Ian Hamilton on Stone of Destiny: I felt I was holding Scotland's soul

It was the 1950s student jape that re-ignited Scottish nationalism. As the 'liberation' of the Stone of Destiny is turned into a film, ringleader Ian Hamilton, now 83, tells Olga Craig why he is still proud of the heist.

Ian Hamilton, who led the heist on the Stone of Destiny
Hamilton, retired after a distinguished legal career Credit: Photo: CHRIS WATT

It was, Ian Hamilton calmly acknowledges, the moment of no return. ''You sort of know that when you take a crowbar to a side door of Westminster Abbey and jemmy the lock that there isn't really any going back, don't you?'' he says philosophically. ''Not when you know that the next thing you are going to do is steal one of the ancient relics inside.''

Hamilton is lost in reverie for a moment. A wry smile crosses his face and then a thought strikes him. ''Not,'' he says urgently, ''that it was stealing. It was a liberation. A returning of a venerable relic to its rightful ownership.''

Hamilton stretches out his legs and turns his gaze to the slate gray waters of Loch Lomond. ''Of course back then I didn't realise the scale of the thing. That it would become an international incident,'' he says, with the air of a man who has been describing something no more outrageous than picking the lock of his own front door after forgetting the key.

Hamilton allows himself another wry smile. At 83, he is spry, impish, dapper and, though a little hard of hearing, he isn't in danger of losing his marbles any time soon. Which is hardly surprising. An eminent Scottish lawyer who rose to be a Queen's Counsel, and who retired only three years ago, he is a shrewd man. One who could easily be mistaken for a pillar of the establishment. But then, appearances can be deceptive.

Almost 60 years ago, on Christmas Day 1950, Hamilton, then a brash and idealistic young student studying law at Glasgow University, became notorious in England and achieved nigh-on hero status in his native Scotland when he and a trio of friends staged one of the most audacious heists imaginable. In a caper worthy of an Ealing comedy, they motored from Glasgow to London (in those days no mean feat), broke into the Abbey, and stole the symbol of Scottish pride, the Stone of Scone – with one of the ''thieves'' breaking two toes when it fell on them.

The borders were closed, a posse of police vans gave chase, and a national outcry ensued. Whereupon our intrepid quartet calmly held the Stone hostage, deftly tap-danced their way through police interviews and triumphantly ended the escapade by evading arrest. The Scots were ecstatic. The English, by contrast, were bewildered. Was it, they asked themselves, a student jape or an insult to the majesty of the British state?

No self-respecting Scot should read the next paragraph and, if they do, shame upon them. But, for the benefit of some English readers, a brief history lesson becomes necessary. The Stone of Scone, you might ask – what exactly is it? More than a mere 336?lb slab of ancient sandstone, for a start.

Alleged to once have been Jacob's pillow, where the Biblical figure laid his head while he dreamt of a ladder to Heaven, it became the symbol of Scottish pride and independence, upon which the nation's kings were crowned. Then, in 1299, King Edward I, known as Longshanks, infuriated by the rebellious Scots, stormed Scone Abbey and stole it.

Its new home was Westminster Abbey, where it was placed beneath the Coronation chair as a scornful symbol of Scotland's subservience to England. Ever since then, its theft has been a thorn in the side of Scottish nationalists, symbolising England's arrogance and Scotland's shame at the loss of a sacred relic.

Hamilton's retaliation could have been lifted from a Boy's Own adventure. Which is exactly what film producer Charles Martin Smith thought when he first read about it nine years ago. It was the utter exuberant amateurism and audacity of the raid that appealed to him. ''This,'' he said to himself, ''is the stuff of movies.'' But he found few takers. ''Nobody in the States was interested in the story of four Scots stealing a rock. They wanted Superman V,'' he says ruefully. Undeterred, he kept looking for backers. And then the Canadians and British became involved.

The resulting film opens this week: Stone of Destiny, a perfect festive feel-good movie starring Robert Carlyle. Smith has gone to great lengths to ensure historical accuracy, even winning approval to film in the Abbey. Determined not to be duped a second time, its officials agreed only "as long as Hamilton doesn't take the whole Coronation chair".

The idea makes Hamilton laugh. ''No more breaking and entering for me,'' he says. ''I'm no longer a particularly political person. I believe deeply in my country. But as we say here: 'No Scotland, no me.' I'm no hero, the title doesn't fit. Yes, though, I am immensely proud that that young man is me.''

For years, he has refused to discuss it. In fact, young lawyers in his chambers were warned never to mention the Stone of Scone in his presence. Now, with the passing of time, Hamilton has mellowed. ''I'm not ashamed,'' he says. ''In fact I'm rather proud. We drove down the bleak, narrow roads to London to hurt no one. Rather to puncture England's pride. To save no one but the ruined hopes of our country.''

To understand the raid's significance, one has to recall the political climate of the time. Fresh from the privations of war, and with a new welfare state, Britain at the dawn of the Fifties was a cohesive nation, and the idea of devolution had little currency. Support for the Scottish National Party stood at 0.7 per cent; Labour had withdrawn the commitment to Home Rule from its manifesto; and the Conservatives were at the high point of their electoral history north of the border.

"I wanted to waken the Scots up, that was all,'' says Hamilton. He could never remember a time when his imagination hadn't been fired by the Stone. His mother had told him the tale when he was eight and, at the back of his mind, he always hankered to be the man who brought it home.

Soured by the lack of patriotism shown by his countrymen, he decided to do just that. He enlisted the help of Gavin Vernon, Alan Stuart and Kay Matheson and, with a £50 note from SNP leader John MacCormick in Hamilton's pocket, the four drove to London in two cars on Christmas Eve. ''It took 20 hours and there were no heaters in cars then,'' Hamilton recalls.

He knew the best way to break in was by a door at the east end which was made of pine rather than stout oak. He had discovered this on an earlier trip, when he had been chanced upon by a security man who, thinking him homeless, gave him half a crown. ''I've always felt a bit guilty about that but I couldn't blow my cover,'' Hamilton says ruefully.

With Kay at the wheel of one of the get-away cars, the trio pulled and tugged at the Stone but were unable to free it. When they did it toppled over and smashed in two. ''People always think I must have been horrified,'' Hamilton laughs. ''But it made it easier to carry.''

He carried the smaller piece to the car and returned for the rest. Then they heard the car moving. Hamilton ran out to find a policeman. He jumped in the car and gave Kay a passionate kiss, telling the officer they couldn't find a bed and breakfast. Kay drove the fragment to Birmingham for safe-keeping and Hamilton returned to find that his friends had fled. Undeterred, he rolled the remaining piece onto his coat and dragged it to the second car. By coincidence, he encountered his friends and they set off for Scotland.

As they sped off, the nightwatchman was phoning 999. When they reached the border, they marked the Stone's homecoming after 600 years by dousing it in whisky.

The hue and cry was enormous, but though the foursome were questioned police, once the Stone was found, did not press charges, fearing an even bigger incident. Hamilton gave up the Stone a year later, after a very public and fruitless police search, by leaving it at Arbroath Abbey, where the Scots had signed a declaration to fight for freedom in 1320.

The Stone remained in Westminster Abbey until 1996, when it was returned to Scotland on the condition that it be used for crowning the British monarchy.

Hamilton, meanwhile, spent the intervening years trying to forget about it. Until now. ''Am I proud? You bet I am,'' he says. ''I felt I was holding Scotland's soul when I touched it for the first time. Times have changed; I have mellowed. But ashamed? Never.''

• Stone of Destiny (Cert PG) will be in cinemas from Friday, December 19