Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  And then out of the blue I was offered a screen test for Outlander – a new US TV show – and you know the rest. Outlander has given me financial stability and presented me with some amazing opportunities for which I am extremely grateful. More often than not it’s about hanging in there to achieve your goal and the harder it gets, sometimes, the nearer you are – just like with marathons. You have to keep on keeping on.

  In 2015 I founded My Peak Challenge to help people get out there, achieve goals and become healthier and happier whilst raising money for charity. Members have access to a range of live workouts, yoga sessions, meal plans and a Peakers’ forum where people share their successes and failures. There’s a whole community across eighty-three countries, 12,000 members who have raised over $5 million for charity. We have supported Blood Cancer UK (fully financing several research projects), Marie Curie hospice care, Testicular Cancer awareness and the Environmental Defense fund.

  Initially, I wanted to share my workouts and how I incorporate them into daily life – I need to maintain a high level of fitness and healthy eating (whisky being the exception) on the show because Jamie is a muscular Highland warrior and I am contractually obliged to spend a fair amount of time semi-naked! Part of my training is running and I have a coach who checks in with me each week and sets a plan. I like to run most Sundays between ten and twenty miles, depending at what point I am in my training. I used to run a lot from Glasgow along the West Highland Way. It goes up Connich Hill and past the shores of Loch Lomond. It remains a dream to do the ultra marathon along the West Highland Way, a hundred-mile thrashing over the hills.

  I look at Graham who is squirming in his seat dressed in tweed, strangers shouting at him and banging the sides of the camper – he is truly living the dream and I have made that happen. I wonder if I should invite him out for a two-hour training run another day? But the Grey Dog is not a runner. He is, however, very fit. He cycles and hill-walks a lot but I don’t think he has the patience to run long distances (and can you imagine the amount of food he would have to eat to sustain himself?). In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him run. He could be Outlander’s answer to Roger Moore, who famously never ran on screen. He thought he looked awkward so all running in the James Bond films was performed by body doubles.

  During the first year of Outlander I asked for a gym at the studio (we got a small room with a weight rack and I bought some other gear). Occasionally he would be seen in there, grunting and sweating profusely. I offered him a slot to workout with my trainer. After one session he never went back, apparently complaining that the exercises were ‘dangerous’. However I have seen him work out and have trained with his trainer in LA. High intensity and 100%, the Grey Dog is always willing to give it everything (for a very short time).

  A runner shouts up at Graham. ‘Twat!’

  ‘Nooo, nooo, oh my goddd,’ he squeals. I wave the runners on, hoping the encouragement might make them forgive us. ‘Good luck! Sorry!’ I feebly cheer, until the last of the gang has shuffled past. Then I put the camper into reverse and desperately try to move out of the way. It’s a bit like the reversing scene in Austin Powers – a forty-seven-point turn.

  Graham exhales noisily and his shoulders, which have been up around his ears, drop. A little. ‘It couldn’t get any worse!’ he grumbles.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it does,’ I answer, still trying to get the bloody van out of the gateway. ‘We’ll have to cycle.’ The look of disbelief in his eyes is splendid. We ditch the camper, now completely wedged in the entrance, lift off our two-wheeled steeds from the back of the camper and jump on. ‘Race you!’ I set off, leaving his ladyship puffing, fuming and generally raging at the world.

  GRAHAM

  ‘Ride the bikes up instead,’ says Michelle over the walkie-talkie. Ah, the bikes. The kind of bikes a vicar might ride in a tiny country village in the 1930s. A Dutch village with no hills whatsoever. For reasons best known to Sam, all our modes of transport (of which there are many), seem to be chosen for their utter impracticality and general clapped-out-ness.

  So Sam and I clamber out of the Fiat Prostate and pull the bikes off a rack at the back. Well, Sam pulled the bikes off. I smile at him encouragingly. I’m not sure how familiar you are with bicycles. Nowadays they can be made from carbon fibre with gossamer brakes, even suspension, and definitely gears – sometimes as many as twenty-one gears just to help you up those awkward inclines. You can even get electric ones. Ours were made of iron, with extra iron attached. If they’d ever had brakes they’d been ruthlessly cut off long ago, so that now they resembled a piece of rusting farmyard machinery with wheels.

  We squeeze the bikes through the tiny gap between the camper and the gate, all the while yet more runners struggling to get by.

  It was at this point we saw the slope for the first time. Nothing too awful, but when you’re about to climb on board something that looks like it was built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, any slope seems steep. Especially when you’re in a tweed suit! The crew is at the top and what they want is a clean shot of us cycling up the hill.

  We wait for a gap between panting participants and on ‘Action’ we set off. Both Sam and I are very competitive, so we go for it. Heughan beats me. I hate him for it.

  ‘That was great. Let’s try it again,’ said Michelle.

  Why?

  We return to the gate. More runners. Good grief, how many are there? Were they lost? Or running in circles? Take two. ‘Action!’ More straining against the pedals. Sam beats me again. ‘That was good. Definitely better.’ (By what criteria, you may wonder.) ‘One more time, please.’

  Now I’ve been in the film business long enough to know that, ‘One more time’ actually means ‘Another twenty times.’ Peter Jackson (director of The Hobbit) would say it just before we did another thirty takes. Minimum.

  I feel a cramp coming on.

  We do it again. More runners. We wait and then smash our way up the hill for the third time. I am sweating in my tweed. By the time we do another five takes my thighs are screaming and I look like I’ve been sprayed with a hose. Upon the final take, I begin to compost . . .

  Sam as King Duncan

  This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

  Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

  Unto our gentle senses

  Macbeth, Act I, Scene VI

  SAM

  This is what Duncan says to Banquo before he’s brutally murdered in his bed. Right here. [Hello, Graham here. Actually, Duncan and Banquo were standing in front of Macbeth’s castle in Inverness, not Cawdor, which was built in the fourteenth century, but you get the idea.] [Thanks, Professor McTavish.]

  A crimson flag furiously flaps in the wind, high above the battlements of Cawdor Castle. ‘Is that a Chinese flag?’ Alex the German asks in an even thicker Deutsche accent than usual, possibly owing to last night’s ‘production meeting’ whisky. ‘Must have been a recent acquisition, don’t get it in shot,’ he instructs the cameraman.

  Blood red, I think ominously.

  After a quick round of photos and pausing to let my Tour-de-Yorkshire friend catch his breath, we cross the drawbridge into the castle. Still unsteady on my feet and slightly delirious due to lack of sleep and multiple takes at the bike race up the hill, I stumble as Graham jokingly pushes me to the edge of the drawbridge. ‘Be mindful,’ he sarcastically barks, reading the Campbell of Cawdor motto (once the motto of the Calder clan) set in stone above the portcullis. This castle already had a dodgy reputation; I’m going to be on my guard.

  The castle’s ancient tower house was built in 1454 by William Calder, 6th Thane of Calder, around a legendary holly tree. The Campbells didn’t turn up on the scene until the sixteenth century and that’s when they added ‘of Cawdor’ and kidnapped a small child in the process (more on that later . . .).

  Steeped in superstition, myth and fable, we are due to meet Lady Cawdor herself who, according to Shakespeare, is not a nice, trustworthy lady. Still, before we die
by fatal stabbing or poisoned chalice, we find ourselves awaiting her presence in the courtyard cafe, Graham having sniffed out a latte from a hundred yards away. We order at the counter. ‘Would you like anything else?’ As I look up from my steaming cup of Joe, I do a double take. The long dark hair, smiling eyes, heaving bosom. Is it . . . ? It can’t be. We’re almost 200 miles away from Glencoe. Delilah? Delirious. Dagger. My senses are playing tricks on me. But it’s not poor, sweet Delilah, I fear, but her mother, Glenn. Because wherever Delilah goes so does Glenn.

  ‘She looks suspiciously like . . .’ Graham murmurs out the side of his mouth, a large oatmeal muffin already partially demolished in his hand. Crumbs fall from his beard as he stares at the buxom barista. ‘A relative maybe? You know what they’re like in small towns,’ he backs off to sit in a chair in the far corner. I give the girl a wink and my best smile. ‘Let me know if you need anything else. Anything at all,’ she says, bouncing off to replenish the cake stand. I take a large gulp of my Americano and wait for the caffeine to hit the back of my eyeballs.

  Suddenly a large pair of hands slips around my waist from behind and I spin round ready to fend off the mad matriarch’s advances, somehow managing not to spill my precious coffee. Merlin, the sound guy, is attaching a mic belt to my waist. ‘Bit jumpy today?’ he says as he continues to rummage near my back passage. Perhaps it’s an act of revenge for having to spend the morning locked in the toilet of the camper, recording our rambling reminiscences and all of Graham’s Shakespearean soliloquies. Not to mention the bumpy ride.

  ‘Lady Cawdor will see you now,’ Michelle announces, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared, as if she’d walked through the wall. I take a deep breath, chug the last of my coffee and start to make my way up the spiral staircase. I catch sight of something out of the corner of my eye. Delilah? I turn, but no one is there. I later discover Cawdor Castle is haunted by two ghosts, the 1st Earl Cawdor and a young lady in a blue velvet dress with no hands. It makes me shiver just thinking about it.

  The striking chatelaine, Lady Cawdor, is directing the crew as to which priceless antiques they absolutely should not touch. She is tall, classy and charismatic; Graham has been reduced to a giggling schoolboy. Absolutely his type, she begins to talk and we are both lost in her spell.

  GRAHAM

  As we finally pass over the moat beneath the Campbell of Cawdor coat of arms we are greeted by the lady of the house. Not Mrs Macbeth, but the Dowager Countess of Cawdor, Lady Angelika, who has been keeping us waiting because she was washing her hands.

  She of the scrupulously clean hands is the perfect hostess. Her husband, the 6th Earl/Thane, is no longer with us and I resist the temptation of asking if there had been a Macduff involved in his demise. She is an actual Bohemian, from Bohemia. A truly beautiful woman. I think both Sam and I, along with every other member of the crew (male and female), all developed a crush on her. Being Dowager Countess of Cawdor, there is, of course, a feud attached. In this case, between her and her stepson, the 7th Earl Cawdor, in an ongoing dispute over the will of her late husband. Her stepdaughter has even written a scandal-laden book about the drama, which Lady Angelika describes as ‘fiction’. I told you, that drawbridge had trouble written all over it.

  We are led into one of the libraries. The camera crew sets up a large oak table and Lady Cawdor pours us tea. It really is achingly civilised. John, our camera guru, asks if we can put anything on the table to make it look less empty. ‘Yes,’ says our Bohemian hostess, ‘just grab that book’. She points at a huge leather-bound tome – something that could legitimately be described as a doorstop. It definitely looks impressive. The book is placed off centre on the table. Thereupon I casually ask what the book is.

  ‘Oh, it’s a second edition of Shakespeare’s folio of plays.’ I hear ringing in my ears and my heart is thumping. True, I had experienced all of these feelings while Sam was driving, but this is different. I am instantly taken back to my days at Queen Mary College University of London and my Professor of English, Nigel Alexander (a fearsome bearded Scot – much like a small version of Dougal MacKenzie), who had fostered my deep love of Shakespeare by instructing his students to stage eighteen Elizabethan and Jacobean plays in our three years, with me playing leading roles in many of them.

  ‘Can I hold it?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ came the reply from our elegant hostess. I stand up and pick up the book, published in 1632. The last one sold went for about $178,000. It is a very special moment. To turn the pages of this book is to dive into history. Lady Cawdor goes on to mention in passing that the castle possesses dozens of extraordinary first editions, including the first edition of James I’s book on witchcraft. Sam jokes about her poisoning our tea, whilst I drool over her and the books.

  SAM

  Both Graham and I have a long history with Shakespeare during our careers and the oversized folio is of great interest to me. I’d have liked to examine it – if Graham hadn’t been pawing at it so much. I started my early professional experience in Shakespeare productions and was fortunate to play at Glasgow’s Citizens Theatre, during Giles Havergal CBE’s last season. He had directed over eighty seminal productions in the Gorbals, bringing groundbreaking theatre in the 1970s, to a lesser-known, more deprived area of Glasgow. I was in two productions with Giles at the Citizens, one being Hamlet, playing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the other A Christmas Carol. More importantly, though, I had returned to the place of many Christmas childhood memories, where I had possibly watched McTavish prance around on stage in the Christmas panto, as an enthralled child eating a bag of dolly mixtures. The most memorable time at ‘the Citz’, however, was when the role was reversed. During Roald Dahl’s The Twits, I followed in McTavish’s footsteps, dancing on stage to Elvis Presley, wearing a skin-tight sequin pair of flares, corset and full carnival headdress. [Graham: Even just reading this conjures an image I cannot unsee.]

  Graham closes the book. It is time for tea, and she of the spotless fingers has a large glass teapot next to her steaming from the snout (the pot, not the lady), the liquid yellow and peculiar. Before we continue our chat about Lady Macbeth, the queen responsible for poisoning Duncan’s guards, Lady Cawdor picks up a silver strainer and pours the glowing liquid into three china cups. I sniff it suspiciously and look at Graham out of the corner of my eye. He is oblivious, wide-eyed and dutifully smiling. He takes a large swig, never taking his gaze off her. Now in his element, surrounded by historical artefacts and an intriguing woman, I’d lost him. At least if he keels over, I’ll know it’s poisoned.

  ‘Homemade ginger and lemon tea,’ the Lady purrs. Her eyes are witty, intelligent and, like the snake in the Jungle Book, hypnotic. ‘It’s not poisoned,’ she laughs, ‘I don’t think.’ I pretend to take a sip and allow myself to relax. I guess if I die, it’ll be on camera and we will have evidence. Unless, of course, she takes the whole crew down too.

  We ask some questions and she breathily recounts the story of how the Campbells came to Cawdor in the sixteenth century. ‘Muriel Calder was a posthumous child, her father had been killed in battle. As an heiress she immediately became ward of the king and Campbell, the Earl of Argyll (later Duke) who was the strong arm of the king – as the Campbells have always been – said to the king, I’d like that heiress for my son, please. Of course the king said yes. The Calders weren’t pleased (especially Muriel’s two uncles). So old Argyll waited until the child was four years old and, in the autumn of 1499, decided to kidnap her just in case she was ‘done away with quietly’ by a Calder. Staying with her grandmother in a nearby castle, it became apparent the Campbells were going to burn it down so the grandmother asked a nanny to ‘place a key in the fire’. When it was hot they branded the poor little girl on her behind. The nanny is supposed to have pointed out that the mark wouldn’t be recognisable by the time she would be of marriageable age at fourteen. ‘So, the nanny bit off the tip of her little finger on her left hand.’

  Mary Poppins, mediev
al style.

  The Campbells, led by Inverliver, kidnap Muriel. ‘They change her into different clothes and dress up a corn stoop in what she had been wearing (as a decoy).’ The Calder uncles give chase (with a superior force) pursuing ‘the child’. Inverliver sends Muriel off with six men and turns to fight the Calders at Daltullich, close to Strathnairn. The Battle of Daltullich is bloody with many slain, including seven of Inverliver’s sons.

  ‘Muriel was brought up at Inveraray Castle (the ancestral seat of Argyll) and married the earl’s second son John in 1510. It was a very happy marriage and they came to live at Cawdor, had ten children and Muriel died at the very old age of seventy-five having outlived most of her children. And that is how the Campbells came to Cawdor,’ she says, rising regally.

  We go down to see the rock upon which the castle is built. Out of this rock grows a holly tree. ‘As far as I am aware it’s the only castle in Britain that is built around a sacred rock with a tree sprouting from it,’ she says. It’s quite a Game of Thrones sort of moment. There really is something about this lady, her manner, poise and grace. A white witch, or at least a believer in good energies, we discover, she runs the castle business with purpose and strength. Like her husband’s ancestors of old, the Campbells were a savvy bunch, but their enemies distrusted them. The surname Campbell originated as a nickname meaning ‘crooked mouth’ derived from the Gaelic cam (‘crooked’) and beul (‘mouth’).