The ground shook before we even saw them. Twin-rotor Chinook helicopters thundered through the skies over Perthshire, blades slicing the summer air, swooping low over the rolling green hills surrounding Gleneagles.
As they touched down, their back doors opened and out came the human cargo – rows of police officers in full riot gear, boots hitting the earth with the precision of military theatre.
It was July 2005, and for a few extraordinary days, Perthshire had become the centre of the world.
From my vantage point as a Courier writer immersed in the G8 summit, I watched the surreal spectacle unfold.
The leaders of the world’s eight richest nations – George W. Bush, Tony Blair, Jacques Chirac, Angela Merkel, Silvio Berlusconi, Junichiro Koizumi, Paul Martin, and yes, Vladimir Putin – were meeting behind the gilded gates of the Gleneagles Hotel.
The main aims were to focus on Africa’s development and global climate change.
But outside, the world was roaring.
What happened during the ‘Battle of Auchterarder’?
On the afternoon of July 6, during a largely peaceful march around the so-called “ring of steel,” anti-capitalist protestors spilled into a field and surged toward the security fence. A minority tried to pull it down.
Cue the Chinooks. Minutes later, truncheons were cracking skulls as police engaged.
As the drama unfolded, a young man staggered toward me, blood streaming from a head wound.
He said riot police “smashed him with a baton”.
As he was bandaged by police medics, he told me: “I came for a peaceful protest. This is how they treat people.”
Others, dressed in black facemasks, by contrast, looked like they were in the mood for a fight. The so-called ‘Battle of Auchterarder’ had begun.
Protests came in many forms
Earlier that day, a more sedate yet powerful protest had delayed our arrival from Dundee.
Pro-climate protestors lay across narrow country roads in peaceful defiance, blocking access as local journalists like us sought alternative routes.
Protestors also attempted to block the A9. Similar protests took place in Stirling.
It felt, at times, like a war zone – with a distinctly Scottish twist.
At one checkpoint near Broxden, a moment of comic absurdity broke the tension.
An officer leaned into our car, squinted at our press passes.
“You media?”
“Yes.”
“DC Thomson?”
“That’s right.”
A pause. Then: “So you are… media cops?”
Media cops. That phrase still makes me chuckle two decades on.
I’m not sure what they imagined – some elite press-strike unit, all called Detective Constable (DC) Thomson?
But it added to the surrealism of one of Scotland’s most logistically intense security operations.
What was the impact on Auchterarder?
Over 10,000 police officers were deployed. Roads were cordoned off for miles.
In Auchterarder, the quiet streets transformed. Residents watched as Black Bloc anarchists clashed with police, faces masked, chants defiant. Shops were boarded up. Public spaces were patrolled.
Yet amid the tension, there was humour. Humanity. Even Highland hospitality.
The Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army protested against corporate globalisation, war and capitalism by tickling people with feather dusters.
I remember an elderly lady offering tea to a pair of overwhelmed American journalists. A pub landlord grumbled about the disruption but admitted, with a wink, business had never been better. The locals, resilient and bemused, took it in their stride.
Then there were the media packs.
Media pack controversies – and the campaign to Make Poverty History
On day one, as we entered the international press centre – housed inside a giant security-tight marquee – we were handed glossy brochures extolling Scotland’s beauty, travel guides, a whisky miniature, and, naturally, a box of shortbread.
At a summit meant to tackle global poverty, the irony was thick enough to spread.
Controversy wasn’t far behind. One local journalist discovered that with a bit of Cif cleaner and some effort back home, he could erase the daily ink mark from his pass, claim another press pack the next day – and the day after.
But the seriousness of the summit was undeniable. The Make Poverty History campaign had reached critical mass. At the week’s start, I had joined 250,000 people marching peacefully through Edinburgh.
Live 8 concerts, led by Live Aid founder Bob Geldof, had been broadcast worldwide. Public pressure had never been higher. The message was clear: this G8 couldn’t be business as usual. And, for a moment, it wasn’t.
I remember the speeches. The pledges. The promise to double aid to Africa by 2010. To cancel billions in debt.
To fight HIV/AIDS, improve education, boost economic development.
For a few shining days, it felt like real change might be possible.
Bob Geldof himself and U2’s Bono even turned up.
But on July 7, the mood shattered.
What was the impact of the 7/7 bombings?
My colleagues Jack McKeown, Steve Bargeton and the late Chris Ferguson and I were in the press centre when the news broke.
At first, confusion: “Power surge on the London Underground,” news reports said.
Then came the images. The buses. The twisted metal. The devastation.
Four coordinated suicide bombings had struck London’s transport network, killing 52 and injuring over 770.
In an instant, the headlines shifted – from hope and aid to terror and grief.
Tony Blair, who had just spoken like a man on a moral crusade, was now grim-faced, flying from Dundee Airport to a capital under siege.
When he returned to Gleneagles, visibly shaken, he addressed the media again – no longer about trade or aid, but resilience, defiance.
Journalists stopped filing stories about pledges and percentages. Conversations went quiet. Helicopters still buzzed overhead, but now they sounded ominous.
The summit’s focus broadened: not just poverty, but safety, stability, survival.
And amid it all stood Vladimir Putin.
In 2005, he was still seen – at least in the West – as a necessary geopolitical partner. No one could have foreseen that 20 years later, he’d be an indicted war criminal according to the International Criminal Court: cast out of the G8 and waging war – or a “special military operation” – in Ukraine.
What’s the legacy of the 2005 Gleneagles G8 Summit?
Much has changed since. The pledges of 2005 were not all kept. Some barely began. Yes, lives were improved. Debt was cancelled for 18 countries. Access to HIV treatment expanded. But inequality persists. Climate change worsens. And international cooperation often feels like a relic of more hopeful times.
Controversy emerged later over the £72 million policing costs.
Still, Gleneagles mattered.
It showed civil society could influence the global agenda. That ordinary people could compel presidents and prime ministers to listen.
That even in the face of horror, the world could strive to be better – even if that world often now feels like a very different place.
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