The First Rye Whisky of Islay

Published November 3, 2025 by John Fegan

On the far-flung Scottish island of Islay—famous for whisky, rain, sheep, more rain, and whisky made to taste like someone set fire to a bog for tax purposes—there stands a distillery called Bruichladdich. The name is pronounced broo-ick-ladd-ick, unless you’re a visitor, in which case the locals will wait patiently while you attempt a Gaelic throat-exercise that ends in embarrassment and possibly medical attention.

Locals pronounce it in a way that instantly identifies outsiders, usually by how much they cough in the attempt.

Bruichladdich is known for experimental releases.
Which is a polite way of saying: “they do things that would make traditional distillers clutch their pearls, if pearls hadn’t been sold already to pay for more casks.” Their “experimental releases” are so named because “things done to whisky that should probably require a safety briefing” doesn’t fit neatly on the bottle. Things like X4 their four times distilled whisky or Octomore the worlds most heavily peated whisky, presumably because someone once asked “what if drinking felt like licking a burning telephone pole?”

The Thought That Started It All

One day, Master Distiller Adam Hannett had a Thought.
Not just any thought, but the sort of Thought that changes history, upsets agricultural norms, and makes accountants go pale.

“What if,” he said, “we made whisky… out of rye?”

In Scotch whisky tradition, rye was not a noble grain. Rye was for livestock, bread, and complaints.
Barley had legends, songs, heroic ballads.
Rye had sandwiches.

But history is never made by those who ask sensible questions.

The Problem of Bored Soil

Bruichladdich had grown enough barley to bore even the soil, which is a remarkable achievement because soil has all the excitement levels of a slightly damp napkin. So they tried crop rotation. Along came rye. A tall, quietly smug plant that behaved as if it were only moments away from becoming something far more important than toast.

And something miraculous happened:

• The soil improved
• The barley improved
• The farmers were happy
• The rye was unbearably self-satisfied

The New Problem

Now there was rye everywhere, which raised a question the universe finds endlessly amusing. What do you do with all of it

“Ship it off the island?” someone suggested.

The accountants tried calculating the cost and had to go lie down. Transporting rye from Islay was so expensive that it made gold look cheap and diamonds seem like a reasonable house building material. Which on Islay is probably true.

So the distillers looked at the rye.
The rye regarded them, radiating expectation.

“Well? You going to ferment me or what?”

The Birth of The Laddie Rye

Thus was born the first rye whisky of Islay, distilled from 55 percent rye, 45 percent barley, and 100 percent sheer bloody-mindedness. It was the sort of recipe that began with a plan, continued with an argument, and ended with someone saying fine, but if it gets stuck in the mashtun you are cleaning it up.

Aged seven years in ex bourbon and toasted virgin oak casks, because whisky casks are like clothing: you can reuse them, but it sounds much more impressive if you say things like “virgin oak” in a tone suggesting the cask was hand carved from a sacred tree by monks with immaculate beards.

Bottled at 50 percent ABV, offering notes of:

• black pepper
• ginger, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg
• honey and vanilla
• floral fruitiness
• and, according to Adam, “a bit of black licorice, but in a good way” - philosophical debate continues on whether such a thing exists

Only a limited supply exists, and all of it is being sold exclusively in the United States. This seems dreadfully unfair to Scotland, although some would argue it may be the universe balancing the books for the invention of bagpipes.

A Rye Revival in Scotland

Bruichladdich may be the first distillery to make a Bruichladdich might have been first to drag rye into the Islay whisky world, but the rest of Scotland clearly decided they were not going to let one island get all the credit. Rye, once the grain equivalent of the spare chair nobody wanted to sit on, is suddenly getting invited to the good parties.

InchDairnie Distillery (Fife)

InchDairnie in Glenrothes built a distillery with the sort of forethought normally reserved for military projects. Their rye project, RyeLaw, uses malted rye and malted barley (around 53 percent rye and 47 percent barley) and was distilled in 2017. Their goal: a Scottish rye that meets the definition of rye whisky in America while still reflecting Scottish character.

Arbikie Distillery (Highland)

Arbikie operates on a Highland farm where the rye for their whisky is grown, harvested, and eventually persuaded into a bottle without ever leaving the property. They declared their first release to be Scotland’s first rye in a hundred years, a statement nobody has successfully disproved, possibly because everyone is too busy drinking it. New editions have followed every year, implying the rye has enjoyed its comeback tour.

Teaninich Distillery (Highland)

Teaninich entered the conversation in 2025 with a release named Daring Rye, which is the kind of title that suggests either confidence or a plea for forgiveness. It was their first single grain Scotch whisky made with rye, produced using a mash filter system, which is apparently what you use when rye looks at traditional equipment and laughs.

So while Bruichladdich can claim “first rye on Islay,” the larger rye story in Scotland is being written by several curious distillers.

What Comes Next?

Adam is now having fun, which is the most dangerous thing that can happen in the whisky industry. More charring, more toast, more wood types, more “what if?" questions.

Because once a distillery realizes it can break rules and get applause instead of excommunication, things escalate.

Somewhere, the ancient spirits of traditional Scotch whisky are muttering:

“First they peat everything, then they un peat some of it, and now they are making rye? What next, Scotch whisky made from rice?”

And Adam, at Bruichladdich, nosing his glencairn, replies:

“You know, maybe…”