The Laphroaig distillery is on the southern shore of Islay, one of the isles of Argyll, in the Inner Hebrides. The buildings are all white and rise among dark-green Scotch pines by the water's edge. A clear burn flows to the distillery through acres of peats, over rocks, more peats, more rocks, more peats, into the buildings, and out in barrels and bottles of the whisky, Laphroaig. The distiller's home is part of the compound and is full of light, for its seaward walls are largely glass. His living room is upstairs and is cantilevered toward a spectacular and often misty view over the pines and the sea. Multiple white couches are covered with pillows in blazing color. The bar is quilted. There is a white grand piano. Two golden retrievers lie on the floor. The distiller, whose name is Wishart Campbell, stands beside a Sony solid-state stereo tape recorder, his hand on the bass control. He wears a sports jacket, and he is somewhat heavyset but nonetheless athletic in carriage, a glib man, quick, fluid, idiomatic. He refers to his wife as "Mrs. C." His whisky is so smoky, so heavy, so redolently peaty that a consumer feels he is somehow drinking a slab of bacon. There is some Laphroaig--a few drops per fifth--in Ballantine's, Teacher's, Dewar's, White Horse, Johnnie Walker, Black and White, Haig & Haig, thirty-odd Scotches in all. "If the blenders want a Hebridean malt, they come here and get it," Campbell explains. "In a proper blend, Laphroaig is the foundation, the real gutsy base." George Gershwin's "Love Walked In" is pouring out of the Sony. Campbell turns the bass control knob as far as it will go, and the Gershwin deepens into broad profundities of sound. Campbell says, "There you have it. That is Laphroaig."