Why Hyperphantasia and Synaesthesia Are Changing How I Think About Whisky Tastings

*A quick note before we dive in: I haven't been professionally diagnosed with hyperphantasia or synaesthesia. What I'm about to share comes from months of research, connecting the dots between scientific literature and my own experiences, and realising that "oh, so that's why I'm like this." If you're reading this thinking "wait, that sounds like me," you might want to explore it further too.

I see colours when I taste whisky. Not just colours, actually. Entire scenes that unfold in my mind's eye, moving and shifting with each sip. When I tasted the Benriach Malting Season Edition 2, I didn't just note "custard and malt" in my notes. I watched a floating ribbon of custard drift through the air, with a thread of malt weaving in and out of it, dancing together in a way that felt completely natural to me.

For years, I genuinely thought everyone experienced spirits this way. Turns out, I was wrong. Bit embarrassing, really.

Understanding What's Actually Happening

It wasn't until after becoming a mum (when my senses decided to go into overdrive in ways no one warned me about) that I started describing my tasting experiences out loud. The puzzled looks told me everything I needed to know. Apparently, not everyone watches custard ribbons dance in their mind when drinking whisky. Who knew?

Through some fascinating research and self-discovery, I've come to understand that I likely have both olfactory-visual and gustatory-visual synaesthesia combined with hyperphantasia. That might sound like I'm making up words to feel special, but bear with me.

Synaesthesia is when one sense triggers automatic experiences in another sense. In my case, tastes and smells trigger colours, shapes, and visual patterns. Gustatory-visual synaesthesia is relatively uncommon (it's reported by just under 6% of people who have synaesthesia), so I suppose I can add "rare brain wiring" to my CV.

What makes my experience particularly vivid is that it's paired with hyperphantasia. This refers to visual imagery "as vivid as real seeing," affecting around 3% of the population. Research has shown that people with hyperphantasia are more likely to experience synaesthesia. When these two conditions combine, something quite special happens. Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself.

How It Works (Or Why My Brain Is Extra)

Here's what happens when I taste whisky:

First, the synaesthesia kicks in. When I smell or taste a spirit, my brain automatically produces colours or abstract shapes. This happens before conscious thought, and I genuinely can't stop it even if I tried (and trust me, I've tried during particularly boring industry presentations). That initial yellow swatch I saw with the Benriach? That's the synaesthetic response doing its thing.

Then, the hyperphantasia takes over. My brain grabs that initial colour and goes "right, what can we build with this?" The colour becomes an object (like that custard ribbon), other elements appear, and suddenly I'm watching a full scene develop with movement and spatial relationships. It's like having a very enthusiastic interior designer living in my head who only works with abstract sensory concepts.

The result is a complete, multisensory experience that's part neurological hardwiring (synaesthesia) and part elaborate mental construction (hyperphantasia).

When I describe The Macallan 18 as "a sparkler shooting out confetti of dried figs and plums mixed with golden sparks into a deep burgundy darkness," I'm not trying to sound pretentious or impress anyone. That's genuinely what I'm experiencing. The Glen Scotia Double Cask Rum Cask Finish really does feel like watching a 90s ice cream commercial, complete with the soft-focus lighting and everything.

I'm Not Alone (Thank God)

The brilliant thing I've discovered is that I'm far from alone in experiencing spirits this way. Once I started talking about my sensory experiences openly (read: stopped worrying people would think I'd lost the plot), I found others in the industry who quietly experience something similar.

Gregg Glass, the Master Whisky Maker at Fettercairn, openly discusses his synaesthesia. He describes his experiences as "tastes in colour," and it inspired the entire Vanguard Series release. They even brought in musicians Kathryn Joseph and Barry Burns of Mogwai to create music based on his tasting notes. Now that's commitment to embracing your brain's quirks.

In the wider food and drinks world, there's Jaime Smith, a sommelier in Las Vegas who experiences smells as colours and shapes. For him, a white wine like Nosiola has a "beautiful aquamarine, flowy, kind of wavy colour to it." Then there's Taria Camerino, an American pastry chef who experiences emotions and other senses as tastes, and she's created entire menus around these experiences.

Even Heston Blumenthal, the chef behind The Fat Duck, has mentioned having synaesthesia as a child. He's used it to inform his multisensory approach to cooking, creating dishes that engage all the senses simultaneously.

But for every person who speaks openly about it, there are countless others who've learned to translate their vivid sensory experiences into traditional tasting vocabulary, worried they might sound odd or unprofessional. And that's the gap I want to address.

The Problem With How We Taste Now

The spirits industry has become brilliant at product positioning. We have beautiful tasting notes, carefully crafted brand stories, and expert presenters who can paint a picture of a whisky before you've even nosed it.

But somewhere along the way, we've forgotten something crucial: the individual experience.

When someone tells you what you should be tasting before you've lifted the glass, it shapes what you perceive. You're no longer discovering, you're seeking validation that you're "getting it right." And honestly? That's rubbish. That's not how sensory perception actually works.

Whether you have synaesthesia, hyperphantasia, or a completely "normal" brain (whatever that means), your experience of spirits is uniquely yours. Someone might taste that BenRiach and think of toffee apples. Someone else might get fresh brioche. Another person might experience something I've never even considered. And they're all equally valid.

Enter Sensory Tastings (Where I Actually Let People Think)

This is why I'm passionate about bringing sensory tastings to the spirits industry.

Picture this: a dimly lit room. Eyes closed. Everyone with their own glass, their own time, and their own experience. No one telling you what you should be tasting. You're simply nosing the whisky, writing down what comes to you, then tasting and noting your own impressions. Only then do we open our eyes and share.

The conversations that emerge are extraordinary. Instead of everyone parroting the same tasting notes (boring), you get genuine diversity of experience. Someone shares a memory. Another person describes a colour or scene. Someone else talks about a texture or feeling. And suddenly, we're not just tasting whisky. We're exploring the genuinely fascinating differences in how humans perceive the world.

It's Personal, and That's the Entire Point

My goal with sensory tastings isn't to make everyone taste whisky the way I do (that would be neurologically impossible anyway, and frankly, exhausting for everyone involved). It's to create space for everyone to discover how they taste whisky, free from influence and expectation.

Research shows that people with hyperphantasia often have enhanced autobiographical memory and imagination, which means my experiences with spirits become vivid, memorable moments. But you don't need hyperphantasia or synaesthesia to benefit from mindful, uninfluenced tasting. You just need curiosity and the willingness to trust your own perception.

This approach works for everyone. Curious consumers wanting to develop their palate. Industry professionals looking to reconnect with their own sensory experiences. Brands wanting to understand how real people actually experience their products without the marketing filter.

Because at the end of the day, whisky isn't just about what's in the bottle. It's about the moment when liquid meets palate, and something unique happens. Something different for every single person who tastes it.

And that diversity of experience? That's worth celebrating. Even if it means admitting you see dancing custard ribbons when no one else does.