In addition to Davy Bell, in the early days there was someone else who was incredibly important to me: James McColl. In the early sixties he was the manager at Bowmore Distillery, the man who pulled the strings. For me as a young, wild man, he was a role model through and through, with a stature possessed by no one else in the village. No matter when or where I met him, he was always smartly dressed, his light temples reminding me of a Hollywood hero from those days. Having adopted this man as one of my idols inevitably I someday wanted to become like him and radiate that sense of dignity.

      Perhaps it was the fact that our birthdays were on the same day, 23 July, of which we were both well aware. Whenever I met him on that day, even before I worked at the distillery, he always said, “Well, Jim, today is a special day for us! All the best, my boy.” That phrase meant a lot to me … and it said a lot about Mr McColl. He treated everyone as an individual and forgot about no one. He knew a good word didn’t cost much, but achieved a lot; at least it did for me. There was an uncanny kindness expressed in James McColl’s words and tone. He knew how to command great natural respect and authority with just a few well-considered words. His demeanour and speech were characterised by a sense of decent morality, marked by honesty and sincerity. His word was his bond. If he promised something, you could count on it. For as long as I knew him, I never heard him swear, a real achievement for an Ileach in those days. It was certainly also one of the qualities that fascinated me about this great man, and for whatever reason, I never wanted to disappoint him. I always wanted to do my best in the presence of the man who gave me my one chance to realise my dream at Bowmore distillery. He changed my life. You never forget your first job; you never forget the day you got your first wage. I had grown up, left my childhood behind, and become a breadwinner. Such moments are among the greatest in anyone’s life. I don’t even like to think what would have happened if Mr McColl hadn’t given me that chance back then. Surely my life would have been completely different. Who knows what would have become of me? But today I know that there is no such thing as coincidence, for even then, my story was written somewhere, and it was now time for me to turn a new page, start a new chapter. And James McColl was instrumental in this.

      Wanting to do my best was my way of saying thank you, but when I think back, a particular story always comes to mind, which I would like to tell you here.

      In the distillery’s administration offices there were two fireplaces that had to be lit in winter. One was in the Customs and Excise office, the other in the distillery office. Every day the fire was lit by the cleaning staff early in the morning, so that the offices were pleasantly warm at nine o’clock when the employees and the manager arrived for work, in the days before central heating. One day, however, the cleaning lady was absent, and there was no one there to light the fire. I had only been employed for a few weeks, so I didn’t know too much yet, therefore I was often given jobs that were not necessarily part of the core tasks of a barrel maker. It must have been November 1963, but in any case it was my first winter at the distillery. I was told to look after the fire, because, after all, my working day started well before nine o’clock. Mr McColl showed me in great detail how the fires should be lit. I have to admit, because it was tedious work, I was not very enthusiastic about the task. First, small and tiny pieces of wood had to be collected from the endless expanses of the cooperage, which then had to be lit with paper and other easily combustible things. Often the fire went out and you had to start all over again; sometimes it didn’t burn properly and it smoked. Then it was a matter of bringing in broken barrel staves as fuel. Anyway, it wasn’t my idea of fun, so I looked for creative ways to get the job over quickly and effectively with as little effort as possible, coming up with what I thought was a brilliant idea. Next to the cooperage was the peat fire over which the malt was dried in the kiln. So all I had to do was grab a shovel, pick up a good portion of embers and take them upstairs to the office. “Jim McEwan, you’re a clever guy!” I thought to myself, feeling very proud of my idea. It saved me a lot of work. My plan was to open the office door, before carrying in the shovel full of glowing coals, empty the shovel directly into the fireplace and start the fire that way. What a simple but ingenious approach!