Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald, and today we revisit one of the most dramatic and tragic moments in Scotland’s royal history. On February 8, 1587, Mary, Queen of Scots, was executed at Fotheringhay Castle. It was the final chapter in a life filled with political intrigue, betrayal, and relentless struggle for power.

Mary had been a prisoner in England for nearly two decades. A queen from infancy, she had spent much of her life navigating the treacherous waters of European politics, caught between the ambitions of England, France, and Spain. Born in 1542, she became Queen of Scots just six days after her father, James V, died. Her early years were spent in France, where she was betrothed to the Dauphin, Francis, whom she later married. For a brief time, she was both Queen of Scotland and Queen of France. But when Francis died in 1560, she returned to Scotland to rule a country deeply divided by religious conflict.

Mary’s time in Scotland was turbulent. She married Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, a union that quickly turned disastrous. Darnley was arrogant, unpredictable, and ambitious. He played a role in the murder of Mary’s confidant, David Rizzio, before he himself was assassinated in 1567 in a suspicious explosion at Kirk o’ Field in Edinburgh. Soon after, Mary married James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, the man widely believed to have orchestrated Darnley’s murder. This scandalous marriage destroyed Mary’s reputation. Scottish nobles turned against her, forcing her to abdicate in favor of her infant son, James VI.

Mary fled to England, seeking protection from her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I. But rather than offering her sanctuary, Elizabeth saw Mary as a dangerous rival. Mary, as a Catholic with a legitimate claim to the English throne, was a constant threat to Protestant England. Elizabeth placed Mary under house arrest, keeping her under close watch in a series of castles and manor houses across England.

For almost 19 years, Mary remained a prisoner, but she never abandoned hope of regaining her throne. She became the focus of Catholic plots aiming to overthrow Elizabeth and restore Catholic rule in England. The final straw came in 1586 with the discovery of the Babington Plot, a conspiracy to assassinate Elizabeth and place Mary on the English throne. Secret letters proved that Mary had approved the plan. With this damning evidence, Elizabeth’s advisors convinced her that Mary had to die.

Mary was tried and found guilty of treason. Elizabeth hesitated to sign the death warrant—after all, executing an anointed queen was unprecedented. But under immense pressure from her council, she finally relented. On February 8, 1587, Mary was led to the execution chamber at Fotheringhay Castle. She met her fate with remarkable dignity, dressed in a red petticoat, the Catholic color of martyrdom.

The execution itself was gruesome. The first blow from the executioner’s axe struck the back of her head rather than her neck. The second blow partially severed her head, and the third completed the task. When the executioner held her head aloft, her auburn hair came away in his hand—Mary had been wearing a wig, her real hair now grey after years of suffering.

Mary’s death sent shockwaves across Europe. To Catholics, she was a martyr; to Protestants, a necessary casualty. Elizabeth claimed she had not intended the warrant to be carried out so swiftly, but the damage was done. Mary’s son, James VI of Scotland, outwardly condemned his mother’s execution but took no immediate action against England. Ironically, in 1603, he would succeed Elizabeth as James I of England, uniting the crowns of Scotland and England.

Mary, Queen of Scots, remains one of the most fascinating figures in Scottish and British history—a queen whose life was marked by romance, scandal, and tragedy. Her execution may have ended her earthly reign, but her legacy endures.

Thanks for joining me on This Day in Scottish History. Tune in tomorrow for another journey through Scotland’s past. Until then, haste ye back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we turn our attention to a dramatic and bloody clash that unfolded on February 7, 1603—the Battle of Glen Fruin. This battle, fought near Loch Lomond, was a brutal encounter between Clan Gregor and Clan Colquhoun, and it would have far-reaching consequences for the defeated and, ironically, for the victors as well.

To understand how this conflict erupted, we need to step back and examine the long-standing feud between these two powerful Highland clans. By the late 16th century, tensions between the Gregor and Colquhoun families had been simmering for years. The MacGregors were a proud but often persecuted clan, known for their warrior spirit and resistance to external authority. The Colquhouns, meanwhile, were a wealthy and influential Lowland clan with strong ties to the Scottish crown.

The immediate cause of the battle stemmed from a series of disputes over land and cattle raiding. Cattle theft, or "reiving," was common in the Highlands, and both clans had accused each other of repeated raids. Matters escalated when a group of MacGregors was reportedly refused hospitality by the Colquhouns—a serious insult in Highland culture. In response, Alasdair MacGregor of Glenstrae, the chief of Clan Gregor, gathered his men and prepared to teach their rivals a lesson.

The Colquhouns, knowing that conflict was imminent, sought assistance from allies, including some local Lowland forces. Sir Alexander Colquhoun led an army of around 300 men, including cavalry, and positioned them in Glen Fruin, a narrow valley near Loch Lomond. It was here that they intended to ambush the MacGregors.

However, Alasdair MacGregor was a skilled strategist. He led his men—numbering only about 400—through the hills and managed to outflank the Colquhouns, trapping them in the glen. What followed was a devastating slaughter. The heavily armed Colquhouns, despite their superior numbers and mounted soldiers, were no match for the fierce Highland warriors who swarmed them from multiple directions. Some 200 men of Clan Colquhoun and their allies were killed in the battle, while casualties on the MacGregor side were reportedly very light.

One of the most tragic aspects of the battle was the fate of a group of students from Dumbarton who had accompanied the Colquhoun forces, possibly as observers or as part of their education in military affairs. According to some accounts, these young men were also killed in the chaos, further fueling outrage against the MacGregors.

In the aftermath, Sir Alexander Colquhoun went straight to King James VI, carrying with him a gruesome display—several bloodied shirts from the slain men, meant to evoke sympathy and demand justice. The king, already wary of the MacGregors due to their history of defiance, responded with swift and brutal measures. In April 1603, just two months after the battle, he issued an edict proscribing the entire Clan Gregor. Their very name was outlawed—MacGregors were forced to renounce their surname or face execution. Many of them were hunted down, executed, or driven into exile.

Alasdair MacGregor himself was captured and taken to Edinburgh, where he was hanged in 1604. The once-proud Clan Gregor was scattered, and for years, they suffered under some of the harshest laws imposed on any Scottish clan. It wasn’t until the 18th century that the proscription was lifted, allowing the MacGregors to reclaim their name officially.

The Battle of Glen Fruin is remembered as one of the most significant feuds in Scottish clan history, illustrating the brutal nature of Highland warfare and the precarious position of clans who found themselves on the wrong side of royal authority. Today, echoes of that ancient conflict can still be felt in the landscapes of Glen Fruin, a quiet valley that once ran red with blood.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through Scotland’s past. Tune in tomorrow for another episode of This Day in Scottish History. I'm Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we travel back to the turbulent early 17th century, to February 6, 1615, when Patrick Stewart, the 2nd Earl of Orkney, met his grim fate on the executioner's block in Edinburgh. His crime? Treason—though his downfall was as much the result of his own tyranny as it was of his son's ill-fated rebellion in Orkney.

To understand Patrick Stewart’s execution, we must first unravel the tangled web of power, ambition, and rebellion that led to this moment. Patrick Stewart was the illegitimate grandson of King James V of Scotland, through his father, Robert Stewart, 1st Earl of Orkney. His lineage gave him noble status, but his rule over the northern isles of Orkney and Shetland was marked by oppression, cruelty, and a heavy-handed grip on power.

Patrick inherited the Earldom of Orkney from his father in 1593. Unlike his father, who had managed to keep the peace in Orkney, Patrick ruled with an iron fist. He saw himself as a king in his own right, far removed from the control of Edinburgh. He levied heavy taxes, seized lands, and imposed forced labor on the islanders, building himself a grand palace in Kirkwall. This brutality earned him few allies among the people, and many viewed him as a tyrant.

His authoritarian rule did not go unnoticed by King James VI of Scotland (who had also become James I of England in 1603). James, always wary of challenges to his authority, saw Patrick as a potential threat. The king eventually had him arrested in 1609 and imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. However, the final blow to Patrick Stewart’s fate would come not from his own misdeeds, but from the reckless actions of his son, Robert.

While Patrick languished in prison, his son, Robert Stewart, launched a rebellion in 1614, attempting to seize control of Orkney in his father’s name. Robert and his followers took Kirkwall Castle and besieged the Bishop’s Palace. However, the uprising was short-lived. The King’s forces, led by the powerful Earl of Caithness, quickly crushed the rebellion. Robert was captured, and his father, still imprisoned in Edinburgh, was now directly implicated in the treason.

With the rebellion crushed and both father and son in the hands of the crown, King James wasted no time. Robert Stewart was swiftly tried and executed in January 1615. His father, Patrick, was next. Though Patrick had not directly participated in the rebellion, the mere association with his son’s uprising sealed his fate. After a brief trial, Patrick Stewart was convicted of treason and sentenced to death.

On February 6, 1615, Patrick Stewart, 2nd Earl of Orkney, was led to the scaffold in Edinburgh. With the shadow of the axe looming over him, his once-mighty ambitions had crumbled into dust. The executioner did his work, and with a single stroke, the line of the Stewart Earls of Orkney came to a brutal end.

Patrick Stewart's legacy remains one of tyranny, ambition, and downfall. His grand palace in Kirkwall, built with the forced labor of his subjects, still stands as a reminder of his rule. The Orkney people, who had suffered under his oppression, no doubt felt a sense of justice in his demise.

As we reflect on the events of February 6, 1615, we see how power, when wielded with cruelty and arrogance, often leads to ruin. Patrick Stewart sought to rule Orkney like a king, but in the end, he found himself at the mercy of a greater power—King James and the relentless hand of royal justice.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through history. Tune in tomorrow for another episode of This Day in Scottish History. I'm Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald, and today we’re sailing back to February 5, 1941, when the SS Politician—a cargo ship carrying 264,000 bottles of whisky—ran aground on the rocky shores of Eriskay in the Western Isles. What followed was a tale of island ingenuity, government intervention, and a whisky-laden legend that would inspire one of Scotland’s most famous books and films.

The SS Politician was a 7918-ton cargo ship on a voyage from Liverpool to Kingston, Jamaica, and New Orleans. Her hold was filled with a variety of goods, including cotton, bicycles, tobacco, and, most famously, whisky—Scotland’s liquid gold. But fate had other plans. Battling heavy seas and strong winds, the vessel drifted off course, running aground near the small island of Eriskay, part of the Outer Hebrides.

For the islanders of Eriskay and the surrounding communities, the sight of a stranded ship filled with whisky was nothing short of a miracle. At the time, wartime rationing had made whisky scarce, and here, washed up on their doorstep, was a veritable treasure trove. Seizing the opportunity, locals began an impromptu salvage operation. Under cover of darkness, they rowed out to the wreck and retrieved as many bottles as they could carry. In their eyes, this wasn’t looting—it was merely claiming what the sea had delivered.

News of the whisky rescue spread quickly, and soon islanders from Barra, South Uist, and beyond joined in the spirited endeavor. The whisky—already duty-paid and intended for export—was seen as fair game. After all, if they didn’t save it, the sea would claim it. Some men filled their boats to the brim, while others simply carried off as much as they could manage. It is said that some lucky souls found entire cases floating in the waves, a gift from the shipwreck gods.

However, the authorities didn’t see things quite the same way. The government, keen to assert its control and collect taxes, launched an official inquiry into the missing whisky. Customs and Excise officers, along with the local police, were dispatched to track down the missing cargo. Raids were conducted, bottles were seized, and some of the islanders even faced court fines or brief jail sentences for their part in the whisky salvage.

But despite the crackdowns, much of the whisky was never recovered. Some bottles were hidden in peat bogs, buried under floorboards, or stashed in remote caves. In true Highland fashion, the islanders knew how to keep a secret, and many a dram was quietly enjoyed long after the official search had ended.

The story of the SS Politician soon became the stuff of legend, and in 1947, it inspired Compton Mackenzie’s famous novel Whisky Galore. The book, a humorous and affectionate retelling of the events, captured the spirit of the islanders—resourceful, defiant, and ever appreciative of a fine dram. The novel was later adapted into a beloved 1949 Ealing Studios film of the same name, cementing the tale’s place in Scottish folklore.

To this day, the wreck of the SS Politician remains beneath the waters off Eriskay. Divers have explored its remains, and occasionally, bottles of whisky have been recovered, some still sealed after decades beneath the waves. In 1987, a few of these salvaged bottles were auctioned for thousands of pounds, proof that the legend of the ship and its cargo still holds a special place in Scotland’s heart.

So, as we raise a glass to history, let us toast to the islanders of Eriskay, to their ingenuity, and to the enduring tale of whisky, the sea, and a ship that found its final port in Scottish lore.

Thank you for joining me on This Day in Scottish History. Tune in tomorrow for another fascinating story from Scotland’s past. Until then, slàinte mhath!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I’m your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we turn our attention to an extraordinary moment in Scotland’s past—an event that intertwined history, literature, and national pride. On this day, February 4, 1818, the Honours of Scotland, the nation’s Crown Jewels, were placed on public display in Edinburgh Castle after being rediscovered by none other than the famous writer Sir Walter Scott.

For more than a century, the Honours of Scotland had been hidden away, their fate unknown to most. These ancient symbols of Scottish royalty—the crown, the sceptre, and the sword of state—had been locked away following the Act of Union in 1707, when Scotland and England merged to form the Kingdom of Great Britain. Many feared they had been lost forever. But Sir Walter Scott, driven by a deep love for Scotland’s history and an unquenchable curiosity, set out to find them.

The Honours of Scotland are among the oldest surviving crown jewels in Europe. The crown itself was refashioned in 1540 for King James V, incorporating gold and precious stones from an even older diadem. The sceptre dates back to the late 15th century, a gift from Pope Alexander VI, while the sword of state was presented to King James IV by Pope Julius II in 1507. Together, these symbols represented the authority and sovereignty of Scotland’s monarchs.

After the Union of 1707, Scotland’s parliament was dissolved, and the Honours were no longer needed for state functions. They were carefully packed away in a chest and locked inside the Crown Room of Edinburgh Castle, their existence slipping from public memory. Rumors swirled—had they been stolen? Destroyed? Melted down like the English Crown Jewels had been during the English Civil War?

Enter Sir Walter Scott. By the early 19th century, he was already a celebrated author, known for his historical novels and poems that romanticized Scotland’s past. But Scott was not only a writer; he was also a passionate antiquarian. In 1818, with the permission of the Prince Regent—who would later become King George IV—Scott led a search within Edinburgh Castle.

What they found was nothing short of remarkable. After prying open a locked chest, Scott and his team beheld the long-forgotten Honours of Scotland, still intact, untouched by time. The discovery sparked a wave of national pride, and soon after, the Honours were put on permanent public display inside the castle.

Scott’s efforts did more than just recover lost relics. They reignited Scotland’s cultural identity at a time when many Scots feared their distinct traditions were fading. His work helped pave the way for King George IV’s famous visit to Scotland in 1822, the first by a reigning British monarch in nearly two centuries—an event Scott played a major role in orchestrating.

Today, the Honours of Scotland remain a powerful symbol of the nation’s history and resilience. They are still displayed in Edinburgh Castle, drawing visitors from around the world who come to marvel at these priceless artifacts. And so, on this day, we remember not just the rediscovery of Scotland’s Crown Jewels, but the enduring legacy of Sir Walter Scott, a man whose love of Scotland helped shape its modern identity.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. Tune in tomorrow for another journey through Scotland’s past. I’m Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History! I’m your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we turn our attention to a devastating event that struck the heart of Edinburgh on February 3, 1700—The Lesser Great Fire of Edinburgh. Though it may not be as well-known as the Great Fire of London, this inferno wreaked havoc in the historic Parliament Close area, leaving 400 families homeless and forever altering the city’s landscape.

At the dawn of the 18th century, Edinburgh was a densely packed city, its towering tenements and narrow wynds creating a labyrinth of wooden structures huddled close together. The Old Town, dominated by the imposing Edinburgh Castle and the grand Parliament House, was a hub of political and commercial activity. But it was also a city at constant risk of fire. Open hearths, candlelight, and wooden beams made for a dangerous combination, and fires were a frequent and terrifying reality.

On the night of February 3, flames erupted in the Parliament Close area, near the heart of Scotland’s legal and political life. Parliament Close, adjacent to St Giles’ Cathedral and Parliament House, was home to many of the city’s most influential figures—lawyers, merchants, and officials.

The fire quickly took hold, racing through the densely packed buildings. Eyewitnesses described how the flames leapt from one tenement to another, consuming everything in their path. The strong winds that swept through Edinburgh’s streets only fed the inferno, making it impossible for early firefighting efforts to contain it. Residents fled in terror, carrying what little they could as their homes were reduced to ashes.

By the time the fire had burned itself out, over 400 families had been left homeless. Given Edinburgh’s already overcrowded living conditions, this was a disaster of immense proportions. Many had no choice but to seek shelter in makeshift lodgings or rely on the charity of their fellow citizens.

This fire, though devastating, became known as the Lesser Great Fire to distinguish it from the even larger fire that would engulf Edinburgh in 1824. But for those who lived through it, there was nothing “lesser” about the suffering and loss it caused.

The Lesser Great Fire was a harsh reminder of the dangers of urban living in pre-modern Scotland. It spurred conversations about fire safety, though real reforms would take much longer to implement. Over time, the city introduced regulations to reduce fire hazards, including better building materials and the establishment of more formal firefighting efforts.

Today, the Parliament Close area is part of Edinburgh’s historic Old Town, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Though much has changed since 1700, reminders of the city’s fiery past still linger in its architecture and local memory.

The fire of February 3, 1700, was a moment of tragedy, but it also demonstrated the resilience of the people of Edinburgh. They rebuilt, adapted, and learned from the disaster, shaping the city we know today.

That’s all for this episode of This Day in Scottish History. Thank you for joining me, and be sure to tune in tomorrow for another journey into Scotland’s past. Until then—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we set sail into one of the most remarkable survival stories in history—a tale that would later inspire one of the greatest adventure novels ever written. On this day, February 2, 1709, Scottish sailor Alexander Selkirk was rescued after spending over four years as a castaway on the uninhabited Juan Fernández Islands in the South Pacific Ocean. His incredible ordeal would go on to influence Daniel Defoe’s classic novel, Robinson Crusoe.

Born in 1676 in Lower Largo, Fife, Alexander Selkirk was the son of a tanner and cobbler. A restless and rebellious young man, he often found himself in trouble, leading him to seek adventure at sea. He eventually became a buccaneer—a privateer attacking Spanish ships and settlements on behalf of the British Crown. In 1703, he joined an expedition led by the English privateer William Dampier. By 1704, he was serving as the sailing master on Cinque Ports, a small vessel under the command of Captain Thomas Stradling. The ship was part of a raiding mission along the South American coast, targeting Spanish possessions. However, the Cinque Ports was in poor condition, and Selkirk, fearing it would not survive the journey, made a fateful decision.

When the ship anchored at the Juan Fernández Islands—about 400 miles off the coast of Chile—Selkirk argued with Captain Stradling about the vessel’s seaworthiness. He insisted that he would rather stay on the island than risk sailing on a doomed ship. Calling his bluff, Stradling left him behind with little more than a musket, some gunpowder, a knife, a Bible, and a few basic supplies.

At first, Selkirk regretted his decision bitterly. Alone on an island with no human contact, he faced the harsh reality of survival. His only company was a population of feral goats, left by earlier Spanish explorers, along with rats and wild cats. Over time, he adapted, using his skills to build shelter, hunt for food, and craft clothing from goat skins.

Selkirk’s survival instincts served him well. He developed ways to catch fish, gather native fruits, and hunt goats for meat and skins. He also tamed some of the wild cats to keep the rats at bay while he slept. To keep his sanity, he read his Bible aloud, finding comfort in its words.

Meanwhile, his fears about the Cinque Ports proved justified—the ship sank shortly after leaving him behind, with most of the crew perishing at sea or falling into Spanish captivity. Had he stayed aboard, he would likely have shared their fate.

Selkirk lived in complete isolation for four years and four months, growing increasingly wild in his appearance but stronger in his survival skills. Then, on February 2, 1709, his long ordeal came to an end.

The English privateering ship Duke, captained by Woodes Rogers, arrived at the island. When Selkirk was found, he was almost unrecognizable—clad in goat skins, bearded, and sun-darkened, he had nearly forgotten how to speak fluently. However, his physical condition was remarkable. Rogers described him as "the governor of the island" and was so impressed by his resilience that he appointed him as a navigator on the Duke.

Selkirk returned to Britain in 1711, now a celebrity. His story spread, and he was interviewed extensively. The English writer Richard Steele published an account of his adventures in The Englishman magazine, further fueling public fascination. A decade later, Daniel Defoe drew inspiration from Selkirk’s experiences when writing Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719. Though Defoe fictionalized many details, the core of Crusoe’s survival story clearly echoed Selkirk’s real-life struggles.

Despite his fame, Selkirk struggled to reintegrate into society. He returned to Lower Largo but found it difficult to settle into a quiet life. He later rejoined the Royal Navy and died of fever in 1721 while serving aboard HMS Weymouth off the coast of West Africa.

Today, his legacy lives on. The island where he was stranded was renamed Robinson Crusoe Island, and a statue of Selkirk stands in his hometown of Lower Largo, commemorating the extraordinary tale of Scotland’s real-life castaway.

On this day in 1709, Alexander Selkirk’s years of solitude came to an end, but his story was only just beginning. His remarkable survival against the odds became one of the greatest adventure tales of all time, proving that even in the direst of circumstances, human resilience can triumph.

Thanks for joining us today on This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald. Haste ye back for another fascinating tale from Scotland’s past!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I’m your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we journey back to the 1st of February, 1856, when a fierce storm swept across Scotland, bringing down two legendary trees tied to one of Scotland’s greatest heroes—William Wallace. These trees, an oak and a yew, stood at his reputed birthplace in Elderslie, serving as silent witnesses to the legend of Wallace and the country’s long struggle for freedom.

Elderslie, a village in Renfrewshire, is traditionally held as the birthplace of William Wallace, the warrior who led Scotland against English rule in the late 13th century. Among its most cherished landmarks were the Wallace Oak and the Wallace Yew—ancient trees said to have been standing since the time of Wallace himself.

The Wallace Oak, in particular, was a massive tree, believed to be over 700 years old by the time of its fall. Local tradition held that Wallace and his men took shelter beneath its broad branches, using it as a meeting place while planning raids against the English forces. Some even claimed Wallace hid within its hollow trunk, evading capture. The Wallace Yew, equally storied, was said to have been planted around the time of Wallace’s birth, growing alongside his legend.

On the 1st of February, 1856, a violent storm tore through Scotland, its fierce winds uprooting trees and causing destruction across the land. Among the casualties were the Wallace Oak and Yew, which had stood for centuries as symbols of Scottish resilience. Their loss was deeply felt by the people of Elderslie and beyond, as it seemed to sever a living connection to Wallace’s time.

By the mid-19th century, the oak had already been in decline, with parts of it decaying. However, its fall was met with mourning, as many saw it as a sign of the passing of Scotland’s old guard. The yew, though smaller, held a similarly revered place in local lore.

While the storm may have taken the Wallace trees, it could not erase the hero’s memory. Wallace’s legend continued to grow, particularly in the 19th century when figures like Sir Walter Scott helped romanticize Scotland’s medieval past. The 1800s also saw a surge in Scottish nationalism, and the destruction of the Wallace trees only reinforced the desire to preserve Scotland’s history.

Today, Elderslie remains proud of its connection to Wallace. A monument to him stands in the village, and the site of the trees is still marked as a place of historical significance. Though the great oak and yew are gone, their memory lives on in Scottish folklore.

So, as we remember this stormy day in history, let’s reflect on the deep roots of Scotland’s past—both literal and figurative. Some trees may fall, but the spirit of Wallace stands unshaken.

Thanks for tuning in to This Day in Scottish History. Join us again tomorrow for another journey into Scotland’s remarkable past. I’m Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we turn our attention to one of the most dramatic moments in Glasgow’s history—an event that shook the British establishment and highlighted the growing tensions between the working class and the government. On this day, January 31, 1919, riots erupted in Glasgow, culminating in what became known as the Battle of George Square.

To understand what happened on that fateful day, we need to look at the conditions in post-World War I Glasgow. The city, often called the "Second City of the Empire," had played a crucial role in Britain's war effort. The shipyards along the Clyde, the engineering works, and the heavy industries had been pushed to their limits to supply the war machine. But with the war ending in November 1918, Glasgow's workforce faced a new reality—rising unemployment, food shortages, and severe housing problems.

Tens of thousands of soldiers were returning from the trenches, expecting a better future after their sacrifices. But instead of prosperity, they found overcrowded tenements, sky-high rents, and long working hours. The demand for change was growing, and the trade union movement in Glasgow was ready to take action.

The immediate cause of the confrontation in George Square was the demand for a 40-hour workweek. At the time, most workers were still on a 54-hour week, and with jobs scarce, unions argued that reducing working hours would allow more people to find employment. The Clyde Workers' Committee (CWC), a group of radical trade unionists with strong socialist leanings, led the charge. Their goal was not just about working hours—it was about shifting power from employers to workers.

On January 27, 1919, tens of thousands of workers went on strike. By the 31st, up to 90,000 workers had joined, bringing Glasgow to a standstill. Strikers and their supporters gathered in George Square, the heart of the city, demanding action from the government.

What happened next is still debated, but one thing is clear—violence erupted. Police, some on horseback, waded into the crowd with their batons, attempting to break up the demonstration. The protesters fought back, and soon, running battles broke out between strikers and police. The riot quickly escalated, with broken windows, overturned trams, and injured people on both sides.

The British government, fearing a full-scale workers' uprising—perhaps even a Bolshevik-style revolution—reacted with force. Prime Minister David Lloyd George’s cabinet sent tanks, soldiers, and machine guns into Glasgow. The army, including English troops (deliberately chosen because the government feared Scottish soldiers might side with the workers), was deployed to key locations, including George Square and the shipyards. Six tanks were stationed at the Cattle Market in the Gallowgate.

For many Glaswegians, it was a shocking sight—troops on their own streets, deployed not to defend them, but to suppress them. While the government justified the move as a necessary step to maintain order, for the workers, it was a clear message that their demands would not be met through protest alone.

Although the strike eventually lost momentum, it did achieve some success. Over the next few years, working hours were gradually reduced, and by 1922, a 47-hour workweek was introduced. However, the events of 1919 left a lasting scar on the city.

The Battle of George Square also cemented Glasgow’s reputation as "Red Clydeside." Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the city remained a hotbed of socialist and trade union activity, influencing generations of political thought in Scotland.

Today, when we walk through George Square, it’s easy to overlook the fact that this very space was once the site of a workers’ revolt that nearly brought the government to its knees. The tanks and soldiers may be long gone, but the spirit of 1919—the fight for fair work, decent housing, and workers' rights—still echoes in modern Glasgow.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through history. Tune in tomorrow for another enlightening episode of This Day in Scottish History. I'm Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bagtown.substack.com

Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald, and today, we’re stepping onto the ice to revisit a moment of Scottish sporting glory at the 1924 Winter Olympics.

From the 28th to the 30th of January 1924, at the inaugural Winter Olympic Games in Chamonix, France, a group of Scotsmen made history by securing the first-ever Olympic gold medal in curling. Representing Great Britain, the Scottish team showcased their mastery of the ancient sport, dominating the competition and claiming a victory that remains legendary in the annals of both Scottish and Olympic history.

The 1924 Winter Olympics in Chamonix were groundbreaking, marking the first official Games dedicated to winter sports. Until then, winter disciplines had occasionally been part of the Summer Olympics, but the growing popularity of events like skiing, ice hockey, and, of course, curling led to the creation of a dedicated Winter Games. These Olympics were initially known as the International Winter Sports Week, but they were later recognized retroactively by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) as the first official Winter Olympic Games.

Among the sports featured was curling, a game with deep Scottish roots. Dating back to at least the 16th century, curling originated on the frozen lochs of Scotland. By the 19th century, it had spread internationally, but it remained a sport that was synonymous with Scotland, with the Royal Caledonian Curling Club—founded in 1838—acting as the sport’s governing body.

The British curling team at the 1924 Games consisted entirely of Scottish players, hailing from various clubs across the country. The team was led by captain Willie Jackson, a veteran curler with a keen strategic mind. His teammates included Robin Welsh, Tom Murray, and Laurence Jackson (Willie’s son), all of whom had honed their skills in the icy rinks of Scotland.

The tournament itself was a relatively small affair compared to modern Olympic competitions. Only three teams took part—Great Britain, Sweden, and France. The Scots quickly established their dominance, facing Sweden in their opening match on the 28th of January. It was a resounding victory, with the British team winning 38–7, an astonishing margin that underscored their expertise.

Two days later, on the 30th of January, the British team took on France. Once again, they displayed their superior skill and precision, defeating the French team 46–4. This decisive win secured the gold medal, making the Scottish curlers the first Olympic champions in the sport.

At the time, curling was considered a demonstration sport rather than a full Olympic event, and it wasn’t until decades later that the team’s victory received the full recognition it deserved. The sport was not included in subsequent Winter Olympics for many years, leading to some confusion over the status of the 1924 tournament. However, in 2006, the International Olympic Committee officially confirmed that curling at the 1924 Games had indeed been a full Olympic event, ensuring that Willie Jackson and his team were rightfully acknowledged as Olympic gold medallists.

Scotland’s triumph in 1924 laid the foundation for curling’s future on the world stage. While the sport disappeared from the Olympic programme after the Chamonix Games, it made a triumphant return as a full medal event at the 1998 Nagano Olympics. Since then, Scotland has continued to play a vital role in curling’s development, with Scottish-born athletes frequently competing for Team GB and achieving remarkable success.

Perhaps the most famous echo of the 1924 victory came in 2002 when Rhona Martin led the Great Britain women’s curling team—comprising several Scots—to a dramatic gold medal win at the Salt Lake City Olympics. The moment, often referred to as the Stone of Destiny, was a proud continuation of Scotland’s curling legacy.

As we look back on the events of January 1924, we celebrate not just a victory in sport but a moment of national pride for Scotland. Willie Jackson and his team carved their names into Olympic history, and their achievement remains an inspiration for Scottish athletes today.

That’s all for today’s episode of This Day in Scottish History. Thanks for joining me, Colin MacDonald, as we honour Scotland’s great Olympic curlers. Haste ye back tomorrow for more tales from Scotland’s past!

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