Peterhead Audio Tour: Peterhead's Historical Heartbeat Tour

Look to your left and spot the tall, stone-faced building with steep, pointy gables and a small ornate balcony perched above the main doorway; next to it you'll see a newer, silvery extension that looks much more modern than its neighbour. Now, picture the year 1869 here in Peterhead. The air is thick with the smell of cut stone and the excitement of a new era about to dawn. In front of you, right on Queen Street, the townsfolk gather, their best hats on, as a foundation stone is laid with full masonic honours-the start of what would become Peterhead Sheriff Court. Designed by William Smith, who must have had quite the flair for drama, the building rises with grand, jagged gables reaching for the sky, almost as if the roof is having a competition with the seagulls. Built with sturdy ashlar stone, every block seems to tell a tale-and let’s not forget the cost: £2,600! Back then, that could buy you quite a few barrels of herring and a new suit to boot. By 1871, the courthouse opens with its doors wide and its windows surveying Queen Street with a dignified gaze. Those segment-headed windows and tall pediments with finials above made sure everyone knew this house means business. Pass through the grand doorway and you’d find two courtrooms bustling with stern judges, nervous defendants, and whispers bouncing off the stone walls. Three prison cells lurked within-not the place to find yourself after a big night out! Fast forward to the late 1990s, and local officials realized this courthouse needed a new wing-sort of like a middle-aged man buying a shiny new car. The extension, gleaming with granite from Blackhill Quarry, was the talk of the town until the North Sea’s fierce weather started nibbling away at the stone. Granite turned crumbly, mysteries of weather and time colliding! Thanks to a £1.5 million makeover in 2019, now with smart new aluminium cladding, the courthouse stands ready for the next chapter of trials, tales, and maybe even a bit of drama on stormy nights. So, as you stand here, imagine the echoes of history and the sound of justice through the ages-you never know who’s peering out those old windows even today!

Straight ahead, you’ll spot a grand, stone building with perfectly balanced windows, a clock perched high in a tall, spire-topped tower, and a statue standing proudly on the steps-the unmistakable Peterhead Town House watching over Broad Street. Now that you’re here, take a breath and let’s travel back in time, where every stone of this Town House has a wild tale to tell. Imagine Broad Street in the late 1700s-horses clopping over cobbles, merchants shouting, and the smell of fresh-market fish in the air. It was here, in 1788, that the Peterhead Town House sprang up in all its neoclassical glory, looking not so different from what you see today. The building’s perfectly symmetrical face and sharp stone edges were meant to announce: Peterhead is thriving! But our story stretches back even further. The very first town building stood not here, but at the corner of Longate and Brook Lane, built around 1600 thanks to the generous George Keith, 5th Earl Marischal. That old tolbooth held many secrets, but in 1645, in the grip of the great plague, it doubled as a hospital. Imagine-sick townsfolk, flickering candlelight and panicked footsteps. Sadly, that building burned soon after. Did Peterhead give up? Not a chance! Another tolbooth rose on Tolbooth Wynd, built under orders of William Keith, fresh from the Tower of London, no less. With a belfry and a bell from 1725, it rang out every hour, echoing across the windy streets. Each chime probably made unruly prisoners and market sellers perk up their ears! But the townsfolk wanted more-a grand, modern home for their council. So, the Community of Feuars (imagine today’s neighborhood association, but in fancy hats) commissioned John Baxter the younger to design this ashlar stone masterpiece. Five airy bays lined the front, and, before the grand entrance porch you see today, there were grand steps leading up, making all arrivals feel very important. Atop the building, that famous clock was crafted here in town by James Argo, and the bell came from the legendary Whitechapel Bell Foundry, the same foundry that made Big Ben in London. It rang out news, celebrations, and-surely more than a few times-startled townsfolk awake! The Town House wasn’t just for show: schoolrooms, markets, and even justice was served within these walls. Downstairs, local markets bustled, while upstairs, council and courtroom business ticked on. And in 1832, a new stretch was added out toward Marischal Street-including a lock-up for “pretty prisoners”-though I suppose that just means “petty,” unless someone was judging beauty contests behind bars! In 1861, the fire brigade rolled out their fancy new horse-drawn engine, ready to tackle any blaze. Not to be outdone, in 1868, King William I of Prussia gifted the statue of Field Marshal James Keith-there he stands, forever keeping Broad Street in check. But time took its toll. By 2019, the Town House was worn and weary, slipping onto the Buildings at Risk Register. Thankfully, the town banded together and with a sprinkle of grants and elbow grease, gave it the grand spruce-up you see today. Now the clock tower still keeps watch, the market floors have found new purpose, and the whole structure stands as a proud testament to Peterhead’s adventurous past, grit, and community spirit. Now, as the sea breeze rattles the spire and the statue of James Keith eyes the horizon, can you feel the pulse of centuries past swirling all around you?

To spot St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, look for a light grey stone building with tall pointed windows bordered in red, and red double doors right on Merchant Street, just ahead of you. Now, let’s step back in time for a moment-imagine it’s a chilly December day in 1814. The streets are bustling, and townsfolk are gathering at this very spot, excited for their new church to finally open its doors for worship. But this isn’t just any church-this is the seventh home for the Episcopalians of Peterhead, a congregation that’s had to pack up and move more times than a travelling circus! The story begins in 1699, when the parish was ejected from their kirk, and the brave Alexander Barclay hosted secret services in his own house on Port Henry Road. Over the years, crafty ministers and determined worshippers popped up in secret rooms, borrowed houses, and even a short-lived chapel that got dramatically destroyed by Lord Ancrum in 1746-talk about explosive church politics! By 1814, they finally settled here. Architect Robert Mitchell gave this church its elegant edges and those big, eye-catching windows. Over time, they added more beauty: an apse and a stained glass window in memory of Torry, plus a booming organ in 1867 to fill the air with music. Next time you’re out in the wind or rain, just remember these folks kept moving and rebuilding-nothing could stop them from finding their home on Merchant Street. If these walls could talk, I’m sure they’d sing.

Look for a grand, grey stone building right in front of you, with five large windows across its perfectly symmetrical front, a little gable up top with a rounded attic window, and a spiked iron fence guarding the entrance you’ll see just ahead. Alright, pause for a moment and take it in-this is Arbuthnot House, though if buildings could talk, it might still whisper its old nickname, the Municipal Chambers. Imagine yourself standing on this very street in the late 1700s: the salty air of Peterhead swirling around, carriage wheels rattling along Broad Street, and the sound of Robert Arbuthnot (the original owner, and let’s just say, not short of a penny or two) pacing out the plot for a fine private house. Back then, the building was only half as deep as what you see now, more of an elegant townhouse than the imposing block before you, and it faced straight down to the bustling Town House at the other end. Flash forward a few decades-the house is snapped up by James Arbuthnot, a merchant with an eye for style. Here’s where things start getting interesting: in the early 1800s, the house is given a makeover fit for a neoclassical romance novel, with smooth ashlar stone, those stately sash windows, and a doorway so grand you almost expect a gentleman with a top hat to come strolling out. Now, step inside in your mind’s eye-past the rusticated doorway, you’d find a soaring reception hall stretching up two stories, perfect for gossiping aristocrats or, later, council debates that might’ve gotten just a bit heated! Long after the laughter and music faded, Arbuthnot House took on a serious role: shortly after the Second World War, the leaders of Peterhead ran the show from these very walls. But the years rolled on, councils and councils came and went, and eventually the hustle faded, leaving the building empty and boarded up, its windows looking out as if waiting for the next chapter. And here’s the twist-Aberdeenshire Council has big plans. Soon, the quiet of Arbuthnot House might be broken by the sound of readers and museum-goers, as new life is set to move in. So go on, give a wave. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll walk by and see the lights back on, stories old and new echoing through the hall once again!

Right in front of you, you’ll spot a low, sandy-coloured building with a slate roof, lined with small windows and a flag flying high-just look to the West Pier, at the edge of the harbour, where the blue “Lifeboats” signs mark the spot. Now, welcome to the last stop of our journey-Peterhead Lifeboat Station, the heroic heart of this rugged harbour town. Let’s imagine the air-salty, cold, and brisk-where this humble station has guarded the North Sea since 1865. Here, stories of courage ride the choppy tides, and some of the bravest souls in Scotland have raced from this very spot, as if the sea itself had dialled 999. Picture the first lifeboat, a bold 33-foot beast called People’s Journal No. 1, rumbling its way here in 1865 after a free train ride-and honestly, when was the last time you saw a lifeboat carpooling by train? Back then, she was powered by nothing but the wind in her sails and ten stout men at their oars. The lifeboat’s arrival was a local spectacle, displayed in Aberdeen before rolling into Peterhead, paid for entirely by enthusiastic readers of a Dundee newspaper. Imagine the bustling crowd, the cheers, the pride-because their very pennies funded this floating lifeline. The building you see isn’t just bricks and mortar. It’s been rebuilt, expanded, and moved, always evolving with the times. In 1900, the station grew, and by 1912, there was a brand new boathouse and slipway-just think of the sound as those lifeboats slid into the frigid harbour, ready for action. But the sea demands respect, and disaster is never far. On a raging December night in 1914, the lifeboat Alexander Tulloch launched into a gale to rescue the HMS Tom Tit. The wind howled, the waves towered, and, bravely pushing on, the crew were capsized and their boat wrecked. Three lifeboatmen gave their lives. But, even then, hope wasn’t lost-on the cliff above, men of the Rocket Brigade fired lines through the sleet and spray, pulling the Tom Tit’s crew to safety. Of course, Peterhead’s heroics weren’t a one-night-wonder. In 1916, when the Russian steamship Kiev ran aground near Rattray Head, the town’s lifeboat John Ryburn braved icy waters. The rescuers couldn’t come alongside, so ropes were tossed, and one by one, sixty souls were pulled through the freezing surf, hauled aboard. The gratitude crossed continents-a Russian fleet gifted £550, and medals sparkled around the necks of local heroes, like James and William Cameron. By 1928, the trusty George Pickard completed lengthy service and was retired-though she didn’t retire quietly, becoming a yacht before finally being broken up. The No.2 station became the main hub, a sort of nautical “promotion.” And during World War II, Peterhead’s lifeboats became legendary. Picture the blizzard of January 1942-wind screaming at over 100 miles per hour, ships running aground as fast as the crew could blink. The Julia Park Barry of Glasgow lifeboat launched four times, rescuing over 100 people, standing by day and night, the men barely catching a wink of sleep. Their bravery earned a treasure chest of medals, including a rare RNLI Gold Medal for their coxswain, John Buchan McLean. Even in modern times, the tradition of heroics is strong. In 1986, thanks to the generosity of the Robertson Trust-founded by three philanthropic sisters-the station got a gleaming new Tyne-class lifeboat, named Babs and Agnes Robertson. The Robertson sisters must be the only people who could fund a lifeboat with whisky money-they owned shares in Edrington, makers of some of Scotland’s finest drams! Fast forward to 2006, and Peterhead becomes one of the first places to receive the cutting-edge Tamar-class lifeboat, The Misses Robertson of Kintail. She rides at her berth just inside the South Harbour-a 16-metre modern marvel, funded again by those same philanthropic roots. The lifeboat station itself, rebuilt in 1999, is packed with comforts and technology, all to support the volunteers who leap from their beds at the sound of the pager, ready to face the wildest seas. Here, where the wind can still cut to the bone and seagulls circle hungrily overhead, the Peterhead Lifeboat Station stands as a monument to over 150 years of gallantry, sacrifice, and the unbreakable spirit of a community that never, ever lets go of hope-even when the storms roll in. So, as you stand here, remember: this isn’t just a building. It’s a living, breathing story-a silent promise that, on the darkest nights, someone will always set sail to bring you home. And that, my friend, is something truly worth saluting. Intrigued by the notable rescues, 1980s onward or the station honours? Make your way to the chat section and I'll be happy to provide further details.