Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  My dad’s war diary as an RAF pilot is littered with references to ‘our comrades in the Soviet Union’, never to American troops. I grew up having Soviet Weekly delivered to our door. I thought this was completely normal until I learned that no other child had a dad who had Soviet Weekly delivered. Apart from Gary Lewis, who plays my brother, Colum, in Outlander. His dad was a Glaswegian communist too. One of many things I found in common with him.

  Inviting Gary on our Clanlands journey was a stroke of genius, which I grudgingly credit to Heughan. [Sam: I think you’ll find I invited all the guests.] Gary’s hugs are the stuff of legend. A normal hug is a steady two to three seconds. The first two to three seconds of a Gary Lewis hug is merely a warm-up, a testing of the waters. He then devotes the next eight to ten seconds tightening his bear-like grip, holding on to you for dear life as if he has just returned as the sole survivor of Scott’s expedition to the Antarctic. Just as you think this must surely be it, he begins a warm and steady rub of your back, sometimes accompanied by extra squeezes, all the while murmuring ‘Brother, brother,’ if you’re a man, or ‘Darlin’, darlin’,’ if you are of the feminine persuasion. Finally, after what is now perhaps close to thirty seconds, he releases you from his vice-like embrace. It is entirely possible that you could have passed from day to night while receiving the attention of one of these hugs. But, far from objecting to this, everyone, me included, feels much better afterwards. That’s a proper hug.

  Gary is not a tall man. He does not have the Viking gene coursing through his veins, or if he does it was the midget Viking from the village that snuck onto the longboat and stayed behind after everyone had left. He possesses the classic Scottish physique. Short legs, a longer trunk (good for traversing the heather like a kilted goat), surprisingly strong arms for strong hugs. I love Gary. I’d go so far as to say I don’t know anyone who doesn’t love Gary. Originally a school teacher, he came to acting late. Gary has all the necessary talents for an actor: wonderful truthfulness, passion, and an access to emotion. He is also completely filthy.

  I remember filming the great hall scenes in Castle Leoch sitting at the big table with Gary and the lovely Aislín McGuckin, who played Gary’s wife, whom Dougal impregnated because Gary’s character was too enfeebled. When we were in the background of a scene Gary took great pleasure in trying to make us laugh. He always succeeded. I won’t go into all the coarse detail but suffice to say it involved comparing my character to a rabid stoat, and me regularly defiling the poor cook, Mrs Fitz, by, as he so charmingly put it . . . actually, I cannot write it down, it is simply too depraved! We were often helplessly crying with laughter.

  I first met Gary in, of course, a pub.

  We were both jobbing Glasgow-based theatre actors. He was part of Peter Mullan’s acting crew, and I would see them at the Victoria Bar near the Citizens Theatre in Glasgow. It was an Irish pub, and the landlord (Sean) would always remember what you drank even if you’d not been in for months! Mine was Guinness. I used to sit with Gary, Peter and Davey McKay watching live music, getting pissed on Guinness and generally putting the world to rights. When I learned he was playing Colum I was delighted. Firstly because Gary is a first-rate actor, secondly because we actually could be brothers (apart from the height), as without a beard we bear a striking resemblance. When it came to Colum’s wizened legs, Gary was given these harlequin-like stockings to wear (for the digital effects people to use). He had to wear shoes with inserts in them to make his legs curve outwards. They must have been bloody painful but he never complained. I always tried to make Gary laugh before a take. This invariably involved graphic descriptions of depraved sexual imaginings involving him and some farmyard animal in the castle. But Gary never flinched.

  When it came to the Gaelic, Gary was not a fan. In rehearsals, rather than do the actual Gaelic lines, he would simply recite a list of whisky brands. But doing scenes with him was a joy. His death scene and the scene in which he exiles me were among my favourite scenes to shoot. We shared our very last shoot day together: his death scene. There was lots of emotion, focus, and truth-pumping. On one’s last day on a job, especially one you’ve been on for years, it’s traditional for the 1st AD (Assistant Director) to announce that this is your last scene ever, and then lead the applause from crew and cast alike. Producers tend to come on set to join in with this. It’s actually quite touching. But this time, as ‘cut’ was called, the plugs on the lights were pulled, leaving Gary and me in darkness. The 1st AD announced the scene was complete and they started to move to another set. I think the cameraman mentioned, ‘Isn’t this your last day, guys?’ Gary and I muttered an affirmative. To which there was a smattering of half-hearted applause as the crew moved away in the darkness leaving Gary and myself alone next to the empty space where the series producers should have been standing.

  It fair brings a tear to your eye.

  SAM

  Michelle and I had persuaded an unsuspecting fisherman to hand over his livelihood for the day and we decided the least responsible of us would be Gary, so therefore the most fun if he arrived by water. A couple of years earlier I’d helped him get a short film crowd-funded, where he played a Lewis fisherman. He jumped in and instantly looked the part, complete with woollen bonnet and plastic fish.

  Graham and I continue standing on the harbour waiting for a lift. Our terrific photographer says this would be a great time for a shoot. A couple of large rocks situated next to the shore are an ideal setting. We make our way down and I jump up onto a rock and start to pose. Graham remains firmly on shore. ‘Come on!’ I shout. Gary is gathering speed, he’ll be with us in minutes. ‘Nope, not doing it,’ says the landlubber. ‘Too dangerous.’ Graham crosses his arms. The photographer and I encourage him, ‘It’s only a rock!’ Begrudgingly, Graham gingerly puts one foot on the rock. Then, crab-like, he climbs up on all fours, as if it’s the side of a cliff. The stone couldn’t have been higher than a bench!

  GRAHAM

  Old Russet-Top is meanwhile posing like a Barbour model for a country lifestyle magazine (yes, he’s done that too), jutting his jaw like Keira Knightley, chest out, turning and adjusting his pose as the camera clicks. It’s utterly nauseating. And then he actually goes and does it – he puts one leg up onto a higher rock and, resting his elbow on his knee, looks into the distance to create his signature ‘Full Nash’ pose. Lacroix and I used to take bets on when Sam would go ‘Full Nash’ (short for the full National Theatre) on Outlander to bring brooding thoughtfulness or a sense of foreboding to a situation.

  We all have our ‘signature looks’. Sam’s is a tightening of the eyes as he focuses on a distant object, leg cocked. Cait’s is a small smile, a misty eye, an arching of the eyebrows and the faintest of head shakes. Mine is probably a three-quarter turn of the head, followed by an expression that wouldn’t look out of place whilst having a prostate examination.

  SAM

  Luckily for McCrab, still clinging to a foot-high rock for dear life, rump to the stars, Gary heaves into view in a rowing boat.

  Gary: Lads! What you’ve got in the way of beverages?

  We take our hip flasks out. ‘Whisky.’

  Gary: Get in, yer pair of reprobates.

  Graham is helped off his rock by Michelle before he cautiously climbs aboard the boat looking nervous. I bound aboard like a Labrador, rocking madly. Graham is clinging to the sides like a fallen pensioner so I make sure to rock it a little more before we set off. ‘Just trying to balance it,’ I say, giving Grey Goat a slap on the back.

  Gary hands me an oar to help him row. Graham is positively frightened that I shall be sharing the rowing duties. I have to move into position, which means rocking the boat again, which I’m really trying not to do this time. ‘Please stop rocking the boat you ginger tw . . .’ He doesn’t finish the sentence. I offer to row on my own but Graham is having none of it. Gary and I are to row together and he will be the self-appointed cox.

  Graham: Stroke, stroke.

  Gary &
Sam: Stroke who?!

  Graham: I’m going to have one!

  We all explode with laughter. It’s good to have some of the gang back together. Today it feels like we are on a Viking galley ship, the oarsmen pulling in unison, the blades cutting through the water, the oppressive Viking King (complete with his safety belt) commanding us to row harder. ‘Stroke, stroke,’ he bellows, slipping into the role of cox with ease.

  GRAHAM

  Loch Ness is a place that everyone has heard of. Even people who don’t know where Scotland is, or think it’s just part of England, have heard of Loch Ness. It’s the monster, of course. That creature that is rumoured to lurk in the depths of this enormous loch. I definitely want to believe a plesiosaur is alive and well, living at the bottom of this body of water, the largest volume of fresh water in Britain. Given that it’s 240 metres deep, if a monster is going to live anywhere, it’s here.

  Our doughty crew are all assembled, bristling with drones, lenses and sound equipment. Michelle is barking instructions, having set up a shot whereby ‘Hugger Mor’ Gary would magically appear in a row boat, and invite us aboard to row across the loch. The crew would be on a separate boat that would follow us. (The magic of filming.)

  It is taking a long time to set up, so in the meantime, Sam suggests we do some still photos. For some reason this involved us clambering across rocks at the loch side, which have been coated in ice in order to make them as treacherous as possible. Clambering like a drunken goat across the rocks I dutifully stand for the photos, with Sam, no doubt, doing bunny ears behind me. Finally Gary makes his appearance. The first take Gary decides to do with a rubber fish in his mouth. (For the love of God, now there are two of these maniacs!). He finally ditches the fish so that he can actually speak coherently and we climb aboard. Sam and Gary take up oars, so I decide to fulfil the role of that guy in Spartacus who beats out the rhythm for the galley slaves.

  Out on the water, Gary tells us some fascinating stuff about the history of Scotland, which I’m relying on Sam to remember because I was concentrating on not being tipped out of the boat. It’s times like this that I am reminded of Samuel Johnson’s quote, ‘Boats are prisons with the possibility of drowning.’ It’s almost as if Johnson knew Sam Heughan personally.

  Although I will tell you about Urquhart Castle, which definitely has huge bragging rights as a ‘romantic’ castle. Other romantic castles must be sick with jealousy of its undeniable beauty and location. Perched on a stubby peninsula it is consistently one of the top ten most popular attractions in Scotland. The fact that visitors might possibly glimpse the waters of the loch frothing with Nessie bursting to life in front of them only adds to its popularity. Its role as a strategic castle goes back to the thirteenth century, with occupation by Edward I and Robert the Bruce, among others, culminating in it being the scene of a siege by Jacobites in 1689 against a garrison of supporters of the Protestant monarchs William and Mary. When they finally left they blew it up, which goes a long way to explaining why the castle is the romantic ruin it is now.

  We are blessed with stunning weather, with just enough cloud to contribute to a truly spectacular sunset. It really is a special moment as we drift on the water, looking across this majestic loch. At times like this I like to stop to appreciate how lucky I am to be here with Sam experiencing Scotland like this. And at that moment the Ginger Merkin tries to tip me out by rocking it. I had been totally lost in my thoughts and meditation, actually considering his friendship with sentimental affection, until the nine-year-old lunatic is back to practical joking. I grip the gunwale with both hands and say a stern ‘Nooo, Sam!’ Chiding him like a parent.

  SAM

  In spite of the laughter and uneven technique, we make it to the centre of the loch. It’s magnificent; the sun is blazing, the water deep and sky blue. Urquhart Castle stands defiant, its ruins silhouetted by the sun. We are silent, caught by the beauty of the land and ‘dualchas’ – a sense of belonging. We all feel it and Graham and I both feel we were born with a connection to the land. It’s a sense and understanding of the rhythm of nature, just as Cameron McNeish talked about at Clava Cairns. The druids and pagans felt it and they, and clansmen who followed them, would have known much more besides, reading the seasons, the birds, trees and their crops, understanding the mighty mountains, rivers and lochs all around them.

  Gary has a great knowledge of Scottish history and culture so it’s great to get his take on what happened to the Highlands and their people. ‘When you’re out on the water it’s a good place to get perspective,’ he says wisely. ‘This is a landscape that tells a story of its people. The key thing for the Gaels was relationship to the land; it wasn’t about who owned the land, it was that the land owned them. They lived in the land so the whole idea of ownership was something altogether different. The Gaels would have been bewildered by this modern abandonment of dualchas.’

  He tells us there is a great book called Soil and Soul by Alastair McIntosh, full of love, wisdom and beautifully written stories about the changing use and ownership of the landscape. It’s one I’m sure Cameron will have read, being so instrumental in protesting against the Land Reform Act and championing the right to roam. I look forward to reading it.

  We are lucky to have this moment of peace and sense of belonging but it doesn’t last long. As we try to make our way back, Graham is now hungry again and I’m desperate for the toilet (and more whisky). Gary is smashed in the eye by a camera lens as the crew are setting up for our sunset shot. Which only serves to prove the truth of that old saying, ‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.’ Fortunately Gary’s eye was fine but it was bloody sore, I’m sure.

  Back at the Lochardil Hotel that night, Gary’s infectious laughter lifts everyone’s spirits. ‘Och, my man! Come heeeeere!’ Short in stature but large in life, I am enveloped in the Mighty Hugger’s arms with little chance of escape. After a good ten-minuter he moves to give Graham – who, having changed out of his kilt, is now ‘dressed for dinner’ – another massive squeeze. I still have my muddy boots on, having had a quick meeting with Michelle to plan the next day. Mussels, Cullen skink, beef blade and lamb shoulder, the crew digs into the hearty Scottish food. I make do with some form of butternut squash and a large Oban. Oh to be a vegan. We order wine for the table and discuss the day’s events. Gary brightens the room with his booming voice, managing to hug everyone at least twice over again!

  I want to hug Graham but he’s still not happy with me having ‘rocked the boat’ earlier. He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at Gary. He emotes love at the wee man but when he looks at me it’s more with pleading eyes and a face slapped by fear. I need to go easier on him. I know I do.

  Emboldened by my third dram I take a leaf out of McHugger’s book, walk over to Graham and give him a long embrace. He hugs me back. Gary, moved by our bromance and fired up by whisky, opens his arms wide and cuddles us both. It feels warm and life-affirming, like brotherly dualchas.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Bicycle Made For Two

  When the spirits are low, when the day appears dark, when work becomes monotonous, when hope hardly seems worth having, just mount a bicycle and go out for a spin down the road, without thought on anything but the ride you are taking.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  I thought of that while riding my bike.

  Albert Einstein on the Theory of Relativity

  INT. JAMIE FRASER & CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP RANDALL’S ROOM – LALLYBROCH – DAY (1746)

  Outlander, Season Two, Episode Thirteen, ‘Dragonfly in Amber’

  Writing Credit: Toni Graphia & Matthew B. Roberts

  Based on the novels by Diana Gabaldon

  SAM

  The sharp dagger is inches from Dougal MacKenzie’s chest, blood runs down the blade from my hand that he’d bitten seconds before. It drips onto his chest as he strains to push the knife back at me. Using all my strength I twist the blade around so it’s pointing towards Dougal’s heart and, usi
ng every ounce of strength and my weight, I slowly drive the blade into my uncle’s chest. There is a terrible sound from the MacKenzie war chief, the sound of terror, stifled breath, shaking and then stillness. (He’s practised that scream in front of the mirror, I’m sure.)

  Moments earlier Dougal had discovered his nephew Jamie (me) and his time-travelling wife Claire were plotting to murder Bonnie Prince Charlie. We were filming a scene from the last episode of Season Two and Graham’s character was about to die by my hand. It would be Graham’s last day on set after two years of filming together (or so we thought) and although I was feeling sad about not working together anymore – he’d become a great friend and integral member of the Outlander cast – I secretly loved the idea of messing with him, one last time.

  We were shooting the close-up of the dagger (or Scottish dirk) as we grappled to kill each other. Discussions with the director brought us to the idea that Claire should assist the stalemate and lend her strength and weight to the fight by leaning down on the dirk as well and forcing the blade deep into Dougal's chest. This was not in the book and I’m not sure Diana Gabaldon approved. It’s ironic that Claire – a healer – actually kills most of the people in the books! We joke that she may actually be a serial killer and not a healer at all . . . For this close-up, Claire’s stand-in, or double, was used as you’d only see our hands.

  ‘Action!’

  We push the blade towards Graham, who is pretending to struggle, coughs a mist of fake blood from his mouth. After a few moments I decide to push slightly harder, just to see his reaction . . .

  ‘Oh! No! No! Maeve, not so hard!’

  The poor stand-in, Maeve, was barely touching the knife handle. She was resting her hand on mine at best.

  ‘Nooo, not so hard, Maeve!’ Graham bellows.