Becoming Home: Football and Geographic Identity in Early Modern Britain

This piece is cross-posted on the many-headedmonster, a collaborative blog focusing on English society and culture in the early modern period.

Every Sunday in the early months of 1765, Welsh and Irish sides numbering in the hundreds played football in the White-Conduit Fields of Islington (better known for early games of cricket). One such ‘grand camping match’ caught the attention of the London newspapers. When a Welshman called one Irishman a slur, the game dissolved into a bloody brawl. Both sides armed themselves with ‘sticks and other weapons…forced from the spectators’, and waged a desperate pitched battle. Eventually, ‘the ancient Britons were obliged to retire, and leave the Hibernian heroes masters of the field’.[1]

The reports portray premodern football as a violent and chaotic game, but there are familiar elements too: a popular spectator sport played regularly in defined spaces by ethno-national teams. While these games between immigrants were a far cry from the first international matches between England and Scotland in the 1870s (both rugby and association rules), they underscore the sport’s longstanding and special relationship with geographic identity. Well before World Cups, FIFA, national teams, or modern associations and clubs, football epitomized place and home throughout early modern Britain.

Soccer referee showing a yellow card to players from two opposing teams (England and Argentina) during the World Cup 2026 semi-final match
Fierce football rivalries are nothing new.

All sports can be engines and emblems of identity; through organised play, people forge a sense of self and community, and put it on display. Football is not unique to this process, yet its modern codes (especially association) have become privileged vehicles of local, regional and national identity in their respective sporting cultures. But this is nothing new. Modern football forms trace their shared heritage to medieval and early modern folk games, especially those of the ‘Home Nations’. And more so than other sports of that time, premodern football manifested locality through its representative teams, its interaction with place and countryside, and its defence of customary land rights.

Home Teams

Eighteenth-century London had a vibrant football culture, catering to an ever-expanding migrant population. As with the Welsh and Irish in Islington, people far from home could find community and flaunt pride of place through this team sport. Regional sides, however, were more common than national ones, with many matches pitting county against county. One advertisement in the London Journal of October 1721 challenged six men of any county to play ‘six Derbyshire men’ for a prize of half a dozen gloves. Players were to meet at ‘The Mitre and Two Brewers in Highgate’, and play in ‘a very Fine field provided for the purpose’.[2]

Gentlemen played in similar challenges for much larger stakes (see image below), or they might arrange the event. A Norfolk gentleman set up a challenge in 1735 for ‘the first two goals in three at Foot-ball’ between twelve of his countrymen, and twelve of any other county. Eligibility reflected the transitory nature of migrant identity (and probably clamped down on hired guns): players needed to be from said county, but also to have ‘lived in London or the Bills of Mortality [i.e. the suburbs] twelve months at least’.[3] For those settled in the metropolis, there were more parochial loyalties to develop and defend. On a Thursday in January 1729, for example, there was ‘a great Foot-Ball Match’ between the suburb of Shoreditch and the neighbouring London ward of Coleman Street. The London press (no doubt impartial) deemed the suburbanites a ‘cowardly’ bunch, beat ‘so shamefully…tis thought they will never attempt to challenge [Coleman Street] again’.[4]

Advertisement from the London newspaper 'Daily Journal' Saturday 13 September 1729, for a football match to be played in Islington between Derbyshire and Gloucestershire gentlemen, 12 a side.
Genteel football at the Derbyshire Wake on Islington Road. Daily Journal, Saturday 13 September 1729 (London). Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Burney Newspapers Collection, Gale.com.

Representative teams from the eighteenth-century capital mirrored those in the provinces, Wales and Scotland. ‘Parish versus parish’ was perhaps the most common arrangement, especially for the big festival fixtures, analogous to derbies or marquee match-ups today. During the early eighteenth century in Anglesey, Llanbadrick and Llanfechell played annually on the Llanbadrick Wakes Day in March, while twelve men from each parish arranged a special match on Whitsun Monday 1749. Llanbadrick men were keen footballers: on Easter Tuesday 1734, a squad of twelve squared off against a dozen from Llanfairynghornwy and Llanrhwydrys. Around 500 spectators, including the great and good of the region, enjoyed a real cracker of a match. ‘Both sides with equall courage, skill & resolution’ won an ‘end’ or goal before calling it a draw and going drinking together.[5]

Parochial teams were not reserved for the high feast days. Parishioners of Rayne and Culsalmond (Aberdeenshire) were punished for ‘a public footballing’ on the Lord’s Day in 1648. Nine from Coggeshall played nine from Great Tey at a camping match in Essex on Sunday 1 June 1600.[6] The format was found across the regional variations of football, camping being the East Anglian one. Hurling was the Cornish variant, described in Francis Willughby’s ‘Book of Games’ as ‘the same with Football but that it is throwne with the hand.’ It was played ‘one parish against another, or Easterne men against the Westerne, or Cornwall against Devonshire’.[7] Today annual matches still occur in St Ives and St Columb Major, with town facing country in the latter every Shrove Tuesday. Town versus country was another classic geographic division, found for example in seventeenth-century Carlisle and nineteenth-century Sedgefield (Durham).[8]

Other forms of identity could structure play within a single community: trade versus trade in early Tudor Chester; married versus single in lowland Scottish towns like Scone, Duns or Musselburgh (East Lothian), where we find rare evidence of women playing premodern football in 1795. For the hurling in nineteenth-century St Ives, all men named Tom, John or Will formed one team against everyone else. Yet the primacy of geography and a sense of place remains visible in the dozen or so surviving British folk ball games of today. Whether Uppies and Downies, Up-Streeters and Down-Streeters, or Easties and Westies, home or birthplace within the town determines allegiance.[9]

Defending Territory and Rights

Geography was also central to the gameplay of premodern football, which came in two main formats. The first and more familiar was played in defined spaces, like a ‘longe streete, or a close [enclosed field] that has a gate at either end’ to serve as goals, as Willughby put it.[10] This format lent itself to small and even sides (usually). Pastures, fallow fields and enclosures of willing (or unwilling) landowners were often used. Commons like the White-Conduit Fields or the Old Links of St Andrews provided shared space for football and other recreations. Whether streets or fields, football transformed these multi-purpose spaces into play places. The change was transient, but football left more indelible marks on the landscape and its place names too: dedicated Ball Greens, Football Fields, and Camping Closes dot the island, the deeply-embedded memories of a long-beloved game.[11]

The second format of football was boundless, played through towns and countrysides by unconstrained and uneven sides advancing the ball to landmark goals. Llanbadrick strove for the boundaries of Llanfechell village, while Llanfechell aimed for a cliffside some three miles distant, gaining victory in 1743 when they ‘drove the foot ball over the precipice beyond Porth Badrick’ (see image).[12] Goals could be church porches and mills (Duns), a river or hole in the moor (Scone), bridges (Kingston-upon-Thames), villages and gentlemen’s houses (Cornwall), among other human and natural markers. Players in early Tudor Chester carried the ball from the common field to the city’s Common Hall.[13] It was really this phenomenon which set football apart: other sports also transformed the land (bowling greens, tennis courts), or fielded representative teams. But by the game’s nature one single football could entertain an entire community and mobilize it to defend the boundaries. The very fabric and soil of one’s home became a part of the game as the ball traversed the miles between localities; navigated thicket, stream and street; struck landmark goals; and crossed borders. Football might even alter those borders. According to folklore, the outcome of the annual Coldstream and Wark match on the Scottish Borders determined whether the no-man’s land ba’ green belonged to England or Scotland.[14]

Picture of Porth Padrig, Anglesey
Porth Padrig, Anglesey, where in 1743 Llanfechell bested rival Llanbadrick by driving the football ‘over the precipice beyond Porth Badrick’. Photo © Chris AndrewsBY-SA

Football could also defend territory and access to land rights in a broader sense. The game’s warlike nature and propensity to summon large crowds made it an ideal vehicle and cover for riots. As common fields were enclosed or marshes drained in the name of progress, people used football to assert rights to the land and its essential and shared resources. This was especially true when the fens were drained during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In 1638 ‘a foot ball play or camp’ in Whelpmore Fen of Cambridgeshire mustered hundreds from surrounding towns, who proceeded to play across country and level enclosure ditches in the process.[15]

One of the rights and resources that commons provided was recreation itself. When the burgh council of St Andrews allowed the Archbishop a rabbit warren in the Old Links in 1551, the contract reserved to the townsfolk their rights of ‘playing at golf, football, shooting at game, with all manner of other pastimes’. Again, football players were uniquely well equipped to violently and ritually claim such rights to recreation, should they be threatened. In February 1483, parishioners of Bethersden (Kent) riotously staged a football match against the prior of St Gregory’s enclosure attempts, defending their rights ‘to pleie’ upon ‘the comen grounde and comen pleying place for all men of this parisshe’.[16]

Around four centuries later, in 1860, villagers of Steeple Bumpstead (Essex) responded to the gradual enclosure of their Camping Close in a strikingly similar way. After three young tradesmen scattered the encroacher’s manure over the grounds, twenty other villagers joined them to play football in the close, thereby treading the manure into the land and symbolically invoking their recreational rights to it. Just three years later, the Football Association would form in London, where it standardized, rather than invented, a code of football. It adapted a traditional sport which had long created, performed and defended premodern people’s sense of place and identity. This fashioning of home through play remains an intangible heritage, passed down and paralleled in our own national and club loyalties of today.


[1] Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser, Tuesday 26 March 1765 (London); Lloyd’s Evening Post, 22-25 March, p. 287, Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Burney Newspapers Collection, Gale.com. The newspapers cited here are all from this collection.

[2] London Journal, Saturday 14 October 1721, p. 5.

[3] London Daily Post and General Advertiser,Monday 20 October 1735 (London).

[4] Daily Post Boy, Saturday 1 February 1729.

[5] The William Bulkeley Diaries (Bangor University).See regular recaps on the Wakes football match in the March entries. For the even-sided matches see entries 1734 April 16 and 1749  May 15.

[6] John Davidson, Inverurie and the Earldom of the Garioch (Edinburgh, 1878), p. 302; Essex Archives, D/ACA/25, fol. 107, Archdeaconry of Colchester Act Book, Sep 1598-Jun 1602.

[7] Francis Willughby’s book of games: a seventeenth century treatise on sports, games, and pastimes, (eds) David Cram, Jeffrey L. Forgeng and Dorothy Johnston (2003), p. 169.

[8] I discuss the Carlisle game extensively in chapter 2 of my thesis.

[9] On these folk survivals see Hugh Hornby, Uppies and Downies: The Extraordinary Football Games of Britain, (Swindon: English Heritage, 2008).

[10] Willughby, p. 168.

[11] The classic study of camping closes is David Dymond, ‘A Lost Social Institution: The Camping Close’, Rural History 1, 2 (1990), 165-192. 

[12] The William Bulkeley Diaries (Bangor University).Entry 1743 March 21.

[13] For the wide variety of goals see Hornby and Francis Magoun, History of Football from the Beginnings to 1871 (1938). I discuss the Chester game extensively in chapter 2 of my thesis.

[14] Coldstream and Scotland eventually won permanent rights, allegedly because their village (and therefore football team) grew so much larger than Wark’s. See I. Crofton, A Dictionary of Scottish Phrase and Fable (Edinburgh: Birlinn Limited, 2013), 25.

[15] On fenland football riots see Keith Lindley, Fenland Riots and the English Revolution, (London, 1982), pp. 101-105, 232.

[16] The National Archives (Kew), KB9/365, m.22.

James VI and I: Football Fan or Foe?

Today (19 June) marks the 460th birthday of James VI of Scotland and I of England, the first monarch to unite Great Britain under one crown. He’s had a big year: 2025 was the 400th anniversary of his death, and saw a parade of events and books reassessing his reign and legacy. But amidst all this hoopla, no one has been asking the really big questions: would our dear friend King Jimmy have favored Scotland at the men’s World Cup, or England? Was he even a football fan?

These tongue-in-cheek questions broach an important topic for the history of premodern football: the attitudes of royals and elites towards the sport. James’s view is often cited in football histories as emphatically negative, coming from the king’s own treatise on how a monarch should govern and live, Basilikon Doron. First published in 1599 and addressed to James’s young son and heir Henry, it promotes certain sports and activities for princes and courtiers, like running, dancing, fencing and tennis. But it explicitly debarred from the court ‘all rough and violent exercises, as the football, meeter [better] for lameing than making able the users thereof.’ The hostility seems clear enough: football was a dangerous and uncouth sport that men of good breeding should avoid. Yet the king’s actions did not always match his words.

After acceding to the English throne (1603), James and his court enjoyed football games on multiple occasions. Two different times in August 1612, the royal household constructed special ‘standings’ at the Earl of Southampton’s Beaulieu Palace, Hampshire so James and his retinue could ‘see the play at footeball’. One year later, two more sets of stands were built, probably in Beaulieu again, for the king and queen to ‘see the Footeball playe’.1 Notably, these are the earliest references in history (as far as I’m aware) to purpose-built football stands, however temporary they may have been. James would take in a game again in 1615, when the minister of Bishop’s Canning, Wiltshire presented a ‘football match of his own parishioners’ who could have ‘challenged all England’ in the sport.

Perhaps the King of Scots took all this English football as a challenge for the mastery of what he called in Latin pila Scotica quae pede propellitur [a Scottish ball propelled by the foot]. Ahead of the visit to his northern realm in 1617, James ordered the Earl of Mar to ensure that ‘the football and the rowbowles and sutche manlye exerceisses maye be practysed and exercised befor his Majesties cumming to Scotland, that theis pepill heir [i.e. the English] maye see the owld exerceisses of that cuntrye [Scotland]’.2 Evidently, James’ attitude towards football was not entirely negative. Complicated might be a better word.

If James was not above watching football, he may still have wanted elites to avoid playing football themselves. The Wiltshire players were rustics. But we don’t know if the Beaulieu ones and those from the Scottish progress were non-elites or courtiers, though court spectacles usually centred the latter. Regardless, there’s no doubt football had become popular among the nobility and knightly classes by the Jacobean and Caroline periods. We find courtiers like Sir David Cunningham of Auchenharvie (Ayrshire) playing the game in London 1629, or lords like Emanuel Scope (later earl of Sunderland) and Lord Willoughby together in an even-sided match earlier in the century.3 Artist and poet Henry Peacham even claimed in his Art of Drawing (1606) that it was a natural and proper pursuit for a lord to ‘play at footeball with his men’.

Interestingly, in a later expanded edition (1612) Peacham replaced this positive reference to football with a possibly less controversial line: ‘play at tennis with his page’. That same year, he also published the famed emblem book Minerva Britanna, which includes a depiction of football not as a lordly pastime, but as a game of ‘country swaines’, like those from Bishop’s Canning [see picture below]. Over the previous decade, Peacham had been in perennial pursuit of royal patronage. He produced several manuscript books of emblems, each dedicated either to King James or Prince Henry, and based on the king’s Basilikon Doron. Considering the views expressed in this advice book, Peacham’s shifting treatment of football may reflect the court’s enduring unease about its value and suitability for elites. For some it was manly and martial, but for others it remained a rude and rustic ‘friendly kind of fight’ prone to ‘broken banis [bones]‘. Certainly there was truth to the latter: after all, Cunningham and Scope were both badly injured while playing. Nonetheless, by this time there was an emerging view among the leisured classes, that at least in their refined hands (or feet), football could be a net positive.

These approving early modern sentiments represent a striking about-face to the contempt and indifference with which medieval elites regarded the sport. Football had been subject to repeated English and Scottish royal bans during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and during this period we have little to no evidence of the warrior classes participating in the sport. This all changed during the sixteenth century, with the royals leading the way. Henry VIII owned football boots (1525), the household of James IV (James VI’s great-grandfather) purchased footballs (1497), while an actual football was found at Stirling Castle from the 1530/40s [see 3D scan below]. Famously, James’s mother, Mary Queen of Scots beheld a match while under house arrest at Carlisle Castle (1568), when ‘about twenty of her retinue played at football before her the space of two hours, very strongly, nimbly, and skillfully, the smallness of their ball occasioning their fair play’.4 Indeed, Scottish nobility and lairds seem to have been particularly taken with the beautiful game from the mid-sixteenth century onward. Even James himself had played the sport at a young age, receiving ‘a fute ball’ from his regent around his seventh birthday (1573).5

World’s oldest football by Emotions3D on Sketchfab

It’s not certain why this shift occurred, but I have a few theories. Firstly, medieval martial sports like the melee, tourney, and joust became less common and relevant as warfare changed. ‘Those who fought’ may have turned to bellicose football as an increasingly attractive proving ground for virility and valor. Secondly, the Renaissance brought new ideas of what a gentleman, courtier and prince should be: not just a warrior but a cultivated body and mind. As the warrior classes turned into the leisured classes, athletic exercises and pastimes like ball games became the ‘work’ of the day, so to speak. Thirdly (and most importantly, I think), the nobility and gentry increasingly favored school and university education for their children over private tutelage at home, as state bureaucracies and legal systems expanded and humanism spread.

Being collectives of playful youths, educational institutions have been central (deliberately or inadvertently) to the history of football from the earliest records through to the modern codes. It therefore follows that elite interest in the sport would rise alongside elite rates of institutional education in Britain. Tellingly, football seems to have been quite popular among medieval clergymen and lawyers, those who were the main products of schools and universities before the early modern period. Scotland’s ‘educational revolution’ was particularly precocious, as the Education Act of 1496 required ‘all barons and freeholders who are wealthy [to] put their eldest sons and heirs into school’ and some degree of university. This early initiative may help explain why football was already so popular among Scottish lords and gentry (more so than in England) by the time James inherited the English throne.

James’s interest in regulating sport and recreation, however, extended well beyond his court and its courtiers. His most significant intervention into the recreational lives of common folk kicked off during his return journey from Scotland in 1617. As he progressed through Lancashire he became embroiled in a controversy between Puritan magistrates and defenders of traditional Sunday recreations. In the dispute over whether sports and games should be allowed on the sabbath, James sided with the traditionalists, producing what became known as the King’s Declaration (or Book) of Sports. Published in 1618, this document would prove an enduring flashpoint in the culture wars (and civil wars) of decades to come.

Yet it was not a blanket defense of all Sunday recreations: above all, divine service should be observed with no interference, and only certain recreations were approved for after service. Others, like bear-baiting or bowling, were explicitly banned on Sundays (and really any day) as unlawful games. Strikingly, football was absent from both lists. This seems a glaring omission considering it was one of the most common sports cited in contemporary sabbath-breach cases, and certainly in terms of team sports. Football had even been explicitly targeted in a 1614 Parliament act against Sabbath abuses, though the bill never became law. Technically, football remained an ‘unlawful game’ and as such was not allowed by the Declaration. Yet the king’s silence left some wiggle room for interpretation; it may suggest he held a soft spot for the ‘manly exercise’ of the ‘Scottish ball’.

Whether for courtiers or commoners, James remained ambivalent about football. Neither fully fan nor foe, he was a footy frienemy. That being said, James would have loved the World Cup. He had a penchant for spectacle and sport, and could be quite adept at harnessing these for statecraft. No doubt, he would have FIFA kissing his ring and awarding him Rex Pacificus prizes. Between his two teams in the running this year, James’s heart would be with Scotland, but he would relish England’s greater resources and odds of glory – just as he coveted the power of the English throne. Above all, though, he’d seize the opportunity to further his ultimate ambition: to unite his two kingdoms symbolically and practically. But if he thought his Book of Sports was controversial, it would be nothing compared to a Team GB scheme.

  1. Dramatic Records in the Declared Accounts of the Treasurer of the Chamber, 1558-1642, ed. David Cook and F. P. Wilson (Malone Society Collections VI; OUP, 1962), p. 109. ↩︎
  2. National Records of Scotland: GD124/15/27/39. ↩︎
  3. National Records of Scotland, GD237/25/1, Letter from Sir David Cunningham to the laird of Robertland, 1629 June 8. ↩︎
  4. Letter from Sir Francis Knollys to Lord Burghley, 15 June 1568. Printed in John Daniel Leader, Mary Queen of Scots in Captivity: A Narrative of Events from January, 1569, to December, 1584, Whilst George Earl of Shrewsbury was Guardian to the Scottish Queen (London, 1880), no. 7.s ↩︎
  5. Thanks to Alexander Courtney for sharing this reference. ↩︎

The Oldest Firm: Institutional Football in Medieval Scotland

It’s a historic time for Scottish football: the men’s national team has qualified for the World Cup, ending a near three-decade drought. And there’s a distinct possibility a club outside the ‘Old Firm‘ could win the top Scottish League for the first time since 1985. The erstwhile dominance of Celtic and Rangers has me wondering: what is the oldest ‘firm’ in the history of Scottish football? I don’t mean this in the modern sense of oldest surviving or earliest documented football club. Rather, what is the oldest evidence we have of Scottish organizations or institutions supporting football in a sustained way, and how did they do so?1

The answer takes us back to medieval or pre-Reformation Scotland, and specifically the 1530s, when Perth’s trade incorporations (i.e. guilds), and St Andrews’ city government and university were all sponsoring football in some sense. I’ve written at length about the Perth guilds in my thesis, so this essay will focus on institutional patronage in St Andrews. It’s a good opportunity to consider how premodern football was organized and played, and its complicated relationship with authority.

Annotated map 'Scotia Regnum' c. 1595 by Gerhard Mercator, highlighting Perth and St Andrews as the first known locations of institutional football in Scotland, c. 1530s.
Annotation of map ‘Scotia Regnum’ c. 1595 by Gerhard Mercator, highlighting Perth and St Andrews as the first known locations of institutional football in Scotland. Map reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland. CC-BY

Football in Medieval Scotland and St Andrews

Football – as a broad family of games where a ball is contested via foot and/or hands and usually advanced to goals – has deep roots in Scotland. Unfortunately, the country’s relatively sparse medieval records make it difficult to assess just how deep, or to illuminate the early game’s nature. Our oldest Scottish references date to the fifteenth century, when official prohibitions suggest that football was already popular among the rural populace and university students. As the slide below shows, the crown, Parliament and other authorities didn’t much approve of the sport.

Powerpoint slide detailing various parliamentary acts and university statutes from Scotland concerning the prohibition of football and other sports from the 1400s and early 1500s.

Around the turn of the sixteenth century, St Andrews University and its constituent faculties and colleges deemed the game ‘dishonest and dangerous’, threatening to expel or excommunicate students who played. But considering this hostility, it’s perplexing to find the bursar of the university’s Arts Faculty purchasing footballs: for 6 pence and 8 pence Scots in 1535 and 1537 respectively (roughly equal to a building labourer’s day wage at the time). An entry in the Faculty’s act book dated to 19 February 1537 sheds further light on the curious sponsorship (translated from the original Latin on the slide below). It records the minutes of a faculty congregation which discussed, among other things, disorder caused by football play the week prior on Shrove Tuesday, the pre-Lent Carnival (known as Fastern’s E’en in Lowland Scotland). By digging into the dense and sometimes confusing details of this act, the bursar’s payments, and some other comparative and contextual evidence, we can piece together the story of Scotland’s oldest firm.2

Powerpoint slide on the institutional patronage of football in St Andrews, featuring a quote in translation from the University's Faculty of Arts acts dated to February 1537. It demonstrates that the Faculty and the burgh government sponsored football on Shrove Tuesday, and that the Faculty planned to withhold this support in future due to the disorder caused by the sport.

Let’s summarize what we know. During the 1530s and presumably earlier, the provost (mayor) of St Andrews – or the city bailies (bailiffs) on his behalf – customarily provided one football each to the three main colleges of the university on Shrove Tuesday for play in the fields outside the city. For some undeclared reason, in 1537 (and based on the bursar’s accounts presumably 1535 too) the Faculty of Arts’ Dean (instead of the burgh provost) furnished the football for one of the colleges called the Pedagogy. But then on the day of play, the Faculty’s Beadle (a type of officer) ended up confiscating that same ball, causing a ‘great schism’ in the fields. Prompted by this particular disorder, and the ‘many ills’ the football had engendered in the past, the Faculty decided to withdraw their tacit or direct support for the tradition: Arts students should no longer receive a ball from the burgh hereafter.

St Andrews and Shrovetide Sport

To make sense of all this, we need to start with the institutions involved. The provost and his two baillies were the elected leaders of the burgh council. This was the city government made up of select burgesses/freemen (merchants and craftsmen who were members of the city’s ‘freedom’ with its special economic and political privileges). The colleges in question were St Leonard and St Salvatore, and the Pedagogy – a quasi-college run by the Faculty of Arts. Like at Oxford or Cambridge today, these colleges were semi-autonomous educational institutions responsible for the housing and teaching of students. Teachers, curricula and exams were organized under faculties, with Arts being the lowest and largest, acting as a prerequisite for the three higher faculties of Medicine, Law and Theology. Faculties and colleges all came under the unifying authority of ‘the University of St Andrews’ which had been incorporated under a foundational charter from the pope in 1413. The sixteenth-century map below summarizes when and where the institutional players in this football drama emerged over the course of the university’s first century.3

Annotated map of sixteenth-century St Andrews 'S. Andre sive Andreapolis Scotiae Universitas Metropolitana' c.1580 by John Geddy, highlighting key institutions and locations for patronage of Shrove Tuesday football in 1530s.
Annotation of sixteenth-century map of St Andrews ‘S. Andre sive Andreapolis Scotiae Universitas Metropolitana’ c.1580 by John Geddy, highlighting key institutions and locations for patronage of Shrove Tuesday football in 1530s. Map reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland. CC-BY

We can deduce that the Shrove Tuesday football tradition changed over the years, merely by looking at when the colleges had been founded. St Leonard’s had only come into existence about two decades prior to the 1537 incident. Before this time, the burgh presumably only had two footballs on its Shrovetide gift list. Or perhaps the whole tradition was a quite recent innovation. For several reasons, however, I think the custom stretched back into the fifteenth century, and was simply adapted as the university grew and changed.

For one, Shrovetide sports are documented at the university from its earliest years. In 1415 the Faculty of Arts allowed the grammar schoolboys their old customary privilege of Shrovetide cockfighting, as long as these bloodsports were restricted to three days, rather than three weeks (!). No mention is made of football then, but cockfighting, football and Shrovetide were a package deal in many medieval communities. In twelfth-century London, scholars held cockfights on Shrove Tuesday morning, and played a ball game in the afternoon, while the great and good of the city looked on with approval. Likewise in the fifteenth-century Norman town of Abbeville, the schoolboy who won the Shrovetide cockfight helped the mayor preside over the ball game.4 It’s therefore quite possible that students and the burgh council were already involved with football back when the university was founded.

Certainly, by the end of the century, football was popular enough to prompt university, faculty and college bans. But where would that leave any established Shrovetide matches? While football was technically an unlawful game, many authorities in medieval and early modern Britain made an exception on Shrove Tuesday and other important festivals. South of the border, for example, Durham priory regularly banned football among its tenants during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Yet in 1492 the prior explicitly allowed certain villages to play the game on two days of the year: Plough Monday and Shrove Tuesday.5

Reasons for Institutional Support of Football

Why would those in power make such exceptions? Tolerating or even sponsoring football on established occasions could give officials a degree of control over a rowdy game – a chance to channel students’ festive energies into approved and supervised outlets. But as I’ve written elsewhere, institutional interest in football often went beyond a desire for social control. This was especially true for civic institutions, like the burgh government of St Andrews. Many urban craftsmen and tradesmen in medieval and early modern Britain were deeply invested in football, whether as players or patrons. Some within this burgeoning middling sort found great value in the sport, despite its illegal stature and violent nature. It could be a marker of a freeman’s status – both a privilege and obligation – to facilitate football, and thereby provide entertainment and ‘manly exercise’ for the ‘commonwealth’. We see the currency of football as a common good and right of the people of St Andrews in a 1553 contract between the burgh council and the Archbishop. It allowed the Archbishop a rabbit warren in the common links (pictured below), but reserved to the community ‘all manner of right and possession’ on the commons, including ‘playing at golf, football, shooting at game, with all manner of other pastimes as ever they please’.6

St Andrews Old Course. Once the common links of the city used for resources, and recreations like football as well as golf. It is likely where the Shrove Tuesday football took place in the medieval burgh. Image credit: UK Golf Guy.

Freemen who did not uphold football could be punished severely, like the maltman from Rutherglen (near Glasgow) who had his goods seized in 1626 because he didn’t join the rest of the burgesses on the town green for the annual Fastern’s Eve match. There’s a seriousness about football here that I think modern fans would recognize, although you won’t get fined for missing the derby these days! And I think this seriousness is key to understanding the 1530s incident. When the provost stopped giving a football to the Pedagogy, he seems to have continued giving ones to the two rival colleges. I suspect the Arts Faculty stepped in to make sure their associated college received proper due as befitted its equal status and privileges, something all three colleges guarded fiercely. Moreover, receiving the provost’s football gifts and participating in the Shrovetide sport likely reaffirmed symbolically the city and university’s important (yet sometimes fraught) relationship. The Faculty may not have approved of football themselves, but exclusion from a longstanding and laudable Shrovetide custom would be a dishonour on many counts. This prompts the question: why did the burgh slight the Pedagogy by withholding their ball, and why did the Dean’s substitute ball end up causing controversy? Context is key here.

Since its founding in the early fifteenth century, the Pedagogy had been chronically underfunded. Periodic attempts over the century to re-found it as a proper college with adequate endowment and buildings had failed. After 1533, the Pedagogy and its buildings were in such decay that student enrollment plummeted. While St Salvator’s and St Leonard’s were graduating around thirteen students a year, the Pedagogy could claim zero. Something was finally done in February 1538, one year after the Faculty pulled out of the Shrovetide football. The Pedagogy was re-founded as the properly endowed St Mary’s College.7 With this context in mind, I hypothesize that the burgh stopped giving the Pedagogy a customary ball once it became clear there was no coherent student body to accept it; the Faculty tried to save face for a few years by purchasing their own balls before withdrawing support for the custom entirely. This theory tracks with the Arts bursar’s accounts, which span before and after the 1530s, but only show football purchases in 1535 and 1537.

St Mary’s College, St Andrews. Built on the location of the old Pedagogy in the sixteenth century. Image Courtesy of the University of St Andrews Library, ID PGA-6-10 © The University of St Andrews

Football Play and Profitability

We don’t get any specific details on how the St Andrews football games were played, but we can speculate based on the ball distribution, location, and comparative examples. Historians have assumed the game was either intercollegiate or between city and university. These are reasonable assumptions. We can find examples of town vs gown Shrovetide matches in early modern Cambridge and Oxford. In the late fifteenth century, rivalry between the Pedagogy and St Salvator’s led to bloodshed, while about a century later St Leonard’s and St Salvator’s students were ordered to take recreation in different fields to avoid conflict.8 However, based on the fact that each college received their own ball, it seems more likely to me that the games were intra-collegiate: students played their own college peers. We find this structure later in the century at Cambridge, where football was allowed but only within colleges, never between them.9 Similarly at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the University of Aberdeen’s Marischal College propagated weekly football matches within the college student body. Students were further divided based on their year, and there were complicated rules for how new balls should be supplied when the ones in play inevitably burst (see slide below).

Slide with some examples of institutional support from schools universities and burgh governments for football after the Scottish Reformation. It details regulations from Marischal College (Aberdeen) in 1605 and mentions of David Wedderburn's educational contributions to the sport in the 1630s. The text also details burgh corporations like Glasgow and Rutherglen providing footballs and promoting the game during the late 1500s and 1600s.

It’s often assumed that premodern football was a bloody free-for-all with uneven throngs of players, indeterminate boundaries, and no rules. But not only could this cross-country style of play exhibit sophisticated tactics and rules in its own right, it was also not the sport’s only form.10 From post-Reformation Scotland we can also find examples of small and even-sided games, defined playing areas and goals, passing and goal keeping. Play at the Aberdeen schools and colleges had some of these features, and if the St Andrews Shrovetide football was intra-collegiate and confined to the links it may have looked similar. Certainly, university officials (normally hostile to football) were more likely to tolerate play of this more structured form.

On the other hand, it is possible there was just one free-for-all game where the balls were tossed up in turn. This was how the civic-sponsored Shrove Tuesday game worked in Chester during the 1530s.11 Plus, the Faculty act technically refers to a ‘game’ in the singular (ludo) which followed the receiving of the balls, though this could also be translated as the more ambiguous word ‘play’. Perhaps the provost even gave out additional balls to other civic institutions (beyond the colleges) which went unmentioned in the Faculty records. Later in the century, for example, the Glasgow burgh council annually bought six footballs for their town’s own Fastern’s Eve festivities, though no rhyme or reason was ever given for such a specific number (see slide above). But again, I think the events narrated in the Faculty’s act support the intra-collegiate hypothesis. If the Pedagogy’s ball was just one of a series to be played by everyone in the fields, it’s not clear why it specifically should prompt disorder and confiscation. There was obviously something controversial about who should possess this particular ball. I suspect that without a substantial Pedagogy student body to play with the Dean’s football, students from the other colleges tried to claim it for themselves. When the Arts Beadle intervened, the students were not pleased.

The Faculty of Arts used this incident as pretext for withdrawing support from the Shrovetide game, at least ‘so far as concerned it’. This wording speaks to the Faculty’s limited jurisdiction in the matter. Although the congregation couched the decision as in the best interests of the whole university, the Faculty only held power over its own students and the Pedagogy. They could not stop the burgh from offering the footballs, nor the other colleges from accepting them. This makes it even more likely the single game referred to in the act was the Pedagogy’s game, something the Faculty had some say in, rather than a general free-for-all. It’s also a reminder that Shrovetide football may have continued in St Andrews long after the Faculty signaled its disapproval. If the 1553 contract concerning access to the common links (mentioned above) is anything to go on, the burgh council remained sympathetic to football for some time, as did many civic institutions in Scotland.

Slide summarizing conflicting views on the social value of football in medieval and early modern Scotland, featuring points from various sources including quotes from Parliament acts and notable figures, discussing football's dangers and unprofitable nature on one hand, and benefits as a manly exercise on the other.

The burgh and university’s differing attitudes towards football point to an ongoing and underlying ideological debate about the premodern sport’s social value (see slide above): was it a manly exercise of good fellowship and community worthy of patronage, or an unprofitable waste of time, health and property to be prohibited? This St Andrews case shows how complicated this sort of cost-benefit analysis could get. When the Faculty’s ledger finally swung fully to ‘unprofitable’, it cited the ‘many ills’ and disorder football brought to the university. But it was perhaps just as much (or more) about avoiding further embarrassment over the derelict state of their Pedagogy and its lack of students. After all, the Faculty had only just gone out of their way to keep the Pedagogy involved in the custom. Clearly, football held a value that was difficult to quantify or ignore, something which prompted educational and civic institutions throughout premodern Scotland to invest.

As we know, universities and cities (schoolboys and workers) would continue to shape the development of Scottish football into the modern era. The story of the ‘oldest firm’ shows just how deep that heritage goes. And for just how long Scottish football has been ‘more than a game’.

  1. This question formed part of a talk I gave for the University of Edinburgh’s Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies in November 2024. The slides in this post are from that talk. For football in medieval and early modern Perth, see pp. 120-125 of my thesis. ↩︎
  2. The bursar payments are in St Andrews Special Collections, UYUY412 Faculty of Arts. Bursars book, 1456-1853, fols. 27v, 28v. The faculty act is printed in A. I. Dunlop, ed. Acta Facultatis atrium Universitatis Sanctiandree 1413 – 1588, 2 vols. (Scottish History Society, 1964), vol. 2 pp. 380-381. For digitization of the original manuscript see SASC, UY411/1 Acta facultatis arterium. 1413-1728, fol. 166v. From 1534-7, day wages for building labourers in Linlithgow, Falkland and Edinburgh averaged 8-10 pence. See A. J. S. Gibson and T. C. Smout. Prices, Food and Wages in Scotland, 1550–1780 (CUP, 1994), p. 313. ↩︎
  3. Roger A. Mason, ‘University, City and Society’, in K. Stevenson and M. Brown (eds.) Medieval St Andrews: Church, Cult, City (Boydell & Brewer, St Andrews Studies in Scottish History, 2017), pp. 268–297. ↩︎
  4. On Shrovetide sports in St Andrews see David Ditchburn, ‘Religion, Ritual and the Rhythm of the Year in Later Medieval St Andrews’, in K. Stevenson and M. Brown (eds.) Medieval St Andrews: Church, Cult, City (Boydell & Brewer, St Andrews Studies in Scottish History, 2017), p. 105. For Shrovetide cockfighting and football in Britain see chapters 1 and 2 of my thesis. The Abbeville reference is to the football-like ball game of ‘cholle’ or soule. See John Brand, Observations on Popular Antiquities: Chiefly Illustrating the Origin of Our Vulgar Customs, Ceremonies and Superstitions, 2 vols. ed. Henry Ellis (1811 edition), vol 1, p. 66. ↩︎
  5. Durham University Special Collections, DCD-Halm.Rolls, 1492 Spring, Billingham and Cowpen Bewley. ↩︎
  6. Norman Reid, ‘Five Centuries of Dispute: The Common Land of St Andrews’, Scottish Archives 21 (2015), p. 31. ↩︎
  7. Mason, pp. 288-296. ↩︎
  8. Ronald Gordon Cant, The University of St Andrews: A Short History (3rd edition, 1992), pp. 32,37. St. Leonard’s students were ordered to take recreation in St Nicholas fields, outside the city near their college, while St Salvator’s students were to go to the old links, near their college. ↩︎
  9. I hope to write soon on college football in Tudor and Stuart Cambridge. ↩︎
  10. On the sophisticated tactics of traditional cross-country football games see Hugh Hornby, Uppies and Downies: The Extraordinary Football Games of Britain, (Swindon: English Heritage, 2008). ↩︎
  11. See chapter 2 of my thesis for details on the Chester game. ↩︎

The Politics of Pancakes

On Shrove Tuesday 1270, the monks of Beaulieu Abbey in the New Forest rewarded their lay manorial workers with pancakes, with the youngest employees also receiving a feast of beef, cheese and ale in the great hall of the abbey’s infirmary. This is the earliest known evidence of Shrove Tuesday pancakes in England.

The general origins of this tradition are familiar: medieval Europeans used up their meat and dairy in anticipation of the Lenten fast and its many prohibitions, gradually developing a festival of joy and raucous play, known by various food-related names like Carnivale (leaving off meat), and Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday). 

Yet the practices of medieval Beaulieu Abbey hint at another layer of meaning baked into the foods of Shrove Tuesday: a power to inform social relations, convey privileges to certain members of premodern society and even symbolise radical action. 

Read the full article in History Today.

May-Dew’s Medicinal Uses: An Early Modern Top Ten List

I suppose that he who would gather the best May-Deaw, for Medicine, should gather it from the Hills.

Francis Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum (1626)

Yesterday, I climbed Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh at daybreak to gather May-Dew – an old tradition that from what I could see has mostly fallen into abeyance. For those not in the know, May-Dew is the moisture that collects around dawn during the month of May, but especially on May Day. According to folklore, the dew can convey (variously) luck, beauty and health for the coming year, usually through direct contact with the skin.

These last two ideas about beauty and health first show up on record in the late medieval and early modern period, when, as Francis Bacon’s quote suggests, the medicinal properties of May-Dew were taken quite seriously. To give this old tradition a proper 21st century treatment, here’s a Top Ten List of the Medicinal Uses for May-Dew, pulled from sixteenth and seventeenth-century sources.

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May Day morn atop Arthur’s Seat

Before beginning, we need to know the proper way to gather and prepare May-Dew so that it works effectively. Fortunately, the German surgeon, botanist and alchemist Hieronymous Brunschwig lays this all out in detail in his Liber de arte distillandi de simplicibus, published in 1500 and translated into English in 1527 as The vertuose boke of distyllacyon of the waters of all maner of herbes.

 

Cover of Hieronymous Brunschwig's Liber de arte distillandi de simplicibus, 1500
Hieronymous Brunschwig’s Liber de arte distillandi de simplicibus, 1500 (Wikimedia)

According to Brunschwig, one must rise before the dawn on a night in the ‘myddest of maye’ when the moon is almost full and it has not rained. You should find a pasture or field ‘where as growe many flowres’. It should be far from ‘watery places’, but the nearer to ‘the montaynes the better’. Once there, ‘drawe a great linyn clothe’ over the field, wringing the dew out into a glass until you have enough for your purposes. Then, ‘strayne the dew thrughe a fayre lynyn clowte [cloth]’ before distilling it in a glass and setting it out for 30 days in the sun. Now it’s ready to cure what ails you.

TOP TEN MEDICINAL USES FOR MAY-DEW

1. Acne

May-Dew’s curative properties are most often associated with the face and head, and this  is evident from the earliest references. Brunschwig explains that May-Dew is useful ‘whan a body hath an unclene hede & spottes in the face’. Wash the face with distilled May-Dew at morning and night, let air dry, and ‘than it wyll go awaye’.

2. Rosacea 

According to Brunschwig, the same May-Dew treatment could also cure ‘Guttam roseam’ – a skin condition involving red discoloration of the face, which seems to describe the modern rosacea. He explains that the condition could come from overheating, but also ‘frome hote blode and frome the lyuer’. Since it was sometimes associated with the onset of leprosy, it was not something to write off.

3. Wrinkles 

The final use Brunschwig suggests for May-Dew is more cosmetic than strictly medicinal – ridding the face of wrinkles. Washing with the distilled liquid at morning and night should ’causeth a fayre & clene face’.

Page on 'Water of the Maye dewe' in Hieronymous Brunschwig, The vertuose boke of distyllacyon of the waters of all maner of herbes, translated by Laurence Andrew, 1527
‘Water of the Maye dewe’ in Hieronymous Brunschwig, The vertuose boke of distyllacyon of the waters of all maner of herbes, translated by Laurence Andrew, 1527 (Early English Books Online).

4. Small Pox Scars and Redness 

Similar to the cures above, Simon Kellwaye wrote in A Short treatise of the small pockes (1593), that May-Dew could help with the ‘rednes of the face and hands after the pockes are gone’.

5. Sore Eyes

Hugh Plat’s Delightes for ladies to adorne their persons, printed in 1602, recommends May-Dew for a variety of cosmetic and medicinal treatments. In a section on ‘How to gather and clarifie May-dewe’, which broadly repeats Brunschwig’s advice, he adds:

‘Some commend May-dew gathered from Fennell and Celandine, to be most excellent for sore-eyes’.

Plat_Hugh_Sir-Delightes_for_ladies_to_adorne-STC-19978-1733_06-p93 (4)
‘How to Gather and Clarifie May-dewe’ in Hugh Plat, Delightes for ladies to adorne their persons, tables, closets, and distillatories with beauties, banquets, perfumes and waters1602 (Early English Books Online)

6. Lesions

Printed in 1659, The Queens closet purportedly contains ‘incomparable secrets in physick, chyrurgery, preserving, and candying &c. which were presented unto the queen’, including a method ‘To take away Freckles or Morphew’. A morphew was a skin lesion, but it was nothing that a little May-Dew and tartar couldn’t fix!

Take four spoonfuls of May dew, and one spoonfull of the Oyl of Tartar, mingle them together, and wash the places where the freckles be, and let it dry of it self, it will clear the skin, and take away all foul spots.

7. Gout

In his Natural History of Wiltshire, published in 1691, antiquarian John Aubrey extolled the virtues of May-Dew for relief of gout, something corroborated in contemporary medical treatises.

Maydewe is a very great dissolvent of many things with the sunne that will not be dissolved any other way: which putts me in mind of the rationality of the method used by Wm. Gore, of Clapton, Esq., for his gout, which was to walke in the dewe with his shoes pounced; he found benefit by it.

Aubrey sought further confirmation by telling this story to a surgeon in Shoe Lane, London, who replied that it was indeed ‘the very method and way of curing’ used on Oliver Cromwell for the same ailment.

8. Tooth Ache 

May-Dew was also an essential ingredient in Robert Boyle’s remedy ‘for the tooth ach’. Printed in his Medicinal experiments, or, A collection of choice and safe remedies (1693), it involved sprinkling the dew over a mixture of herbs before putting a few drops of the solution into the afflicted’s ear whilst they chewed some bread. 

Boyle_Robert-Medicinal_experiments_or_A_collection-Wing-B3990-1479_14-p154
‘For the Tooth-ach’ in Robert Boyle, Medicinal experiments, or, A collection of choice and safe remedies for the most part simple and easily prepared, useful in families, and very serviceable to country people, 1693 (Early English Books Online).

9. Weak Back

Although there aren’t known records of this for the early modern period, by the nineteenth century some believed May Dew could strengthen weak backs, particularly those of sickly children. Jamieson’s Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language, published 1808, put it this way:

Great virtue is ascribed to May-dew. Some, who have tender children, particularly on Rude-day [3 May], spread out a cloth to catch the dew, and wet them in it.

10. Pretty Much Anything

Beyond specific ailments, May-Dew was a key ingredient in many recipes, both medicinal and alchemical.  For example, the Thesaurus & armamentarium medico-chymicum – written by Adrian von Mynsicht in the early seventeenth century and translated into English in 1682 – called for ‘water made of May-dew gathered from the standing Wheat’ to facilitate his recipe for ‘Pearls Trochiscated’. Apparently, this powerful concoction could cure just about any problem, psychological or physical:

It is a most excellent Comfortative in all affects of the Heart, as Pain, Sorrow, Trembling, Pulsation, Palpitation, defects of the Mind, &c. Also in pains of the Head, Vertigo, Epilepsie, Apoplexy, Palsie, Contractures, resolution of the Nerves, Convulsion, Phrensie, Melancholy, Madness, Gout, and Gouty pains in the Joynts, Consumption, Blasting, the numbness and decay by Age, Stone, Dropsie, Scurvy, French Pox, and Feavers, &c. It purifies the Blood; it comforts all the Senses, Brain, Memory, and Heart, and preserves the whole body sound….

Etc., etc., etc.

And there you have it. If you’ve got a problem, May-Dew’s probably got you covered.

MAY-DEW AND MANNA FROM HEAVEN

Early moderns clearly respected this liquid’s efficacy, and the power the festive year could give them to influence their own lives. It wasn’t just a superstitious practice of the ‘folk’, either. Hieronymous Brunschwig, Francis Bacon, Robert Boyle – these were leading thinkers and experts of their respective days. Even the Royal Society commissioned Some observations and experiments upon May-dew in the 1660s. While the division between folklore and learned knowledge certainly increased in the eighteenth century, such a divide was not necessarily so pronounced before this: folk practices could often be grounded – at least in part – in the prevailing learned theories of the day.

Francis Bacon’s own theory about May-Dew, quoted at the top, connected the substance to contemporary discussions on ‘manna’, the Biblical food which nourished the Israelites during their forty years in the desert.  At the end of the seventeenth century, Thomas Pope Blount compiled some of these theories, including Bacon’s, into a section called ‘Observations concerning manna’ in his Natural History (1693). Since manna was described in the Bible as arriving with the dew in the night, it was often called the ‘Dew of Heaven’. According to Blount, the substance still collected and congealed on plants and trees. It could be (and was) harvested and used for ‘physick’. Though more plentiful in hotter climes – where dew collected thick throughout the year – it could be found in England too: ‘In those hot Countries it Coagulates, with us it is liquid’. 

Blount was building on the ideas of Bacon, who argued that the best manna could be found in Calabria, at the tip of Italy’s boot. Based on the harvesting practices there, where manna was gathered from trees in the mountains but not the valleys, Bacon thought that, in its descent from heaven, manna collected first in the highland areas, and dissipated before it could reach the plants of the valley. He drew the conclusion that it would ‘not be amiss to observe a little better the Dews that fall upon Trees, or Herbs, growing on Mountains’.

Echoing Brunschwig’s advice about collecting ‘nearer…the montaynes’, Bacon suggested the best May-Dew for medicinal purposes would come from the hills, presumably because it mingled with manna from heaven, or was perhaps manna itself. This may also explain the importance of May in this equation, at least in the minds of these thinkers. Since May is the month in northern climes when weather turns warm and dews increase (but do not evaporate too quickly), it would be the best opportunity to soak up powerful manna.  

Theorizing aside, I can now say from experience that it was not easy to find and gather May-Dew at the top of Arthur’s Seat (there’s far more of it on the lowland Meadows). But perhaps this is really the point: the greater the challenge, the greater the reward, the more powerful the May-Dew.

Happy Maytide!