WHEN IRISH whiskey marks a significant birthday later this month, the occasion could hardly be described as "sobering", writes Frank McNally.
Even so, the 400th anniversary of the establishment of the "world's oldest distillery" at Bushmills will be yet another opportunity to reflect on the sorrowful mystery of how this island ever squandered its pre-eminence in the whiskey trade.
In fact, that trade is much older than 400 years. The Antrim distillers' milestone merely marks the granting of a licence by King James I. Which, by the way, was for whiskey to be made "within the countie of Colrane, otherwise called O Cahane's country or within the territorie called Rowte in Co. Antrim." There was of course no mention of Bushmills Distillery, which didn't officially exist until 1784, and can only claim the inheritance from geographical proximity.
Be that as it may, even in 1608, Irish whiskey had a long history behind it. Henry II noted its presence here in 1174, and during the reign of a later Henry - the infamous Eighth - Irish distillers were recorded in Pembroke, embarking on a reverse invasion. In between, the Annals of the Four Masters mention whiskey's contribution to the passing in 1405 of one Richard Magrenell, whose death - in a poignant paradox - was attributed to "a surfeit of aquae vitae".
During later centuries, England's Elizabeth I and Peter the Great of Russia were enthusiasts for the Irish version of the drink. And when he published his dictionary in 1755, Dr Samuel Johnson was in no doubt about the industry leader.
Irish whiskey was "particularly distinguished for its pleasant and mild flavour", he wrote, adding: "The Highland sort is somewhat hotter, and by corruption in Scotch they call it whisky."
A century later, the poet James Thomson, despite being a Scot himself, saw no reason to reverse the pecking order.
In his long idyll, Sunday Up The River, he devoted a whole verse to his "pocket pistol": a flask of the hard stuff recently brought from Dublin by a friend.
"It is not brandy, it is not wine/It is Jameson's Irish Whisky (sic)./ It fills the heart with joy divine/And makes the fancy frisky. All other spirits are vile resorts/Except its own Scotch first cousin;/And as for your clarets and sherries and ports/A naggin is worth a dozen."
Having survived both Father Mathew and the Famine, Irish whiskey remained supreme as late as 1873, when a prospectus for a distillery at Chapelizod assured investors not only of the superiority of the Hibernian product but, within Ireland, of Dublin's.
"The quality and reputation of Dublin-made whiskey is at present, in general, equivalent to a premium of 1s [ a shilling] per gallon, or an addition of 25 per cent, over whiskey made in other parts of Ireland," it boasted, adding that - at home and abroad - "the demand for Irish whiskey is practically unlimited." Mind you, the same prospectus noted that there were now more than 100 distilleries in Scotland, while in Ireland there were "not twenty": a small fraction of the number that once existed here.
And soon, that decline in distillery numbers was being matched by a dwindling market share. By 1899, The Irish Times was moved to praise the "indomitable energy" of Scottish distillers who "have spared no expense or effort in making the merits of their several brands known by romantic names and attractive advertisements".
But it wasn't just advertising. The Scots had become adept at blending whiskey to suit tastes that were changing, even here. Irish distillers were fundamentalists by comparison: taking a purist, anti-blending line.
A letter writer to The Irish Times, also in 1899, suggested drinkers now wanted "light, easily digested whiskey". He compared the home distillers' intransigence on this issue to a Dublin silk hat manufacturer of years before who had continued to use thick, high-quality material that lasted forever, even when customers showed they wanted something lighter. "The Dublin manufacturer ridiculed the light hats," wrote the correspondent, "and the Dublin industry died."
As with the Irish language, political independence did not halt Irish whiskey's decline. Instead, during the 1920s and 1930s, the product was caught in a pincer movement of British tariffs and US prohibition. And by the time the latter was repealed, there were even fewer distillers left to take advantage.
By the late 20th century, Irish whiskey was in almost as reduced a state as the hero of Tom Waits's great song Tom Traubert's Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen), in whose condition the drink was implicated: "Old Bushmills I staggered/You buried the dagger/Your silhouette window light. . ." The intervening years have seen something of a revival, however belated. Two of the island's surviving distilleries, Bushmills and Midleton, are now owned by multinationals, their brands benefiting from the marketing muscle such organisations bring.
Elsewhere, the independent Cooley distillery has introduced some of the innovation that was missing in the late 1800s.
As it marks 400 years of being legal, however, the industry remains a pale shadow of what it was in its prime. The Pioneer Association won't complain. But we may have to wait a long time yet to reverse the historic injustice whereby, in the world of whiskey, "Irish" remains a mere adjective, whereas "Scotch" is a generic noun.