by Sam Heughan
And then we received the following emails:
Hi Michelle
One other thing. Sir Malcolm’s message to me that you would have ‘a second clan chief’.
Not Donald MacLaren by any chance?
If so, may I mention in advance that Donald MacLaren is upset by the hordes of tourists who visit Balquhidder to visit Rob Roy’s grave. As a result he has put it about that Rob Roy is not buried at Balquhidder but over at Glengyle. He has personally produced and erected information boards at the entrance to the kirk proclaiming this.
Yours, Peter Lawrie (Clan MacGregor)
Follow-up email from Peter:
I’m just letting you know what Donald MacLaren’s (incorrect) view is concerning the location of Rob Roy’s burial and his long-standing complaints about hordes of tourists visiting Balquhidder being only interested in Rob Roy.
We were clearly going to get ourselves into some hot water. TV GOLD!
On 18th September 2019, at 16:17, Graham McTavish wrote:
But MacLaren doesn’t believe it is the grave, correct?
Sam Heughan replied:
Correct. According to Peter. Controversy is good.
On 20th September 2019, at 20:08, Graham McTavish wrote:
You’re very naughty.
We arrived at the Parish to set up and Donald MacLaren was already there, dressed in his finery, flask of whisky and mini dram cups hidden in his sporran. Soon Peter Lawrie arrives, also early and not at the kirk and, before we have even reached the grave, they are arguing! Respectfully and always maintaining a thin veneer of cordiality, but with passionate steadfast beliefs as to whether this was or was not the burial place of Rob Roy MacGregor. We walk through the chapel to the foundations of the ‘little chapel’ and circle around the grave in question. Donald MacLaren measures out a dram of his (personal labelled) MacLaren whisky, handing us all a dram. Peter’s is definitely the smallest! We take a sip, Peter grimacing and trying not to swallow. Graham and I stand awkwardly as Donald begins to list the reasons as to why he believes this is the outlaw’s place of rest. It’s Peter’s turn and he debunks Donald’s theories, stating why the grave could not possibly be Rob Roy’s. The day is fading, the arguments are wearing, the whisky is muddling and the days on the road are beginning to take their toll.
The gentlemen eventually agreed to disagree. Trying to appease the clan chiefs and find a diplomatic exit from the eternal debate, I started to plan a way of separating the gentlemen and finishing our day on a high. ‘Let’s film the last sequence at the Puterach Lifting Stone,’ I say. ‘And then you’re welcome to join us for some food in the barn, down the road.’ Expecting the men to politely decline, not wanting to spend a minute longer in each other’s company, they look at each other for a beat, and agree to come in unison. What? That was not the outcome I was expecting! Clearly the historic argument can be put aside for soup and a sandwich.
Graham: And a bottle of fine wine!
GRAHAM
In the MacGregor corner is Peter, a very passionate representative of Rob Roy and his grave, and in the MacLaren corner is the very droll Donald who vehemently disputes the location of Rob Roy’s remains. The graveyard at Balquhidder is picture-postcard beautiful: ruined church at the end of a picturesque glen. Placed before the entrance to the church is the grave of Rob Roy MacGregor, his wife, Helen Mary, and their sons, Coll and Rob. It has a guard rail around it and the words ‘MacGregor despite them’ engraved upon it. The ‘despite them’ could have referred to Mr MacLaren standing next to me. He definitely thinks the grave is a complete fraud, and that Mr MacGregor is buried somewhere else entirely.
What follows is a compelling discussion/polite argument between the two men over the location of the body. I need to set the scene. The MacGregor is dressed in a wonderfully eccentric Highland outfit – a lot of yellow, a kilt well above the knees, and a bonnet placed jauntily on his head. He also has magnificent facial hair and sounds like he’s a member of the Mancunian band Oasis, which is very surprising!
Donald MacLaren is equally resplendent in full Highland chieftain kit, right down to the eagle feather in his bonnet. He offers Sam and me whisky immediately from his flask, which makes me like him straight away. He also speaks with an English accent but a very posh one, as if he’s just stepped out of Eton, which, indeed, he probably has done. They then proceed to argue the case for the prosecution and defence concerning where Rob Roy had ended up. MacLaren argues that when Rob Roy died his so-called resting place was on MacLaren ground and it’s highly unlikely Rob Roy, enemy of the MacLarens and notorious cattle-thieving bandit, would have been allowed to be buried here at Balquhidder kirk. It’s compelling stuff but I need to give you the lowdown on who exactly this Highland character was:
He was a tall man, Rob, but his height was, apparently, dwarfed by the enormous width of his shoulders. Some even said he looked deformed, so wide and massive was his torso, so barrel-like his chest above comparatively slender hips and very slightly bowed legs. This frankly disturbing physical appearance was only increased by the extraordinary length of his arms. Arms so long he could tie the garters of his Highland hose without stooping. (That’s something even Jamie Fraser can’t do.)
So basically Rob Roy resembled an African silverback gorilla dressed in tartan.
He was a prodigious cattle thief, or ‘reiver’ as they were known. He offered ‘protection’ for cattle and sheep passing through the territory of the Glengyle Highland Watch (just another name for the MacGregor clan). If you didn’t pay, well, the cattle or sheep mysteriously failed to make it to their destination. John Menzies of Shian (no doubt related to the present-day booksellers) was once unwise enough to call Rob Roy ‘Sheep Robbie’. Word got back to Rob and that very night Shian’s entire herd disappeared. Sometimes as many as 350 head of cattle would disappear.
Rob kept his politics and religion under his bonnet. He was a Jacobite and probably a Catholic but the MacGregors had already learned the hard way about being on the losing side of things. Most of their lands had been taken from them, notably by Clan Campbell (no doubt good old Duncan of the Seven Castles was busy with this). Much of this appropriation was done through legal manoeuvres rather than with steel. The Campbells had long understood the power of paper to prove ownership, rather than relying on the sword. (In fact most legal charters were written on sheepskin back in the day, which makes it ironic that the notorious sheep-rustling clan should lose so much because of what was scratched on the skin of such an animal.)
Lord Murray (the Secretary of State) took a particular dislike to our orangutan-like Highlander. He sent men to arrest him but Rob, knowing the country better than his dragoon escort, succeeded in escaping – feigning exhaustion, he hung his head low, the picture of a defeated prisoner, bouncing around in the saddle like Duncan Lacroix, only to spring into life, catching hold of a passing tree using his ape-like arms and pulling himself to safety before the dragoons could do anything about it.
A few years later, Murray and Rob buried the proverbial hatchet and even co-signed a document promising to be friends. What caused this volte-face is not known; however it’s interesting to note that one of the witnesses to the signing in 1695 was none other than the Old Fox himself, Simon Fraser Lord Lovat! Along with Alexander MacDonnell of Glengarry and Alexander (brother of MacIain) of Glencoe. The clans of the latter two men came out for the Bonnie Prince, as did Lovat. It is highly likely that Murray (whose own son went on to be Charlie’s chief military adviser) was a secret Jacobite. Rob, knowing this, and also knowing how to blackmail people (having pretty much invented it single-handedly), used this knowledge to his advantage.
Hence the agreement.
Rob might have been a gorilla masquerading as a man, but he was a canny gorilla. He was also a legendary swordsman, so much so that MacNeil of Barra, no slouch with the sword, left his tiny Hebridean home to travel to Loch Lomond, to Killearn Market to challenge him to a duel in a pub, thereby fulfilling every Scotsman’s b
irthright of a free pint followed by a punch-up. MacNeil was no match for Rob and his prodigious reach. MacNeil stayed a few weeks convalescing from his injuries before returning to Barra with his kilt tucked firmly between his legs.
Rob never made it to the second Jacobite rebellion – he died the year before – but he did find himself involved in the 1715 Rising. Controversy surrounds his involvement; some (including Sir Walter Scott) say he deliberately avoided the battle of Sheriffmuir in November 1715. However, it looks like Rob was ordered to wait at Flanders Moss for reinforcements and then cross the treacherous Forth to attack the government troops in the rear. The area near Stirling was Gregorach territory for hundreds of years and they knew every inch of the dangerous land. Stirling was a strategic crossing point to the Highlands, as Robert the Bruce proved at Bannockburn when he led Edward’s army into the marshes. Rob expected a group of Highlanders to join his 250 MacGregors. None came. Meanwhile, the Jacobite forces elected to go ahead without him. When our redheaded friend heard, he marched his men to the battle, but by then he was too late. Some have accused Rob of treachery but it looks more like incompetence on the part of the Jacobite leadership, something that was to be repeated in 1746.
Rob’s death, as with so much of his life, is shrouded in mystery. He is said to have died in his bed (not something a lot of Highland warriors could claim). Some, like our MacGregor friend at Balquhidder, say he was wounded in a duel and, as he lay dying, he sent for a priest to take his confession. The priest insisted he recount his sins and also forgive his enemies. Rob did but with the exception of John MacLaren. The priest insisted that MacLaren must also be forgiven. Panting, Rob said, ‘I forgive my enemies, especially John MacLaren.’ But then whispered a few indiscernible words to his son nearby. Rob then called for his piper to play, ‘I Return No More’ and died before the dirge was finished.
A few months later Rob’s son, Robin Og MacGregor, calmly walked up to John MacLaren in his field and shot him dead while he ploughed the land MacLaren had stolen from his father.
Dougal MacKenzie would have approved.
SAM
A huge fan of weightlifting and watching strongman competitions, I’ve learnt about the numerous ancient stones around Scotland used for centuries as an initiation for young clansmen to become men or as a way to train them to be fearsome warriors. Not only a Scottish sport, stones can be found in Iceland, the Basque country and even as far as Japan. The ancient skill is still seen in ‘Atlas Stone’ lifting during strongman competitions. There are many stones still located around Scotland, but most have been lost, used in local masonry and construction. The Dinnie stones, named after a man who carried them both across a bridge in Aberdeen, weigh around 332.49kg, or 733lbs, an incredible weight.
However, I know that the Puterach Lifting Stone is supposed to be around 100kg, which is basically the weight of Mr McTavish after one of his extraordinary culinary feasts! The Puterach, older than the country of Scotland itself, stands defiantly in front of us. Traces of chalk from previous lifts colour its smooth surface. We have no chalk and Graham’s hipster jeans are too tight (and too young!) for him, or that’s his excuse. He pretends to try to lift it, but his new favourite hat nearly falls off so he bows out.
So now it’s my turn and the pressure is on. I don’t want to disappoint Peter, who has generously driven 200 miles to meet us. I reach down and try to get a grip. Wearing my kilt for extra flexibility – strongmen swear by it – I ease myself into a squat and hope I’ll be able to stand up again. My heart’s racing from lack of sleep, caffeine and the lunchtime libation. The stone rocks and I move it a few inches off the ground. ‘He’s lifted it!’ Peter cries, claiming a victory.
Conjuring up the ancient warriors of old and hoping to prove my manhood, or at least break my back in doing so, the cuffs on my jacket help me get more grip on the stone’s featureless surface. Remembering my Outlander personal trainer’s advice, I thrust my heels into the ground, using my legs to lift and hoist the stone onto my knees. And up it goes! But I can’t get it up any further and with one last shove I place it on the ancient plinth and step back, fighting hard not to pass out. Graham looks surprised and suspicious. Similar to his stone-lifting at the campsite, I think he thought it was a fake stone from the Outlander set. Peter cheers and Donald looks on from the gateway clapping. (We’d had to separate the experts again!)
GRAHAM
We basically go through someone’s garden to lift the stone. I expect the owner to appear any moment screaming, ‘There’s another one here for that fucking rock!’ But no one emerges. The stone is perched on top of an ancient stone plinth. This particular rock is a recent replacement. The original had dated back hundreds of years but some bitter Presbyterian type had decided that it was some kind of pagan ritual so had it removed to God only knows where.
Who was going to lift the stone? We push the rock off the plinth. I bend down to put my hands around it and realise very quickly that all that lies in my future if I try lifting it is a double hernia, and possibly some kind of rectal prolapse. I demur.
This serves only to inflame Heughan’s desire to lift it even more and it also helps that after Episode Sixteen of Season One, he is no stranger to rectal prolapse.
He squats in his kilt and grips the rock and I watch him heave and grimace. I find myself idly wondering what would happen if he either a) slips a disc, b) drops it on his foot or c) both.
He can’t lift it and I’m ashamed to say I’m pathetically pleased by this, but Sam catches a glimpse of my smug face and decides to try again. More heaving and straining, like Lacroix on the toilet the morning after, this time Heughan has got hold of it! He rolls it into his lap and slowly uses his legs to push himself upright. Yes! The bastard is standing up! Carrying a 200lb rock. He staggers to the plinth and rolls it on to the top.
He’s done it! And I find myself genuinely delighted, cheering and slapping his back. I feel strangely proud. My boy! Peter the expert looks on admiringly and the crew are in raptures.
SAM
Graham is in excellent spirits so I decide to pounce. ‘So how’s about the motorbike ride, big man? You’ll be in the sidecar, down a private road, nothing silly, get the footage, then have dinner at the award-winning restaurant at Monachyle Mhor and back to your hotel suite.’
I knew top-notch nosh in the bargain was the only way I could seal the deal.
Graham: Okay. All right. I’ll do it. [PAUSE] And you do actually know how to ride a motorbike?
Sam: Been riding them for years.
Except I hadn’t. I’d only just learnt to ride a motorbike and a sidecar was going to be a challenge . . . Not that I was going to tell Graham any of that. We’d found the classic motorbike on eBay, ‘Needs some work’ read the advertisement, but for a decent price and a handshake we got to borrow the bike for the evening. We had planned to take the bike for a spin along the banks of Loch Voil, the drone capturing the setting sun on our last day of shooting. With the prospect of fine wine and haute cuisine edging ever closer, Graham threw on his 1940s goggles and helmet, and then it started to rain.
GRAHAM
There’s an expression in film-making called ‘losing the light’. It’s when you need that one more shot of the day, the sun is falling fast, everyone is scrambling to get it done. I remember on Rambo I had to do a sequence during the climactic battle where I had to tourniquet my own leg, roll down a hill, headbutt a soldier to death, take his AK-47, climb a hill with explosions and bullets going off around me, get behind a tree stump and start killing ‘bad guys’. All in one take. I rehearsed it in my head. And then I heard the dreaded words, ‘We’re losing the light, we’ve only got time for one take.’
In my shocked silence that greeted this announcement I heard Stallone’s voice booming from the video village, ‘Hey, Graham?’
‘Yes, Sly,’ said I, thinking I was about to get invaluable advice from one of the great action stars of recent years.
‘Don’t fuck it up!’
<
br /> ‘Action.’
If my trousers weren’t brown already, they were now.
So when Michelle Methven said we were losing the light on our final day, I knew we didn’t have long at all. Especially as the next day I was due to be picked up at 7am from the hotel to start a new job. This was going to be our only chance. The problem was, it involved Sam driving a motorbike and sidecar with me as the passenger.
We had arrived back at our lovely hotel, the Monachyle Mhor near Balquhidder, famed for its cuisine. My stomach was already rumbling. It already seemed to be getting dark when we arrived but this was not going to be a deterrent. I fantasised about carrying my bags to my room and relaxing with a pre-dinner drink. Perhaps watching the sun going down over the mountains. Enjoying the smell of a wood fire in the bar.
But no.
There it was.
A machine that looked like it had last seen action at D-Day.
Standing next to it was a huge bearded Ginger Glaswegian called ‘Big Tam’.
‘I don’t think we have time for this, mate,’ I said to Sam.
‘It’ll look so great, buddy, the road is completely deserted. We’ll just do a couple of runs by the side of the loch with the camera car in front. Fifteen minutes tops,’ he grinned.
Perhaps I had forgotten the last week. Perhaps I was drunk. Or perhaps I had actually grown to trust Sam. Actually I had. Even though he likes a laugh, he is not actually insane. In fact, I had grown close to him through all this, and realised what a capable and generous guy he was.
So I nodded, and smiled.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘sounds good.’
Looking back, this is akin to a man nodding at the hangman as he slips a noose around his neck and saying, ‘It’s a lot more comfy than I expected it to be.’