One man who was happy though was Duncan Forbes of Culloden, a major landowner and political heavyweight around the Inverness area of the Scottish Highlands. One of his large estates was Ferintosh on the fertile, but somewhat spooky Black Isle: a land rich in barley and clear, fast-flowing streams. In short, ideal whisky making country. Records show that there had been distilling in the region going back at least into the late sixteenth century, and by the 1680s the name Ferintosh was synonymous with good quality juice. In turn this earned Forbes and his tenants a decent, healthy income, so when the political situation in 1688 went into meltdown they became political and economic targets. Despite being forced into exile James retained a large support base in Scotland, and the vote by the Scottish Parliament to accept William as king in 1689 was a very close call. His followers took their name from the Latin for James, Jacobus and were known as the ‘Jacobites’ and their leader in the Scottish Court was the soldier-policeman John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee. Loved and hated in equal measure, Dundee had once been an officer in William’s Dutch army, but like many Scots he remained loyal to the Stuart cause. He left a divided Edinburgh and headed north where he raised a substantial force made up principally from the ranks of the Highland clans, to try and force a Stuart restoration. He scored a spectacular victory over William’s Redcoats at the Battle of Killiecrankie in July, but at the very moment of victory, Dundee was shot and killed. The rebellion was dealt a hammer-blow and when they tried to cross the River Tay at Dunkeld a couple of weeks later they were beaten, and it was all over. Repercussions followed, and within a couple of years the Highlanders had been forced to swear their allegiance to the new order. At the height of the rising, Jacobites mainly under the control of Thomas Buchan, employed a scorched-earth policy when it came to William's supporters and in their crosshairs was Duncan Forbes and they hit Ferintosh hard, laying waste the estate: destroying fields, sluice-works, houses and the distilleries. The damage was estimated at £4,500 Sterling, which today would be £1.5 million, and the distilleries knocked out of commission. So, not only would Forbes have to rebuild, but his main income stream was up in a puff of smoke. Not a man to sit on his hands or gnash his teeth over such injustices, he petitioned the new Scottish Parliament in 1690 claiming compensation for losses incurred while pursuing the interests of the king, and he would prove convincing. However, he was a shrewd businessman and with one eye on the future he didn’t ask for a one-off reimbursement; no, the sly old dog asked for an exemption from any taxes or duty payable on whisky made on the estate for himself and his successors in perpetuity, and an agreement there would be no capped limit to the volume produced. Surprisingly, the government agreed and all for an annual payment of 400 Merks (around £5. 10 shillings). It became known as the ‘Ferintosh Privilege’. Throughout the eighteenth-century commercial whisky making took hold across Lowland Scotland, where families such as the influential Steins and Haigs built massive distilleries like Kennetpans near Alloa and the tax receipts grew substantially as a result. In Highlands, small-scale domestic whisky making for personal consumption was still perfectly legal without any tax obligations, but there were a number of tax-paying, commercial operations working across the hills in tandem as well. The one exception of course was Ferintosh. They had increased the number of distilleries on the estate to 29, and by the 1770s they were pumping out 100,000 tax-free gallons annually and supplying it to the growing markets of Central Scotland, much to the annoyance of the big Lowland companies who felt they were disadvantaged due to their huge tax burden. Despite the volume, the Ferintosh distilleries continued to make good quality whisky, and the reputation only enhanced its desirability. As output grew the estate needed ever more barley, which only helped to increase yields and thus income for the local farmers and other rural industries. For a hundred years it was the gift that kept on giving, but all good things must come to an end. The anomaly of the Ferintosh Privilege continued until the 1780s, when Prime Minister William Pitt attempted to wrap his head around the whisky industry in Scotland. First, in 1784 when he passed the Wash Act, and then in 1786 the Scottish Distilling Act, the lasting-legacy of which was to create an official boundary between the Lowlands and the Highlands. This boundary did not follow the geological division but was surveyed and drawn as an abstract line on the map, roughly stretching from Greenock in the west to Dundee in the east via Stirling. There would be tougher penalties for illegally made whisky (tax-free domestic production was abolished in 1781, driving much of the industry in the north underground into the illicit trade), still sizes capped and a sliding scale tax system based on the capacity volume of the actual still rather than what it produced. It was a mess, and nothing exemplified it better than this north-south line. North of the divide distillers would pay a lower rate of tax than those to the south. The idea was to make it more attractive for Highlanders to abandon illegal operations and become legitimate, and of course pay their taxes. It was a pipedream, and had virtually no effect whatsoever, as excise collection simply could not be enforced. Lowlanders were hit with the law of unintended consequences. This tax discrepancy, coupled with a later act in 1788 which damaged exports to England due to tax equalization with London distillers, pushed them first into making cheaper, inferior whisky and ultimately drove many to bankruptcy as they simply couldn't compete. From a hundred or so Lowland distilleries, barely any survived, and when it came back to life it fell into the hands of a virtual monopoly. However, the new law did bring to an end the Ferintosh Privilege, which was specifically included in the Wash Act and came into force in 1785. Forbes of Culloden appealed to the Court of Session and the government was required to ‘purchase’ the concession for £21,580 (around £3 million today). The effects of this locally were to be felt and be swift. With the cash-cow gone, and a lack of enthusiasm from the family for ‘going legal’ the first of the distilleries actually ceased operations that year. The last remnant of the gold rush days, Braelangwell distillery finally shut up shop in 1843 just as the industry sat on the cusp of massive change, leaving the days of the smugglers, clandestine stills and farmyards far behind and entering the hard-edged corporate arena of the Whisky Barons and global domination. Today but a tale, the Ferintosh Privilege seems a relic from a bygone age, but it has a wonderful part to play in a near-forgotten chapter in the colourful story of Scotch.

For the last 50 years or so the Northern Corries of the Cairngorm Mountains have been a winter playground for skiers and snowboarders alike, with months of deep snow covering the high peaks. In summer however, with only a few secluded snow patches left, these craggy slopes become the preserve of the intrepid few who want to climb deep into the broad plateau. And this vastness is really what defines the Cairngorms, or Monadh Ruadh: an empty, barren, snow-speckled, rocky morass wedged between the fertile, whisky rich Strathspey to the north, and the rolling, forested hills of Royal Deeside to the south. At well over 3700ft for the most part, these mountains are as close as we can get in the British Isles to a true wilderness and an arctic climate. Topping out at 4296ft, the highest peak is the remote Ben Macdui (Beinn Mac Duibh) – a great dome of pink granite rising high above the cleft of the Lairg Ghru Pass. From the top on a clear day ridge after ridge, peak after peak stretches out before it, blue in the haze; it’s a sublime scene and by yourself it affords a degree of solitude hard to find anywhere else. It also hides a dark secret. We have all at one time or another had the uneasy feeling of not being alone, a sense that can often be heightened when hiking by yourself, but here in the heart of the Cairngorms, on lonely Ben Macdui this feeling runs much deeper: inducing a dread and intense fear. For centuries the local people have believed that the mountain is haunted by a giant ghost known as ‘Am Fear Liath Mòr’ – the Great Grey Man. The story would however, become mainstream in the early years of the 20th century, with a strange after-dinner talk. Norman Collie, a university professor and an experienced hillwalker, was giving a speech at the AGM dinner of the Cairngorm Club, and it sparked to life the legend of the haunted mountain: “I was returning from the summit”, began Collie, “when I began to think I heard something other than my own footsteps on the rocks. For every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another, as if something was walking after me, but taking steps three or four times the length of my own. I listened in the mist, but could see nothing. As I walked on, and the eerie crunching came closer I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for mile after mile. Whatever you make of it, I don’t know but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdui, and I will not go back there again by myself I know.” Another famous mountaineer, Dr Kellas (who would die on an Everest expedition in 1921), came across Collie’s story, and it reminded him of a strange incident on the mountain, and his account was published in the local newspaper: “Kellas and his brother had been chipping for crystals in the late afternoon below the summit of Ben Macdui, when they both saw a giant, grey figure come towards them out of the mist. The figure then momentarily disappeared from view as it entered a dip. The two men made a run for it, allegedly pursued into Coire Etchachan.” It would be these two stories that would set the trend for other reported incidents in the Cairngorms. All would tell of either lumbering footsteps crunching towards them, or of huge grey figures looming out of the swirling mists. Most can be explained as paranoia and the effects of loneliness on these high hills – especially when the mist descends as it often does, and even more so if already primed with the tales. Not all can be flights of fancy though, and some require deeper investigation. Wendy Wood, one of the pioneers of the Scottish National Party and about as rounded and rational person you could ever meet, was gripped by a blind panic when walking through the Lairg Ghru Pass. After hearing a strange noise, and thinking it might have been a fallen climber she went to see if she if she could help. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the feeling that she was being followed by someone, or something, with an enormous stride. Spooked, she took off down the hill, not stopping until she reached the Whitewell Farm, some five miles off. Wendy Wood knew nothing of the legend. Others did know of it and dismissed it out of hand. Peter Densham, a local forester and climbing enthusiast, decided one day in 1945 to climb Ben Macdui and arrived at the summit cairn around noon. It was a clear day and the panorama from Britain’s second highest mountain that day was breathtaking. However, the mist soon descended, and he decided to finish off his lunch and make his way back. Knowing the hill well, he was in no way disturbed by the mist and poor visibility. Setting off he soon heard the familiar ‘crunch, crunch’ on the plateau behind him. Intrigued rather than afraid he went to investigate, thinking of the Grey Man and the paranoia of others. As he got closer he too was suddenly accosted by a sense of foreboding and his desire to flee the mountain became intense. Without even thinking, instinct took over and he was soon running hell for leather to the valley below, barely missing the steep cliffs of Lurchers’ Crag. Peter Densham was left shaken, and utterly convinced that something unnatural stalked the mountains. The stories of this kind are legion, most only hear the noises, but some actually see strange figures. Seaton Gordon: “It was a cold and stormy day with frequent snow showers when I crossed the high plateau to Coire an t-sneachda, when I saw a man of greyish complexion following me. He was in his shirt-sleeves and had no coat about him, although the day was bitterly cold. When I reached the edge of the corrie the mysterious figure disappeared.” He thought it bizarre, but not frightening. Seaton Gordon was one of the great Cairngorm experts, and not given over to fairy tales and fabrication. There have been many theories as to what people are seeing or hearing as they wander these remote hills. Often the events take place when the mist is low, leading some experts to claim that the sightings at least are the phenomenon known as a Brocken Spectre (a shadow silhouetted on the mist). But these are rare and wouldn’t explain how two men sitting saw a figure walking towards them. It also can’t explain the noises. That might be the action of freeze-thaw on the rocks as the temperature drops in the mist, but it is a strange thing. The Great Grey Man has a Gaelic name, in a part of the world where Gaelic hasn’t been spoken for over 150 years – suggesting a long-standing tradition. Indeed, locals have, and still do, take the apparition for granted. Undoubtedly, most sightings and incidents are tricks of the light, natural phenomena and the work of overactive imaginations; and similar accounts of haunted mountains were commonplace across the Highlands in days gone by. But Ben Macdui is a large, isolated and lonely mountain and maybe deep in its granite kingdom the otherworld still walks with earthly feet.