Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  Graham: Nice thought. I’ve never smoked so I would probably just choke and die.

  Sam: That was the idea.

  Graham’s eyebrows rise up to the roof and his mouth opens.

  Graham: Why is the engine making that whirr whirr sound?

  Sam: Sh*t, wrong gear.

  Graham: I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of a parrot cage – I need a latte.

  Graham always needs a latte. On the set of Outlander, Graham’s catchphrase was ‘I’ll have a latte,’ and he swiftly became known as Lady McTavish for being so high-maintenance, the polar opposite of his hard-core warlord character in Outlander, Dougal MacKenzie. And, if Graham has low blood sugar, we are doomed. Honestly, the man runs on his stomach. It’s necessary to keep him grazing constantly. I normally sink a couple of black coffees to jog my brain out of its slumber in the morning and perhaps eat a bowl of steaming porridge. But Graham will have porridge, a full cooked breakfast, toast, yoghurt . . . Always one to order a starter, main and possibly cheeseboard, he also is the first to ask for the accompanying wine list. I usually go straight to the whisky collection.

  GRAHAM

  In my defence, I am not high-maintenance, I am just a person who needs coffee at all times of the day and, when I arrive on set, or anywhere such as a hotel, I like to know some simple information: where I can put my belongings, where I can sit down, where the coffee is and what time breakfast is served . . .

  Sam: . . . And lunch and tea and dinner, all organised whilst you’re still eating breakfast.

  Graham: I just like to know when my next meal is.

  Sam: There’s fruit and protein bars in the glovebox.

  SAM

  I glance over and realise His Ladyship is already surrounded by empty wrappers, covertly munching. FFS, Graham.

  He smiles at me. When did I first meet this man? Had it been love at first sight? I can’t remember. I cast my mind back . . . We were in a small, hot studio in Soho, London. I sat with some of the executive producers and the casting team of Outlander. I was ‘reading in’ for several actors auditioning for the parts of Dougal MacKenzie and Colum MacKenzie, brothers and fearsome clan leaders. Dougal was a hot-headed war chief and Colum was a crippled politician and arch-manipulator. Jamie had mixed loyalties to both men and, even though they were his uncles, there was a great deal of mistrust.

  First up was Tim McInnerny (Captain Darling in Blackadder) to audition for both characters. He actually went on to play Father Bain, a priest who accuses Claire of being a witch and had a rather sticky moment during shooting with a pack of overzealous wild dogs; still has all his fingers, though. Then came Graham McTavish; sporting a salmon-pink or maroon sweater, he was charming and confident. We played a couple of scenes and I remember trying to intimidate him as Jamie, getting in his face. He was taller than I expected and didn’t back down, his white beard [Graham: It wasn’t white then. That only happened on this trip.] bristling in my face as he threatened me. Who knew that years later I would be sharing a smelly camper van and riding a rickety tandem bicycle with him along the shores of Loch Awe on our own TV show.

  GRAHAM

  I met Sam for the first time in August 2013. I’d just finished The Hobbit trilogy – two and a half years of running all over New Zealand dressed as a dwarf. A life experience like no other. Prosthetics, a seventy-pound costume, lifelong friendships forged amidst a 750-million-dollar budget. It had been amazing and I was ready for something new. Something without prosthetics. I remember the producer telling me they’d expected to find it very difficult to cast Jamie Fraser but they’d found him straight away. His name was Sam Heughan. I googled him, of course. Handsome, almost to the point of annoying, and very little in the way of credits, he’d just landed the lead in a major multimillion-dollar TV show based on an incredibly popular series of books (seven at that point) – so a ‘multi-season option’. That lucky bastard, I thought, and immediately hated him.

  I arrived and, yes, was first greeted by Sam. Firstly, he was tall; for a moment I thought, Is this swine taller than me? [Sam: Yes!] I’m used to being the tallest person on set and it’s a source of great pride that Richard Armitage had to have lifts in his shoes to get him to my height in The Hobbit, even though we were both dwarves!

  Sam seems to believe I was wearing a salmon-pink or maroon jumper. Firstly, it was boiling. I wouldn’t have worn a jumper, unless I wanted Dougal MacKenzie to be sweating like a footballer in a spelling test. Secondly, I would never wear salmon pink. Maroon – possibly. It was more likely a T-shirt, or a shirt. Something fitted, to hopefully make me look muscular! Of course, Sam always looks muscular. He is getting more muscular on a daily basis. I suspect in the time I’ve taken to write this paragraph Sam’s muscles have grown – noticeably. He was big in Season One; by Season Eight no horse will be able to carry his sheer bulk of muscularity. Every close-up will have to be done on a wide lens. But I digress. Sam was, I think, wearing a T-shirt. Tighter than mine.

  I do remember being impressed he had a firm handshake. I place great store by someone’s handshake. Jamie Fraser cannot have a limp handshake. Talking of Jamie, I gather he’s described in the books as being as tall as the hearth of a particularly spacious fireplace. By those standards, Sam is somewhat vertically challenged. But I do remember being won over by his sheer openness and honesty. He put me instantly at my ease. Sam was destined to play Jamie Fraser because he is exactly as you imagine – a thoroughly kind-hearted bloke, with a streak of insanity.

  Seven years on, here we are on the road in a margarine tub on wheels. Roads in this part of Scotland are blissfully uninterrupted by turn-offs. General George Wade was the British officer who came up with the idea that troops would benefit from actual roads (some would describe this is as patently obvious, given that the Romans seemed to have managed to grasp this concept 2,000 years earlier) and when he built his roads into the Highlands in the eighteenth century as a way of ‘civilising’ the Highlanders and bringing them to heel, he wasn’t much bothered about byways and lay-bys. Our turning was going to be on the right, probably the only one for twenty miles . . . and Sam missed it.

  ‘We’ve gone too far,’ I say.

  Sam: Really?

  Graham: Yes. We just passed it.

  There followed a terrifying turnaround to go back the way we came. I think sheep stopped mid-chew to look on in wonder at the mangling of the gearbox and the revving of the Fiat Fallacious. Highland cows hung their shaggy heads in shame. Fortunately, the road was deserted of traffic.

  As we finally take the turn we had missed, we judder onto the single-track road and soon Sam is gathering pace. I gird my loins. There is another car coming in the opposite direction. ‘Car! Car!’ I say like an injured crow. We come to an abrupt standstill and stare at the driver of the black Audi. He looks at us with palpable contempt. We encourage him to go backwards with hand gestures. He replies with a jabbing finger – it is we who must go back. ‘You have to reverse, you’ve done it before,’ I tell Sam. ‘I can’t! There’s no way,’ he replies. We shake our heads and point back at the Audi driver, who is looking menacing.

  [Sam: It was a BMW driver. Only gentlemen drive Audis.]

  [Graham: You would say that with your free Q59 Sporty Turbo E-schlong or whatever.] (More on his free stuff later . . .)

  SAM

  Finally the BMW driver [Graham: Audi – I have the footage] gets the message and, realising we are not moving, he reverses to a spot where we can pass. We wave, thanking him; he sneers at our battered motorhome. Not initially a fan either, I am getting quite a crush on the camper. A little further down the way there is a man with a long shaggy beard and hair walking determinedly down the centre of the road. He refuses to let us pass for a good fifteen minutes – he looks like Duncan Lacroix. Maybe it is Duncan? He sits down by the side of the road, staring up at the sky, a mad look in his eye. Yup, definitely could be him.

  Graham: Where are we actually going?

  Sam: Whisky tasting.

>   Graham: What? It’s nine in the morning.

  Sam: Hair of the dog, you auld dog.

  Graham: Bring it on, Young Pretender.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Freedom and Whisky Gang Thegither

  ‘Scotch Drink’ by Robert Burns (1785)

  O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!

  Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,

  Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

  In glorious faem,

  Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,

  To sing thy name!

  GRAHAM

  We enter the sixteenth-century Clachaig Inn, which until recently bore the sign, ‘No Hawkers or Campbells!’ – meaning neither were allowed inside. It’s strange to be in a pub at nine in the morning. It reminds me of parties I woke up at in my early twenties. The place reeks of stale booze. The only thing missing are people passed out on the floor, however. The place is empty, save for the band: four men in a corner surrounded by their instruments, looking strangely incongruous.

  Sam introduces me to Richard Goslan from the Scotch Malt Whisky Society (SMWS) who has several bottles of whisky and tasting glasses arranged on a table in front of him. My liver stiffens. As a young man it was always beer. It was the very first thing I drank at fifteen in my local pub – the One Oak in Frimley, Surrey. I started with lager. Then I moved on to ale. I used to love Deuchars IPA (a fine Scots brew), and I have tried many in Scotland. Another favourite was Traquair ale (brewed at Traquair House in the Borders). For a long time Scottish beer was rubbish. Nothing could rival their English counterparts with their bewildering number of brews: Abbots, Sam Smiths, Greene King, Fuller’s London Pride, even Boddingtons. The list is long. Scotland had Tennent’s (flavoured lavatory water).

  SAM

  Having been the face of Tennent’s for three years or more, I felt this attack was coming. I played Hugh Tennent and I love the stuff! It’s Scotland’s unofficial ‘other’ national drink, besides whisky, water, Irn Bru, Buckfast, gin . . . etc. I played the creator of the marvellous brew, who journeyed to Germany and brought back a Pilsner yeast, which is still used today. Not only did I get to drink a ton of the stuff, play with monkeys and get VIP passes to Scotland’s largest music festival, T in the Park, sponsored by Tennent’s, I also had a butler in the commercials, played by Tim Downie. We became great friends, travelling to Prague by tour bus, filled with lager, and also South Africa, where I first climbed Table Mountain. Tim now plays Governor Tryon in Season Five of Outlander and is excellent as the power hungry ‘Gov’. He also happens to be one of the funniest men I know and I’ll be inviting him to be my next travelling companion if you don’t shut yer gob, McTavish.

  GRAHAM

  As I said, Tennent’s is like water from a clatty shitter. (Heughan will promote anything – he’s one job away from haemorrhoid cream.) And McEwan’s has the aromatic taste of swamp water, with a dead wildebeest in it. But things have improved. Now Scotland boasts a bewildering choice of excellent craft breweries such as Stewart Brewing and Fallen Brewery, as well as some of the best gin I’ve ever tasted, including Isle of Harris gin infused with sugar kelp. However, these days – and I am loath to admit it – given the choice I’d rather go for a chilled New Zealand Sauvignon, or a Pinot Noir from Central Otago any day. [Sam: Blasphemy! String him up!]

  I wish I was the whisky-drinker Sam is. I stand in admiration as he chooses a whisky, casting his eye appreciatively over the selection, murmuring with surprise at a particular bottle he’s not tried before. Ordering with confidence, tasting with élan. You can see the barman realises this is a man who knows his shit. I just stand there nodding impressively, once again managing to look like I know what I’m doing without actually having a clue. And Sam and I have sampled some good ones. We both went to an Italian fan convention where our green room was furnished with a 1939 Laphroiag (listed at an eye watering $40,000 per bottle), a 1953 Mortlach and a 1970 Glenfarclas. Incredible.

  And now, Richard and Sam are waiting for me to choose which whisky to sample and it’s not that I don’t like whisky, please don’t get me wrong, it’s just I don’t know what I like at nine in the morning nursing a hangover, after a bowel-loosening drive with Heughan. I point randomly at one. Richard hands me a glass. Sam has his nostrils all over it, breathing in the notes of Scotland like a professional ‘nose’ – a real job in the perfume industry. (Some ‘noses’ have their snouts insured for millions.)

  And, he of the rusty roof has his own whisky, don’t you know. Of course, he does. The aftershave’s in the pipeline. No, it really is.

  SAM

  You need a splash of ‘Hero by Heughan’ cos you smell like an old soak. And, you’ve brought your breakfast in yer beard, I see. I expected better.

  The concentration of driving a boat on wheels has made me parched; as we say in these parts, my thrapple is dry. Richard hands us a glass of twenty-six-year-old cask-strength whisky distilled in the Black Isle in the northern Highlands at a gentle 46.9% proof.

  All: Slainte!

  Graham looks at me sheepishly as he takes a sip. He struggles to swallow. Richard explains it’s cask-strength, meaning it’s not watered down. I love the stronger stuff – it’s heavier on the tongue and feels special. If you’re a fan of Scotch, even just ‘nosing’ a whisky and smelling the sugars or flavours can be very enjoyable. The clear liquid takes on the colour and flavours of each barrel, such as French oak, as many are aged in barrels that previously held bourbon or sweet wine. As they age, the whisky deepens, becoming more balanced and less fiery, with notes of butterscotch, cinnamon, honey, leather, citrus and tobacco. The smell can transport you . . .

  Graham: You remind me of Jilly Goolden.

  Sam: Who?

  Graham: Never mind, before your time. Similar hairstyle.

  Richard recommends a wee splash of water with cask-strength whisky, which breaks up the oils and releases more flavour. Scotch. No other drink is named after a country, which is why whisky is more than just a drink for me. When I’m feeling homesick, I’ll have a dram. It brings me great comfort: the smell brings back memories of Scotland; the taste takes me home. It’s a huge part of Scottish culture and has been produced all over the world for hundreds of years. Back in the day, before the licensing act of 1780, many Highlanders distilled their own fire-water, particularly in north-eastern Scotland, due to their proximity to grain-producing farms. As whisky’s popularity grew over the centuries, five distilling regions emerged: the Lowlands, Campbeltown, Highland, Isles and Speyside. It’s believed the ‘terroir’ – water, climate, soil, topography and surrounding plants – influence each batch, giving it a unique flavour.

  Many crofters supported themselves by generating income from the sale of their whisky. The earliest written record of Uisge-beatha, ‘Water of Life’, is in the Scottish Exchequer Rolls for 1494, where there is an entry of ‘eight bolls of malt to Friar John Cor wherewith to make aquavitae’. A boll was an old Scottish measure of not more than six bushels. (One bushel is equivalent to 25.4 kilograms). Shared around the hearth, it would ‘bond’ men together as they exchanged stories and banter, just as it does today, even with Graham’s stinky chat. Oops, he’s slumping. ‘Sit up, Graham.’ Honestly, it’s like going out with yer granddad. Next he’ll be telling stories from the war . . .

  GRAHAM

  By 9.15am I am already drunk . . . again. More alarmingly, so is Sam. We soldier on through whiskies drawn from all of the whisky-making regions. We begin with the ‘lighter’ malt, which feels like I’m gargling lighter fuel, but with every dram the whisky becomes more delicious and different in flavour to the last. My palette is happy; however, my liver is back working like a pit pony to keep this show on the road. After five or six (I honestly can’t remember) I am officially ‘aff ma heid’. I can’t remember my favourite but we both agreed upon the same one. Which one was it again?

  Sam: The Speyside.

  Graham: Oh yes.

  Sam gets up and disappears, probab
ly to refill his hip flask(s) with the cask-strength Scotch. (He drinks in secret.) However, I find out he’s actually gone to get changed into yet another outfit and is being primped by his personal make-up artist – the wonderful Wendy from Outlander. Oh yes, he travels with his make-up artist so she can work her contouring magic and draw on a six-pack if he suddenly needs one. Wendy did my make-up in the car park earlier, but I couldn’t help thinking compared to Golden Balls she was polishing a turd. Sam’s make-up is lovingly and extensively applied.

  Sam: Right to reply.

  Graham: Denied.

  Sam returns more youthful and glowing, like Odysseus after the goddess Athena has worked her magic, and in the time-honoured tradition of television we pretend to meet the band (Fras) who just ‘happen’ to be in the pub, preparing for a rousing evening with the locals. The fact that the bar is bereft of locals, and only has a motley collection of film crew in it, is one of the magical wonders of film-making. But having been loosened up by the whisky we are ready for a good old sing-song. The musicians – Murdo, Angus and Cailean – are amazing as they play a local tune called ‘Three Crowns’. I’ve always envied the effortlessness of someone who is a master of their craft and these boys are masters. We stomp our feet and I forget for one blissful moment that I am in an empty bar with a film crew.

  There are Jacobite connections to many famous Scottish tunes such as the nineteenth-century ‘Skye Boat Song’, used over the opening credits of Outlander. The song recalls the journey Bonnie Prince Charlie made from Benbecula in the Outer Hebrides to Skye, after evading capture at the Battle of Culloden in 1746, which put paid to the dream of a restoration of the Stuarts to the throne. [Sam: The Bonnie Prince escapes dressed as a woman – he was a very forward-thinking man!]

  Recently experts at Durham University even claim ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ is a coded Jacobite ode to Charles Edward Stuart. And, of course, there’s ‘The Bonnie Banks O’ Loch Lomond’ . . .