Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History! I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we’re exploring a fiery and contentious moment from Scotland’s post-war past. On November 29, 1952, a humble post box in Edinburgh’s Inch district became the epicenter of a constitutional debate, an act of vandalism, and ultimately, an enduring legacy of Scotland’s distinct identity within the United Kingdom.

This is the story of the “Pillar Box War.”

Picture the Britain of the early 1950s: King George VI had passed away, and his daughter Elizabeth had ascended the throne in February 1952. Preparations for her coronation were underway, and across the nation, new Royal Mail pillar boxes were being installed. These boxes bore the insignia "E II R," standing for Elizabeth II Regina—Latin for "Elizabeth the Second, Queen."

But there was a problem north of the border. Unlike in England, Elizabeth I had never ruled Scotland. At the time of her reign in the 16th century, Scotland was an entirely separate kingdom. Scots contended that it was inaccurate—if not offensive—to refer to Elizabeth as the “Second” monarch when no "Elizabeth the First" had ever sat on Scotland's throne.

What followed was a clash of symbolism, identity, and politics that would lead to an unlikely showdown over a post box in Edinburgh.

The controversy erupted on this day in 1952, when an official ceremony was held in the Inch district of Edinburgh to unveil a new pillar box bearing the contested “E II R” insignia. Within 48 hours, the box became a target. First, it was smeared with tar and paint. Then, things escalated dramatically—a parcel containing explosives was discovered inside, and by February 1953, the box was obliterated by a gelignite bomb.

The blast was heard a mile away, leaving no injuries but sending a clear message. Locals were reportedly too afraid to use the box for fear their letters might be destroyed in further attacks. Eventually, the damaged box was replaced with one bearing no royal cipher, and similar compromises were made across Scotland.

The row over Elizabeth’s title wasn’t limited to acts of vandalism. Campaigners, including noted nationalist John MacCormick, took their grievances to court. MacCormick argued that proclaiming Elizabeth as “the Second” was a breach of the 1707 Act of Union, which united the crowns of Scotland and England.

The legal challenge, however, failed. Scotland’s Court of Session ruled that the Act of Union did not dictate the monarch’s titles, leaving the matter to royal prerogative.

In the face of ongoing unrest, the British government sought a compromise. From 1953 onwards, all new post boxes in Scotland featured the Crown of Scotland rather than the royal cipher. Mail vans and other official paraphernalia followed suit, a subtle but significant acknowledgment of Scotland's distinct national identity.

The Pillar Box War became a symbol of broader tensions around Scotland's role within the United Kingdom. The decision to omit the "E II R" insignia from Scottish post boxes marked a rare concession to nationalist sentiment and is a reminder of the delicate balance between union and autonomy.

Interestingly, the controversy resurfaced as recently as 2018, when a pillar box mistakenly bearing the “E II R” cipher was installed in Dunoon. It was swiftly replaced, showing that this historical sensitivity remains alive even today.

The events of November 29, 1952, may seem like a minor footnote in history, but they symbolize a deeper narrative of identity, tradition, and the complexities of monarchy in a union of nations. The Pillar Box War reminds us that even the smallest symbols—like a post box—can carry immense political weight.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. Until next time, 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 delve into the grand opening of a Glasgow landmark that has stood the test of time, evolving and thriving through the decades. On this day in 1867, Baylis’s Royal Colosseum Theatre and Opera House first opened its doors, becoming a cornerstone of Glasgow’s vibrant cultural scene. Over time, this magnificent building transformed into what we now know as the Theatre Royal, Glasgow—a celebrated venue that continues to inspire audiences to this day.

The story of the Theatre Royal begins with James Baylis, an enterprising Irishman and a pioneer of Glasgow’s 19th-century entertainment industry. Born the son of an army bandmaster, Baylis settled in Glasgow with his wife, Christina Ferguson Baylis. A bookkeeper by trade, Baylis had a passion for entertainment, which he pursued by managing Sloan's Oddfellows Singing Saloon at night.

Driven by ambition, Baylis built a name for himself in the music hall scene, eventually founding his own venues. Among his earlier successes were the Milton Colosseum in Cowcaddens and the famed Scotia Music Hall on Stockwell Street. The latter became Scotland’s first purpose-built variety theatre and was a revolutionary space for its time, offering entertainment year-round.

By the mid-1860s, Baylis’s vision grew even grander. He sought to create a venue that would rival the finest theatres in the United Kingdom. This dream became reality with the construction of Baylis’s Royal Colosseum Theatre and Opera House in Cowcaddens, located at the corner of Hope Street.

The theatre opened on November 28, 1867, as a complex that included not only the main theatre space but also the smaller Alexandra Music Hall, along with shops and other facilities. This opulent venue showcased plays, operas, revues, and pantomimes. Baylis emphasized accessibility by combining high artistic standards with a commitment to "popular prices," ensuring that Glasgow’s burgeoning working and middle classes could also partake in the arts.

Tragically, Baylis passed away in 1870, only three years after his crowning achievement opened its doors. Before his death, he leased the Royal Colosseum to William Glover, who had previously managed the old Theatre Royal on Dunlop Street. Over the ensuing decades, the venue passed through various owners, including Howard & Wyndham and later Scottish Television. Each era brought new life and adaptations to the building, reflecting the evolving tastes of Glasgow audiences.

The Theatre Royal also gained fame for hosting legendary performers. Notably, Sir Harry Lauder, the beloved Scottish entertainer, first sang his classic tune "I Love A Lassie" here during a pantomime in 1905. This moment is etched in the cultural history of Scotland, demonstrating the venue's role as a launchpad for iconic talent.

Today, the Theatre Royal is the proud home of Scottish Opera and a hub for a diverse array of performances, from plays and musicals to concerts and touring productions. In recent years, the building has undergone significant renovations, including a new £15 million entrance, ensuring that it remains a state-of-the-art venue while retaining its historic charm.

Interestingly, if you were to look at photographs of the theatre from the 1950s, you’d notice distinct period details such as tram tracks and vintage cars. These images evoke a time when Glasgow's streets bustled with mid-century energy. However, the Theatre Royal remains easily recognizable, even as the skyline around it has changed. The Equitable Loan building that once stood prominently nearby has since been demolished, leaving more sky visible in modern views of Hope Street.

James Baylis’s impact on Glasgow’s cultural scene cannot be overstated. His commitment to creating spaces for high-quality, accessible entertainment helped lay the foundation for the city’s reputation as a vibrant arts hub. From his early days managing a singing saloon to establishing the grand Theatre Royal, Baylis exemplified entrepreneurial spirit and a deep love for the performing arts.

As we mark the anniversary of the Theatre Royal’s opening, we celebrate not just a building but a living legacy of art, music, and storytelling. From its humble beginnings as Baylis’s Royal Colosseum Theatre and Opera House to its current status as a premier venue, the Theatre Royal embodies Glasgow’s resilience, creativity, and passion for the arts.

Thank you for joining me on this journey through history. Tune in tomorrow for another captivating episode of "This Day in Scottish History." Until then, 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 journey back to November 27, 1882, to examine one of the most tragic and impactful events in Scotland's railway history: the Inverythan rail accident. This disaster, which occurred on the Great North of Scotland Railway line between Auchterless and Fyvie in Aberdeenshire, serves as a grim reminder of the vulnerabilities in early engineering and the profound consequences of hidden flaws.

On that fateful day, a mixed freight and passenger train was traveling along a single-track railway when tragedy struck. The train consisted of five loaded wagons and four passenger carriages. As the locomotive passed safely over a cast iron underbridge, a 39-by-15-foot structure spanning a road, one of the bridge’s girders suddenly gave way. While the engine and its crew survived the crossing, the rest of the train plunged into the gap left by the collapsed girder, falling onto the road below.

The accident claimed the lives of four passengers instantly. A fifth succumbed to injuries shortly thereafter, and 14 others sustained serious wounds. The collapse not only shattered the lives of those aboard but sent shockwaves through Scotland and beyond, prompting an immediate investigation into the causes of the catastrophe.

The Board of Trade conducted a meticulous inquiry into the accident, led by Major F.A. Marindin. Their findings revealed a sobering truth: the collapse was caused by a casting defect in one of the girders, a flaw that had lain undetected for 25 years.

The defect, a large internal void known as a "blowhole," had significantly weakened the girder. This imperfection, hidden behind a layer of seemingly sound metal, measured approximately six inches in length and extended deeply into the structure. The surrounding material, though appearing robust, had been compromised during the manufacturing process, leading to uneven tensile strength and creating conditions ripe for a catastrophic failure.

Adding to the structural weakness, residual stress within the girder—caused by uneven cooling during casting—further undermined its integrity. Over time, a small crack had begun to grow, exacerbated by the stresses of regular use. On November 27, 1882, that crack reached its breaking point.

The immediate response involved a survey of all cast iron bridges on the Great North of Scotland Railway network. Of the 331 such bridges, only eight were of a similar double-girder construction to the one at Inverythan. These were inspected and swiftly replaced, though the process caused significant disruption to railway traffic.

Warnings were circulated across Britain to other railway companies, urging them to inspect and, where necessary, replace cast iron underbridges. Despite these precautions, it wasn’t until the Norwood Junction rail accident in 1891—a similar failure caused by a cast iron girder fracture—that significant regulatory changes were enacted.

The Inverythan rail accident highlighted the inherent risks in relying on cast iron for critical infrastructure. Though widely used in the 19th century for its low cost and ease of production, cast iron's brittleness and susceptibility to hidden flaws rendered it a hazardous material for high-stress applications. The disaster accelerated the transition to wrought iron and later steel, which offered greater ductility and reliability.

The accident also underscored the importance of rigorous material testing and regular inspections. The flaws in the Inverythan bridge were invisible to the naked eye during routine checks, prompting engineers and regulators to consider more advanced diagnostic techniques.

As we reflect on the events of November 27, 1882, we are reminded of the delicate balance between progress and safety in the industrial age. The Inverythan rail accident serves not only as a historical tragedy but as a crucial turning point in engineering practices. The lives lost that day were not in vain; their memory is etched into the reforms and innovations that followed, ensuring safer travel for future generations.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald, and I hope you’ll tune in tomorrow for another journey through the past. Until then, stay safe, and as we say in Scotland, 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 to "This Day in Scottish History." I’m your host, Colin MacDonald, and today we’re delving into a pivotal moment in the world of craft brewing. On November 26, 2009, BrewDog, a then-upstart Scottish brewery based in Fraserburgh, launched a beer that would go on to redefine the possibilities of brewing: Tactical Nuclear Penguin. This wasn’t just a beer—it was a declaration of intent from a company determined to push boundaries and challenge the status quo. With an alcohol content of 32%, it was the strongest beer ever made at the time and a product of remarkable craftsmanship, innovation, and just a bit of controversy.

At its heart, Tactical Nuclear Penguin is an imperial stout, a style known for its rich, bold flavors and higher alcohol content. But BrewDog took this style to uncharted territory. The beer began as a robust 10% ABV imperial stout, brewed with a careful balance of dark malts to create deep notes of chocolate and roasted coffee. It was then aged for 16 months—eight months in Isle of Arran whisky casks and another eight in Islay casks. This aging process infused the beer with layers of complexity, including hints of peat smoke, oak, and the signature flavors of Scotland’s whisky heritage.

The real magic, however, came after aging. To achieve its record-breaking 32% ABV, the beer underwent a meticulous freezing process. BrewDog stored it at -20°C for three weeks, periodically removing the ice that formed. This technique—essentially freeze distillation—concentrated the alcohol content and intensified the stout’s already bold flavors. The result was a beer that combined the depth of a fine whisky with the richness of an imperial stout.

Tactical Nuclear Penguin wasn’t a beer to be chugged or casually consumed. BrewDog packaged it with a resealable stopper, encouraging drinkers to savor it in small measures, much like a fine whisky. At £30 per bottle, or £250 if you also wanted a share in the brewery, it was a high-end product aimed squarely at connoisseurs. The beer’s flavor profile was as bold as its concept. Rich notes of dark chocolate and roasted coffee dominated, underscored by a pronounced whisky character from its time in casks. Smoky and warming, it offered a tasting experience unlike any other beer of its time.

The launch of Tactical Nuclear Penguin wasn’t without its share of controversy. Its release coincided with the introduction of Scotland’s Alcohol Bill, which aimed to combat alcohol abuse by introducing a minimum price for alcohol. Critics accused BrewDog of poor timing and accused the brewery of attention-seeking. Public health groups like Alcohol Focus Scotland condemned the beer, arguing it sent the wrong message amid growing concerns over binge drinking.

BrewDog co-founder James Watt countered that the beer’s high price, limited availability, and niche appeal made it an unlikely culprit for irresponsible drinking. Instead, Watt pointed the finger at major brewers and supermarkets, whose cheap, mass-produced alcohol was far more accessible. He emphasized that Tactical Nuclear Penguin was meant to elevate beer to the status of fine whisky or wine, encouraging people to appreciate it slowly and responsibly.

This wasn’t BrewDog’s first brush with controversy. Earlier that year, they had released Tokyo, an 18.2% ABV stout, which faced backlash for its provocative label suggesting that "moderation itself should be moderated." BrewDog thrived on being the industry’s disruptor, and Tactical Nuclear Penguin solidified their reputation as rebels willing to challenge conventions.

Although only 500 bottles of Tactical Nuclear Penguin were produced, its impact on the craft beer world was profound. It inspired other breweries to experiment with extreme beers and elevated the perception of beer as a complex and premium beverage. The beer also paved the way for BrewDog’s later experiments, including Sink the Bismarck! (41% ABV) and the infamous The End of History (55% ABV), which was released in taxidermied animals and took the title of the world’s strongest beer. Each of these releases cemented BrewDog’s reputation as pioneers of the craft beer revolution.

Today, BrewDog is a global brand, with bars and breweries around the world. Yet, the release of Tactical Nuclear Penguin remains a defining moment—a bold step that helped shape the brewery’s identity and the future of craft brewing.

Tactical Nuclear Penguin wasn’t just about breaking records; it was about pushing boundaries and redefining what beer could be. From its intricate aging process in whisky casks to its innovative freeze distillation method, it showcased the creativity and daring that BrewDog has come to symbolize. While it’s no longer available, its legacy endures in the craft beer movement and in BrewDog’s continued commitment to innovation. It remains a testament to Scotland’s role as a leader in the world of fine drinks—whether that’s whisky or, in this case, an unforgettable imperial stout.

Thank you for joining me today on this frosty adventure through brewing history. I’m Colin MacDonald, and as always, 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 delve into a story that combines the worlds of sport and sacrifice—an extraordinary moment in history when the players of Heart of Midlothian Football Club, or Hearts, set aside their boots and took up arms. On this day, November 25, 1914, sixteen players enlisted en masse to serve in World War I. Their decision reflected courage and patriotism, but it also came at a devastating cost.

In August 1914, the outbreak of World War I cast a shadow over Europe. While Britain declared war on Germany, debates raged over whether professional football should continue. Hearts had started their 1914–15 season with unmatched brilliance, winning their first eight matches, including a 2–0 triumph over reigning champions Celtic. Despite their stellar form, a sense of moral obligation hung heavy.

Public opinion grew increasingly critical of professional football during wartime. Some saw it as a frivolous distraction while young men fought and died. A powerful letter published in the Edinburgh Evening News suggested that Hearts adopt the temporary nickname, “The White Feathers of Midlothian,” to shame them into action. But Hearts had already been quietly preparing for duty.

Under the leadership of their manager, John McCartney, the club encouraged enlistment and held military drills during training sessions. On match days, recruitment officers canvassed Tynecastle Park for volunteers. By mid-November, the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders and other regiments appealed directly to fans and players. The turning point came with the formation of the 16th Royal Scots, also known as McCrae’s Battalion, led by Sir George McCrae.

On November 25, 1914, eleven Hearts players, alongside supporters and ticket-holders, stepped forward to enlist. Over the following days, additional players joined their teammates, bringing the total to sixteen. They were the first football team in Britain to enlist as a group, setting an example that resonated across the nation. Players from rival clubs, including Hibernian and Raith Rovers, soon followed their lead.

This act of solidarity came at a cost. The demanding military training was added to their rigorous football schedules. Hearts embarked on a 20-match unbeaten streak that season, despite players enduring long nocturnal marches and exhausting drills. However, as the toll of war preparation grew, their performance waned. By season’s end, Celtic overtook them for the league title.

The Edinburgh press remained unwavering in its admiration for Hearts, hailing them as the moral champions of Scotland. A poignant editorial declared, “There is only one football champion in Scotland, and its colours are maroon and khaki.”

When McCrae’s Battalion went to the Western Front, it faced the full horrors of trench warfare. On July 1, 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme, three Hearts players—Duncan Currie, Harry Wattie, and Ernest Ellis—were killed in action. The war would ultimately claim the lives of seven Hearts players: James Speedie, Tom Gracie, Duncan Currie, Harry Wattie, Ernest Ellis, James Boyd, and John Allan.

Others returned home with life-altering injuries. Paddy Crossan was gassed and wounded multiple times, while Bob Mercer, the team captain, suffered severe injuries that ended his football career. These players paid an immense price, embodying the bravery and sacrifice of their generation.

In 1922, a memorial clock was unveiled in Edinburgh’s Haymarket to honor the fallen Hearts players and supporters. The Secretary of State for Scotland, Robert Munro, described Hearts’ sacrifice as a debt of gratitude the nation could never repay. To this day, the Heart of Midlothian War Memorial stands as a poignant reminder of their heroism.

Every Remembrance Sunday, Hearts players, staff, and supporters gather to pay tribute. In France, a cairn in Contalmaison marks the site where McCrae’s Battalion fought and fell. The legacy of their courage resonates, a testament to the spirit of a football club and its community during one of history’s darkest hours.

As we reflect on the events of November 25, 1914, let us remember the Hearts players who made the ultimate sacrifice, trading their love of the game for the love of their country. Their story is one of courage, camaraderie, and commitment—a legacy that continues to inspire.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald. Join us next time for another remarkable tale from 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 delve into one of the most notorious events in Scotland’s medieval history: the chilling Black Dinner of November 24, 1440. A tale of betrayal, political ambition, and murder that has left a dark stain on the annals of Scotland’s past.

In the tumultuous year of 1440, Scotland was still reeling from the assassination of King James I in 1437. His young son, James II, had inherited the throne at just six years old. With a child on the throne, a power vacuum ensued, creating a dangerous landscape where noble factions vied for dominance.

The most powerful of these families were the Black Douglases, led by William, the 6th Earl of Douglas. At only fifteen, William found himself the head of his family, one of the most influential in Scotland. The Douglases held vast lands and influence, and their loyalty—or opposition—could make or break any rival faction. However, the Douglas family's dominance had earned them powerful enemies, including Sir William Crichton, the Lord Chancellor of Scotland, and Sir Alexander Livingston, another key powerbroker. Together, Crichton and Livingston sought to neutralize what they perceived as the greatest threat to their influence: the young Earl of Douglas.

The trap was set under the guise of reconciliation. William Douglas, his younger brother David, and their advisor Sir Malcolm Fleming were invited to a banquet at Edinburgh Castle, hosted by the young King James II himself. Only ten years old, the king was reportedly delighted by the company of the Douglas brothers, a cruel irony given what was to follow.

The legend of the Black Dinner comes alive in its most theatrical moment. As the feast reached its climax, a black bull’s head—a symbol of death—was brought to the table. This macabre gesture signaled the Douglases’ doom. The young brothers were seized, subjected to a hurried and undoubtedly rigged trial, and found guilty of treason. Despite the king’s tearful pleas for mercy, William and David were dragged to Castle Hill and executed by beheading. Four days later, Sir Malcolm Fleming met the same fate.

This grim tableau shocked even a society accustomed to political brutality. The calculated nature of the murders—luring the victims with false promises of amity—underscored the lengths to which the rival factions were willing to go to secure their power. But who truly orchestrated the Black Dinner?

Sir William Crichton, as Keeper of Edinburgh Castle and Lord Chancellor, held both the means and the motive. His ambition to control the young king, coupled with his alliance with Sir Alexander Livingston, positioned him as a key player. However, many believe that the most insidious architect of the plot was James Douglas, Earl of Avondale, known as “James the Gross.” As the great-uncle of the murdered boys, he stood to gain the vast Douglas inheritance. Following the Black Dinner, James the Gross did indeed inherit the earldom, becoming the 7th Earl of Douglas. His conspicuous lack of retribution against the killers only fuels suspicions of his complicity.

What makes the Black Dinner so infamous is not just its brutality but its breach of trust. The Douglases were guests under the king’s protection, dining in what should have been a secure and neutral space. The betrayal at Edinburgh Castle would leave a deep scar on Scotland’s collective memory, immortalized in folklore and even inspiring modern tales such as the infamous “Red Wedding” in Game of Thrones.

The political fallout was significant. While the Crichton-Livingston faction succeeded in eliminating the immediate Douglas threat, their actions emboldened James II to later assert his own authority. By the time he reached adulthood, James turned on the Douglases again, culminating in further bloodshed and the ultimate dismantling of the Black Douglas powerbase.

As we reflect on this dark chapter in Scottish history, we are reminded of the fragile nature of power and the devastating costs of ambition. The Black Dinner of 1440 remains a chilling example of medieval realpolitik—a moment where personal ambition eclipsed any semblance of honor or justice.

Thank you for joining us on "This Day in Scottish History." Tune in tomorrow as we uncover another compelling story from Scotland’s rich and complex past. I’m Colin MacDonald, and until next time, 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’re traveling back to November 23, 1987, when Scotland welcomed the golden arches for the very first time. This day marked the opening of the first McDonald’s restaurant in the country, right in the heart of Dundee on Reform Street.

The arrival of McDonald’s in Scotland wasn’t just about introducing fast food; it was a cultural milestone. The concept of affordable, quick, American-style dining was entirely new to Dundonians. The restaurant’s sleek design, with shiny stainless steel and chrome finishes, immediately caught the eye of locals. It was a striking addition to the city center and quickly became a hotspot.

Hundreds of people gathered outside the new restaurant on that chilly November morning, eager to experience their first-ever Big Mac. Ice hockey players from the Dundee Tigers were on hand to cut the ceremonial ribbon, lending a local flair to this international arrival. The excitement didn’t stop after the doors opened. The restaurant burned through three days’ worth of stock in a single day.

Dave Jeffrey, the restaurant’s manager at the time, remembers the whirlwind experience. Dave, originally from Angus, had been managing a McDonald’s in Birkenhead when he was invited to oversee the Dundee opening. It was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Dundee was in a close race with Kirkcaldy to become the first Scottish city to host a McDonald’s, and by opening three weeks earlier, Dundee claimed the honor.

The opening week was a record-breaker, becoming the second busiest in McDonald’s UK history up to that point. The energy was palpable. Staff were drafted in from northern England to meet the overwhelming demand. More than 70 employees, many of them teenagers, had been hired locally, and they quickly found themselves at the center of an extraordinary moment in the city’s history.

The menu at the time was straightforward: burgers, fries, chicken nuggets, milkshakes, and fizzy drinks. Though simple by today’s standards, this was a novelty for customers in Dundee, and the restaurant’s fast, consistent service made a lasting impression.

Over the years, McDonald’s on Reform Street became a part of the fabric of Dundee life. In 1998, Ronald McDonald himself switched on the city’s Christmas lights, a memorable moment for many. The restaurant also played host to a few famous visitors, including musician Pete Doherty, who stopped in for breakfast before a Babyshambles gig in 2005.

For Dave Jeffrey, the opening of the Dundee McDonald’s was the start of a remarkable journey. He eventually became a franchisee and stayed with the company until 2014. Dave fondly recalls the camaraderie among the staff and the sense of pride in being part of something new and exciting. Many of the teenagers who worked there went on to successful careers, from bus drivers to doctors and solicitors, and still share stories of their time at McDonald’s.

Today, the McDonald’s on Reform Street remains a thriving business. The technology, menu, and dining experience may have evolved, but the excitement of that November day in 1987 lingers in the memories of those who were there. It was more than just the opening of a restaurant; it was the start of a cultural shift in Scotland, blending local traditions with a global brand.

Thank you for joining me on this journey into Scotland’s past. I’m Colin MacDonald, and I’ll see you tomorrow for another fascinating chapter in This Day in Scottish History. 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 chapter in Scotland’s past: the siege of Broughty Castle on November 22, 1547, during the War of the Rough Wooing.

Broughty Castle, located on the banks of the River Tay in Dundee, was a critical stronghold. Built around 1495 by Andrew, 2nd Lord Gray, it guarded the river’s mouth, controlling access to Dundee and Perth. Its position made it a prime target during military conflicts, particularly in the turbulent mid-16th century when Scotland and England were locked in a bitter struggle.

This was the era of the Rough Wooing, a campaign initiated by King Henry VIII of England to secure a marriage between his son Edward and Mary, Queen of Scots. The campaign combined diplomacy, subterfuge, and military aggression to bend Scotland to England’s will.

Following Scotland’s devastating defeat at the Battle of Pinkie in September 1547, Broughty Castle was handed over to the English, not through conquest, but by betrayal. Lord Gray of Foulis, its owner, surrendered the castle in exchange for payment, recognizing its strategic significance to the English campaign. The English immediately fortified the castle under the guidance of an Italian engineer, Master John Rossetti, and left a garrison of 100 men, supported by three ships anchored nearby.

On November 22, 1547, Scottish forces led by Archibald Campbell, the 4th Earl of Argyll, made their first attempt to retake the castle. Commanding 3,000 men, Argyll’s army laid siege to the English garrison. Despite their numbers, the Scots faced formidable obstacles. The castle’s location on a rocky promontory made it difficult to approach, while the English defenders had fortified the surrounding area with a defensive ditch and artillery emplacements.

The Scots launched their assault but were repelled by the well-supplied and heavily armed garrison. Their efforts were further hindered by the arrival of English reinforcements. Thomas Wyndham brought additional ships and supplies, solidifying the English position. Even a subsequent attack in January 1548, led by Duncan Dundas with a smaller force, failed to breach the castle’s defenses.

The siege of Broughty Castle became a drawn-out affair, marked by both sides’ determination to control this key stronghold. The Scots and their French allies made repeated efforts to oust the English, but progress was slow. The defenders, under commanders like Sir Andrew Dudley and later John Luttrell, held their ground with increasing desperation. Supplies from Berwick bolstered their efforts, and plans were even made to fortify a nearby hill to enhance the castle’s defenses further.

By 1549, the tide began to turn as Mary of Guise, acting on behalf of her daughter Mary, Queen of Scots, secured French military support. The arrival of French troops reinvigorated Scottish efforts. A final assault was launched in February 1550, with Mary of Guise herself watching the siege from across the River Tay. French forces led by Paul de Thermes mounted a relentless attack, and after heavy losses, the English garrison surrendered on February 6, 1550.

With the castle back in Scottish hands, its strategic importance waned over time. It changed hands again during the Wars of the Three Kingdoms in the 17th century but saw little military action afterward. By the 19th century, Broughty Castle was repurposed as a coastal defense installation amid fears of foreign invasion. During both World Wars, it played a minor role in defense before being decommissioned and transformed into a museum in 1969.

Today, Broughty Castle remains a proud symbol of Scotland’s resilience and its storied past. Visitors can explore its exhibitions, which detail Dundee’s maritime heritage and the many chapters of history the castle has witnessed.

The events of November 22, 1547, remind us of Scotland’s enduring struggle for independence and the fierce loyalty of its people in the face of great challenges. Broughty Castle, standing firm on the Tay’s edge, continues to tell that story to all who visit.

Thank you for joining me on this journey into Scotland’s past. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for another tale of history and heroism. Until next time, 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 reflect on the remarkable life of Alfred Anderson, a man whose story bridges generations and reminds us of humanity’s enduring hope for peace, even in the depths of war. On this day, November 21, 2005, Scotland’s oldest man and the last known survivor of the 1914 Christmas Truce, Alfred Anderson, passed away at the age of 109.

Born in Dundee on June 25, 1896, Alfred Anderson grew up in a working-class family, the son of a joiner and one of six children. By the time he turned 16, he had joined the Territorial Force, a decision that would lead him into the heart of the Great War.

In October 1914, young Alfred and his comrades in the 1/5th Battalion of the Black Watch were deployed to France. They thought it was the adventure of a lifetime, a chance to see new places and fight for King and country. Instead, they found themselves entrenched in the grim realities of the Western Front.

But on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day of 1914, Anderson experienced a moment of profound humanity. Though his unit was billeted away from the front line, the silence of that morning left an indelible mark on him. In later years, he described the eerie quiet:

"I remember the silence, the eerie sound of silence. Only the guards were on duty. We all went outside the farm buildings and just stood listening. And, of course, thinking of people back home. All I’d heard for two months in the trenches was the hissing, cracking, and whining of bullets in flight, machinegun fire, and distant German voices. But there was a dead silence that morning, right across the land as far as you could see."

The unofficial truce, marked by Christmas greetings shared across the trenches, was short-lived. By afternoon, the silence was broken, and the horrors of war resumed. Anderson would always reflect on that fleeting moment of peace amid devastation as a poignant symbol of what could have been.

In the years following the truce, Alfred’s battalion faced heavy fighting, including battles at Neuve Chapelle and Loos. He served as a batman—an assistant to his officers—a role that brought him into contact with notable figures like Captain Fergus Bowes-Lyon, the Queen Mother’s brother, who tragically fell in the Battle of Loos.

Alfred’s own war nearly ended in 1916 when he was struck by shrapnel while on night patrol in No-Man’s Land. His wound, known as a "Blighty" wound, allowed him to recover in Britain. He eventually became an infantry instructor, rising to the rank of Staff Sergeant before the war’s end.

After the war, Alfred returned to civilian life, marrying Susanna Iddison and continuing his work as a joiner in Scotland. He served in the Home Guard during World War II, ensuring that he “did his bit” once more for his country.

Alfred’s extraordinary life extended across three centuries, making him a living repository of history. He received France’s Légion d'honneur in 1998, a recognition awarded to all surviving veterans who fought on French soil during the Great War.

In 2003, his connection to the Royal Family was highlighted when Prince Charles visited him. This visit acknowledged his service as a batman to Captain Bowes-Lyon and underscored his unique place in history.

Alfred Anderson’s death in 2005 marked the passing of Scotland’s last known World War I veteran. He was among the last living links to the 1914 Christmas Truce, a moment that continues to inspire and haunt us in equal measure.

In an interview shortly before his death, Alfred reflected on that Christmas so long ago:

"I'll give Christmas Day 1914 a brief thought, as I do every year. And I'll think about all my friends who never made it home. But it's too sad to think too much about it. Far too sad."

Alfred was survived by a large and loving family—four children, ten grandchildren, 18 great-grandchildren, and two great-great-grandchildren. His story lives on, not just in the pages of history but in the hearts of those who honor the sacrifices of his generation.

As we look back on November 21, 2005, we honor the life of a man who embodied the resilience, courage, and humanity that defined the best of his generation. From his humble beginnings in Dundee to the battlefields of France and his quiet years in Alyth, Alfred Anderson’s story reminds us of the profound cost of war—and the enduring hope for peace.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through Scotland’s past. I’m Colin MacDonald, and this has been This Day in Scottish History. Haste ye back, and we’ll see you tomorrow for another tale from Scotland’s rich and storied 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 revisit a defining moment of resistance during the contentious passage of the Treaty of Union. On November 20, 1706, in Dumfries, a copy of the treaty was publicly burned—a fiery symbol of protest against the union of Scotland and England.

The Treaty of Union, signed in 1706, outlined the terms that would merge the Kingdom of Scotland and the Kingdom of England into the Kingdom of Great Britain. This political union took effect on May 1, 1707, creating a single parliament in London and forever altering Scotland's sovereignty. While its proponents emphasized the potential economic and military benefits, the treaty was deeply unpopular among the majority of Scots, who viewed it as a betrayal of Scotland's independence and centuries-old identity.

The Union wasn’t a sudden decision but rather the culmination of decades of political maneuvering and economic hardship. Key events, such as the ill-fated Darien Scheme in the late 1690s, left Scotland's economy in ruin. This disastrous colonial venture, aimed at establishing a trading settlement in Panama, drained the country's resources and left many Scottish elites open to negotiation with England, which promised economic stability in return for union.

However, the union wasn’t merely a financial solution. It was also England's attempt to secure its northern border and prevent Scotland from aligning with France—a key fear during the War of Spanish Succession. Queen Anne, reigning over both Scotland and England, pushed hard for the union, resulting in the appointment of commissioners to hammer out the details. Despite assurances of equal partnership, the terms heavily favored England. Scots were granted representation in the new British Parliament, but their numbers were dwarfed by English MPs. Economic concerns loomed large as well: fears that Scotland's economy would be overwhelmed by English imports, alongside resentment over higher customs duties, fueled opposition across the nation.

The treaty’s passage through the Scottish Parliament was met with widespread outrage. Petitions with tens of thousands of signatures were presented, riots broke out in cities such as Edinburgh and Glasgow, and copies of the treaty were burned in defiance. Dumfries, a bustling market town with strong Presbyterian ties, became a focal point for anti-union sentiment.

On November 20, 1706, a crowd gathered in Dumfries to stage a symbolic protest. Presbyterian ministers led the charge, publicly denouncing the treaty as an affront to Scotland’s heritage and independence. A copy of the treaty was burned in the town square, accompanied by speeches decrying those who had sold out Scotland for “English gold.”

The event was more than just a protest—it was a declaration of defiance. Many Scots believed the treaty undermined the principles of the Covenant, a foundational element of Presbyterian faith that emphasized Scotland’s distinctiveness in both governance and religion. The burning of the treaty in Dumfries became a rallying cry for those opposed to the union, galvanizing resistance across the country.

Though the protests were passionate, they were not enough to derail the treaty. The Scottish Parliament, swayed by financial incentives and political pressure, ratified the treaty in January 1707. Critics claimed that the decision-makers were "bought and sold for English gold," a sentiment immortalized by Robert Burns in his poem Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation.

Even after the union was enacted, discontent simmered. Many Scots felt alienated by the new political arrangement, particularly as it became clear that English interests dominated decision-making. The sense of betrayal lingered for generations, influencing everything from cultural expression to political movements, including the later rise of Jacobitism.

The events in Dumfries exemplify the fierce opposition that the Treaty of Union faced from ordinary Scots. While the treaty ultimately came into effect, the symbolic act of burning it underscored the depth of resistance and the enduring belief in Scotland’s right to self-determination.

Today, the Union remains a subject of debate in Scotland, particularly in light of recent movements advocating for independence. The events of November 20, 1706, remind us of the deep historical roots of this debate and the enduring spirit of those who stood against the loss of Scotland’s sovereignty.

Thank you for joining us on this journey into Scotland’s past. Tune in tomorrow for another fascinating episode of This Day in Scottish History. I'm Colin MacDonald, and until next time—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