If you’ve spent any time in Scottish agriculture over the past half century, the name John Cameron of Balbuthie will be familiar.
However, sitting across from him in his Fife home, you quickly realise even the most knowledgeable have probably only heard half his story.
At 86, though you’d be hard pressed to guess it – the handshake is firm, the voice clear – his memory of events is second to none.
This is the man who ran hill farms with 10,000 Blackface sheep across them, who served as president of NFU Scotland from 1979 to 1984, who became one of the country’s best known livestock men, who famously took on the Nature Conservancy Council over tree planting rights – and won £560,000 for his trouble – who chaired ScotRail, who drove locomotives for fun, and who has been to both the North and South Poles because, frankly, why not?
Amazingly, he brushes most of that off as ‘just things that happened’.
From Balbuthie to Brussels
Balbuthie has always been home, he explained, though the family business was spread between here and the hill places at Glen Finglas, Glen Lyon and Glen Lochay through the years.
“Balbuthie is where my mother’s family were. During the war, my father was tied up with the agricultural executive in Edinburgh, so my grandparents kept the place going until after it was over.”
John’s farming life began there and stretched deep into the Highlands.
“The hill sheep – that was what I loved,” he said.
“If you asked me which part I miss most, it’s that. The gathers, the dogs, the hills – it was a way of life as much as a business.”
That way of life helped shape the NFUS president he eventually became. When he was elected in 1979, the union was moving from one year to longer presidential terms. He ended up serving five years – an era still talked about in farming circles as one of its most outward looking and assertive periods.
“I honestly never set out to be president,” he insists.
“If you’d said to me early on that I’d end up in Brussels arguing hill policy, I’d have laughed in your face.”
And yet he did exactly that, chairing the EU Sheepmeat Committee and playing a central role in establishing the Hill Livestock Compensatory Allowance – the HLCA many hill farm families still remember as a vital lifeline.
The hill man
Hill sheep were his anchor through the decades. Even when negotiating in Brussels or sitting in boardrooms in London, his mind returned to the uplands of Perthshire and Stirlingshire.
“We had 10,000 ewes at one point between the three hill farms,” he said.
“All Blackfaces. Keep it simple – that’s me.”
He served as chairman of the NFUS Hill Farming Committee, later becoming the first to elevate it from a sub committee to a full one. He was a constant voice for upland flocks at a time when government understanding was patchy at best.
John tells a favourite story about taking politicians into the glens.
“I liked taking them as far as the Argo would go – seven or eight miles out. Then I’d explain what we needed. And I’d say, ‘If you don’t agree, you can walk home.’ They usually saw sense!”
He grins at the memories. He confirms that even Margaret Thatcher didn’t escape the treatment.
“She was miles ahead of me,” he said, not for the first time expressing admiration for her sharpness.
“I thought she wouldn’t get the technical side of what I was explaining. She understood perfectly.”
The hills, he says, were where he felt most himself. Even now, as he looks out to the fields of Balbuthie – now grass rather than the vast crops of earlier decades – he’s as proud as ever.
“It is in my blood, I've never seen it as a workplace.”
A happy marriage
Behind every story is his wife, Margaret – the quiet counterweight to a life of relentless movement and achievement.
They married in 1964.
“Sixty two years,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I think anyway – I’ll get in trouble if I’m wrong!”
Margaret came from Malawi, where her father – a Scottish engineer awarded the CBE for his work – spent his career building the country’s bridges and infrastructure. She trained as a theatre nurse at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh, where their paths crossed in suitably dramatic fashion.
“I walked through the theatre with my shoes on,” he admits.
“A friend of hers was showing me around, and Margaret told me off! That was the beginning of 60-odd years.”
Margaret poured her heart into her herd of Hereford cattle – the small herd she built from scratch, and poured years of dedication and hard work into.
“She won the Highland with them. The Royal too,” John said proudly.
“Not many can say that.”
The dragonfly that cost half a million
Among the many events in John’s life, one continues to resonate across the entire UK land management world: the Nature Conservancy Council (NCC) case.
At Glen Lochay, John had carefully planned shelter belts to benefit his hill sheep. The NCC objected, claiming the area was a Site of Special Scientific Interest – based on a single rare dragonfly recorded there.
“One dragonfly,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “One!”
He challenged them – the first farmer in the country to do so – and the dispute escalated all the way to the Scottish Land Court.
“I only challenged them because of how they went about it. I wasn’t against conservation. I was against being told I couldn’t plant trees where I’d spent ages working out they should go.”
The court vindicated him.
“To my total surprise,” he said, “I walked out of the Land Court with a grin on my face for about a month. They awarded me £560,000. Plus interest.”
The press loved it.
‘Heritage body will be more diplomatic in future’, shouted one headline.
Farming news at the time ran full spreads calling it a test case that would shape how public bodies behaved toward landowners forever.
Did he take the money to Hawaii or retire?
“No! I told them at the time – and I stuck to it – I was spending every penny on Glen Lochay. And if not there, then the other farms. And I did.”
He rebuilt everything the delays had compromised – fences, sheds, stands, hill infrastructure. The money went straight back into the land.
And the dragonfly?
“It never sent me a thank you note,” he laughed.
A man of students, ponies, and prize cattle
Despite all the far flung travels and political adventures, his biggest legacy might well be his farming students – all 50 plus of them.
“Fifty! And I’d say only two didn’t end up making farming their career. That’s a strike rate I’m proud of.”
“And I’ll happily admit learned more from them than they learned from me.”
It’s no exaggeration that dozens of well known Scottish farmers started their journey at Balbuthie, earning their stripes under John's unapologetically high standards. Their photos spill from envelopes he proudly keeps.
“I kept everything,” he admits.
“Cuttings, photos, notes. When I forget something, I look it up.”
He’s also established agricultural, railway and charitable trusts, ensuring young people will continue to benefit long after he’s gone.
It’s typical John – practical generosity rooted in a lifetime of paying attention to the next generation.
Many went on to run award winning farms. Some became industry leaders. Some simply became solid, skilled working farmers. All are part of his extended farming family.
He shares photos of former students at his 50th birthday party, where they blindfolded him and delivered a bull to him to a marquee on the lawn. There are pictures of them on young farmer exchanges, at Glen Lochay gathers, in Brazil and Malawi on the travel scholarships he helped launch.
And then there are the animals. Margaret’s Herefords, as well as the Highland ponies his mother once showed.
He tells the story of his father buying a filly off a band of tinkers beside the road in Skye, for a £10 note, on the condition they deliver it to the Royal Hotel in Portree. The tinkers proceeded to celebrate the transaction so enthusiastically in the hotel bar that the police were called.
The filly – Gypsy Diamond – went on to win at the Highland Show in 1939 and again, seven years later, at Inverness.
“That,” he admits, “was quite something.”
The young farmers and the world beyond
John has always had a soft spot for young people in agriculture. When he was NFU president, he carved out funding and opportunities for exchanges. Later, he set up the Cameron Travel Trust – a scheme that sent groups of young Scots to Brazil, Malawi, Russia and beyond.
“It did my heart good to see their eyes opened,” he said.
“Places they’d never dream of going.”
When the trust went to Malawi, the students even stayed where Margaret’s family had lived.
“It was special,” he said.
“That’s the thing – It’s not just about farming. It’s about showing young people the world.”
On the rails
John’s farming career alone would be enough to fill a book – but then there’s the whole other life he carved out on the railways.
When asked how he ended up as chairman of ScotRail, he’s coy.
“George Younger said he had a job for me,” he said.
“I knew what that meant!”
He served a decade in the role and simultaneously sat on the British Rail Board in London – a rare position for a Scot, and rarer still for a farmer.
What set him apart wasn’t the title, but the fact he could actually drive the trains.
Unofficially at first, of course.
“I knew a lot of the drivers,” he said.
“I’d go up on the footplate. Then the safety people said I’d have to stop unless I was passed out properly. So I said, fine – pass me out then!”
He completed a full driver training course, under top inspectors in Glasgow.
“After that, whenever a driver saw me in King’s Cross or Waterloo, even ones I’d never met, they’d shout, ‘Alright, governor!’ They liked that I could walk the walk, as well as talk the talk.”
He tells the stories: restarting a broken down locomotive by remembering a possible turbocharger fault; letting a minister drive only to end up short two sheep; negotiating with a shedmaster in Aberdeen to secure one of the legendary A4 steam locomotives, the stories are endless.
To the ends of the earth
There are farmers who’ve travelled. Then there’s John Cameron, who quite literally went to the ends of the Earth – twice.
“I’d been in the Air Force when I was younger,” he said, “so I’d seen a bit of the world and wanted to see more. But I liked going to places people didn’t normally go. Places that weren’t exactly top of the pops for holidays.”
The North Pole trip came first. He ‘simply’ hitched a ride on a Russian icebreaker.
“There was a Russian icebreaker heading up, and I managed to get on it,” he said, as if describing a local bus.
“And that was that.”
He became good friends with the captain, a Ukrainian with limited English but a gift for quiet camaraderie.
“We got on well,” John explained.
“At night he’d take the helm and I’d sit up there with him. Semi daylight at midnight, crushing through the ice – you didn’t need to speak much. You took it all in just by being there.”
When the ship reached a few yards short of the Pole, tradition dictated that someone would take a rope at the bow and walk the vessel the final distance. The honour went to him.
“That was something. Not many can say they towed an icebreaker to the North Pole.”
The South Pole trip was tougher. He travelled through Argentina and Chile – countries with competing claims on the region – and endured long, bruising seas before reaching the Antarctic outskirts.
“We had to have lectures about the polar bears before going,” he said.
“I enjoyed every minute.”
He has hundreds of photographs.
“People say, was it life changing? Oh yes. But I never treated any of it like holidays. They were experiences. Adventures.”
The engines in the shed
Just when you think John’s life couldn’t possibly contain another subplot, he takes you outside to a shed on the farm.
Inside are two locomotives.
Not models. Not miniatures. Full scale, mainline steam locomotives.
One of them is the legendary LNER A4 'Union of South Africa' – sister engine to the record breaking Mallard, and one of only five streamlined A4s ever set aside for the LNER’s flagship non stop Edinburgh–London run.
When the A4s were renamed in 1937 after Commonwealth nations, No. 9 became the Union of South Africa. It later moved to Scotland, operating the three hour express between Aberdeen and Glasgow.
When steam was being withdrawn in the 1960s, John decided he wasn’t letting this one go to scrap.
“I asked the shedmaster in Aberdeen which was the best,” he says. “He said number 9 – the Union of South Africa – without any doubt.”
There was only one problem: British Rail was officially only allowed to sell locomotives to registered scrap metal dealers.
“I told him, ‘I’m just a farmer – I’m not a registered metal dealer!’ And he said, ‘Well, do you have machinery?’ I said I had tractors, harvesters, implements. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you’ve got metal. You’ll do.’”
The other locomotive, ‘Great Marquess’, sits alongside it – another piece of preserved Scottish railway history. The plan, he says, is to open a small museum.
“When I get someone to help me run it,” he notes, with a grin hinting he wouldn’t mind driving them again if he gets the chance.
The school years
John often jokes he was ‘lucky not to be expelled’ from Dollar Academy. But it was the place that shaped him – and, in time, a place he would help shape in return.
“I wasn’t an outstanding pupil,” he said.
“But I enjoyed the swimming team, the shooting, the camaraderie.”
His father had sent him there on the advice of a colleague from the Harviestoun Estate.
“He said, ‘Send him along and we’ll see.’ I must not have been too bad, because they didn’t send me straight home!”
Years later, after farming had made him a respected figure and NFU Scotland had broadened his horizons, Dollar Academy asked him to serve on the board of governors. He eventually became chairman – a role he held for 20 years.
“I loved it,” he said simply.
“Having a quiet word with the boys who’d been in trouble and seeing myself in them – that was something. I still keep an interest in the school.”
It’s a detail many in agriculture don’t know. But like everything in Cameron’s life, it reflects a pattern: investing in young people, giving time, giving guidance, and leaving things better than he found them.
Slowing down? Not likely
You might expect a man of 86 to be winding things back, but if anything, John remains as busy as the younger version of himself – just maybe with more tea breaks.
He still walks the sheds, still helps where he can, still cares about the agricultural organisations he once led.
“They don’t need a chairman now,” he said, “and I’m far too old anyway! But I keep in touch. Give advice if it’s wanted.”
He also still takes pride in livestock.
Balbuthie now carries around 150 Simmental cross Luing cows and a finishing system for 700-800 lambs each year.
Margaret’s 40-50 pedigree Herefords remain part of the landscape too – a legacy in their own right, with Highland and Royal championships to their name.
And there’s Nellie, his current sheepdog, always padding around his feet.
“Of all the dogs I’ve had, she's the best” he said.
Looking back, looking forward
Ask him about legacy and he almost waves the question away.
“I’ve had a lot of luck,” he said.
“And a lot of good people around me.”
“But if I look back, I think being president of NFU Scotland was something special. I never expected it. It changed things. It gave me pride.”
He adds another: “And getting passed out as a train driver. Not many have had a car licence, a pilot licence and a locomotive certificate at the same time.”
On awards, fame and being the man of the hour
In October last year, John was honoured with the Lifetime Achievement Award at the The Scottish Agriculture Awards – a ceremony he claims he knew nothing about until the day.
“John Davidson from NFUS tricked me,” he said.
“He took me to Glasgow without telling me what was happening. Then I find out I’m the first person being called up!”
Six hundred people applauded him.
“It felt like it took us 10 minutes to get to the front,” he said.
“Everyone shaking your hand. It was a sight.”
James Logan, chair of the Royal Highland and Agricultural Society of Scotland, presented the award. John beams when he talks about it.
He insisted John Davidson come on stage with him.
“He’d escorted me all the way – so he could escort me up there as well!”
Even now, he seems faintly astonished.
“It was a surprise. A big one.”
But ask around the industry and you’ll hear the same thing – if anyone deserves a lifetime award, it’s John Cameron.
The last word
When The Scottish Farmer Lifetime Achievement Award was placed in his hands, the room of 600 rose to its feet.
It was a moment that summed up not only his career, but the affection the agricultural world holds for him.
The boy who became the hill man, the negotiator, the president, the railwayman, the adventurer who went from Glen Lochay to Antarctica – always with a practical head, a generous heart, and a joke ready to cut through the noise or the silence.
There is nobody quite like John Cameron of Balbuthie.
And there likely never will be again.
Share