ITS red sandstone facade may be unassuming, but here on Glasgow’s busy Calder Street in Govanhill, this historic Edwardian public bathhouse and swimming pool is making yet more history.

For more than 80 years, Govanhill Baths was the place for this community to take a bath, learn to swim, steam away worries in the Turkish, or get the washing done – wheeling it down in a pram to the laundry at the back. In 2001 it closed due to council cuts. The community fightback is well documented.

But now, though its doors have been closed for renovations since December last year, campaigners are holding their breath, as another landmark is about to be reached.

In coming weeks community ownership of this listed building will finally transfer from the council to the community. “It’s a momentous time,” says Fatima Uygun, who was one of the key volunteers involved in the campaign to save the Baths for 14 years before being appointed as the manager of the Govanhill Baths Trust in 2015.

“We shouldn’t have had to fight so hard for so long for this building that we deserved. But we did. And now the building is going to be ours.”

This was once Uygun’s local pool. “The thing is I don’t even swim,” she laughs. But her Turkish heritage meant a twice weekly trip to the Turkish Baths was just part of her life. “You could just stick a towel under your arm and within minutes be somewhere you could totally relax,” she says. “It was a truly community building. When the jannies told us that it could be closing we didn’t fully believe it. It was mobbed, it was where children learned to swim. When it was announced, we were appalled and angry. So we organised ourselves.”

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Jean Adair, a local resident who lives just round the corner, also remembers that shock. Now 70, she learned to swim there with the help of a rubber ring and proudly joining the swimming club that her own children later attended. As an adult she went for a 7am swim every morning before starting work. “The idea of putting up a fight came automatically,” she says.

Frances Diver, whose two young sons swam there and who regarded it as “part of the fabric” of her family life, agrees. “I was really furious when I heard they were closing our pool,” she says. “The Baths at Pollokshaws had been closed by Glasgow City Council the year before.

“It said that investment – to repair and refurbish – couldn’t be justified and in any case we had two spanking new modern pools in Bellahouston and the Gorbals. There was no consultation with the local community and we felt we’d been lied to which fuelled our sense of outrage.”

The first meeting was held in O’Neill’s pub, just a few minutes away, and was packed with locals determined to save their beloved pool. The Save Our Pool campaign was born. “Govanhill was a unique area, with activists, socialists and students and the Irish and Asian communities,” says Uygun.

“Everyone wanted to get involved. I was in the direct action committee and we were planning an occupation. We heard that the council were going to try and get round us by shutting it a week early so we brought our plans forward. The first night of the occupation was quite comic. It was mostly mothers from the Kingston swimming club and we chained ourselves to the sun loungers.”

Another thing they didn’t realise that first evening was that this was the start of a 141-day occupation – the longest continuous occupation of a public building in UK history. Locals signed up for “shifts” to ensure there was a 24-hour presence in the building as well as a picket line outside, with rotas and ring-rounds organised by Uygun and her fellow direct action committee members.

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But there were unexpected benefits. “The atmosphere was fantastic,” remembers Aldair. The bin men stopped by with fish suppers, the owner of the local paper shop brought rolls in the morning. “It was everybody together and it didn’t matter what nationality or religion you were from.”

All the women have memories – the songs they wrote for the Govanhill Song Book, which they not only performed on the picket line but outside Council leader Charlie Gordon’s house.

They collected 30,000 signatures, all done by hand before online platforms, and made about £40 a day from those passing the picket line to pay for walkie talkies, banners and leaflets, says Uygun.

“My favourite memory was on a day police were called and an old lady handed us a big bag. She said: ‘That’s something for later. It might help. I can get some more if you need them.’ We thought it was sandwiches so we just put it aside. But when we looked in the bag she had made hundreds of tiny water bombs.”

Diver was also a regular on the picket lines, along with her sons. “We met lots of people,” she says. “Some of whom are still good pals today. A real highlight was the warmth and camaraderie of such a mixed bunch of people. We marched on the City Chambers, put up posters, leafleted cars in Calder Street which were stopped at the lights, made banners, occupied the buses laid on to take potential swimmers to Bellahouston, wrote to politicians... though they didn’t write back.”

And then at 5.15am on August 7, 2001, Adair heard one of the protestors in the building cry out. Police had moved in to break-up the occupation. She alerted others and by 6.30am they were phoning round members of the campaign to join the picket line that swelled to over 100.

By evening tensions were rising – police and sheriff’s officers entered the building searching for protestors said to have hidden themselves inside. Panels and walls were pulled apart, windows smashed, shutters went up. Five policemen were injured that night, though police chiefs later said protest had been peaceful but for a small fringe. The campaign group complained through their lawyer of the disproportionate numbers – and actions – by police.

But it was far from over. “We were devastated,” remembers Ugyun. “But we hadn’t worked so hard for nothing.” They bought a garden shed, and re-established the picketline until May the following year. In 2004 the council announced plans for “disposal” of the Baths and advertised them for anyone with an interest. Save Our Pool immediately stepped forward. The Govanhill Baths Trust was set-up, and later a charity shop. One-off events were held, and new councillor officials started to express support and regret over the handling of the closure.

Special events were staged and then in 2008, the council granted permission to open for Open Doors Day. “We spruced it up as best we could,” remembers Diver. “We weren’t sure if anyone would turn up but were queued right round the block by lunchtime.”

Gradually more access was granted, classes and events held there and thanks to a £1.2 million grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund, in February 2012 the front suite of the Baths reopened for public use, shortly followed by the toddlers’ teaching pool.

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More grants were secured, for the Wellbeing Centre now planned, a crowdfunder set-up raised additional funds by selling “shares” in the community benefit company. Finally, in March this year, councillors agreed to sell the building to the Govanhill Baths Building Preservation Trust for £1, which will in turn hand it over to the Govanhill Baths Trust. An additional £2.1m was approved by the Scottish Government and COSLA.

“It’s a big relief to have got to this stage after a few false dawns,” says Diver. “Though, either because we’re natural optimists or just a bit daft, we always knew we’d get there in the end. A bit quicker would’ve been better though,” she admits.

Urgyen winning this – when many communities are ground down by austerity – is also an important symbol of hope. “This shows the power of collective community action. Communities know what they need – imagine if we asked them, and actually listened. Govanhill Baths is at the heart of community and it is there for you whether you are three weeks or 88-years old.”

“Next year everyone in this neighbourhood will be able to tuck a towel under their arm and come from a swim, “says Ugyun. She might even learn. Better late than never.