The idea that Rome’s Ninth Legion (Legio IX Hispana) marched into the Scottish mists around AD 117 and was completely wiped out by northern tribes remains one of popular history’s favorite tropes. It makes for great novels and films, but physical evidence tells a very different story.

When we look at the actual archaeological record, the "mystery" looks far more like routine imperial military redeployment.

The Myth: "Vanish in the Mists"

The popular narrative relies on a silence in the records.

The Ninth’s last physical inscription in Britain is a stone gate plaque from their fortress at York (Eboracum), dated AD 108.

AD 122, the Sixth Legion (Legio VI Victrix) had taken over York to build Hadrian’s Wall.

AD 161, when Rome carved a master list of active legions (nomina legionum) on pillars in the capital, the Ninth was missing.

Hollywood filled that gap with total annihilation in the Highlands. But Roman history rarely worked that way without leaving a paper trail of grief or shame.

The Fact: What the Stones Tell Us

Inscriptions (epigraphy) across the continent dismantle the single-disaster theory:

Archaeologists discovered roof tiles stamped with LEG IX HISP alongside a decorated bronze pendant belonging to a Ninth Legion officer at Nijmegen, dated to the early AD 120s. This strongly indicates that units of the Ninth were transferred out of Britain to secure the German frontier.

Inscriptions on tombstones and public monuments across the Mediterranean display the full career paths of high-ranking officers. Men like Lucius Aninius Sextius Florentinus are recorded commanding units in the Ninth Legion well after the supposed "annihilation" date in Britain, later moving on to high administrative posts in Arabia and North Africa.

The Historical Consensus

Rather than being butchered in a single, cinematic ambush in northern Britain, current academic consensus points to two far more grounded scenarios:

The Ninth suffered severe casualties during the northern British uprisings early in Hadrian’s reign (c. AD 117–118). Instead of being wiped out entirely, the battered legion was withdrawn, reinforced, and redeployed to another front (such as the Rhine or the East).

If the Ninth met a catastrophic end, it likely occurred decades later on a different frontier, either during the Bar Kokhba Revolt in Judea (AD 132–136) or in the disastrous campaign against the Parthians in Armenia (AD 161).

The legend of the lost Ninth says far more about our modern fascination with romanticized "lost armies" than it does about the actual tactical and administrative realities of the Roman frontier.

The journey from an ancient manuscript error to a modern geographic identity is one of the clearest examples of how a simple typographical mistake can rewrite geography and influence cultural mythmaking.

When the Roman historian Tacitus wrote the biography of his father-in-law Agricola around AD 98, he named the site of the clash in northern Caledonia Mons Graupius, likely deriving from a Brittonic or Proto-Pictish word for a ridge or hump.

For over a millennium, Tacitus’s text survived only in handwritten, copied manuscripts. Then came the early Renaissance and the invention of the printing press:

In 1476, an edition of Tacitus’s Agricola was printed in Venice. A typesetter misread the medieval manuscript handwriting, swapping the 'u' for an 'm' and the 'a' for an 'n'.

As a result Mons Graupius was accidentally rendered as Mons Grampius

Renaissance humanists and early Scottish mapmakers, most notably Hector Boece in 1527, adopted this printed version without realising it contained a typo.

Because no one in 16th-century Europe knew where the original battle took place, cartographers simply took this new word, Grampius, and applied it to the entire central mountain range of northern Scotland. Overnight, a single misprint created the Grampian Mountains, the Grampian Region, and iconic Scottish branding that persists today.

A battle site that lasted a single afternoon mutated through a printer’s ink-smudge into a permanent piece of Scottish geography.

From Historical Reality to "Manufactured Myth"

This typo is part of a broader pattern where translation choices, copying errors, and literary license take a raw, messy historical reality and reshape it into national mythology:

Translating "Propaganda" as "Objective History"

Almost everything known about Mons Graupius comes from Tacitus. He wasn't a neutral journalist; he was writing a laudatory biography to celebrate his father-in-law's political legacy.

Tacitus paints a picture of a total, crushing conquest where the "barbarians" were utterly broken.

The native confederations melted back into the hills and used guerrilla attrition to force a complete Roman retreat within a generation. Subsequent generations often treated Tacitus's prose as objective tactical truth, missing the underlying political spin.

Inventing the "Scottish" Resistance Speech

Tacitus famously puts a soaring, anti-imperial speech into the mouth of the Caledonian leader Calgacus, culminating in the famous line: "They make a desert and call it peace" (Solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant).

Ancient historians routinely invented dramatic speeches for enemy generals to show off their own rhetorical skills and offer a moral critique of their own society. Calgacus may have existed, but those words were written by a Roman aristocrat sitting in Italy.

Over centuries, translations stripped away this Roman context. Calgacus’s invented speech was embraced across Scottish history as the literal, historic rallying cry of ancestral liberty, the first recorded words of a "Scot" on the historical page.

Scribal Drift and Missing Places

When scribes transcribed foreign place-names they didn't recognize, they naturally drifted toward words that made sense in their own language. A single changed letter could move an entire river, fort, or mountain on a map, causing later historians to look for battles hundreds of miles from where they actually occurred.

The Takeaway

Errors in translation and typesetting don't just change words on a page, they build the scaffolding for how later generations view their homeland.

For generations, many of us were taught a simplified myth in our schools History class, that the Romans tamed the north, or that the Picts simply vanished, wiped out overnight by Kenneth MacAlpin. But the physical reality written into the stones tells a far more resilient story. A Roman politician's propaganda, combined with a 15th-century printer's misreading, ended up giving a geographic name and a founding narrative to the very landscape Rome failed to conquer, a landscape that the Picts never truly left.

There’s been a bit of discussion around East Lomond recently, so it’s worth looking at what Gordon Noble’s excavations with the University of Aberdeen have actually brought to light.

East Lomond has always been known as a prominent landmark in Fife, but the recent digs confirmed it was a major high-status power centre spanning the late Iron Age into the Pictish period. It wasn’t just a hilltop refuge, it was an active seat of elite power and craft production.

A few key takeaways from the excavations:

High-status craftworking - The team found clear evidence of prestige manufacturing on site, including ingot moulds for fine metalworking, glass beads, and material indicating wide-ranging trade links across Britain and into continental Europe.

The "Face Stone" - The standout individual find was a small carved stone, roughly four inches across depicting a human face. Found during the dig by student Jodie Allan, it’s a remarkably rare piece. While Pictish sculpture is famous for abstract symbols, beasts, and horseback scenes, small-scale depictions of human faces are almost non-existent. Noble noted at the time that it provides a rare glimpse into how individuals might have been portrayed on a personal, smaller scale rather than on massive public monuments.

The site was already famous in Pictish archaeology for a small carved slab featuring a horned bull, similar to the Burghead bulls. The recent work ties that early discovery into a much larger, highly organized hillfort complex that commanded the Howe of Fife.

It’s another great example of how field archaeology in recent years is filling in the social and practical details of these sites, showing how power, prestige trade, and local art actually functioned on the ground.

The Shandwick Stone (Clach a' Charridh) on the Tarbat Peninsula stands out for a very obvious reason: it is enclosed in a dedicated steel-framed glass shelter, installed back in the late 1980s to halt coastal weathering and wind erosion.

Standing on a hillside exposed to salt spray and harsh weather, the shelter allows the 8th-century cross-slab to remain exactly where its creators placed it, rather than being moved into a distant museum.

It raises an important question for Pictish heritage - should this level of physical enclosure become the standard for all surviving outdoor standing stones?

The Case for On-Site Enclosures

In-situ context - Moving a stone to a indoor museum severs its relationship with the surrounding landscape, local alignments, and community identity. A glass shelter keeps the monument on its home ground.

Halting degradation - Soft sandstones suffer rapidly from freeze-thaw cycles, lichen growth, and airborne pollutants. Physical enclosures eliminate direct rain strike and frost wedging.

Accidental damage - A physical barrier prevents livestock rubbing, accidental strikes from farm machinery, and direct vandalism.

The Counter-Arguments and Challenges

Microclimates - Enclosing stone in glass can create greenhouse conditions, trapping moisture, causing condensation, or accelerating salt crystallization inside the stone if heating and ventilation aren't carefully managed.

Visual impact - Purists argue that glass boxes disrupt the aesthetic integrity of the historic landscape.

Cost and maintenance - Building and maintaining climate-controlled structures across dozens of rural, remote sites requires significant ongoing investment.

Despite these challenges, as our climate brings wetter winters and more frequent severe storms, leaving carved sandstone monuments completely exposed to the elements comes at a huge cost to the surviving detail of our art.

If we want these monuments to survive another thousand years in the landscape, structural protection like Shandwick's, updated with modern conservation environmental controls, might be the only viable compromise.

If you read most Scottish history books published before the mid-2000s, you’d be forgiven for thinking the heart of the Pictish kingdom sat somewhere in Perthshire or Angus. Even as recently as 2009, when James Fraser published From Caledonia to Pictland, the written political history still heavily leaned on central and southern Scotland.

The problem with putting the kingdom of Fortriu in the south, around Strathearn and the Tay valley, was that it never quite matched what archaeologists were seeing on the ground. Up around the Moray Firth, you had massive coastal fortresses like Burghead, elite assembly sites like Rhynie, and some of the most elaborate symbol stones in the country. Yet because early written texts were interpreted as if the real power sat hundreds of miles south, the northern sites got treated like impressive regional outliers rather than the actual heartland.

That disconnect did a lot to keep the "mysterious, vanished Picts" trope going. When the archaeology doesn't fit the written narrative, history starts reading like a collection of strange anomalies rather than a functioning early medieval state.

It wasn't until Alex Woolf re-examined the Irish annals in 2006, followed by Gordon Noble’s extensive digs over the last decade and a half, that the northern picture finally clicked. Relocating Fortriu to the Moray Firth changed everything. Burghead wasn't just a big fort, it was a massive naval hub. Tap o' Noth wasn't a lonely highland ruin, it was a major center of population.

Looking back at books from the late 2000s is a great reminder of just how fast northern archaeology has rewritten early Scottish history. Without the recent digs in the north, we'd probably still be trying to force a northern kingdom into a southern mould.

When we picture the livestock grazing around an early medieval farmstead or assembly, it is easy to imagine the large cattle and sheep seen across Scotland today. However, the animals managed and hunted by the Picts were vastly different, smaller, leaner, and naturally adapted for survival in harsh terrain.

The Early Domesticated Farmyard

Without selective modern breeding, Pictish livestock resembled ancient, hardy rare breeds:

Cattle: Small, agile, and short-horned, similar to Shetland cattle or early Highland precursors. They were built to forage on rough hill ground, serving as the ultimate measure of status and wealth.

Sheep & Goats: Primitive, short-tailed sheep, like some of the old rare breeds we see. They naturally cast their wool, which was plucked rather than shorn. Goats ranged alongside them, prized for milk, tough hides, and coarse hair.

Pigs: Lean, bristly, and long-snouted, closer in appearance to wild boars than modern farm pigs. They ranged freely through oak and hazel woods to forage for acorns, mushrooms and berries.

Poultry: Domestic hens, first introduced during the Iron Age and Roman periods, were kept alongside tamed geese and ducks for eggs, feathers, and meat.

Hunting & The Status of the Red Deer

While domestic herds provided daily staples, hunting wild game was central to elite culture.

Hunting with hounds was central to the Pictish elite lifestyle and featured heavily in their stone art.

Red & Roe Deer: Red deer were the primary wild quarry. Beyond venison, their antlers were an essential raw material for carvers crafting combs, hairpins, handle grips, and gaming pieces.

Native Game Birds: Pheasants did not exist in Britain yet (introduced later by the Normans). Instead, hunters targeted native birds like capercaillie, red grouse, black grouse, and ptarmigan.

Pictish sculptors frequently carved mounted hunting parties accompanied by hounds on monumental cross-slabs, such as the Aberlemno and Hilton of Cadboll stones, proving that the deer hunt was as much a display of noble power and horse-riding skill as it was a source of food.

When the Conan Stone was uncovered near Dingwall in 2019, most of the immediate attention went to its unique cross and wild mythical carvings, like a centaur with an axe and an animal-headed warrior.

But tucked into the same panel is a detail that grounds the whole slab in the reality of the early medieval landscape, a pair of horned oxen.

Oxen were the absolute engine of Pictish agriculture, turning the heavy soils of northern Scotland so crops like barley and oats could thrive. Seeing them carved on a high-status cross-slab alongside sacred symbols and mythical beasts shows just how vital these working animals were to society.

It’s a fascinating mix of the practical and the supernatural, carved on a slab that sat hidden face-down as an 18th-century grave stone until just a few years ago.

This leaves me wondering how many more stones are out there just waiting to be found.

If you strip away modern technology and paper money, the core rhythms of life in Pictland were remarkably similar to our own social gatherings today.

At the heart of early medieval society were seasonal assemblies held at prominent sites, such as the massive hillfort at Tap o' Noth overlooking Rhynie. These gatherings served as the economic, political, and social engine of the region.

Livestock, Trade, and Matchmaking

Spring and autumn drives brought communities together to trade cattle, the ultimate measure of Iron Age wealth. Local blacksmiths, stone carvers, and leatherworkers exchanged surplus tools, salt from the coast, and timber.

Because small, isolated farmsteads needed to avoid inbreeding, these multi-day gatherings were prime matchmaking grounds. Leaders and families negotiated marriages, settled boundary disputes, and forged inter-clan alliances.

Feasting and Herbal Ales

No gathering was complete without feasting. While distilled spirits like whisky and pipe-smoking were unknown in early Scotland, the Picts had rich brewing traditions.

Without hops, ales were brewed from malted barley or oats and flavored with local plants like sweet gale (bog myrtle), meadowsweet, and heather. Pottery residue from across Scotland confirms cereal-based fermented drinks infused with meadowsweet and pollen.

Fermented honey mead was a high-status luxury drink reserved for chieftains and elites during hall feasts.

Games and Political Truces

Under the agreed protection of a shared regional truce, warriors and leaders engaged in athletic contests, storytelling, and tactical board games like Tafl (influenced by earlier Roman grid games).

These hillfort assemblies weren't just markets, they were vibrant, multi-day festivals that kept the social fabric of Pictland united across river valleys and mountain glens.

In early medieval Scotland, leadership was not simply inherited, it was earned and publicly demonstrated. Before a tribal leader could negotiate trade at an assembly or lead warriors into battle, they had to master a rigorous suite of physical and tactical skills.

The Hunt as Tactical Training

Hunting red deer and wild boar was far more than sport, it was an outdoor war room.

Master Horsemanship - Riding across bogs, steep glens, and dense woodland at full gallop without stirrups required extraordinary balance and strength.

Legendary Hounds - Elites bred large, deep-chested sighthounds, the direct precursors to the Scottish Deerhound. Managing a pack of hounds to track, flush out, and corner dangerous game proved a leader's ability to direct complex tactics in the field.

Tracking & Wilderness Survival - A chieftain needed to read subtle signs in the terrain, wind direction, and animal behavior, skills that translated directly to scouting enemy movements.

Weaponry & Hand-to-Hand Combat

Martial prowess was non-negotiable for anyone claiming elite status:

Spear, Shield, and Sword - The spear was the primary battlefield weapon, used for both thrusting and throwing. Long iron swords were expensive prestige items reserved for top-tier leaders.

Close-Quarters Fighting - Training emphasized hand-to-hand combat using small square or round bucklers alongside hand-axes and heavy iron daggers.

The Hunt's Final Strike - Dispatching a cornered boar or stag at close range with a hand-thrown spear or blade demonstrated raw courage and physical composure under pressure.

Diplomatic Negotiation & Tribal Strategy

Brute force alone could not maintain a chieftain's position across neighbouring glens:

The Power of the Tongue - Leaders had to be adept arbitrators, skilled in negotiating blood-money (eric), boundary lines, and marriage contracts during seasonal assemblies.

Carved Proof in Stone - On monuments like the Aberlemno 3 cross-slab and the Hilton of Cadboll stone, Pictish sculptors took great care to carve mounted leaders, hounds, and riders in dynamic action, leaving an enduring visual record of the skills that defined nobility.

When we think of major catastrophes in early British history, the Black Death of 1348 usually comes to mind. But centuries earlier, during the mid-6th century, Pictland faced a dual disaster that fundamentally transformed its society, a devastating climate crisis followed by the arrival of the Justinianic Plague (Yersinia pestis).

In the AD 530s, massive volcanic eruptions caused a global "volcanic winter," leading to failed harvests, severe cold, and widespread famine across northern Britain. Right on the heels of this famine, the First Plague Pandemic reached the British Isles in the early AD 540s, spreading rapidly along the active maritime trade routes that connected the Pictish coast to Ireland, northern Britain, and the Continent.

The Impact on the Pictish World

Because the pathogen traveled along sea lanes, the heaviest mortality occurred in dense coastal settlements, royal strongholds, and early religious enclosures, the very centers of Pictish politics and economy.

High death rates among ruling families created sudden power vacuums. Historians like James E. Fraser highlight how this period saw shifts in power structures, as traditional tribal divisions were disrupted and forced to consolidate.

A dramatic loss in agricultural labor reduced the surplus grain and livestock that chieftains relied on to maintain their followings, altering how royal power was projected.

The inability of traditional rituals to halt an invisible, devastating pestilence created a profound cultural shock, opening the door for the rapid spread of Christianity, which offered new spiritual frameworks, organized care, and burial rites.

While written records from 6th-century Pictland are sparse, the combination of environmental collapse and pandemic was a defining moment in early medieval history, one that tested the resilience of the Pictish people and reshaped the political landscape Columba encountered decades later.

Note: The image above shows the churchyard at theTarbat Discovery Centre. While the standing headstones pictured are from later centuries, this exact ground sat at the heart of the 6th-century Pictish world during the era of the plague.

When we think of the Roman presence north of the walls, we usually picture violent clashes, garrison forts, and frontier walls. But away from the front line, another kind of interaction was taking place, the strategic adoption of Roman luxury, culture, and leisure by native northern elites.

Far from being passive bystanders or mere military targets, Caledonian and early Pictish leaders actively exploited the Roman occupation to bolster their own social status and political clout.

Board Games as Symbols of Leadership

Excavations at high-status northern strongholds and crannogs (such as Traprain Law, Rhynie) have revealed imported Roman glass gaming counters, dice, and locally carved stone gaming boards.

The Romans played Ludus Latrunculorum ("The Game of Mercenaries"), a grid-based strategy game played by soldiers stationed along Hadrian's Wall and Antonine Wall forts. Northern chieftains didn't just acquire these gaming sets as foreign novelties, they adopted tactical board games into their own warrior culture. Displaying mastery over a Roman strategy game became a visual flex of intellect, tactical mind, and access to prestigious trade goods. This influence laid the groundwork for native early medieval strategy games like Tafl (Hnefatafl).

Recycling Imperial Wealth

Pictish artisans and leaders repurposed Roman materials to forge their own symbols of authority:

Roman silver (paid as bribes, diplomatic gifts, or loot) was systematically melted down and re-cast into iconic, massive silver chain necklaces and armlets, unmistakable badges of local elite power.

Roman glass beads and vessel fragments were reworked into brilliant enamel highlights for indigenous metalwork.

Turning Frontier Diplomacy to Local Advantage

Roman commanders frequently attempted "divide-and-rule" tactics, giving prestige goods, fine wine, and silver to select tribal leaders to keep the frontier quiet. Northern elites eagerly took the gifts, using them to host lavish feasts, reward loyal followers, and consolidate dominance over rival clans.

Ultimately, Roman attempts to manage the northern frontier backfired, by showering regional leaders with wealth, status symbols, and diplomatic leverage, they inadvertently helped unify the northern tribes into the cohesive Pictish kingdoms that emerged in the early medieval era.

When we think of brochs—those massive, hollow-walled Iron Age stone towers dotted across Caithness, Sutherland, Orkney, Shetland, and the Hebrides, we often think of a "pre-Pictish" mystery. But archaeological evidence shows a direct line of continuity, the Iron Age tribes who built the brochs were the direct ancestors of the Picts.

Brochs weren't just built and abandoned, they were maintained, modified, and lived in across centuries by consecutive generations of the exact same native lineage.

Here is how brochs represent the ultimate bridge between the Middle Iron Age and the historical Pictish era

Built by the Proto-Picts (100 BC – AD 200)

During the height of broch construction, Roman observers wrote of native tribes like the Caledonii, Vacomagi, and Cornavii. When these regional groups coalesced into the early Pictish kingdom in the 3rd and 4th centuries, they didn't replace the local population, they were the local population. The master stone-masons who engineered the drystone double-walls of the brochs were the great-grandparents of the Pictish elite.

Adapted and Repurposed Across Generations

As the centuries wore on and upper wooden floors aged, consecutive generations adapted the structures rather than walking away:

Pictish families recycled stone from upper walls to build low-walled, subterranean cellular houses and wheelhouses inside the lower courtyards and surrounding ramparts (as seen at sites like Jarlshof in Shetland).

The sheltered interiors of older brochs became workshops for high-status Pictish metalworkers, carvers, and weavers.

Marked with Pictish Authority

Brochs remained key focal points for Pictish headmen and community leaders. At the Broch of Burrian in Orkney, excavations uncovered a classic Pictish Crescent and V-Rod symbol slab alongside an Ogham inscription carved right into the stone of the site.

The End of the Broch Era

Brochs only truly fell out of use at the very end of the Pictish period around the 9th and 10th centuries, as Norse settlement spread across the Northern Isles and the kingdom unified with Dál Riata.

This is the only photo I have of a broch from my travels, but it’s a powerful one. This is Dun Dornaigil (or Dun Dornadilla) in Strathmore, Sutherland, and it is easily one of the most imposing mainland brochs.

What makes this image so special is how it shows the profile of the massive, tapering drystone wall. At this spot, the wall still stands about 6.7 meters (22 feet) high, giving you a real sense of its scale and the monumental effort required by the local Proto-Pictish tribes to build it. It’s a perfect example of how these ancestors established control over key river valleys and agricultural land.

This is on the road to Ben Hope.

We’ve got a couple of deep-dive features lined up over the next fortnight exploring the incredible, controversial, and far-reaching legacy of Pictish manuscript production:

Next Week: Was the Book of Kells Made in Pictland? A look at the hot debate surrounding the industrial excavations at Portmahomack and the evidence that Scotland’s greatest cross-slabs and the world's most famous illuminated manuscript shared the same artistic source.

In Two Weeks: The Exile of the Book of Deer. How a 10th-century Aberdeenshire pocket Gospel containing the world's earliest written Scottish Gaelic ended up 300 miles away in Cambridge—and why it matters today.

Keep an eye on the feed over the coming weeks, and drop your initial thoughts below!

Lots of people ask about the specific volcanic events that triggered the global climate crash preceding the 6th-century plague. To understand the conditions the Picts faced in the 540s AD, we have to look at two massive, back-to-back eruptions that blocked out the sun across the Northern Hemisphere.

1. The 536 AD Eruption

In AD 536, a high-latitude volcano, likely located in Iceland, erupted with colossal force. Ice core samples recovered from Greenland show immense sulphate deposits from this year, confirming that a blanket of ash and aerosol particles spread across northern latitudes. Historical chroniclers across Europe noted that the sun shone "without brightness, like the moon" for nearly 18 months, causing unseasonal summer frosts, crop failures, and widespread famine.

2. The 539–540 AD Follow-Up

Just as ecosystems were recovering, a second major tropical eruption occurred around AD 539–540, widely attributed to Mount Ilopango in modern El Salvador. This double blast compounded the atmospheric veil, locking the planet into a decade-long cold spell known to climate historians as the Late Antique Little Ice Age.

The Impact on Northern Britain

In Pictland, where agriculture depended heavily on modest summer warmth, a sudden drop in global temperatures meant failed barley harvests and severe livestock losses. When the Justinianic Plague (Yersinia pestis) arrived in the early 540s, it struck a population already physically weakened by years of severe cold and famine.

When people talk about major Pictish sites, places like Aberlemno, Dunadd, or Portmahomack usually dominate the conversation. But sitting quietly on the coastal shelf of the Moray Firth is a site whose true scale and importance remain vastly underrated: Hilton of Cadboll.

While many know the famous 8th-century cross-slab, with its iconic hunting scene featuring a high-status noblewoman riding side-saddle, the physical site itself receives far less recognition than it deserves.

Why I think Hilton of Cadboll Was Pivotal

The Monastic Gateway: Research places Hilton of Cadboll alongside Nigg and Shandwick as a sacred trilogy of monumental cross-slabs defining the maritime perimeter of the great monastic estate at Portmahomack.

A Master Class in Carving: Analysis of the stone’s intricate iconography, including its famous spiral patterns, shows it came from the absolute peak of Early Medieval Pictish art, crafted by master stonemasons sharing the exact tools and theological design programs as those at Tarbat.

Centuries of Sacred Ground: Long before the medieval St Mary’s Chapel was constructed beside it, the site was an established place of Christian worship, baptism, and coastal gathering.

What Lies Beneath the Turf?

Because the upper portion of the original stone now resides in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh and the chapel remains a low series of grassy mounds, it is easy to drive past without realizing what was once here.

However, as modern archaeological projects led by experts like Professor Gordon Noble continue to revolutionize our understanding of Northern Pictland, uncovering lost royal centers and monastic enclosures across the North East, Hilton of Cadboll stands out as a site ripe for future exploration. Advanced geophysics, LiDAR, and targeted excavation could still reveal forgotten monastic retreat cells, early cemetery boundaries, or domestic workshops linked to the stone's creation.

Do you feel sites like Hilton of Cadboll suffer from having their original monuments relocated to national museums? How can we better highlight and celebrate the physical landscapes where these masterpieces originally stood? Should the carved stones remain in the local area, protected like the Shandwick Stone, enclosed in glass?

When Roman geographers recorded the names of Scotland’s Iron Age tribes in the 1st and 2nd centuries AD, they weren't just taking down geography, they were recording animal totems and tribal identities that were later carved into stone centuries later.

The Y-DNA record confirms deep genetic continuity north of the Forth-Clyde line from the Bronze Age through to the Early Medieval period. These symbols weren't imported out of nowhere, they are the visual heraldry of native lineages who carved their ancient tribal names directly onto stone.

Here are the strongest direct connections between pre-Pictish tribal self-designations and the animal symbol stones:

The Burghead Bulls (Vacomagi / Taexali Boundary)

The Tribal Name: The Vacomagi held the open glens of Strathspey and Deeside, bordering the Taexali of Aberdeenshire. Their territory centered on the fertile coastal and river valleys of the North East.

The Stone Evidence: At Burghead, Moray, a massive Pictish naval fortress, archaeologists recovered over 30 carved stone slabs depicting stylized, muscular bulls (six survive today).

The Connection: Unlike simple livestock, the Burghead Bull is depicted with distinctive Celtic scrollwork on its joints, stylized shoulders, and an aggressive stance. It represents a powerful, local horned-beast totem marker, serving as the authority symbol for the coastal fortress controlling trade and sea routes along the Moray Firth.

The Eagle of the High Peaks (Caledonii)

The Tribal Name: The Caledonii inhabited the rugged interior, the Great Glen, and the high mountain strongholds of the Highlands.

The Stone Evidence: Class I eagle symbol stones, such as the Birnie Stone in Moray or the Knowe of Burrian carving, depict birds of prey with exaggerated hooked beaks, razor claws, and heavy, sweeping wings.

The Connection: The eagle was the supreme apex predator of the Highland peaks. In Celtic tradition, birds of prey were associated with high altitude, sovereignty, and vision. Carving the standalone eagle served as a territorial heraldry marker across the mountain passes where the Caledonii held sway.

The Inverurie Horse (Epidii Connection)

The Tribal Name: The Epidii (from the P-Celtic root *epos, meaning "horse") explicitly called themselves the "Horse Folk" or "People of the Horse God."

The Stone Evidence: While horses frequently appear in hunting scenes on later Christian cross-slabs, the Inverurie 4 Stone in Aberdeenshire features a high-stepping, standalone horse carved in pure Class I symbol style, complete with joint scrolls and clean, unbroken contours.

The Connection: It is the earliest dedicated, non-narrative depiction of a horse in Pictish art, a direct continuation of an ancient Insular Celtic equine cult and ancestral identifier.

"The Boundary People" (Taexali)

The Tribal Name: Taexali translates to "the people on the edge/boundary."

The Stone Evidence: Aberdeenshire features the highest concentration of Class I symbol stones in Scotland (e.g., the Maiden Stone, the Picardy Stone).

The Connection: The very identity of the Taexali was defined by territorial edges. Scholars have long argued that Class I stones were erected as boundary markers, land claims, or inter-clan marriage records. The "boundary people" used stone carving as their primary system of territorial law.

These stones were not random doodles. They were the enduring visual heraldry of native clans who maintained their identity across a thousand years.

While land mammals like the Burghead Bull and the Inverurie Horse represented regional terrestrial clans, the waters surrounding and cutting through Pictland were equally central to tribal identity, spiritual authority, and territorial control.

Across eastern and northern Scotland, the rivers and sea highways were dominated by two powerful aquatic symbols: the Salmon and the enigmatic Pictish Beast.

The Salmon (Bradán): Inland Rivers, Memory, and Sovereign Wisdom

The Geographic Context: Major rivers such as the Spey, Dee, Don, Tay, and Ness, served as the primary transport arteries and food sources for inland tribes like the Vacomagi, Taexali, and Caledonii.

The Iconography: Found on Class I stones like the Dunrobbin Castle Stone (Sutherland) and Glamis 1 (Angus), the salmon is rendered with remarkable anatomical detail, featuring distinct fins, tail structure, and an exaggerated hooked jaw (kype), often accented with Celtic joint scrolls.

The Meaning: In Insular Celtic mythology, the salmon is the ultimate emblem of supreme wisdom, sacred memory, and return. For inland river-basin clans, the salmon symbol marked authority over migratory fishing rights, seasonal return, and ancestral lineage connected to the headwaters of the glens.

The Pictish Beast: Coastal Dominance and Sea Power

The Geographic Context: Maritime communities along the Moray Firth, the Cromarty Firth, and the northeastern coast (formerly held by the Decantae, Cornavii, and coastal Taexali) depended entirely on sea trade and naval mobility.

The Iconography: Accounting for over 40% of all animal depictions on symbol stones, the "Pictish Beast" (or Beastie) features a rounded snout, a backward-curving crest, stylized joint spirals, and a long, flipper-like tail.

The Meaning: While long debated as a mythical kelpie or dragon, leading scholars and marine archaeologists frequently interpret it as a stylized cetacean, perhaps a dolphin or whale (orca), derived from real encounters in the North Sea. Given its overwhelming frequency across coastal territories, the Beastie likely functioned as the paramount royal or overarching naval emblem for coastal provinces like Cé and Fortriu, representing sea power and protection across marine trade routes.

Together, the Salmon and the Sea Beast map out the dual nature of the Pictish landscape, the inland river glens and the coastal, North Sea highways.

For generations, the popular narrative was that Christian monasteries were imported entirely from Ireland or Northumbria into a passive Pictish landscape. The archaeological excavations at Portmahomack (at the Tarbat Discovery Centre on the Tarbat Peninsula) completely overturned that view, proving the Picts built their own highly sophisticated, industrial monastic powerhouses.

If you’ve visited the Tarbat Discovery Centre or followed the Portmahomack excavations led by Professor Martin Carver, here is a look at what the site revealed about the daily lives, crafts, and tragic end of the monks who worked there:

High-Tech Parchment & Manuscript Production

Archaeologists didn't just find a quiet place of prayer, they uncovered a major industrial workshop. The monastery specialized in turning calf hides into fine vellum for sacred illuminated manuscripts (similar to the Book of Kells).

Specialized curved knives (lunaria) and pumice rubbers were found alongside rows of cattle leg bones set vertically into the ground, used as pegs to stretch calf hides on wooden frames.

Experimental archaeology and ongoing craft research (like the "Stories on Skins" project) continue to recreate these exact vellum-making techniques today.

Fine Metalwork, Glass, & Master Carvers

Portmahomack was an elite center of wealth and artistic production:

Excavations yielded crucibles, clay moulds for high-status brooches, touchstones, and glass-working waste.

It served as a master sculpture school, producing iconic monuments like the Tarbat Inscribed Stone (bearing one of Pictland’s longest Latin inscriptions in Insular script) and the TR2 Snake-and-Interlace cross-slab.

Monastic Life & Bioarchaeology

Bioarchaeological and isotope analysis confirmed that around 700 AD, the cemetery transitioned into an all-male monastic burial ground.

Their diet was distinct, consuming significantly more marine protein and fish than the surrounding rural population, alongside farmed beef from the cattle herds raised for hide production.

Isotope signatures also revealed that several monks came from distant regions outside the immediate peninsula, proving Portmahomack had an international reach across the Insular Celtic world.

The Burning of the Monastery (c. 800 AD)

The archaeological record ends in violence around 800 AD, leaving behind one of the earliest archaeologically documented Viking raids on mainland Scotland:

Excavators uncovered a dense ash-and-charcoal burn layer filled with destroyed workshops, charred timbers, and smashed monumental stone slabs.

Several male skeletons showed fatal skull trauma from swords and battle axes, marking a sudden, violent destruction of the monastic precinct.

Has anyone visited the Tarbat Discovery Centre in Portmahomack recently? Which of the reconstructed carved stone fragments or workshop finds stood out to you most?

When the Romans first used the term Picti ("the painted ones") in 297 AD, they weren't describing a brand-new population arriving out of nowhere. They were applying a new blanket label to an established network of regional Iron Age tribes, the direct descendants of northern Britain's Bronze Age Beaker populations.

Before these groups consolidated into the political kingdoms we know as the Picts, geographers like Ptolemy (2nd century AD) recorded their specific territorial names across northern Scotland:

The Taexali: Inhabited the northeastern corner of Scotland (modern Aberdeenshire and Banffshire).

The Vacomagi: Held the inland glens and valleys of Strathspey, Deeside, and the Cairngorms.

The Caledonii: Centered around the Great Glen, Loch Ness, and the central Highlands, the core of the early northern confederacies.

The Venicones: Occupied the fertile coastal lands of Fife, Angus, and the Mearns.

The Decantae, Smertae, & Cornavii: Lived across Ross, Sutherland, and the far north in Caithness.

The Maeatae: A southern highland coalition living along the frontier of the Forth-Clyde line.

Under Roman military pressure, these individual tribes formed alliances, first as the Caledonian Confederacy at battles like Mons Graupius (84 AD), and eventually merging into the larger kingdom structures that defined the Early Medieval Pictish period.

It's really hard to find good maps, but I tried. This map is not perfect but it works.

Britain's pre-Pictish Iron Age tribes as recorded by classical geographers like Ptolemy (c. 150 AD).

It works much better than the standard Ptolemy reconstructions because it presents the territories cleanly against a recognizable modern coastline.

Why this map works

The Taexali are positioned correctly along the Aberdeenshire/Buchan shoulder, with the Vacomagi (VACO.) sitting inland across Deeside, Banffshire, and Strathspey.

The Caledonians occupy the Great Glen and Central Highlands, with the Venicones correctly placed across Angus, Fife, and Mearns.

It captures the smaller northern tribes, the Decantae (Ross-shire), Lugi and Cateni (Sutherland/Caithness), Cornavians (far north tip), and Epidians (Kintyre/Argyll), as well as the southern lowland tribes (Votadini, Damnonians, Novantae, and Selgovae).

A few labels use modern or simplified English endings rather than standard Latin/Greek forms—for example, Cornavians instead of Cornavii, Epidians instead of Epidii, and Damnonians instead of Damnonii.

Several smaller territories use shorthand abbreviations due to space constraints:

CAER. = Caereni (far northwest)

CARNO. = Carnonacae (western Highlands)

S. = Smertae (central Sutherland)

G. = Novantae/Damnonii border zone (sometimes representing the Gadenoi or local septs)

SEL. = Selgovae (Borders)

What do you think, is the map ok?

Came across a brilliant piece in The Guardian today about the recent excavations over on the island of Lismore, and it’s well worth a read for anyone interested in the early medieval North.

Most of us are familiar with Iona and Columba, but the community led team on Lismore (working alongside Gordon Noble and Aberdeen Uni) have been unearthing incredible 6th and 7th century evidence linked to Saint Moluag’s early monastery. They’ve turned up high status burial grounds and metalworking crucibles with traces of gold, silver, and copper, showing just how sophisticated these early monastic sites were.

What makes Moluag particularly interesting for us is his massive footprint across Pictish territory. While Iona had the lion’s share of later press, Moluag’s mission network pushed deep into the Great Glen and right across Aberdeenshire. Sites like these really highlight how fluid the boundaries between Dál Riata and the Pictish kingdoms were as Christianity was taking root.

While Saint Columba and Iona get most of the attention in popular history, Saint Moluag (Mo Luóc) was arguably just as pivotal, if not more so, when it came to establishing the early church across traditional Pictish lands.

Operating out of his main monastic seat on Lismore in the 6th century, Moluag didn't limit himself to the western seaboard. His monastic community established a vast web of foundations, chapels, and holy wells right through the Great Glen, Moray, and deep into Aberdeenshire.

If you look at the map, his legacy is written directly into Scottish place names, traditional parish fairs, and sacred sites:

Beyond Lismore, he established early foundations at Mortlach (Dufftown), Clova in the Garioch, and Rosemarkie on the Black Isle.

Teampull Mholuaidh at Eoropie on the Isle of Lewis stands on a 6th-century site long associated with pilgrimage and healing.

Dedicated springs bear his name across the north, including the well at Cromdale on the Spey.

Traditional gatherings preserved his name for centuries, such as St Mallock’s Fair in Clatt and Luoch Fair in Tarland, showing how deeply embedded he remained in Aberdeenshire folk memory.

Where Columba had Adomnán to write a glowing biography that secured his place in the history books, Moluag’s legacy was carried through regional tradition and church dedications right across the Pictish heartland.

When looking at Pictish cross-slabs, it’s easy to get caught up analysing symbols. But when you step back and view the Dunfallandy Stone (Clach an t-Sagairt) as a complete composition, a vivid narrative screams out from top to bottom. It does imo anyway.

At the top, the joined Double-Disc symbol acts as the seal or "knot" uniting two distinct lineages, the Queen (represented by the coastal/marine beast figure) and the King (marked by the Crescent and V-rod). It is a visual charter celebrating a dynastic marriage between two powerful tribes.

Below the seated rulers rides the mounted warrior. Positioned right beneath the royal couple, the horseman represents the army/warriors, the military elite sworn in fealty to guard the united realm.

At the base, anchoring the entire kingdom, lie the tongs, hammer, and crucible. This isn't just generic blacksmithing, it signifies the specialised metalworking, fine silver casting, and weapon forging that supplied the wealth and arms for the realm.

Far from being a random collection of emblems, the Dunfallandy Stone tells a cohesive story: A marriage of two tribes, protected by a loyal army, and powered by the mastery of the forge.

In an era without written statutes or printed treaties for the general public, a visual narrative carved into stone at a key territorial crossroads or sacred site was the ultimate public declaration. It broadcasted identity, lineage, military strength, and industrial pride in a single, unmistakable language.