“Harrison! Madeline!” Jennifer called, intending to enlist her two teenage children in a task while expecting an immediate reply. Their silence was the moment’s only order. And so, she called again. And then again. A feeling of disrespect increasing, and rightfully so, she made her way through the house to retrieve them, resolutely calling their names.

“I don’t think they’re here, honey,” I said, interrupting her swift pace toward the kids’ usual haunts. “They went for a walk around the neighborhood.”

A second or two passed.

“Never mind!” she hollered somewhat penitently to her offspring… who were not there… because they were not even on the property.

I laughed. When she realized what she’d done, she did, too. It was purely psychological. Or better yet, spiritually innate. In her focus, she had become caught up in the motion of the moment, and the only way to escape from the increasingly powerful assumption that the children were ignoring her was to stop and, with the same level of energy, apologize to them, even though the fact remains they weren’t even there.

I like that about Jennifer. She’s humble that way. T.S. Eliot once said, “The only wisdom we can hope to acquire is the wisdom of humility.” If this is true, Jennifer is the wisest person I know. I say this because she demonstrates it even when her emotions seem ready to conquer. Although, there have been a few times when she’s awakened from sleep unjustly angry with me because of something I did in a dream. Still, I chalk that up as a wife’s prerogative and the benefit of reality. If I’m going to tick her off, I’d rather it be because of imagined offenses rather than real ones—such as the genuine crimes perpetrated by Endless West’s Glyph Royal edition.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a terrible whisky. Most drams have their redeemable qualities. And as anyone familiar with my whisky narratives probably knows, it would take a seriously unique mixture of swill to knock Scoresby from its place atop Mount Garbage. And yet, the Glyph Royal edition appears to have at least gathered its mountain climbing gear and set its sights on the summit.

The nose of this whisky is relatively indescribable. Each whiff presents a different sort of pungence, so much so that it really is rather challenging to find what’s causing the affronting sting. It seems almost candy-like—maybe cake frosting. Whatever’s in there, it’s a mixture into which someone dumped a few gallons of vinegar and some spoiled vegetables. There may even be some embalming fluid, too. The palate is the same. There’s something sweet in there, but it’s hard to find in the murk of syrupy rot. These things come together in a medium finish requiring mouthwash. That’s it.

In short, to label this edition “royal” is a bit bold.

Having said all this, I’m willing to admit that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. There may be some out there who love this stuff. Truth be told, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years of writing reviews, it’s that my opinion means nothing except to express a personal preference. That being said, I offer only words of warning. If you’re calling out to the Glyph Royal with the hopes of enlisting it for service in your keep, you should know that it won’t respond because it’s not even on the whisky premises. It’s out wandering around the neighborhood, trying to figure out its bearings. Better yet, it’s busy climbing. With that, be ready to apologize for expecting anything from it.