I was reading about Highland Park’s liquid history — not the kind you sip slow, but the kind that sits in a bank vault with a humidity sensor and a prayer.
They list ten vintages. Not batches. Not editions. Vintages — meaning each one came from a single year, a single set of casks, and most likely a single person who decided, back in 1978 or 1984 or 1991, to lock it away and forget it until someone with more money than sense showed up.
Some sold at auction for six figures. Others vanished into the private collections of people who don’t drink whisky — they just own it, like a painting they’ve never hung.
