My first post about visiting Scotland was mostly about going there to meet a baby. Rest assured, curious reader, that we did more than that. When four adults are in the Highlands and don’t make the trip to a distillery, something is very wrong.
Our choice was the Glenmorangie whisky distillery, a bright and welcoming orange beacon in the countryside. The distillery beckoned us in, the humming of the machinery like a siren’s call.
Fun fact #1: the ‘morangie’ in ‘Glenmorangie’ is pronounced just like ‘orange-y’. Seems kinda obvious when you think about it. The ‘Glen’ is pronounced… ‘glen’.
We signed up for the tour. It turns out you’re not allowed to take photos, have your phone switched on, or in fact use any electronic devices on the distillery tour. This is because ‘there’s too much alcohol in the air’. We have yet to decide on whether this is true or just an inventive way of combatting espionage.
In any case, the scent of malted barley hits you with the force of a Scottish bunkhouse fire door. As does the carbon dioxide if you’re brave (read: stupid) enough to take the tour guide’s suggestion and stick your face into a washback. The four of us leant in like troopers and were rewarded with extremely clear sinuses. One small ooy got a nosebleed which lasted for the rest of the tour.
Fun fact #2: the giant copper stills used to make the whisky are roughly the same height as an adult male giraffe. I think we were told this to take our minds off the heat. One end of the room was open to the air, but it felt like an oven. An oven full of hot copper giraffes.
Fun fact #3: Glenmorangie is made by the ‘Men of Tain’. There was once a sole Woman of Tain, but she no longer works there. The four of us exchanged glances, silently vowing to submit that job application as soon as we got home.
At the end of the tour, finally, we sat down for our free wee dram. Which led to the kicker: turns out I don’t actually like the taste of whisky. Who knew.
