Latest news with #McDonough
Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Former TV reporter opens up about her darkest days, career collapse
The Brief Beth McDonough's memoir Stand By recounts her fall from a successful journalism career to hitting rock bottom after two DUIs and years of alcoholism. Her descent into addiction was triggered by personal loss and stress, eventually leading to job loss, financial instability, and a long path to recovery. Now 16 years sober, McDonough has rebuilt her life and career, and is using her story to advocate for sobriety and inspire others facing similar struggles. MINNEAPOLIS - Veteran journalist Beth McDonough is no stranger to telling stories. But in her latest chapter, she becomes the subject, and revisits the darkest days of her life to inspire others navigating the road to recovery. McDonough, who has worked in newsrooms across the country from Houston to Minneapolis, said she began writing her memoir, Stand By, while serving 37 days under house arrest following her second DUI conviction. What began as a private exercise in self-reflection quickly evolved into a public testament to resilience and redemption. "I started writing it just looking to vent and kind of get all the gunk inside of me out," said McDonough. "Everything that I had been going through over the last year, which was self-imposed because of my alcoholism. And as I got into it and I got past chapter one and chapter two, I realized I'm not just writing this for me and for therapy. But I'm writing it for others to see." The book opens in a jail cell — where McDonough, still reeling from the events of the previous night, saw her own mugshot flash across a television screen. Grief and the Descent into Alcoholism The backstory McDonough traces the roots of her addiction back to a tumultuous time in 2005. Her mother died, she ended a romantic relationship, and her father suffered a mental breakdown followed by emergency heart surgery — all within a matter of weeks. "I'm kind of the go-to in the family, if you will. The problem solver: get things done. So I went back to Oklahoma, where my parents had retired to, and to take care of my father and kind of get that going. And anyone who's dealt with grief, you know, when you're the responsible one, getting everything done and planning the funerals and the cremation and this, that, and the other, I didn't have any time for myself to even contemplate mourning at that time," said McDonough. Returning to her job at a local FOX affiliate, McDonough threw herself into work. "When I came back, I just hit the ground running at work going as hard as I ever did, because that was kind of an outlet for me. And there's a distraction if you will. But I noticed I never drank during the job. Maybe after the news late at night or on weekends when, you know, colleagues and I would go out and maybe decompress after what we saw all day. But I noticed that my colleagues could stop drinking and I couldn't," said McDonough. As her drinking intensified, McDonough began quietly rearranging her life around it. She scaled back on everyday expenses — sometimes skipping medications or meals — in order to continue affording alcohol. To avoid suspicion, she developed a rotation of liquor stores along her route to the station, deliberately varying her stops so that no single clerk would notice a pattern or question her habits. It was a calculated effort to conceal the severity of her addiction — from others, and for a time, from herself. That growing awareness, she said, was one of the reasons she knew it was time to tell her story. Hitting Bottom and Starting Over Dig deeper Following her second DUI, McDonough was fired from her position at FOX. "You know, the day I was fired by my boss, my boss at Fox News…that was the wake-up call for me because I love my job so much," said McDonough. "I would have done anything for it. And that was the wake-up call of like, you know, Beth, you've got a problem, and you need to go to treatment. You need to get help. And the previous DUI a year before, my boss did offer me help. But shame is a powerful thing. No one wants to grow up and be an alcoholic or be labeled an alcoholic, right? And so I denied and said, 'No, I've got a handle on this.' And I tried to do it on my own, but that doesn't ever end in success." She entered treatment, joined a recovery program, and began the slow process of rebuilding. Unable to find work in journalism, she started walking dogs in her neighborhood. That modest venture grew into a full-fledged dog walking and grooming business, which she eventually sold. Then, out of the blue, a news station offered her a position as an investigative producer. It was a behind-the-scenes role that allowed her to return to journalism on new terms. The opportunity marked a turning point in her professional life, reigniting her passion for storytelling and allowing her to reclaim her career with a deeper sense of purpose. Looking back, she said her post-DUI career not only recovered but flourished in ways she never anticipated. McDonough said stepping into the role of sobriety advocate wasn't easy. "I've had a conversation with the boss who fired me, and now he's a big supporter. You know, I put him in a terrible position. But you really have to go through some of these experiences. And for me, rock bottom is where the rebuild began, to sobriety, because sobriety just opens the floodgates to everything else in your life," said McDonough. Now, with 16 years of sobriety behind her, McDonough speaks openly about recovery and the realities of alcoholism. What's next Stand By is expected to be released soon on McDonough's website, and will be available on Amazon, Audible and other major retailers. The Source The information from this article came from an interview on ChicagoNOW with Beth McDonough. Solve the daily Crossword
7NEWS
3 days ago
- 7NEWS
These ‘miraculous survivors' weathered plane crashes, shark attacks and other deadly disasters. They weren't prepared for what came next
Trigger warning: this article contains descriptions of suicidal thoughts Brendan McDonough was driving home one Sunday afternoon when he spotted the first sign of trouble — a plume of smoke rising into the pale blue sky above the golden yellow foliage dotting the Arizona mountain range. He was listening to the radio but the smoke quickly turned his thoughts to other sounds — the inferno that roared like a freight train as it bore down on a group of trapped firefighters, the anguished cries of his friends calling for help on a radio, and the crinkling of orange body bags as the remains of men he called his brothers were carried away. It was the sounds of the worst day of his life: June 30, 2013. That's when a wildfire overran an elite group of firefighters known as the Granite Mountain Hotshots in Yarnell, Arizona, killing 19 of them. McDonough was part of that group but survived because he was standing lookout some distance away. The blaze marked the greatest loss of firefighters in a single day since the 9/11 attacks, and a new identity for McDonough: the lone survivor. He tried to live up to his new hero status. He gave motivational speeches and wrote a book that was made into a Hollywood movie. Strangers picked up his dinner tab wherever he went. Some approached his table while he was eating out with his family and started bawling after thanking him for his service while he sat there awkwardly, watching his food grow cold. When people asked how he was doing, he stuck to the hero script: 'Lucky to be alive. Blessed to be here. One day at a time.' But what he didn't tell them is that he often had to drink just to take the stage for his speeches. He didn't tell them he was turning into an emotional zombie at home and growing detached from his family. He couldn't tell them why he, a former heroin user with a felony record for theft, was the only firefighter who survived the Yarnell Hill Fire while men he deemed more deserving of life had perished. 'I felt lucky to be alive but I was dying inside,' he would say later. When he spotted the plume of smoke, McDonough pulled off the road and sat in his truck for a moment with the motor running. It had been a year since the disaster. Then he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a 9mm handgun. He placed the gun against his left temple and started to cry. The burden of being the 'miraculous survivor' We call men and women like McDonough 'miraculous survivors'. They emerge in almost every news cycle after deadly disasters such as the recent floods that killed at least 129 people in Texas. They are people like Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, the lone survivor of Air India Flight 171 which crashed in June right after takeoff in Ahmedabad, India, killing 241 people aboard and dozens more on the ground. But Ramesh, sitting in seat 11A, somehow escaped. A worldwide audience saw him emerge like an apparition, dazed and limping, from the flaming wreckage. He lost a brother in the crash and would later tell stunned onlookers: 'I don't know how I survived.' Ramesh joined the same grim fraternity that also claims McDonough. They somehow survived disasters when so many around them perished. They are people like Ari Afrizal, a construction worker who survived the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami by clinging to a raft for two weeks and eating coconuts he pried open with his teeth. And Juliane Koepcke, the sole survivor of a 1971 plane crash in a Peruvian rainforest that killed 91 people. After lightning struck her plane, the teenager somehow survived a 10,000-foot fall — still strapped to her seat — and then spent 11 days hiking through the jungle to safety. Their stories have spawned a genre of death-defying storytelling in TV shows such as I Shouldn't Be Alive and books such as Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, And Why. They reveal our fascination with ordinary people who cheated death — the ones who ' went to the edge of the horizon, the other side of the rainbow'. But what happens after those survivors return from their glimpse of eternity? Many discover there is no black box they can consult for clues on how to move forward. Surviving a disaster often leaves a permanent mark, said Rafael Yglesias, whose novel Fearless — about a passenger who walks away from a plane crash — was inspired by a 1989 United Airlines crash in Sioux City, Iowa, and was made into a movie starring Jeff Bridges. 'The event itself can sometimes be a few seconds but often people live with it for the rest of their lives,' Yglesias said. 'The real consequences for them are in the years that follow.' Some survivors crash and burn. Others experience a psychological and spiritual transformation that goes beyond struggles with survivor's guilt. Here are the stories of three people who survived some of the most high-profile disasters of recent decades. They teach us something not only about the nature of survival but about living as well. He survived sharks but now faces 'the beast' It's been more than 40 years but people still tell the story of what happened to Brad Cavanagh when he set sail in the Atlantic on a boat called the Trashman. Most of the authors and filmmakers who tell Cavanagh's story focus on the lurid details: the 175km/h winds and towering swells that looked like 'walls of liquid granite'; the gut-twisting screams he heard as one of his crewmates was eaten alive by sharks; the crewmate who yelled 'We're all going to f****** die!' as Cavanagh and four others fought to survive with no food and water for days in an inflatable boat with no motor or sail. But after surviving the sharks, Cavanagh encountered another predator that seldom makes it into his story. 'It's a beast,' he told CNN. 'And it's insatiable.' In October of 1982, he had joined a crew of four in Maryland for a routine yacht delivery. They were scheduled to sail the boat to Florida. Their ship ran into a hurricane and capsized. It sank so quickly the crew barely had time to alert the US Coast Guard. They managed to climb into a small lifeboat but one of Cavanagh's crewmates was severely injured in the escape. Her blood attracted sharks. As they drifted without food and water, the injured crewmate died in front of them. Two others, delirious from drinking seawater, slid into the ocean and were killed by sharks in front of Cavanagh and another crewmate. At one point, Cavanagh stood up in the raft and yelled to the sky: 'God, you f****** suck!' The Coast Guard never reached them. But five days later, a passing Russian freighter rescued Cavanagh and crewmate Deborah Scaling. Their story has been retold in documentaries and books as a testimony to human resilience. Cavanagh's crewmate, by then named Deborah Scaling Kiley, wrote two books about her ordeal and became a motivational speaker. She talked to CNN in 2008 about her experience. A fitness specialist and yoga instructor, she exuded confidence and resolve during the conversation. 'You can never give up,' Kiley said in explaining why she survived. 'No matter how bad it gets, something good is going to come out of it.' Four years after that interview, and three years after her 23-year-old son drowned on Cape Cod, Kiley died at her home in Mexico. The circumstances of her death were not disclosed. Today, Cavanagh is the Trashman's lone survivor. The 64-year-old lives in Massachusetts with his wife and two children. He operates tugboats and moves yachts up and down the coast. It's a wonder he can still get out on the ocean after what happened. Four decades later, he can't see any good that's come from his ordeal. When asked if the experience made him a better person, he said: 'No.' Does he think his story has made a difference to others? 'I'm not aware of any of those things for other people,' he said. 'What I'm aware of is that I'm still in crisis mode.' Cavanagh embodies one paradox of miraculous survivors: The same qualities that enabled them to survive a disaster can hamper their ability to resume a normal life afterward. He said he believes he survived because he knew how to operate in crisis mode. Every second at sea counted. He had to decide which crisis to solve next and then immediately move to the next one. Cavanagh still makes his living on the sea — although he said he has 'terrible anxiety about things in the water'. He returned to the ocean, he said, because 'it's what we (his family members) do'. 'It's what my dad did. In my ancestry, I've got sea captains and people who raced in the America's Cup.' But he hasn't been able to turn off his crisis mindset. 'Every day in my life, I'm in crisis mode,' Cavanagh said. 'I'm trying to solve whatever the problem is that anybody has.' He's gone to therapy but he said he gets distracted by what he notices — another problem to solve. 'It's just a huge waste of time because I can't solve problems while I'm in therapy,' he said. 'I look at them (therapists) and I just sit there, and I'm like, 'Your faucets are dripping. I have to go in there and change the gasket to your faucet'.' Anger helped him survive at sea. He was angry at the Coast Guard for not rescuing him, angry that people died in front of him who could have been saved, and angry that he needed to talk to lawyers and investigators after the accident when he just wanted to forget it. Cavanagh said he's also facing another challenge. 'The beast is insatiable,' he said. 'It's the media.' He said there are times when his PTSD subsides but then a journalist will call and ask him how he feels and it kicks up again. He now tries to avoid email. 'It's a cyclical thing,' he said about the media attention. 'I would bet you everything that this won't be the last time somebody calls. It happens every few years when Shark Week needs a thing,' he said, referring to the Discovery Channel's annual week of shark-themed programming. Will Cavanagh ever stop living in perpetual crisis mode? Another survivor offers an answer to that question. Like Ramesh, he too survived a plane crash. But he found a way to tame the beast. The 'miracle in the cornfield' Spencer Bailey has a ritual. Almost every morning when he awakens, he turns to his wife, Emma, and greets her the same way. 'I tell my wife I love her,' Bailey said. 'Then I'll just lie in bed for about 15 minutes and slowly open my eyes and take breaths and remind myself that I'm still here. I've realised what a gift it is to simply take a breath.' On July 19, 1989, he was with his older brother, Brandon, and their mother, Frances Lockwood Bailey, on United Airlines Flight 232 when a faulty part in the DC-10's engine exploded in mid-air. The explosion cut the plane's hydraulics, which control steering. The plane crash-landed at the Sioux City, Iowa, airport, sliding into an adjacent cornfield and killing Bailey's mother and 111 others. Bailey and his brother survived along with 182 other people, but he became a symbol of the crash. A news photographer snapped a photo of a National Guardsman, anxiety written on his face, carrying Bailey's limp frame from the billowing black smoke of the wreckage. The photo made the cover of Time magazine and was reproduced around the world. Because pilots aren't expected to land an airplane after a catastrophic loss of hydraulics, the media dubbed it 'the miracle in the cornfield'. Bailey also is immortalised in a bronze statue, mimicking the photo, that stands in Sioux City as part of a memorial to the crash response. Bailey said looking at a statue of himself is akin to an 'out of body experience'. 'I never felt like I'm looking at me,' he said of the statue. 'I felt like that boy was someone else. I have no memory of the crash.' But Bailey has his own personal memento of the disaster: the white Avia sneakers he wore that day, which he keeps in a Ziploc bag in a closet of his New York City home. 'It's not something I display proudly,' said Bailey, now 39. 'In a lot of ways coming to terms with being a survivor was something I struggled with. I didn't want to identify with it.' Today, the boy in the photo is a strapping 6-foot-3 and the owner of the Slowdown, a media company. He's also the author of a book, In Memory Of: Designing Contemporary Memorials, which examines public art and spaces — such as the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington — that commemorate tragic historical events. Bailey's chosen profession is not a coincidence. After hearing people tell his story for years, he joined the beast. 'I became a journalist to take my story back,' he told CNN. For much of his life, Bailey said he ran from his survivor story. He hid his identity from classmates. He was depressed from facing 'a motherless void' after the crash. But he told his story for the first time at a high school assembly. The rapt audience was silent when he finished. The experience was liberating. Years of therapy, and of telling his story, have helped, he said. 'We're all survivors, each in our own way,' he said. 'We all go through extraordinary life events, some more extreme than others. I feel lucky to be here but I also think everybody else should, too.' His only memories of his mother come from others. His older brother, Brandon, remembers the crash. He recalled their mother wrapping her arms around her sons, as if she was their guardian angel, as the plane tumbled to the ground. Others told him his mother was a creative woman who dabbled in art and designed children's clothes. He sometimes wonders if his mother passed her love of creativity down to him. 'Whatever she instilled in me in the three years and 11 months that we had together on this Earth, she instilled values that transcend the moment,' he said. Bailey paid homage to his mother before he got married. He took Emma to his mother's gravesite in upstate New York and showed her the house his mother grew up in. He also took Emma to what remains of the old Sioux City runway where Flight 232 crash-landed, which borders the contemporary airport. Bailey, who said he has no fear of flying, said the defunct runway was covered with weeds and cracks. 'It's hallowed ground,' he said. 'It's the same place where my mother left this Earth.' Art has also become a refuge for Bailey. He said he was able to gain perspective on his loss by immersing himself in the artwork of a Japanese-American sculptor named Isamu Noguchi. 'It (Noguchi's art) helped me understand that my experience is just this tiny speck within a much larger constellation of humanity across time,' he said. 'It's this idea that we're all in this plane together.' Bailey said he once worried that he'd never stop being the boy in the photograph. But through art and telling his story, he was able to mourn the loss of his mother and move forward. 'It's allowed me to come to terms with it and almost harness it — not as a superpower, but as something that I can channel,' he said about surviving the plane crash. 'I guess it's all about … accepting that I'll always be processing it.' A rainbow after a hurricane McDonough pressed the gun against his head. Tears streamed down his face. He heard himself say, 'Pull the f****** trigger!' As he sat in his car that day in October 2014, he thought about his wife, Alison, and their daughter, Michaela. How would they react to hearing news of his suicide? What would the area's emergency responders — many of whom he knew — think upon finding his body? He then heard another sound. It was the Katy Perry song Firework on his car radio. In the song, Perry sings about someone who feels like 'a waste of space' and buried 'six feet under screams' that no one else can hear. She urges them to 'ignite the light' and persevere. 'If you only knew what the future holds,' she sings. 'After a hurricane comes a rainbow.' McDonough listened. He lowered his gun. Then he tossed it in the back seat and drove home. But that decision was only the beginning. He knew he couldn't ignite the light on his own. Finding community is what had saved him from the beginning. McDonough had a troubled background when he applied to join the Granite Mountain Hotshots at age 21. He saw firefighting as his last chance to salvage his life. Their leader, Eric Marsh, took a chance on him, and the Hotshots became his new family. Marsh became a mentor and a big brother figure: tough, but wise and full of grace. Fighting wildfires is brutal work. It's a young person's job that requires exceptional physical fitness. McDonough's crew routinely made 10km runs, wearing full gear, in scorching temperatures. They fought zig-zagging fires that created columns of smoke so large they could be seen by NASA satellites. The firefighters usually carried only chainsaws, drip torches and hand tools. 'It's the only natural disaster we combat,' he told CNN. 'We have nothing to combat tornadoes, monsoons and earthquakes. With wildfires we say, 'We're standing our ground. You stop here'.' McDonough began to stand his ground against the guilt and shame that engulfed him. Finding a new community helped. It began with new mentors. A week after he placed the gun to his head, a counsellor approached him at a commemorative event for firefighters and asked how he was doing. Buzzed from drinking, he decided to depart from his lone survivor script. He told the counsellor he had considered killing himself the week before but couldn't pull the trigger. He told her he felt like a failure as a father because he was so depressed all the time. He told her he didn't think he could go on. Then he took another sip and looked for her reaction. She raised an eyebrow, then referred him to another counsellor. Several weeks later, he found himself yelling in that counsellor's office, venting about his guilt and shame. She responded with a challenge: 'Are you willing to put in the work?' Then he found another source of help: faith. A local pastor invited McDonough to a Christian recovery group to share some of his story. The pastor was shrewd. He could tell McDonough was struggling but he appealed to his firefighter's sense of duty and pride in telling him other men needed his help. By the time McDonough spoke to the group, he had written a memoir about the Hotshots and the Yarnell Hill Fire. Actor Miles Teller played him in a 2017 movie adapted from the book. But he said he felt like an imposter, a shell of himself. He didn't know how to explain that to the recovery group. They thought he had everything but he kept wishing he had what they had. 'They didn't understand that's not the reason you want to be known,' he said. 'I don't want to be known as the lone survivor.' More meetings with the pastor and counsellor followed. One night, the tension culminated with McDonough sitting in his truck, praying for a way out of drinking. 'Reveal yourself to me,' he prayed. He wasn't answered by the sound of a celestial choir. But he felt something shift. He didn't have the same hunger to drink anymore. 'I still felt pain, but I felt at peace with the pain because I didn't have to run from it,' he said. In time, McDonough found a new group of brothers and sisters in church and in the recovery group. Today, he is the co-owner of two Christian-based substance abuse treatment centers, Holdfast Recovery and Anchor Point. McDonough said the groups are open to all faiths — and people with no faith — but especially to first responders who struggle with PTSD. He said his sobriety has lasted for eight years now. He's also returned to firefighting as a member of a city fire department. 'My life has been on an upward trajectory,' he said. Although McDonough no longer wrestles with 'the beast' as Cavanagh does, he said he still must be vigilant about his self-destructive tendencies. Surviving a disaster is dramatic but there's another challenge that awaits people like himself and Ramesh, the Air India survivor, he said. 'This gift of survival is a beautiful thing but that's not enough,' he said. 'You must have a team around you. But that's only good if you use them.' There's a final lesson miraculous survivors like Bailey, Cavanagh and McDonough offer. They help us expand our definition of heroism to include anyone who has survived something horrible with their humanity intact. For any survivor, the ability to greet the morning each day with gratitude and courage — especially if they've returned to the place that caused them so much pain — well, there's something miraculous about that, too.
Yahoo
18-07-2025
- Science
- Yahoo
Meteorite that shot through roof of Henry County home was moving at speed of sound, scientist says
A planetary scientist shared new insights into the meteorite that crashed into a Georgia home in June. Speaking with Channel 2's Linda Stouffer, R. Scott Harris, a planetary geologist, gave new details about the meteorite fragments he's studying. The flash in the Georgia sky in June, described by witnesses as a fireball, traveled hundreds of millions of miles through space before entering the Earth's atmosphere, eventually crashing into a home. [DOWNLOAD: Free WSB-TV News app for alerts as news breaks] 'This one went through a house in McDonough, and the whole mass, we estimate, was probably like the size of a large cherry tomato,' Harris said. 'We're talking about something more than twice the diameter of a .50 caliber bullet coming through at least, but maybe greater than the speeds of our highest performance military rifles. And so it if had hit a person, we would not be having a fun conversation.' RELATED STORIES: Meteorite hunters searching for fragments in Henry County 'Fireball' in the sky seen across metro Atlanta What did you see falling through the sky? A meteor or meteorite? 'It was really, really scary': People across metro in shock as fireball falls from the sky Harris studies the way objects from space hit planetary surfaces and works as a researcher with the University of Georgia. Stouffer learned the fireball that exploded into the Georgia sky last month will now be called the McDonough meteorite. He said the black portion of the meteorite fragments would be from the outside of it, where it was freshly exposed to the light of the sun. 'Never seen the light of day, light of our sun over 4.5 billion years,' Harris said. Harris told Stouffer he believes that when the fireball 'detonated,' it was flying at about the speed of sound, including when it flew into a house in Henry County. 'Absolutely clean shot, through the roof, through the insulation, through the ceiling,' Harris said. 'There's about a third that is sort of missing, not really missing but pulverized to dust.' Using an electron microscope, Harris analyzed the materials in the fragments to see what minerals and metals may have been in the object. 'You see the bright objects here are the metal and metal sulfides,' Harris explained, showing the scans and images from the analysis. 'Mostly minerals that you might find here on Earth.' This meteorite contains metal, and minerals including olivine (also known as peridot) and feldspars. 'This is a type of meteorite called an ordinary chondrite,' Harris said. One of the larger fragment pieces is at the Tellus Science Museum in Cartersville. Staff there say they're working to bring it onto display so you can see it later this year. [SIGN UP: WSB-TV Daily Headlines Newsletter]
Scotsman
17-06-2025
- Business
- Scotsman
The 'hidden' Scottish distillery featured in BBC drama with stunning mountain views that's now lost
Speyside distillery near Kingussie has closed its doors for good, becoming a lost distillery. The firm co-hosted this year's Spirit of Speyside opening dinner in Aviemore, the same day as they handed the keys to the distillery over. The announcement of Speyside as a lost distillery was made by John McDonough, chief executive of Speyside Distillers. He explained that this shutdown and move has been driven by a need to expand. Mr McDonough also announced that the business was moving operations to a Highland estate at Strathmashie by Laggan, meaning the whiskies they produce there will be Highland and not Speyside. It will also operate under a different name. Speyside Distillers produced the award-winning SPEY whisky range as well as Beinn Dubh The Black. But as production has ceased entirely these whiskies will not be made anymore and will be classed as coming from a lost distillery making them rarer as time goes on. Currently, existing whisky stocks will be placed into storage for further maturation, with future releases available on allocation only. Picture: SPEY whisky In 2019 Speyside Distillers ramped up production of its single malt whisky after a major new distribution deal with a Chinese firm, which was set to increase production by about two-thirds from 600,000 litres to one million litres a year. Speyside Distillery was originally a barley mill and croft that dated back to the 1700s, and closed in 1965. It was converted into a single malt distillery by stonemason Alex Fairlie and started producing spirit in 1990. Being out of the way for the Speyside whisky trail, Speyside distillery was a bit of a hidden gem and was open, by appointment only, for a small number of visitors to enjoy an exclusive tour and tasting. Fans of BBC's Monarch of the Glen may recognise Speyside distillery from the hist TV show, where it was known as Lagganmore.
Scotsman
17-06-2025
- Business
- Scotsman
The 'hidden' Scottish distillery featured in BBC drama with stunning mountain views that's now lost
Speyside distillery near Kingussie has closed its doors for good, becoming a lost distillery. The firm co-hosted this year's Spirit of Speyside opening dinner in Aviemore, the same day as they handed the keys to the distillery over. The announcement of Speyside as a lost distillery was made by John McDonough, chief executive of Speyside Distillers. He explained that this shutdown and move has been driven by a need to expand. Mr McDonough also announced that the business was moving operations to a Highland estate at Strathmashie by Laggan, meaning the whiskies they produce there will be Highland and not Speyside. It will also operate under a different name. Speyside Distillers produced the award-winning SPEY whisky range as well as Beinn Dubh The Black. But as production has ceased entirely these whiskies will not be made anymore and will be classed as coming from a lost distillery making them rarer as time goes on. Currently, existing whisky stocks will be placed into storage for further maturation, with future releases available on allocation only. Picture: SPEY whisky In 2019 Speyside Distillers ramped up production of its single malt whisky after a major new distribution deal with a Chinese firm, which was set to increase production by about two-thirds from 600,000 litres to one million litres a year. Speyside Distillery was originally a barley mill and croft that dated back to the 1700s, and closed in 1965. It was converted into a single malt distillery by stonemason Alex Fairlie and started producing spirit in 1990. Being out of the way for the Speyside whisky trail, Speyside distillery was a bit of a hidden gem and was open, by appointment only, for a small number of visitors to enjoy an exclusive tour and tasting. Fans of BBC's Monarch of the Glen may recognise Speyside distillery from the hist TV show, where it was known as Lagganmore.
