The Unsung Hero of Heavy Whisky: Or, How the Worm Turned

Published November 12, 2025 by John Fegan

Picture it: a massive vat of freezing water, the sort of thing you’d only step into if you’d lost a bet, with a copper coil inside pretending to be a snake that’s recently eaten a distillery apprentice. The hot vapor from the still creeps in, meets the copper, has a brief existential crisis about being a gas, and comes out the other end as liquid again, slightly embarrassed by the whole experience. It’s simple, ancient, and just the right amount of insane.

Modern condensers, of course, do it differently. They are clean, sensible, and built by people who believe pipes should stay where they’re put. The worm tub is for those who believe that if something leaks, creaks, and occasionally hisses at you, it probably has a soul and considers the concept progress as a personal insult.

Why the World Moved On (and Why a Few Didn’t)

Once upon a time, worm tubs were everywhere. They were as common as bad weather in Scotland and about as cheerful to deal with. The things leaked like political promises, and the leaks were always in the worst possible place. Repairs required small acts of heroism and large amounts of money and even cleaning them meant draining thousands of litres of water, crawling inside, and trying not to think about how the whole contraption smelled faintly of despair and copper polish. It was a nightmare. A traditional one, but still a nightmare.

By the 1960s, humanity decided it had suffered enough and invented the shell and tube condenser. Smaller. Smarter. Less inclined to bite. Yet a few distillers looked at this new order and said, “Nah, keep your progress,” and kept their worms. Perhaps they were traditionalists. Perhaps they were romantics. Or perhaps they simply liked their whisky with a hint of danger and the faint sound of dripping water in the background. Or perhaps they were right.

The Flavor of Trouble

The thing about a worm tub is that it isn’t just mechanical. It teaches it manners. Rough ones. Because the vapour rushes through, barely brushing the copper, it comes out the other side heavier, thicker, and with the kind of personality that makes lighter spirits cross the street to avoid it. This is whisky that remembers where it came from and isn’t afraid to remind you of it. Whisky with elbows, and possibly a criminal record. The whisky comes out richer and heavier, and with a sort of muscular depth that lighter condensers can’t reproduce. It’s whisky with elbows.

That’s why Speyburn, Mortlach, and Talisker stick with their worms. They want whisky that tastes like it’s been somewhere and survived. Yamazaki and Kanosuke in Japan do the same. One does it because it’s tradition no one has yet built a machine that can replicate the subtle artistry of a long copper tube pretending to be a snake, the other because they’ve been making spirits that way for generations and can’t see the point in fixing something that’s not broken.

The Guardians of the Tub

At Old Pulteney in Wick, the worm tub has outlived managers, fashions, and at least one global shortage of common sense. The distillery still uses the same design it did a century ago, mostly because no one has yet been brave enough to tell it to stop. The distillery manager speaks of it with the sort of reverence usually reserved for beloved old ships and mildly deranged relatives. It leaks, it creaks, and it works perfectly precisely because it shouldn’t.

Down in the Lowlands, Rosebank has risen from the dead and brought its worms with it. The tubs are now made of steel and wrapped in larch wood, a kind of polite compromise between progress and sentimentality. It is modern on the inside, nostalgic on the outside, and quierly optimistic that no one will notice the difference after two drams.

At Speyburn, old and new work side by side. One still whispers the old copper song, the other hums a modern tune. Together they make a spirit that carries both weight and brightness, the harmony of tradition and invention. It is, in its own way, perfectly balanced between the future and the stubborn refusal to arrive there.

A Roll Call of the Faithful

The Ones Still Talking to Their Worms

Scotland

• Abhainn Dearg
• Benrinnes
• Craigellachie
• Dalwhinnie
• Glen Elgin
• Oban
  A few other proud eccentrics who probably argue with their stills when no one is looking

Ireland

• Killowen
• Blackwater
  Keeping the old ways alive and occasionally damp

America

• George Washington’s Distillery at Mount Vernon
• Neeley Family Distillery
  Proving that revolution doesn’t mean you can’t still use copper tubing

Japan

• Kanosuke
• Yamazaki
  Where the worms hum in perfect harmony with the modern world and everyone pretends that makes complete sense

The Spirit of the Thing

The worm tub is not just equipment. It’s a philosophy disguised as plumbing. It insists that not everything has to be easy or shiny or sensible. Some things matter precisely because they are difficult and occasionally explode. Every drop that comes out carries a little defiance, a whisper of steam, and the quiet satisfaction of something that refuses to die just because progress told it to.