Between 1563 and 1736, Scotland was gripped by fear, suspicion, and rigid religious law under the Scottish Witchcraft Act. Today, the Witches of Scotland Tartan stands as a living memorial, honoring those persecuted under this law. Enacted just three years after the country declared Protestantism its official religion, the Act sought to enforce godliness and punish those believed to consort with the devil. Its language was deliberately vague, and as a result, accusations spread like wildfire: neighbors turned on neighbors, friends accused friends, and families were torn apart. An estimated 2,500 individuals (85% of them women) were executed during these 173 years.
The mechanisms of persecution were cruel and arbitrary. ‘Witch prickers’ were employed to search for marks left by the devil, birthmarks, moles, or scars, which were interpreted as damning evidence. Trials often lacked due process, and confessions were extracted through fear and coercion. Even decades after the Act was passed, its shadow lingered: the last known execution under the law occurred in 1727, when Janet Horne of Dornoch was accused of witchcraft and executed for allegedly transforming her daughter into a pony. It would not be until 1736 that the law was formally repealed, closing a dark chapter in Scotland’s history, but not before countless lives had been lost, voices silenced, and knowledge suppressed.
Today, we remember these women and men not only for their suffering but also for their resilience. In 2020, Claire Mitchell and Zoe Venditozzi founded the Witches of Scotland campaign to advocate for a formal pardon, a national apology, and a lasting memorial to those persecuted. The campaign has already achieved recognition: in 2022, Scotland’s First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, issued a formal apology, as did the Church of Scotland, acknowledging its role in these tragic events.
Mitchell and Venditozzi, however, wanted a more tangible, living way to honour the victims, a memorial woven into the fabric of life itself. The solution came in the form of a tartan. Designed alongside Clare Campbell of the Prickly Thistle Weaving Mill, the pattern became the Witches of Scotland Tartan. The design combines black, grey, red, and pink stripes laden with symbolism: black and grey represent the dark times and ashes of the burned; red reflects the victims’ blood; pink signifies the legal tapes used to bind papers, past and present. Even the thread count carries meaning: the large black squares are made from 173 threads, representing the years the law was in effect, while thinner lines reflect the sum of digits of the years the Act began (1563) and ended (1736). The red and pink stripes repeat three times, symbolising the campaign’s three aims: pardon, apology, and memorial.
This tartan is not merely decorative; it is a living memorial. Woven into kilts, scarves, or other garments, the tartan Witches of Scotland carries the weight of history, remembrance, and reflection. A portion of the proceeds will go to charity, ensuring the memory of those persecuted continues to resonate and support the living community today.
As we wear, display, or study this tartan, we are reminded of the resilience and enduring legacy of those who were condemned. The Scottish Witchcraft Act stands as a cautionary tale of fear, superstition, and unchecked authority, but the Witches of Scotland Tartan offers a path toward remembrance, justice, and reflection. Each thread tells a story, honours a life lost, and invites us to carry their voices forward into the present.
This, to me, is significant.
Trad craft teaches us that symbolism matters. That the act of making, whether weaving, carving, baking, or binding, can become an offering.
A tartan woven in memory becomes more than cloth. It becomes a portable memorial. A pattern that moves through the world. A way of carrying history on the body.
For those of us who walk crooked paths today, the witches in Scotland are not simply historical curiosities. They are reminders of what happens when fear is weaponised, when ambiguity in law meets religious fervour, and when communities turn inward and suspicion becomes virtue.
They remind us that many of those accused were ordinary people whose lives intersected with systems far larger than themselves.
At The Blackthorne School, we approach the history of witchcraft with reverence and sobriety. We honour the cunning folk, the healers, the midwives, the charmers, and we also acknowledge the complexity of their worlds. We recognise that modern practice exists because others endured scrutiny, persecution, and loss.
A living memorial does not require stone. It can be woven into cloth. It can be spoken in apology. It can be taught in classrooms. It can be held in the quiet commitment to practice with wisdom, discernment, and responsibility.
As practitioners, teachers, and students of traditional craft, we carry threads forward. The question is not whether we inherit the past.
The question is how we choose to weave it.
