Our story begins when a plucky but otherwise indistinguishable Highland Scot is sent off to school in Kentucky. After almost twelve years--growing as tall as oak trees nourished in red clay Crider soil--she travels to Andalusia, the chalky white albariza loam crumbling underfoot. Soon she returns to her homeland. There she is greeted by disbelieving parents who gaze upon this beauty, this fully matured sophisticate, in an almost fearful reverence. So it is with Balvenie DoubleWood 12. Each element is perfectly balanced; from the first to the final note it fully realizes its unique potential in an orchestra of graceful deliciousness. Honey scooped up in a still-warm alabaster pipe and drizzled onto a tattie scone. White pudding mashed by a sterling fork then arranged by dirty fingers into a ribald image. Brodies tea in a neti pot tilted into an ear, then washing noisily out of a nostril into a demitasse cup, then swished in the mouth to remove fried egg remnants. An unforgettable breakfast. An unforgettable whisky.
The Balvenie DoubleWood 12 is more unfortunate than a bus filled with Prader-Willi Syndrome day campers breaking down in front of an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant, but not quite as unfortunate an urban swordfish farm installed on the roof of the Little Angels childcare building and across the street from a driving range.