From Farmers’ Market to Glacier: A Whisky Journey Like No Other

Imagine sipping a glass of whisky, the ice in your drink older than civilization itself—crystal-compacted chunks of ancient Newfoundland iceberg melting slowly into Diony’s amber liquid gold. The journey of Diony whisky from Red Deer to  Newfoundland, to a glass cooled by the Arctic itself, is a story that begins somewhere unexpected: a vibrant pop-up market in central Alberta, bustling with life and craft.

It was Capstone Night Market in Red Deer, where live music mixed with the smells of food trucks, and more than 60 artisan vendors filled the heart of the Capstone district with handmade goods, creative wares, and the energy of a lively evening.

There, among the crowd, I met Jaime-Sue, who was sampling our whisky. She shared that she’d given her father, Anthony Barrett, a bottle of Diony whisky the previous Christmas. Every year, she searched for a new whisky, one that came with a story worth savouring—something her father could hold onto as his eyesight began to fade. Anthony had a collection of whiskies carefully stored over decades, each one a piece of their father-daughter connection, each bottle a story on a shelf.

As Jaime-Sue spoke, the busy market around us seemed to fade away, and her stories pulled me into her world. Anthony had learned to let his other senses guide him with these annual whisky tastings. In the glow of her voice, I could almost see the quiet evenings he spent slowly sipping each whisky year after year, appreciating the journey Jaime-Sue had made to find a bottle worthy of his glass. She earned a greater appreciation for whisky along the way too, deepening her understanding of whisky and sharing in her father’s passion. It was a bond, unspoken yet profound, forged over time.

Last Christmas, that bottle of Diony made it all the way to Fleur-de-lys, Newfoundland, where it would eventually find its way into a glass chilled by ancient iceberg ice—a bit of the Arctic itself—set against a backdrop of blue Atlantic Ocean.

In Canada, ice is never just ice. To most Canadians, it’s a seasonal gift, something more than what sits in a cold freezer tray. It’s a symbol of resilience and beauty, shaped by the elements. In Red Deer, every early winter, ice might mean frosty mornings and scraping windshields; over 120 years ago, in Quebec, ice was once sawed into blocks to be horse-pulled out of the Saint Lawrence River to make ice palaces. For Anthony, living on Newfoundland’s coast, ice is a drifting marvel brought down from Greenland each spring, floating past his home on the Labrador Current.

Back in 1984, he started a ritual he called “ice fishing.” Armed with a net and an axe, Anthony would take his small boat out each year, pulling chunks of pure iceberg ice—over 10,000 years old—onto his deck. It became his signature ingredient in a blackcurrant wine he’d perfected over decades, a drink that held both his heritage and the Arctic’s soul.

The icebergs off Newfoundland, however, demand respect. He cautions others not to approach the towering and pointed ones but rather to focus on the flatter, more stable masses of ice land. He recalls fishermen who would approach smaller icebergs, collecting the melting runoff in kettles for drinking water on long fishing trips. The icebergs are unpredictable; some tower above the sea like buildings, while others rest low and flat, much safer for collecting its precious water offering.

But iceberg ice also carried a deeper meaning for Anthony, rooted in his family’s history. His father had lost a son to thin ice one tragic winter—a memory that haunted him and reminded Anthony of nature’s power and human fragility. Perhaps, gathering iceberg ice every year became a way of honouring both the beauty and danger of these frozen waters, a private tribute to people lost to unforgiving ice.

Today, Anthony is older, and the icebergs drift by less often. The blackcurrants, once abundant, no longer grow where they once did, a quiet reminder of how the changing times have altered the land. While he may no longer go ‘ice fishing,’ his legacy of that wine, made from the icebergs’ ancient water and the blackcurrants he once harvested, remains close to his heart. The memories of those frozen giants stay with him, a quiet tribute to resilience, both of the land and the people shaped by it. Sharing a glass of Diony whisky over Newfoundland iceberg ice now seems fitting, a way of celebrating Anthony’s story, the bond he shares with Jaime-Sue, and Canada’s spirit of connection across generations and landscapes.

As you take your next sip, remember that every story, like every glass, carries its own journey—one that’s worth savouring.