Highland Park 12 is the weather-beaten bard of Orkney — equal parts myth, salt, and honey. In the glass, it’s amber with a glint of copper, like firelight catching the edge of an ancient blade. The nose is where the story begins: heather smoke gently rising, as if from a peat hearth in a stone longhouse; behind it, a soft rustle of wildflowers, honeycomb, and orange peel. There’s a maritime undertone here too — sea mist, dried kelp, and the tang of brine carried on the wind.

The opening chapter on the palate is confident and structured. Sweet malt rolls in first, then a flicker of peat — not Islay's thunderclap, but something more poetic, more suggestive. Think of smoke curling up from a driftwood fire, rather than a burning field. Then come the layers: toffee apple, dried fruit, a bit of clove. The texture is waxy and warming, like an old wool sweater pulled over your head on a cold morning.

It finishes with a restrained crescendo. A wisp of smoke remains, lingering with dried orange peel and a resinous oak bitterness that pulls everything together. It leaves you standing alone on the cliffside, wind tugging at your coat, a story still echoing in your chest. Not the loudest dram in the hall, but one with soul and lineage.