Oban, the house of the young stallion (in Gaelic Taigh stial an Òbain. I’ve no idea either, sometimes I think it’s just to confuse us. Oban is pronounced Oh-ben though).

The conditions for joy. Life is about finding those conditions for joy. In 1794, two brothers, John and Hugh Stevenson, did more for humanity than any incumbent at the time. These men created. For us. The conditions for joy. 

Now listen. There is an ancient Celtic tale, about a creature. A beast. The water horse. It haunts the seas, the lochs, the tides.  The shores and the coast. It is known to the clansmen as the each-uisge. The beast is said to appear as a grey stallion, which exists to tempt lost travellers to mount its back. They are seated and saddled and the beast goes into a frenzied rage, it will bolt to water and drag the trapped victims to a watery grave.

One such beast, legendary in size, was said to have inhabited the west coast of Scotland. Now. How? How did this cunning creature evade capture? It concealed itself, hiding in sight, among the white horses. Then on dark cold nights, when mist would descend, the beast would come forth. Hungry again. 

So. The brothers. They learned of the beast. They hatched a plan and under the mists silvery shroud, the brothers began. Taking an old copper pot. They filled it with barley, they buried it deep, then they sat back and waited calmly. The sound of the waves dulled away. All that was heard was the thudding of hooves along the bay. 

Each beat pounded. Each beat pounded their fear. Yet the men stood firm, watching and waiting as the horse came to feed. They held their lungs, they dared not breathe lest they be discovered. The horse ate its fill, then it ate again. The beast clambered inside the pot, to the joy of the men. The pair sprang from their hideout, sealing in the horse. After bolting the lid, one poured in water, one lit the fire, and soon the pot was engulfed. A makeshift pyre. The stallion snarled and thrashed with rage. One brother chopped wood, one continued to feed the fire, then in the inferno, the pot stopped. And stood still.

In the heart of the heat the beast had been knackered.

The brothers kept the pot overlooking the bay. Feeding it barley. Tending it, each night, each day. There on that shore line. With peat from the land and salt from the ocean, the brothers brewed their potion. Oban is there today, as is the still. So, as I recline and put up my feet. I thank the brothers for this dram, and for the joy it has brought me.

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