This Day in Scottish History

For More Events on This Day in Scottish History - https://bagtownclans.com/index.php/thisday/may-16/
Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we’re heading to the rugged and windswept Kintyre Peninsula on May 16th, 1689, where a seemingly minor skirmish would help determine the fate of a region during one of Scotland’s many turbulent uprisings. This was the Battle of Loup Hill, a brief yet strategically vital clash in the early stages of the Jacobite rising of 1689. And if you’re curious about other fascinating events that happened on this day in history, be sure to check out my blog at bagtownclans.com/thisday. The link will be in the description!
To set the scene, the year 1689 was one of upheaval across the British Isles. The Glorious Revolution had just unseated the Catholic King James VII of Scotland and II of England in favor of the Protestant William of Orange and his wife, Mary. But not all of Scotland accepted this transition. Many, particularly in the Highlands and western regions, remained loyal to James and his Stuart claim to the throne. These loyalists became known as Jacobites—from the Latin for James, “Jacobus.”
In the spring of that year, the Jacobite cause was gaining traction. James had landed in Ireland, and in Scotland, Viscount Dundee, better known as "Bonnie Dundee," was rallying Highland clans to his banner. In the western coastal lands of Kintyre, a group of around 200 Jacobite rebels, drawn from local supporters of James and likely bolstered by Highland allies, had assembled near Loup Hill, a prominent ridge that offered a commanding view of the surrounding countryside.
These Jacobites believed they could hold the region or at least delay government control. Kintyre, with its long maritime connections and strategic location, was an important gateway to the Hebrides and to Ireland, where James was waging his campaign. Holding Kintyre would mean maintaining a critical link in the Jacobite supply and communication network.
However, government forces moved quickly to suppress the rebellion. A small contingent of troops, loyal to William and Mary, was dispatched from the nearby garrison at Inveraray or possibly Greenock. Despite their relatively small numbers, these soldiers were trained, disciplined, and well-armed.
On the morning of May 16th, they launched a surprise attack on the Jacobite encampment. What followed was less a battle in the grand sense and more of a swift and brutal ambush. The Jacobites, perhaps overconfident in their isolation or simply caught off-guard, were unprepared for the assault.
The government troops struck with precision and force. Though outnumbered, they met little resistance from the Jacobite ranks, who were likely poorly armed and lacking in coordinated leadership. Reports suggest that the skirmish was over quickly. Government forces emerged without loss, while the Jacobites suffered casualties—some killed, others wounded, and many simply fled.
The aftermath of the battle was significant. The rout at Loup Hill effectively ended Jacobite ambitions in Kintyre for the time being. Without the strength to mount a sustained resistance, the region fell under government control. More importantly, this allowed the authorities to secure the vital western seaboard and prevent further Jacobite reinforcements from Ireland or the Isles.
While it may not have the grandeur or legend of Killiecrankie or Culloden, the Battle of Loup Hill was a tactical win that underscored the importance of swift, decisive action in warfare. It was a quiet but telling moment in the broader Jacobite narrative—an example of how even small engagements could shape the political and military landscape of Scotland.
The soldiers who fought at Loup Hill are largely unnamed in the history books. There are no grand monuments, no ballads sung in their memory. Yet their brief clash played a part in the greater story of Scotland’s struggles between crown and covenant, between dynasty and reform.
Thank you for joining me today on This Day in Scottish History. I hope you’ve enjoyed this look into a lesser-known, yet pivotal encounter in the Jacobite saga. Don’t forget to check out my blog for more fascinating tales from Scotland’s past at bagtownclans.com/thisday. I’ll see you tomorrow for another journey through our remarkable 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

For More Events on This Day in Scottish History - https://bagtownclans.com/index.php/thisday/may-15/
Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we turn the clock back to May 15, 1544, and descend into the fiery depths of one of the most brutal episodes in Anglo-Scottish relations—the English army’s devastating departure from Leith, torching Seton Palace and the town of Haddington during the infamous campaign known as the Rough Wooing. And if you’re curious about other fascinating events that happened on this day in history, be sure to check out my blog at bagtownclans.com/thisday. The link will be in the description!
To understand this grim moment, we must look at the turbulent political landscape of 16th-century Europe. Scotland was in a delicate position, caught between the ambitions of England and the allure of continental alliances, particularly with France. When King James V of Scotland died in 1542, leaving his infant daughter Mary, Queen of Scots, as heir, England saw an opportunity. King Henry VIII was determined to unite the crowns through marriage—his son Edward would marry Mary, and Scotland would become little more than an English province.
But Scotland had other ideas. The Scottish nobility favored their traditional alliance with France and viewed Henry’s proposal as a thinly veiled conquest. Thus began the Rough Wooing—an ironic name for a campaign that brought with it not romance, but war, fire, and bloodshed.
Enter Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford. In May of 1544, under direct orders from Henry VIII, Hertford launched a large-scale invasion of Scotland. The goal was clear: force the Scots into submission through a campaign of terror. He landed at Leith with a well-equipped English force and began a scorched-earth offensive that devastated the Lothians. Edinburgh was sacked, Leith was looted, and villages and monasteries were reduced to rubble.
But it was on May 15 that the campaign reached a crescendo of destruction. As Hertford began his withdrawal southward, he ordered a final act of retribution: the burning of Seton Palace and the town of Haddington. Seton Palace, a seat of the powerful Seton family and a jewel of Renaissance architecture in Scotland, stood as a symbol of Scottish aristocracy and resistance. It was torched without mercy. Eyewitness accounts describe the palace consumed in a storm of flame and smoke, its stone halls collapsing amidst the roar of fire and the clash of steel.
Haddington, a bustling town and an important administrative center, suffered a similar fate. English troops razed it to the ground, sparing neither homes nor churches. Civilians fled into the countryside, and the blackened remnants of the town were left as a stark warning: defy England, and suffer the consequences.
This act of destruction wasn’t just wanton cruelty—it was psychological warfare. Hertford and his commanders believed that by incinerating Scotland’s cultural and political centers, they could break the will of the Scottish people and force the nobles into agreeing to the English marriage proposal. But the plan backfired.
Instead of capitulating, the Scots grew more defiant. The violence solidified the perception of England as a brutal aggressor. Mary, Queen of Scots, was eventually smuggled to France for safety, where she would be betrothed not to an English prince, but to the French Dauphin, strengthening the Auld Alliance.
The Rough Wooing would drag on for nearly a decade, marked by more raids, more battles, and a lingering bitterness that would define Anglo-Scottish relations for generations. The ruins of Seton Palace and the scars left in Haddington became enduring symbols of English tyranny and Scottish resilience.
Even centuries later, the events of May 15, 1544, provoke a visceral response. The burning of towns and homes, the desecration of heritage, the calculated cruelty—all serve as reminders of the human cost of political ambition. The Rough Wooing may have failed in its immediate aims, but it succeeded in hardening Scottish resolve, paving the way for a national identity forged in resistance.
Thank you for joining me today on This Day in Scottish History. I hope this tale of scorched earth and unbowed spirits has given you a deeper appreciation for Scotland’s past. Don't forget to check out my blog for more historical events at bagtownclans.com/thisday. Tune in tomorrow for another journey through 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

For More Events on This Day in Scottish History - https://bagtownclans.com/index.php/thisday/may-14/
Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I’m your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we journey back to the 14th of May, 1752—an ominous day that shook the Highlands to their core. It was on this day that Colin Campbell of Glenure, a government agent known as the “Red Fox,” was assassinated in the wooded glen of Lettermore near Ballachulish. His killing would ignite one of the most controversial trials in Scottish legal history, enveloping the Highlands in fear, fury, and injustice.
To understand this moment, we must first return to the bitter aftermath of the 1745 Jacobite Rising. After the crushing defeat at Culloden in 1746, the British government turned its full attention to dismantling the traditional Highland clan system. Tartans were banned, Gaelic was suppressed, and hereditary chiefs lost their power and lands. Into this volatile landscape stepped Colin Campbell, appointed as the government’s factor, or land manager, for the forfeited Stewart estates in Appin. His job: to evict Jacobite supporters and replace them with loyal tenants.
Campbell was a Campbell of Glenure, a name already detested in this region due to the deep-rooted feud between the Campbells and the Stewarts. He was viewed not just as an outsider, but a traitor sent to deliver the final blow to an already humiliated people. As Campbell traveled to enforce another round of evictions, accompanied by an armed escort and with writs of removal in hand, the air was thick with tension.
Then, as he passed through the wooded narrows of Lettermore, a single musket shot rang out. The “Red Fox” slumped in his saddle, mortally wounded, and fell to the ground. Panic erupted. His attendants fled, and by the time they returned with help, the killer had vanished into the Highland mist.
The authorities, determined to make an example, quickly honed in on James Stewart of the Glens—half-brother of the chief of Clan Stewart and a known Jacobite sympathizer. Though there was no direct evidence placing him at the scene, James was arrested, charged with aiding and abetting the murder, and brought to trial in Inveraray—a town under the influence of the powerful Campbell family.
The trial was fraught with irregularities. The presiding judge was the Duke of Argyll, head of Clan Campbell. The jury was overwhelmingly Campbell. Despite a spirited defense and a glaring lack of concrete evidence, James Stewart was found guilty. He was hanged on November 8, 1752, his body left suspended in chains for years as a grim warning to any who might resist the government’s authority.
Yet doubts about his guilt emerged almost immediately and have never faded. James Stewart had an alibi, witnesses testified to his absence from the scene, and even some Campbells expressed private misgivings. Over time, the case came to symbolize the ruthless suppression of Highland culture and the miscarriage of justice that followed Culloden.
The identity of the actual assassin remains a mystery, though speculation has pointed to Allan Breck Stewart, a Jacobite fugitive and skilled marksman who disappeared shortly after the murder. His daring escape and alleged role in the crime later inspired Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novel Kidnapped, embedding the story of the Appin Murder into Scotland’s literary canon.
Today, the site of Campbell’s death is marked by a simple cairn, hidden among the trees where history and myth continue to entwine. The memory of James Stewart endures in folk songs and oral traditions as a martyr—wrongfully executed, but never forgotten.
Thank you for joining me on this haunting journey into one of Scotland’s darkest chapters. For more stories like this, visit my blog at bagtownclans.com/thisday. The link is in the description. 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

For More Events on This Day in Scottish History - https://bagtownclans.com/index.php/thisday/may-13/
Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we travel back to May 13th, 1568, to witness a decisive clash that would change the fate of one of Scotland’s most tragic and romantic figures—Mary, Queen of Scots. It was on this day that the Battle of Langside was fought—a battle that crushed her final attempt to reclaim her throne and set her on a path toward nineteen years of imprisonment and, ultimately, execution.
By 1568, Mary’s life had already been a whirlwind of political turbulence, scandal, and personal tragedy. The only surviving child of King James V, she was queen almost from birth. Raised in the glittering French court and married to the French Dauphin, Mary returned to Scotland as a young widow to rule a country that had changed in her absence—one simmering with religious conflict and divided loyalties.
Her reign was marred by controversy, particularly her marriage to Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, a union that swiftly deteriorated into bitterness, culminating in his murder under suspicious circumstances. Her subsequent marriage to the chief suspect in Darnley’s murder—James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell—outraged the Scottish nobility. The backlash was swift. Mary was forced to abdicate in favor of her infant son, James VI, and imprisoned at Lochleven Castle.
But Mary was never one to accept defeat. On the night of May 2nd, 1568, she escaped Lochleven in a daring plot involving disguised clothing and a small band of loyal supporters. Word spread quickly—Mary was free, and with her escape came the hope of reclaiming the crown. Her supporters rallied to her cause, and within days, she had assembled a force of nearly 6,000 men. Their goal was to reach Dumbarton Castle, a strategically vital fortress on the River Clyde that could serve as her base of operations.
However, Mary’s half-brother, James Stewart, the Earl of Moray, who ruled as Regent for the young King James VI, was determined to stop her. Moray, a shrewd and calculating leader, had smaller numbers—just under 4,000 men—but his troops were battle-hardened and commanded by seasoned officers like Kirkcaldy of Grange. He anticipated Mary’s path and moved to intercept her near the village of Langside, just outside Glasgow.
What followed on the morning of May 13th was not a grand clash of cavalry and chivalry, but a brutal and chaotic skirmish shaped by poor planning and rough terrain. Mary’s forces, under the command of the Earl of Argyll, were disorganized. They marched into the narrow streets and sloping ground around Langside, where Moray’s men waited. The terrain choked the movement of Mary’s vanguard, and a hail of musket fire from Moray’s sharpshooters wreaked havoc.
Despite outnumbering the Regent's army, Mary’s troops could not effectively deploy. Skirmishers picked off their advance guard, and the difficult terrain prevented any cohesive formation. When Moray’s men counterattacked, Mary’s lines buckled and collapsed. What had begun as a hopeful advance became a chaotic rout. Her army scattered in retreat, leaving over a hundred of her men dead on the field.
For Mary, the consequences were immediate and devastating. She fled the battlefield and rode for the border, eventually reaching England and placing her fate in the hands of her cousin, Elizabeth I. It was a fatal miscalculation. Rather than offer aid or sanctuary, Elizabeth had Mary detained. For nearly two decades, Mary would remain a prisoner—always a threat to the English crown in the eyes of Elizabeth’s advisors, always the focus of Catholic plots and rebellion.
Her involvement, whether real or perceived, in one such conspiracy—the Babington Plot—led to her trial and execution in 1587. The ax fell on a life steeped in drama, romance, and tragedy.
The Battle of Langside, though small in scale, was a pivotal moment. It extinguished Mary’s last real hope of regaining power and cemented the authority of the Protestant regime under Moray and eventually James VI. That boy-king would grow to become James VI of Scotland and James I of England, uniting the crowns after a century of conflict.
The battlefield at Langside, today nestled within the suburban streets of Glasgow, stands as a quiet witness to the day when the fate of a queen—and indeed, the direction of Scottish and English history—was irrevocably changed.
Thank you for joining me today on This Day in Scottish History. I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the fall of Mary, Queen of Scots—a tale of ambition, heartbreak, and the unyielding tides of history. Don’t forget to visit my blog for more stories at bagtownclans.com/thisday. 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

For More Events on This Day in Scottish History - https://bagtownclans.com/index.php/thisday/may-12/
Welcome back to This Day in Scottish History. I'm your host, Colin MacDonald. Today, we journey back to May 12, 563, when a small boat carrying thirteen men made landfall on a windswept island off Scotland’s western coast. Their leader was Saint Columba, a noble-born Irish monk with a sharp intellect, a commanding presence, and a fire in his soul for spreading the Christian faith. That tiny scrap of land was the Isle of Iona, and what began as a quiet landing would soon blossom into one of the most profound religious and cultural revolutions in early medieval Britain. And if you’re curious about other fascinating events that happened on this day in history, be sure to check out my blog at bagtownclans.com/thisday. The link will be in the description!
Columba’s journey to Iona was not just a spiritual mission—it was, in part, an exile. Born around 521 in what is now County Donegal, Ireland, Columba—known in Gaelic as Colum Cille—was from a powerful clan and educated in the monastic tradition. Charismatic and fiercely intelligent, he quickly rose through ecclesiastical ranks. But his fiery temperament led to conflict. A dispute over a copied manuscript escalated into a bloody battle in 561. Wracked with guilt and perhaps urged by church authorities, Columba vowed to leave Ireland and convert as many souls as had perished in that fight.
So, with twelve loyal companions—symbolic of Christ and his apostles—Columba set sail across the sea. Their journey ended on the sacred shores of Iona, a tiny, remote island just 1.5 miles wide and 3 miles long. It was the perfect place for both penance and purpose. There, Columba established a monastery that would become the heart of Christian missionary activity in Scotland and beyond.
The early monastic life on Iona was austere and rigorous. The monks lived simply, toiled in the fields, copied manuscripts, and gathered for prayer and study. But from this humble beginning emerged a powerhouse of learning and sanctity. Columba himself was a towering figure—known for his intense devotion, his reputed miracles, and his diplomatic skills. He played a key role in converting the Picts, the dominant people of northern Scotland, and forging ties with local kings, including King Bridei of the Picts.
The influence of Iona grew rapidly. It became a center of literacy and scholarship at a time when much of Europe was descending into darkness. Monks trained at Iona were sent to establish churches and schools across Scotland and northern England. Its scribes produced illuminated manuscripts, including—many believe—the early work that would culminate in the Book of Kells, one of the world’s most stunning examples of medieval art.
But the monastery’s influence wasn’t only spiritual. It became a political player, mediating disputes among clans and kings. The Abbot of Iona was not just a religious figure but a significant leader in his own right. And through Columba’s diplomatic reach, Christianity became woven into the very fabric of Scottish identity.
Columba died in 597, but his legacy endured. For centuries, Iona remained a place of pilgrimage and reverence. It became the burial site for Scottish, Irish, and even Norse kings. Legend holds that over 60 monarchs found their final rest in its hallowed ground, including Macbeth and Duncan, the real-life counterparts to Shakespeare’s tragic figures.
Yet, like many sacred places, Iona suffered through the centuries. Viking raids in the 8th and 9th centuries brought fire and death. The monks were scattered, and the monastery was repeatedly rebuilt. Still, the memory of Columba and the light of Iona never fully dimmed. Even today, visitors from around the world make the pilgrimage to Iona to walk where Columba walked, to feel the peace of the island winds, and to reflect on the man who brought the Gospel to Scotland.
The arrival of Columba on May 12, 563, was a quiet act that echoed through centuries. He came not with an army, but with words, conviction, and faith. And through that faith, he changed a nation’s destiny.
Thank you for joining me today on This Day in Scottish History. I hope you’ve been inspired by the story of Saint Columba and the island of Iona—a tale of redemption, vision, and lasting influence. Don’t forget to check out my blog for more historical events at bagtownclans.com/thisday. Tune in tomorrow for another journey through 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