The Secrets of Islay
The Secrets of Islay
ISBN: Softcover: 9781621376330
Ebook: 9781621376347
Pages: 170
Graphics: One map and 29 photos
Binding: Perfect. Four-color cover.
Published in 2015
Foreword by Alex Miceli, Senior writer, GolfWeek, and contributor, The Golf Channel – “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?”
Preface by Gary Allen, Founder and director of Maine’s MDI marathon and elite marathon runner – “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!”
Afterword by Donald Steel, International golf course architect, author of several book on links golf, and past champion of The President’s Putter, Rye Golf Club, England – “This book 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.”
The cover features the tartan of the Hebribean clan, MacQueen. This clan provided guard for a daughter of the chief of Clan Macdonald of Clanranald, a Lord of the Isles, whose seat was on Islay. They are linked to the Macdonalds and, like the Ileachs of Islay, these people are a mixture of Viking, Irish, and Pict. They, too, fought for freedom at Bannockburn.
Highlights:
The story begins with seven people enjoying a single malt tasting in one of Islay’s distilleries. Their challenge is to solve the puzzle, “quid est veritas.” One of the group, Caballo Blanco, having adopted that nickname during a hailstorm on Machrie links, has an idea that might unearth answers: to stage a golf tournament and marathon on the island.
Caballo becomes director of this challenge and meets several seasoned islanders who narrate local history, opening his eyes to the real story behind Islay. He struggles at first but is determined to stage the competitions and highlight this remote, charming island and its incredibly gracious people, the Ileachs.
Three years later, the seven meet again on Islay to compete in the Queen of the Hebrides Open and the Single Malt Marathon, events that raise funds for the local high school. Several run their first marathon. Others can’t run. Some play golf. A few drink the whisky. Lives changed.
During their adventures in golf on Scotland’s blindest of the blind, marathon running, and single malt drinking, the seven hear stories of Iron Age cultures, stone circles, standing stones, Celtic crosses, ruined castles, and mansions of medieval lairds. Weathered Ileachs tell their tales of long ago.
The marathon, praised by runners as Scotland’s most scenic, takes a point-to-point route around Loch Indaal, the same ocean inlet that Viking-Scot warriors used when, as Lords of the Isles, they controlled the sea lanes and ruled the western shores of Scotland. A visit to Islay is more than simply a chance to run a marathon or play in a golf tournament or drink their famous spirits.
In the end, Caballo and friends find answers and solve the puzzle, thanks to 95-year-old Alasdair, a seasoned Ileach whose roots trace back four centuries to the Clan MacDonald. Yes, Islay revealed its secrets.
Reviews:
“xxxxxxJust do it!!” Amazon reviewer, 2015
“xxxxx being healthy.” Amazon reviewer, 2015
Excerpt: From Chapter 1: A 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), Scotland’s 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, it’s not huge but it’s 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 you’ll reach Ireland. To Islay’s east, 72 miles away, is Glasgow. Go north, eight miles, to Colonsay, ancient land of the McPhees. And, if you sail 2,076 miles due west, you’ll come to Hopedale on the Labrador coast. On Islay you won’t 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 that’s 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-So-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. …
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 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, “there’s no smoke without Laphroaig.” Robbie was right: it did smell like smoke, making me feel as if I were hiking in one of Islay’s peat bogs where the brown water flows, eventually finding its way into distillery vats to enhance this unique flavor. …
Robbie kept weaving his magic spell as we tasted Laphroaig’s 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?’ 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 winner’s 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.” Donald’s 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. I’ve watched golf tournaments on TV where two players take well over four hours to finish. Crikey, I can run a 26-mile 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, where’s 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 six-foot 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 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 Robbie’s 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 Islay’s 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 girlfriend’s heart and confessed that he had played golf in the best and the worst of it – the weather, that is. But he couldn’t 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 doesn’t 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 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 we’ll 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 Caballo’s 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 Islay’s Single Malt Marathon?” Caballo’s 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. “We’ve never had a marathon here, lads. It’s bound to draw tourists.”
We sat around the table and swallowed more of Laphroaig’s liquid heat and thought about the challenge. It can’t appeal to many, we thought. Only a select few. The irrepressible Caballo smiled. I thought his idea had merit but the rest weren’t 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, Islay’s 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 and will endure heartless wind and bone-chilling rain – if that’s 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 Laphroaig’s finest, El Guapo, the Swede, and Grahame thought they’d 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 we’d get is anybody’s 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 we’d 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 couldn’t wait. I had doubts but was willing to give it a try. What’s 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 didn’t make any promises. All of us wondered if we would find the answer to Robbie’s burning question, Quid est veritas? We finished our tasting, vowing to return in three years, prepared to do battle.
For information on purchase and shipping, please visit our ordering page.
NOTE: If you wish to buy a paperback, please order from VirtualBookworm.com since proceeds to the high school are greater from this site than from the other sellers. Shipping to UK and Europe is from a UK site. Shipping to Australia is from an Aussie site.
ISBN: Softcover: 9781621376330
Ebook: 9781621376347
Pages: 170
Graphics: One map and 29 photos
Binding: Perfect. Four-color cover.
Published in 2015
Foreword by Alex Miceli, Senior writer, GolfWeek, and contributor, The Golf Channel – “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?”
Preface by Gary Allen, Founder and director of Maine’s MDI marathon and elite marathon runner – “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!”
Afterword by Donald Steel, International golf course architect, author of several book on links golf, and past champion of The President’s Putter, Rye Golf Club, England – “This book 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.”
The cover features the tartan of the Hebribean clan, MacQueen. This clan provided guard for a daughter of the chief of Clan Macdonald of Clanranald, a Lord of the Isles, whose seat was on Islay. They are linked to the Macdonalds and, like the Ileachs of Islay, these people are a mixture of Viking, Irish, and Pict. They, too, fought for freedom at Bannockburn.
Highlights:
- A tale of intrigue on a mysterious
Scottish island, affectionately known as “The Queen of the Hebrides”
- The fascinating search for “quid est
veritas,” a puzzle assigned to the seven who listened to Robbie at the single
malt tasting
- Did Islay provide the answers to “quid
est veritas?”
- Locals divulge the history of the island
– standing stones, Irish sailor-monks, Celtic crosses, Viking occupation, the
four century reign of the Lords of the Isles, medieval lairds, the Highland
clearances
- Learn about the Ileachs, Braveheart
Highlanders, and their Gaelic traditions
- The evolution of Scottish whisky from
the times of the monks to today’s eight award-winning single malt distilleries
on the island
- Who would rise to The Lords of the Isles
Challenge, the first time for combining a golf tournament and a marathon?
- Would the young hare or the wise old
turtle win the inaugural Single Malt Marathon?
- A work of creative non-fiction, written
by an author who’s played on over 300 courses in the UK and Eire, won golf
tournaments, written six books on golf, and run over 68 marathons, qualifying
for Boston in many of them.
- Half of book proceeds will be donated to
the students of Islay high school for their mission trip to a third-world
country
The story begins with seven people enjoying a single malt tasting in one of Islay’s distilleries. Their challenge is to solve the puzzle, “quid est veritas.” One of the group, Caballo Blanco, having adopted that nickname during a hailstorm on Machrie links, has an idea that might unearth answers: to stage a golf tournament and marathon on the island.
Caballo becomes director of this challenge and meets several seasoned islanders who narrate local history, opening his eyes to the real story behind Islay. He struggles at first but is determined to stage the competitions and highlight this remote, charming island and its incredibly gracious people, the Ileachs.
Three years later, the seven meet again on Islay to compete in the Queen of the Hebrides Open and the Single Malt Marathon, events that raise funds for the local high school. Several run their first marathon. Others can’t run. Some play golf. A few drink the whisky. Lives changed.
During their adventures in golf on Scotland’s blindest of the blind, marathon running, and single malt drinking, the seven hear stories of Iron Age cultures, stone circles, standing stones, Celtic crosses, ruined castles, and mansions of medieval lairds. Weathered Ileachs tell their tales of long ago.
The marathon, praised by runners as Scotland’s most scenic, takes a point-to-point route around Loch Indaal, the same ocean inlet that Viking-Scot warriors used when, as Lords of the Isles, they controlled the sea lanes and ruled the western shores of Scotland. A visit to Islay is more than simply a chance to run a marathon or play in a golf tournament or drink their famous spirits.
In the end, Caballo and friends find answers and solve the puzzle, thanks to 95-year-old Alasdair, a seasoned Ileach whose roots trace back four centuries to the Clan MacDonald. Yes, Islay revealed its secrets.
Reviews:
“xxxxxxJust do it!!” Amazon reviewer, 2015
“xxxxx being healthy.” Amazon reviewer, 2015
Excerpt: From Chapter 1: A 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), Scotland’s 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, it’s not huge but it’s 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 you’ll reach Ireland. To Islay’s east, 72 miles away, is Glasgow. Go north, eight miles, to Colonsay, ancient land of the McPhees. And, if you sail 2,076 miles due west, you’ll come to Hopedale on the Labrador coast. On Islay you won’t 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 that’s 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-So-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. …
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 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, “there’s no smoke without Laphroaig.” Robbie was right: it did smell like smoke, making me feel as if I were hiking in one of Islay’s peat bogs where the brown water flows, eventually finding its way into distillery vats to enhance this unique flavor. …
Robbie kept weaving his magic spell as we tasted Laphroaig’s 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?’ 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 winner’s 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.” Donald’s 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. I’ve watched golf tournaments on TV where two players take well over four hours to finish. Crikey, I can run a 26-mile 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, where’s 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 six-foot 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 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 Robbie’s 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 Islay’s 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 girlfriend’s heart and confessed that he had played golf in the best and the worst of it – the weather, that is. But he couldn’t 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 doesn’t 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 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 we’ll 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 Caballo’s 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 Islay’s Single Malt Marathon?” Caballo’s 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. “We’ve never had a marathon here, lads. It’s bound to draw tourists.”
We sat around the table and swallowed more of Laphroaig’s liquid heat and thought about the challenge. It can’t appeal to many, we thought. Only a select few. The irrepressible Caballo smiled. I thought his idea had merit but the rest weren’t 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, Islay’s 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 and will endure heartless wind and bone-chilling rain – if that’s 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 Laphroaig’s finest, El Guapo, the Swede, and Grahame thought they’d 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 we’d get is anybody’s 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 we’d 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 couldn’t wait. I had doubts but was willing to give it a try. What’s 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 didn’t make any promises. All of us wondered if we would find the answer to Robbie’s burning question, Quid est veritas? We finished our tasting, vowing to return in three years, prepared to do battle.
For information on purchase and shipping, please visit our ordering page.
NOTE: If you wish to buy a paperback, please order from VirtualBookworm.com since proceeds to the high school are greater from this site than from the other sellers. Shipping to UK and Europe is from a UK site. Shipping to Australia is from an Aussie site.