When I was deputy chairman I could travel from Glasgow to

So spoke Jeffrey Archer, politician and storyteller, reflecting on the rise and decline of his party’s strength in Scotland: “When I was deputy chairman I could travel from Glasgow to Edinburgh without leaving Tory land. In a two-week period I covered every constituency in which we had an MP. There were 14. Now we have only one. We appear to have given up.” His words are not only about politics but about the eternal rhythm of triumph and decline, of power gained and power lost, and of the grave danger that comes when a people or a movement surrenders its will to strive.

At the heart of his lament lies the idea of territory once held, now abandoned. There was a time, he recalls, when the path from Glasgow to Edinburgh lay firmly within the domain of his party, the Conservative stronghold—Tory land. Each stop along the road brought fellowship, strength, and a sense of unbroken unity. But as the years passed, those bastions crumbled, until what was once many became one, and what was once vibrant became desolate. His cry, “We appear to have given up,” is more than observation—it is warning. For no defeat is final until the spirit itself surrenders.

The ancients saw this pattern time and again. Consider Carthage, once mistress of the seas, whose ships carried her power across the Mediterranean. But after Hannibal’s defeat, the city lost not only its legions but its confidence. And when Rome demanded its destruction, Carthage’s leaders faltered, divided, and yielded. The fall was not merely military—it was the surrender of will. Just as Archer mourned the decline of his party, so too historians mourn Carthage’s failure to renew its courage. A house divided within cannot stand long against the storms without.

Archer’s memory of traveling constituencies carries more than nostalgia; it is the image of a leader walking among the people, touching each stronghold of his cause, reminding them they belonged to something greater. This echoes the journeys of ancient rulers, who would travel their kingdoms not merely to show power, but to refresh bonds of loyalty. When that connection is broken—when leaders cease to visit, to fight, to strive—the people begin to believe they have been forgotten, and in that forgetting, allegiance dies.

The lesson is not only for parties and politics, but for all endeavors. Strength must be renewed, or it will fade. Families falter when bonds are not nourished. Businesses decline when effort is abandoned. Nations collapse when courage is lost. The one who rests on the victories of yesterday, believing they will endure without labor, wakes to find that the ground has shifted beneath their feet. To “give up” is the true defeat, far greater than the loss of seats, of lands, or even of battles.

Yet there is also hope in his words. For by naming the decline, Archer calls his people to awaken. The road from Glasgow to Edinburgh may no longer be Tory land, but it can be won again—not by surrender, but by renewal of effort, by courage, by the steady labor of rebuilding trust. History shows us this as well: Rome, though sacked and broken, rose again through resilience; Japan, though shattered in war, rebuilt into strength through unyielding will. Defeat is only final when resignation takes root.

Thus, let us take this teaching to heart: never abandon what is worth fighting for. Whether it be a cause, a people, a family, or a dream—do not “give up.” Loss may come, decline may strike, but the spirit must remain unbroken. The one who endures, who keeps striving, may see fortunes restored. Archer’s lament, then, becomes our warning and our call: to guard against apathy, to resist surrender, and to remember that renewal begins not with victory, but with the refusal to abandon the struggle.

For in the end, the ancient truth holds: lands are lost, kingdoms fall, movements weaken—but the heart that refuses to give up may yet rise again.