Day 5 (cont.): Glenmorangie & the Indianna Jones flex
A toddler is no match for the GOAT himself.
Everything about The Glenmorangie Distillery was a big whisky-soaked YES. Perched by the sea like it knows it’s the main character, this place has it all: majestic old stone buildings from a past life now housing thousands of slumbering casks, quietly turning into liquid gold. It’s part fairytale, part fermentation.
Before the tour even began, we wandered into the onsite museum, and the biggest flex in the room wasn’t an ancient cask or vintage bottle, but a mini-series featuring none other than Harrison Ford. That’s right. Indiana Jones himself, casually lending his face to Glenmorangie. You know you’re a big deal when one of Hollywood’s GOATs is on your payroll. Glenmorangie understood the assignment.
When we arrived for the tour, the payment system had thrown in the towel at reception and the gift shop— we couldn’t pay. But in true Highland hospitality, they waved us through anyway. Free tour? Don’t mind if we do.
This made the need to exit stage left more palatable when Lark, not yet old enough to appreciate the confidently presented facts of a distillery tour, made it about six minutes before going full protest. RaRa executed a swift and silent exit. The guide didn’t miss a beat — gave a knowing nod and said, with the gravitas of someone who’s seen things: “Dad’s on baby duty. Mum’s on whisky,” with a raised eyebrow that said all is right in the world.
With child-wrangling outsourced, I could properly enjoy the magic — and three moments in particular stole the show.
First, the unmistakable smell of fermentation: a pungent punch to the back of the nostrils, delivered with both aggression and flair. Imagine a truckload of roasted wasabi colliding with a high school science experiment.
Then, the room of stills: towering copper beauties the height of fully grown male giraffes, standing in perfect formation like a world-famous K-pop band mid-performance. They shimmered. They steamed. They had presence.
Next came the storage house, rich with the smell of whisky-soaked wood and secrets — secrets being code for that musty, earthy, basement aroma. We learnt how Glenmorangie meticulously selects and chars their barrels, only using each one twice before it’s deemed not flavourful enough. Diva behaviour, but honestly? Respect.
Naturally, we couldn’t leave empty-handed, especially after the kind Highland hospitality. So we did what any grateful whisky-loving vanlifers would do: we hit the gift shop and picked up two limited edition bottles — Tokyo and Ice Cream. One a present for RaRa. The other, a tasty souvenir of gratitude. The names sound like fever dreams from the rock star head distiller, but the flavours promise to be Glenmorangie: smooth, surprising, and just a little bit outrageous.
Call it karma. Call it whisky diplomacy. Either way, we all left a little better off.
And if you’re ever in the Highlands, I highly, highly recommend a visit. The Glenmorangie Distillery is a slick operation — confidently polished, unapologetically premium. Especially if you’re used to the more artisanal whisky joints back home in Australia, where the vibe leans more “craft beer start-up with a smoker out back” than “global titan with Harrison Ford on speed dial.” Glenmorangie knows who it is — and it delivers.
After Glenmorangie, we hit the road — our dreams bigger than before we arrived — only to crash back to reality with a new nappy emergency and a much-needed supply stop at the local supermarket. Arriving too late to the next destination, Glenrobin Castle just 30 minutes up the road, we detoured into Golspie after finding an approved overnight motorhome spot at the Golspie Beach Carpark.
