Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  You couldn’t make it up.

  SAM

  I’m not really listening. I have reminiscing of my own to do because Glencoe was the first place I learned to ski on snow. I had some lessons on the dry ski slope at Edinburgh, which was a mixture of mud, glass and razor wire because when you fell over it always seemed to cut you into pieces. I was skiing with some friends in foggy conditions, like the cloud we are in now; you could barely see your hand in front of you. I crashed into a sign that said: ‘Danger Cliffs!’ but I carried on and then fell off said cliffs about 10–15 feet into deep snow.

  Graham is appalled. ‘You just kept going? Of course, you did. Such a safe sport, isn’t it? Like tiddlywinks.’ He looks at my hands. ‘And no gloves or hat – you’re very hardy, Heughan.’

  I look at him and think the exact opposite. He’s wearing a cashmere grey hat, which must be beautifully soft against his sensitive bald head, combined with a midnight-blue felted jacket with a fine orange check and a scarf.

  GRAHAM

  I may dress like someone who drinks lattes [Sam: Understatement!] but let me describe the Mountain Goat’s attire. A high cream turtleneck and khaki-green sailing smock with wooden toggles – like he’s Kirk Douglas in Heroes of Telemark. I imagine him jumping off the chairlift in wooden skis (no, I imagine pushing him off) and attacking the slopes like a born skier (or him falling like a sack of spuds). You could rely on him in an avalanche . . . Only to find out later he’s caused it in the first place.

  He asks where my scarf came from and is utterly astonished that I bought it from Dovecot Studios, Edinburgh. I ask him the last time he bought his clothes. He dodges the question; even his underpants are freebies.

  Sam: I don’t wear any.

  Graham: Any chance to be shirtless or butt naked. Those poor cameramen [on Outlander] having to look at your chocolate starfish for hours on end.

  Sam laughs: The cameraman’s seen my arse more than me.

  Graham: Everyone’s seen your arse more than you!

  Mercifully we are not ascending the Matterhorn and arrive intact. [Sam: I’ve skied there too! Yet to climb it, though Cameron McNeish has!] Sam gracefully alights from the chair like a gazelle in Gore-Tex, while I throw myself off and scramble for safety like that gazelle at the back of the herd in a David Attenborough documentary. You know . . . the one about to be eaten. We walk to a rocky outcrop and look out across the truly stunning landscape below us. The clouds have parted. I’m not sure how far I can see but it’s a bloody long way.

  It’s at this point that the trip pauses for me to remember my dear friend, Martin Graham Scott.

  Marti died tragically at the age of forty in an awful car crash in 2004. His wife, young daughter, and infant son were in the car with him but mercifully survived. It’s an awful thing to lose a friend prematurely. I remember the moment I heard. A mutual friend called me when I was in Spain on a shoot. It was truly terrible.

  I’ve brought the engraved whisky flask he gave me, which I take with me whenever I wear a kilt or return to Scotland. The top of Meall a Bhuiridh is a fitting place to bring it because he loved the mountains and he loved skiing, so I wanted to raise a toast to him here on our Clanlands journey.

  Martin had always been a staunch and wonderful supporter of my early career. We had met when I was twenty and he was eighteen at a private airport where we both worked doing odd jobs in the summer – firemen duties, haymaking, carpentry, aircraft refuelling, and an array of dogsbody employment. He looked like a young Robert Redford. I’ve since lost a few more friends (my father had died the previous year – in fact Martin read at his funeral), but the loss of Martin has always been particularly hard. To this day I keep a photo of him on my fridge so that I see him every day.

  I am glad to share a quiet moment with Sam on the ridgeline, looking out across the valley. Martin would have liked him. In fact, they are alike in many ways. Not that I’m going to tell Sam any of that. I remain buttoned up like a true Scotsman and take a nip of whisky. I want to offer Sam one but instead I’m churlish saying, ‘You’re not having any.’

  ‘Martin wouldn’t have approved,’ Sam says gently.

  ‘He hated your work,’ I say in spiky banter.

  Truth is, I miss Martin terribly; he was a ‘brother from another mother’ and that bond is hard, if not impossible, to replace.

  ‘This is for you, Martin.’ I take another sip and hand the flask to Sam. He takes it from me and smiles, understanding my pain.

  SAM

  It’s a fitting tribute and a heartfelt moment, because despite his gruff exterior and dwarfish ways, Graham is an old softy at heart. ‘To you, Martin,’ (beat) ‘and this is to a friend of mine,’ I say, taking a swig.

  ‘What friend?’ he says with a pang of curiosity. Or is it jealousy?

  ‘To Graham McTavish.’

  GRAHAM

  It is a lovely gesture. We toast each other and I glance at Sam, feeling grateful that I’m standing with a new friend celebrating the memory of an old one. Life is indeed a strange journey, for who would have thought that I would be at the top of a mountain toasting Martin with a man I met in a Soho casting office six years ago. But then you can pick up all sorts of things in Soho. [Sam: I’m sure that’s not the first time Graham has picked something up in Soho – same joke twice, I know, but I can’t help it!]

  I decide to tell him who was in my room last night. ‘A physiotherapist came to sort my back out.’

  Sam: What?

  Graham: Ask Michelle [beat]. Heughan’s magic ‘blunderbus’ has buggered my back. Mainly because my knees are forced up around my ears. She says I need to take little breaks to stretch it out. Or take a different mode of transport entirely.

  SAM

  His cantankerousness tickles me and I stifle the sniggers. He’s now chuckling too and, very soon, we are belly-laughing on top of Meall a Bhuiridh, Glenn and the crew (save Merlin and John) under the mist somewhere below. He takes another swig from his hip flask and passes it to me. Whisky is for savouring and sharing with others. As a tradition, whenever I climb a Munro – one of 282 Scottish mountains that are at least 3,000ft, named after the famous Scottish mountaineer Sir Hugh Thomas Munro, 4th Baronet (1856–1919) – I take a small whisky flask and toast the adventure at the top. It’s who you are with and where you are that makes a dram really special and memorable.

  And this dram with Graham is unforgettable. Despite his broken back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Sweetest Morsel I Ever Tasted

  ‘Porridge’ by Spike Milligan

  Why is there no monument

  To Porridge in our land?

  If it’s good enough to eat,

  It’s good enough to stand!

  On a plinth in London

  A statue we should see

  Of Porridge made in Scotland

  Signed, ‘Oatmeal, O.B.E.’

  (By a young dog of three)

  SAM

  We’ve been rattling along a single-track road towards Glen Etive this morning for over an hour and seen no sign of life, until now. There is only one road to Glen Etive and the area is sparsely populated, apart from the clans of belligerent sheep. As Graham says, it’s so rural you canna just pop out for a carton of milk. Or a ramen. One such woolly Highland gang is standing defiantly in the road, staring us down with unblinking eyes, like the MacLeods did to the MacDonalds before they lit the fires at the entrance of the cave and suffocated all inside.

  I consider sending Graham out to move them on but see he has a date with the boiled egg butty he packed at breakfast. The man’s insatiable. He offers me a bite. I shake my head. He opens the hotel fruit bowl in his knapsack, gesturing at it. I tell him I’ll take an apple later.

  There’s no way I’m getting out because Scottish sheep are not like sheep anywhere else, they are as hard as nails, have real attitude and will come at you . . .

  Graham gives sheep commentary:

  Graham: (thick Glaswegian) I am in the roa
d. I am not gettin’ out of the road. So yous can move yer motorhome and do one!

  We don’t move.

  Graham: Come on then bring it on, man! What yer doin’? Oh, you think yer sooo hard, don’t yer? In yer four by four . . . Run me over, go on run me over!

  Sam: I dare yer, I dare yer. I dare ewe!

  Graham: My wee lamb can take yoo. Ewes are nothing! (See what I did there?)

  Sam: I already did ‘I dare ewe’.

  Graham: Oh.

  The sheep clear off and we carry on in silence down the road made famous in Skyfall. I feel far away from the glamour of James Bond and hit a pothole to confirm it. Graham perks up to point out ‘Loch Choke-on-my-coch’ to his left. (Really Loch Etive.)

  We finally arrive at our RV (rendezvous point) in the stunning Glen Etive valley, protected by some impressive peaks including Ben Starav and the popular Stob Dubh. As we park up, Wendy wanders over to the driver’s side and I wind down the camper van window.

  Wendy: All right? How’s it handlin’, beg man?

  Graham: (Glaswegian) Superb, absolutely superb!

  Wendy: Can I have a coffee and bag a chips, pal? One fish supper and a single sausage supper . . .

  Sam: We’re out of sausages, I can do the chips.

  Wendy: And a pie.

  Graham: One pie and chips coming up.

  We jump out of our ‘mobile fast food van’ (perhaps a means of balancing Graham’s fine dining budget) and wander over to the camp our crew has set up for our next filming segment. There is a large canopy and Graham’s army-issue 1940s canvas tent from his schooldays. Little does he of the shiny bonce know he’s contractually obliged to sleep in it for one night because neither he, nor his agent, read the agreement properly! I cannot wait to see his face when I tell him the good news. I will wine and dine him first, otherwise he might ‘do a Jeremy Clarkson’ and punch me on the nose – because when Graham and Jeremy aren’t fed on time, people get decked.

  To be honest I’m a bit nervous about how he’ll react. It’s like standing in the queue for a roller coaster. I’m nervous, excited. But before we deliver more sh*ts and giggles, we have work to do. This fine morning we are interviewing Gaelic singer and storyteller Gillebride MacMillan, about language and Highland culture. Gillebride played Gwyllyn the Bard (Season One, Episode Three) singing traditional Gaelic songs at Castle Leoch. Gaelic is his first language and, after learning to recite a little of the language on the show, I was keen to find out more.

  I give Graham his stage directions: when Gillebride arrives he is to emerge from the tent after spending a sleepless and uncomfortable night. I will busy myself making Graham a Highland breakfast. Graham disappears into his tent whilst I start cooking porridge over the campfire. Traditionally made with oats, water and salt, porridge is the best way to sustain one’s energy, as it is a slow-release carbohydrate. I swear by porridge. Growing up, we had a friend of the family who would make it religiously for breakfast. With so much salt added, he’d let it cool and solidify. ‘One slice or two,’ he’d ask, serving it up like a soggy cake. It never put me off though. I find if I eat it daily, it sustains me for hours of filming. It actually has a reasonable protein content and is very filling; even Arnold Schwarzenegger would demolish the stuff.

  And, you can add anything to it to spice it up: protein powder (chocolate flavour), banana, nuts, berries, jam, peanut butter, even whisky. Although perhaps not all together. I’ve been known to scramble an egg and eat that on it too. [Graham: And that’s why you’ve never been invited on any gourmet getaways with Duncan and me.]

  If you’re as serious about porridge as I am, I suggest you buy yourself a spurtle. Shaped like a thistle, it’s used to stir the porridge (in a clockwise direction, to ward off the devil). Sometimes, the Highlanders of old would bleed their cattle and mix blood into it for variety. Or they might add boiled cabbage water. However, unfortunately for Graham these extra ingredients aren’t available to spice up his porridge today so he will have to make do with plain lumpy gruel. I actually dropped the spoon so there is a little Highland soil and grass in there, too.

  Upon Gillebride’s arrival, Graham crawls out of his tent, stands up holding his back dramatically and yawns. I hand him his third breakfast. I’m not sure he wants to eat it but the camera is rolling and Graham will do whatever the camera wants. He shoves mounds in and pretends to like it. I shake hands with Gillebride. Graham can’t speak. ‘Sorry, my mouth is full of Sam’s porridge,’ he splutters.

  There is nowhere to sit so Graham can’t help showing off his superhuman strength and acting skills to impress our new guest. Finding a large rock, he proceeds to puff and gasp a great deal, trying to lift it. I’d seen this kind of performance before on set, the sound effects alone worthy of an Oscar.

  ‘Ta-da!’ A mock rock, used for set dressing, was placed beside the fire for Gillebride to sit on. I’m not sure why Graham carries fake stones around with him but maybe it was exactly for this moment. I ignore him and continue to stir his congealed breakfast.

  Gillebride sits down and Graham perches on his pet rock. Gillebride is originally from the Western Isles where Gaelic is still spoken as a community language. ‘Gaelic was my first language and I only learnt English when I went to school,’ he says.

  Scotland has always been a mix of cultures. The place names especially interest me. Many villages, mountains and lochs are a mix of Gaelic, Norse, English or Old Scots. The old languages are very descriptive and can help you understand more about a place and its history. In Gaelic, Beinn Ruadh are the red/russet-coloured mountains, Creachann Mor, the great bare rocky hilltop, and Greusaiche Crom, the crouching cobbler (shoemaker), which you can see from the shape of the hill. [Graham: And Huighe Bhum Crachen – the giant parted arse cheeks!] Fort William was initially created as a garrison for the British army to help tackle unruly clans such as the Camerons. In Gaelic, An Gearasdan Dubh is the black garrison. Instantly you see the dark and negative connotations.

  Gillebride explains, ‘The Highlanders and Islanders would have spoken Gaelic all the way up until the mid-eighteenth century and the language differences, as well as the geographical dislocation, would have fuelled differences.’ (That and nicking each other’s and the Lowlanders’ cattle!) ‘Chieftains of the clans often had French and English but the people under them were monolingual Gaelic speakers,’ he says.

  After Culloden, the British tried to eradicate the Gaelic language and the Highland culture, such as the wearing of Highland dress and all weapons. ‘They tried to assimilate the people (the High-landers) into another form of culture, which has historically happened in many parts of the world.’

  The Clearances, road building and other factors all took their toll, diluting language and culture; however, miraculously (and with lots of effort, education and funding), Highland culture lives on and is in fact thriving with 70,000 Gaelic speakers registered in Scotland. ‘With the fluent speakers tending to live in the Highlands and islands,’ says Gillebride.

  ‘In part the culture has survived thanks to storytelling,’ explains Gillebride. ‘One thing that we did when I was growing up was go to a ceilidh house. We now think of a ceilidh as a dance but the Gaelic word means “to go visiting” and when you’re visiting you tell a story, sing a song and if the gathering is going well, at three in the morning you might have a dance in the kitchen.’

  So essentially a ceilidh was a social visit, encompassing storytelling, music, dance and of course, whisky. ‘And one of the things they did was tell ghost stories or “An Dà Shealladh” (literally “The Two Visions” or “Second Sight”) – premonitions of the future taken seriously by all who heard them,’ he says.

  There are plenty of examples of foretelling the future which were (and still are) taken very seriously in Scotland. I have first-hand experience of people telling me about a death or an incident that they were warned of through ‘An Dà Shealladh’. This could be a foretelling of death by seeing a shooting star, or being gathered up into
the vision of the future – you’d then have three days to make your peace with the person who is going to die or with everyone else if you are the one who is destined to die. There is definitely a great film script in the stories I heard growing up about that whole thing – it is still very much a living part of the culture in some of the island communities. The film Sixth Sense would have nothing on these supernatural tales!

  Gillebride says, ‘Imagine a glen not too dissimilar to this, on a road not too dissimilar to the one you came along. You see a group of people you recognise, you see your neighbour Donald, your neighbour Callum and neighbour John, but they don’t recognise you and they are carrying something. Your good friend Michael isn’t in the group and what they are carrying is a box. That tells you have three days to make your peace with Michael.’

  All the families would sleep in one room so the children would hear the stories and premonitions and the oral traditions would continue. Our forebears’ ability to recall songs and poems was incredible. Many would only need to hear scores of verses just the once before recounting them to new ears. Graham can’t even remember where his bus pass is.

  Early on Sunday morning I climbed the brae above the castle of Inverlochy.

  I saw the army arranged for battle,

  and victory in the field was with Clan Donald.

  The most pleasing news every time it was announced

  about the wry-mouthed Campbells, was that every company

  of them as they came along had their heads battered with

  sword blows.

  Were you familiar with Goirtean Odhar? Well was

  it manured, not with the dung of sheep or goats, but by the