“Is this yours?” I ask in awe, still not totally sure what I’m looking at, but impressed by the sheer scale nevertheless.
“One of my investments,” he winks as we weave through kettles and walk towards the back of the building. “It’s a family business, actually William’s brainchild. I’m just the checkbook and the taste tester,” he grins. We spend most of the day at the still with William giving us the tour, explaining, mostly to me, how the whiskey is made.
He takes us out to another building that is dark and sealed off and cool, where the walls are lined with row after row of wooden barrels all filled with the family whiskey at various stages of aging. Rhys is ecstatic, soaking everything in, beaming with pride and enthusiasm.
Through another open barn door, I come across a small field populated with goats. It seems odd until I look further and notice a wide spread mini farm that appears to encompass the property. The goats run free as well as a few colorful roosters, some quietly pecking hens and a gaggle of geese that seem to waddle aimlessly but always in a tight group.
“This is all Colleen,” William grins with pride as he talks about his sister. “She said, ‘Why don’t we grow our own barley? ’ The little trickster talked me out of half the land and here we are two years later looking to expand. She has a bake shop and country store on the other side of the property. She treats those silly goats like family, but she makes some delicious cheeses and bakes like a wizard. You should take Sophie over there once we are done here.” He nudges Rhys, and leads us into a smaller out building that is smoky, but oddly cool.
More casks line the walls, smaller and of darker wood than the others, and between each row there are wheels of cheese. Sides of pig hang from the rafters in the middle of the small building between two open fire pits in the stone floor.
Flames rise from the pits, reaching for the curing meats. Finn appears with a barrel grasped within the jaws of a massive pair of steel tongs. His forearms bulge as he lifts the barrel above the fire and slowly lowers it, swallowing the flames and the smoke. He releases the jaws of the tongs and steps back, smiling and nodding at Rhys.
“I’m smoking my wood!” he calls over the barrel with a wicked grin, before he closes the tongs around the barrel and pulls it off the fire, flipping it over, and putting it down. He pumps a metal pedal on the floor and the flames are tamed, retreating into the pit. He steps over it and reaches out to shake Rhys’ hand. “Welcome to my cooperage, Cousin.”
They talk barrels as we are guided through the remainder of the still before we walk down the hill and visit Colleen in her little shop. The finished hams are wrapped and hung on the front porch. Brigid’s jams line the little front window. The produce from the farm is strewn about in hand woven baskets, as are loaves of Irish bread and little wheels of goat cheese, some rolled in ash, others covered with vibrant herbs, and the rest a luscious creamy pure white, a little slice of heaven on earth.
“The smartest investment is always family,” he whispers from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. “Look at what she has done in such a short time. She wants to expand into agritourism.”
“I think that’s a fantastic idea. When I thought of Ireland, this is what I pictured, this is what I wanted to see and feel. It’s perfect. Why are you smiling like that?” His gleeful smirk is a most welcome sight.
“You glow when you’re so happy. I’m so glad I could bring you here; that I could see all of this with you by my side, Sophie.
“One of my investments,” he winks as we weave through kettles and walk towards the back of the building. “It’s a family business, actually William’s brainchild. I’m just the checkbook and the taste tester,” he grins. We spend most of the day at the still with William giving us the tour, explaining, mostly to me, how the whiskey is made.
He takes us out to another building that is dark and sealed off and cool, where the walls are lined with row after row of wooden barrels all filled with the family whiskey at various stages of aging. Rhys is ecstatic, soaking everything in, beaming with pride and enthusiasm.
Through another open barn door, I come across a small field populated with goats. It seems odd until I look further and notice a wide spread mini farm that appears to encompass the property. The goats run free as well as a few colorful roosters, some quietly pecking hens and a gaggle of geese that seem to waddle aimlessly but always in a tight group.
“This is all Colleen,” William grins with pride as he talks about his sister. “She said, ‘Why don’t we grow our own barley? ’ The little trickster talked me out of half the land and here we are two years later looking to expand. She has a bake shop and country store on the other side of the property. She treats those silly goats like family, but she makes some delicious cheeses and bakes like a wizard. You should take Sophie over there once we are done here.” He nudges Rhys, and leads us into a smaller out building that is smoky, but oddly cool.
More casks line the walls, smaller and of darker wood than the others, and between each row there are wheels of cheese. Sides of pig hang from the rafters in the middle of the small building between two open fire pits in the stone floor.
Flames rise from the pits, reaching for the curing meats. Finn appears with a barrel grasped within the jaws of a massive pair of steel tongs. His forearms bulge as he lifts the barrel above the fire and slowly lowers it, swallowing the flames and the smoke. He releases the jaws of the tongs and steps back, smiling and nodding at Rhys.
“I’m smoking my wood!” he calls over the barrel with a wicked grin, before he closes the tongs around the barrel and pulls it off the fire, flipping it over, and putting it down. He pumps a metal pedal on the floor and the flames are tamed, retreating into the pit. He steps over it and reaches out to shake Rhys’ hand. “Welcome to my cooperage, Cousin.”
They talk barrels as we are guided through the remainder of the still before we walk down the hill and visit Colleen in her little shop. The finished hams are wrapped and hung on the front porch. Brigid’s jams line the little front window. The produce from the farm is strewn about in hand woven baskets, as are loaves of Irish bread and little wheels of goat cheese, some rolled in ash, others covered with vibrant herbs, and the rest a luscious creamy pure white, a little slice of heaven on earth.
“The smartest investment is always family,” he whispers from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. “Look at what she has done in such a short time. She wants to expand into agritourism.”
“I think that’s a fantastic idea. When I thought of Ireland, this is what I pictured, this is what I wanted to see and feel. It’s perfect. Why are you smiling like that?” His gleeful smirk is a most welcome sight.
“You glow when you’re so happy. I’m so glad I could bring you here; that I could see all of this with you by my side, Sophie.
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