The Spirit of the Highland Games

Jul 30, 2025
5 min read

Nothing evokes the spirit of Scotland like the Highland Games. Across the world, from New Zealand to Russia, Scots, the Scottish diaspora and the Scottish at heart gather to celebrate all things Alba: piping, dancing, racing, feats of strength, food and Gaelic heritage.

Legend places the origins with King Malcolm III, who in the 11th century summoned the fastest runners in the realm to compete for the role of royal messenger. The first recorded games appear in 1703, when members of Clan Grant, clad in their Highland coats and armed with “gun, sword, pistol and dirk,” met to compete in feats of arms. Today’s version, much like clan tartan, is essentially a Victorian creation shaped in the aftermath of the Highland Clearances. It is a romantic reconstruction of a culture that, had it existed in the way Victorians imagined, would have been wiped out by English suppression. But the tradition caught fire and now Scotland hosts dozens of gatherings each year, with many more scattered across the globe from Switzerland to the Bahamas. In the United States alone there are at least 150 games.

Years ago I attended the world’s largest: the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in Linville, North Carolina. Upwards of 50,000 people descend on the event and Scots Americans take enormous pride in their heritage. They go all in. But there is nothing quite like a Highland Games on Scottish soil.

The Argyllshire Gathering began in the early 1870s when leading families of Argyll decided to hold an annual meeting to strengthen local ties and preserve Highland traditions. A formal committee was established in 1871 and the first official Gathering took place in 1873 on the Oban Distillery grounds. What started as a social occasion for the county’s gentry quickly grew into one of Scotland’s most respected Highland Games, known especially for its elite solo piping competitions and the coveted Gold Medal. Over time the Gathering became a fixture of Argyll’s cultural life, carrying forward the nineteenth century aim of keeping local heritage not only remembered but lived.

My first Oban Games fell on a beautiful sunny day in August, with temperatures in the mid 20’s (mid 70’s Fahrenheit) – positively roasting by Scotland standards! I arrived in mid-afternoon on foot. Traffic was backed up all the way out of town. The smells of barbecue and fried sweets filled the air before I even caught site of the field. The stands were quickly filling up and the games were in progress. A large field was partitioned off into areas for the various sports- caber tossing, stone putting, hammer tossing- as well as piping and dancing, and all the while runners circled the track. The stadium was a riot of bagpipes and tartan, so much to take in, so much to see. And more kilts than you can shake a stick at.

On the green, colossal men resplendent in kilts and t-shirts showed their prowess in hurling very heavy objects as far as possible. These guys were massive- well over six feet tall, with arms like rocks and calves like tree trunks. They were the pride of the Highlands and Islands- representing Mull, Tiree, Fort William, Inverness- and even the big cities like Edinburgh. They mostly seemed to be rural boys, though. And speaking of tree trunks, the caber, from the Gaelic for “wooden beam,” is a 6 meter, 80 kilo tree trunk made from larch. The tosser carefully balances it upright, then flings it- thud! My favourite strength event was the Sheaf Toss, in which the tosser hurls a 7 kilogram burlap bag stuffed with straw over a horizontal bar with a pitchfork. It was easy to see how these events got their start with robust farm boys showing each other up while doing chores on the homestead.

I wandered the field, weaving through booths and vendors, and treated myself to a Highland roast beef sandwich. At one point I met the Duke of Argyll, officiator of the games, resplendent in his tartan and feathered tam. I squeezed my way to the front of the standing room only crowd to watch the wee pastel tartaned Highland dancing lassies, skipping and leaping with a mix of grace and exuberance. Piper after piper stepped onto a soapbox to show off their skills and pipe bands of kilted young folk marched across the green in steady formation.

Eventually I found a patch of grass on the spectator hill and settled in. With so many events happening at once, there was always something to watch. I chatted with two friendly ladies from London seated beside me. They were of Scottish heritage and told me they never missed the Oban Games.

After the professional races, the announcer invited the audience to join in. Category after category was called for a 100 metre footrace: first the children, then the Over 50s men and women. Next came the call for people from other countries. The London ladies nudged me — go on, give it a try. A few shy foreigners drifted toward the track. I hesitated, but a bottle of whisky was on offer for the winner. Why not? I kicked off my boots and scurried down to join the lineup.

The announcer asked our names and where we were from. We represented a scatter of places — South Africa, Switzerland and several from the United States, including a lassie from Kentucky. Ready, set… the gun fired and off we went. Huff, huff, huff. My only goal was to finish without tripping over my own feet. The frontrunner fell, I made a final push and the results shook out: Kentucky first, Sweden second, Mississippi fourth. The crowd roared. I did not win the whisky, but an American lassie still took the day and that was good enough for me.

A bit sunburned and worn out from my debut as a Highland athlete — I had not sprinted flat out since I was about ten — I headed home, following the Oban Pipe Band through town to the tune of Scotland the Brave. The music echoed off the stone buildings and the late afternoon light caught the tartans just so. It struck me then that the Games endure not because they recreate the past perfectly, but because they gather people in the present. Heritage, pride, spectacle, community — all of it alive on a summer day in Argyll. Tradition is only as strong as the people who keep showing up, and here, they show up in force.

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