Irish Whiskey Pt. 17: The Poitín Republic // Baoilleach Distillery

Transcript

What a day it had been. Busier than usual for Patrick. A tailor by trade, his workload was usually light, giving him plenty of slack in his delivery timelines. But a surprise wedding was being planned in nearby Glenagannon and timelines were short. With his eyes blurring from the constant focus on his needle and thread, he took an early evening stroll. As he made his way toward the river and Reverend Canning’s flax and corn mill, he felt a cool breeze blow through. As he looked up at the hills that surrounded the townland of Magheradrumman admiring the artistry of the sun as it drenched the tops of the hillsides with sun, while the valley fell to darkness below. Soon, the purple glow of twilight would contrast the green and olive hillsides.

As he reached the mill, he could swear he heard the voices of men coming from up along the cliffs above the millrace. He stopped in his tracks to see if he could make out what they were saying. It didn’t take long for him to realize they were officers of the excise, likely sneaking in to await the hillside fires that meant one of two things, the burning of coal for heat or the distilling of Inishowen whiskey. Pat knew one man. Baker was his name. He knew Baker was part of a larger that had come up from Moville. But since the revenuer knew the valley well, he was probably coming down to scout out the pinholes of light emanating from the mountains from a lower position.

It was then that Pat felt a chill run down his spine. He’d remembered that his friend O’Doherty was hosting a big party at his cottage in Glenagannon. Some of the area’s distillers had plans to brew up a batch of whisky while at it. If these officers stayed on their current path, they would spot the smoke or smell the sweet scents emanating from his friend’s still. He hurried back to the bothy behind his cabin, where he kept the tools of his craft. Pat knew he had to keep Baker and the other officer from reaching O’Doherty’s cabin. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw his scissors and measuring tape sitting on his worktable. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a brainstorm. He grabbed the scissors and the long brown piece of paper he used for measuring and bolted for the door. As he hit the entranceway, he had another inspired thought. He pulled off his coat and ran out into the chilly twilight. It didn’t take long for him to see the two figures making their way toward O’Doherty’s cottage. Pat picked up his pace, trying to intercept the two men before they got too close.

For the officers, this wildly animated figure rushing toward them smelled of danger. He was out in the chilly evening without a thought of wearing a coat and he was wielding what looked like a weapon in one hand. Baker raised his rifle to prepare to engage, then suddenly realized who the man was. He shouted out, “hello Pat, where you bound?”

Pat rushed right up to the men, then stopped in his tracks, gave them a wild-eyed glare, and said nothing. It was both startling and unsettling for the two revenue men. In Baker’s mind, the silence seemed to last forever. Then, without warning, Pat made a dash between the two men, bumping each out of the way, and went rushing up the hill. Baker looked at his partner, then the two instinctively ran up the hill and grabbed Pat by the arm. 

“Let me go, you murdering thieves!” Pat shook his arms, trying to break free. “I’m late, I’m late!” he insisted, pointing his scissors at the full moon that had just crested the hill. 

Baker tried to calm the man down. “Pat, whatever it is, let us help you. Are you in trouble?” 

“No!” Pat shouted. “I’m off to that mountain to catch the moon and then to take the governor’s measure for a pair of britches.” The two police officers looked at each other with puzzled looks. Baker was sure Pat had gone mad.

“Let us take you home Pat.” The two officers kept hold of the wily tailor and walked him some three miles along the river to his home.

Back in Glenagannon, Pat’s loud voice and crazy animated motions had caught the attention of one man heading to O’Doherty’s. Just as Pat had hoped, the commotion had gotten the attention of the distilling party and they broke down the still and escaped with their singlings and grain, and scuttled down the river, away from the prying eyes of the revenuers. 

For the people of Inishowen, in the northern reaches of Ireland, avoiding the spying eyes of the law had become an art form by the second decade of the 19th century. Since the days when John Beresford used the excise to industrialize the distilling industry, the small distiller had been lobbied out of business. Now, some two decades later, a generation of distillers in Inishowen had grown up knowing nothing but the illicit distilling trade. 

The only thing that had changed over that time was the Acts of Union, which brought Inishowen’s distillers under a more direct control of London. And there was no doubt London was aware of what was going on in Inishowen. And the lack of taxes being brought in from that barony was getting under Parliament’s skin - a Parliament tasked with raising revenue for the war against Napoleon. 

At first, they tried to legitimize the outlaw distillers. A small stills act passed Parliament in 1809, allowing the licensing of stills from 50 to 200 gallons. Still sizes that had been outlawed since the days of John Beresford. But there were two issues keeping small distillers from taking advantage of this. The first was the government’s insistence that the tax be paid when the spirit was produced, rather than when the spirit was sold. The second was the exorbitant tax placed on a gallon of spirits. In just two decades, the tax had skyrocketed from 1 shilling per gallon to 6 shillings by the 1810s. Even if they wanted to follow the law, legal distilling was a money loser for the small time distiller. To make money, they would have to buy larger equipment and take on the bad practices running rampant in Parliament whiskey. 

So, with the lack of revenue becoming a thorn in their side, Parliament pushed the Excise to go after the landlords and the local ecosystem. Parliament used the “townland fine” as their weapon. Townland was an Irish term for a collection of tenant farmers, usually under the control of a single landlord. It’s a community structure developed under the Gaelic rule that survives in an altered form to this day. By fining the townland for a single distiller’s transgression, the goal was to push the landlords and local constables into putting down the illegal distilling going on under their noses. 

But not all landlords wanted the practice stopped. To many, distilling meant money and a way to salvage profit from the grains produced on their lands. It meant their tenants were able to pay rents. So rather than stopping the distilling, they passed the fines on to their renters. To some landlords, the fear of becoming a target of retribution led them to absorb the cost of the fines while turning a blind eye to the practice. Yet there were others who saw their reputations as members of the gentry being tarnished by this illicit activity. And while most gentry saw the Excise as unwise and unprofitable, their reputation usurped any disagreement they had with government policy. So in those cases, the landlord sent family members or hired guns to go in and seize their tenant’s stills. 

Whatever the case, one thing was sure. Illicit distilling was rampant in the Barony of Inishowen, as the fines levied there far surpassed any other region in the Kingdom.

So who were these Inishowen outlaws who referred to themselves as “private distillers?” Well, some were simply farmers trying to preserve their grain, pay their rent, and feed their families. Most of the people who distilled were poor. The crackdown on Townland fines added to their troubles a daily fear of having their kettles and worms destroyed, singlings dumped, their malt scattered, and a real chance of being taken before the magistrate and then sentenced to time in the county jail. To many, barely surviving on the fruits of their labor, this meant financial ruin, losing their home, and endangering the health and well-being of their family. 

There was sympathy in the community for the poor tenant farmer distiller. But a second lot wasn’t seen with the same sympathetic eyes. These were the transient private distillers. Sometimes referred to as smugglers because some did their own distribution. These distillers usually started out working as tenant farmers, but once their activities were detected, the landlords forced them off the land. Rather than give up the practice, they would either take to the hills or become squatters on other people’s lands. Stories of private distillers taking advantage of poor widows by setting up on their property became commonplace - the rebel distiller taking advantage of her weakened position. If someone forced them to leave from there, they would simply relocate to the next available farm. 

For those that took to the hills, they became experts in the art of camouflage. Stills might be placed on the bank of a river surrounded by green sod, rendering them almost invisible. For malting, distillers scooped out a hole in a hillside big enough for a man, but then covering it with heather branches to conceal the entrance. Barrel storage was tricky. Like the malt, they found places to bury the barrels. If a distiller was working a farm, they might place the barrel in a hole right at the property line, so upon discovery, the ownership of the barrel would be in dispute by the two property owners. As for distilling, that usually occurred at night. And while it might seem the flame would give them away, small fires were common in the hills for a variety of purposes. Just because you saw a fire’s glow, it didn’t mean a still was in use. A revenuer crossing onto someone’s property under false pretenses could put him in a precarious position. 

No matter the type of private distiller, both had similar enemies. The first, were the revenuers who could bring crippling fines and the power of the landlord. But revenuers weren’t as detested as one might think. Mainly because it was in the revenuer’s best interest to capture fines but not to put the distillers out of business. You see, these revenuers were being supplied with a percentage of every fine they collected. This led to all sorts of mischief, including collusion with distillers. The second enemy was the poor farmer who lived an honest life and avoided the use of the still. They had a harder time than the farmer distillers did making a living because they didn’t have that lucrative income - yet they were forced to pay the fines as part of the community. This built in anger and distrust between neighbors and with the government. And from this enemy can come one of the most scurrilous enemies.  

“Informers, the most detested name in Ireland,” wrote the Dublin Daily Journal in 1832, “[they] are sometimes found, from either a spirit of malice or revenge, to betray the secret to the revenue officer, and then follows the destruction of what may be called all the peasant’s harvest and hope. But the informer, if known, or ever discovered, is made to suffer all the penalties of outlawry. His property is destroyed in every shape - his house is burned - his neighbors shun his presence as they would a pestilence. In vain he flies to the district: he is watched and hunted - his character, and the curse of the betrayer follow hot upon his footsteps.”

But not all informers were neighbor tenant farmers. Some were other smugglers looking to rid themselves of their competition. But sometimes officers could smell out this trick and get revenge. In one such case, an informer turned on his own smuggling ring, giving revenuers details of exactly when they would be operating the still. The revenuers, thinking the man gave that time to make sure he wouldn’t be present, showed up an hour early and arrested the entire smuggling ring, including the informant. Revenuers questioned why he would turn on his own people. In reality, he was either tired of working with them, had a dispute with someone, or felt the quality of the product below his standards. 

So why was Inishowen such a hotbed of illicit distilling activity? Well, the numbers of rivers, creeks, caves, and hillsides didn’t hurt. But there were also numerous fertile valleys with ideal conditions for growing barley. And while Cork and Wexford to the south could ship their grains all over the British Empire, Inishowen was a bit more isolated, so much of that grain was available to turn into whiskey. And illicit distillers didn’t have all the overhead costs of taxes, so they could offer top dollar to the landlords and farmers for their grain. This drew the attention of farmers in southern Ireland who began shipping some of their grain up to Inishowen to make better profits. This meant Inishowen whiskey used the best grains, earning it a fine reputation, while legal distilleries around the rest of the country took the leftovers or sometimes lost promised orders of grain when northerners outbid them. 

Being on a peninsula didn’t hurt Inishowen too much either, although their principal markets were Belfast and nearby Derry. Moville, called Bonnyfobble by those speaking the Irish tongue, was one of the principal shipping ports for illicit spirits. Sometimes cash was paid, but many times spirits were bartered for more barley or other needs. To get the whiskey to the port, gangs of smugglers would ride together on horseback, galloping through the countryside with kegs strapped to their horses. The sheer number of riders dissuaded any revenuer from interfering with the activity. And it was this type of activity, as well as the attack on Aeneas Coffey in the Carthage Mountains in 1810, that would lead the government into a more forceful solution to the problem. Inishowen was about to become a battleground.

THE FIRST BATTLE OF URRIS

When it came to Inishowen, there were three places that were strongholds of support for private distillers. Number one was Glenagannon, the Townland occupied by Pat, the tailor and his friends. The shelter of the surrounding hills provides a great deal of protection for distillers. Revenuer Baker and his buddies did not have a straightforward path down into the valley. The road entering the community is perched on a steep bank. Travelers must be careful to hug the left side of the path, for fear of tumbling down the hillside where they would probably be killed as they fall into the Glenagannon River, near Mr. Canning’s Mill. The danger only subsides when they reach the woolen mills of Mr. Gamble. But now at the basin, the glen narrows and the winds kick up. If they are lucky to make it this far, then the next challenge is avoiding the watchful eyes of the sentinels placed at strategic locations around hills surrounding the valley. Once spotted, these lookouts waste not a second alerting the community below, through either shouts, the blast of a very odd sounding horn, or firing shots in the air. If at night torches would be lit all along the hillside.

After Glenagannon, the next stronghold for private distillers was Iskaheen. Here, the distillers were so secure in their expectations of security they literally distilled in broad daylight. To be doubly sure they wouldn’t experience any night raids, they sent men to spy on the revenuer’s barracks at Quigley’s Point. These crafty distillers had another secret weapon at their disposal, a parish priest, in the nearby coastal town of Muff, who rang the church bell at any sign of revenuers heading for the hills. 

The third stronghold was the only one with a water approach. Lying between Lough Swilly, which turns quickly into the North Atlantic, and the Urris Mountains, is a fertile valley featuring the townlands of Lennan and Urrismanagh. It’s a place with a tough nosed past. It was here at Dunaff Head where Wolfe Tone was captured in 1798. Years before that, it was known for a notorious Scotsman named Colonel Dan McNeill. McNeill, a veteran of the Battle of the Boyne, became a detested landlord, gaining a reputation as an abductor of women. On one of his failed attempts to capture a young woman, he was hunted down and killed by area vigilantes who had seen enough. While each of the distilling strongholds had a reputation, Urris seemed to be the most willing to fight for what they believed in, rather than just finding hideouts in the hills. 

While sheltered by the mountains and sea of the three areas best known for distilling, the Urris valley might have been the most accessible. After all, there was a great valley to the east that avoided mountain terrain all together and a long shoreline along the Lough, although it was an area prone to shipwrecks. For those wanting a more surprise entrance, this required a strenuous hike over the Urris Mountains through Mamore Pass. To the revenuer, the element of surprise was everything - without it, stills could be easily hidden and the mash and barrels removed to a secure location.

When revenuers started moving on the strongholds of illicit distilling, Urris seemed like the easier of the three to go after, with fewer hiding places for its citizens. The first excise officers to make an attempt on the region were Officers McDowall and Armstrong in 1811. At first, the element of surprise worked. They went to several locations and confiscated several stills, while dumping the barrels and whiskey and singlings onto the ground. But after a couple of stops, word got around the community and within minutes a mob of armed citizens approached the revenuers and told them, if they didn’t give up their seized stills, they were dealt with most harshly. Deeply outnumbered, McDowall and Armstrong gave up the stills and made their retreat.

A year later, they made a second attempt, with Officers Rily and Underwood again finding some initial success, but then finding themselves at the point of several guns and clubs. Like the first group, they were forced to give up their seizures to insure a safe retreat.

For Inspector General Beauchamp Hill, this rebellious region was causing him headaches with his superiors in London. He was already in a precarious position. Back in 1806, he had been called by members of the House Of Commons to answer for bribes he had taken as an officer of the excise. It seems, in the execution of his duties, he was siphoning 20 guineas a month per distillers payments into his own pockets. His excuse was that his salary was not enough to support him. Then, inexplicably, he was promoted to the rank of Inspector-General of the Excise. This was odd for two reasons - first and most obvious, why would the government put a known thief in charge of people he was tasked with keeping honest? And second, how did he secure the promotion, when the law stated anyone taking a bribe could not advance to a higher office? And now he had a Townland refusing to pay their fines, distilling in open defiance, and challenging the authority of the government. He needed to do something and do something quick.

He knew revenuers wouldn’t be enough. So he pulled some strings and got access to 140 infantrymen and 40 calvary.  He made his plans to climb the mountains, then filter his troops through the Gap at Mamore. The timing would be early autumn, 1812. While his numbers should have been enough, he made a strategic blunder. Senturians were all around and immediately the countryside was alerted to the soldier’s presence. Men came from seemingly every direction. The troops, all locked up in a channel heading over the mountains had no way to take advantage of their numbers and worse yet, the locals were hurling rocks down on them. With all of those men, amazingly, not a single still was seized. Instead, Hill’s men had to retreat once again. 

The people of the Urris valley had made their point. In no way were they willing to capitulate. After the embarrassing affair, General Hill convinced himself, the only way they could take control of that area was to have enough army to coat the hills with soldiers.

When word reached across the peninsula about the impenetrable valley of Urris, private distillers came from all over, seeking protection from the revenuers. But the people of Urris weren’t willing to accept these carpetbaggers without a few conditions. They needed to bring arms and ammunition; they needed to pay a fee, and they needed to take an oath of association to the district. It was the birth of what would become known to some as the Republic of Urris or to others as the Poteen Republic. 

In our next episode, we’ll see the return of Aeneas Coffey to Inishowen and learn of the fate of the renegade region. But right now, it’s time to rejoin our friend Alfred Barnard and his mates as they continue their 1882 journey to the distilleries of Ireland.

Baoilleach

After a day off from whiskey, I was back on the road again - early to rise. My initial plan was to do some laundry during the morning before heading to Baoilleach Distillery in Donegal. There are coin operated washers and dryers scattered throughout the country, available at petrol stations in their parking lots. I know that seems a little odd, it did to me, but I was strongly considering it.

When I travel, I like to travel light - usually with just a carry on. When I went on my 16-Day James Bond tour across Europe, all I carried was a small bag I could tuck away under the seat in front of me on the plane. It would have my laptop and everything. 

But the airlines had given me a bag allowance, so I decided to go with the bigger bag and bring 12 days worth of clothing with me. That way I would only have to wash once - and my target was either to do it in Galway or in Killarney. 

So I finished up my notes in the morning, enjoyed my full Irish at the B&B and made my way up the road across the border from Northern Ireland back into the Republic. I can’t lie, I had a fantastic time and really didn’t want to leave.

My last day there was spent in Derry, where I decided to relax and take a guided walking tour. After walking a bit under my own guidance, I went to meet the tour guide at the beautiful x. I was surprised to find I was the only one on the tour. And what a tour it turned out to be. My guide was an gentleman in his early to mid-60s. He told me of the sizing of the city by King James I and showed me some of the places of interest along the way. Then, as we walked down a sidestreet he stopped and started telling me the story of Bloody Sunday, the day back in 1972 when a peaceful student protest turned into a street battle with British x killing for students. My guide pointed down the street and said, when he turned around, he saw the first student fall. I suddenly did a calculation in my head. Are you kidding me? The man who was touring me around was there on that day and saw the whole thing go down. When we reached the area where the memorial and “Free Derry” sign is located, he pointed to the young man in the gas mask whose face was made into street art along the avenue. He knew him too. It was a surreal moment and a tour I would never forget. He gave me insights no other tour guide could ever give. 

I spent the rest of the day enjoying the city, walking the hills, and taking in every bit of the walled city. I stopped for some roast beef and potatoes and a Guinness, which became standard fare on this journey.

By the time I got back to the B&B, I was konked out and did little but relax, and enjoy an early sleep. 

As I left Northern Ireland, there was again little indication that I was crossing a country border, other than the road conditions changed and the speed limit signs had much higher numbers on them. I was definitely happy to be back in kilometers. Not only because they pass by faster, making you really feel like you’re accomplishing something, but also because I could once again use my speedometer and not have to guess my MPH. 

I was in need of a fill up and found a “Go” station within minutes. I was told these Go stations were unattended, so I figured I could quickly fill up. The price $1.92 which was higher than when I had left Ireland. I wondered if maybe it was just a border station that was charging a bit more because they were near the higher priced UK petrol stations. That was confirmed for me as I got deeper into Donegal. 

I was disarmed right away, when an attendant came up and asked me how much I wanted. What? Is this New Jersey? They pump your gas for you?

That is something I remember from my youth, when even in Detroit, it was customary for your gas to be pumped by an attendant. I tried to remember the protocol and how much I actually wanted. I hadn’t intended on filling up. I asked for 40 Euro worth. After the fuel was loaded, I was befuddled. What do I do now? I handed him my credit card. He looked surprised. Join the club buddy! Rather than having a hand held machine, he walked it inside. In the end, I ended up having to walk in to complete the sale anyway. Bizarre. Oh well - on to my next destination. The distillery I was having a hard time figuring out how to pronounce. It looked like BAY-oi-LEECH, but I had no idea.

I’m not sure how I found this distillery during my research. The website was simple and showed a little white cottage. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. But Michael, the proprietor was quick to answer his emails and was very open to my visit. However, two days earlier, I thought maybe our visit would be canceled. He let me know that a week earlier he had come down with COVID and while the time had passed, he was still waiting on a negative test. We agreed that when I returned home we could talk about his distillery over Zoom. But as I drove north, I thought - well, I have a long time before my 2 PM appointment at Crolly Distillery, maybe I should stop by and take a photo of the distillery, so I would have it for the book.

Michael had given me the postal address for the location. There is no other way I would have found it - it isn’t on Google Maps. I went down this skinny one lane road, delt with a couple of blind curves and hills and met a cow who was walking along the side of the road. When I got to the distillery, I decided to quietly walk down and snap a few pictures. However, it felt a little awkward. There is a house right there. I saw the house door open and out came Michael. We talked to each other from a distance and he said he could at least talk me through it while I was there. He was masked up and so I said, okay, let me go get my mask too.

We kept our distance throughout the conversation. He opened the door to the distillery and let me take a look at the pot stills. I was surprised to see what looked like a disassembled hybrid still as part of his setup. Yeah, he said, it is a 4-plate hybrid still and that because the top of it had been moved to the side, he couldn’t technically call what he was making single pot still or single malt. I thought, what an odd rule - especially after I’d seen Slane and Great Northern with their column stills split into three pieces. 

He poured me a couple of samples to take with me. I was quite impressed with the quality of the poitín he made. At 61% ABV, the peated one was a blend of peated and unpeated malted barley, as well as unmalted barley, oats, and rye. It was clean, filled with flavor and a really nice smoke, and easy to drink. 

He said he was doing the equivalent of distilling 2 ½ times, rather than double or triple distilling - and all thanks to the 4-plate hybrid still. I asked him where he learned to distill. He said while he was living in New Zealand. Then when he returned, he started with a small pot still and worked his way up. His inspiration came from looking at the American craft market and seeing how distillers didn’t really have to start by making a huge investment in Forsyth pot stills. He built and built until he got to where he is now. He was just about to start his first Irish whiskey run and said he’d likely have it going by the weekend.

I asked him if he was from Donegal, he said yes - and that it helps, because if you live in Donegal and you’re from more than 5 miles away, you’re considered “a blow in.” I chuckled. When I started my business in a small community in the mountains of North Carolina, I too had to pass the test of having been a long time local. 

Michael asked if I wanted to see the smoke house. We walked over and he opened the door to reveal the spot where he malts own grains. He picked up two pieces of peat and showed me the difference between the two types of peat he used. His goal was to use 100% Donegal grains and peat, including from his own farm.

I looked out over his land - it was gorgeous. You could see right to Mulroy Bay and the lush green hills behind it. I found myself quite pleased that it had worked out to be a sunny, if cool day.

We talked a bit about my travels and then walked over to the warehouse, where he said, at most he might be able to store 100 casks. At his current place that would take a couple of years to achieve. He wasn’t striving to be a big distillery. He just wants to make great quality whiskeys and do things his own way. 

It’s distillers like Brendan Carty and Michael O’Boyle that make these travels so worth the time. Crafts people trying their best to stretch their own abilities and the scope of Irish whiskey.

We said our goodbyes and I was ready to head down the road to my next destination - The Crolly Distillery.

I’m Drew Hannush and this is Whiskey Lore

Whiskey Lore is a production of Travel Fuels Life LLC

Production, stories, and research by Drew Hannush

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