The scent of a peat fire is exhilarating, especially for those who have not had to cut their own fuel. I did achieve one dream by walking in a room-sized peat fire -- over one, to be exact, ankle-deep in germinated barley on a mesh floor that allowed the smoke from the furnace below to waft up through the grain. Kilns are architecturally the most distinctive parts of distilleries, with pagoda roofs whose chimneys encourage the recirculation of peat smoke. The kiln was comfortably warm; fires are kept low, so that the barley will be heated only enough to kill the germ and stop growth but not enough to halt enzymatic action. The peatiness of the barley, and thus of the whisky, depends on how much peat is used in the first twenty-four hours or so of the two days of drying. After a day of being smoked and dried, maltsters say, the barley is too hard to absorb any more flavorful smoke, so plain hot air finishes the job. The smell of peat smoke is unforgettable -- pungent and uplifting, somewhere between burning leaves and burning wood, with notes of wild heather and moss. After I had spent several minutes walking the length of the cozy chamber and admiring the Chinese-style wooden ceiling, my clothes reeked. "You smell like a kipper," my host said an hour later in the car. I couldn't have asked for a nicer compliment.

THIS immersion in "peatreek" (there's a word for it, as for nearly every aspect of making whisky) took place at the celebrated Laphroaig, one of three improbably beautiful distilleries in hidden coves near Port Ellen, on the southern coast of Islay -- perfect for unseen shipments, which explains why illicit distilling occurred there long before 1823. Laphroaig and its two close neighbors, Lagavulin and Ardbeg, all derive their water from sources that pass through peat, and the distilleries also heavily peat their barley. Although technically not the Islay whisky highest in phenols, Laphroaig has the strongest peatreek in the glass, possibly from the three phenols it says its seaweedy peat emits when burned -- different, it claims, from those of any other distillery. Whatever the reason, the blast of pure peat is strong, and is best appreciated in Laphroaig's youngest and least expensive whisky, its ten-year-old.

Every eight hours, barley is raked by hand with wooden "shiels" to

keep the temperature low

I fell hard for Lagavulin whisky, which seems to have a unique combination of potent peat and equilibrated smoothness. But I might have been swayed by the beauty of the distillery's low white stucco buildings set against dramatic rocks and the sea, or the simple painted-slat vernacular architecture of its offices, recently fitted into a former malting floor and reminiscent of a turn-of-the-century ship. Ardbeg, just down the road, has recently returned to active production after being periodically closed, and has won praise in the malt-whisky world, especially for its seventeen-year-old. The distillery's ambitious young managers are restoring its buildings with the help of the new parent company, which also owns the mainland single-malt distiller Glenmorangie, and have outfitted a particularly attractive visitors' center and café in the former malting barn. The pagoda is now a decorative roof, as it is at most of the island's distilleries -- only two actually use their kilns, and the rest buy barley peated to their specifications from the local Port Ellen malting company.

Ardbeg is lucky to have survived and to be making a name in the malt world: traditionally, more than 95 percent of its whisky was used in blends. Bunnahabhain, on the northeast coast, produces the lightest Islay whisky, and has very likely survived because of its utility in blends -- it is a defining component of The Famous Grouse, for years one of the most popular blended whiskies in Scotland. (A blended whisky may include as many as forty whiskies; more than half is usually neutral grain alcohol.) Bruichladdich, another lighter-style Islay distillery, has been "mothballed" since 1994, when it came under the control of the company that owns Jim Beam. The Port Ellen distillery, in the center of the busy port, where ferries come and go, many of them bearing barley for the malting company, closed for good in 1983.