by Sam Heughan
(Attention Barbara Broccoli, there are some serious hints being dropped here.)
It’s a truly breathtaking journey across the loch. The sun is dipping in the west, casting shadows that film-makers the world over describe as ‘the golden hour’. We’re followed by our camera crew who bellow at a distance to try and keep us in shot. We arrive at an outcrop of rocks covered in lichen. [Sam: I think it’s more likely seaweed, Grey Dog.] [Graham: Thank you, Monty Don.] Robert explains getting off might be treacherous as the rocks are very slippery. This is where Sam’s outfit comes into its own. He is wearing some specialised gripping rubber booties, turning him into some sort of ginger salamander. I think I might be wearing tap shoes. Sam duly hauls us in and I gingerly (no pun intended) step off the boat, managing to reach dry land without making a complete arse of myself. The boat securely tied, we set off.
SAM
I am the first to jump onto the slippery rocks. Thick seaweed obscures them from view. I scramble across and find dry land, pulling the rope and boat with me. Graham tentatively looks over the edge of the boat and, yet again, refuses to budge. ‘No, it’s too dangerous,’ he squawks at the crew on a separate yacht, filming the action. Odds on Graham taking an early bath look slim. With some cajoling and a little encouragement, he takes his first step. I have to turn my back so he can’t see me laughing. I pray the crew are recording this as he yells at them again, while Alex Norouzi tries to apply some Germanic common sense to the situation. ‘Ja, ja, take your time, und be wery careful, Gray-ham.’
‘I am being careful, it’s just bloody treacherous, Alex!’ Gray-ham howls. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He’s puffing and sweating even more than usual as he, inch by inch, makes his way over to me, like an ancient bald crab, until he is finally on the burial island.
Small and hidden from the mainland by thick trees and rocks, it’s claimed Alasdair MacDonald (MacIain of Glencoe) was buried here after the massacre in 1692, along with many others. It was also the burial site of local families such as the MacInneses, MacDonalds, Campbells and Stuarts. As we near the peak of a hill and come out of the trees, a dramatic sunset is framed before us and we are greeted by a truly breathtaking sight: rows of headstones, all facing east (towards Jerusalem in the Christian tradition), the setting sun illuminating them from behind.
Uninhabited, the island has an ancient chapel, first built by Saint Fintan Munnu in the seventh century. The last service to be held in the church was in 1653, with the last burial almost fifty years ago. We have literally stepped back in time. There’s an eerie feeling; the only inhabitants are seagulls overhead, screaming at the living. To walk in the same footsteps of those clansmen carrying the remains of their loved ones who had fallen in battle or died in the massacre hundreds of years before is discombobulating.
Our guide explains that, depending on your status you could have been just left on the ground; those more important would have been buried, but with no depth of soil the remains were barely covered. Mercifully, no bodies are visible in the long grass and we stick to the trail in case we stumble upon some . . . body.
The gravestones, hundreds of years old, look as unruly as their inhabitants, sitting at various angles, now crumbling away. We are led to one in particular, which reads:
My glass has run.
Yours is running
Be wise in time
Your hour is coming.
Graham: Can’t beat a bit of black humour from beyond the grave. My tomb will bear the inscription: BLAME SAM HEUGHAN.
I wonder if I shouldn’t be so cavalier with my friend’s sensibilities. I will go easier on the Grey Dog, I think. As we enjoy the peaceful and beautiful sunset together, we feel lucky to share this moment with the inhabitants of those graves. I look at my good friend and smile. Instead of smiling back he looks at me with distrust. All he had to do was smile. But he didn’t so I immediately decide I will continue to f*ck with him for the rest of the trip.
As we scramble back to the boats I leap aboard the crew’s yacht and break open a bottle of whisky for everyone to share. ‘Where’s Graham?’ I ask, sitting on deck. I can now see him clambering back into the small boat, holding on with both hands, his life jacket bulging over the side. Nah, no need to take it easy. You can be sure, Mr Sensible will look after himself. ‘Cheers Graham!’ We raise our cups as the yacht accelerates away, leaving Graham looking mortified he’s missed out on the whisky and is stuck in a slower boat with a dour Scotsman. Ya snooze, ya lose!
And just wait until he sees what I’ve got planned for him tomorrow. I smirk into my dram.
CHAPTER SIX
Mounting Mountains
From ‘Night on the Mountain’ by George Sterling
The mountain seems no more a soulless thing,
But rather as a shape of ancient fear,
In darkness and the winds of Chaos born
Amid the lordless heavens’ thundering –
A Presence crouched, enormous and austere,
Before whose feet the mighty waters mourn
SAM
It has been an epic day and Graham is hungry and thirsty. No surprise there. After a quick shower and change, I find him already seated at our table in the hotel restaurant, fingering the wine list. He knows what he’s going to order and is pairing the wine. Of course, he is. The waitress brings him a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc and I see him visibly relax from uptight grandpa to his more debonair self.
I order an Oban whisky (a clean Highland spirit from the sea port) as the others start to come down for dinner. Wendy plonks her handbag on the chair next to me and I have Alex the German on the other side. Graham is flanked by Michelle and . . . Duncan Lacroix, who announces his entrance loudly with ‘Good evening, bastards!’ No one knew he was still here. And, at our expense.
Duncan tucks a napkin into his T-shirt and starts to scrutinise the menu. I can see he and McTavish are ready to do some culinary and alcoholic damage tonight. They go on little romantic holidays and gourmet breaks together, not that I’m jealous, but I’ve never been invited. Actually, I believe Duncan ends up being turned into a glorified babysitter for Graham’s children and resident chef, cooking most nights whilst Graham reclines with a fine wine. What a romantic couple!
What has Lacroix been doing all day, I wonder?
Wendy reads my mind. ‘What have you been doing with yourself, Murtagh the Squirter?’ she shouts at full Glaswegian volume.
Lacroix: Climbed a Munro, chased some sheep, had sex . . .
Wendy: Poor wee lamby.
Wendy laughs her arse off and high-fives Lacroix. The banter is classically blue as the crew starts to get the drinks in. Wendy orders a Jack Daniels and Coke (full fat), whilst Lacroix’s nose is buried in the wine list. He consults Graham. ‘Yes, I thought that one too. Excellent choice, Duncan,’ says Graham nodding in approval.
‘A bottle of Domaine Jean Monnier & Fils Puligny-Montrachet,’ says Lacroix in perfect French looking me straight in the eye and raising one of his thick black eyebrows. I raise my whisky glass at him as we order our food. I am eating vegan for thirty days so I go for the roasted root Wellington, with wild mushrooms. The abuse comes thick and fast.
McTavish and Lacroix have ordered a feast. I make a mental note to double the budget on Clanlands 2 to accommodate Lavish McTavish’s tastes.
Graham gobbles:
Hebridean scallops, seaweed tartar, parsnip puree, shallot crisp
Roast Atlantic cod, cockle & fennel broth, vitelotte mousseline & a side of spice roasted Brussels sprouts & crispy bacon
The Cheese Board with Isle of Mull Cheddar, Hebridean Blue,
The Highland Minger and Blue Murder cheese
with oatcakes and plum chutney.
All washed down with two bottles of white for the first courses (shared with Lacroix) and a couple of bottles of red with the cheese. I have a couple of whiskies and join everyone at the bar for a nightcap afterwards. High-maintenance Graham is now regaling us with tales of ‘a certain Elf’ on
The Hobbit who used to go crazy during stage fights suffering from ‘the red mist’. ‘He used to go mental at the stunt guys; he’s a really unpredictable guy.’ I always thought the actor in question looked like he needed feeding up but Graham makes him sound like Schwarzenegger.
It looks as though Lacroix and McLavish are settled in at the bar for the night but suddenly Graham looks at his watch, announces it’s been a long day – ‘a magnificent, life-changing day but it’s time for bed.’ Lacroix is as stunned as me. And off the grey goat saunters, trotting up the stairs like an eager billy.
What is he up to?
[Graham: Escaping alcoholic carnage, mainly.]
In the TV show we pretend Graham sleeps in the camper van but I’m not even going to try and spin that line because as you well know by now, the likelihood of him doing anything below five stars is truly remote.
Ten minutes later Wendy returns from a call to her husband. ‘Yous’ll never guess what?! Aye saw bug Graham smuggling a wee hairie in his room.’
***
The next morning I watch Graham like a hawk, hoping he will give away ‘a tell’ or a clue. I want to know what he’s been up to. He’s particularly energetic, humming his way around the breakfast buffet with his extra large Alan Partridge plate. I have finished my porridge and black coffee but Graham has a lot of work to do. He’s going for a ‘full Scottish’ cooked breakfast, followed by toast and preserves, granola, natural yoghurt and berries and . . . Is he doing what I think he’s doing? Yep. He’s wrapping a hard boiled egg and bread roll in a napkin along with most of the fruit bowl, and packing it in his knapsack for later. Clearly the man needs to replenish his energy after the night before. I’m sure I heard his guttural groaning and wheezing, much like an Outlander fight scene; I had buried my head in the pillow and longed for it to stop. The whisky (or lack of oxygen) must have knocked me out and I awoke the next morning.
I wonder if it’s time for him to have a blood sugar test. I mean he is fifty-nine, going on a hundred. He should definitely get a Well Man check-up. He’s in the prostate danger zone, too . . . I’m going to suggest it. Maybe even arrange for him to have one in the camper van, without his knowledge. Little surprise . . .
But not now.
Twenty minutes later we’re in the van. I look over at my camper companion who is now peeling a tangerine. It suddenly dawns on me I am doing all of the driving. I ask him if he would like to drive. ‘Absolutely not,’ he says picking the tiny white strands off an orange segment, which for some reason really annoys me.
I set off with the handbrake on again. Graham doesn’t say anything but I feel him silently judging me.
Sam: Soooo, early night . . .
Graham: Yes.
Sam: Up to something?
Graham: No.
Sam: Hmmmmm . . . are you sure?
Graham: I don’t know what you mean.
I narrow my eyes at him. I know what he’s been up to . . . Graham McTavish has been enjoying some how’s yer faither!
GRAHAM
Sam is scratching around trying to work out what I was up to last night but I will keep him guessing. It will drive him to despair, which is what his driving is doing to me. Yet again, he has set off with the handbrake on which is making me come to the conclusion that he might be terminally stupid. I mean many good-looking people are often not very bright, because, well, they don’t have to be. My theory is backed up by Sam’s tenuous understanding of a gearbox – like the numbering of 1–5 is somehow a riddle. And, if his driving isn’t bad enough, Fiat has failed to factor into their design of the Auto-Roller that anyone over six foot might consider sitting in the front. Perhaps it was designed for the vertically challenged Italian customer, but for Sam and me it is akin to being crammed into a shoebox. My knees are grazing the dashboard, my feet are starved of blood and my poor back feels as if it is propped against a particularly rough plank of wood. [Sam: Yet I have photographic evidence that he fell peacefully asleep, having a mid-morning, post-elevenses nap.]
Not that I can really complain amidst the majestic scenery. [Sam: Bloody good attempt, though.]
We are on our way to Glencoe Mountain Resort because, although Sam thinks it’s a surprise, Michelle, our eminently sensible executive producer, told me at dinner. Upon arrival, I unfold myself from the van and stretch myself back into my original shape. Allegedly there is snow here in winter good enough to ski on. I don’t ski. I have attempted it twice: once aged fourteen, and once a few years ago with my kids. The last attempt did not end well. Now I prefer to enjoy watching my children ski while I sip a latte and read a book. However, today the land is bereft of soft powder and instead, a rocky slope tufted with grass rises before us. I am staring up at the misty Munro, Meall a’ Bhuiridh when fans Glenn and Delilah the daughter heave into view wearing matching T-shirts with Sam’s face on it.
Graham: Hello ladies!
Glenn barely gives me a second glance but her daughter waves so I smile back. She’s a good-looking lass and they’ve only come to wish us well . . . Sam walks to the back of the camper – Delilah’s whole face lights up and Glenn swoons. They only have eyes for the Young Highlander – which is quite frankly ridiculous.
Sam is ruffled. ‘Morning ladies. Er, what brings you here?’
It is a pretty random place to be at 8am. For a moment I think the ladies might be joining us at the top of the mountain. Sam is posing for photos and is certainly more relaxed than he was at the Clachaig Pub. Or in the stairwell in Prague.
Photos over, Michelle starts to escort us to the chairlift. However, Glenn is insistent she comes along too ‘with the king of men’ and, her not being one to take no for an answer, we are soon breaking into a jog towards the chairlift, which is not something I have ever contemplated doing because I loathe chairlifts. There are two men helping at the lift. One is a corpulent Scotsman, purple of face and broad of waist. He is the operator. If we get to the top without him suffering a massive heart attack we’ll be lucky. His assistant is, well . . . a child. Literally a child. Maybe eleven years old. What happened to school? He is there to assist us in getting into the chairlift. Hmm. I fear he will be too busy ‘assisting’ his father/uncle/brother (or all three?) into an ambulance.
We are told to stand on a line and prepare to board the chairlift. I watch as the metal instrument of torture spins towards us. Sam insists on exchanging banter with the Artful Dodger, possibly slipping him money to make my journey as miserable as possible. The large man operating the lift controls the speed. This is the first time I realised that you could speed these things up. I’m pretty certain I detected a conspiratorial wink from Heughan. It’s time to get on board.
Strangely, moments later, I decide to tell Sam that I’m afraid of heights. What am I thinking? ‘It’s something I’ve dealt with quietly for a long time . . . I don’t like to make a fuss.’
The chair approaches. I look behind me. It swings around a tight 180 degrees and thunders towards us (well, ‘thunders’ may be an exaggeration). I lower myself backwards and hope for the best. The chair slams into my backside and I am swinging in mid air before I’ve even had a chance to hurl abuse at the Fat Controller! Sam glances across and smiles. Yes, one of those smiles. I look ahead, focusing on the chair in front (containing our camera department), and refuse to look down. ‘So you’re afraid of heights?’
‘Yes. I’m not as bad as I used to be but I’m still nervous in certain situations. Like now. So whatever you do please don’t start rocking the chair!’
Sam bides his time.
We chat. It’s actually quite fun. I look out across the hills. It’s beautiful. We are passing through the clouds to emerge into the light above. This is not too bad at all, methinks. Then he starts to shake the chair. I yelp, perhaps whimper. Then I adopt my stern father voice: ‘Stop shaking the chair, Sam!’
‘Sorry, buddy. Of course.’
We go on. Sam shakes the chair. This pattern more or less continues to the top only interrupted by m
e singing ‘Misty Mountains’ from The Hobbit just to stop the chair shaking.
SAM
As we get on the chairlift Graham tells me he’s scared of heights. I’d already suspected vertigo, which was why I suggested the chairlift in the first place. I sit down saying it’s like a comfy chair. Graham murmers, ‘Oh God,’ as he falls back heavily.
We glide up the mountain. ‘Don’t look down,’ I say leaning over and looking down.
Graham: ‘Don’t do that.’
Sam: ‘These chairs actually look quite old.’ I shift my weight.
Graham: ‘Don’t.’ I lean out to the left and back towards Graham.
Graham growls, ‘I mean it, Sam.’
He really does. So I behave myself. Well a bit. I want to get to the bottom of who was in his room last night.
Sam: Come on, who was the lucky lass?
Graham: There is no lucky lass.
Sam: Sure, okay you said it. Look at the waterfall below! We’re still yet to go in the water, big man.
Graham: Are you determined to make me suffer?
Sam: Only for my own amusement.
Graham starts singing ‘Misty Mountain’ from The Hobbit in revenge and it’s working. He is as far away from a ‘Triple Threat’ (when actors can act, sing and dance) as is humanly possible. He sounds like an injured tomcat. Make it stop. ‘I was on the album you know,’ he says. Dubbed out, I think. He regales me with stories from his time playing Dwalin the dwarf as we disappear into the heavy cloud.
GRAHAM
We were filming in Te Anau on The Hobbit, nearly at the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand, with the ‘scale doubles’ (the long-suffering shorter people who doubled for the dwarves on a few occasions, and ‘Tall Paul’ the seven-foot-two-inch policeman from Auckland who doubled as Ian McKellen for some key over-shoulder shots). It was ‘talent night’ at the pub. A local started playing his guitar. Another local then punched him in the face. One of our short friends remonstrated with this individual which set off a full-scale pub brawl. Thirteen people under five feet tall fighting with local farmers, with a seven-foot-two-inch giant literally throwing people into the street.