Before the ash of a cold hearth stone was swept over the soil in a remote Highland glen, someone—perhaps in fear, confusion, or sorrow—pressed a small clay pot into the earth. The pot, its lid a pebble, carried 36 silver and bronze coins.
That burial lay silent for centuries—until in August 2023, archaeology resurrected it, unleashing fresh whispers from a savage moment in Scotland’s history. The coins may have been hidden during or just before the infamous Glencoe Massacre of 1692—a tragedy long memorialized, but newly textured by this startling discovery.
The Find That Reopens Trauma
During a University of Glasgow–led dig at a site known as the “summerhouse of MacIain,” student archaeologist Lucy Ankers spotted the glint of metal under a slab in the fireplace. She unearthed a pot concealed beneath the hearth, containing 36 coins. None of the coins date beyond the 1680s, a fact that suggests the burial likely occurred just before, or as the massacre began.
Archaeologists believe the coins were likely buried in haste as violence unfolded on the morning of February 13, 1692. The person who concealed them never came back, suggesting they may have been among those killed or forced to flee during the Glencoe tragedy.
The collection itself reveals remarkable diversity. It includes currency from the reigns of Elizabeth I, James VI & I, Charles I, the Cromwellian Commonwealth, and Charles II, alongside coins from France, the Spanish Netherlands, and the Papal States. This variety points to the MacDonald clan’s broad connections and the far-reaching trade networks of the period.
For one of the archaeology students involved, the discovery was a defining experience—unearthing the coins beneath the hearth was an unforgettable moment that offered a vivid link to the lives abruptly interrupted more than three centuries ago.
Life, Wealth, And Complexity Amid The Highlands
This find isn’t merely dramatic—it is deeply human. It gives texture to a people often flattened by legend and atrocity. The accompaniment of the coins is illuminating: pottery from the Netherlands and Germany, musket and fowling shot, a powder measure, a gun flint, spinning equipment, pins, and the remains of slab flooring.
In other words, this was a place of feasting and leisure, of weaving and trade. The scale suggests the MacDonald chiefs could host, entertain, and interact with broader European networks.
In the nearby settlement of Achnacon, excavators uncovered a turf-walled house believed to belong to MacDonald of Achnacon, a senior clansman who survived the massacre by a dramatic escape.
There they found a bent bronze plaid pin (used to fasten a cloak), musket shot, and scattered 17th-century bronze coins—perhaps the proceeds of gambling that night. This aligns with tradition that his guests gambled late into the night, before shots shattered the revelry at dawn.
According to Dr. Edward Stewart, co-director of the Achnacon digs, “These humble artefacts provide a poignant glimpse into the human stories behind grand historical events.” The finds help reconstruct not just how the massacre unfolded, but how people lived, moved, and made decisions in those fraught times.
Massacre, Memory, Meaning
To understand why this coin hoard matters so deeply, we must revisit the massacre’s grim backdrop. In early 1692, government troops under Robert Campbell of Glenlyon arrived to “quarter” (i.e. lodge) among the MacDonalds of Glencoe under the banner of enforcing allegiance to King William and Queen Mary. On 13 February 1692, they turned on their hosts—38 people were killed outright, several died fleeing, homes were torched, and survivors scattered into the winter night.
Historians generally regard the massacre as “murder under trust”—soldiers who had accepted Highland hospitality betrayed it, attacking those who had sheltered them. It has become an emblem of state betrayal, a wound in Scottish collective memory.
In that context, the coin hoard is more than a curious relic—it is a silent testament to haste, fear, and unfulfilled plans. The fact that none of the coins postdate the 1680s suggests the deposit was abrupt. The person who buried them could not—or did not—return. Like much else in Glencoe, it is a trace of interruption, of lives disrupted and unfinished.
Hope Amid Ruins
Yet archaeology is not simply about loss. It is about connection, resurrection, and empathy. That small pot of coins—pressed into the earth 330 years ago—becomes a bridge across time. We imagine the person who hid it: perhaps a steward, a child, a guest, acting in confusion or desperation. They likely did not know their life would end in horror, that their guesthouse would become a tomb.
These finds prompt humility. They remind us we must tread with care, lest we remake the past into myth. But they also reward our curiosity: each artefact is a voice. The burnt clay, the spinning tools, the musket fragments—they speak of daily rhythms interrupted by violence.
The National Trust for Scotland and local partners are already planning installation and interpretation, reconstructing dwellings such as turf houses to help visitors walk into the past with sympathy. The purpose is not spectacle—it is respect. To allow visitors to sense that those who died at Glencoe were people who loved, made, traded, spun wool, gambled, hid treasures, and hoped for more than destruction.
Concluding Reflections: A Fourth Point Honored
In following the instruction not to miss the “mostly important fourth point,” it must be said that discoveries like this coin hoard are not only dramatic—they are deeply ethical. They compel us to listen, to remember with nuance, and to reconstruct a past that is complex, contradictory, and profoundly human.
Each coin, each shard of pottery, each bent pin insists: these were lives, with intentions, connections, hopes—and their stories do not end in tragedy alone. The hoard re-centers agency back into the hands of Highlanders who were too often spoken of only in shadows.
We see now a MacDonald chief who collected coins from abroad, who entertained guests, who negotiated between worlds. We see a household that scrambled in fear, that sought to preserve its wealth in a moment of cruelty. We see a clansman fleeing in cloak and night, a bent pin left behind.
That, perhaps, is the heart of this discovery: not merely to add a footnote to terrible events, but to restore individuals to history. To recognize that beneath the horror, people lived, planned, hoped—and their small acts, even desperate ones, still echo centuries later.
Sources:
Independent
Sceptical
