ramsay, son of the founder, and heir to the massive estate,
sold pieces of his 50,000 acres. In fact, he offered to sell the course and
hotel to the golf club but they didnt take him up on the deal. Looking
back now, Im sure the club would have loved to own their course.
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Back then and for the next 90 years, ownership of the hotel and course
changed as much as that of the distilleries. It had become a business.
I was born in 1926, shortly before the Great Depression, and
must confess that a few of my lads and I snuck on to the course
when we could. Only the wealthy played; lots of unemployment and
poverty on Islay. Our blue-collar men we call them artisans took
work wherever they could get it. They couldnt afford golf.
A change came in 1937 when Alex Mackinnon, one of my
friends and also a caddy, got a post-office job and joined the golf
club. First artisan member, Alex was. He turned the tide.
I know those Depression years were difficult times for
everyone, Fergus, Caballo lamented. But lets take a breather
Ill tell you a funny story. About 25 years ago I visited a nine-hole
club on the island of Arran, called Machrie Bay. At an evening
social arranged by club members, they told me about when the great
Walter Hagen visited Arran in 1937. When the Haig had finished
playing at Carnoustie in the Open, a championship he won four
times, Tommy Armour told him he should play the Machrie. So
Hagen took a ferry with his good friend Joe Kirkwood, a
professional who finished fourth in the 1934 Open. They thought
they were bound for Islay but somehow wound up on Arran and
headed to Machrie Bay golf club. Maybe they had too many drams.
Needless to say, word spread quickly on Arran that the great
Hagen was coming. Locals stopped working, businesses shut down,
and soon the golf course was a blaze of human activity. And,
gentleman that he was, never forgetting his commoner roots, Hagen
played the rudimentary track, one as flat as a pancake with fencing
around the greens to keep the cattle off. Hagen gave suggestions on
course alterations, which the club graciously accepted.
Our hosts showed us newspaper clippings of that treasured
memory. About 200 showed up to watch Hagens last golf in Scotland:
two local lads squaring off against two seasoned professionals. Hard to
believe, it was: the locals managed to lead after nine holes, only to lose
3 and 1 to the Americans. What a treat for Machrie Bay!
Caballo shrugged, In checking their website, I noticed that you
can play all day for 17. That goes to show that you dont need a
200 green fee to keep your club alive. I admire their respect for the
Scottish tradition of affordable golf, which seems to be evaporating
with these new, expensive courses. Maybe the trend of golf facilities
going bankrupt will make people come to their senses.
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Fergus laughed, Caballo, youve hit the nail on the head. My

friends and I scoff at these high fees. Golf is heading back towards
the pockets of aristocrats, it is.
But let me return to my story. When the second Great War
came as our nation rose to battle Hitler our club slid downhill.
We ended up with only 77 members, a number that quickly fell to
46. We were struggling to stay afloat.
Somehow we did as our island survived the economic
doldrums. Tourism returned. In 1948 Bert Marshall purchased the
hotel and course and became a benevolent owner. Better yet, in
1953 one of our members, Roy MacGregor, qualified to play in the
Walker Cup a great honor for us.
On that, sitting on the edge of a high dune overlooking the 17th
green, the sea wind blowing in his face, Fergus pulled a flask from
his coat and coaxed his new friend, Share a drink with me, Caballo,
as we watch the sun set on treacherous Ifrinn, as we call this hole.
Know what that means?
Ifrinn, the 17th green
Without waiting for Caballos response, Fergus kept on, Ifrinn

means hell in Gaelic and I can personally verify that it has caused
more than its fair share of that for me. After dealing with a blind
drive and a blind approach, you had to contend with a large bunker
in front of the green. Its been removed but I wish theyd put it back.
Hell is hell, you know.
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Caballo concurred, Without trees and water, a links course

needs hazards. But the Machrie doesnt need many bunkers it has
plenty of blind shots and tall grass. Thats enough. When wide-open
Muirfield hosts the Open, the big names love it since its so
straightforward. Muirfield needs bunkers and its got deep ones.
Absolutely, replied Fergus as he reached in his pocket to light
his pipe. Our unseen hazard is wind. Theres not much of it this
evening but normally it blows. Playing in our wind requires a lot of
skill and patience and courage and that, Caballo, might answer your
veritas riddle.
Aha, so thats it, Fergus patience and courage, Caballo
remarked as he remembered how merciless the wind was on his first
visit to the Machrie. Who owns the course now?
Well, after Mr. Marshalls kindhearted tenure ended, new
owners took over in 1970. When a local farmer deciding to stop
leasing his land, it meant we would lose three of the original holes. So
we hired Donald Steel to add new ones. Donald, also a golf writer in
those years, praised Machrie in his columns in the Sunday Telegraph,
which helped bring in tourists. Ironically, in 1973 some members
wanted to bulldoze the dunes to eliminate blind shots but reason
prevailed and theyre still preserved. Later, in 1976, the Morrison
family, one of Islays original estate owners, bought the course.
Caballo added, Many years ago I had the pleasure of
partnering with Mr. Steel in a foursomes match at Rye golf club,
where he had won the Presidents Putter. Even though past his
prime, Donald was still competitive and savored our victory.
Youre exactly correct, Fergus. Machrie has something
magical, maybe even spiritual. Her blind shots create an experience
the visitor wont forget. Shes the blindest of the blind. It shows a
course doesnt require 7,000 yards to be challenging, exciting, and
just plain fun, Caballo emphatically shouted.
Ill wrap this up, Caballo. The Morrisons upgraded the hotel,
although it seemed to need continual repair. In 1986 Murdo
MacPherson purchased it and tried to improve the facilities, but ran
into the conflict between raising membership dues and the cost of
upkeep. Always a battle, it was.
Caballo mentioned that the golf writer James Finegan
commented negatively on the golf hotel when he and his wife stayed
there in 1994. He abhorred their room but he loved the golf course,
just as Donald Steel did.
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Fergus continued, In 1996 Malcolm King took over and his

ownership improved the facilities but he eventually sold out to Peter
de Savary, an English entrepreneur. My hunch is that Peter planned
to make this another Skibo Castle, a private retreat for the rich and
famous. Would have been a sorry shame to take the links away from
the Ileachs. Good thing for everyone that he let it go, selling it in
2004 to another English entrepreneur, Graham Ferguson Lacey, the
former owner of the famed Castletown Hotel on the Isle of Man.
This crafty wheeler-dealer made a lot of money on flipping
companies with little regard for anything except his own bankroll.
Well, now the Castletown group is after him for 1 million. He lost
the Machrie in bankruptcy. Glad hes gone.
I dont know much about Lacey but yes, Ive played at de
Savarys Skibo Castle on the Carnegie Clubs links and must
agree with you that his philosophy amounts to catering to the
wealthy and ignoring that golf, a humble game, belongs to the
people, Caballo said, with sadness in his eyes.
Now weve got new owners and, with good fortune, well see
tourism return, while still keeping the cost reasonable for Ileachs.
Sue Nye, former secretary to Prime Minister Gordon Brown, and
her husband Gavyn Davies, a well-heeled investor and lover of links
golf, own the place. God forbid they turn it into a pricey resort.
Caballo nodded, Fergus, youre right. The Machries charm
lies in its rustic nature, its blind shots, and its being on the road less
traveled. Its not a championship course, not in the same league as
Turnberry, Troon, Carnoustie, St. Andrews, or Muirfield. Frankly,
Im not sure it would succeed financially if it raised guest fees
dramatically. Its perfect just the way it is.
Before leaving the hotel, Caballo spoke with the manager, a
tall, taciturn man who listened to the unusual proposal of a
combined marathon and golf tournament. He simply smiled. But,
after a short negotiation, he agreed to set aside tee times for three
foursomes on a Friday and Saturday in April. He graciously granted
a free practice round; but the full green fee of 65 would apply for
the tournament round. Some might view that as excessive,
especially when compared to the 20 entry fee for two rounds of the
Islay Open, scheduled for the following weekend. Caballo, on the
other hand, saw the deal as a two-for-one and happily accepted it
the owners were having a tough time and could use the income.
After all, its only money, he thought.
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On Running
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The time is coming when I will have to move on to other

things. Ive been running in circles for ten years. My career has
shown me the world and given me opportunities I might never
have enjoyed if I hadnt been a runner. Whatever I choose to do
with the rest of my life, my running has taught me that I can reach
almost any goal if I want it enough. There will always be
something to strive for. My hope is for the heart to strive forever.
IE
Running Tide Joan Benoit-Samuelson, winner of the first womens

Olympic marathon in 1984. Written at age 30 in 1987.
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ith one day left to explore Islay, Caballo decided to test

his legs on a short run (short, to a marathoner, means
anything less than 10 miles) on the Grand Strand, the
six-mile stretch of golden sand that borders the Machrie links and
Loch Indaal. As he ran, he reflected on Joan Benoit-Samuelson, the
famous runner who took gold in the Olympics. Her career also
included marathon wins at Boston and Chicago but the most
amazing part of this little lady is her durability. At 50 she qualified
for the US womens Olympic marathon trials and set a US marathon
record for women over age 50 with a time of 2:49. Inspiring,
Caballo thought. Id like to buy her a drink shed be a great Lady
of the Isles, he figured. Today, even at her age, she keeps on
running, ignoring pains, injuries, and the fact that shell never set a
new PB, a personal best time. What is her secret?
And why do I run? Caballo pondered, as his feet danced lightly
on the coarse sand, the incoming tide splashing on his shoes. More
questions sprang up as he dodged driftwood and stones, smoothed
and bleached by Atlantic storms. Why do I run marathons? Cant I
be content with a 5K or 10K or even a half-marathon? Why does the
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marathon intrigue me? These musings turned into meditation as

Caballo glided along this Hebridean paradise, rich in peace and
stillness. Would he find answers to quid est veritas here?
Few among men are they who cross over to the further
shore. The others merely run up and down the bank on this side.
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The Dhammapada the Buddha
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After his run, Caballo cleaned up and drove to the Bowmore

Hotel for a pre-arranged meeting with Karen, the runner who
participated in Robbies tasting, likewise challenged to find veritas.
In hopes of shedding some light on this perplexing question, the two
runners hoped their collective ingenuity would yield answers. In
October the lounge bar does not require reservations as it does in
peak tourist season. The two had the place to themselves.
Instead of ordering the traditional single malt, they decided to
experience Bruichladdichs Botanist Gin, a product brewed from 22
plants hand-picked by an older couple on Islay. Caballo started, So,
Mrs. Wallace, why do we run? Whats the force that pulls our trigger?
Caballo, we run because we can, Karen replied, her eyes
accented by pale blue eyeshadow but her hair cropped short, no
longer in pigtails. I dont know what it is inside me that makes me
lace up my shoes on a dreadful morning and then go out to battle
wind and rain. Running clears my head. I enjoy feeling like an eagle
soaring. Like a deer gliding through the woods. What fun it is to
charge down the road at sunrise.
Yes, Caballo agreed. Running seeps into our blood, our
skin, our mind almost like an addiction. If we dont have it for a
few days, we miss it badly. Ive played highly competitive golf for
many years, but I never felt that way about golf. No question that I
enjoyed it and thrived on the challenge of it but I never missed it
terribly during our cold winters. On the other hand, I can run all year
long, even in the death grip of snow and ice or in the inferno of our
hot summers. By the way, hows your golf game?
Karen shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of gin, Non-existent.
I tried, I practiced, and I quit. The games not for me, even though Im
Scottish. Im lucky I didnt hurt anyone. My shots found strange places.
All the time. But running now thats what Im good at.
Caballo chimed in, I know what you mean. Ive been running
marathons for eight years and I will admit that, even though Im not
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addicted, I cant wait till the next one. Ive set a goal to run 100 of
them. But sometimes I ask myself, Why do I run marathons?
Karen lifted her glass and looked straight into Caballos eyes,
Marathons give us a pure distance, Caballo. We dont find that in
the half-marathon or the ultra-marathon. The race goes back to the
time of the Greeks. Yet, I congratulate those runners who enjoy
doing a 5K or half-marathon or an ultra. Each to his or her own.
And I wonder if the ultrarunners can avoid injury, especially as they
age. We dont have a lot of data on this type of runner. Dont forget
that your namesake, the real Caballo Blanco, died of a heart
malfunction. Was this caused by his ultrarunning? Who knows?
Thats why I prefer the marathon distance not too little, not too
much. Just right.
A tree that is unbending is easily broken.
Lao-Tsu, Chinese philosopher, sixth century B.C.
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Maybe its the thrill of crossing the finish line, Caballo added.
Maybe its seeing how my body and my mind perform in the last five
miles. Every marathon has different elements: the hills, the wind, the
temperature. My adrenaline surges so much at the start line that its
hard to describe. What a rush! Pure excitement. And I feel a sense of
oneness with my fellow runners, a brotherhood, so to speak. I dont
compete against them; I compete with them against the distance.
Lets face it: an old man like me has no chance in hell of winning.
But I never felt that way in a golf tournament. We were always
trying to beat the other guys brains in a much different camaraderie.
And golf measures us with a score a number, plain and simple.
Karen countered, A marathon time is a specific measurement, too.
True, but in marathon running, Caballo continued, our
hearts, our minds, our lungs, and our legs are measured. Unless
youre an elite with a chance to win, youre basically competing
against yourself and maybe against those in your age group,
though you never know who or where they are. Were all in this test
together. Brothers and sisters. Americans and Scots. We cheer for
each other.
Caballo reminisced, I ran Boston many years ago the year
my wife died 2007. A noreaster blew in and they almost
cancelled the race. Did race officials forget that we run in wind and
rain? Boy, would that have disappointed all of us. Anyway, it took
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me about 10 minutes to cross the start line after the gun went off.
Welcome to the Boston marathon, I thought. In the first four or five
miles, we were like sardines packed into a can on those narrow
streets elbow to elbow, hips bumping hips a mass of humanity.
We had to pay constant attention to avoid tripping on someone
elses shoes. And, despite all the accolades for this marathon, the
roads were empty. No fans and no bands. The only brave ones were
the girls of Wellesley and the students of Boston College. My hats
off to them but, overall, I call this marathon highly overrated. The
real accomplishment comes in qualifying for it.
Karen interrupted, But you finished. You must have felt a
sense of history since that marathon is the oldest in the world.
Maybe a wee bit. It didnt help that I wore a new pair of shoes
that hurt my feet. My fault. But the meager food afterwards, the
cotton t-shirt, the waiting a half-hour in the freezing cold to get my
gear bag out of a bus all made me think that this marathon caters
to the world-class elite and doesnt care much about ordinary
runners like us. Never again unless my son or a friend has a
burning desire to run it with me.
Karen recalled a few marathons she didnt like: London (too
crowded), Berlin (way too crowded), and Edinburgh (too hot and
problems with finding the bus). She adjusted the fit of her bright
yellow Adidas wind jacket, a piece of clothing that came in handy
for training in Scotland where the wind never stops.
Ive learned that many British and European runners like trail
marathons, which, I discovered, is totally different from the
conventional ones on asphalt. Have you run any?, Caballo queried.
Karen sighed and related her trail running experience. The
Jura Fells almost killed me? How about you, Caballo, any trail
marathons?
Only one and Im still embarrassed about it. A few years ago a
friend and I planned to run the Pikes Peak marathon. You could call it a
bucket list thing for two flatlanders, a term we Midwesterners deserve,
compared to those who live in our Rocky Mountains. The marathons
website suggests that you can estimate how long youll take to finish by
doubling your normal marathon time. I smirked at that one. No way
would it take me over seven hours. Ha. Be careful about throwing
stones if you live in a glass house, Caballo reminded himself.
Pikes Peak is rated Americas most difficult marathon,
although there are ultramarathons, such as the Leadville 100,
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Western States 100, and the famous Badwater, that are much longer
and much more grueling. Pikes Peak begins at 7,000 feet in Manitou
Springs, a sleepy Colorado village, and ascends a trail to just below
the summit 14,000 feet. Then it returns down the trail to finish in
the town. Thirteen miles up and 13 down. Except for the altitude, it
doesnt sound too bad, does it?
Up in the clouds, replied Karen, spellbound.
Well, Caballo admitted, I didnt think it would be a big deal
until I checked out the trail. I walked down it the second day after I
arrived. Holy crap. One rock or boulder after another. Then, past the
tree line and into the forest, it was one root or rock after another.
You could only run on short stretches, which were random. Right
then and there I decided that, come marathon day, I would more or
less walk down that mountain. Too many opportunities to fall and
bash my head or crack a bone. I had visions of stumbling off the
trail and getting impaled on one of those burned out pine tree
stumps, sticking up like spikes. Yuck. No bellyaching, though
Pikes Peak was one tough mother.
Going up the mountain on that narrow trail meant that we
couldnt run fast, especially at such high elevation. So what, take
your time, Caballo, I thought. And then, about half way up, I saw
the leaders running down the trail, not walking. Believe me,
Karen, watching them flying downhill past us leaping like African
gazelles from one boulder to another was one of the most
fascinating sights Ive seen. They were human deer, things of
athletic beauty. Ill never forget that. A young Spaniard won.
Karen shrugged, So howd you and your friend do?
Caballos smile vanished, Unfortunately, Roger had an injury
and didnt make the trip. Hes always been lucky. For me, I had no
excuse. I had to go. It took me over five hours to reach the summit
and there were plenty of younger runners behind me. But good
mountain runners can run fast downhill, sailing over rocks and
roots. I cant. With only about four miles to go, a young runner
caught up and asked if I thought wed finish in less than 10 hours. I
thought he was joking. You know, Karen, Pikes Peak has a 10-hour
cut-off; no shirt or medal if youre even one second over the limit.
Rules are rules. Im OK with that but I never figured that would
apply to me.
I reassured the lad that, yes, we would easily finish inside that
limit and, looking at my watch, I suggested that we might even
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break eight hours. Wrong. The zigs and zags caught up with us as
did the heat. It took me nine hours, which taught me humility
thats three sub-three-hour marathons. A whopping 654 finished
ahead of me, though there was some solace in knowing that 81 came
in behind me, most of them younger. And that doesnt count the
runners who failed to break ten hours.
For the first time, I didnt have that sense of elation when I
crossed the finish line. Not being able to run down that trail made
me think I wasnt really in a marathon. So my race strategy was
merely to survive. I figured Id win an age award if I did well. Ha.
Finished last in my bracket first time for that, too. Maybe it was
because all the others had run it previously. Still I got the medal and
the shirt, which meant something. I concluded that the directors
ought to explain to newbies like me that experience in trail running
is essential. Being able to leap over rocks and roots is a skill, one
that I dont have. I admire trail runners but no more for me. With my
clumsiness, Im an accident waiting to happen.
Karen understood, We marathoners are a rare breed, Caballo.
Were less than one half of one percent of the population. And many
who run their first marathon are one and done. They put it on their
bucket list and they cross it off. So those of us who keep running
them are indeed members of a curious tribe. I think more people
could run a marathon but they sell themselves short and they
underestimate what God has given them. The distance intimidates.
My goodness, 26 miles! But the irony is that most could do it.
Theyd have to walk most of the way but they could run at the finish
and raise their hands. They dont know what theyre missing.
Yes, running, especially marathon running, is a gift, Caballo
insisted, a gift that many of us take for granted. We dont realize
this until were sidelined with an injury, which, as you know,
happens to each of us. It takes a lot of self-control and patience for
an alcoholic not to have another drink. Same thing with runners.
When were injured, we go nuts. We want to run and we usually
start back too soon and end up getting injured again. Voila!
Hamstring tendonitis, runners knee, torn ligaments, shin splints,
plantar fasciitis. Had em all. But the worst part comes when you
cant run and, as you drive down the road, you watch other runners
bounding along, injury-free. As you curse your own bad luck, you
ask yourself: Do they know how fortunate they are? But, if we rest
long enough and wait, time heals.
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Ive been there, too, Caballo, Karen added. Disheartening. I

hate it. Feels as if Im a kid again and all my toys are taken away.
But, youre right time off is best. The only problem is patience
runners dont have much.
Caballo nodded, Patience must come naturally to the marathon
monks of Japans Mt. Hiei. And discipline. Did you know that, in
their first year of being a monk, they run 26.2 miles for 100
consecutive days after an hour of prayer that begins at one-thirty
in the morning? They repeat this in their second and third years. In
their fourth and fifth year they do two sets of 100 consecutive
marathon days. They continue this schedule for seven years.
Fasting, praying, and running. They have patience and durability.
We could learn from them.
Karen, when my first wife became sick and died, I found that
running with my friend Roger was a godsend. The therapy of
marathon running.
Karen added, Yes, its therapy for me, too personal time.
Finally he asked her, Have you found veritas? Will we find it
in the marathon? Will we find it here? Will we solve Robbies
puzzle?
Let me explain, Karen whispered. I know that we runners
come from different backgrounds, different races, different cultures,
and different religions. Some of us dont believe in God. I dont
judge but I do want to relate a story. I know youve seen Chariots of
Fire. She smiled, that movie featured Britains best runners in the
1924 Paris Olympics one of whom was our own Eric Liddell, a
Scot born to Christian missionary parents in China but raised in
Britain. His best event was the 100 meters but he decided not to run
it in the Olympics because it was scheduled on Sunday, which
conflicted with his faith. He declined months ahead, not a few days
before as the movie depicted.
Instead, he ran the 400 meters and, even though it was not his
forte, he took the gold, setting a record that stood for 12 years. He
was a team player, selfless. Later he returned as a missionary to
China where he died in a Japanese internment camp in 1945. I
remember reading about what he said when someone asked him why
he didnt pursue a career in athletics. He simply said, Its natural
for a chap to think over all that sometimes, but Im glad Im at the
work Im engaged in now. A fellows life counts for far more at this
than the other.
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Mr. Liddell also impressed me because, while he was in that

camp, he refused freedom an arranged prisoner exchange a deal
made between Churchill and the Japanese. Instead he gave his ticket to
a pregnant woman so that she and her baby could live. They left and
survived; he stayed and died. Selfless. I think he understood veritas.
Yes, Eric understood veritas. Selfless, he was. Caballo was
beginning to find answers. He wished Karen good luck in her running
and told her he hoped to see her next April.
Two more stops now before flying back home. One was to the
high school. Caballo envisioned having a pasta dinner there, the
traditional meal before a marathon, and hoped to meet the principal.
But, Stephen, the deputy head of the school, was teaching a class.
Pressed for time, Caballo left a message and promised to be in touch.
The next stop came at the Gaelic College, Ionad Chaluim Chille
Ile, a visit perhaps due more to curiosity than anything. Caballo was
interested in holding a post-marathon celebration, a Gaelic ceilidh,
and hoped he could find someone here to help. He did. Ella Edgar, a
middle-aged woman, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, listened as
Caballo recited his plan for next April. As he talked, she grinned as
if she had already heard about the Americans strange proposal.
Word travels fast on the island. Ella, whose Highland dancers
consistently win prizes in competitions on the mainland, said shed
be happy to bring her dancers to the ceilidh. Dont worry, my
friend, things will work out just fine. Its a noble effort of yours.
Everything will be fine. A friend of mine might be able to arrange
the ceilidh. Caballo left, reassured by this kind lady who seemed to
be confident that, yes, things would work out.
The trip had been a success: sponsors, photos, stories from the
elders, and Ellas promise. Waiting at the airport, Caballo began to
assemble his plan for next April when Malcolm surprised him with a
visit and a chat before saying goodbye one final taste of Islay
hospitality. The FlyMaybe flight left on time.
Life is about experiencing all the things you find interesting
and fascinating. Just get out there and experience as much as you
can. Participate in life.
Louie Zamperini, World War II prison camp survivor and
accomplished runner
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Rollo Podmarsh stood on the tenth tee, a volcano of mixed

emotions. Mechanically he pulled out his pipe and lit it. But he
found that he could not smoke. In this supreme crisis of his life
tobacco seemed to have lost its magic. He put the pipe back in his
pocket and gave himself up to his thoughts. Now terror gripped
him
IE
The Awakening of Rollo Podmarsh,

Wodehouse on Golf P.G. Wodehouse, 1940
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aballos return home was much less eventful than his trip to
Islay. Immediately he began working on Aprils challenge.
First, he made airline reservations on United this time
since it was the only American carrier flying into Glasgow. Guapo
changed family plans so that he could go. Next came accommodations
an easy task. Guapo took care of the rental car. Within a few days
their trip was set.
But, as fate would have it, a week later the role of marathon
director also came his way. Oh Lord, how can I be race director
when Im almost 4,000 miles away? Caballo worried. His pal Guapo
wondered if he could do it. His wife questioned his sanity. At first,
Caballo didnt tell his adult children since theyd think Alzheimers
had set in early. Youre organizing a marathon where, dad? When
he finally told them, they simply smiled with the detachment of
having witnessed their dads attempts at the unusual many times
over the years; they knew their old man was nuts.
Not one to listen to those who tell him something cant be done,
Caballo reasoned that its much better to try, risking failure, than to
never take a chance. He also held Oscar Wilde in high esteem:
Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.
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Then, two weeks later, the proverbial shit hit the fan: the two
organizations that the challenge had planned to support removed
themselves. They didnt want to commit to a project that might not
happen, which was a reasonable assumption. Feeling pinned against
a wall, Caballo didnt panic. When you get in trouble in golf, you
must remain calm panicking is the worst thing you can do. Dont
worry everything will work out, Ellas words kept coming back to
him. Will it? he asked himself.
Caballo quickly emailed Stephen Harrison, the deputy head of
the Islay high school who had already agreed to host the premarathon pasta dinner. Would the school like to receive all of the
challenge proceeds in addition to the money raised by the pasta
dinner? It was like hitting paydirt. Yes, the school would accept
funding. And yes, Stephen would help. Every two years the students
visit an underdeveloped country, a mission trip that Stephen is in
charge of. A trip to Peru was planned for 2015 and the proceeds
from the challenge would help fund it. In return, the students,
parents, and teachers would volunteer. In fact, Stephen, a runner,
said that he might run the marathon. It would be his first. Great,
Caballo thought, that means we have at least three entries.
Suddenly rays of light trickled in. When one door closes,
another opens. Another gift came from Brian Palmer, an
experienced cyclist and Islay resident, who agreed to measure the
26.2 with his Garmin as soon as the gales subsided. Marathoners
dont enjoy running extra distance. They like precision.
Now armed with allies on Islay, Caballo unveiled the
challenges website in November, began marketing in December,
and by February had several new sponsors, enthusiastic volunteers,
and over 20 marathon entrants. Not a great response but it was late
in the game, considering that most marathoners plan their races a
year in advance. And the islands economy would benefit not only
from the influx of runners and their families but also from the
massive publicity campaign Caballo envisioned. So, his dream of
helping the Scots was coming true. Stephen handled the local
arrangements and, confidence brimming, registered for the
marathon. Caballo encouraged him, promising to run with him every
step of the way, no matter how long it took.
Golf was a different animal. Despite news releases to golf
clubs, golf unions, online forums, and newspapers, recruiting golfers
was failing. Hundreds of golf clubs in Scotland, Ireland, and
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England received invitations. The only stipulation was that golfers

must run the marathon. Maybe 26.2 miles was too long. The fish
werent biting.
One of Caballos friends, a competitive senior golfer and
runner, was interested but had signed up for the London marathon,
which fell on the same day as Islays. Too bad. Caballo challenged
Gary Allen and his Mount Desert Island marathon for best marathon
scenery, hoping that might entice some golfing runners in Maine to
sign up. It didnt. He appealed to the leaders of Speed Golf
International, an organization that sponsors tournaments that
combine score and time. An Irishman won the championship in
2013. But running four miles on a golf course is a far cry from
completing a marathon. Sadly, Caballo and Guapo were the only
two entered for the dual challenge, proof that golfers fear the
marathon distance more than a curling six-footer on the last hole to
win the match.
The winter months flew by, April arrived, and the two
Americans were ready for Scotland. As they walked through the
airport, Guapo noticed Caballo limping. Whats up with that, CB?
Another injury?
Caballo hoped his friend wouldnt notice but, lugging a heavy
suitcase and backpack made the limp hard to disguise. I broke my
leg seven weeks ago. Really unlucky. Runners hate to admit to
injuries, especially after winning a marathon age bracket award as
Caballo did a few weeks before the accident.
Are you serious? came Guapos lighthearted reply.
I had finished a long run in late February and was walking
carefully down a snow-covered path to meet a friend when, in a flash,
my two feet hit a slick icy spot and I went down. Heard something pop.
But I could stand on the leg without much pain; so I figured nothing
was broken. My injuries heal quickly.
The ankle swelled and turned black and blue. So I consulted Dr.
Google for treatment for a sprained ankle. I started a rehab program,
developed by a trainer in California. Hey, it sounded good. But, after
four weeks, I still couldnt run so I asked my podiatrist-runner-friend
(who had the same injury seven years ago) for an MRI. Bad news:
broken fibula and torn ankle ligaments. Really unlucky.
But I kept up the rehab, assuming I would heal in time for the
challenge. You know me, the eternal optimist. I didnt want to
disappoint the Scots.
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Guapo commented, with 40 years of familiarity with his friend,

Caballo, you have the incurable disease of stubbornness. You dont
know when to say no.
My big problem is now my lack of golf. My ankle hurts when
I follow through; Ive only played nine holes this year, which I
barely finished. It has not been pleasant limping like an old man and
trying to improvise a swing. I wonder if I can finish the challenge.
Can I walk for 18 holes? Two days in a row? Even worse is the
thought that you might beat me.
Cmon, CB. Im a 21 and youre a what, three or four?
My handicap is six it always goes up in the winter. But I still
can beat you. No strokes, you know.
Guapo gasped, he the one who counted on handicap strokes to
level the playing field, No strokes?
The tournament rules were posted on the website last
November. Dont give me any crap. You know what they are: no
strokes, strictly a medal round, all putts in the cup, and a nine-club
limit. Golfers dont need 14 clubs. Thats way too many.
Well, at least I can run farther than you can, even if I dont
finish the marathon, Guapo responded with a snicker.
Read the rules, G-man. If a competitor does not finish the
marathon, he or she will get last place plus one 26, assuming 25
competitors. Add 26 to the golf score for the challenge total.
Simple, eh?
Its not fair, Caballo, Guapo whimpered, I need strokes.
His whining continued on the overnight flight from Newark to
Glasgow but subsided when they got off the plane and rented a car.
Guapo liked driving, even on the wrong side of the road.
On this windy Thursday morning they left the Glasgow airport
and headed for Kintyres Kennacraig, the port for the Islay ferry.
Half asleep, Caballo the navigator missed the turn to the Erskine
Bridge to cross the Clyde, a mistake that added 20 minutes to their
drive. Guapo took it lightly, choosing to ignore his injured friends
error, Well be OK. Twenty minutes wont matter.
Fortunately it didnt matter: the A83 road was open at Rest
and Be Thankful, a roadside hill where landslides often close the
highway, requiring a two-hour detour around Loch Lomond and
Trossachs National Park. They arrived at Kennacraig well before
loading time. The morning rain had ended and the wind was only
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15-20 mph, a mere breeze and not strong enough to stop the huge
Caledonian MacBrayne ferry from sailing.
The two-hour crossing turned into a welcome-back-toBraveheart-land experience. Guapo and Caballo enjoyed sitting with
these people some returning Ileachs, some mainland Scots, and a
handful of Germans and Dutch. They watched the old men drink
coffee and read their newspapers. Young mothers took care of
children, the same ones the grandparents tried to spoil with treats.
Young lovers hugged, starry-eyed, dreaming of their holiday on the
island. A middle-aged woman drank a wee dram. There were plenty
of seats available the boat wasnt crowded. In stormy April the
tourist trade on Islay is minimal.
They arrived at Port Askaig, the islands northern port, and
motored down the main road, Islays A846, up and down green
hills, past farm fields and stone cottages. It felt good to return to
Islay, Caballo observed.
They stopped at the Woollen Mill, a mile before Bridgend.
Caballo wanted his friend to see this fascinating place, two old stone
buildings standing over a raging stream. In 1550 the smaller
building was a weavers home, a structure well preserved but not
used now. In 1883 J.C. Christie built the newer mill which closed
in the 1980s. A Yorkshire man, Gordon Covell, experienced in the
trade, purchased the mill and restored it, bringing the old machines
to life, each of which, he said, he could fix if broken. We made the
tartans for Braveheart and for War Horse. Stephen Spielberg,
producer and director of War Horse, was so pleased with our work
that he sent me two cases of California wine.
Gordon took them on a tour, something he does for any
interested visitor. We make tweeds for Savile Row in London,
Gordon proclaimed, and were working on supplying goods for a
new movie, but I cant tell you its name. Savile Row customtailored suits fetch 3,000, though most of its clothing costs far less.
Gordon generously donated two brown tartan Braveheart scarves,
prizes for the male and female marathon winners.
Past Bridgend, they drove down the High Road, the same one
that marathoners would run on through farmland and Islays
moors. Pavement conditions were fine no glaring holes. Britain
takes pride in its streets, though theyre often being resurfaced. This
modest single-track road was a far cry from the ones in
Birmingham, Alabama, where Caballo ran the Mercedes marathon,
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having to dodge one pothole after another, a gait that made running
seem more like hopscotch.
The two Americans checked in to their B&B, opening the
unlocked front door on Islay its safe to leave your door unlocked
and unloaded their gear. Five minutes later they heard a voice,
Remembered your room, did you? It was Joy, the jovial owner who
met Caballo last October when he reserved the ground floor room,
mostly because it was close to the marathon finish and had a
bathtub, which would allow him to take a post-marathon ice bath,
something Joy found amusing though she promised to supply the
ice. No need for that now, Caballo sulked.
Joy explained that her place, The Askernish Bed and Breakfast,
was originally a physicians office which he opened in the 1950s. The
building was constructed a century earlier. Joy chose this name for her
establishment since the doctor came from South Uist, an island in the
Outer Hebrides, known for its Roman Catholic population and for its
Askernish Golf Club, a course Old Tom Morris designed in 1891 for
Lady Emily Gordon Cathcart. Two white marble lion heads, sitting on
a turret of cement blocks guard the entrance and two tall palm trees
testify to the trade winds that warm Islay.
After dinner at the Taj Mahal restaurant in Bowmore Guapos
first foray into Indian food they drove to the high school where
they met Stephen in the hallway, preparing for the volunteer
meeting. Stephen had the running look trim and short, no love
handles or rolls of blubber hanging over his belt. Many runners,
especially those elites who put in weekly training mileage of 80-120
miles, have weathered faces, so wrinkled that they look 20 years older.
Not Stephen he still looked young. His brown eyes sparkled, and his
demeanor, polite and considerate, told us that he was a man who could
take responsibility and attend to details, qualities necessary in a race
director. Stephen didnt leave anything to chance.
The meeting went well. About 20 attended teachers, parents,
a mix of male and female students that included several giggly
teenage girls. They were giggly, that is, until they discovered they
would have to be at their aid station at half past seven on a Sunday
morning. What, us up that early? On Sunday. Oh my! they
screeched. But they listened politely as Caballo explained what
runners want at the water stops and the finish line. Races grow by
word of mouth. If its organized well, scenic, and fun, theyll tell
their friends.
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Stephen had planned to station volunteers at road crossings to

make sure no one got lost and he appointed the red-haired Dave to
drive behind the last runner. A safety caboose is important. Joanna,
the high school principal, would help the crippled Caballo at the
finish line. Caballo and Guapo brought their share of supplies from
home trophies for the challenge, various items for the goody bags,
race bibs and pins, and generous donations from the Cincinnati
Flying Pig and Indianapolis Monumental marathons. In lieu of a
marathon t-shirt, Laphroaig distillery donated a beautiful Glencairn
glass, engraved with the marathons name, which might get more
use than a t-shirt, especially if the runner favors single malt.
After the meeting, Stephen invited the Yanks to dinner but, late
as it was and already fed, they opted for the following night. And,
remarkably alert after a transatlantic flight, a day of driving and
riding the ferry, and finalizing race details, the two old men had
enough energy to visit the lounge bar in the Bowmore Hotel, which
has 760 single malts, most of them from Islay. Guapo the
connoisseur coaxed his pal into trying a few drams. Their final stop
was to bed at the Askernish.
Fridays forecast was for no rain and wind of only 15-20
mph, which was far better than Saturdays predicted weather of rain
and a 40 mph semi-gale. So Caballo and El Guapo decided to play
the challenge on Friday instead of the practice round.
They pulled into the parking lot. No cars. The Machrie Hotels
white stucco buildings, tiny cottages where golfers stayed in past years,
were derelict and needed tearing down. Why was the parking lot
empty? Caballo asked. For a course that one expert included in the
top-ten-to-play in Scotland, the vacant parking lot was bizarre. But,
then again, April can be a nasty month on Islay. The poor owners. They
could use the business, the lads thought. Maybe the challenge will grow
in the future. The lonely course begged for players.
Having decided to play the championship round today, the boys
paid their 65 to the middle-aged expressionless receptionist and
headed out into the wind. They noted the sign in the bathroom warning
that the water was non-potable. Not exactly welcoming words.
Three years had passed since Caballo had begun planning the
Lords of the Isles challenge and now the time had arrived. It was
Friday, April 11, 2014, the first time a golf tournament has been
held in conjunction with a marathon. Maybe I am crazy, Caballo
daydreamed as he walked towards the first tee, waiting to blast away
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in the official Queen of the Hebrides Open. No television cameras

focused on them. There were no crowds. No one announced their
names. Still, they were excited: its hard to explain to a non-golfer the
thrills and chills that ripple through ones body at the beginning of a
tournament. Thoughts of failure, worries about where that first drive
will end, feelings of rumblings in the stomach. Why should anyone get
so uptight about hitting a tiny white ball? Caballo asked himself.
The Machrie didnt have a driving range to warm up. Caballo
and Guapo would have to start cold. Nothing beats hitting a dozen
shots to loosen up the old back, Guapo reasoned. But not today. Just
a golf course and a putting green. Hell, James Braid and Harry
Vardon and J.H. Taylor didnt have a range when they played here
a century ago. Guess Ill be OK, after all. Still lets have a few
practice putts, he thought.
While Guapo and Caballo putted, they tried to judge speed,
hoping that the course greens would have the same speed as this
one. Many decades ago, an American golf pro playing in the Open
at Muirfield, complained to the greenkeeper that his greens had
different speeds. To which the greenkeeper calmly replied, Thats
what a practice round is for, sir.
Figuring this would help, Caballo kept on stroking putts, one
after another, satisfied when one dropped in the hole. While he
putted, an elderly gentleman approached. He was hard to ignore,
smartly dressed in Blackwatch plaid plus fours, those knickers that
extend four inches past the knee, worn by golfers in the 1920s and
more recently by the late Payne Stewart. After staring at this
colorful figure, Caballo finally gave in to curiosity and walked
towards the man, who calmly puffed on a cigar. He came to watch.
They shook hands as Caballo introduced himself and mentioned the
name of their mutual friend, Malcolm.
Me names Rod MacCallum and me days of gowfin have
passed but me memorys keen. Ive been here since the 1920s and
hope to see a bit o gowf today. This Queen of the Hebrides Open,
lad, whats it all aboot? Are you playing in it?
Caballo nodded, stretched his back, and explained the Lord of
the Isles Challenge to the old man. He also mentioned his search for
quid est veritas. The longer I stay on Islay, the closer I am to
solving this riddle, Rod. Any ideas?
Caballo, I assure you that Islay will reveal her secrets. You
need to watch, listen, and learn. Youll find them. By the way, at
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your age, are you really planning to run in the marathon tomorrow?
Youre no spring chicken, laddie.
No question, Rod. I love both sports, though I find its difficult to
serve two masters, if you know what I mean. I do the best I can. Golf
and running can fit together. I had hoped to do well in both but my
broken leg has different ideas. Dont want to disappoint all the fans.
Fans? You mean the rabbits? Sheep? Sea gulls? Seriously,
Caballo, you ought to come back here in August for our Kildalton
Cross, a tournament weve held for over a hundred years. The
trophy is a replica of our famous Celtic cross. Beautiful piece, it is.
Maybe Ill try that someday, Rod. For now, Im focused on
this event. I plan to keep the ball in play, be patient, and get the ball
in the hole, an expression we Yanks have for holing putts, especially
when they count. And, despite my leg issue, Im hoping to beat my
fellow competitor, El Guapo, and survive walking the course. It
was hard for Caballo to retreat from a challenge.
Rod wished his new friend good luck and watched him tee off
on this blustery day. As Caballo walked down the first fairway, his
thoughts drifted to timing. Maybe he should have chosen a date for
this other than Masters weekend. Yes, he should have never
challenged the Masters.
Ah, the Masters, that famous April golf tournament that
cements golfers around the world to their chairs in front of the
television. And, having been at Augusta in 1996 when Greg Norman
plunked his tee shot into the pond at the 16th hole, losing his seven
stroke lead and the title to Nick Faldo, Caballo admitted that he
loved watching the final day of the Masters. Especially after a
brutally cold winter. Yes, he told himself, thats where all the
golfers were today watching the Masters. So much for timing.
Moreover, the others the ones at that whisky tasting in 2011
werent here, either. Donald, the scratch golfer, had injured his
hamstring while training for the marathon. Even playing golf was
difficult for him now. He should have joined a running group and
proceeded slowly, Caballo thought. Grahame, the young overweight
single malt connoisseur, had lost 80 pounds but was only up to
running. Good for him and keep going, lad, Caballo told himself.
Gustav, the Swede, would run the marathon but the banking
business took too much of his time for him to learn golf, especially
in Swedens short summer. Karen, too, had problems with time: her
job, her family, and her running made golf impossible. She tried but
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couldnt devote the hours required to learn the game. So she settled
for the marathon.
That left Guapo and Caballo to battle each other for the trophy.
Though Guapo was still lobbying for strokes, he couldnt deny that
he had an edge with two good legs and one more club in the bag
than Caballo had. The injured one carried only eight to lighten his
load. And Guapo had played several rounds already this year, far
more than the nine holes Caballo managed. Advantage: El Guapo.
According to most golf designers, the first hole should be a
gentle introduction to the course, which Anavon (Gaelic for the
river) fulfills. A short par 4, with out of bounds lurking on the left, it
tempts the long hitter to carry the ridge about 280 yards away. If the
hill is not carried, a blind approach the first of many introduces
the Machrie. And, if the shot is heavy or thin, a snarly pot bunker is
ready to gobble it up, a bunker that Guapo found to his disgust.
Despite making a good recovery, he could manage only a six, which
tied Caballo. All square after one.
Guapo bunkered at the first
Machries second, a Donald Steel hole, curves sharply left,

following a stream that has swallowed its share of errant shots. But
at barely over 500 yards, Kintra (the end of the beach) is a short par
5 by todays standards. Todays fierce head wind, however, made it
a legitimate three-shotter. Caballos bogey stung but not as much as
Guapos triple. Playing in such wind is a challenge that most PGA
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Tour pros dont encounter mainly because the ball would wiggle
on lightning fast greens. No worry about that on the Machrie: it
would take a gale to make a difference on these greens. And today
the wind was only half of that.
Achnamara (sea field) heads north along the Big Strand, a sixmile-long beach, but, at only 340 yards, its another birdie hole,
regardless of the blind approach to the tiny green. Guapo got a
stroke back here as Caballo suffered another double bogey. Ouch.
By this time the lads realized they were fortunate not to have
played a few days ago. As they walked down the fairways, normally
velvety paths protected by tall sand dunes, they faced another
challenge goose shit. Yes, countless greenish-white cylindrical
pellets littered the fairway evidence of thousands of geese. They
were gone now but their crap was everywhere, making the lads pay
attention to where they stepped. With more obstacles to avoid now, the
limping Caballo had trouble keeping up with Guapos pace and fell
further behind. Maybe the geese had chosen only the first few fairways,
Caballo hoped. Still, if the lads had come last week, the course would
have been unplayable: even the great Jack Nicklaus would have had
trouble with these two-legged hazards. It was fortunate that the geese
had departed for Greenland, their summer residence.
Grannag (pulpit in Gaelic, named so for its elevated tee) offers
more of a challenge, going uphill to another hidden green, high on a
crest. It was here in 2011 that Caballo, pelted by hail, high winds,
and stinging rain, had his epiphany and chose his nickname. Today
there was only wind, no hail, no ice storms. Caballo struggled up the
steep rise and made the first par of the round, picking up a shot on
his classmate.
Machries fifth requires a precise tee shot to a green circled by
four bunkers, more than a third of Machries total of 11 sandy pots.
Its called Lairds Ain (the lords name) probably after one of the
original founders of the golf club all were wealthy Islay
businessmen. Two pars here today. Not bad, boys.
Lag, (the hollow), featuring a blind drive what again? to a
green in a dell, not needing any sand to protect it, gave the lads yet
another surprise a temporary green. What? Guapo cried.
Scotlands winter had been a wet one, especially for golf courses.
Even a well-drained links like the Machrie couldnt risk damage to a
green in a bowl. There was no choice but to offer a temporary one,
saving the original for drier days.
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The 6th green, the hollow
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Machries seventh, one of its most memorable, was originally

named Scotsmans Maiden after both the Scotsman, Scotlands national
newspaper, and the Maiden, a ferocious bunker on Englands Royal St.
Georges, a course that prompted Horace Hutchinson to describe it as a
hopeless desert, the haunt of wild birds and the ubiquitous rabbit
before it was transformed into a golf course in 1887.
Machries 7th tee presents a towering 50-foot high sandhill about
150 yards out. If the drive is hit well and finds the fairway, another blind
approach awaits. Double trouble. Yes, its the blindest of the blind but
its not the only hole with two blind shots on this course. As the lads
climbed over the second dune, Guapo exploded, Another damn
temporary green. Unbelievable. Am I missing something? Temporary
greens, goose shit all over the place, and theyre still charging full rate.
Cant believe she didnt give us an option or a discount.
Caballo, ever the optimist, tried to console his friend, Well, at least
well get more golf. Remember the two for one deal. And, it could be
worse. If gales were ablowin, wed be adrinkin. Dont forget 2011.
Guapo agreed the weather could be worse, At least its not raining,
CB. His attitude adjustment didnt help, however, and Guapo fell
further behind at the eighth, Manipur (another maiden), possibly
referring to Violet, the devoted wife of the eccentric Talbot Clifton. The
boys both bogeyed Glenegadale, three Gaelic words glen (valley), g
(to), dall (blind) translated to valley of the blind, a testament to
Machries old fashioned charm of so many blind shots.
Without the excuse of the wind, which had subsided, or a blind shot,
they both made threes at Machries 10th, a short hole aptly named after
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the burn that snakes along its left flank. This Donald Steel hole will soon
be replaced by one with a tee high on ridge, requiring a shot across a
valley to green nestled in a shoulder of a dune.
At this point Caballo led Guapo by six shots, a comfortable lead but
not a safe one. His ankle was sore. Would it tolerate a full round? Would
his shots go astray? To speed up play, they decided to play all high grass
lining the fairways as lateral hazards a few drives had already found it.
Caballos par at Sgorr (sharp rock), a dogleg right, advanced his
cause. He would have pulled away even further at New Mount Zion,
Machries 12th, a staunch par 3, uphill to a sloped green surrounded by
punishing rough, if he had not turned a 15-foot birdie putt into a bogey.
Three putts are depressing. The golf gods were not smiling.
They frowned on Caballo once again when he tripled the par five
Lochindaal (blind lake), deriving its name from Islays large sea loch
that, thousands of years ago, separated the island into two halves.
Guapo picked up a stroke here but, eight strokes behind with five
holes left, his hopes of an upset were dimming.
Heather Hole rates as Machries toughest and it fully deserves its
ranking. After dealing with yet another blind drive, one must dodge the
two pots fronting the green and avoid the heather behind the green that
will snag a shot too bold. Caballo padded his lead by two here.
As they stood on the 15th tee, dark clouds full of rain, which up to
now had spared them, let loose. It poured a cold rain, too as they
played the hole but it didnt dampen their spirits. Dressed in three
layers a long-sleeved Reebok thermal, an acrylic sweater vest, and the
all-important Goretex rain suit, Caballo was prepared. Neither man
carried an umbrella, which adds weight and is useless in high wind.
Perhaps Willie had called for this short squall. Named Willies
Fancy, this hole takes its name from a Willie perhaps the course
designer, Willie Campbell, or maybe the islander Willie who,
according to legend, selected this dell for a putting green well before
Campbell arrived. Unless the tee shot, another blind one, carries
long enough, the approach also will be blind. Caballo edged his
opponent by two here. And yes, both golfers were now soaked.
By the 16th the rain had stopped. One hole of rain was enough.
It made the goose poop mushy. Squish, squish, squish, they plodded
along. Guapos bitching continued as his new white golf shoes
turned a sickly pale green. G-man, forget the shoes. Its stopped
raining; the sky is clear; the air is crisp; and were playing golf in
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Scotland. Life doesnt get better than this. His words fell on deaf
ears Guapo kept on bitching.
On a more positive note, Goretex dries quickly in the wind and,
upon reaching the next green, the lads had forgotten it rained. They
both parred Druim, ridge in Gaelic, a sporty two-shotter with
hogbacks galore.
Caballos favorite hole came next. Ifrinn is a Gaelic word for
hell, a name which this hole has honestly earned. First, theres a
blind drive over a hill, which may find a flat spot on the fairway. Or
it may not. Then theres a blind approach over an even taller dune to
the smallest green on the course. Caballo drove his tee ball over the
first dune, hit his approach, and climbed the second hill. There it
was the little white sphere sitting on the green, another temporary
one. He felt good about his par. Ifrinn wasnt as kind to El Guapo.
The home hole, named Machrie after a local farm, can wreck a
card just as well as the 17th can. Two more blind shots. Big dunes.
Despite the blindness of it all, Caballo made par, his third in a row, a
pretty good finish on a windy day. His ankle held up. Tournament
over. Ella was right everything would work out.
Caballo, its not fair. I needed strokes. You took advantage of
me, Guapo continued his bellyaching. We got overcharged, too.
We should complain. We should get a refund.
Hold on, dude. First of all, if you subtract our handicap
difference of 15 from your 101, you get 86, which is still two
strokes more than I shot. End of argument on that. Now, on the
refund, Id say forget it. They need the money. Look at those
buildings. The owners cant wait to remodel. As Caballo spoke, a
lonely figure appeared around the buildings corner. It was the
Machrie manager pulling weeds, multi-tasking, killing time. There
were now two cars in the parking lot.
Caballo shouted, Ian, how many geese were here last week?
Trying to appear nonchalant and with sardonic humor, Ian
replied, One or two.
Very funny, Caballo thought. You try walking through goose
shit for 18 holes, Ian, and see how much fun you have. Well,
whats the story with the remodeling?
The owners dont tell me anything. One landowner is holding
out, which means they still dont have access to good water.
Ian, its been three years since they bought the place. Whats
the problem?
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I dont know if the landowner is against having water piped

across his land or if he wants more money. They communicate
through their lawyers. It may take a while. Ian walked away and
continued pulling weeds. There were many to be pulled.
Caballo and Guapo, pleased that they finished the round in
three hours, wanted to clean their shoes, the bottoms and sides
coated with green goo. They asked the receptionist if she had a shoe
cleaning brush for the task. No, she shook her head. No brushes
here came her terse reply.
Guapo asked how many geese visited the Machrie, wanting a
second opinion. I dont know, she replied, again oblivious to their
shoes laden with crap. Hmmm, how can you not see 10,000 geese on
your course, the lads wondered.
So they trudged back to their car and slowly and methodically
debrided their shoes, not a terrible problem but not a particularly
pleasant one, either. And it gave Guapo a chance to bitch some more.
Caballo explained that the golf writer John Finegan wrote about
the Machrie his book, Blasted Heaths and Blessed Greens. In late
1994 John and his wife stayed in the hotel, a structure he described
as a disaster of faded or torn or grease-spotted fabrics, chipped and
discolored paint, peeling wallpaper, stained and threadbare carpets,
severed window sash ropes. He also objected to a broken lock on
their rooms door and having to take a shower in brown water. But,
enough of the hotel, which the current owners have closed, thank
goodness.
Finegan, an aficionado of links golf, loved the golf course. He
used terms such as magnificent golfing country, magical
landscape, splendid billowing fairway, and labeled the seventh as
the blind hole of the world. Strong words from a respected author.
I have to agree with Finegan, Caballo countered, relying on
his experience of having played on over 320 courses in the British
Isles and Eire, including nearly all in the links category. The
Machrie is special, though perhaps a bit over-priced. Finegan paid
10 for golf all day long as many holes as his legs could stand.
And he probably didnt have to share the course with geese.
I dont know, CB, Guapo queried. Did we find veritas on
the links today?
No, Guapo, we didnt. But, once again we proved that we can
play survival golf. Im proud of you for visiting places on the course
where no ones ever been. Glad you werent on television unless
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it was the Comedy Channel. Id buy you a dram except I know

were not supposed to drink before a marathon. G-man, I like this
course. It doesnt have the history of Prestwick but it has charm. It
doesnt have the massive dunes of Cruden Bay but it has respectable
ones. Its on Islay. Its got character. And its not crowded. At least
not in April.
Finishing in the early afternoon, hours before dinner, they
drove to the distillery at Laphroaig. After dealing with goose shit,
wind, and some rain, Guapo convinced Caballo that they deserved a
tour, which, of course, involves a dram or two. Not a bad idea,
Guapo. Id like to check out my plot of land there. Since Im a friend
of Laphroaig, I own a square foot in their field and my rent that they
must pay to me each year is a dram of their whisky. Lets go collect
it. Ill treat you.
Their friend Malcolm was on holiday, off to Majorca for a
week. The winter had been long and hard; so a week of warmth and
sunshine would be welcome. This was his turf and everybody knew
him here. In the distillery they ran into some of his friends.
He likes to pose, one said.
Yes, hes a good actor, another claimed.
He thinks he can play golf.
Get his autograph. That video made him famous at least in
his own mind.
Ileachs tease each other. The island is one big family.
After the tour, they sat and chatted with others in the lounge.
Tasting tours attract interesting people, Caballo noted. Two young
Scots traveled here from Dundee, parking their car at Kennacraig
and taking the ferry. When asked where they stayed, they replied,
Were living in a tent we pitched on the Port Ellen green, near
Ramsay Hall. We hitch rides or walk to the distilleries. Its a great
weekend for us.
Guapo commented, I cant believe you can sleep in all the
wind. Noisy, isnt it? Anyway, your tent is close to the finish line of
the marathon. Its called the Single Malt Marathon for a reason, you
know. Come visit us on Sunday. John and Andrew nodded that
they would and kept on sipping Laphroaig 10 Year.
After a few more tastes, the Americans offered a ride to their
new friends, the tent dwellers, for a visit to Islays famous Celtic
cross, not far from Laphroaig down the coastal road. The drive didnt
take long. There it was the Kildalton Cross still towering high and
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gray, a magnificent testament to the anonymous stone carver of the

eighth century. Impressed, Guapo called his wife back in the States to
tell her about this, Scotlands finest surviving Celtic cross.
That evening they managed to find Stephens home just as he
described it with a canoe in the front yard. In addition to time
spent running and fulfilling his duties of husband, father, teacher,
and assistant high school principal, Stephen belongs to the Islay
canoe club. Moss doesnt grow beneath his feet.
He greeted his new friends at the door, wearing a dark gray
fleece and black pants. Scots and Europeans in general prefer dark
clothing. You dont see a lot of bright orange, yellow, or neon green
over here. His bright eyes twinkling, Stephen was delighted to see
the lads and anxious to show off his wifes culinary skills. We
knew you were vegan, Caballo; so Maggie has done her best. No
meat or dairy. Guapo cringed.
In the background, Stephens wife Maggie and their daughter
Ashley scurried about, putting the finishing touches on dinner.
Ashley had her mothers youthful looks, fresh and happy, and she
was not upset about spending time with adults, something most
American teenagers dislike intensely.
Guapo asked about her braces. Ashley travels to the mainland
for orthodontics, Stephen explained. The NHS pays for her flight
to Glasgow, transportation to the dental office, and a hotel night, if
needed. Impressive.
I guess there are benefits to socialized medicine, Guapo said.
Stephen squinted, his closely-cropped brown hair showing only
a few tinges of gray, evidence that Ashley and her universityenrolled brother must have been easy to raise. Caballos hair was
mostly gone and Guapos was alarmingly gray, showing that their
five kids had been challenging. Lets begin, the host said.
There on the table sat three large colorful dishes one full of
yellow couscous (voted the third most favorite food in France in
2011), another with chick peas, mushrooms, and green peas, and
another with carrots, roasted potato slices, and bright red
cranberries. The dishes exploded with color and steam rose from the
vegetables. Caballo thought he had died and gone to vegan heaven,
Come on, Guapo, youll survive. This not only looks great but it
tastes delicious. Guapo reluctantly agreed. An outspoken carnivore,
he ate the meal heartily.
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They shared stories and drank wine. More stories came. More
wine flowed. Stephen and Maggie met at the University of
Aberdeen where they earned doctoral degrees in geology. Despite
being English, they love their home on this remote island. They fit
in well here. And, yes they agreed, Islay is a hidden gem. Ashley,
who contributed her efforts to the meal, assessed the two Americans,
I like your accents.
To which Caballo replied, I didnt know we had one. I thought
you did. She smiled. What a pleasant teenager, he thought.
After more small talk, Stephen discussed race details with
Caballo. Everything was ready. The race should be a success. At
that, and not wanting to be a burden, Caballo and Guapo left,
driving a few blocks away to the Lochside Hotel and its bar. One
more for the road, Guapo commanded.
There was lots of uisge beatha here hundreds of single
malts behind the bar, as Guapo pointed out quickly. He liked to
experiment. Caballo liked to sleep. But he had to cater to his
friends pastime: compromise is the glue in good relationships.
So they sat there, sipping amber colored whisky out of small
glasses, perched on barstools on a wooden-planked floor. An oval
shield beneath the counter displayed the words Ban-righ Innse Gal,
Ile Gaelic for Islay, Queen of the Hebrides. The bartender, he with
two heavily tattooed arms, wasnt in the mood to chat; so they
switched their attention to a tall, slim fellow next to them, a redhaired chap with a pint of Guinness in hand.
You a runner, by any chance? Caballo queried. Yes, Mark
was a runner and was here to run his first marathon. He had lived on
Islay for four years while in high school but had spent the last 25 in
Elgin, a town in Morayshire and one with its own single malt
distillery Glenlossie.
Caballo commented that ones first marathon always creates a
fond memory. Mark didnt know what to say. The marathon was an
unknown for him. Naturally, there was some doubt. But Caballo
knew Mark would finish; he looked like a runner. Tall, lean,
athletic. The quiet ones dont brag; they just get the job done. Mark
downed his beer and left.
After that and after one last spirit, the lads started to leave when
four Americans came in, striking up a conversation. Their leader,
owner of scotchwhiskyglass.com, a company that sells custommonogrammed Glencairn glasses, pitchers, and associated whisky
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wares, was doing well enough to warrant trips to Scotland and its
distilleries, which the group clearly enjoyed. A talkative Virginian,
he expounded on the correct way to pour a Guiness. Seems that
American bartenders simply cant do it, even when he tells them
how. Passionate about this technicality, he explained that he drinks
Guiness only in Scotland where they know how to pour it. He
continued, but lost Caballo and Guapo as their eyes grew heavy.
They left for the Askernish.
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Talbot and Friends
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Here lies my beloved John Talbot Clifton,

Lord of the Manor of Lytham,
Laird of Kildalton.
Died 23 March 1928.
The life is changed, not destroyed.
Love never faileth.
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Inscription on a plaque on the grave of Talbot Clifton, the last

laird of Islay.
Written by his wife, Violet, 1928.
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slays wind howled on Saturday morning and rain peppered

the windows of the Askernish, making the lads glad they
played golf on Friday. At breakfast, artfully prepared by the
cheerful Joy, Caballo reminded the crabby Guapo that they could
play golf again after the marathon on Sunday. Maybe theyll
have cleaned up the goose shit by then, Caballo remarked.
Sleepy Guapo nodded, his memory of the green goo fading. Its
good to be able to forget the dreary things in life.
They were joined at breakfast by six tall men from the
Netherlands who came here, not for the Single Malt Marathon but
for a marathon of single malts visits to distilleries, a few of
which they experienced already. As they spoke, they talked like
Americans. Hey, I cant believe your accents. You sound just
like us, Caballo commented.
We watch a lot of American television, came the reply
from their spokesman. He said they also speak German, French,
Flemish, and a little Italian. Hell, I struggle with one language,
Caballo thought.
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Instead of Saturday golf, Caballo planned a visit to Fiona of

the Seals, wife of George Middleton, a wealthy industrialist who
purchased the Kildalton estate from the heirs of Talbot Clifton.
To leave Islay without meeting Fiona and George would be a
huge mistake, Caballo explained. Guapos reply was
unmentionable. But he sullenly agreed he wanted more golf or
more tasting tours. But he compromised.
Driving on the narrow road, wet with heavy morning rain,
they passed the distilleries of Lagavulin, Ardbeg, and Laphroaig.
Past Ardbeg the road becomes a single track with passing
places, creating excitement the kind you get in playing Russian
roulette. Guapo, at the wheel, liked to think of himself as a reinvented Mario Andretti and, despite Caballos protests to slow
down, he flew down the narrow lane with no fear. Luckily no
other cars or trucks were on the road that early in the morning.
Fiona met them at the tall iron gate that guarded the entrance
to Kildalton estate. Dressed warmly with layers a purple
turtleneck, a down gray vest, and finally a lined raspberry rain
jacket, she exuded a lithe spirit, Congratulations, youve found
us. Sporting a black and gray ski cap pulled over her bouncy
strawberry blond hair, thick woolen tights, and green wellies, she
was prepared to be tour guide on this blustery morning. So you
want to see Talbots grave, do you? she asked, getting in the car.
Its not far, just up the road a bit.
Donning the wellies they borrowed from Laphroaig, Caballo
and Guapo followed Fiona as she trudged through wet bracken,
under trees, and over rocks. All Caballo could think about was
not twisting his wounded ankle, carefully watching each step
the wellies didnt offer much support. Guapo, with two good
ankles, was having much more fun, sloshing through the
underbrush, close behind Fiona and chatting with her.
Up, up, up they marched, finally reaching Talbots grave, 50
yards from the summit of the Green Hill. Talbot wanted to be
buried there, high above the trees, with a view of his stately
manor house and the bay where he played his golden flute to
entertain the seals.
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Talbots grave, the Green Hill
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The funeral was a Highland one, the choice of the men of Islay;
women never attended burials in those days, although a few stood
around the grave site, knowing that Talbots wife Violet and her
children would accompany the procession. A wooden cart drawn by
Clydesdales, led by the local priest and his acolytes, carried the
casket from the home down a dirt track. A piper from off island
played a lament, The Flowers of the Forest, and a soft Scottish rain
fell. When the cart could no longer proceed, a dozen strong men
carried the casket a quarter of a mile up the hill. A golden eagle
swept down twice to say goodbye. A hundred Islay men followed,
honoring their lord, who shared Christmas dinners with them. The
priest called out, Meet him, all ye angels of God, as he swung a
censer of burning incense and sprinkled a branch wet with holy
water on the grave. It was a fitting good-bye to Talbot, Lord of
Kildalton, Lord of Lytham, and the last laird of Islay. It was 1928,
one year before the Great Depression.
Today an eight-foot high trapezoidal granite cairn, capped by a
gray stone Celtic cross, marks the grave. Fiona explained that Violet
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mourned for months while living in the castle tower where she could
look up at the distant hill.
Walking down presented more of a challenge for Caballo and his
still-healing ankle as he gingerly stepped over one moss-covered rock
after another, dodging and pushing tree branches out of the way,
hoping to God he didnt fall. At one point he nearly lost sight of Fiona
and Guapo as they merrily sped away. It was good to reach the car.
Next came the seals. Caballo wanted to take a photo of Fiona
playing her violin to the seals but, with Saturdays high winds, she
decided not to play. Instead she took them to a bay south of their
estate where she showed them the seal islands Corr Sgeir (bridge
of rock), Eilean an t-Sluic (the island and the hollow), Sgeir
aChlachain (sea rock of the mason), Cam Sgeir (crooked rock of
the sea), and Iseanach Mor (big gun), tiny rock protrusions in the
sea that arent much changed from Talbots time. Caballo asked,
Fiona, will the seals come when you play?
If theyre in the mood, the nature-lover replied. She wrote a
book about these creatures and, with support it garnered, she fended
off a proposed Islay shellfish farm, which would have threatened the
local seal population. Virginia McKenna, a conservationist
extraordinaire, British actress, and star of Born Free, thought enough of
Fionas work that she wrote the foreword to Seal.
Fiona of the seals

Sure enough, there they were Fionas seals, frolicking on the
rocks of the tiny islands. Caballo stayed behind, taking no chances,
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but Guapo and Fiona were able to wade out further. That allowed
Guapo to take photos of the gray seals as they dove, resurfaced, and
looked at Fiona, maybe wondering if she were in a mood to
entertain them. They were large, speckled black and white, and
stared at humans as much as humans stared at them.
We met her husband George back at the estate. His full white
beard, white eyebrows, and disheveled white hair almost hid his
handsome face entirely. His brown eyes looked sad and his soiled
shirt, untucked and barely covering his large belly, did not match his
position of Lord of Kildalton. But George was not well: he had
Lyme disease. So did their daughter Hannah whom Caballo hoped
to see. Guapo confided to his friend what a shame they did not
diagnose it early: two weeks of antibiotics usually cures the
problem. Lots of ticks around here, Guapo thought.
But George still had his faculties and gave Caballo a tour of the
grounds and Talbots castle, still attractive on the outside but
crumbling on the inside. A granite fireplace, refusing to deteriorate,
gave a glimpse into the castles former glory.
Read the Clifton Chronicles by John Kennedy, advised George.
He did a fine job of telling the story of the family from Lytham.
Caballo asked him about Harry, Talbots son who inherited
much of his family fortune, eventually squandering it.
Harry and another man of wealth wanted to turn Kildalton into
a housing development. They planned to build a golf course and 150
homes but couldnt get a permit. They tried to sell it to the Beatles
but they werent interested. At the time I owned several companies
and Fiona worked for me. I knew that the Lytham estate factor liked
pretty young women. So I took Fiona to meet him and later arranged
for her to play at the Palladium. My strategy worked: the factor let
me buy Kildalton. In the British Isles, the factor is an agent who
handles business transactions for an estate.
Great for you, George, Caballo replied. I cant imagine Islay
would have wanted such a monstrous development. I dont know if the
island could support two golf courses. Ours was the lone car in the
Machrie parking lot. And, Im so sorry to hear your daughter is sick.
The Middletons invited the lads into their home for more
information, including press clippings which George kept, but they
chose to leave for the tasting tour at Lagavulin. Even though
Caballo would have loved to learn more, he knew that Guapo had
had enough. Another compromise.
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Sandwiched between Ardbeg and Laphroaig lies Lagavulin

distillery. Guapo and Caballo had signed up for a tour, which, in their
minds, was secondary to the tasting of the various expressions. The
tour finished reasonably quickly, allowing ample time for the allimportant tasting. And what a tasting it was. Maybe the manager was
detained or maybe this was normal procedure but this distillery didnt
seem to care how many samples the visitor tried. Help yourself, the
lady said when she left, placing three bottles on a shelf.
Two young men were sitting in the room, having finished an
earlier tour, intent on experiencing Lagavulin again and again.
Calum, known as Hairy, hailed from Skye and his pal John,
nicknamed Specky after his spectacles, was from Glasgow. John,
married with children, was explaining the demands of raising a
family to his single friend. Caballo chimed in with the real reason
people get married. That did it: Hairy decided to remain single. Hed
have more time for single malt tastings.
After lunching at the Cyber Caf in Port Ellen, Caballo and Guapo
drove to Bowmore for the packet pick-up in the high school. It
wouldnt take long only two dozen had registered for the marathon.
Stephen was first to arrive. Predictably, he had meticulously organized
everything: the bibs, pins, Laphroaigs glencairn glasses, and the goody
bags. A few runners cancelled, always expected in a race injuries,
unforeseen commitments, whatever.
They came from all over. Ivan, a Glaswegian, announced that
this would be marathon number 294 for him. He had done Boston,
Hawaii, and Berlin, which was his favorite. He liked its postmarathon massages but perhaps what he really liked was the
German fraulein who gave the massage. Ivan said his specialty is
running inaugural marathons. And that is what drew him to Islay.
Karen Wallace walked in with her husband Cameron and their
two small sons, one of whom was named William after the
Scottish hero. I adore my children but I need my time alone. Its
my therapy. She explained that shed use this as a training run for a
later marathon. Her pink kilt showed she ran for Scotland. She also
had local connections Cameron was an Ileach.
Karine and Suzanna came from nearby Glasgow with a friend
of theirs, an interesting looking fellow with a dark spindle of hair
drooping down from his chin. The pretty Suzanna, an Australian
veterinarian, was running her first marathon.
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Gustav showed up with Greta, his Swedish blond-haired, blueeyed girlfriend with movie star looks. They were excited to visit the
island and planned on several days of sightseeing. The oldest
runner, 68-year-old Rob Reid, from Tarbert, 10 minutes from the
ferry port of Kennacraig, sported a stylish gray goatee. His slim
frame meant business: he was a ultramarathoner. Also a race
director, Rob invited Caballo and Stephen to his race, The Kintyre
Way Ultra, a 67-mile trail run from Tarbert to Campbeltown. His
website declares this ultra to be a good training run for the WHW
race. Ultramarathoners are a different breed.
Last to register was Jan Thomsen from Denmark. Living
temporarily in Scotland, he decided to try a Scottish marathon at
the last minute. His steely eyes and calm, quiet demeanor couldnt
hide his confidence. Pia, his wife, had the job of corralling their two
tiny children. Maybe Jan figured the marathon would give him time
to himself.
Shortly after packet pick-up, Stephen and his wife Maggie
finalized preparations for the traditional pasta dinner. Her spaghetti
and sauces could compete with those of any fine restaurant. She was
amazing. But it was a team effort students, parents, and teachers
pitched in to make this an enjoyable evening for all.
Caballo chatted with Ivan. I had my doubts about this six
months ago, Ivan, but everything has fallen into place.
Yes, Caballo, no worries; your marathon will be tiny, or
intimate if you like, but it wont be the smallest Scotland has seen.
In the 1990s I ran a marathon with only three other runners in the
Outer Hebrides on the island of Benbecula, where the starting line
was in the sand. I finished runner-up or third from last, whichever
perspective you take. I think its a half-marathon now.
Thats nothing, Caballo countered. FlyBe lands their Twin
Otter on the beach there, when the tide is out. I saw a photo of it in
the Glasgow airport. Looks thrilling.
Ivan agreed and threw out another gem, Stornoway, further
north on the Isle of Lewis, holds a marathon in August. Its small,
too about 150 runners but, like yours, its remote. And historic.
The route winds through old villages with thatched roofs, past Dun
Carloway, a stone broch built 2,000 years ago, and finishes in a
circle of giant standing stones called the Callanish Stones, erected
circa 3,000 B.C. what a climax, Caballo. Legend has it that giants
who lived on the island refused to be converted to Christianity by
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Saint Kieran and were turned into stone as a punishment. Just think
run a marathon and finish with giants. And everything is in Gaelic:
street signs, businesses, schools. Most of the locals speak it or a
mixture of English and Gaelic, called Highland English. You would
enjoy the experience. But you better learn Gaelic. Oh, and be sure to
pronounce it gall-ick, not gay-lick. I heard that a fellow will wear full
Highland dress in the marathon this year. Well see if he finishes.
Caballo, intrigued, Well, Ivan, Ill add Stornoway to my list.
What an adventure that would be, especially if I could run next to
someone in Highland gear. I can almost hear Robert the Bruce
shouting, Charge! Its on my bucket list now.
Caballo addressed the audience of about 40, telling stories about
his favorite marathons the Cincinnati Flying Pig, Pikes Peak,
Grandfather Mountain, and Boston in 2007, the one almost shut down
by a New England noreaster. He congratulated the first time
marathoners, Im jealous youll be setting a PR, personal record.
Caballo explained his involvement with Islay, beginning with
Malcolms kindness and extending through the colorful history of
the island. He also expressed deep regret that he would be only able
to hobble a couple of hundred yards. The veterans understood the
frustration caused by injuries. The younger ones probably didnt.
Thanking him profusely for cementing the local details, Caballo
introduced Stephen whose hard work had elevated the marathon
from a rudimentary run to a five-star production. Stephen spent ten
minutes reviewing the course, support, finish line area, and the postmarathon ceilidh.
Now, after the dinner, packet pick-up, and meeting fellow
runners, Caballo ordinarily would have retired to bed early. But
tonight was different. There was no need for nine hours of sleep
since neither Guapo nor he would finish the marathon. That meant
more pub-crawling.
So off they went to the White Hart, a hotel with its name in big
white letters, bordered in navy blue, above the second floor
windows. Located on the sidewalk on Charlotte Street, the main
drag in Port Ellen, it wasnt crowded. Not the most popular place on
Islay, the bar was quiet and a good place for a taste of one last dram.
Guapo was close to his goal of hitting all the bars and distilleries.
A local man, Angus, sat next to them and overheard them
talking about Islays roads and the many times drivers would wave
at them or raise a finger in a friendly salute. We call that the Islay
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wave. Whenever we pass another driver we do it. Or, if were on a

single track and the other driver pulls over, we thank him with the
wave. Angus had polished off a number of beers at this point and,
well lubricated, was eager to share his knowledge.
When asked about their visit, Caballo explained about the
marathon and the golf tournament. Where are you going to run 26
miles? Angus asked.
We start in Portnahaven and go up the high road, finishing
here in three to four hours, Caballo replied.
Ha, youll like this story, the old man declared. In the old
days, the pace was slower. We used Clydesdales to pull carts on that
same route, carrying coal, peat, whatever. It took three days. Longer
if the boys stopped to visit pubs along the way. No lorries then.
Sampling a smoky single malt, Guapo asked him about the peaty
water. The golf hotel is closed because their water is brown. But the
distilleries dont mind. Some say it makes the whisky unique.
Aye, lads, the amber color might make you think its polluted.
But its not. Its safe to drink, even before its distilled. Try it. You
wont die. By the way, have you seen Kilnave Chapel on the shore
of Loch Gruinart, the place where the geese spend their winters?
Havent had time yet, but we know all about the geese. My
shoes are still green, I think, answered Guapo. Why?
Angus took a sip of beer and smiled, Forget the geese. Im
talking about Kilnave. Lads, this is one you wont find in the history
books. As you might know, the MacDonalds ruled these islands.
Their home base was here and Lords of the Isles, they were. But
feuds were common in those days among the clans. Once, in an
attempt to settle a score, the MacDonalds warred with the MacLeans
of Mull. Our boys won and chased the surviving MacLeans to
Kilnave chapel where they thought the Lord would protect them.
But He did not. Still angry, the MacDonalds locked them in and
burnt it to the ground. The walls, two feet thick, still stand. But one
MacLean escaped in the water, and used a reed to breathe. Smart
lad. His descendants, the Currie family, still live here.
Angus had more stories to share but the hour was late. As they
got up to leave, Donald, the golfer they knew from 2011, dropped in
with a friend. Donald had lost weight. Lots of it. Caballo and Guapo
didnt recognize him.
Caballo, its me Donald. We met at the tasting three years ago.
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Youve got to be kidding me. What the hell, youve

shrunken!
Ha, yes, its me and, yes, its been three years but it seems like
yesterday when we talked. I know youre busy now, Caballo, but we
need to talk. In private. Ive got to share something with you.
Personal stuff.
Intrigued, Caballo moved to a corner table. Guapo ordered
another dram.
Caballo, the three years flashed by. Looking back at myself
then, Ill admit that I was arrogant. Maybe too overconfident. Yet a
part of me was lacking. And I must have been desperate to confide
my main weakness to you, a perfect stranger. God, I must have
seemed hopeless. But, in hindsight, Im glad I told you what that
missing part was my lack of sex drive. I hated taking those pills.
But, now, look at me, Im a new man. Just ask my wife.
So happy for you and for her, Donald.
Back then, I saw our romance dwindling every year. At 45, I
wondered what it would be like at 55. And then you shared with me
that, even though in your 60s, your bedroom performances were
electrifying. Or something like that. That caught my attention. And
the fact that you didnt take any pills.
Testosterone, my friend. Endurance athletes have plenty of it.
No need for drugs.
So, I thought Id give your ideas a try and see if I could
compete in the challenge. I changed my diet, although I cant claim
to be a vegan. Pretty close, though. Lost 60 pounds. And started
jogging and then running. God, you were right. My energy came
back. I felt like I did in my 20s.
I kept running and worked up to a half-marathon. My big
breakthrough came last October when I ran Loch Ness, my first
marathon. Finished just under four and a half hours, which I felt was
good for my first one.
A great time, indeed, and a personal record, Caballo
exclaimed.
And last summer my golf was superb. I won a few events and
shot several rounds two, three under par. My wife and I were young
again: two lovebirds. Life was good. My kids noticed. And my wife
never complained when I started chasing her around the house.
So I planned to win the challenge. My golf was great and my
running would improve as long as I ramped up my training. So I
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read some books and began training hard. Everything went well:
faster pace, fitter body, better mental outlook. And, then two weeks
ago, it happened. I tore my hamstring.
Nuts, Caballo said.
I was doing intervals and, all of a sudden, I heard a pop and
had to stop. My leg really hurt. Felt like a knife stuck in me. I got
medical treatment no running for a while, they advised. So Im
here to cheer you on Ill watch you run but wish I were out there
with you. I want you to know that Im a new man and I want you to
meet my wife. She wants to personally thank you.
Donald, Im so sorry youre injured but, as youve discovered,
thats a risk we runners take. Speed work is like a two-edged sword:
it can make you faster but it can also put you on the sidelines.
Theres a fine line between optimal training and injury. Even the
elites cross that line and wind up in therapy for weeks or months.
Our great American marathon hope, Ryan Hall, is a perfect
example. You know, he broke one hour in the half-marathon, an
American record at the time, and won the Olympic marathon
qualifying trials but, now saddled with injuries, hes not likely to
keep up with the Kenyans. I marvel at how they can run over a
hundred miles a week and stay healthy. But sometimes they cant.
Anyway, Im glad youre enjoying life and Im happy you came. Be
patient and youll heal. Everything heals with time but never
quickly enough to suit a runner.
At that, he wished Donald and his wife good luck, grabbed
Guapo, and headed down the street to the Askernish. It had been
enough for one day.
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Close our eyes and remember

Those few young men.
With hope in our hearts
And wings on our heels.
LY
The Single Malt Marathon
Eulogy at the funeral of Harold Abrahams in Chariots of Fire

Given by Lord Andrew Lindsay
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or Caballo the day of reckoning had arrived April 13,

2014, a Sunday morning cloaked in darkness. El Guapo,
half-asleep and complaining as usual, boarded the Mundell
bus in Port Ellen, Caballo, what have you got me into, you idiot?
This was Guapos first marathon and he was nervous, even though
Caballo reminded him he had done several on his vacation last
summer in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. Hiking 100
miles in four days at elevation over 10,000 feet qualifies you as an
endurance athlete, Caballo exclaimed.
I dont know if I can do this, Caballo, Guapo whined. No
matter. They had made the 3,600 mile journey from the states and
now there was no turning back. The Yanks were committed.
True, they both walked up and over, down and around the
dunes of the Machrie on Friday and climbed the Green Hill to visit
Talbots grave on Saturday. Their legs, having seen the better part of
seven decades, reminded them that they werent young guns
anymore. Guapo, youll do fine, trust me.
The last time I trusted you, I wound up in a gale.
No, no, my friend, youre going to make it. And, remember,
things could be worse. You could be working right now, Caballo
reminded him
Ill gladly take work over this, you turkey.
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Now, G, that tells me you didnt have enough sleep last night.
Or maybe too much single malt. You must be hallucinating.
Their banter continued as the other marathoners piled into the
bus. Any race director that relies on a bus to transport runners a long
distance to the start has angst. Will the bus show up? Will it break
down? Will the runners get to the bus on time? Such questions
circled in his head as Caballo sat on the bus. He remembered the
2009 Loch Ness marathon, one where buses deliver runners from
different locations to a remote start. His bus arrived on time but one
bus broke down, causing a half hour delay. Not today, please, God,
Caballo whispered to himself as they left the Askernish earlier.
Mundells graciously donated a bus and driver to take runners
from Port Ellen to the start in Portnahaven, 26 miles away. Its a big
company with offices on Islay, in Tarbert and in Glasgow. They
haul everything: whisky, refrigerated goods, you name it in large
green lorries and in small white vans. The company also operates
bus service on Islay. Theyre dependable.
Still, Caballo had the angst. The only assurance for the 5:30
A.M. bus arrival was an email from Stuart, the driver. He confirmed
and, as promised, he and the bus showed up on time. There was no
need for Caballos fingers to be crossed. Thank you, Stuart, and a
big thank you to Mrs. Myra Mundell. Not only was your bus on
time, it was warm. It felt good to climb inside, out of the chilled air.
On this, the dawn of the marathon, Caballo dearly wanted to
run, full of that bright-eyed eagerness that is hard to explain to nonmarathoners. But, having read horror stories about runners who
developed chronic ankle arthritis from starting back too soon, he
decided to run only the first two hundred yards, settling for doing
the official timing, which perhaps he should have done anyway.
A little later Ivan boarded the bus and then a few others
climbed on. Now, all but one were seated. Caballo warned runners
in several emails that the bus would leave on time. Be early. And
now, with departure time approaching, he told the driver it was
almost time to go. Just let me know, Stuart replied, ready at the
wheel. Finally, with two minutes to spare, Allain from France
cheerfully emerged from the darkness. At six oclock, pitch black
outside, the bus headed north.
In Bowmore co-race director and first time marathon runner
Stephen and ultramarathoner Rob Reid got on. It was 6:15 A.M. and
all was going well. Another runner joined the group at Bridgend. A
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few more got on in at Port Charlotte. By 6:50 A.M. the bus had
reached Rhinns Hall in Portnahaven, on schedule and with all
runners accounted for, ready for the half past seven start. Terrific. A
kind lady in the village opened the hall so that runners could keep
warm and use the bathroom, a vital part of the pre-marathon routine.
We congregated there, mixing, talking, and feeling the buzz in the air.
If Caballo and Guapo had enough time, they would have
explored Portnahaven, a quiet seaside village, one with pretty white
homes outlined in red, green, blue, and yellow. The laird built this
as a planned community in the 1800s hoping the locals would take
up crofting and fishing. These days, theres little fishing and most of
the crofting is gone. As their ancestors did, most Portnahaven
residents speak Gaelic.
Today the sun wasnt shining on the green mossy-covered rocks
lining the beach. Clouds dominated the scene. A strong wind blew and
kept the temperature in the high 40s, ideal for running a 26.2, but not
for sightseeing or beach combing. It was a good day to run.
Gustav arrived with his girl friend, who drove. He wanted to
chat with Caballo and, with plenty of time, that was not a problem.
Gustav, youre pumped.
Indeed, Caballo. Youve changed my life. I wouldnt miss this
for anything.
Caballo tried to recall their conversation from three years ago
but he couldnt. Time erases memories in the elderly.
You remember my life, Caballo, Gustav began. I was a
workaholic and I guess you could say I was getting depressed. The
banking crisis almost cost me my job. Id come home after a 12hour day, exhausted, have a drink, eat dinner, and go to bed. Six,
seven days a week. My stress level was off the charts. I gained 30
pounds and had to buy larger pants.
Thats why I took that single malt holiday. I was hoping to
find some answers and, thanks to you, I did. I remember you talked
about balance and how important it was in relieving stress. I also
admired your fitness and, at the same time, I hated my beer belly. So
I decided to change.
I talked with my boss and came to an agreement on my hours.
I started eating more fruits and veggies, which was hard at first.
Then I remembered that you said you didnt eat much meat or dairy.
So I tried that, too. And exercise. First, I walked a half-mile, then a
mile, then two miles. As I lost weight, walking became easier.
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Gradually I added jogging. Walk for five minutes, jog for a minute.
Just like you said, slowly, slowly.
Finally I swallowed my pride and ran a 5K. Its still hard to
believe that I finished but I did and it felt good. And I wasnt last.
Next up was a 10K and then the big step, a half marathon. God, I
was excited when I did that one. I put that medal on my desk at
work. It reminded me of you and your Islay marathon.
So here I am, 30 pounds lighter, and thrilled to be a part of
this. My girl friends happy, too. She sees more of me. Well, I
should say less of me, but you know what I mean.
Caballo looked at this new person in front of him, one with a
new life, and wondered, So what about the golf? I see that you
didnt enter the challenge.
No, I had to choose. My job still demanded many hours and
our summers in Stockholm are short. I thought about learning golf
but I wanted to fix my life first. I just couldnt figure out how to fit
it into my schedule. Maybe someday.
Understood, Gustav. Good luck and remember to have fun.
Caballo smiled as he left his friend, pleased to see that he had
chosen to change.
Guapo chatted with Karine and Suzanna, both coming from
Glasgow, though neither was a Scot. Karine, French, was doing
advanced research at Glasgow University. Suzanna, an Australian
veterinarian, also working in Glasgow, would return home in July when
her visa was due to expire. In the meantime, she wanted to experience
running a marathon. What could be better than starting here?
Caballo met a runner from Glasgow, another non-Scot. As he
was from Latvia, land of reindeers and snow, this weather probably
seemed warm.
The other sub-three-hour marathoner, the youthful Adam
McLean, bravely wearing a running club singlet, hailed from
Keighley, a town in West Yorkshire. He and Jan Thomsen from
Denmark eyed each other. Adams best was 2:52, seven minutes
slower than the PR of the 36-year-old Dane, dressed in a wind
jacket. Both wore gloves. Who would take the first place trophy and
wear the Braveheart tartan? On the female side, three women
contended: Karen, Karine, and Suzanna.
The marathon was ready for them the sub-threes, the subfours, the plus-fours. The single track road leading from
Portnahaven was quiet, about to feel the pounding of running shoes.
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The sleepy villages. Loch Indaal. The giggly teenaged volunteers.

The brown moorland hills. The finish line at Ramsay Hall. All
awaited the marathoners.
Guapo, still more interested in single malt drinking than Single
Malt Marathon running, checked out the room. It was a new scene
for him: runners, outfitted in shorts, professional-looking tights,
shirts emblazoned with marathons they had run, official running
club singlets, svelte shoes of every color. He tried to lay low, to
blend in with these running people.
Then, suddenly, a stranger came to him, How have you been,
sir? Its been a long time. When someone calls you sir, you know
youre old. Yet, Guapo had no idea who this was. Was it some
Scottish runner who might have mistaken him for an athlete? His
memory finally clicked. It was Grahame, the young overweight
single malt connoisseur from the memorable tasting in 2011.
Almost didnt recognize you, Grahame. Wow, what a difference.
How much did you lose?
About 80 pounds, Guapo. But not all at once. You remember
three years ago, right? You and I planned to do the drinking while
Karen and Caballo did the running. And that veritas thing. Guess
what, I think I found it.
No kidding? Guapo replied.
You remember our little chat after the tasting? Im glad I
opened up to you. Honestly, I had nothing to lose. You were going
back to the States; so who were you going to tell? You remember
my life was miserable. I was fat and I didnt care. I liked eating
whatever I wanted and I liked the taste of everything that was bad
for me. Eat, drink, and be merry was my theme song.
I knew the ladies didnt like my bulges but it didnt bother me
much. Actually, I was too embarrassed to ask a girl for a date,
even though I secretly wanted to. I was afraid Id be rejected. So I
devoted myself to my job in IT and became a single malt
connoisseur. I had fun with my friends who were fat like me. We
loved to drink all night long and pretend that our lives were
complete. And then I came to Islay. For the whisky, of course.
Meeting you and Caballo was an accident. But a happy one.
I appreciate that you didnt make fun of my weight. A lot of
people did. You know, the stares, the smirks, the whispering. You
just listened. And I was jealous of your trim build. Could I ever look
that way? You said I could. And, you were right. When I watched
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that YouTube video of Ben Does Life, I realized I could. If Ben

could go from over 300 pounds to running a marathon, I figured I
could do it, too. He was huge!
It took time, though. At first I was frustrated. Then the pounds
started dropping and I started walking. Then running. Then I ran
races: a 5K, 10K, and a 15K. After I lost 50 pounds, I decided to try
a half-marathon. Success. I finished!
Last year I ran the Edinburgh marathon and, even though it
took over five hours, I accomplished my goal. I did it. But I still had
some weight issues and didnt feel that I was ready for the dating
scene. I remembered the book you told me about, Dr. Barnards
Breaking the Food Seduction. Man, did that open my eyes. Couldnt
believe I was addicted, literally addicted, to all those foods.
So I changed. I ate differently. After a month of this, I noticed
I didnt have the cravings I used to have Dr. Barnard was right.
And, over the next six months, I shed another 30 pounds without
even trying. I found it ironic that the pounds came off so easily. My
cholesterol dropped over 100 points and I didnt need any medicine
for my blood pressure any more. But the best news is that I have a
girlfriend. Life is good, Guapo.
Excellent. So proud of you, but I bet you had to buy new
clothes.
Oh yeah. But at least the sizes were smaller. No big deal. I
love my new lifestyle. And my girlfriend. Fit and happy, thats my
motto. And, believe me, Im excited about today. Bring it on!
Grahames persona had changed. No longer a wallflower, he
exuded happiness and confidence. Life is all about choices, Guapo
thought. And Grahame had made some good ones.
At 7:15 A.M. Caballo gave a few last minute instructions to the
crowd. Please dont litter this beautiful island, be careful crossing
the road, watch out for cars, and dont let the wind blow you over.
Just enjoy the beauty Islay has to offer. Having run over 60
marathons, he knew a gorgeous route when he saw it. Were quite
an international lot, runners. United States, England, Scotland,
Australia, France, Denmark, Sweden, Latvia. Good luck to all of
you and I wish I could run with you.
Caballo had asked Alastair Redman, a councilman from this
village, one bent on improving the lives of his fellow Ileachs, to be
the official marathon starter. But, with the Scottish vote for
independence only five months away, his schedule was swamped.
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So Caballo became the starter. As runners assembled outside the

hall, they listened as he gave final words of encouragement, With
hope in our hearts and wings on our heels, lets run. A local, on his
bicycle, took a group photo.
Runners at the start, inaugural Single Malt Marathon
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Katie, a teenaged piper, played Scotland the Brave. The eerie

sound of the bagpipes gave Caballo a lump in his throat and
goosebumps on his arms. It doesnt take much. He counted down:
three, two, one. They were off. Joanna and Caballo started their
watches. This motley field of 19, each determined to reach the finish
line, sped off in unison down the single track. A sprinkling of fans
kept shouting, Go! Go! Go!
No, there werent thousands of fans as there are at Berlin or
New York or London. In hindsight, maybe thats why the Single
Malt didnt attract many this was same day as the London
marathon, which draws over 35,000. Yes, Caballos timing could
have been better. Combine that with Masters Sunday. Oh well,
Caballo figured, it wasnt the first mistake he made.
Caballo began limping down the road. Hell, he wanted to run at
least some of route, just enough to give him that feeling of being in a
marathon the exhilaration, the glorious rush of youthful exuberance,
the plaintive melody of the theme song of Chariots of Fire. He made it
200 yards. Joanna picked him up and drove down the road.
Caballo had hoped to run with his assistant race director
Stephen Harrison without whose help the marathon would not
have happened. But that wasnt possible. Instead, Stephen ran with
Mark, another first timer. Every marathoner never forgets the first
one. It becomes a memory that even Father Time cant erase.
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Caballo remembered crossing bridges over fogbanks hugging the

Ohio River in his first one. He wanted to run with these two
newbies, to be a part of their maiden voyage, hoping to siphon their
energy. But not today.
Mark and Stephen ran side by side down the coastal road, the
A847, and prepared to dodge traffic from both directions, hoping
that Islay drivers would live up to their reputation of being the
friendliest in Scotland. Red-haired Dave and his van followed the
last ones, predictably Guapo and Grahame as a safety precaution
and a catch-all for any wounded warriors injured runners or
those failing to make it to the half-way mark by the cut-off time.
With dawn breaking, the sun refused to illuminate the six-mile
stretch of golden sand on the other side of Loch Indaal Gaelic for
loch of delay. Centuries ago, captains would steer their ships here in
severe storms, sometimes waiting days for good weather. Yes, it was
the loch of delay. Today it was the loch of gloom, wind, and mild rain.
The temperature stayed around 50, the wind-chill much lower.
Caballo and Joanna drove ahead, checking on the aid stations
that volunteers were setting up. Stacy was there, as promised, but
giggly no longer. It was cold. Its harder to be a volunteer in wind
and rain than it is to run in such conditions. Volunteers are never
given enough credit. Nice job, Stacy and all the other dedicated,
shivering helpers.
Stephen and Mark ran past the Rhinns, non-stop hills and
valleys that included farms, marshes, bogs, moorland, and grassy
dunes. They also passed Octofad, a working farm offering a highlyrated bed and breakfast experience. Owner James Brown grows
barley and supplies the water to Bruichladdich distillery up the road.
Might be fun to stay there someday, Caballo thought.
To the right, the rocky beach came into view, along with the
occasional stone ruins of a croft or farmhouse. Were these crofters
evicted or did they leave willingly? Mark wondered. Where are they
now? Canada? America? Stephen, its hard to imagine their
rugged lives back then, he said. Those crofters had to be tough,
much tougher than a pack of runners going around the island.
Aye, Mark, Stephen yelled, as the wind whipped fiercely,
they lived day-to-day.
Mountain tops in the distance the Paps of Jura, two peaks on
Islays northern neighbor hid behind angry gray clouds. There
would be no spectacular views of them today.
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Luckily traffic was light and there were no close calls on the
single track road. The only roadblocks were sheep. Being local, they
felt compelled to join the runners and show off their woolly behinds.
Cattle and the occasional horse in nearby fields watched, too, as
runners passed by, one by one.
Marathon obstacles
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After six miles, with the strong breeze at their backs, Mark and
Stephen reached Port Charlotte, another Scottish hamlet dotted with
colorful houses and shops. There was another bonus the road
became a double track.
Look up, Stephen yelled, as they passed the Museum of Islay
Life, high on a hill above us a treasure trove of Islays history,
from its medieval churchyard crosses and Viking graves to the
ships bell of the Tuscania.
Six miles down, one quarter of the marathon under our belts,
Mark screamed. High winds made shouting necessary.
Out in front was Adam, the 24-year-old, clad only in shorts and
a singlet, running strong and by himself. The West Yorkshire man
had the early lead. A few minutes later, Denmarks hope appeared,
shedding his lime green jacket, which Caballo put in the car. Jan
was running slower, his own pace, content to tick off the miles, well
behind Adam. He was in no hurry. Caballo remarked to Joanna,
The turtle sometimes beats the hare. It depends on how fast the
hare goes out and how much reserve he has at the end. Hares dont
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always win. Well know soon. They can both break three hours
today. Its a good day for running well.
Jan, the tortoise
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For the next few miles Mark and Stephen continued running
close to the rocky cliffs of the sea loch. One minute, they were
perched on a bluff, high above rolling whitecaps and frothy waves
crashing on rocks, the next minute they descended to the shoreline
and smelled seaweed. It was hard to stop looking every scene
begged for a photograph.
Meanwhile, Caballo and Joanna checked the remainder of the
route, which was perfect. Volunteers in position at road crossings.
Aid stations in place. So, with over an hour to kill, they ate breakfast
at the Askernish. Joy and the Dutch men learned about the
marathon, but the tall lads werent swayed enough to change their
plans. They kept talking about single malt.
After breakfast, Joanna and Caballo set up the finish, parking
the car next to the end line so that they could stay inside and record
the times. The wind whipped sand off the beach that stung. It coated
the car quickly.
Inside the hall, volunteers made hot soup and set out food, an
ample supply for 50 runners and Caballo laid out the marathon
awards. The medals were whisky bottles. High school students
poured barley in them and imprinted their name, age, and village
onto a label showing the map of the route on one side and the
marathons name and date on the other, along with a quote from
John Hanc, a writer whose interests include marathon running.
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The marathon medal
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Laphroaig donated the green glass bottles and the barley that filled
them. Each of the 19 who started the race received one. These
medals would keep memories alive.
FO
You couldnt miss Bruichladdich distillery its name spelled

out in giant letters on the ends of bourbon barrels lined up
underneath a mammoth copper still. Now, thats a classy way to
advertise, Mark reckoned. Stephen, do you think anyones
watching us on their webcam? he said as they strode underneath
the roadside camera.
Guapo had hoped to make it to this aid station. He planned on
getting a wee dram along with some water and food. But Dave in
the caboose had other ideas. With one injured runner already in tow
and now falling further behind the pack, Dave ordered Guapo to get
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in. He resisted, the thought of the dram nearly overwhelming him,

But Dave, Im almost at Bruichladdich.
Get in now! came Daves stern order. Guapo dutifully
obeyed. Dont argue. Guapo had nothing to be ashamed of; he had
done well, considering his heart surgery of only a few years ago. A
man for all seasons, he had run his first marathon. He didnt finish
but he ran in it.
The village of Bruichladdich sprang up around the distillery
which the Harvey brothers built in 1881. After having been closed,
this distillery re-opened in 2000 and became a dominant single malt
producer and a rare independent one. Recently the French
conglomerate Remy Cointreau purchased it. So much for
independence in the whisky industry.
For the next few miles, Stephen and Mark ran close to the
waters edge, as Scotland flaunted her best scenery jet black
boulders surrounded by clumps of green grass and wildflowers.
Running a marathon doesnt get any better than this, Stephen
proclaimed, trying to ignore the wind and rain. Fortunately the wind
blew at their backs.
Islays shoreline
Stephen was the Islay tour guide today, drawing attention to its
many attractions. First, in the fields just beyond Lochgorm House
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are the ruins of an ancient chapel called Eaglais Iolarain, rumored to

be dedicated to St. Hilary, the fourth century bishop of Poitiers who
lived during the harsh rule of the Roman Emperor Constantius II.
Hilary stood his ground against the emperor who continued the
persecution of Christians and, for his bravery, he became a shining
beacon for the early Church. A religious cult emerged venerating
St. Hilary and his disciple, St. Martin of Tours and spread to
western Britain, Cornwall, Wales, and Islay, pockets of Celtic
culture. OK, Mark said, tell me more.
See that single track road? Stephen continued. Its the
B8018 and it leads to Kilchoman, Islays newest and only
independent distillery, a daring venture by an English entrepreneur.
Further down the road, youll find spectacular beaches at Machir
Bay and Saligo Bay. Bring your camera. If the winds are up, the
sight of Atlantic waves crashing onto the beach takes your breath
away. Away from Islay for over two decades, Mark was all ears.
The banter also made the miles pass quickly, or so it seemed.
But theres something more significant at Kilchoman a
cemetery. In World War I two American ships, the Tuscania and the
Otranto, carrying troops to fight for our freedom, sank off these
shores, killing over 400. The year was 1918, a sad one on Islay.
Hundreds of Americans were buried in this cemetery but after the
war their bodies were exhumed and brought back home or buried at
the American military cemetery in Surrey, England. Today 71
British sailors, victims of the Otranto tragedy, lie in this cemetery.
Its worth a visit.
Thanks. That reminds me of the sacrifices my grandfather
made and it adds another dimension to the marathon, Mark replied.
Its so easy to forget the past.
Stephen, his lungs and legs still fresh, kept going, To the right
of this road youll see Traigh an Luig, a sandy beach. And maybe some
wildlife, too. Deer pop up when you least expect them. Anyway, these
raised beaches on the left are remnants of the last ice age and theyre
still rising. Just hidden over the hill on Uiskentuie farm land well
pass a standing stone, a remnant of the Bronze Age. To catch a
glimpse, wed have to climb the hill, which I vote against since we
have lots of ground to cover. They agreed to keep running.
Then, Marks eyes grew large, Stephen, I remember this spot. My
grandfather told me that Old Tom Morris, the guru of golf in the 1800s,
designed a course right here on this farmland in 1896. By the early
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1900s, Uiskentuie Golf Club was thriving. But it disappeared with the
outbreak of war. Lets give a thumbs-up to Old Tom.
They continued along the top of Loch Indaal and past another
single lane road, the B8017. Look over there, Mark, at that stone
plaque and visualize a stormy night in January of 1943 when a RAF
plane, a Sunderland Flying Boat, was attempting to land in a fullblooded gale. Out patrolling for German subs, it was. Unfortunately the
plane crashed on this beach. Heavily armed with depth charges, it
exploded. More lives were lost. If you look carefully, you can see the
crater it made. Suddenly the marathon didnt seem too difficult to run.
They passed the halfway point at 1:40, right on target. So far,
so good. Entering Bridgend, Islays most centrally located village,
they approached the A846. Runners had to be careful in crossing
this road Islays busiest, which on a Sunday morning might see a
dozen cars in an hour the connection between the north and south
of the island. They didnt spend much time on it, moving onto the
high road, the single track B8016 that is hardly used at any time.
Yes, these are West Highland moors Stephen commented.
Were on this for about ten miles one breathtaking view after
another: the moors, the peat bogs, the brown burns, and, from the
high points, maybe Laggan Bay and across to where we started in
Portnahaven. They climbed the first hill. The marathon began to
show its teeth. The wind was no longer at their backs.
In fact it was on these moorland hills that the leaders changed
positions. Adam began to lose steam and Jan, Mr. Steady Eddy,
passed him, sticking to an even pace. Not too slow up the hills, not
too fast down them.
For a moment, Mark regressed to his childhood, revisiting
memories of Kidnapped, his favorite Robert Louis Stevenson novel
about the young Davie Balfour and the outlawed Highlander, Alan
Stewart, a Jacobite. I remember reading about those two roaming
the moors, he reminisced as his youth flashed back. The moors!
Aye, Stephen, the moors. Acres and acres of brown grass, bracken,
moss-covered rocks, and patches of low growing heather green
now but purple in autumn. Miles of stone walls constructed without
cement and holding up just fine in the gales, thank you. A few
random white farm houses. And, here we are today, running through
this magnificent wilderness.
Tell you what, Mark continued, if we close our eyes for a
few seconds and squeeze our eyelids tightly, well go back to the
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1750s with Davie and Alan. Listen. Miraculously, words from

Kidnapped returned to him.
LY
Some seven hours incessant, hard travelling brought us

early in the morning to the end of a range of mountains. In front
of us there lay a piece of low, broken, desert land, which we must
now cross. The sun was not long up, and shone straight in our
eyes; a little, thin mist went up from the face of the moorland like
a smoke
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So, here we are just us, the road, the moors. Desolate,
brown, haunting. The loneliness of the long distance runner.
Marks words helped distract them as soreness crept into their legs.
It was the infamous mile 17.
The moors werent boring. Colors changed quickly in the peat
fields browns, yellows, green on occasion. Tidy piles of cut and
stacked peat bricks. Besides using it for heating who doesnt love
the smell of a peat fire? Islay distillers use it to make their smoky
single malt. Under the ground, the peat can be several meters thick.
The island wont run out of it.
They passed a bubbling stream, the River Laggan, which feeds
into the upper end of the Grand Strand beach. This river drains
several mountains, which come into view from time to time Beinn
Bhan, 459 meters, and the tallest one in the distance, Beinn
Bheigier, 491 meters. Want to climb one of those bad boys?
Stephen asked, trying to inject humor, although he, too, was tiring.
Mile 17 can signal the dreaded wall for marathoners. But they
kept plodding along.
Next came the Duich River, duich meaning black meadow. Oh,
how those Gaels could name things! A mile and a half further, they
crossed Glenegedale River that flows past a farm of the same name,
a highly regarded B&B.
Keep those feet moving, Stephen counseled Mark, advice
from one novice marathoner to another, and keep an eye peeled for
trolls were about to cross the Machrie Burn, another brown
stream that empties into the beach next to the Machrie golf course.
Thats where Caballo and Guapo played the golf part of the
challenge. Congratulations to us, were in the home stretch.
By this time, at mile 21, the mile that most marathoners
consider the beginning of the real race, their legs stung as their
bodies hunted for fuel, sucking glycogen out of the muscles.
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Conversation had died, not much talking now, just a stoical

determination to finish.
They soon rejoined the A846 and again had to be wary of cars
and drivers desperate to get to church on time. Traffic flies along
this road, even at ten oclock on a Sunday morning. It was here, on
the flat road, that Adam overtook Jan, who kept his pace, knowing it
was important to run his own race. He accepted what his body could
do. Adam badly wanted to win; to hell with pain.
But at mile 24 Adams tank ran dry: out of fuel. Jan passed
him, taking the lead in the home stretch, finishing in 2:56. Adam
finished two minutes later, also breaking the three-hour barrier, a
monumental feat that less than two percent of marathon runners can
claim. As Caballo suggested could happen, the turtle beat the hare.
As Stephen, now slightly ahead of Mark, got close to Port
Ellen, he passed where yet another golf course used to be located.
The nine-holer was called Geisgeir (a Norse word for a small, white
sandy bay). The club lasted ten years, closing when the First World
War began. Imagine, Mark, this tiny island had four golf clubs a
hundred years ago.
There, 300 yards ahead, was the ever-so-welcome finish line,
next to Ramsay Hall, an old reddish-brown stone building that
serves as Port Ellens social meeting place. Sitting in the car with
watches ticking, and waiting for runners, Caballo asked Joanna
about the hall. It takes its name from John Ramsay,she explained,
who, at 25, became the owner of the Port Ellen distillery in 1840.
Unlike the Campbell lairds, John Ramsay was essentially a selfmade man, venturing out into the world at the young age of 12. And
he grew to love his adopted island of Islay, buying a piece of it,
Kildalton estate, from James Morrison.
Ramsay continued to purchase land over the years, including
the Oa peninsula. When the potato blight hit, he realized that the
island could not support its population of 15,000; so he arranged for
the transfer of families even paying for the passage for some to
Canada to start a new life. In fact, John was so concerned about these
Ileachs that he traveled to Canada in 1870 to check on them, something
that no other Islay laird ever did. And although not all the evictions
were benevolent, John Ramsay did much good for Islay and he will
always be remembered with his name on this village hall.
As the first two runners, champion Jan and runner-up Adam,
crossed the line, Joanna got out of the car, braving a cold Atlantic
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wind, congratulated them and gave them heat sheets, protective

shiny aluminum-coated Mylar wraps, compliments of the Flying Pig
Marathon, that keep heat in, preventing hypothermia in cool
weather. Jan and Adam wrapped up in them and talked about their
duel for the win two warriors battling down the stretch. Joanna
directed them to Ramsay Hall for warmth, their medals, and food.
Meanwhile, Stephen, with more gas in his tank than Mark had,
picked up his pace in the final two miles, finishing in 3:23, a Boston
qualifying effort and good for third place. Mark finished shortly
behind him another BQ, another qualifier for Boston an
outstanding time for a rookie. Not many can claim a fourth-place
finish in a marathon.
Next came Karen, winning the female division in 3:42, a marathon
champion now, no longer viewing this as a mere training run. Despite
the chilly and damp weather, her skin was hot to the touch, as Caballo
discovered when he gave her a congratulatory hug. She was ecstatic,
embracing her husband and cuddling her sons. Victory!
The rest of the field was fast. Only a few failed to break four
hours and three did not finish. Only 30 percent of runners break four
hours in a marathon. Not counting the DNFs, 75% of these runners
broke four hours. Impressive.
The last runner, Suzanna, smiled widely and held her hands
high as she crossed the finish line. She was thrilled: she
accomplished a life goal. She ran a marathon.
Ramsay Hall came alive with runners. The din from their
voices filled the room as they moved about, munching and drinking,
holding their whisky bottle-medals, and sharing stories. It looked
like an annual family reunion. What joy! Stephen, who should have
been satisfied with his remarkable time, only felt pain, Tell my
wife never to let me do this again! Hell change his mind in about
a month, Caballo silently told himself. Marathons infect runners.
There are worse addictions to have.
Caballo found Adam, being consoled by his parents, and
offered his thoughts. Adam, you ran bravely. I know you wanted to
win. Nobody likes to lose. Keep training and you will win; youve
got what it takes. All Adam could say was that he made a tactical
error. Well thats part of the learning process. Give yourself time.
Youre young.
Caballo made formal presentations to the winners, Jan and
Karen, handing them trophies and draping Braveheart tartan scarves
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around their necks. The Islay youth pipers, dressed warmly in red
hoodies and black trousers, played in the background. The others,
volunteers and runners, exhausted from the wind and rain,
applauded. It was a proud ending to a Highland marathon. London
had warm weather. Islay had drizzle and wind. But, try as it might,
London couldnt match the charm of this island. Nor its scenery.
Give me hills, moors, and the seaside. Some need crowds but I
dont, Caballo reasoned.
IE
Karen, female champion, Single Malt Marathon
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Not exceptionally tired nor haggard, Guapo and Caballo walked

(well, more accurately, Guapo walked and Caballo limped) back to
the Askernish where they rested momentarily. Guapo wanted more
golf. Cmon, CB, they still owe us a practice round. And maybe the
goose crap will be gone, Guapo pleaded.
After all, he explained, today was Masters Sunday. They should
be on the golf course, regardless of being thousands of miles from
Augusta. So, off to the Machrie they went. Again, their car was the
only one in the lot. There was no need to go inside, since they had
already paid. They didnt see a soul.
Guapo, eager to play, soon discovered that the mornings wind
had been only an opening act for the afternoon. It was now blowing
30-50 miles an hour, force seven, or as one sailing website described
it inconvenience in walking into the wind. Inconvenience? No,
this was survival golf. I want my strokes now, he demanded.
Well play for a dollar a hole and youll give me a stroke a hole.
End of negotiation. For Guapo, the thrill of taking Caballos money
was an integral part of his golf. Gambling was in his blood.
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OK. If that keeps you happy, Caballo agreed as the wind

nearly blew him over on the first tee. Making contact with the golf
ball as compared to a whiff, (that is, when the club misses the ball)
was difficult, but not impossible in this mini-gale. Shouting was
the best way to communicate, just like it was at times during the
marathon. The vacant course was proof that locals have enough
common sense to stay inside on such a day. Besides, it was Masters
Sunday. They played five holes, which was enough. Guapo won a
few dollars and his mood improved. They ate lunch at the Islay
Hotel; dinner would come later at the ceilidh.
Yes, the ceilidh. Caballo wanted this international group to
have the full Islay experience meet Ileachs, run the most scenic
marathon in Britain, and attend a ceilidh, a special celebration, one
that is held often on Islay and on other Gaelic-speaking islands. In
the ceilidh (KAY-lee) of old, the elderly men and women of the
village would tell their tales, recite poems, and sing songs in
Gaelic. This tradition passed from generation to generation.
Eventually courting worked its way into ceilidhs, bringing more
music and dancing into the celebration.
Stephen decided to hold the ceilidh in the high schools library,
big enough to accommodate a crowd of 50. But he didnt require us
to read a book and he promised no exams afterwards. No dancing,
either. Let those weary legs rest. Thanks, Stephen.
Ella Edgar, the lady who foretold, early in the game, that
everything would work out, promised to bring her young Highland
dancers, all champions and eager to show off their skills.
Parents and teachers brought food they made. You name it, it
was here a real Highland potluck feast: salads of several kinds,
mushroom soup, casseroles, PB & J sandwiches, pasta dishes,
breads, and pie and ice cream. The parents and teachers took pride
in their culinary skills. Bowls of food lined two long tables.
Some runners had to leave on the afternoon ferry: Islay was
hard to reach and, with work looming on Monday, they could not
stay for the dinner and entertainment. Their loss. So we ate, drank,
chatted, and enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow marathoners. Even
Guapo had fun. For Americans it was a priceless experience.
As the dinner progressed, Caballo made remarks, congratulating
all, especially the first-timers. Less than one half of one percent of
people have run a marathon: its an exclusive club. Welcome! And it
was good for Islay, raising at least 1,000 for the high school and
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contributing over 4,000 to the local economy. Caballo again praised

the efforts of his co-race director Stephen and the culinary skills of his
wife Maggie. They made the weekend special.
Next came Stephens turn. He presented the Lords of the Isles
Challenge awards, curved green Lucite trophies first place to
Caballo and runner-up to Guapo. Maybe next year more will enter,
Caballo thought, as he walked back, trophy in hand, to his table. It
was two oclock in Augusta. The leaders were teeing off. And so
was Guapo, as he once again complained that the golf wasnt fair
he should have received handicap strokes. Practice more. Take
lessons, Caballo countered. The rules were posted six months ago.
Black and white on the website.
Stephen, now the master of ceremonies, continued as the two
Yanks traded barbs quietly. Runners had their choice of door prizes,
donated by Guapo, Caballo, the Flying Pig marathon, and local
businesses. Everybody took one home.
Then it was auction time. Stephen, now an auctioneer, started
with a bottle of Laphroaig Quarter Cask. Caballo bid high. No one
challenged him. Bruichladdichs Botanist fetched a decent price.
Lastly came an expensive bottle, which Guapo had been waiting for.
He wanted it and bid early. Others bid. Guapo overbid. Ella went
higher. Then Guapo. Finally Ella won, pleased at her success.
Ileachs are tough cookies. This auction of bottles donated by the
distilleries raised 200.
For what? the runners asked themselves. Stephen said that
funds would go towards the mission trip taken by the senior students
next year. The destination Peru. He explained that the trip was
expensive and that the high school would continue to hold
fundraisers. With that, he introduced Ella who introduced her stars,
the heart of the ceilidh.
Even though Stephen didnt include dancing which the giggly
girls wanted but the tired legs of the marathoners didnt, the ceilidh
was wonderful. Katie the piper, outfitted in a white sailors uniform
with blue trim, her jet black hair coiffed in a tight bun, played
several tunes. Applause. Eilidh (Helen), sang in Gaelic for us. Her
long brown hair fell loosely in front, hiding part of her modest black
dress imprinted with roses. Surely she was a rose of Islay. Her
voice, as pure as the water in a Highland mountain stream, poured
forth Donovan Leitchs Song of Islay:
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How high the gulls fly
Oer Ilay
How sad the farm lad
deep in play
Felt like a grain on your sand
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Caballo and Guapo sat spellbound. Then Mhairi sang. Dressed

in a royal blue Highland dancer jacket with white buttons down the
front and a blue dress tartan kilt, she sang like a nightingale. We
could have listened to them all night. More applause.
Next came Ellas champion Highland dancers Emily, Mhairi,
Stacy, and the piper Katie. They danced to music prepared by Ella
and they, too, could have gone on all night, their legs flying, their
arms raised high circling over their heads. They danced the
Highland Fling, the dance of their ancestors more ancient than the
discovery of America.
Proud young Ileachs, they were, and proud to perform before
their friends and parents; the girls gave us their best. Katie and Stacy
were dressed in blue and white sailor suits while the others wore the
blue tartan of Clan Wallace, complete with blue plaid hose (called
knee socks in America) and black ghillies, Highland dancing shoes
supple leather flats, open on top and tied by laces as required in
competitions. They danced and they danced. It wasnt easy: the
Highland Fling requires dancers to stay in the same spot throughout
the song. More applause. So nice to see these young ladies
continuing traditions of centuries ago. Thank you, Ella, and thank
you, dancers, singers, and Katie the piper.
Ellas Highland dancers
Now it was that dreaded time time for goodbyes. Caballo and
Guapo again thanked Stephen and Maggie, wished the marathoners
safe journeys back to their homes, and hoped their paths would
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cross again, perhaps on Islay, perhaps in Scotland, or perhaps in

America. They left the high school library, still full of people
mingling runners, parents, teachers, dancers, singers, and high
school students.
Instead of heading home right away, Caballo had to
compromise once again. Guapo, still miffed that he didnt win the
auction, wanted to drown his sorrows in single malt, I should have
won, he complained. Why did Ella keep going so high?
Because she wanted you to win. She knew you would keep
bidding. Why did you stop, you fool? At that, Caballo felt sorry for
his friend. OK, well go to a bar. Ill buy you a dram or two.
Maybe thatll help. Poor Guapo, CB thought, he didnt get his
strokes and he didnt win the bottle.
They returned to the Bowmore Hotel and into the bar the one
with 700 offerings of single malt. One or two might soothe the
wounded Guapo. Over in a corner sat Grahame, he who lost weight.
Only 30 more pounds to go. Then Ill be as fit as you, Caballo, he
cheerfully exclaimed. Im sorry I didnt finish the race, but maybe
next year.
Theres no rush, Grahame, Caballo replied. Youve got
youth on your side. Plenty of marathons left in that body. Shed the
weight and the seconds will drop. Youll see. As he said those
words, he looked around, startled to see Alasdair, the aged but
ageless one, the seer of Islay.
Well, lads, did you find it? Quid est veritas? Did you?
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Quid Est Veritas?
O
N
If I should give you a statement that would teach you how

to achieve Zen immediately, dirt would already be spread on top
of your head. To grasp Zen you must experience it. If you
have not experienced it, do not pretend to know. You should
withdraw inwardly and search for the ground upon which you
stand. Thereby you will find out what truth is.
IE
Yunmen Wenyan, Zen Master and Abbot,

Yunmen Monastery, southern China, 864-949 A.D.
FO
EV
h, Caballo, so you couldnt finish the race. Sorry to

hear about your ankle. How about your friend? How
did he do?
Guapo, with a glint of humor in his eyes, managed, I ran out of
steam. Or maybe my brain shut down my legs. I dont know. I tried
to reach Bruichladdich. Knew Id get a dram there. But I was going
too slowly. Thats when the caboose picked me up.
Yes, this was old Alasdair, the one who told Caballo he would
find the answers to quid est veritas. Well, lad, did you find your
answers on our wee island?
Alasdair, Ive seen Callumkill and touched the Kildalton Cross.
Been down to the Oa and run along your glorious beaches. Ive
witnessed the magnificence of the sun setting on Saligo Bay and Ive
watched the Atlantic unleash its white fury at Sanaigmore. Many wise
Ileachs shared their wisdom with me. Ive played golf, I learned to
compromise with El Guapo, I ran part of the race, and I visited the
distilleries. Yet, my basket remains empty. Quid est veritas?
Caballo, the Ileach responded, Im an old man now. I forget
a lot and my bones creak from time to time. Winter winds chill me
and my days are numbered. Yet warm summer rain still feels good
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when I walk in it. I dont care if it soaks me. What does matter is
when people listen as you have, my friend. And so, as promised, I
will tell you the secrets that Islay has for you. I know theyve
already touched you and Guapo and Grahame. And remember what
Oscar Wilde wrote, The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and
never simple.
FO
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The first three answers involve ships and our seas. As you
know, in the early 1800s many poor Irish depended on the potato
for food since they sold other crops to pay rent to their landlords.
When the potato blight hit Eire in 1845, the Irish couldnt pay
their rents. A million starved to death. Another million emigrated
to Canada and the United States. Some sailed away on coffin
ships but died at sea. Alasdair sighed as he recalled this story as
passed down from his own grandfather.
The Exmouth of Newcastle, an old vessel sailing from
Canada, had delivered a load of timber to Ireland and was due to
return empty. But the enterprising owners decided to make the
return trip profitable as well and so they took on 230 Irish men,
women, and children, many of whom were already weakened by
the famine. This wasnt a passenger ship: it was designed to hunt
whales and not haul people. Despite paying for their passage, the
Irish were stuffed below in the hull.
On Sunday night, April 27, 1847, the Exmouth, on its way
to Canada, encountered a fierce storm that drove it north towards
Islay. By Monday it had worsened, shredding the ships sails and
making it vulnerable to the whims of the waves. One can only
imagine the horror of the poor souls below in the ships hold as it
tossed and turned. The crew was powerless to guide the ship as
the storm blew it towards the jagged rocks of Islays northwest
coast. Youve been there, Caballo at Sanaigmore Bay.
Yes, Alasdair, a beautiful spot. Had no idea this tragedy
happened there.
On Wednesday the ship met the rocks, which ripped it to
shreds. Three young sailors had managed to swim to shore but
the rest of the crew, including the captain, perished. No cries
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The S.S. Tuscania
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were heard from the 230 stuffed below deck. The force of the
storm disintegrated the ship and its human cargo.
The next morning in high wind and rain the three crewmen
staggered up and down hills, eventually finding a farm house
where farmer Robert White and his family took care of them.
Rescue operations followed, though it was difficult in those days
to navigate the deep crevasses of the rocky shoreline. Of the 240
lost, 108 bodies were recovered, marking another dark page in
Irish history.
Caballo was stunned. My great-great-grandmother, one
Catherine Reed, was born in Dublin in 1827. Ill bet she traveled
to America in one of these ships. In 1847 she would have been
20, young and healthy, and she would have been one of the lucky
ones to have survived such a voyage. We take a lot for granted,
dont we, Alasdair?
EV
Alasdair continued, The next answer comes from The Oa, the
peninsula with steep cliffs descending from green headlands. You
remember walking there watching seagulls draft on the wind. But,
scenery aside, if you were lucky, lads, you would have seen a
solitary tombstone.
Unknown Negro
S.S. Tuscania
5th February 1918
Known Unto God
FO
Alisdair kept going, Oftentimes I ask myself who this brave

lad was who died when the Germans torpedoed his ship,
transporting 2,000 American soldiers from New Jersey to the war
in France? Was he destined for the front lines? No one will ever
know. Was he a hero? Most definitely. Does his life show us
veritas, Caballo? Of course it does.
Let me explain. My father remembered it well. The
Tuscania, equipped with a crew of 300, was escorted by a convoy
of several destroyers. However on February 5, a German
submarine, U-boat UB77, captained by Lieutenant Wilhelm
Meyer, found the Tuscania, slipped by the destroyers, and fired
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two torpedos, silent harpoons in early evening. Bullseye. This

happened a few miles off the Oa coast.
Lifeboats were released but many died during evacuation.

Sixty soldiers rode aimlessly in the lifeboats and, of the 60, only six
survived, making it to land where local farmers cared for them. Our
Royal Navy destroyers saved the majority of the 2,000 soldiers,
though 166 died. Most of them were identified but one was not. So,
this black American remains on Islay, known only to God, with a
tombstone that marks his heroism, a lasting memory of how he gave
his life for his country.
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Yes, Caballo said, he was an American hero. Forgotten

except for his tombstone.
HMS Otranto
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Alasdair told his third story. Eight months after the sinking
of the Tuscania, the Titanic-sized Otranto, another troop ship,
transported 372 British officers and 701American soldiers, many
of them black Americans. These lads came mostly from
Americas southern states Georgia, Kentucky, South Carolina,
Florida, West Virginia, Tennessee, and Louisiana. Privates
George Batter and Clarence Cook hailed from Cincinnati, Ohio
your town, I believe.
By October of 1918, British and American forces were well
aware of the danger of German submarines. And so, the
destroyers escorting the Otranto were ever vigilant. But they
couldnt guard against the power of Mother Nature and her sea
storms. You know, our weather can be downright hostile.
Guapo readily replied, Yes, we know gales, Alasdair. We
wont forget 2011. Cancelled ferries to your island. Toppled
trees. Killed a man in Dumbarton. Powerful.
On Saturday night, October 5, the Otranto encountered
waves 40 feet high and wind at gale force 11. Many of these
Americans had never been on a ship, much less in a hurricanelevel storm; seasickness must have been rampant. By dawn on
Sunday the ship approached land, which they thought was
southwest Scotland but was actually Islay. As the storm raged,
another ship came into view and within minutes the two briefly
collided. The 9,000-ton Kashmir left the scene, assuming that the
12,000-ton Otranto was seaworthy. But it wasnt and it quickly
sent an SOS.
The destroyers in the escort had scattered in the storm but
the HMS Mounsey picked up the SOS call and her captain,
Lieutenant Francis Craven, decided to attempt a daring rescue.
The Otrantos captain, with seniority over Craven, ordered him
not to try this but he refused to obey, risking court martial.
Despite heaving seas and waves as high as small buildings,
Craven guided his ship alongside the Otranto eight times, four of
them successful. Many sailors jumped safely onto the smaller
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ship but others missed and fell overboard. More than 300 soldiers
and 200 crew made it onto the Mounsey but 450 remained on the
Otranto, which drifted helplessly towards the western coast of
Islay. There, about a half mile off shore, the ship sank in the
violent storm. Only 20 men swam ashore, making the death toll
431, the worst convoy disaster in WWI.
For his courage, Lt. Craven, despite disobeying orders, was
awarded the Victoria Cross, which has been given to only 117 in
the Royal Navy since it was introduced in 1856. The USA also
presented him with the Distinguished Service Medal. Over 500
men owe their lives to his split-second decision to attempt the
rescue. You see, Caballo, sometimes we must take a chance. And
I believe you told me you visited Machir Bay, which is where this
ship went down.
Caballo was speechless. Yes, he had seen the beauty of that
bay, which nearly 100 years ago was the graveyard for 431
soldiers American and British who gave their lives to
preserve freedom.
EV
The Sunderland
FO
His 95 years prominently etched into his dark weather-beaten

face, Alasdair continued, I know youve driven around Loch
Indaal, the sea inlet between Bowmore and Bruichladdich. Well,
it served as a base in WWII for a squadron of Sunderland flying
boats planes armed with depth charges to drop on German
submarines. One of the Sunderlands was patrolling the Atlantic
on January 24, 1943, when, running low on fuel, it turned home.
Unfortunately a fierce storm made landing nearly impossible. The
crew tried several times but finally, when its lights failed, the
plane crashed on our rocky beach.
The injured pilot and two comrades managed to escape and
hurried away down a nearby road while eight others ran another
way on the path. But, these men soon realized that one was
missing a rear gunner was trapped on the plane. So, not one or
two or three but all eight of them ran back to pull him out of the
wreckage. As they tried to save him, the depth charges exploded,
killing all nine. The explosion was heard for miles and was so
strong that it blew in the doors of a church. These eight men gave
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their lives for a friend. True musketeers they were. One for all
and all for one. Youll find your veritas in each of those eight
brave lads.
Heroism lies deep in Islay soil, Alasdair, Caballo
commented, his eyes moistening.
Alisdair Williamson
IE
O
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Two more stories, Caballo, the old man said. Three months
after the Sunderland crash in April of 1943 an Ileach, Alisdair
Williamson, died far from home on a battlefield in Tunisia. Far, far
from his beloved island and his family.
This young man signed up to fight for his country and became
a corporal with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Fighting
against the Germans in North Africa involved danger and death. So
he wrote a letter, as many soldiers did during the war, which would
be delivered to his family if he should die. Eventually the letter
found its way back to his parents on Islay. The letter is displayed in
the Museum of Islay Life. Alisdairs courage and patriotism more
than compensate for his grammatical errors.
EV
Dear Father and Mother
FO
I had hopes never to have to write in this strain I did not

expect to die in this war no one does. At first when I knew
I was in danger I thought a lot about it. I worried
frantically at the thought of all the happiness I would miss
and of you dear Mums who loved me so wonderful, &
built your lives around my health and happiness so
successfully. I am deeply conscious of what I am fighting
for & would not sit at home during this war. What I am
fighting for is not any abstraction to me. It is not any
vague ideal of freedom or democracy. I reduce it to the
most elemental of emotions, that of mans instinctive
dominating intense desire to protect those individuals
whom he holds dearest. So the fact that I may die while I
am protecting you does not appal me in the least, if I do
so I shall be happy to have done what I have to preserve
your lives and way of life. Do not grieve for me do not be
bitter, remember me as the lovable cheerful boy, that
loved you all, and was always content. I go to meet my
maker fearless undaunted and glorious, and I will meet
145

you all someday live out your lives to the fullest without
loneliness or pain where ever I am I will be at peace I
have a clear conscience and a clean soul.
LY
Farewell Father
Farewell Mother
Farewell Sisters and Brothers
Alisdair
Alisdairs letter
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Caballos throat tighted. Suddenly the riddle was solved. Not a

mystery any longer. A tear ran down his face. He knew veritas.
Commitment. Selflessness. Courage. Honesty. The answers had
finally arrived.
Operation Bullbasket
My final story, lads, involves a friend of yours. After DDay in World War II, the Special Air Service (SAS) carried out a
risky parachute drop called Operation Bullbasket behind
German lines in France between June and August of 1944. Our
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SAS, developed in 1941, has served as a model for the special

forces of many countries.
In southwestern France in 1944, the units main attribute
was courage, not sophisticated modern weaponry. One of their
objectives was to locate a German supply train headed for a
mighty Panzer division. Thanks to the information from this SAS
unit, RAF bombers destroyed the train. Afterwards, a spy
informed the Germans about the location of the SAS camp in the
woods.
At dawn on July 3, 1944, the Germans surprised the SAS
and by early afternoon the grim fight had ended. A group of 34
SAS soldiers, including an American pilot whose P-51 Mustang
was shot down, escaped but were soon captured. These men were
prisoners of war and should have been treated as such
according to international law. However, Hitlers orders called
for commandos to be immediately executed, even if they had
been captured in uniform. A few days later the Germans forced
the soldiers to dig their own graves and then shot them.
Later that December, after the German retreat, French
workers discovered broken earth in a nearby field and exhumed
the bodies, most of which were missing identification. But two of
them wore their dog tags. One of them, an Ileach, was Donald
MacPhail Livingstone, the uncle of your friend Malcolm. To him
and the many others who fought for us in World War II, we owe
a debt that can never be repaid.
Well, Caballo, as I said, Im an old man and Ive told my
stories. I think you understand what we Ileachs stand for. First,
there will be times in ones life when one must make a decision.
This may be difficult but it will define the decision maker and
have lasting implications in his or her life. I call these moments
of truth. They occur when you least expect them. They test our
mettle and they require selflessness and a concern for others who
might be relatives, friends, or even strangers. True, we cant all
be war heroes. But, if we make a commitment, a vow, a promise,
we become heroes when we honor that commitment. And this,
my friend, is veritas.
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Donald Livingstone, war hero
FO
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With that, Alasdair smiled and shook hands, telling Caballo that
he hoped to see him again. He walked away slowly, humming a soft
tune. Caballo, Guapo, and Grahame, speechless, waved to their
friend. They had found veritas, that ability to respond in a moment
of truth. They sipped their drams in silence.
Caballo thought about his friend, El Guapo, whose beautiful
wife was stricken with a terminal cancer but who fought it valiantly.
How he supported her through all those trials the surgeries, the
pain, the drugs, and the nausea. Cest lamour, Caballo thought. And
now, almost miraculously, the cancer has gone into remission. Life
has returned to normal.
He thought about the golfer Phil Mickelson whose wife came
down with cancer during the prime of his career. He cancelled
playing in important tournaments, instead choosing to stay with her
during her medical treatments. Phil could have picked a new wife
God knows there were plenty of willing women but he remained
loyal and faithful. Surely Phil understands veritas.
Caballo also considered the career of Newt Gingrich, the master
politician who made a strong bid for the Republican presidential
nomination in 2012. Newt told David Brody on television that he
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divorced his two wives because he cared for his country. Hmmm,
Caballo thought, sounds like a retreat from battle.
Newts first wife contracted uterine cancer and, just after her third
surgery, he announced he was leaving her for another woman, younger
and prettier. Soon after the divorce, Newt married Marianne Ginther, a
27-year-old with whom he was having an affair while his wife Jackie
struggled through cancer treatments. Did Newt understand veritas?
Marianne supported Newt during his two decades in Congress
where he ascended to the position of Speaker of the House, but then
she, too, fell victim to a disease multiple sclerosis. Apparently this
did not please Newt and they separated in 1987 but reunited in 1993.
Time magazine named him Man of the Year in 1995. But was he a
real man? Caballo wondered.
MS can be an ugly disease. It worsens over the years with grim
and crippling side-effects. So, just as he responded to the moment of
truth when his first wife developed cancer, Newt began having an
affair with a beautiful 33-year-old Congressional aide named
Callista, 23 years his junior. Newt figured the best way to handle his
wifes MS was to get rid of her. So he did.
A few months after the divorce from Marianne in 2000, Newt
married Callista to whom he is currently married. As far as we
know, Callista is still healthy. What will he do if she contracts a
serious disease? Will he respond like a hero and stay by her side? Or
will he repeat his behavior and find a 30-something to romance?
We face choices in our lives. When a reporter in 2010 asked
how he could be unfaithful but give a speech on family values, Newt
replied, It doesnt matter what I do; people need to hear what I
have to say. Theres no one else who can say what I can say. It
doesnt matter what I live.
Caballo considered his own life. Raising five children to
become responsible adults has been his highest achievement, far
outshadowing his four years of Navy service, his professional
career, his playing in golf championships. And then came the cancer
and death of his wife like muggers blow in a dark alley. Swiftly,
painfully, and suddenly his companion of 33 years was gone.
Determined to survive for his children and realizing that a
lonely man can become a dead man, he remarried, starting a new life
with a second wife. Times were good again. Traveling. Walks in the
woods. And then the diagnosis of MS hit. Not just MS but primary
progressive multiple sclerosis, a disease that cripples a little more
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each year without respite. Why her, Lord?, Caballo asked himself.
Why cant I have a healthy wife, now that my children have left the
nest? What have I done to deserve two sick wives? Should I look for
a third, like Newt did?
Time passed and her disease worsened, landing her in the hospital
where, thanks to many prayers, a miracle happened. A new neurologist,
world-famous in the treatment of movement disorders, took charge of
the case. And, when the MRIs again showed no spinal cord damage, he
bravely announced that she did not have MS, despite a diagnosis from
the head neurologist at the regional MS center. He stepped out of the
box, took a chance, and explained that she had a movement disorder,
most likely stress-induced. His words came as a shock but a happy one,
one that lifted the MS burden off their shoulders.
Over the next two years, she went through numerous
treatments, all aimed at giving her left leg normal mobility and
eliminating the need to use a walker to get around. Caballo learned
that dealing with a disability brings problems, heartaches, and
sometimes unwanted sympathy from others. They learned not to
take anything for granted and to appreciate each other in the present
moment.
Satisfied that they had found the clues to veritas on Islay, the
Americans bid farewell to Grahame, left the Bowmore pub, and
headed to the Askernish for bed time.
Riding back on the ferry to Kennacraig, Guapo assessed their visit,
Well, CB, it looks like our success was minimal at best. Some would
say we failed to attract big numbers. We didnt connect with golfers.
But Nobel Prize winner, James Watson, said Men of 50 do not like to
fail that is why they are so boring. Something to think about.
Caballo countered, Hold on, Guapo, how about our little victories
Grahame, Gustav, Donald? Their lives changed. We raised money for
the high school. The students saw a marathon. They piped for us. They
sang for us. They danced for us. How good was that? Who knows,
maybe Islay will continue to hold the challenge.
Guapo nodded an affirmative. We did our best, CB. No one
can ask for more than that. Caballo let those words sink in while he
stood on the deck of the red and black Caledonian MacBrayne ferry,
now steaming out of Islays harbor. The wind chilled him.
Look over there, Guapo gray seals on a rock. Goodbye,
seals. Goodbye, Fiona and George. Goodbye, Talbot and Violet.
Yes, we found veritas, Caballo said to himself silently. Veritas
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defines us. Doing the right thing. Its in the gut, heart, and soul of
every good man and woman.
Islay had taught them well. As the boat picked up power on the
open sea, the Queen of the Hebrides shrank in the distance,
disappearing in the mist. Islay, like Hemingways moveable feast,
would stay with them always.
In the autumn of 2014 the grave stone of the unknown sailor

was changed and replaced. The Commonwealth War Graves
Commission decided that the wording, unknown Negro, was
inappropriate.
FO
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Source: John H. Richardson. Newt Gingrich: The

Indispensable Republican. Esquire.com. August 10, 2010.
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AFTERWORD
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irst, a disclaimer. I am neither marathon runner nor whisky

drinker. Whether it is still possible to teach this old dog a
new trick is less certain although there is no shadow of
doubt which of the two would be the preferred choice. In a lifetime
of travel, a favourite diversion has been the study of malt labels in
countless duty frees. At least, I know my Laphroaigs from my
Lagavulins. If that is insufficient qualification for writing this
Afterword, others for consideration in passing are proud membership
of the Clan Donald and affirmation of Islay as a golfing paradise.
Less a matter for boast is that, in less time than it takes some
modern golfers to play eighteen holes, highly trained athletes can run
52 miles. On the other hand, really speedy golfers can complete 36
holes in just over four hours. For them, the complaint that golf takes
you too far from the clubhouse is more a pledge not to waste good
drinking time.
My partiality for golf courses is for those in settings of scenic
splendour. In that regard, Islay is as good as it gets. So it is easy to
appreciate a marathon race in similar surroundings as opposed to
pounding along humdrum suburban thoroughfares. There is certainly
plenty of opportunity for admiring the view. No need for runners to
keep the head down on Islay. Their focus is altogether different.
Marathon running, like cycling, is a phenomenon that has taken
the world by storm but credit for the initiative of an unusual biathlon
on Islay belongs to Robert Kroeger to whom warm praise is already
due for his literary punditry on Old Tom Morris. Where his work on
Islay was concerned, Old Toms was a mere walk-on part but,
throughout these pages, Caballo Blanco has taken centre stage,
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Donald Maclennan Steel

International Golf Course Architect
Chichester, England
www.donaldsteel.com
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albeit under an assumed name. He might easily be mistaken for a

Mexican Open champion but, having read thus far, the unmistakable
conclusion is of a highly imaginative storyteller with a
commendable touch of romance in his soul.
It explains exactly what a Cincinnati Kid finds so appealing about
a remote Hebridean island, something of a second home, and how the
plot was hatched for his dream of a long distance race, preceded by 18
holes of golf. Golfers are well known for marathon golf that takes
many forms and raises vast sums for charity. It would be a surprise,
therefore, if they werent up for the Lords of the Isles Challenge but,
sadly, this book has gone to press before the deal is sealed.
However, that suggests the perfect excuse for a second edition
and maybe another Fly May Be. I cant wait.
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Donald Steel is a full time golf course architect, having

designed or carried out amendments to hundreds of courses
throughout the British Isles and Ireland and in mainland Europe
Sweden, South Africa, and Sri Lanka also bear his mark. He has
also designed and revised courses in Canada and the United States.
Donald was the first golf course architect since Harry Colt to build a
new course at St. Andrews the Strathtyrum. He also renovated the
Eden and Jubilee courses there.
A Cambridge graduate and golfer, he won three Presidents
Putters, played by Oxford and Cambridge golfers at Rye Golf Club
in January. He is also the only golf writer to have qualified for and
played in the Open Championship as an amateur. He has competed
in many other prestigious tournaments and has represented England
in the Home Internationals.
As a golf writer, he became the first golf correspondent for
Londons Sunday Telegraph in 1961 and covered Arnold Palmer
when he won the Open in 1961 and 1962, a key to revitalizing golfs
oldest open. In all, he covered 32 Opens in succession. He has
written several books on golf, including Classic Golf Links of Great
Britain and Ireland, the only book devoted solely to links courses.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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r. Robert Kroeger lives with his wife Laura in Cincinnati.

After finishing four years in the Navy, serving on the USS
Simon Lake, he attained rank of lieutenant commander. He
retired from a career in the private practice of dentistry in 2010 and
became certified as a personal trainer, though he now spends his time
running marathons, playing golf, writing, painting, and playing with
grandchildren.
Since 2005, he has run 68 marathons and has qualified for the
Boston marathon in half of them, when uninjured. He achieved
USATF All American status in long distance running in 2007. He
runs six marathons a year.
He belongs to Royal North Devon Golf Club at Westward Ho!,
the club with the oldest seaside course in England, and was formerly
a member of Royal Dornoch Golf Club in Scotland. He is a past
club champion of Kenwood Country Club in Cincinnati and he has
qualified for and competed in USGA championships. He has won
locally and on the club level, though his most treasured moments on
the golf course came when playing matches against Scots at their
clubs in the Home of Golf.
Dr. Kroeger has published six other books on golf: To The 14th
Tee, The Links of Wales, The Golf Courses of Old Tom Morris, Golf
on the Links of Ireland, Golf on the Links of England, and Complete
Guide to the Golf Courses of Scotland, a book that emphasizes the
fun in playing the lesser known gems in the Kingdom. The Secrets
of Islay is his first book that includes running.
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The Islay Single Malt Marathon is now held annually in

September. It continues to raise funds for the Islay high schools
mission trip as do proceeds from the sale of this book.
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Please visit www.lordsoftheisles.com for details on the Single

Malt Marathon. For more information on Dr. Kroegers books:
www.kroegerbooks.weebly.com
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FO

Golf, Marathons, and Single Malt

Copyright 2014 by Robert Kroeger

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-62137-633-0

Cover Design and Layout by: Kassi Cooper of Virtualbookworm Publishing.

Published by Virtualbookworm.com Publishing

To the Caballo Blanco in each of us.

Free spirits never die.

thank the Scottish people for their generosity, honesty, and

The Secrets of Islay

he founded and directs. And many thanks to my friend Donald Steel,

English is a difficult language that has evolved over centuries.

Secondly, I offer an apology to my fellow golfers for

hen Dr. Kroeger asked me to write the foreword to his

The Secrets of Islay

On a similar note: perhaps in response to Americas slow play,

Alex Miceli writes for Golfweek magazine and is well known

he rules for single malt whisky are simple: its made in

The Secrets of Islay

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

From Warning by Jenny Joseph, English poet

few years ago, seven of us sat at a round wooden table and

The Secrets of Islay

Nattily dressed in a pink oxford shirt and a timeless dark blue

abhorred running unless it was to the dinner table, Grahame, a

The Secrets of Islay

Translated from Latin What is truth? At that, Robbie stared at us,

a marathon would drop to their knees, either exhausted or dead. And

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and will endure heartless wind and bone-chilling rain if thats

From Popular Tales of the West Highlands, Volume One. Compiled

lmost a century after Campbell published his volume on

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Caledonian MacBrayne ferry

As his children grew older and he transitioned into his senior

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Campbeltown. Winds so powerful that they doused Campbeltowns

As he announced this heavenly revelation to his playing partners, I

The Secrets of Islay

Sadly Micah did not survive. In March of 2012 he died at 58,

In 1993 Caballo took Guapo on his first foray to the Highlands

The Secrets of Islay

Lords of the Isles

Bitter is the wind this night

Written by an Irish monk in the early ninth century in hopes that

aballo spent hours, days, months significant pieces of his

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Portnahaven, through whitewashed hamlets, ending in Port Ellen,

and IT wizard at the local newspaper. Brian, originally from England,

Visiting our island, lad? For a minute of silence they stared

The Secrets of Islay

Standing stone at Finlaggan

He rubbed his hand on the stone, covered with gray, green,

Uiskentuie lies on an ancient raised beach. My favorite is the tall

Caballo I like your name by the way Im old. My kids

The Secrets of Islay

Caballo knew that the barbarian invasions spared Ireland, allowing

Celtic cross in Kildalton churchyard

The Secrets of Islay

Along with religion, the monks brought their Gaelic dialect to

As Alasdair talked and Caballo listened, they walked down the

other western isles have numerous settlements with Scandinavian

Viking grave on Islay

The Secrets of Islay