Clanlands

by Sam Heughan

  SAM

  Graham is moaning and grumbling about getting cold and wet so a waterproof poncho is produced which keeps him happy for a few minutes. We have a quick run-through of the controls – I’d never used a kick-start motor but then all bikes are basically the same. I jump on and start to rev her up. McTavish is cursing like a bawdy wench as he tries to fold himself into the sidecar. I hope he can unfold later!

  ‘Oh, one thing you should probably ken,’ says Big Tam smiling maniacally. ‘Make sure ya keep it above 30mph, or it’ll cut oot. An’ good luck!’ he says jumping on the kick-start a few times, smashing his ankle as his foot slips off the pedal.

  Finally the bike coughs into gear, sounding like it’s stuck in the 1940s.

  ‘Go!’ I yell above the noise, the other hotel guests probably cursing us for destroying their tranquil evening. The two clan experts (yup, they’re still here!) wave us off.

  GRAHAM

  Much of what I will describe of this last sequence of shooting is a little blurry but there are several things that stand out. I don’t really remember how it was decided that I should be in the sidecar and that Sam would drive the motorbike. I assumed it was because I’d never driven a motorbike and sidecar before. It would, therefore, be sensible to have the guy with experience doing the driving. It was, however, only when I was crammed in the sidecar that it turned out Sam had zero experience as well. Like me, he had seen war movies with motorbikes and sidecars: The Great Escape, Where Eagles Dare, but watching a movie as a teenager of someone else driving one of these things and actually driving it yourself is very different! As I was about to find out.

  But first, the all-important costume change. The articulated lorry full of Sam’s clothes arrived and Sam eventually decided upon a tight-fitting leather jacket, and a pair of impressive gauntlets. I was so low down in the sidecar it was difficult for me to see any other changes in his person. He might have been wearing arse-less chaps, and a pair of slingbacks for all I know. My costume change comprised a waterproof poncho. Same outfit. Just covered by a giant cape.

  Getting into the sidecar was an interesting experience. A little like watching an illusionist being crammed into a trunk from which it seemed impossible to escape. It was a teeny bit of a tight fit. Once in, there was no getting out in a hurry.

  It was from this position, a be-caped cork in a metal coffin, that I watched Sam being taught how to drive a motorbike and sidecar. Big Tam climbed aboard and demonstrated how to start the bike. It was not an electronic ignition (this being, as I said, a relic from Dad’s Army), it was an old-fashioned kick-start. The big bearded Glaswegian laboured away, once, twice, three times.

  Eventually he gunned the beast into life. He showed Sam the clutch, the throttle (how apt a word this became) and the brakes. Fortunately, Sam could already grasp where to sit, otherwise we would still be there now. I think I was actually too shocked to speak. But this is what was going through my head: ‘I’m in a sidecar driven by a man who has never been on one of these things before in his life. The bike itself is probably held together with duct tape, and I’m wearing a cape.’

  It was then that Big Tam mentioned the petrol. ‘Ah, yes. Youse wanna watch oot. The tank is leaking. That’s what the smell is. But it shouldn’ae be a problem. It might stall going uphill so keep the throttle open.’

  Everyone nodded, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Here is your hire car, sir. We’ve checked it over. Apart from the leaking petrol tank and a tendency to stall going up any gradient bigger than an ant hill, it’s in perfect condition. Please return it with a full tank. Bye!’

  I looked on aghast. Surely we would abandon this folly?

  ‘Isn’t that a little dangerous?’ I ventured.

  ‘Naw. She’s fine. Just give it plenty of gas on the hills. Full tank. Nae problem.’

  ‘We’re losing the light!’ shouted Michelle.

  Sam climbed aboard. Pounded on the starter pedal. The engine caught. He disengaged the clutch and . . . we stalled. Everyone laughed heartily. Everyone except me. I began composing my will. Big Tam stepped forward and got it going again.

  Clutch, throttle, and we were off. Juddering forward like Duncan Lacroix on a Friday night. We drove around the car park. We turned around to come back. And stalled.

  Big Tam jogged over, amiable as ever. I asked for a set of worry beads and a copy of the Bible.

  ‘We’ve got to get a move on, people!’ bellowed Michelle. The camera crew drove past into position. Big Tam smashed down on the starter pedal, once, twice, three times. Sam got aboard. The Lord’s Prayer suddenly seemed a good option. Off we went.

  ‘This is great!’ shouted Sam as he wrestled with the handlebars.

  ‘The weight pulls us to the left, though,’ I howled. The ‘weight’ being me in the sidecar, and the ‘left’ being the loch that was flashing by next to me.

  We began to gently fight against gravity, as we encountered the smallest of hills, and the bike sputtered and died. The car disappeared.

  SAM

  ‘Go faster!’ I scream at the camera car in front crawling along. I need to go much quicker to keep this bike alive. As I pull on the throttle the bike stays alive, straining to be let go, as it veers to one side. I’m fighting to keep it straight but let the bike go faster, the rush of the cold air on my exposed face. ‘So fun!’ I shout, my words lost on my co-star sitting in his baby carriage, his hat, goggles and blanket covering him from view.

  We race into the falling dusk up a country lane. Peering back over the loch into the increasing gloom, I can just make out the hotel, and further west, Balquhidder, the graveyard now silent. The bike gives up and decides it wants to nap by the side of the road. I come to a standstill. Warm petrol is pouring out the side of the bike onto the tarmac.

  GRAHAM

  I produced the walkie-talkie from inside the sidecar and spoke to the crew. ‘We’ve stalled again.’

  ‘We’re losing the light!’ said Michelle. Tam raced from the hotel.

  He turned the bike around and, still with me crammed into the sidecar, rolled the bike downhill and attempted a jump-start. Once, twice, three times. Yes! It worked.

  Back on level ground, Sam jogged over and climbed aboard. I think I may have had a mixed expression of surprise, hysteria, and a rictus grin. Off we went again. Sam gave it some welly, and we got up the ‘hill’. We had now travelled at least 100 yards.

  We slewed around the bends. As we picked up speed I actually allowed myself a moment of enjoyment. We hadn’t crashed. Sam was getting the hang of this. Whisky was only minutes away. Then we stalled again.

  Big Tam to the rescue. Back downhill. Jump-start. One, two, three. Sam is back on board. Off we go again. The light is fading. Soon there will be not enough light for the camera. Here comes a hill. Sam hits the throttle hard. I am willing it forwards, rocking like a mental patient.

  Stalled.

  SAM

  ‘Probably best to call it a day,’ my sensible producer’s voice echoes out over the loch. ‘We need to get it started again, though, so we can get back to base,’ I say. Big Tam comes running up and I jump off to let him get a good kick at the temperamental motorbike. He kicks and kicks but the bike refuses to start. They start to roll forward, the gradient giving them momentum. Maybe a jump start, I think and turn to get in the camera van.

  GRAHAM

  This was a bigger hill in fairness. Reasonably steep. This is when several things happened in quick succession. Merlin, our sound man, jogs over to adjust my microphone. To do this he has to reach under my voluminous cape. He makes the adjustment and rushes away. Tam climbs aboard and starts to roll the bike down the hill. He hammers down on the starter pedal.

  Nothing. We are picking up speed. Again he tries to jump start. Nothing.

  Third time lucky?

  No. It fails again. Perhaps we’d run out of petrol from the leaking tank. He prepares to try for the fourth time. The machine is rolling downhill nicely.

&n
bsp; It was at this moment that I realised that my cape had not been put back inside the sidecar. It was flapping . . . outside. Just as my amygdala registered this, the flapping cape wound itself around the spinning wheel of the sidecar. In a fraction of a second the axle gathered up the material like a hungry monster. Then physics took over. One end of the cape was attached to a spinning axle and the other end attached to my neck! It was then that the word ‘throttle’ took on a whole new meaning.

  Tam was poised to power down with his foot to start the engine.

  My head was whipped so hard left towards the axle that I saw stars. It happened so quickly I couldn’t understand what was happening.

  In these moments the world truly does slow down. I remember shouting ‘STOP! STOP! STOP!’ as my head was being dragged towards the axle at speed.

  Tam stopped, foot poised.

  I was half out of the sidecar as if I was trying to kiss the offside wheel.

  As Tam so succinctly put it moments later, ‘That could’ve been quite nasty.’

  Sam raced over. The camera car stopped. If Tam had got the engine started on that fourth attempt . . . ?

  You may know the story of Isadora Duncan, the famous dancer and choreographer, who died when the enormous red silk scarf she was wearing in an open-top sports car got entangled in the rear wheel. She was pulled from the car, dying instantly. The word is, it pulled her head off.

  SAM

  I run up to my old friend, who is doubled over, his head perilously close to the front wheel, the poncho secured around his neck and now the axle. The crumpled mass of clothes isn’t moving.

  ‘Graham?’ I shout, ‘Graham! Are you all right?!’

  Nothing.

  The crew are on the scene and Big Tam is struggling to hold the bike upright.

  Graham?!

  He once saved my life from a runaway lighting rig on the set of Outlander and now I’d taken his (or at least dented it). Stay with me . . .

  Suddenly, from the depths of the ditch [Graham: what ditch?!] and beneath a layer of wax rain gear came a familiar bellowing voice.

  ‘Bloody hell, I could have died!’

  Sam: He’s alive!

  GRAHAM

  For all our joking and mock theatrics around danger and the teasing and the banter, when I look at Sam he is genuinely shocked at what has just happened. Or nearly happened. In that moment he showed me who he really is: a true friend.

  ‘Are you okay to do one more, without the cape?’ asks Michelle. ‘We’re losing the light.’

  Sam: No, let’s call it a day. It’s a wrap, people!

  SAM

  The Grey Dog is okay, more than okay, just his pride and ego damaged. I breathe a sigh of relief and realise I’m really quite attached to the old git; he’s a great friend and there’s no one I’d rather share these incredible tales with.

  It’s going to cost me a lot in hotel bills, however.

  GRAHAM

  Back at the impromptu ‘wrap’ party (and it really could have been a ‘wake’ for me), the MacLaren chief wanders over; he’s just learnt what just happened and wants to know if I’m okay. It’s such a lovely spontaneous gesture from someone who barely knows me, I nearly weep.

  SAM

  Back at the hotel bar, the clan chiefs are sitting amicably together sharing Graham’s bottle of expensive French wine and the crew begin to attack their supper of artisan sandwiches. I pour us all a dram and raise a toast one last time, ‘To you all for your hard work, commitment and faith in us, we didn’t know if we would be able to do it.’ Everyone smiles, exhausted and glad of the warmth and strong liquor. ‘And to good friends,’ Graham says, through a mouthful of salmon tartare and dill, raising a glass of Montrachet. Even though he was nearly throttled, morale has soared with fine food and wine.

  ‘To good friends,’ I reply. We share a smile and a sigh of relief.

  We had done it and Graham had lived!

  I suggest a little music and song to lighten the mood and celebrate our journey. And, by chance, I have just the perfect ditty.

  Ahem. Cue strangled cat impression . . .

  Oh! Mactavish is dead

  And his brother don’t know it.

  His brother is dead

  And Mactavish don’t know it.

  They’re both of them dead

  And they’re in the same bed,

  And neither one knows

  That the other is dead!

  (Song by M. Ryan Taylor)

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Journey Ahead

  Try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.

  Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life

  GRAHAM

  As we finally take time to reflect upon the incredible trip across our homeland, what comes to the fore is that this mighty people, the Highlanders, with their rich and complex tribal culture of warfare, unforgiving landscape, stories, superstitions, whisky and song, are the real Outlanders (outsiders) in a changing world. A warrior people who had resisted Roman rule, Viking rule and, for many centuries, British rule, refusing to be conquered and vanquished.

  There’s no denying that it’s something that resonates with many people today. We all respond to the notion of ‘the underdog’, the put-upon, the oppressed and marginalised. In our globalised society we all secretly celebrate the struggle against cultural homogenisation, while appreciating the cultural traditions of individual societies. The resurgence of Gaelic in Scotland is just one reason for that celebration.

  However, I am as guilty as the most ardent Outlander fan of romanticising Highland life. Very few people were, in fact, warriors, most scratching out a living with a stick, dealing with high rates of infant mortality, and a pre-industrialised society. The Highlands before 1746 were, in many ways, a society frozen in time, with more in common with the Middle Ages than with the Age of Enlightenment. But I believe a Highlander travelling through the stones today would be shocked. He would see a weakening in our society, both individually and collectively (this is after all a culture that despised a man for making a pillow from ice). The clan system had many faults but older members of the community were respected, honour was a real thing, as was personal responsibility. The clan chiefs did lead their men into the mouths of those cannon at Culloden. This is not something I can imagine any leader doing now. They also understood history. Oral history, but history nonetheless. They revered their past and used it to educate and inspire themselves. In many ways, despite high levels of illiteracy, they were more ‘educated’ than we are today. They knew their world intimately and understood the value of what was before their eyes, without the need to covet other lands – except of course the Campbells! Indeed the Campbells represented the new Scotland, the outward-looking country, a land of commerce and of the ‘law’ – two areas Scotland has always excelled in. If they represented one direction for Scotland, Jacobitism represented another. Who is to say which is better? Sadly we will never know.

  SAM

  The Highlanders had a simpler way of life but it was packed with jeopardy around every corner. I’d love to know the life expectancy . . . [Graham: Allow me, it was approximately thirty-five years of age for a male in the 1700s.] They were hardy men and women, coming from huge families that worked hard just to survive every brutal winter, every impending famine, every battle with another clan usually over the scarcity of resources in an unforgiving landscape. By contrast we are far more comfortable now, especially in the developed world where we turn on a tap for water, have heating, fridges, washing machines, cars . . . But in gaining all of the technology have we disconnected ourselves from the natural world and thereby lost our understanding of it? In spite of all our gadgets, medicine and amazing scientific advancement, many of us have no real sense of dualchas (of belonging to a landscape) and seem farther away from feeling part of the world in which we live. The trees and animals
are of the world but somehow we are not. [Graham: Hence our ever-increasing existential angst?]

  Even to this day we see nations internally divided by extreme politics, which leads to clashes just as it did in the Highlands, but would I like to go back in time and live during the Jacobite Uprising instead? Hell no. However, I live in hope we can make amends with each other and start to treat our planet with respect, learning from our forefathers who worked with nature, not at odds with it.

  Graham has a good understanding of history and his ancestry but it’s only whilst producing this book that I’ve begun to dig into my own and ask questions I felt I couldn’t before. It’s led me to discover my own extensive family tree, having always believed I’d come from a small family. Being confronted with the past has brought up some complex emotions and questions, but ones that I know will be rewarding in years to come. And I’m intrigued to see what else I will find as I delve into my own family history.

  As actors we are always searching inside ourselves or within others for inspiration and this journey has given me so much material to help me understand the renowned characters of Highland history (and the many forgotten ones), putting flesh on their bones and allowing me to share their stories all over again alongside my follically challenged friend.

  During the process of creating Men in Kilts, I’ve learnt a lot about myself as an actor, producer and hopefully as a friend. I tend to race ahead with projects, head down and charging at work like my determined star sign, Taurus the Bull. And I am not very good at sharing responsibility, relying on myself too much. I have always operated at breakneck speed and have multiple projects on the go, which is something to do with the feast and famine of the acting life. You have to ‘make hay while the sun shines’ because opportunities may not present themselves again. But what I’ve learnt – particularly from Graham – is that I need to slow down (slightly) to consider the finer details at times. There were several details I overlooked whilst making the initial production, which I just didn’t have time to notice.