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Clanlands

Page 24

by Sam Heughan


  And half the wind resistance as it travels o’er the land.

  The weight is less than double. This alone gives peace of mind.

  But it’s still another matter to the guy who sits behind . . . shovellin’ coal.

  Yes, the man up front is master. It is he who shifts the gears.

  He decides when brakes are needed, and on top of this he steers.

  He can go the wrong direction and wind up in Timbuktu;

  But refuses any protest from the guy who’s number two . . . shovellin’ coal

  THE GRIEVANCES OF GRAHAM,

  BY GRAHAM

  Obviously this requires a book by itself. It’s not so much grievances as things that are just annoying and inexplicable.Where to begin:

   1. Perpetual sound. It is now impossible to do anything in life without a soundtrack accompaniment. The term ‘elevator music’ came about with the introduction of piped music in elevators. Clearly people were so uncomfortable with being in a moving metal box for even a few seconds without noise to distract them, that hey presto, ‘elevator music’ was invented.

  This has now extended to every aspect of life.

  Shops, restaurants, bars, gyms. Sometimes it’s even piped into the street, just in case you have to walk a few yards without music between shops.

  Now, I like music. I enjoy it, but I find it truly disturbing that it is forced on every aspect of our existence.

  Surely it can’t be long before we have strategically placed speakers on lengthy hikes. Or perhaps they’ll be playing it in Parliament during debates.

  I recently did a Spartan Race run. I found myself run-ning behind a guy who was carrying a giant sound system

  on his shoulder, blasting out his execrable taste in music.

  Needless to say I had to kill him. (Kidding, but it definitely crossed my mind.)

  (I’ve realised that if I write this much about everything that annoys me, I’ll be here all day.)

  So I will just list.

  [Sam: Oh . . . I just happened to do a Spartan Race? Graham probably thought it was an opportunity to ‘actually’ fight people. Or Spartans. Or dress as one?]

   2. A lack of honour among politicians. (The last time a politician resigned as a matter of honour was Lord Carrington in 1982 – and this is a man who fought at Arnhem in WWII!)

   3. Mobile phones.

   4. The celebration of mediocrity.

   5. Hand sanitiser.

   6. Cyclists who wear lycra (you’re not in the Tour de France!).

  [Sam: MAMILs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) is what we call men in Lycra in the UK.]

  [Graham: I call them c***s.]

  [Sam: Hmmm does that include Lycra underpants? I feel I’ve seen you wear those, Mr Shouty?]

   7. Adults wearing onesies.

  [Sam: Tick.]

   8. Emojis.

   9. People who can’t laugh at themselves. I’m glad to say Sam can, which is a prerequisite of a decent human being and not being a ‘see you next Tuesday’.

  [Sam: I play along . . .]

  10. Any corporation that says, ‘Your safety is our number one priority.’ They’re lying.

  11. Staff who begin their conversation with you with the words, ‘How’s your day going so far?’ Sometimes at 6am (a little early to say, I would venture).

  12. People who play videos on their phone at full volume. I once suggested to one such cretin that perhaps they’d like me to read aloud from the book I was enjoying. (They didn’t get it.)

  13. Bad manners.

  [Sam: Thank you.]

  14. The high five and the fist bump. (The loss of the handshake is a terrible thing. There is something powerful and meaningful about taking the hand of another human being as a mark of respect and connection. What is meaningful about a fist bump?)

  [Sam: A huge argument I had on Outlander was that ‘apparently’ human beings didn’t shake hands until after the 1700s. It’s a pet peeve of mine. What

  absolute utter tripe. There are images of Romans/Greeks/Egyptians . . . dammit, children naturally take you by the hand, monkeys do . . . don’t get me started!]

  15. Stores that say, ‘What’s your email address?’ when you buy deodorant, or indeed anything at all. Stamps, paperclips. ‘No! I don’t want to be on your fucking mailing list. Who in their right mind would?’

  16. People who wear T-shirts saying ‘VEGAN’. I once worked with an actor (in 1988) who wore a T-shirt with ‘LEAVE ME ALONE’ written on it. That was funny.

  Lacroix and I both bought business cards (independently of each other!) that read, in very small writing, ‘Please shut up.’

  Ahem . . .

  17. Any kind of bullying. A real trigger for me. I became a kind of vigilante in the mid 2000s. I was like Charles Bronson.

  18. Weak handshakes (make an effort!). (See No.14.)

  19. People who queue-jump and when I point out their selfish and colossal error, pretend they hadn’t noticed you. I’m a 6’2” bald, bearded man of 200 pounds. I’m not inconspicuous. This trait is sadly particularly prevalent among the French. Even my French girlfriend admits this.

  20. The ubiquity of the phrase ‘No worries’ to accompany every transaction.

      ‘I’m worried I might have a terminal illness.’

      ‘No worries.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Culloden

  Skye Boat

  Chorus:

  Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing

  Onward the sailors cry.

  Carry the lad that’s born to be king

  Over the sea to Skye

  1. Loud the wind howls

  Loud the waves roar

  Thunderclaps rend the air

  Baffled our foes

  Stand by the shore

  Follow they will not dare

  Chorus

  2. Many’s the lad fought on that day

  Well the claymore did wield

  When the night came

  Silently lain

  Dead on Colloden field

  Chorus

  3. Though the waves heave

  Soft will ye sleep

  Ocean’s a royal bed

  Rocked in the deep

  Flora will keep

  Watch by your weary head

  Chorus

  GRAHAM

  The day has finally dawned and we are travelling to Drumossie Moor, site of the Battle of Culloden, which, on 16th April 1746, signalled the end of Highland culture and the decimation of the clan system. This is the part of the journey I have been looking forward to the most. I visited Culloden over thirty years ago and, although I remember it well, this time will be undoubtedly different because the jigsaw pieces of our road trip, the people we have met along the way, my wider reading of history and the Jacobite story recreated in Outlander will come together in one picture of understanding.

  However, after all that tandem nonsense, I haven’t slept well and am as stiff as a post. I’m currently sitting on the edge of my hotel bed unable to put my socks on without sounding like my dad in the twilight of his years.

  Urghhh-eeearr-yuhhhuuupp!

  [Sam: Very similar to the noises I hear most evenings, emanating from his hotel room.]

  Damn that flamed-haired bawbag! He ruined Culloden for me in Outlander, too. Killing me off just before the battle started. Not going to Culloden was like a knife to the heart. No, it literally was. Fighting in the battle scene would have felt like honouring my ancestors as well as being a bloody great day at the office, but instead I got Prestonpans. Which was a lot of fun – we shot it inside a gigantic inflatable tent so that they could control the atmosphere inside, with horses charging, explosions, sword fights – a child’s playground, but it wasn’t Culloden.

  Instead, I had to die at the hands of Clytemnestra (Claire) and her ginger hubbie. I mean, filming Dougal’s death scene was fabulous but I wish it could have happened after Culloden. Culloden �
� the very name has a bite to it. The sound it makes in one’s mouth. There is a finality in the name. It certainly echoes throughout history since that day in April 1746 and the battlefield has become a sacred shrine to the memory of the Highlands. For countless Outlander fans it has become a place of pilgrimage.

  So whilst I try and get my other bloody sock on – my thighs are throbbing like Black Jack’s crotch – let’s get some context to the last battle fought on British soil. The Jacobite Rising of 1745 was a brief episode in British history, only nine months, from the raising of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s standard at Glenfinnan to the battle that ended his hopes at Culloden. In an age when the army was a gentleman’s occupation, there were few who really knew what they were doing in the Jacobite camp. Lord George Murray was one. MacDonald of Keppoch was another, along with Cluny MacPherson (who had practically been pressed into service by Cameron of Lochiel) and yet they took control of Scotland. It is tempting to imagine that this was because of their strength, their courage, their strategy.

  Murray did his best to create a decent army, but on the eve of the Battle of Prestonpans (17th September 1745) no one knew how they’d perform. It’s extraordinary to think that when they charged out of the mist and caught the raw British troops unawares, for most of the 2,500 Highlanders this was their first battle. Victorious at Prestonpans, no one can doubt the Jacobites’ courage, but we also shouldn’t doubt their luck. At Prestonpans they didn’t face disciplined artillery fire using canister shot (similar to a giant shotgun being fired at close range).

  The victory swelled numbers in Charles’s army to 5,500 men intent on marching to London and crowning their ‘true king’ but the rebels’ artillery was rubbish and they didn’t have enough cavalry to mount a single charge. The Highland Charge made up for this to a great extent. Who needs cavalry when you have hundreds of screaming Highlanders brandishing their fearsome broadswords and targes? They were the ‘shock’ troops of their age, especially trained to carry out sudden assaults.

  By the time they reached Falkirk on 17th January 1746, they had learned how to fire a withering volley of musket fire into the charging horsemen of General Hawley, adding the Battle of Falkirk Muir to their battle honours. When they crossed the border into England they were met by much support – the ringing of bells, lighting of bonfires and people illuminating their houses to welcome them at Manchester. The Jacobite numbers continued to swell (although not in the numbers they had hoped) so why did Charles turn back at Derby? Why not push on to London as per the original plan? The Bonnie Prince certainly wanted to but his generals, in particular, Lord George Murray, persuaded him that without French support (which had been at best a dream and at worst downright lies) the rebel army was no match for the British army they would face in London. On 6th December 1745, known as ‘Black Friday’, they turned around and marched north from Derby.

  The British had blockaded the Scottish coast (depriving Charles of French gold to keep his army fed and paid) and the only port the Jacobites still controlled was Inverness. It was defending the port (and the main roads up to it) that led them to make camp at Culloden Moor where they stayed for six long weeks before the eponymous battle took place.

  In the end it wasn’t Culloden that killed Highland Jacobitism. Even long after Culloden, Cumberland’s successor as Commander in Chief, the Earl of Albemarle, still found plenty of willingness to fight against the Crown. No, what finished it was a growing realisation that the French could not be relied upon. Without them, they knew it was a lost cause.

  [Sam: So we can blame the French for this? Is blaming the French still allowed?!]

  [Graham: Absolutely!]

  SAM

  There’s much less banter between us today because we are both thinking about Culloden and the visit ahead. It’s the apex of our journey and poignant to us as Scotsmen (and members of the Outlander cast) because we know how incredibly significant this point in history was to our land of birth.

  I first visited Culloden before starting work on Outlander and it coincided with my first fan experience. The Eden Court Theatre was screening a small independent movie I had shot in Brighton, England, and I had played the theatre some years before, in Outlying Island. I remember Inverness being a picturesque place, with the theatre sitting on the banks of the River Ness. However, that night the quiet city was to be besieged by one particular type of tourist: Heughligans – an Outlander fan group devoted to supporting anything to do with me! These ladies had been fans of Diana Gabaldon’s books for twenty years and everyone and everything to do with the forthcoming show was a passion for them now, too.

  I entered the theatre foyer and was greeted by a large cheer and an abundance of tartan. The Heughligans had organised a couple of coaches to ferry them from Edinburgh Airport (most travelling from the US or Europe) and were spending the weekend visiting Outlander sites and enjoying the Scottish food and culture. This was before the Outlander show was well known so the staff of the theatre looked on bemused as I was surrounded by a sea of excited women. Little did I know that this was only the start of things to come! I was flattered and rather surprised to see so many people there and, after sharing various hip flasks (whisky kills all germs and actually boosts your immune system: FACT), I made my excuses and set out to find my lodgings. The Heughligans, however, found a local ceilidh and danced the night away.

  I was up early to visit the battlefield on a particularly grey and dreich morning. A melancholy mist covered the field so I could barely make out the flags marking the battle lines. The Culloden Experience Museum was closed and there wasn’t a soul to be seen so I wandered aimlessly, looking for a rough guide or clue to the history of this place. Damp and cold to the bone, I stood alone on the moor. As the mist parted, the Fraser headstone, like the one Claire visited, stood solemnly ahead of me, marking the mass grave of the renowned Scottish clan. I took a moment to reflect on my fictional character, Jamie – men like him were buried here, younger than me because they believed in a cause and fought for their way of life. A slow walk revealed more graves: Cameron, Campbell, MacDonald and MacLeod. Many rivals now joined together in death. The wind picked up and chilled me to the bone, driving me hurriedly from the battlefield.

  That night, in a warm hotel, I planned a climb up neighbouring Ben Wyvis (try getting my business partner, Alex the German, to say that!), a brooding Munro near Dingwall.

  Nearing the top, slipping in the snow and ice, I could see a dark storm was approaching over Culloden. A local climber in full mountaineering equipment passed me and stopped in shock. ‘It’s a bit blowy up the top, might want to think twice!’ He set off down the mountain, his ropes and crampons a sure sign I was dreadfully underprepared in only my training shoes and leather jacket. I took a moment to admire the view, Culloden battlefield and the River Ness far off in the distance and vowed to return to conquer both the Munro and battlefield. Apparently Munro himself also didn’t make it to the top of Wyvis.

  So I find myself here years later, looking up Graham’s kilt, which is not quite the return visit I had imagined. Eeewwwiiiee! It’s a sight that would make a Highlander warrior wince; however, it’s the girlfriends I feel sorry for (and there have been a few . . . !). I am showing the Grey Dog how to put on a great kilt, and after years of practice wearing one on Outlander, it’s like second nature to me.

  ‘This is the last time I ever help you get dressed!’ I lie, thinking that squeezing him into a wetsuit and flippers would make TV gold! (Starz’s Men in Kilts Season Two?) ‘Scotland the Brave’ is blasting from the next room as the Inverness Youth Pipe Band warm up, the base drum reverberating off the walls. The kids have swapped PlayStations for bagpipes and bravely agreed to play some tunes on the battlefield. Unfortunately, it’s blowing a hooley on the moor, even windier than my last visit. Lady McT is ready, the kilt hanging off his hips, twinned with a scarf and fleece combo he’s insisting on wearing but which is doing little to uphold his ‘macho image’! Wendy applies some make-up shaking her head
disapprovingly at his ‘old man fleecy’.

  Outside the Pipe Band forms a human wall against the wind. A few are blown sideways and instantly scolded by the pipe master for being weak. ‘My kind of man,’ Graham enthuses.

  Catriona, not Balfe, but McIntosh, is the visitor services supervisor at the Culloden Museum. One of our most engaging cameos, she leads us from the British side of the battlefield across no-man’s-land to the Highlanders’ side, where the Frasers stood alongside Bonnie Prince Charlie, facing down the enemy. ‘On the day of the battle it was blowing a gale like today. They were standing here for twenty minutes, a volley of sustained cannon fire overhead, rain and sleet in their faces, waiting and waiting for the order to charge,’ says Catriona. ‘There’s loud bangs, shouting, pipes playing in the Jacobite lines, pipes sounding from the government troops, smoke from cannons and muskets – it was sensory overload.’

  The Jacobites rally themselves with battle cries. Graham and I push our chests out, walk forward towards the British surrounded by our pipers and beat our chests, shouting the Cameron clan war cry:

  Oh sons of dogs, oh dogs of the breed,

  Come, come here, on flesh to feed!

  As we roar the words against the howling wind and rain like the Camerons had done some 200 years before, something dormant stirs inside us, creating an energy urging us to move forwards. We are ready! Our hardy pipe band answers our call and plays ‘Scotland the Brave’ – the shouting, war cries and pipe music are all significant in raising our mood levels to murderous intent.

  Come on, Graham! Let’s goooo!

  GRAHAM

  Standing on the bleak moor in the cold and rain with Sam, I conjure the brooding atmosphere that hangs over this national monument. I have stood on many historic battlefields, but none has affected me so deeply. To look out to where the British lines would have stood, today marked by fluttering flags two kilometres across, is to truly understand the scale of what the Jacobites faced that day.

 

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