‘Man, what a stink,’ said Luke as they poured out of the Audi into the Laphroaig car park.

Adam smiled. It was the first thing that struck him every time he visited, the pungent aroma, an overpowering blend of smoked fish, seaweed, tar, peat and iodine, a belt at the back of his sinuses that felt like home.

‘That’s the antiseptic smell of success,’ he said. ‘The best whisky in the world. Thought we might as well start at the top.’

They sauntered down the slope towards the sprawl of sturdy whitewashed buildings, pagoda roofs puffing hazily into a silent sky.

‘Hey, what’s your obsession with Laphroaig?’ said Luke as they walked behind the other two. ‘You’re always banging on about it.’

‘You know what it tastes like,’ said Adam. ‘It’s just a huge dram. The biggest balls in the world. It’s not afraid to smack you in the face, you know? It’s not a fruity Speyside or a heathery Highland, it’s sea and sand and sky and peat and everything that’s great about Scotland. Part-time drammers hate it, that’s good enough for me.’

‘Dude, you are such a whisky snob.’

‘I just appreciate when things are done right.’

Luke chuckled. ‘You’re ridiculous, man, the things you get worked up about. It’s just booze.’

Adam stopped, turned and pressed a finger into Luke’s chest, only half joking. ‘It is not just fucking booze. You don’t believe that any more than I do, or you wouldn’t be on this trip.’

‘I’m just here for the ride, mate, take it easy.’

They walked on, a beautiful rocky cove emerging behind the buildings, tufted crags flanking a sheltered natural harbour of icy blackness.

‘Listen, man,’ said Luke. ‘When are we gonna find ourselves some peatreek?’

Adam raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey, I can google,’ said Luke. ‘This island has a fine reputation for illegal hooch over the years. I want to taste some moonshine, get a bit of that bootleg action.’

Adam shook his head. ‘It’s just a myth, I don’t think there are illicit stills here any more.’

‘Come on, the history of this place? I bet there are hundreds of farmhouses and sheds on the island pumping out new spirit as we speak. You’ve been here before, you must’ve heard rumours.’

‘Occasionally, but that’s all they are.’

Luke smiled to himself as they reached the waterfront. ‘You just need to get a bit more friendly with the natives, man. I’m telling you, I’m gonna taste peatreek before this weekend is over.’

They caught up with Roddy and Ethan and stared out to sea. Two large black birds flapped low across the bay and out towards open water.

‘Cormorants,’ said Luke.

Adam pointed to a low dark hummock in the far distance. ‘See that? Northern Ireland.’

‘Wow, are we that close?’ said Ethan.

‘About thirty miles.’

Ethan turned round to face the distillery. ‘Check it out.’

They all turned to see LAPHROAIG painted in thick black lettering twelve feet high on a huge white wall. Ethan pulled out his phone and took a quick snapshot as they gazed at the humungous sign.

Adam thought about all the history soaked into the buildings here. Two hundred years since the place was established by a couple of farming brothers on the make, and hundreds more years of under-the-radar distilling before that. Generations of families had dedicated their lives to making whisky here, lived and died with the smell of the place permeating their bones, the peaty taste of it on their lips from cradle to grave.

He reached into his pocket and rubbed the folded sheets of paper in there between his fingers, thinking about what might happen tomorrow when he put the whole idea to Roddy. His chest rose and fell with a sharp breath.

‘OK, pooves,’ said Roddy, breaking the silence. ‘Let’s get inside and drink some of this shit, shall we?’