Like so many Australians, I'd made various trips to the Hunter, Yarra and Clare valleys as well as my favourite wine region - the Mornington Peninsula - and knew my way, reasonably, around the heavy fragrance of a shiraz compared to the peppery notes of a spicy pinot.

But I knew almost nothing about the differences between whiskies - just that a single malt was supposedly the most prestigious sort to like.

Our flamboyant host, Peter Prentice, proved a remarkable tutor. Over the course of a trip to three Speyside distilleries - Glenlivet, Aberlour and Strathisla (home of Chivas Regal and the Royal Salute) - I learnt not just about how a composition can make a blend so delectable, but also how sherry casking can make some undrinkable (to me). I also learnt that the delicate craftsmanship of the whisky-makers is most certainly akin to that of the best Australian winemakers.

While a wine's flavour is variable, depending on the conditions of that year, whisky is a consistent flavour, but striking the balance is a chemist's delicate dance.

While picnicking at Speyside, we learnt not just the remarkable history of how Scotland's Highland whisky continued to flourish during the English suppression after the Jacobite rebellion in the 1700s but also how the slightly harder water supplying the distillery from the nearby Carn na Bruar made the whisky the region's best. So much so that the moonshine was requested by King George IV for his grand parties during his state visit to Edinburgh in 1822.

Seven whiskies later two things became evident: whisky is less about the quality of the water used during the distilling process and much more about the casking and maturation.

Quickly I learnt that the Christmas-cake and dried-fruits scents that I liked on first sniff of the whisky (the nose) did not translate to an equally delectable flavour. Rather, I found the sherry casking too sharp and alcoholic when it hit my tongue.

American white-oaked whiskeys, on the other hand, proved to be a favourite. Far more gentle, they danced playfully around my mouth, emitting mellow, often caramelly vanilla flavours.

It was at this point we were introduced to the banana. When our host asked if anyone could smell banana (and pineapple) notes we all burst out laughing. But it would become the question and answer 30 drams later (a dram is an eighth of a fluid ounce), as our noses developed and we learnt to recognise the subtle aromas of each whisky. And indeed, banana, or at least a ''banoffee'' flavour, was a constant top note.

While preferring to take my whisky neat, I began to appreciate how water made it behave in different ways, exhibiting flavours that had previously been subordinate.

Touring Scotland's whisky trail taught me two things: firstly, whisky is similar to wine in that it is  an acquired taste.

Then there is the depressing reality that modern distilling requires very little man-power. Don't expect to see too many human faces on a distillery floor. As is the case in so many industries, robots and machines have displaced what used to be entire communities built around a production line. Now these are relegated to black-and-white photographs.