Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  We have a full itinerary ahead of us with some strongman lifting of stones and a visit to Rob Roy MacGregor’s grave, as played by Liam Neeson in the film Rob Roy and, of course, captured in the eponymous novel by Sir Walter Scott. To be honest, Finlarig Castle was a bit of an afterthought – we liked the look of it because it was a ruin and connected to the famous MacGregors, many of whose heads ended up in a pit here, as we were about to find out. After a short journey we park up in a farmyard near the ruins next to some rusting farm machinery. Expecting a farmer or someone in overalls and jeans to welcome us in this rural setting, we are instead confronted by a small private army dressed in combat fatigues, wielding walkie-talkies. Graham is taken aback and, at that moment, I tell him that, according to Clan MacGregor and the current owner, Mons Bolin, Finlarig Castle has the ‘darkest history in Scotland’.

  ‘Welcome to Finlarig,’ says one of the monotone military men, while the other, more unnervingly, starts to serenade us with a sombre piece on a guitar and mouth organ (which he has pulled from nowhere). It’s like a scene from James Bond when the evil henchmen beguile the ‘goodies’ with displays of bizarre behaviour just before the fight scene breaks out. We stand and watch ‘Duncan’ play awkwardly; the other silently monitors us with cold eyes and a 1,000-mile stare. I shudder to think what they make of us two namby-pamby actors, arriving in an oversized fridge, wearing woolly tweed and what could be described as a dress, my kilt all limp and wrinkled after Graham got it soggy at Culloden yesterday. Graham has come as a gamekeeper in a ‘shooting coat’ and tweed cap on top but then he’s teamed it with skinny jeans and Shoreditch brogues on the bottom half, revealing his true lovey credentials. We feel weak and unmacho.

  Across the farmyard, there’s an armoured personnel carrier parked by an outbuilding, presumably out of action, as another private mercenary is bent over the hood inspecting the engine. Maybe he could give our camper the once-over, install an extra bit of horsepower and saw off the exhaust, I muse. Suddenly Finlarig Castle-owner, Mons Bolin [Graham: Which sounds a bit like a sailing knot. ‘Secure your boat with a Mons Bolin . . .’] is striding towards us, sporting a beret and holding a stick under his arm like a commanding officer. Duncan stops playing and the mechanic stands to attention. I stand up straight, shoulders back and puff out my chest. Graham also stands bolt upright, looking like he’s about to give a salute. He looks at me with wide eyes as if saying, ‘Where are we?’ and, ‘Do we get to live in the end?’

  Mons is standing in front of us, looking us up and down like he’s inspecting his new recruits. He has a firm handshake. And, as we covertly nurse our crippled hands, he announces loudly to Graham, myself and all the nearby huddled crew that, yes, the insignia on his beret is, indeed, Swedish Special Forces. We all nod our heads pretending that he has answered the exact question on all our minds.

  But what if Mons really is Swedish Special Forces? He looks about seventy, so it could be unlikely, but then again . . . I start thinking about all the multiple disciplines he could have trained in and suddenly hear myself asking him . . . no, grilling him . . . about it. ‘I mostly specialised in covert water assault,’ he informs me with unblinking eyes. I believe him. And so does Graham, who shifts uneasily in his gamekeeper get-up, betraying nerves by fiddling with his tweed cap. ‘Have you ever killed a man with your bare hands?’ asks Graham. I look at him in shock. I can see he is a man under stress and genuinely needs to know . . . but really? You want to ask that now? Of a man guarded by a small militia with a cache of military hardware? Mons shrugs and says, ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’

  ‘I see your APC [armoured personnel carrier] isn’t working,’ I say, trying to make small talk. I make it worse by telling him I’ve just shot an SAS movie with Andy McNab – as if this might give me a ‘way in’, or at least a small hope that the mute mercenaries won’t make us die too slowly.

  ‘Oh don’t worry, it will be fixed shortly and we have plenty of toys around the grounds to deter the enemy,’ he says. He marches off apace, his cane under his right arm, and Graham and I fall in behind him, mirroring his military style with our umbrellas. Not quite the crack unit of storm troopers that Mons is used to; I think Graham may even have a slight limp. Perhaps creating a war wound narrative to inspire clemency later? Duncan, the tall, dark, silent one, has put away his one-man band and disappears into the undergrowth. Possibly in a flanking manoeuvre . . .

  The rain was beginning to come down as we made our way through the dripping trees. There, hidden from the road, was an eerie sight. A small, grey, square castle, impenetrable from most sides, with a gaping black pit in front. It was silent in the wood, no wildlife, as if the birds had seen our approach, or maybe there was no life at all. ‘Dreich,’ Mons said, his pseudo clipped military accent dropped for a Scottish burr. ‘Aye, Finlarig in Gaelic means Holy Pass,’ Mons told us, rolling his Rs. ‘Once the home of the MacGregors, it came into the Campbells’ hands though they never vanquished it, they purchased it.’ The Campbells. Always some sort of shady history, always on the winning side. I’m sure they used their cunning to acquire the castle without too much bloodshed. I pulled my collar up, the chill and damp getting into my bones; the black history or dark atmosphere of the castle was beginning to reveal itself. The rain clouds seemed to frame the building, lying low to prevent us from seeing it whole. The trees behind us rustled and I knew we were not alone. Silent Duncan, or one of the men employed to always keep us in their sights. I moved the conversation forward. Or tried to. Mons was well prepared, like he’d done this before, rehearsed the narrative with military precision. He told us about the history of the dark castle.

  GRAHAM

  I’ve always preferred ruins to well-maintained castles. Like a good book, they allow you to use your imagination to fill in the gaps. You also find fewer people (no tacky gift shops selling Highland cow toys, maps of Outlander locations or Sassenach products!). You are really able to connect with the building, touch it, wander at your leisure and conjure up the living history around you. What I hadn’t expected was our guide to be the Swedish version of John Rambo.

  Firstly, to history. Finlarig is, yes, you’ve guessed it, another Campbell castle. While other clans struggled on with one, maybe two castles if they were lucky, the Campbells always thought big. And one of the biggest thinkers was the guy who refurbished this ghostly gaff in 1609, none other than good old ‘Black Duncan’. I mean, this fella never stopped. If he wasn’t busy building Balcardine Castle, or renovating and expanding Kilchurn, he was laying the foundations for Achallader Castle and Lochdochart. Sometimes you feel like B.D. was some kind of seventeenth-century property developer/architect/badass. As his name ‘Black Duncan of the Seven Castles’ implies, he owned seven castles by the time he was sixty. I don’t know what’s more impressive, the number of castles or that he was still alive at sixty.

  By the time he died at the staggering age of eighty-one, he owned 438,000 acres of lands stretching over 100 miles. His appetite for land led to the rumour that he tried to murder our old friend Campbell of Cawdor, as well as seeking to have the whole Clan MacGregor outlawed so he could add to his gargantuan property portfolio. You can’t help thinking that he spent every waking moment planning how to just get more land, and that when he lay on his deathbed breathing his last, he regretted not building eight castles and owning a further 400,000 acres. That’s the thing about chaps like Black Duncan, plenty is never quite enough. I can see him at Finlarig stroking a white cat on his lap, planning world domination. [Sam: I can see Mons doing that too.]

  Just like Kilchurn Castle, this one was home to government troops during the Jacobite rebellions of 1715 and 1745. As a mark of royal favour, Black Duncan had James I (VI of Scotland) and Queen Anne of Denmark’s royal coat of arms over the entrance dated 1609. This acted as a gigantic ‘Fuck you’ to anyone unwise enough to think of taking it over. Here lived a man (with six other holiday castles) with connections.

  But to Mons . . . Michelle had already told u
s he was a character. But, as with so much of this trip, nothing could have prepared us for the reality. We arrive in our caravan followed by our motley crew, park up and wander into a cobbled yard next to a farm outbuilding with open sides and a roof [Sam: aka a barn!]. Inside is the usual detritus of farm life: tarpaulins, bales of hay, hoes, and shovels. But one thing dominates the barn: an armoured personnel carrier, complete with a .50 calibre mounted Browning machine gun. Obviously farming is done differently around here. Perhaps the sheep respond well to being chased across open fields by an armoured vehicle spraying bullets.

  ‘Do you see that?’ I ask Sam.

  ‘Yes, unusual,’ he says, stating the bleeding obvious.

  I am still digesting this troubling sight when I see a figure approaching from the farmhouse. He is wearing a soft green beret, tweed jacket, plus fours, long socks, stout shoes and is carrying a stick with the head of a ram carved into the top. This must be Mons. Simultaneously, two other gentlemen arrive from the other direction. We all make our introductions, Mons speaking with an unusual cadence that makes me immediately sure he’s ‘not from round these parts’. And I’m spot on because it turns out he’s Swedish, and not just any common-or-garden Swedish, no, Swedish Special Forces Swedish, his beret sporting a golden trident.

  His two friends, Duncan and Johnny, are both ex-Black Watch regiment. Johnny shakes hands and sits on a ruined sofa in the barn, possibly about to sharpen bayonets, or field-strip a Bren Gun blindfolded. Duncan is a giant – six foot five at least. He is trying to give us his gentlest handshake but it still resembles being caught in a mangle. I think I can see tears springing from Sam’s eyes as he is gripped by the paw of Duncan.

  After these introductions, I address the proverbial elephant in the room. ‘Erm . . . Mons. Why do you have an armoured personnel carrier in your barn?’

  And these are his exact words: ‘Ah yes, you see Duncan and Johnny are like, well, my home guard. We have a number of “toys” on the property. It helps to keep away unwelcome visitors. No one fucks with us here.’

  A heavy silence descends and I gently soil myself. Sam is smiling and nodding, as though an armed encampment in the Highlands run by ex-soldiers is the most normal thing in the world, but inside I suspect his mind is racing as fast as mine. The crew looks on aghast, but then that has become their default expression for this entire trip.

  I look around, as if seeing things for the first time. Duncan and Johnny, lounging on the sofa, are looking at us without expression. Mons is dressed like a nineteenth-century laird, one who sports an ex-Special Forces beret. I scan the horizons to see if there is an enormous Wicker Man waiting for us in a field. All clear on that front, and then the penny drops.

  Black Watch, Special Forces, Scottish/Swedish, these are guys who had met ‘on operations’. Ex-mercenaries?! I gulp. And suddenly I realise who Mons looks like: a sixty-year-old Rutger Hauer. After that epiphany I expect him to whisper: ‘Time to die . . . Graham.’

  Time to look at the castle.

  Mons is relishing his role as tour guide and he is actually rather fantastic at it. He gives us the rundown on the history and leads us to a 3.5m x 2m hole that resembles a mass grave. It turns out to be wittily known as the ‘beheading pit’. In one corner lies a rusted chain that was used to manacle prisoners overnight because, as it turns out, the Campbells were very big on trials. Invariably short trials and ones that did not end well for the defence, especially if your last name was MacGregor.

  Conducted at ‘Judgement Hill’ in a densely wooded area, set back from the castle, the laird would sit at the top of a mound with steps cut into the earth, rough stone slabs set into them, and convey his judgement. Perhaps Black Duncan sat on this very hill, I’m willing to bet dressed in black. Sam climbs the steps like a mountain goat and I carefully pick my way up to receive my judgement.

  Now, I should pause here to emphasise that Finlarig Castle is a seriously creepy place. And, not just because of the armoured car, or the giant Jock with hands like a Kodiak bear, or Mons’s disturbing habit of grinning conspiratorially at every other moment. The place ‘feels’ evil. I’m not one for dramatics [Sam: ha ha!], or ghosts, or haunted houses, but Finlarig definitely has a dark feel to it.

  I climb the worn stone steps and think of all those who have (literally) gone before. No trial, just judgement. If you were a common man and found guilty, you were instantly hanged. If you were noble you were invited to spend the night chained up in the beheading pit and then you would have your swede nobly removed from your shoulders in the morning. [Graham: Swede, like what you did there!] Well, more likely the next evening at a Black (Duncan) Tie event. They would have drinks and dinner in the castle banqueting hall overlooking the pit and then pop out for a little after-dinner entertainment, watching a few prisoners’ heads tumble. Followed by a little dancing and more refreshments, it would be a hell of a night.

  The tree used for hanging was eventually cut down sometime in the twentieth century. The ‘dangling’ bough apparently had a deep groove cut into it from the volume of hangings. As Sam and I let these morbid musings crowd our thoughts, Duncan is now going hard on the bagpipes, sending mournful notes filled with foreboding into the trees. I can’t help wondering if Mons is actually going to let us leave. And, come to think of it, we haven’t seen Wendy for a while . . . !

  We casually saunter back to our vehicles (but inside I want to leg it). I can hand on heart say I have never been so pleased to see the Fiat Fiasco in all my life. We drive away at speed and I look back in the wing mirror and see the three figures of Duncan, Johnny, and Mons standing shoulder to shoulder, arms folded, watching intently as we leave the grounds, before slowly returning to their toys, somehow disappointed, but not before I spot a large fluffy white cat joining them.

  SAM

  ‘Always have a beheading pit when building a castle,’ says Mons. I see he’s not joking and order Graham to get in with the tip of my umbrella. Not wanting to look soft in front of our hardened guide, Graham eases himself down into the muddy pit, slipping on the wet grass and landing heavily. What better way to test Lady McTavish’s mettle, than to order him to his doom? The prisoners – many MacGregors – were left there for twenty-four hours before having their heads removed in front of a morbid crowd. I wondered if Graham would want to recreate that. As Mons and I wander away pretending to leave him there, I tell Mons more about my Andy McNab film.

  It’s nearing lunchtime and I can hear Graham’s belly grumble from inside the headless pit. ‘Time to crack on,’ Mons orders and we beat a retreat back to the camper van (and clapped-out armoured car). We have to make it to Balquhidder by the afternoon as we have a date with a rock and Rob Roy.

  Graham scrambles out of the pit, calling after us. ‘We must see the judgement stairs!’ he cries, puffing from the exertion. Not wanting to disappoint McHangry, we walk up to the ancient hill, hidden deep inside the quiet forest. There, covered in moss, broken and forgotten, are a set of uneven steps leading up to the ancient mound. Once the site of an ancient hill fort or ‘Dun’, it was where the clan chief would sit and give out ruling and justice to each prisoner or protestor.

  I walk slowly up the very same steps that many men and women had climbed before, possibly their last steps, before being sent to the aforementioned pit. As Graham nears the top of ten short but heavy steps, he gasps for air. ‘You’re nimbler than I am!’ We both stop. The ghosts of those before us, their lives condemned, fill the heavy air, sucking out the oxygen. Even Duncan, hidden in the bushes, holds his breath. ‘Imagine,’ Graham says, ‘those steps could be your last and you’re off to the pit . . . but thankfully, we’re off to the pub!’ Apologising to the spirits watching us (as well as Duncan), we race down the steps, looking for soup and sandwiches.

  ***

  After a quick pit stop we are back on our way to Rob Roy’s grave at Balquhidder. I should be looking forward to it but I have a sinking feeling knowing we are facing a possible ‘argy’ on arrival between o
ur two guides: Donald MacLaren, chief of the MacLarens and Peter Lawrie, Vice-chairman of the Clan Gregor Society. Arch-enemies, or at least not known to see eye to eye, Michelle and I had decided to keep them apart, agreeing to meet Donald MacLaren at Balquhidder kirk and Peter at the site of the Puterach Stone – the plan being to avoid any arguments or uncomfortable stand-offs.

  What’s the saying about best-laid plans . . . ? But first a little backstory: I first met Sir Malcom MacGregor, 24th chief of Clan Gregor, when I received my (second) honorary doctorate in Dumfries, part of the Glasgow University campus, one of the oldest universities in the world. [Graham: Was this the same day Ronald McDonald got his honorary degree for services to world cuisine?] The main reason I accepted this great (unworked-for) honour was I knew it’d piss off McTavish twice as much. [Graham: I stupidly chose to get my degree on merit.]

  Chief MacGregor was whispering to me during the Dumfries ceremony about the fascinating history of the MacGregor clan and notorious outlaw and folk hero Rob Roy MacGregor. What really struck me, whilst waiting to receive my scroll and initiation into the cloisters of the University, was that the MacGregor clan were actually all outlawed. Named ‘Children of the Mist’, for nearly two centuries the clan members were persecuted. Male members were not allowed to use their surname, own property or even possess a wife. Women could be branded and their children given away. Stripped bare, whipped and possibly sold into slavery, their heads could be sold to the government to attain pardon for various misdemeanours. A currency, so to speak. The site of a mass execution of MacGregors in Edinburgh at the St Giles Kirk still holds the Heart of Midlothian, a mosaic that it is still customary to spit on as you pass, much to the bemusement of passing tourists. They had no land and were practically living ghosts. I knew we had to have the chief in the show and discuss the notoriety of their most famous member, however, sadly, Malcolm MacGregor wasn’t available so we were offered the services of highly knowledgeable Clan Vice-chairman Peter Lawrie. And, as if by sheer luck, the Clan Chief MacLaren was also available and agreed to join us too . . . !