The Scotch Whisky Regions are Wrong (But Here’s Why You Should Still Use Them)

Mise en place. Terroir. Both haughty French phrases that conjure up mystical feelings of faraway flavours and untouched landscapes. So perhaps it’s fitting that I find myself writing about regionality from the shade of a Parisian café, doing my best to escape the sticky humidity of the so-called city of love.

The conversation around regionality is well-traveled across the drinks world — from the nearby wine provinces of France, Spain, and Portugal, to the five Tequila states — and, most relevant to me, the Scotch whisky regions. In recent years, attention has turned toward specific barley fields and the rise of single-estate single malts. But what intrigues me more is the broader debate around Scotland’s whisky regions themselves — and the tidy flavour stereotypes attached to each one.

From a legal standpoint, the Scotch Whisky Association (SWA) defined the main regions we recognize today: the sweeping Highlands, coastal Islay, river-led Speyside, rural Campbeltown, and the city-side Lowlands. That map (right) was only formalized in 2009 — surprisingly recent, considering whisky has been made in Scotland for centuries. The earliest delineation came from the Wash Act of 1784, which divided the country into Highlands and Lowlands for tax purposes.

With the Lowlands covering the bustling cities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and the Highlands capturing the agricultural north, it’s hard not to think there was a touch of classism in that divide.

By 1909, the Royal Commission on Whisky had expanded this map, recognizing Islay and Campbeltown for their distinctive (and heavily peated) styles, and Speyside for its growing cluster of distilleries along the River Spey. The region’s success was driven by the popularity of Glenlivet and an abundant water source. Before that, every distillery now considered Speyside — Macallan, Glenfarclas, and the like — was grouped under the Highlands, and many still bear that label out of tradition.

That 2009 SWA map, however, creates a glaring omission. The whisky-producing islands of Scotland — from the northern Orkneys to the western outposts of Mull, Jura, and Skye — are all lumped into the vast yellow mass of the Highlands. You could argue Skye’s bridge connection makes it borderline Highland, but the classification starts to feel absurd once you plan a trip to Highland Park and realize how physically and culturally distant Orkney is from mainland Scotland. (With only one airline servicing the islands and frequent ferry cancellations, getting there can be more arduous than than getting your hands on one of their rare bottles.)

Each whisky-producing island is unique, its flavour tied to local flora, fauna, and community history. The heather-bloom fields of Orkney, battered by sea-soaked winds, clearly echo in Highland Park’s single malt and no mainland distillery, not even the rugged Glenglassaugh, can replicate it. The Hebridean Isle of Mull tells another story: Tobermory Distillery produces both unpeated Tobermory and the deeply smoky Ledaig, technically “Highland” whiskies but historically shaped by centuries of changing demand for blends.

It is in major part the slow progressive shift in drinking styles over the past 300 years, along with access to ingredients, that have given rise to the variation in flavour profile of whisky across Scotland. But when it comes to asking for a dram at the bar, suddenly the discussion of whisky regions narrow and this rich nuance is lost. Industry-folk and consumers alike revert to a formulated idea of region-based flavours that tend to be influenced by each region’s most famous distilleries. No doubt the lords of Islay, peated distilleries like Laphroaig, Lagavulin, and Ardbeg have set the template for all Islay drams, despite being built around the same period as Islay’s distinctly unpeated Bunnahabhain. Speyside has grown to imply a fruitiness that comes from bourbon-cask matured malts like those at Glenlivet, while the Highland richness stems from the sherry-casked stylings of Dalmore and Glendronach, and yet Ardmore’s buttery peated malt straddles the border between these two regions and doesn’t fit into either category.

It makes sense though that when boiled down to the brief interaction with a consumer looking for a Scotch whisky, oftentimes the quickest and easiest first question in a bartender’s arsenal is “What regions do you go for?”.

Over time, this classification and conscious selection of regions can even morph into an identity for some whisky drinkers, worn like a cloak to show their prestige. We’ve all known someone who stated that they “only drink Islay whiskies” in a way that conveys a sense of superiority and implies they eat cigarettes instead of smoking them (just see Laphroaig’s Opinions Welcome ad campaign from 2015).

I, myself, have had an interaction across the bar with a customer who only enjoyed a fruity Speyside dram and was enraged when I brought him the option of Glenfiddich, a distillery that claims to be a Highland malt on the label yet is located in the heart of the Speyside whisky triangle. Let’s just say it was a lot of emotion over a glass of whisky!

This reductive approach to flavour and region tends to fade once a whisky drinker reaches a certain level of knowledge. They move beyond regional stereotypes and start defining their preferences by distillery instead. That’s where every whisky conversation should aim to be —judging each malt on its own merits rather than grouping dozens of distinct producers under one generic flavour label. But that shift doesn’t happen overnight; it usually takes a guiding hand from someone in the industry.

Controversially (and after all the prelude I’ve just given) I would argue that Scottish whisky regions are important, just not in the way we currently approach it. Historically, they chart Scotland’s social and economic evolution as much as its flavour map. Islay’s bold, smoky style once stood in defiance of the gentle Lowland blends, and its survival helped secure its regional independence.

More importantly, regionality remains a powerful tool for education. When someone asks for an Islay-style whisky, we know exactly what they mean. Even if they walk away with a glass of Ardmore, Ballechin, or Ledaig, they will still have received what they asked for, and perhaps gained insight and appreciation for those distilleries that would otherwise have escaped their purview. Ultimately, they don’t know what they don’t know.

That hurdle, to explore beyond the bounds of a region, is often too high for consumers to attempt on their own, and where the industry people from ambassadors to bartenders should tap in for the assist.

So while I often critique the vague nature of Scotch whisky’s regional flavours in my writing, I’ll leave you with this: embrace them. Not as rigid rules dreamt up by marketing men in stuffy suits, but as tools for education, reflection, and discovery. It’s a springboard to help someone find their next favourite whisky and expand their horizons. At the end of the day, it’s about matching the whisky to the person, and if all it takes is a quick answer to the question “What styles or regions do you tend towards?” then our jobs are all the easier for it.