Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  Bampot – a rather foolish fellow.

  Heid the baw – again, someone that is a ‘right daftie’.

  Glaikit – not very intelligent, devoid of intellect.

  Bawbag – man’s genitalia – can be an insult or a term of endearment.

  Cludgie – toilet. The one on the camper van, however, was used for carrying assorted Scottish goods and a secret whisky stash.

  Mad wi it – drunk/wasted or to party on a night out.

  Nae danger – no chance.

  Haud yer wheesht – shut it.

  Yer a chancer – you’re pretty dodgy but I like you.

  Taps aff – take off your clothing and burn as much as possible in the sun, similar to ‘suns out, guns out’ (rare in Scotland, usually a week or two in summer).

  Can o juice/can o ginger – juice is anything non alcoholic and fizzy, ‘ginger’ is Scotland’s other national drink: IRN BRU – impossible to describe the taste but the Scots swear by it for a hangover. When they tried to change the recipe and make it more healthy with less sugar, there was a national outcry.

  Ya fanny – you are a rather ridiculous fool.

  Scunnered – very confused.

  THE WISDOM OF WENDY

  Face like a careless beekeeper

  If yer maw had baws she’d be yer da

  Bigger bum than ten arses

  Keep the heid or you’ll lose the baw

  Banging away like a Salvation Army drum

  You rip ma knittin’

  That’s enough tae gie yer arse the toothache

  Kick the eyes oot a spider wi’ they stilettos

  Overheard comment from Johnny Beattie whilst a woman was telling a long story:

  Do you get a pie wi’ that story, hen?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rocking the Boat

  SAM

  It’s now late afternoon and Graham is holding on tightly as the camper van gathers speed down the Great Glen. Essentially we are driving down a massive ice age cliff to our destination below: the iconic Loch Ness. The camper’s brakes are under pressure and I pump them to avoid locking up. Graham, however, is on ‘full lock’, his body stiffened, his jaw clenched (and probably his buttocks too). I let the camper run a little downhill – maybe we’ll end up in the water? I wonder if our margarine tub can float? It would be like an episode of Top Gear, I muse. Graham looks at me with pleading eyes. I brake hard and we arrive safely by the water’s edge. After allowing a little time for Graham’s breathing to return to a normal rate, we stand silently looking out across the glimmering water, enjoying the uninterrupted peace of Loch Ness. Waiting for it to be rudely interrupted by our friend and Outlander alumnus Gary ‘McHugger’ Lewis’s arrival in a rowing boat.

  But for now there is just peace. The Great Glen is a truly iconic landscape, formed by a glacier cutting a huge scar across the centre of Scotland. Much of the sixty-two-mile glen is taken up with a series of lochs and connecting rivers, including Loch Ness, made famous by the folklore surrounding the creature that lies beneath the surface – the Loch Ness Monster or Nessie for short. The ‘legend’ of a strange creature living there goes back to the time of Irish monk St Columba in the sixth century, when a local man, swimming in the water, was attacked by a ‘water beast’ that mauled him and dragged him under. Columba sent one of his men into the water and the beast approached. Columba made a sign of the cross and commanded him to go back; the beast turned tail and torpedoed away and all the Picts cheered at this perceived miracle. And that’s how they converted the Picts to Christianity. Well, sort of.

  Loch Ness is one of those iconic places that carries with it a wonderful sense of myth and mystery. And it’s just so big. It overwhelms you with its grandeur, and even though your rational mind tells you that there can’t be a Loch Ness Monster, part of my brain is thinking, Maybe today . . . maybe today I will see it. I think this actually is my first real view of Loch Ness and will be my first time on it but it’s all coming back to me now . . . Family Ness, the 1980s kids’ cartoon which I used to watch with my mum and brother when I was little.

  I don’t generally speak about my family too much. I try to protect them from any sort of spotlight. We are a small family and my mother, Chrissie, raised me and my older brother, Cirdan, as a single parent in the south of Scotland in Dumfries and Galloway. Chrissie is a very creative woman and had been working in a local clog-maker’s workshop (run by a friend) for several years when we were growing up. However, she had always yearned to pursue a career as an artist. When the time was right, she applied to the Edinburgh School of Art and was offered a place on the printmaking course. That’s when, aged twelve, we moved to Scotland’s capital.

  Edinburgh was a whole new experience for me and after attending Gillespie’s Primary, a state school, we applied for and were lucky to receive an assisted place (not being able to afford the fees) to attend the Edinburgh Steiner School, which is probably one of the reasons I became an actor. Rudolph Steiner schools focus on a rich, creative environment to inspire learning rather than taking a conventional academic approach. It was a good time for me and the teachers covered many subjects, including philosophy, astronomy and medieval history, that were ‘off-syllabus’. Graham sent his kids there, so too did Gary Lewis; and Tobias Menzies, who plays ‘Black Jack’ Randall, went to a Steiner school in Canterbury, Kent. I recently did a really rewarding interview with the school and they posted a video online (including some class photos that I’m not so proud of!).

  Despite being a single mother to two teenage sons, Chrissie completed her course at art school and went on to create her own studio, where she continues to make various pieces for exhibition or commission. She has collaborated with many interesting artists and travelled the world, learning the skills used in papermaking and bronze casting in Japan and India, to name a few. Growing up I was always aware how hard it was for her financially and also creatively. Like all artists, it was feast or famine, shuttling from success to inertia and back again, but my mother worked extremely hard to support us whilst never discarding her creative aspirations.

  When my time came to choose what I wanted to do she encouraged me, whilst underlining the reality that it would be hard to be a self-employed actor. But she never discouraged me and attended all of my early performances. In one of my first productions I had to play a character losing his virginity, and having your mum sitting only metres away was mildly off-putting, to say the least! Add to that your agent and the majority of London’s theatrical critics. Chrissie has always been very proud of me and still sends me newspaper clippings of my achievements – (never articles from the Hollywood Reporter, Los Angeles Times or New York Times) but usually the local newspaper or the annual school newsletter. At first a little scathing of an American TV show portraying Scottish history, she is now very proud of Outlander and watches it (when it’s on DVD or terrestrial TV). I dream about being able to take her to a premiere in LA or New York and give her a glimpse into the world I sometimes get to explore. But like all children, I fear she will embarrass me when a journalist asks her to reveal some personal facts about me on the red carpet!

  My uncle is creative, too. He lived on the Isle of Eigg for many years where he looked after several properties and grounds – he was basically a glorified gamekeeper. That’s where we used to go on holiday growing up. He plays the fiddle and has a ceilidh band, touring around Scotland playing at events and weddings. However, his main business is basket weaving and he makes all manner of things, doing a booming trade in wicker coffins! Biodegradable and sustainable, I think it’s a great idea. And you can ‘try before you buy’ – test your coffin, see if you like it and pre-order! He also makes enormous wicker figures used at festivals such as Burning Man and Wickerman festivals. He made the Stag (Season Two) and the Fiery Cross for Outlander in Season Five. I think they got the idea for the stag from when I asked him to make one for our showrunner Ronald Moore’s birthday.

  Ron was the original showrunner on Outlander – a
great writer and Star Trek Next Generation/Voyager alumni. He’s created and worked on many iconic TV shows including the Battlestar Galactica remake, Carnivale, Electric Dreams and For All Mankind. He also loves good sushi and fine Scottish malt whisky. It was he, alongside Maril Davis and Ron’s genius wife Terry Dresbach (the Outlander costume designer) that convinced Diana Gabaldon to let them produce her novel series as a TV show.

  The stag was transported up from the south of Scotland to the Highlands and looked remarkable in the grounds of Ron Moore’s ancient lodgings. Ron loved the whole evening of festivities, with guests being able to experience falconry and blend their own bottle of whisky, and we all ate some delicious local food from the Mhor restaurant group. As it got dark we set the wicker stag alight. I think the Americans were bemused and slightly terrified that these mad Scots were burning something so beautiful.

  There was another important person in my life during my formative years, my grandfather, ‘Ginge’. Strangely it’s Graham’s fond nickname for me (not used as yet on this trip!) among others that are not so fond and can be expressed only in %$&£@%* symbols. Formerly a redhead, by the time I knew Ginge he was partially bald with a shock of white hair in a gentlemanly combover. I come from a family of flame-haired relatives, my mother’s side being proper gingers! I only worked out Ginge wasn’t my granddad’s real name one day when I was in his garden (in the south of England) and his next-door neighbour kept calling for someone called Stan. ‘Stan? Who’s Stan?’ I said, looking at the neighbour dumbly through my thick NHS spectacles. An insecure, awkward teenager, embarrassed by my glasses, I didn’t really like to engage with people I didn’t know. In fact, I’m still wary, though I guess I have become better at hiding my fears or have at least found a way to approach people. Acting does that; it gives you social skills and an ability to interact, at times lead a conversation or adapt to another person’s energy. I always wondered why actors were considered strange or too outgoing and gregarious. Perhaps these skills we’ve learnt allow us to navigate the social boundaries with more ease. I certainly think my sensitivity and early insecurities gave me the ability to judge a situation or ‘sense’ the atmosphere in a room.

  ‘Is your granddad in?’ the neighbour asked again in her estuary English accent, arms crossed, thinking me slow-witted. Scottish kids clearly were very slow. ‘Oh, you mean Ginge! Yes, he’s in the tool shed.’

  I used to spend many summer holidays with my granddad; coming from a small family and not knowing my relatives on my father’s side, he was probably the closest member of my family. I loved to be with him. Quiet and good-natured, he had a great laugh and a warm smile. I’d like to think I see him in my own smile. I’d sit in his kitchen eating cereal and we would listen to the ‘wireless’. The Goon Show was a revelation; it was a ridiculous radio sketch show with hilarious characters and Ginge had a large collection of them on cassette. Written by Spike Milligan and performed by Milligan, Harry Secombe and Peter Sellers, the actors would perform live on stage in front of an audience. My favourite character was Eccles (the rather slow but lovable character who was best friends with a young boy scout called Bluebottle, who would invariably accidentally blow himself up!). We also listened to Hancock’s Half Hour, another weekly sketch show, much like the current-day Saturday Night Live or other modern TV sketch shows. The humour and comedy was from Ginge’s time, the 1950s and 60s, and they would touch on World War II and at times would be considered slightly inappropriate in today’s climate. I think this humour is similar to Monty Python (also a great love of mine) and quite possibly the basis for my friendship with Graham. Anarchic, silly, at times inappropriate and most definitely not for broadcasting, we tend to create ridiculous scenarios in our heads and then laugh about them for days, building on the characters and situation until it becomes utterly absurd.

  My grandfather had been in the war but was injured in training operations and was ultimately dismissed back into civilian life. He then worked for the Post Office until his retirement. He always had a bad limp and would try to keep up with me as we walked to the shops for an ice cream, the loose change jangling in his pocket as he quick-marched beside me. Beginning my career as an actor, I featured in many WWII period dramas and always thought of him. I only wished he’d seen them. I wonder if he’d have approved or thought them to be accurate? When I met, and later played, Battle of Britain pilot Geoffrey Wellum in the film First Light, I saw much of my grandfather in him, the chipper personality and can-do attitude covering up the traumatic daily experiences of the Second World War.

  First Light was the true story of the youngest Spitfire pilot in WWII and it was where I first met Gary ‘Hugger’ Lewis in 2010, who played Sergeant Mac, my superior officer. Sporting a well-manicured moustache, he was a father figure and sad witness to the tragic destiny of these young fighter pilots. I was honoured to play Geoffrey Wellum, whose book the film was based on, and I met him some weeks before. Full of energy and great respect for his fellow pilots, he never considered himself a hero but believed he just did what was required of him. He bore the scars internally and the loss of his friends was a deep sadness. He was gracious and forthcoming and I studied him a lot. My greatest thrill was going up in a plane, performing evasive manoeuvres and learning how to start a Spitfire, just as he had, with the use of a basic manual and little experience. These young men were left to figure it out for themselves; if they came back alive, they’d graduate to pilot. As the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine exploded into life, with its unmistakable deep throaty sound, I felt the thrill of being behind such a powerful machine. Like a Formula One sports car, these were the height of technology and speed. It was easy to put myself in Geoffrey’s place among 92 Squadron, feeling his sense of duty dispel any fear. He took part in the Battle of Britain and flew multiple missions, the stress and loss of his friends causing a near breakdown towards the end.

  Ginge didn’t talk about the war much, but he was always game for an adventure and would take me to various theme parks. I, of course, wanted to go on the biggest roller coaster (though pirate ships and log flumes were my favourites) and reluctantly he’d sit beside me and grimace the whole time. Yet he still took me back each summer. Back at his house, I’d escape the heat of a proper English summer, hanging out in his tool shed with its cool air and smell of wood. His various tools and equipment were a throwback to the post-war effort, encouraging British citizens to be industrious and fix things themselves. I’d hammer away at bits of wood, rather ineffectually, generally making an interpretation of a new sword or axe that I could use to fight off the invading English army.

  Years later, I was in Eastern Europe at the age of eighteen doing some backpacking before I committed to University. I had just returned from Estonia, with a brief visit to Latvia, Lithuania and St Petersburg. I remember the border into Russia was like a James Bond movie. At three in the morning, my sleeper train was ushered into a compound and surrounded by various Russian forces with searchlights, guard dogs and Kalashnikovs. Each carriage was searched; even the roof and walls of the train were pulled apart to look for contraband. When it was my turn, a burly soldier pointed to my large rucksack; I pulled it off the shelf and my hiking boot struck him in the face. He didn’t flinch but signalled for me to open it. I undid the top and a penknife fell out. As he reached down to pick it up he noticed a stuffed lion, perched on top of my belongings. The soldier shook his head and spat the word ‘Americanas’ in disgust.

  Upon finally arriving back in Scotland I learned my grandfather had passed away. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I thought about Ginge; the coins jingling in his pocket, his shed, the Goons, his smile. ‘Tick tick tick tick.’ The sound of a metronome, at a walking pace, woke me from my sleep. On my shelf, still covered in dust, was the metronome he had bought me, along with the trombone I no longer played. I watched the pendulum rock back and forth, keeping military time. That’s Ginge, I thought, no doubt about it! The window and door were closed and there had been no breeze or other r
eason for the device to start moving. It gave me chills but also a sense he was still with me. I often think of him during the summer months, when sitting on the grass or listening to the birds – little reminders of those balmy summer evenings of childhood, Ginge contentedly pottering in his tool shed.

  Of course, being with Graham is like having a new grandfather in my life. I think that’s why I’m so drawn to him. And, I’m the son he never had (he has two beautiful daughters, Honor and Hope). But now I have stiff competition for the old dog’s attention because his on-screen brother, Gary ‘McHugger’ Lewis, is on the scene and they have their own elderly bromance going on. I love Gary. Everyone loves Gary but Graham really loves Gary.

  GRAHAM

  My dad was a passionate communist. He even converted the man who became the leader of the British Communist Party to communism. For my dad, politics was everything. He was self-educated, having left school at fourteen (same for my mum), and a voracious reader. Always non-fiction; I don’t think I ever saw my dad read a novel.

  Growing up in 1930s Glasgow, it was regarded as the next most likely next place in Europe, after Russia, to have a communist revolution. Tanks were deployed in George Square to suppress such a revolution, like an early Tiananmen Square. Dad read everything he could. I still have his copy of Karl Marx’s Das Kapital, and his copy of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. It led, I later learned, to physical fights between my dad and my granddad. The latter was a staunch socialist but, for him, communism was going too far.

  The fall of communism in the 1980s, along with glasnost and perestroika, was a crippling blow to my dad’s long-held beliefs. It was like watching someone who was a Christian being definitively shown God does not exist. (Incidentally, I grew up in a completely secular household. My mum was a lapsed Catholic; I never even went into a church until I was twenty-five and only because I was curious to see what they were like).