Old Pulteney 18 — The Maritime Malt
By Rafi Mercer
Some whiskies carry the sea in their bones. Old Pulteney 18 is one of them. Distilled in Wick, a town once famed for its herring fleet and its rugged harbour, it has long been called “the maritime malt.” Salt air sweeps through the warehouses, and it shows in the glass — a whisky defined by brine, oak, and sweetness shaped by the coast. At 18 years, Old Pulteney becomes a study in maturity, the rawness of youth polished into depth, yet still carrying the sea’s wildness within it.
The distillery was founded in 1826, at Scotland’s northern edge. For much of its history, its whisky was inseparable from the fishing town around it — a dram for sailors, dockers, and those who worked with the sea. Today, Old Pulteney remains proud of that identity, and the 18-year-old bottling is perhaps the most complete expression of it. Matured in a mix of ex-bourbon casks and Spanish oak, it balances maritime salt with layers of sherry-driven richness.
In the glass, it shines copper gold. On the nose, there is sea breeze, salted caramel, dried fruit, and polished wood. On the palate, the whisky moves between sweet and savoury: honey, toffee, and vanilla at first, followed by brine, orange peel, and spiced oak. A trace of smoke lingers, subtle but persistent. The finish is long, salty, and warming, leaving a memory of sea spray carried on oak. It is whisky as coastline — sharp and clean, yet layered with history.
What makes Old Pulteney 18 stand out in the Tracks & Tales Guide to the Top 50 Whiskies is its sense of place. Many distilleries speak of geography, but few deliver it so directly. Every sip feels like Wick’s harbour: wind on the face, salt in the air, wood beneath the feet. It is a whisky that teaches us how environment and maturation can become inseparable, how spirit can hold a shoreline.
Its musical counterpart is Yasuaki Shimizu’s Kakashi. Released in 1982, the album is a masterpiece of Japanese experimentalism, blending saxophone, electronics, and rhythm into soundscapes that feel both natural and otherworldly. Like Old Pulteney 18, it is rooted in clarity yet layered with strangeness. Its textures move like waves, its saxophone lines drift like sea air. Both whisky and record create atmospheres that feel elemental, less about narrative than about immersion.
In a listening bar, the pairing is almost meditative. A dram of Skiren rests in hand as Yoshimura’s tones drift into the air, the whisky’s honeyed sweetness catching the same quiet radiance as the music. The gentle saline note mirrors the record’s sense of air and distance, like watching clouds shift across a northern sky. Neither demands attention; both enhance presence.
Scapa Skiren is not a whisky for collectors or status-seekers. It is a whisky for those who understand the value of lightness, who want a dram that can accompany without dominating. It shows how a distillery with a modest voice can still carry great resonance.
And perhaps the next step is to drink it somewhere that reflects its nature — a bar with large windows open to the sky, or even in Orkney itself, where the sea glitters against the horizon and the pace of life feels slowed by wind and water. Because Scapa Skiren, like Music for Nine Postcards, is not just about flavour or sound. It is about light, air, and finding the right place to let both unfold.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
