Highland Park: Whisky with a Rebel Pulpit, a Heathered Soul, and Two Centuries of Orcadian Mischief.

Highland Park has never been the obedient child of Scotch. Founded in 1798 by Magnus “Mansie” Eunson - a church beadle by day and whisky smuggler by night - the distillery was quite literally born out of mischief. Mansie hid his contraband under the pulpit, and in doing so, established a tradition: whisky here was never just a drink, it was an act of defiance.

More than two centuries later, Highland Park hasn’t lost that streak. Where many distilleries tidy up their histories into tartan-clad legends, Highland Park wears its origin story like a grin: we’ve been doing things our own way since day one, and frankly, we rather enjoy it.

Three icons, one frame. A bridge. A sail. And a dram that holds its own.

The setting does half the storytelling. Orkney isn’t mainland Scotland, nor does it want to be. These islands sit on the same latitude as southern Greenland, and life here is shaped less by Highland romanticism than by survival, stubbornness, and a creative streak born from isolation. The wind is so fierce that trees simply give up, leaving heather to dominate the landscape. That heather finds its way into the peat at Hobbister Moor, and it’s this detail - seemingly small, yet utterly decisive - that makes Highland Park unlike any other. Instead of Islay’s seaweed-and-iodine smoke, Highland Park smoke is perfumed, floral, a kind of heathery incense that lingers like memory. It’s not a punch in the face - it’s a sly suggestion, and once you taste it, you’ll never mistake it for anything else.

Take the 12. Often dubbed the “gateway dram,” but let’s be clear: this is less a gateway, more a thesis statement. Zesty Seville orange, honey, spiced fruitcake - all wrapped in that signature heathered smoke. It’s convivial, welcoming, but also quietly subversive: a whisky that’s approachable without ever being bland. Think of it as the dram equivalent of an Orcadian pub - the kind where you’ll get warmth, wit, and maybe a challenge to stay upright in the wind on the way home.

Move to the 15, and things get intriguing. Pineapple, vanilla, and bright citrus jostle with smoke and spice, bottled at a lively 44%. It’s like a conversation with a local: sharp, surprising, and layered with stories. Orcadians have always juggled side-hustles - fishing, farming, crafting, music - and the 15 reflects that same multifaceted character. It doesn’t settle into one lane; it thrives in contrast.

The 18, though, is where Highland Park flexes its authority. Dark chocolate, baked cherries, salted honeycomb - a dram of depth and dignity that has been repeatedly crowned “Best Spirit in the World.” But what’s remarkable is its refusal to strut. The 18 doesn’t shout, it commands. It’s as though the whisky knows it has gravitas, and simply lets you catch up. This is refinement with backbone, not silk without substance.

Then comes the 25, and here patience pays off in whispers rather than roars. Honeyed peaches, pistachio biscotti, coriander seed, oregano - flavours that sound like they belong in a lavish Mediterranean pantry, yet somehow make perfect sense when filtered through Orkney smoke. It’s the kind of whisky that doesn’t just tell you a story - it hands you a library card and dares you to spend the afternoon. A quarter-century of waiting distilled into a dram that is rich, fragrant, and insistently singular.

What keeps Highland Park apart isn’t just flavour; it’s philosophy. No shortcuts, no trend-chasing. Every drop is matured in sherry-seasoned oak casks (costlier, riskier, and infinitely more rewarding than the shortcuts some distilleries take). The heathered peat is theirs and theirs alone - no other distillery in the world uses it. And perhaps most importantly, Highland Park has never forgotten that whisky is not just about process, but about place. Orkney isn’t a backdrop - it’s the protagonist.

In a Scotch landscape often crowded with brands elbowing each other for the loudest voice, Highland Park remains the quiet rebel. It doesn’t need to bluster; it has heather, history, and a contraband spirit in its blood. Every bottle is a reminder that whisky, when done right, is not just liquid in a glass, but geography, weather, and human mischief captured in amber.

So yes, Highland Park stands far from the mainland. But that’s exactly why it stands apart.

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Words by AW,

Photos courtesy of AW and Highland Park.