Bowmore 1995 BM Special Bottling
| Category | SINGLE MALT |
| Distillery | Bowmore |
| Bottler | Big Market (BM) |
| Bottling Series | - |
| Vintage | 1995 |
| Bottled Year | - |
| Age | - |
| Cask Type | Sherry Cask |
| Cask Number | - |
| Bottles Released | - |
| ABV | 57.2% |
| Volume | 700 ml |
| Label | - |
| Country | Scotland |
| Region | Islay |
Flavor Profile
Tasting Notes
Colour
white wine
air Nose
powerful but not too hot at that high strength. Extremely clean and sharp, in fact, with lots of fresh vanilla beans and coffee . Some rather bold notes of smoked ham, cold ashes, matchsticks… It gets then quite stony and citrusy, starting to smell like ferociously dry Champagne (extra-brut), aspirin, paper dust… Rather austere, in fact, but not immature, contrarily to what I had expected
restaurant Palate
punchy but not aggressive at its full strength. Lots of coffee and lots of fruits, with some bold citrusy notes playing with your mouth. Some Turkish delights, lychee syrup, almond milk and marzipan… Okay, time to add a few drops of water: it gets even fruitier and sort of creamier, with some added vanilla, nougat… The finish is long, mostly on vanilla and pepper. Okay, this one as matured at full speed, it appears – it must have been a hell of a cask! 86 points . November 3, 2005 CONCERT REVIEW by Nick Morgan - MICHAEL MARRA Ye Olde Rose and Crowne, Walthamstow, October 30th 2005 Who in their right mind would want to go to Walthamstow on a Sunday night, particularly if they feel as rough as I do? It’s a drive from one end of London to the other, with all the second-home owners making their way back to the City after a weekend in the country, via the King’s Cross Euro-terminal bottle-neck and through Clapton’s famous ‘shooting alley’. And what is there in Walthamstow? Well, pioneer socialist, typographer and wallpaper designer William Morris (you know, the one they named the car after) lived there, and his home is now a fine museum. The town hall is a testimony to all those design principles cherished dearly by Mussolini. And there’s a dog track, which Serge, is a track where they race dogs, and you bet lots of pounds to see which dog can chase a bunch of rags (known as a rabbit) fastest. But none of that matters, because we’re going on a pilgrimage, to Walthamstow’s worlde famous Ye Olde Rose and Crowne pub. Not that I go into pubyes too often, and at seven o’clock on a dark autumn night this one comes as a bit of a shock. We’re sitting in the medieval section, all reproduction shields and swords on the wall, suits of armour, faux paintings of flat fat faced monarchs and their cod pieces, and seven TV sets, plus a huge video screen, all showing football matches that none of the dozen or so solitary drinkers in the place wants to watch. On the other side of the bar
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