Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we look back to February 18, 1688, when James Renwick, a steadfast Covenanter minister, met his fate in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket. His execution marked the final chapter in the long and bloody struggle of the Scottish Covenanters, earning him the distinction of being the last of their martyrs.

To understand Renwick’s story, we must first step back to the 17th century, a time of intense religious turmoil in Scotland. The Covenanters were a group of devout Presbyterians who resisted the interference of the monarchy in church affairs. Their troubles began in 1638 when they signed the National Covenant, pledging to uphold Presbyterianism and reject the attempts of King Charles I and later Charles II to impose Anglican practices upon them. The conflict escalated into decades of brutal persecution, with Covenanters hunted down, imprisoned, tortured, and executed for their defiance.

James Renwick was born in 1662 in Moniaive, Dumfriesshire, at a time when the Covenanter cause was under relentless attack. He was just a boy when he witnessed the execution of Donald Cargill, another famous Covenanter, in 1681. That moment left an indelible mark on him, solidifying his commitment to the cause. He pursued theological studies abroad in the Netherlands before returning to Scotland, where he became a leading preacher among the persecuted Covenanters.

Unlike some of his predecessors, Renwick refused to compromise with the government in any form. He boldly denounced King Charles II and later King James VII (James II of England) as unlawful rulers due to their interference in religious matters. He continued to preach in the fields, holding illegal conventicles—open-air religious gatherings outlawed by the Crown. This defiance made him a target. In 1685, when the infamous "Killing Time" was at its peak, Renwick became one of Scotland’s most wanted men.

Despite the constant danger, he traveled tirelessly across the country, ministering to Covenanters who lived in fear of capture and execution. His unwavering stance, however, led to divisions within the movement. Some more moderate Presbyterians believed that negotiating with the authorities was the only way to survive. Renwick, however, refused any compromise, believing it was a betrayal of his faith.

In early 1688, Renwick was finally captured in Edinburgh. His trial was swift and unsurprising—he was found guilty of treason for refusing to acknowledge the authority of King James VII. Offered a chance to save his life by renouncing his beliefs, he steadfastly refused. On February 18, he was led to the gallows in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, a site notorious for its executions.

As he faced death, Renwick remained resolute. His final words echoed the deep convictions that had guided his life: “I die in the faith that Christ shall reign, and that He shall be owned and preferred above all.” He was only 26 years old.

Renwick’s execution signaled the end of an era. Later that same year, the Glorious Revolution would see King James VII deposed, and the persecution of the Covenanters would soon come to an end. In 1690, Presbyterianism was officially restored as Scotland’s national church, a cause for which Renwick and so many others had laid down their lives.

Today, James Renwick is remembered as the last of the Covenanter martyrs, a symbol of unwavering faith and resistance against tyranny. His legacy endures in Scottish history, a reminder of the cost of religious freedom and the courage of those who stood firm in their beliefs.

Thank you for joining us on this journey through history. Tune in tomorrow for another fascinating 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 journey back to the 17th of February, 1818, when a remarkable discovery was made at Dunfermline Abbey—the final resting place of one of Scotland’s greatest heroes, King Robert the Bruce.

Robert the Bruce, or Roibert a Briuis in Scots Gaelic, is a name that stirs the hearts of Scots everywhere. His leadership during the Wars of Scottish Independence and his famous victory at Bannockburn in 1314 secured his place in history as one of Scotland’s most revered kings. Yet, for centuries after his death in 1329, the exact location of his burial had been lost to time. That changed in 1818, when workers excavating at Dunfermline Abbey uncovered a royal tomb—one that would turn out to hold the remains of Scotland’s legendary warrior king.

To understand the significance of this discovery, we must go back to Bruce’s final years. In 1329, after securing Scotland’s independence and being officially recognized as king by the Treaty of Edinburgh-Northampton, Bruce passed away at the age of 54, likely due to a debilitating illness—possibly leprosy. His body was buried with great ceremony at Dunfermline Abbey, Scotland’s traditional royal burial site, while his heart was removed and taken on a posthumous crusade, as per his dying wish. That heart would later be interred at Melrose Abbey.

But as Scotland endured the turbulence of the centuries that followed, Dunfermline Abbey suffered greatly, particularly during the Reformation in the 16th century. Monastic institutions were dissolved, churches ransacked, and tombs left to decay. Over time, knowledge of Bruce’s exact resting place faded, and by the 19th century, it was assumed that his grave was lost forever.

Then came the fateful day in 1818. During renovations at the site, workers digging inside the ruins of the Abbey Church came upon a vault. Inside, they found a lead coffin, ornately decorated and marked in a way that suggested it belonged to someone of great importance. When the coffin was opened, it revealed the skeleton of a man, wrapped in fine cloth and encased in lead. The size of the bones suggested he had been a tall and powerful figure, and most tellingly, the skeleton was missing its sternum—the likely result of the removal of the heart, just as had been done with Bruce’s body.

This discovery sent waves of excitement through Scotland. Experts and historians examined the remains and confirmed that they were almost certainly those of Robert the Bruce. A full examination was carried out, and in 1819, after careful study, the king’s remains were reburied with honor beneath the pulpit of the rebuilt Dunfermline Abbey Church. A grand new tomb was erected to mark the site, ensuring that the final resting place of Scotland’s greatest king would never be forgotten again.

Today, visitors to Dunfermline Abbey can still pay their respects to Robert the Bruce. His tomb, with its striking brass plaque, stands as a tribute to the man who fought and won Scotland’s freedom. The discovery of his remains in 1818 was more than just an archaeological find—it was a moment of national pride, a rediscovery of Scotland’s soul, and a reminder of the enduring legacy of its warrior king.

Thank you for joining me 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 your host, Colin MacDonald, and today, we’re taking a journey back to the night of February 16, 1746, to a dramatic episode of the Jacobite Rising—The Rout of Moy.

Picture the Scottish Highlands in the dead of winter. The Jacobite rebellion, led by Prince Charles Edward Stuart—better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie—was reaching its final and most desperate months. The prince and his supporters were on the run, trying to hold ground as government forces closed in. And on this night, the Hanoverians believed they had a chance to end the rebellion in one swift stroke.

Prince Charles was staying at Moy Hall, the seat of the Mackintosh clan, located about 10 miles south of Inverness. Lady Anne Mackintosh, a fierce Jacobite supporter despite her husband's allegiance to the government, had taken charge of protecting the prince. Word reached her that Lord Loudon, leading around 1,500 government troops, was marching on Moy Hall, planning a surprise attack to capture or kill the Jacobite leader.

But Lady Anne was not one to be taken by surprise. With her husband away serving the British cause, she had thrown her support behind Charles and refused to let him be taken so easily. She sent out a messenger—young Lachlan Mackintosh—who raced through the night to warn the Jacobites.

Here’s where the story takes an almost legendary turn. The prince’s defenders at Moy were five men. That’s right—just five. Led by Donald Fraser, a blacksmith, this tiny band of Jacobites knew they couldn’t fight off an entire army. Instead, they relied on cunning.

They hid along the roadside in the darkness, waiting for Loudon’s advancing forces. Then, just as the government troops came near, they began firing muskets and shouting at the top of their lungs, mimicking the war cries of a much larger Jacobite force. They banged on shields, called out to imaginary regiments, and even made it seem like cavalry were approaching. The deception worked flawlessly.

Panic erupted among Loudon’s troops. Convinced they were walking into an ambush, they turned and fled back toward Inverness in complete disarray. Muskets were abandoned, soldiers ran over one another, and what should have been a well-organized assault became a full-blown rout. The entire force, outmaneuvered by a handful of Highlanders, was sent scrambling through the night.

The only known casualty of The Rout of Moy was Duncan Ban MacCrimmon, the hereditary piper of the MacLeods of Dunvegan, who had sided with the government forces. Legend has it that before the battle, he had a premonition of his own death and had even composed a lament, "Cha Till MacCrimmon"—translated as "MacCrimmon Will Never Return." His eerie foresight became reality that night when he was killed in the chaos.

The failed attack on Moy Hall was an embarrassing defeat for the government forces. More importantly, it allowed Charles Edward Stuart to escape yet again, living to fight another day. But as we know, the reprieve was only temporary. Just two months later, the Jacobites would suffer their final, crushing defeat at Culloden on April 16, 1746.

The Rout of Moy is a classic tale of Highland cunning, bravery, and the unexpected turns of history. Five men—armed with nothing but wits and courage—had managed to send an entire regiment into a blind panic. It’s a reminder that, sometimes, battles are won not by numbers, but by sheer audacity.

Thanks for tuning in to This Day in Scottish History. Join me again tomorrow for another tale from 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 remember a tragic and controversial moment in Scotland’s military past. On the 15th of February, 1916, Private John Docherty, a soldier of the Black Watch regiment, was executed at dawn on the Western Front. His crime? Desertion. His fate? A bullet from his comrades. And with that, he became the first volunteer from Kitchener’s Army to suffer this ultimate punishment.

Docherty’s story is one of many that expose the brutal realities of war, particularly the rigid discipline enforced during World War I. Born in Edinburgh, he joined the British Army like thousands of others, answering Lord Kitchener’s famous call to arms. Britain needed men—volunteers willing to fight for King and Country in what was then expected to be a short, decisive war. But as the trenches of the Western Front filled with mud, death, and despair, the reality of war shattered those illusions.

By 1916, the Battle of Loos had come and gone. The Black Watch, one of Scotland’s most storied regiments, had played a significant role in the offensive. The battle, fought in September and October of 1915, was a costly failure for the British, with thousands of men sacrificed for little territorial gain. The men who survived faced the ongoing horrors of trench warfare—cold, hunger, relentless shelling, and the ever-present specter of death.

It was in this environment that John Docherty’s story took a fateful turn. The details of his desertion remain scarce, but what we do know is that he left his post and was later captured. The British Army’s approach to discipline at the time was unforgiving. Fear of desertion spreading among the troops meant that those caught fleeing were often made examples of. The penalty was death, carried out by firing squad, often consisting of fellow soldiers from the condemned man’s own unit.

Docherty’s execution took place at Mazingarbe, near the front lines in France, in the abattoir—a grimly fitting location for a moment of such brutal finality. He was shot at dawn, a ritual meant to serve as both punishment and deterrent. But instead of reinforcing discipline, executions like Docherty’s have since come to symbolize the harsh and, many argue, unjust military justice system of the First World War.

Docherty was not alone. Between 1914 and 1918, over 300 British and Commonwealth soldiers were executed for crimes ranging from desertion to cowardice. Many of these men were likely suffering from what we now understand as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), then called shell shock. The horrors of trench warfare—endless bombardments, the sight of friends torn apart by artillery, the gas attacks—pushed countless men to their breaking points. But in an era when mental health was barely understood, there was little sympathy for those who cracked under the pressure.

It would take nearly a century for justice, or at least recognition, to come. In 2006, the British government granted posthumous pardons to those executed for military offenses during World War I, including John Docherty. The pardon did not erase the history, nor did it bring these men back, but it acknowledged that they were victims of a system that failed to understand the psychological toll of war.

Today, as we reflect on the events of 15th February 1916, we remember John Docherty not just as a soldier who deserted, but as a young man caught in the nightmare of war, punished by an unforgiving military machine. His story, like so many others, reminds us of the cost of war—not just in lives lost on the battlefield, but in the human suffering that often went unrecognized.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. I’m Colin MacDonald, and I hope you’ll tune in next time. 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 a pivotal moment in Scottish football history that unfolded on February 14, 2012. On this day, Rangers Football Club, one of Scotland's most storied institutions, effectively declared bankruptcy—a financial collapse that placed the club under the control of court-appointed administrators in an effort to manage its debts and find a way forward. This marked the beginning of a turbulent period that would profoundly impact the club and the broader football community.

The lead-up to this crisis was marked by financial instability. In May 2011, businessman Craig Whyte acquired Rangers from Sir David Murray for a nominal sum of £1. However, under Whyte's stewardship, the club's financial health deteriorated rapidly. By February 2012, Rangers faced an unpaid tax bill of £9 million, primarily due to withheld PAYE and VAT contributions. This pressing debt compelled the club to file legal papers on February 13, signaling their intention to appoint administrators. The following day, February 14, 2012, Rangers officially entered administration, appointing Duff & Phelps as the administrators.

The immediate consequence of the bankruptcy was a 10-point deduction in the Scottish Premier League standings, effectively ending their championship aspirations for the 2011-2012 season. Beyond the points penalty, the club's financial woes meant they failed to submit accounts for 2011, resulting in the denial of a UEFA license to participate in European competitions for the 2012-2013 season.

As administrators delved deeper, it became evident that the club's total debts could exceed £134 million, a figure that underscored the severity of the financial mismanagement. Efforts to negotiate a Company Voluntary Arrangement (CVA) with creditors were unsuccessful. Consequently, on June 14, 2012, the proposed CVA was formally rejected, leading to the liquidation of The Rangers Football Club plc. The club's assets, including the iconic Ibrox Stadium and the Rangers Training Centre, were sold to a consortium led by Charles Green for £5.5 million. This consortium established a new company, initially named Sevco Scotland Ltd, which was later renamed The Rangers Football Club Ltd.

The aftermath of these events saw Rangers demoted to the Third Division of the Scottish Football League for the 2012-2013 season. Demonstrating resilience, the club secured consecutive promotions, returning to the Scottish Premiership by the 2016-2017 season. This period of adversity reshaped Rangers, leading to significant changes in ownership, management, and operational practices.

Reflecting on the events of February 14, 2012, we recognize a watershed moment in Scottish football history. Rangers' journey through financial collapse and liquidation serves as a cautionary tale about financial stewardship in sports and stands as a testament to the club's enduring spirit and the unwavering support of its fans.

Thank you for joining us on this exploration of Scotland's rich history. Tune in tomorrow for another episode of "This Day in Scottish History." I'm Colin MacDonald, wishing you all the best. 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 darkest and most infamous events in Scottish history: the Glencoe Massacre, which took place on this day, February 13, 1692.

At the heart of this tragedy was a brutal act of betrayal, one that left an indelible mark on Scotland’s history and reinforced the deep-seated animosities of the Highland clans. This was not just an attack—it was an orchestrated slaughter, carried out under the guise of Highland hospitality, and it remains a symbol of treachery and political ruthlessness to this day.

To understand what led to the massacre, we must step back to the turbulent period following the Glorious Revolution of 1688. King James VII of Scotland and II of England, a Catholic monarch, had been deposed and replaced by the Protestant William of Orange and his wife, Mary. While this change was welcomed by much of England and Lowland Scotland, it was met with resistance in the Highlands, where many clans remained loyal to James. This led to the first Jacobite uprising, as Highlanders rallied behind the exiled king in an effort to restore him to the throne.

To consolidate his rule, King William demanded that all clan chiefs swear an oath of allegiance to him by January 1, 1692. Those who failed to do so would be considered traitors and face dire consequences. However, the situation was not so simple. The exiled King James, still hoping for a return to power, delayed issuing his own permission for his supporters to swear loyalty to William until mid-December 1691. By the time the message reached Scotland, the deadline was dangerously close.

Alasdair MacIain, chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe, made a desperate effort to comply. He set out through the harsh Highland winter to take the oath at Fort William, only to be told he had to do so in Inveraray, nearly 70 miles away. Though he eventually took the oath before a magistrate, it was five days late. His submission was recorded and sent to Edinburgh, but it was too late—the wheels of political vengeance were already in motion.

Enter Sir John Dalrymple, the Secretary of State for Scotland and a staunch supporter of William’s rule. Dalrymple saw an opportunity to make an example of the Highlanders and eliminate a troublesome clan. With the MacDonalds now technically outlaws, he authorized a military action against them, writing chillingly that "the only thing to be done is to cut them off root and branch."

On February 1, a detachment of government troops under the command of Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon arrived in Glencoe. The MacDonalds, bound by the Highland code of hospitality, welcomed them into their homes, offering food and shelter as was customary. For nearly two weeks, the soldiers lived among the clan, eating at their tables, drinking their whisky, and forging bonds of trust.

Then, in the early hours of February 13, the betrayal unfolded. Orders had come from higher up: the MacDonalds were to be slaughtered. The attack began before dawn, catching the villagers entirely by surprise. Men, women, and children were mercilessly killed in their homes or as they fled into the snowy wilderness. Some were burned alive when their cottages were set alight.

Captain Campbell and his men carried out their orders with ruthless efficiency, but many of the MacDonalds managed to escape into the mountains. However, the winter cold proved just as deadly as the soldiers’ muskets, and many perished in the snow. In total, around 38 MacDonalds were killed in the initial massacre, but many more died from exposure in the days that followed.

Word of the massacre spread quickly, and public outcry was swift. Even in a time of brutal clan conflicts, this act was viewed as particularly heinous because of the treachery involved—guests had murdered their hosts, violating one of the most sacred customs of Highland life.

When news reached the Scottish Parliament, there was widespread condemnation, and an inquiry was launched. Though no one was officially punished, the blame fell squarely on Sir John Dalrymple. He was forced to resign, but the damage had already been done. The massacre deepened the divisions between the Highland clans and the government, fueling resentment that would smolder for decades and contribute to later Jacobite uprisings.

To this day, the Glencoe Massacre remains a potent symbol of betrayal and injustice in Scottish history. Visitors to Glencoe, one of Scotland’s most breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, often reflect on the tragic events that unfolded there. A memorial stands in the village of Glencoe, inscribed with the Gaelic words: "Murder Under Trust is Forbidden."

And so, on this day, we remember the fallen MacDonalds and the chilling betrayal that led to their deaths. The echoes of Glencoe still haunt the Highlands, a solemn reminder of a time when political ambition and clan rivalries turned deadly.

Thank you for joining us on This Day in Scottish History. Tune in tomorrow for another journey into 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 Colin MacDonald, and today, we turn our attention to a fiery and destructive episode from the Second War of Scottish Independence—an event that became known as "Burnt Candlemas." It was on this day, February 12, 1356, that Edward III’s invasion of Scotland failed, but not before leaving a scorched path of destruction across the Lothians.

To set the stage, we need to understand the political and military tensions of the time. The Second War of Scottish Independence had been raging for decades. Scotland was in a fragile position, with its king, David II, held captive in England following his defeat at the Battle of Neville’s Cross in 1346. In his absence, Scotland was ruled by a council of nobles, including the formidable Robert Stewart, the future Robert II. The kingdom was under immense pressure as the English sought to dominate Scotland and force a favorable settlement.

Edward III, ever ambitious, saw this as an opportunity to press his advantage. The ransom for David II’s release was a heavy burden on Scotland, and Edward sought to exploit the situation by launching another invasion, hoping to break Scottish resistance once and for all. His strategy was simple yet brutal—lay waste to the land, forcing Scotland to submit through sheer devastation.

In early February 1356, the English army crossed the border and advanced into the Lothians, a key region of Scotland. Their campaign was one of utter destruction. Villages, farms, and towns were torched, livestock stolen, and crops burned to the ground. The devastation was so complete that the Scots called it “Burnt Candlemas,” a reference to the Feast of the Presentation, celebrated on February 2. This was meant to be a time of religious observance and renewal, but instead, the land was left smoldering and barren.

Despite the destruction, Edward III's invasion did not go as planned. The Scots, under the leadership of Robert Stewart and the Earl of March, refused to meet the English in open battle. Instead, they adopted classic guerrilla tactics, avoiding direct confrontation while letting the harsh Scottish winter and logistical difficulties take their toll on the English forces.

As the English army pressed on, they found little to sustain them. Supplies grew scarce, and morale waned. Scottish resistance forces harassed the invaders, striking from the shadows and picking off stragglers. By February 12, Edward was forced to acknowledge that his grand plan had failed. Unable to provoke a decisive battle and with his army suffering from shortages, he ordered a retreat back across the border.

While the Scots paid a terrible price in the short term, losing homes and livelihoods, they ultimately emerged victorious in this campaign. The English had failed to secure their objectives, and the scorched-earth policy did little to break Scottish resolve. Instead, it reinforced their determination to resist English rule.

The "Burnt Candlemas" invasion stands as a testament to Scotland's resilience during the long wars for independence. Though their land was left in ashes, their spirit remained unbroken, setting the stage for continued defiance against English ambitions.

That’s all for today’s episode of This Day in Scottish History. Join us again tomorrow for another journey into Scotland’s rich and turbulent 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 journey to a remote and windswept outcrop in the North Atlantic Ocean—Rockall. On this day, February 11, 1972, the United Kingdom formally annexed Rockall, integrating it into Scotland’s jurisdiction. This marked the climax of a long and intriguing history surrounding one of the most isolated and mysterious places in the British Isles.

To the untrained eye, Rockall is nothing more than a barren lump of granite, rising just 18 meters above the waves of the Atlantic. It is located approximately 230 miles west of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides, making it one of the most remote islets in the world. But beneath its seemingly insignificant surface lies a history woven with adventure, politics, and international disputes.

The first recorded sighting of Rockall dates back to 1810, when a Royal Navy surveyor, Basil Hall, landed on the rock and sketched its features. Over the years, Rockall became an ominous landmark for sailors, serving as both a navigational point and a hazardous obstacle in the rough North Atlantic seas. For much of its existence, it remained untouched, uninhabited, and unclaimed—until the 20th century.

So, why was Rockall formally claimed by the UK in 1972? The answer lies beneath the ocean floor. In the years following World War II, advancements in deep-sea exploration revealed that the seabed surrounding Rockall contained vast reserves of oil and gas. As Britain sought to secure control over its offshore resources, Rockall became a strategic asset. By claiming sovereignty over the rock, the UK could potentially extend its exclusive economic zone (EEZ), granting access to the lucrative energy deposits beneath the surrounding waters.

The formal annexation of Rockall took place under the Rockall Act 1972, which declared it part of Inverness-shire, Scotland. This move was largely symbolic, reinforcing the UK's claim over the territory in response to possible challenges from neighboring countries such as Ireland, Iceland, and Denmark.

However, despite Britain’s claim, Rockall has remained a subject of dispute. Under international law, an uninhabitable rock does not automatically extend a nation’s territorial waters or grant exclusive rights to the surrounding seabed. While the UK firmly asserts its sovereignty over Rockall itself, its control over the surrounding marine resources remains contested, particularly by Ireland, which does not recognize British jurisdiction over the islet.

Beyond politics, Rockall has captured the imagination of adventurers and survivalists. In 1955, a team of Royal Marines landed on Rockall and hoisted the Union Jack, reinforcing Britain's de facto control over the rock. In 1985, British SAS soldier Tom McClean lived on Rockall for 40 days, setting a record for the longest continuous stay. More recently, in 2014, adventurer Nick Hancock spent 45 days on the islet, enduring extreme weather and isolation.

For Scotland, Rockall remains a peculiar yet significant part of its maritime heritage. While no one is likely to settle on the rock permanently, its legacy as a symbol of national pride, strategic interest, and survivalist challenge endures.

That’s all for today’s episode of This Day in Scottish History. Join us next time as we uncover another remarkable chapter from 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 journey back to one of the most pivotal and dramatic moments in Scotland’s turbulent past. On this day, February 10, 1306, Robert the Bruce, the man who would become Scotland’s legendary king, committed an act that would change the course of Scottish history forever.

In the heart of Dumfries, inside the Church of the Greyfriars, Robert the Bruce met with his long-time rival, John III Comyn—known as the Red Comyn. What began as a political discussion quickly escalated into a violent confrontation, and before the meeting was over, Comyn lay dead before the altar. This was no ordinary murder; it was an act of sacrilege, a killing inside a sacred church. It sent shockwaves throughout Scotland and beyond, sealing Robert the Bruce’s fate as both a fugitive and, soon after, Scotland’s king.

To understand how the events of this fateful day unfolded, we need to go back a few years. Scotland was in crisis. Since the death of Alexander III in 1286 and his heir, the Maid of Norway, in 1290, Scotland had been without a clear ruler. This led to what became known as the Great Cause—a dispute over who had the strongest claim to the throne. The two leading candidates were John Balliol and Robert Bruce’s grandfather, also named Robert Bruce. In the end, King Edward I of England, who had been asked to mediate, chose Balliol as king in 1292.

The decision didn’t sit well with the Bruces. When Edward I later undermined Balliol’s rule and invaded Scotland in 1296, the country was thrown into chaos. The fight for Scotland’s independence began, led first by figures like William Wallace and later by Robert the Bruce. But standing in Bruce’s way was John III Comyn. The Comyns were one of the most powerful families in Scotland, and John III had strong ties to Balliol. In fact, many saw Comyn as the natural leader of Scotland’s resistance against Edward.

Bruce and Comyn had a bitter and complicated relationship. At times, they fought on the same side against the English, but they never trusted each other. Both men had royal blood and ambitions for the Scottish crown. It is believed that at some point before 1306, Bruce and Comyn may have made a secret deal—perhaps Bruce promised to back Comyn’s claim to the throne in exchange for his own landholdings. But whatever agreement they had, it clearly fell apart.

On February 10, 1306, Robert the Bruce and John Comyn arranged to meet in Greyfriars Church in Dumfries, possibly to settle their differences. The exact details of what happened inside that church remain unclear, but what is certain is that the discussion turned heated. Some sources suggest that Bruce accused Comyn of betraying him to Edward I, which may have been true. In the heat of the moment, Bruce drew his dagger and struck Comyn down.

The killing did not end there. Accounts suggest that Bruce left the church, only for his supporters, possibly including his trusted ally Roger de Kirkpatrick, to go back and finish the job. Kirkpatrick’s words—"I mak siccar", meaning “I make sure”—have gone down in legend.

Killing Comyn inside a church was more than just murder; it was an act of sacrilege, which put Bruce at odds with the powerful Catholic Church. News of the killing spread fast, and Bruce had no choice but to act quickly. Within weeks, he was crowned King of Scots at Scone on March 25, 1306. But his troubles were only beginning.

The murder of Comyn sparked outrage. His family and supporters, along with the English king, sought revenge. Pope Clement V excommunicated Bruce for his crime, and Edward I vowed to crush him. In the months that followed, Bruce suffered a series of devastating defeats. He was forced into hiding, and his allies were either captured or killed. His brothers were executed, and his wife and daughter were taken prisoner.

But Bruce was not finished. In 1307, Edward I died, and Bruce slowly rebuilt his campaign. Over the next several years, he waged a brilliant guerrilla war, eventually reclaiming Scotland. His greatest victory came in 1314 at the Battle of Bannockburn, where he decisively defeated the English and secured Scotland’s independence. By 1328, England officially recognized Scotland’s sovereignty.

The murder of John Comyn was one of the most controversial acts in Scottish history. Some see it as the desperate move of a man who believed it was the only way to secure Scotland’s freedom. Others view it as a ruthless assassination of a political rival. Either way, there is no denying that this single moment changed the course of history.

Had Comyn lived, would he have led Scotland’s fight against England? Would Scotland have won its independence? We will never know. But what is certain is that February 10, 1306, set Robert the Bruce on his path to becoming one of Scotland’s greatest kings.

Thank you for joining me on This Day in Scottish History. Tune in next time for more tales of 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, and today we turn our attention to an important milestone in Scottish publishing history. On this day, the 9th of February 1739, the first edition of The Scots Magazine was published. It was established as a journal of current affairs, literature, and news, and it would go on to become one of the longest-running periodicals in the world.

To understand the significance of The Scots Magazine, we need to look at the cultural and political landscape of Scotland in the early 18th century. The Act of Union in 1707 had brought Scotland and England together under a single parliament in Westminster. While this change was met with mixed reactions, Scotland retained its distinct legal, religious, and educational institutions. However, many Scots feared that their national identity and influence would be diminished under the new arrangement.

It was in this climate that The Scots Magazine was founded. Based in Edinburgh, the magazine sought to provide a distinctly Scottish perspective on current events, politics, and culture. At the time, the publishing industry in Scotland was flourishing, with books, pamphlets, and newspapers playing a crucial role in shaping public opinion. The Scots Magazine distinguished itself by offering in-depth analysis, essays, and correspondence on issues that mattered to Scots both at home and abroad.

One of the magazine's key strengths was its broad range of content. It covered everything from politics and military affairs to literature, philosophy, and scientific discoveries. It also included poetry, book reviews, and historical accounts, making it a valuable resource for educated readers seeking to stay informed about the world around them. This wide-ranging approach helped the magazine attract a diverse readership, including intellectuals, merchants, and professionals.

At the time of its launch, Scotland was undergoing significant social and political change. Just six years after the magazine’s founding, the Jacobite Rising of 1745 would erupt, as Charles Edward Stuart—better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie—led an attempt to restore the Stuart monarchy. This dramatic period in Scottish history was closely chronicled by The Scots Magazine, which provided reports and analysis of the rebellion, its battles, and its aftermath.

Over the centuries, the magazine evolved with the times. In the 19th and 20th centuries, it shifted its focus towards Scottish history, literature, and culture, embracing its role as a chronicler of Scotland’s past and present. By the mid-20th century, The Scots Magazine had become a publication dedicated to Scottish life, nature, and heritage, appealing to readers interested in the country’s landscapes, traditions, and people.

Remarkably, The Scots Magazine continues to be published today, making it one of the oldest periodicals in continuous publication. Now owned by DC Thomson, it remains a respected voice in Scottish media, offering articles on travel, history, outdoor activities, and contemporary issues. Though it has changed in format and content, its commitment to celebrating Scotland’s unique identity has remained steadfast.

As we look back on the events of February 9, 1739, we recognize The Scots Magazine as more than just a publication—it is a testament to Scotland’s literary and intellectual heritage. It has documented centuries of Scottish life, providing insights into the nation’s triumphs, struggles, and evolving identity.

That’s all for today’s episode of This Day in Scottish History. Thank you for joining me on this journey through time. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for another fascinating story from Scotland’s past. I’m Colin MacDonald—Haste Ye Back!

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