Waypoints

DAY ZERO

TIME OUT

Glasgow, Scotland, (almost) a decade later

‘I’ve got to go!’ From my bed, I sit upright so forcefully that the duvet lifts and crumples at my feet. ‘I’ve got to do this… NOW!’

I’m not talking to anyone but myself here. In fact, I’m alone at home. I’ve only been back for a few days. After months away due to a bunch of filming commitments, as well as promotional work and business projects, I should be content with lying still. In just the last four weeks, I’ve hurried through departure and arrival zones in airports from Mexico to LA, New York and Chicago. Not that it’s a chore. I love being busy. But by rights I should be happy loafing around in my sweat pants doing absolutely nothing. Instead, thanks to jet lag and a little hangover from a date with my whisky collection the night before, I can’t stop my mind from roaming.

‘I could just do it,’ I reason with myself, as if I know the rational part of my mind needs to get on board with the plan. ‘Couldn’t I?’

Since I unlocked the front door and dumped my bags in the hall, I’ve found myself aimlessly killing time. I feel restless. I can’t sleep at night, only to doze through the day. Frankly it feels like I’ve forgotten how to live without a work schedule. All I’ve been doing is drifting from one room to another as if reminding myself that I actually live here. Mealtimes have merged into snacking sessions. I’ve experimented with porridge toppings, though nothing beats frozen blueberries, peanut butter and a pinch of cinnamon, and dared the salt and pepper pots to judge me for enjoying eggs with ketchup and hot sauce. A wee trip to the gym towards teatime has been my sole reason for getting dressed – albeit in a random collection of clothing, spring meets autumn/winter collection, circa 2009. After that, I tune in to reruns of Back to the Future and low-budget police chase documentaries. What should be quality downtime just feels like one dull blur. SsssssccccccCCCCCCrrrrrrrackKK! The new coffee machine I’ve struggled to learn how to use finishes dispensing some spectacular atomic black liquid into my favourite porcelain mug. Two cups are enough to get me out of bed. Three would be ideal.

I’m annoyed at myself because I’d been looking forward to this break immensely. I considered myself fortunate in that I was in an industry that had found a way to function through yet another pandemic year. The whole world had been affected, and we were no different. Shooting films and television had become potentially limiting in lots of ways, but I was so grateful to be in one of a few sectors able to continue. Now I had a break, and yet I found myself struggling to rest for more than a day. I’m not hyperactive, I crave down time, but I feel guilty if I’m not grafting and pushing myself in some capacity.

During this last year, we finally managed to shoot season six of Outlander. It was shorter, but more intense and with a darker tone. In my role as the Highland warrior Jamie Fraser, the cast and crew have become like family to me since the show first went into production in 2013. Even though this latest season contained just eight episodes, it proved to be one of the hardest. With the new guidelines and restrictions in our lives, we pulled together like never before to make it something special. It had left me feeling exhausted and looking forward to this short break.

Our base for the production of Outlander is Wardpark Film & Television Studios, which is north-east of Glasgow in Lanarkshire. We had to operate in a bubble, and saw very few people outside it. On the first day of filming, which fell in the teeth of a traditional Scottish winter, I found myself in the company of my faithful and ever reliant driver, Davie Stewart. Davie’s nickname is ‘Hollywood’, because he’s chauffeured big stars in his time. I like to think he considers me to be an ordinary fare, because he’s always relaxed and great company on our rides. We share a passion for bad techno music, and a Friday night in the car home can be pretty wild. Despite my fluid approach to call times, I can guarantee that he’ll always get me there on schedule.

That morning, even though I had been uncharacteristically ready and waiting for him, we were cutting things fine on account of the snow. It dusted the landscape, crowning the Campsie Fells as we made our way along the M80 to Cumbernauld, but slowed us down considerably by tumbling across the road in flurries. Fortunately, the traffic was light. This wasn’t just down to the weather conditions, but also the fact that the world had pretty much stopped turning since the virus had set in. We took the empty roads for granted now, and while Davie focused on driving, I dwelled on how the pandemic had touched every aspect of our lives. Quite literally, there was no escape from it. I had only just returned to Scotland, having finished work on a movie called It’s All Coming Back to Me, with Celine Dion and Priyanka Chopra. With social distancing measures in place throughout the shoot, it had been challenging. They had implemented some rather strict rules during the prep period: 25 minutes max spent together in the same room, masks worn at all times, and so on. I felt it important to create a sense of intimacy with Priyanka as we were supposed to be starstruck lovers, so the two of us and the director made sure we spent some time together socially. In some ways the restrictions forced us to raise our game in order to deliver our best work. Mindful of this as we swished through the slush and melting snow surrounding the gates at Wardpark, I sensed fresh challenges ahead.

‘All I need is some kit.’ I am out of bed now and pacing the floor as I think out loud. ‘A tent… waterproofs… boots… crampons?’ I pause for a moment, aware that even though I don’t know the answer, I will need to start from scratch, and then dismiss it as a minor concern. ‘I can sort all that,’ I decide, even if I’m not entirely sure what else should be on the list.

Yes, I am acting on the spur of the moment. It’s an impulsive move, but the adventure I have in mind hasn’t just popped into my head. During a location shoot for Outlander, in the final week of the schedule, we trekked out from the studio to Glencoe. This magnificent Highlands destination is home to peaks, valleys (or glens), trails and waterfalls. It’s also an iconic location in cinema, tailor-made for wide screens, with pivotal scenes filmed here for Skyfall and the Harry Potter films. In what had been a hard winter, the landscape looked both serene and savage. Whenever I was away from the camera, I’d find myself drawn to just gazing out at the views. Standing there in Jamie’s tattered rags and ill-fitting boots, shooting a flashback sequence from Ardsmuir prison (season three), I’d breathe in the crisp, still air and long to lose myself in this vast, glorious wilderness. Much of my passion for Outlander stemmed from the fact that the story went deep into Scotland’s history of the struggles and triumphs of the Highlanders. It’s an honour to play Jamie, a fierce, loyal, strong and stubborn braveheart, and yet I’d never truly explored what was effectively his homeland.

So on the last day of the shoot, I arranged with another actor who shared my love of running to get up long before our call time and lace on a pair of trail shoes. The cold air woke me as we jogged towards the Buachaille Etive Mòr (The Great Herdsman of Etive), the iconic, imposing mountain that protected the glen. We were following a path well travelled by hikers and backpackers; an iconic walking route called the West Highland Way. This broad thread cut across the landscape, snaking around foothills, disappearing into dips and cresting folds. It drew my eye as far as I could see.

‘Glasgow to Fort William,’ Jack, my running companion, said, as if inviting me to consider the sheer length of the route. ‘What’s that? About 100 miles?’

‘It’s a long way,’ I offered, my brain still asleep under the tartan covers back at the hotel. I was unsure of the exact distance but aware that we were briefly following a path that formed a gateway to rugged, elemental country. ‘I think it starts close to where I live,’ I added.

‘Wow.’ My companion glanced across at me, barely out of breath. ‘It must be an amazing adventure.’

I didn’t reply. We were beginning to find our stride, but mostly I focused on my feet because I was reluctant to reel off all the excuses as to why I wouldn’t know. The West Highland Way was one of those things on my to-do list. I’d just never got round to ticking it off. It was on my doorstep, quite literally, and yet I always seemed to be too busy to do anything about it. Ironically, I loved being outdoors. I had even founded a charity dedicated to encouraging people to take on challenges and enjoy happy, healthy lives – and yet here I was, too embarrassed to admit that I had yet to walk one of my country’s great trails.

Plodding along as the sky brightened at the edges, we passed a camper van parked alongside the path. The curtains were closed. Beside the vehicle, just away from the awning, the remnants of a campfire surrounded by folding chairs and tin cups reminded me why my head was only just clearing. The van belonged to Wendy, a fellow Scot and my wonderful make-up artist, who preferred her mobile creature comforts to the hotel occupied by cast and crew. Wendy had dragged her husband along for the trip. The night before, they had invited some of us to join them for a drink. We had gathered around the warmth from the fire, eating posh Fortnum & Mason biscuits, drinking whisky, petting her two overweight chihuahuas and sharing stories from the shoot and beyond, her infectious laugh regularly piercing the crisp evening air.

Wendy was a marvellous host, with a great sense of humour. I was tempted to bang on the side of her van to wake her. As much as I liked to make mischief, though, especially as we were effectively on our last day of term, it was still very early. Plus I didn’t think my running buddy needed to learn from Wendy’s vast lexicon of Glaswegian swear words. I could imagine the response: ‘Gonnae no dae that! Yer aff yer heid, runnin’ at this time, ya bawbag.’ So we passed the van quietly and pressed on with the loop we had planned. Leaving the path, we descended across moorland to the River Etive. The banks of this fast-flowing waterway were boggy and somewhat challenging underfoot, but it felt so good to just get out and switch off and feel a little free. This was the last day of the hardest season of shooting. My heart lifted and I felt excited to escape the COVID protocols and the tough schedule that had dictated the days, weeks and months of the shoot.

By the time we arrived back at the hotel, I had just enough time for a shower before rushing out to find ‘Hollywood’ waiting for me behind the wheel of his car.

‘Cutting it fine again,’ he said jokingly.

Even with the mud from the riverbank still fresh on my running shoes, I wondered whether he assumed I’d just been sleeping in.

‘Always,’ I said all the same.

The final day of the production was no less intense than any other. The last scene we had to film would be the one that opened the season. We had actually shot it in the studio six months previously, but the producers thought it wasn’t dramatic enough, and decided it needed this epic location to kick the season off. Acting can be a topsy-turvy experience in this way, and so as I set off back to Glasgow on my motorbike, I was looking forward to some normality returning to my life. I could unwind at home, I thought to myself on the long journey back to the city. With no other work commitments for a week, I planned to simply sit back and do nothing. I decided to celebrate my new freedom and took the longer route home, through Stirling and past Loch Lubnaig, a stunningly beautiful loch near Ben Ledi and the secret location of Fraser’s Ridge and ‘the Big House’. I gave it a wave as I passed. ‘See you next season!’ I shouted from under my retro motorcycle helmet.

‘It’s only ninety-six miles,’ I say to myself on consulting a map of the West Highland Way on my laptop screen from bed. Just then, it feels as if the absence of those four extra miles I expected to find makes all the difference. In front of me, I study a line that crosses and follows contours on a journey north from my home city to a town at the foot of Ben Nevis; a mountain I have always longed to climb. Ever since my running friend and I set foot on this celebrated path, I have not been able to forget about it. It felt like I had sampled a couple of hundred metres, and now I want to experience every moment from start to finish. And to climb Ben Nevis at the end – what a challenge!

Established over 40 years ago, the route is intended for people to immerse themselves in the Scottish landscape. Beginning in Milngavie, a northern suburb of Glasgow, it follows the eastern flank of Loch Lomond for nearly 30 miles. From there, it strikes out across the glens towards Inverarnan and Tyndrum, Kingshouse and Kinlochleven. The route cuts across increasingly wild and wonderful terrain before climbing to the rise that reveals the magnificent peak of the UK’s highest mountain.

Scribbling on a scrap of paper, I attempt to calculate how much time it would take me to reach the finish at Fort William. I am in good shape physically, thanks to my passion for working out and the occasional run, and also blindly optimistic (or naïve).

‘Easy. Five days,’ I conclude, having figured that 20 miles each day would be a breeze. ‘It’s on.’

I only have a short time available, but it’s just enough. If I parked the idea, I don’t know when such an opportunity might arise again. In that moment, as I close the laptop, it doesn’t feel like a rash decision. It’s destiny, pure and simple. With two days in hand, which is enough to get home again by train and prepare for my next work commitment, I could smash it.

Partly inspired by Wendy’s charmingly boujee, nomadic lifestyle, I figure camping would be the most efficient and fitting way to travel. I could pitch a tent as the sun went down, cook my supper over an open fire, and then turn in under canvas beneath the stars. I hadn’t properly camped since my cub scout days (I just loved collecting the badges), apart from a gruesomely muddy experience at T in the Park, Scotland’s traditionally waterlogged music festival. This would be different, I decided. It would be the real deal.