Arthur's Seat - route and photos

Distance: 9.2 km

3 February Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh

A different sort of outing was planned for today. We would drive east for an adventure in the capital. There was a little consternation in the ranks when we heard that there was to be more snow in the east but fears were soon allayed and we set off on the long drive to Edinburgh, all eleven of us today.
Most of us parked in the car park at St. Margaret’s Loch as had been arranged before we left Killie. Why the others chose to wait for us at Duddingston Loch is beyond the understanding of the scribe, but they did while we waited for them at St Margaret’s. Mobile phones are wonderful devices and the lost souls were soon re-united with the pack. Slightly later than expected we took the path for Arthur’s Seat.
On the way into the city we could see the snow on Arthur’s Seat and now we encountered it, new and soft and powdery, and almost five centimetres deep. But the powdery nature provided excellent grip and it was no hindrance to our upward progress. That didn’t stop a ‘view stop’ being called. The view, for all that we could see of it for we were down in a bit of a gully, extended northward over the city to Fife. ‘They’re burning Fife’, said Jimmy pointing to two plumes of grey reek rising into the sky. It had to be pointed out to him that this was the petrochemical cracking plant at Mossmorran near Cowdenbeath. ‘They bring the liquid gas from the North Sea and crack it into ethylene, the basic building block of the petrochemical industry’, said the knowledgeable one. We knew there was a reason we bring Alan.
The soft snow continued to provide good footing up the lion’s shoulder. But climbing the last few feet onto its head was a different story. Ice, probably left from the big freeze, lay under the new-fall and proved tricky, especially with Vibram soles. Feet had to be placed carefully to avoid a nasty backwards tumble. But we all mad it to the trig point without too much difficulty.
The view from Arthur’s seat is remarkable. From a height of 250.5m (814ft) the compass must reach some fifty miles. Across the snowy rooftops of the city the landscape gleamed under an overcast sky. Immediately south, the Pentlands look grand, rising to fill the skyline; to the east Berwick Law and the Bass showed though a haar hung over the sea; across the Forth, the Lomond Hills rose above Fife and beyond the white foothills of the highlands, the Braes O’ Angus gleamed white in sunshine; to the west, Ben Lomond appeared in a distant haze.
Some time was spent on the top picking out the distant features as pointed to by the viewfinder and trying to identify the landmarks of the city. There was the castle and Calton Hill – easy. There was Easter Road, home of Hibernian FC – also easy. There was Murrayfield - slightly more difficult - and the dark smudge to its left was Tynecastle, home of the other half of the Edinburgh ‘Auld Firm’, Heart of Midlothian FC - really difficult.
As we stood, we were joined by more and more people out to enjoy the day in the snow. When the time came for us to leave Rex was for down the south side of the slope carefully picking his way with hands and feed along the ice. Jimmy wasn’t very sure of this route and was for the north side. A young couple standing close by told us that the easiest way was down the north path. Rex retreated and joined the rest on the easier path. Easier, it may have been but it was still coated in slippery ice. We came down to the shoulder every man for himself. Some picked their way carefully on the icy path, some strode out confidently but whichever method was chosen, we all arrived on the shoulder without breaking bones though Rex sat unexpectedly in the snow a couple of times.
On a broad top to our right, above Salisbury Crags, a pair of young ladies cavorted in the snow, turning cartwheels and doing handstands. When we joined them, they enthusiastically showed us the photos they had taken of each other; two young ladies delighting in their youth in the wintery conditions. Ah nostalgia! Whether they cavorted further we don’t know for we left them there and took the downward slope towards Duddingston Loch.
The snow was deeper on the grassy slope and it was a treat to walk downward through it. Robert and Jimmy led the way down to the road above the loch. A lot has been reported in these pages about old bladders so it was a great relief to some to reach the road and find convenient shrubbery. Away from prying eyes there was a great streaming of relief.
We kept to the road above Duddingston Loch and came to the bottom of the Salisbury Crags. The blether was good and the pace easy, yet the group split in two. The first group approached the end of the Radical Road and, much to the concern of the others, Jimmy immediately turned up it. ‘Where are you going?’ asked they. ‘This is the quickest way’, replied he. They remained unconvinced until the second group arrived and turned up beside Jimmy. We all came back by the Radical Road.
At the high point of the road we stopped for a view of the city. The castle looked splendid from this angle. Then Davie pointed out that it was nearly one o’clock and the gun would soon be fired from the ramparts. Jimmy drew our attention to the Nelson Monument of Calton Hill and to the ball at the top of the post. ‘When the gun fires, the ball drops to let ships on the Forth know what time to set their chronometers’, said another knowledgeable one .(That’s the beauty of this group. There’s always somebody who knows something about something that others don’t.) A certain amount of disbelief was expressed but the speaker held to his guns. The gun fired and the ball dropped. Most of us saw the ball drop but Bob was so intent in trying to spot where the smoke from the gun was that he missed the ball fall. Still, there’s more chance of him seeing this in the future than there is of him spotting a kingfisher.
With a slightly disappointed Robert in tow, we made the descent of the Radical Road. Perhaps the choice of this way back was a mistake after all. Ice covered the road, wet ice and slippery. Extreme care was taken by all but we managed and came down to the level in one piece.
On the level we met the young couple who had directed us from the top. She stopped, beaming. ‘Just after you left the top’, said she,’ he asked me to marry him’. The news was greeted by clapping and hearty congratulations until the cynic asked ‘And did you accept?’ The answer was affirmative, but the cynic doesn’t expect an invitation to the wedding.
A quick five minutes saw us back at the cars.

However that wasn’t the day finished. We wandered up Canongate in search of a place to lunch. As we passed Canongate Churchyard, somebody mentioned Adam Smith so we had to go in search of the great man’s grave. This was found easily enough, to the left of the church, and suitable homage was paid to ‘The Father of Modern Economics’.
Not to be outdone by the economists, the Burnsians took us to see that grave of Robert Fergusson, above which Burns had a monument erected. The monument was repaired later at the expense of RL Stevenson but Burns words remain:-
‘This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way
To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust’

Then it was over to the other side of the churchyard for the grave of Agnes M’Lehose, Burns ‘Clarinda’.
‘Fare-thee-weel thou first and fairest,
Fare-thee-weel thou best and dearest’

Alas we had to bid a farewell to the cemetery for hunger definitely called now. Lunch was taken in the Old Tollbooth Inn, overlooking the ornate grave monument of Adam Smith.

After lunch we came back down the Canongate to the parliament. Despite Davie’s opinion of the building, we had to visit it. We went in to the debating chamber to see how the great and the good govern this little country of ours. Each of us has his own viewpoint but the consensus on this question was ‘Not very well’. If they would just leave it to us in the pub, what vast improvements we could make.

Yes, this was a different sort of outing but one which was thoroughly enjoyed by all, especially by those seeing things for the first time. We will need to do something similar in the future.

27 January Wanlock Water Circular

Since the big freeze went, the weather has been mixed, sometimes frosty, bright and sunny but mainly damp and dreich. Today was to continue the dreich pattern.
The intention of the day was for a walk on the Lowther Hills before the snow went completely and when a fresh fall came earlier in the week, we were hopeful of a pleasant snowy walk. But, when we gathered in Jimmy’s place in Cumnock, the day was dreich with damp air and a lowering sky. Some were for a local walk round Cumnock fearing a repeat of last week but Davie suggested that we go to Wanlockhead and if the conditions for a climb were poor we could have a low level walk. It was Jimmy who pointed out that Wanlockhead sits somewhere above the fourteen hundred contour and there could be no ‘low level’ walking around there. However, we knew what Davie meant and his suggestion was accepted. We headed for Wanlockhead.
The village was free of snow but great icy drifts lay in the cleuchs and we suspected more lay on the tops; suspected, for there was no way we could see for sure for the tops rose into claggy hill fog the base of which was barely a hundred feet above our heads. There was no way we would get the veterans of last week’s soaking up into that fog so a ‘low level’ walk it would be.
The first spots of rain hit as we prepared to leave the cars, not heavy rain nor long lasting but enough to make us waterproof from the outset.
We set off down through the village, down past the old lead works buildings – ‘I helped excavate this in the nineteen seventies,’ said Paul and we were suitably impressed – and down the valley of the Wanlock Water. The drizzly rain went as we approached Meadowfoot Cemetery. We have amongst us those who love to explore old cemeteries. (It has been said that we only do this because, at our age, we are only sussing out future lodgings.) We interrupted our walk to investigate. That the cemetery is still in use is evident from the modern gravestones but its antiquity – it dates from 1751 - is also evident from the old stones. The earliest we found today dated from 1774 and the grandest was that of the mine manager on the late eighteenth century. The historian suggested that, if Maria Riddel’s account is to be believed, this may well have been the man who showed Burns and the Riddel group round the mines here in January 1792. We have only his suggestion for this but it is an interesting theory.
By the time we had exhausted the cemetery’s possibilities the rain had gone but the sky still showed no sign of lifting. We walked on down the valley on a forest-road type track that dropped imperceptibly down beside the burn, opening and closing jackets as the drizzle continued to come and go. Even when it went there was no drying and sweat built up inside the waterproofs. Then the track crossed the burn by a bridge and started to climb the valley side.
The abandoned farmhouse of Duntercleuch sits above the burn, on the side of the valley. Since it was mow nearing eleven, we stopped here, leaned our backs to the wall of the house and had coffee.
It was a good choice to have coffee at Duntercleuch for a few minutes after we had started on the climb again the rain came once more, this time in more serious mood. And it was up through the rain we climbed to enter the plantation clothing the side of Duntercleuch Rig. Our weatherman had suggested that the rain would go for it was just a front passing through but, at that moment, it didn’t look like it. The rain came straight down and it looked as though it was bringing the sky with it and we would be walking in fog again. Yet we climbed on with the road, Rex and Davie setting a cracking pace on the upward, splitting the group into two parties. And we continued to climb on what most thought would be the last on this ‘low level’ walk.
Somewhere in the mizzle and the trees the fast waited for the slow to catch up, and then they were off again. We continued to climb with the road. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, the trees gave way and we came into a more open hillscape. The rain eased and was the sky clearing? Would our weatherman be right after all? It certainly seemed that way. We left the road and, at another abandoned, and this time ruinous, farmstead a hundred yards across the hill, we sat down for our peece.
Davie, being first to the ruin, found the only bit of shelter from the remaining drizzle under the still intact roof of the porch and the rest had to make do with an outside wall. But the rain went, and we were first to see the sunshine. A patch of blue sky floated above us and the first shaft of sunlight swept across the hill, to light and warm us. Were we jealous of Davie’s shelter? Were we heck! Now that the rain had gone, some took the opportunity to change into dry shirts. It’s a good job we had finished the peece for semi-naked Ooters are not a pretty sight and we of a delicate nature may well have been put off our food. As it was, we were finished the peece and were ready to set off again.
With the brightening weather came a brightening in the attitude of the group. A brightening until we found out that we had another mountain to climb. We slanted up grassy field to find a green track slanting up the hillside. Davie was being called all manner of uncomplimentary things. He said it was to be a ‘low level’ walk and here he was dragging us up another mountain. But, at least the track was good and well graded up the slope and, with the clearing weather, the views began to open out. The effort of the climb was rewarded by a super view from Wedder Hill. South-west, the hills around Moniaive showed well and in the west Nithsdale ran into Ayrshire with the Afton Hills on one side and Corsencon guarding the other; in the east, the bulk of Tinto looked close; due north, Cairntable and the Muirkirk hills had the wind-farm at Lesmahagow as a backdrop and through a gap, the Ochils were bathed in sunshine. This was a remarkable view for so low an eminence, one which was completely unexpected for us today given the weather at the start. Yet, to the south the Lowthers still held onto the clag as they would for the rest of the day so Davie’s choice of the ‘low level’ walk turned out to be a good one. His ears stopped burning as the comments turned more pleasant and perhaps we will let him choose some other walks in the future.
Wedder Hill was the high point of the day. Now we had to drop back into the Wanlock Water valley. The path found another track. We would follow this downward. This wasn’t as straightforward as it would seem for great wreaths of icy, rotting snow lay across it and these had to be negotiated with some caution for they were slippy. The Irvine two certainly took their time. But this is to be expected of those from the coast who think a heavy frost is a severe winter. But, remembering (eventually Rex and Davie) the new axiom of the ooters, we waited compassionately for them on the bridge over the Wanlock.
An easy saunter saw us back up the valley into the village. But Rex and Davie hadn’t finished with their exploits. In front of the main group, they were seen to veer away to the right, onto the old railway track. But enough was enough for the rest of us who kept to the road through the village. Wrong move! Davie knew exactly where he was going and the fast pair beat us all to the cars, having taken the shorter route.
A good end to a poor start today but as yon English fellow said, ‘All’s well that ends well’. And all was well with us as we took FRT in the Crown in Sanquhar.

Edinburgh visit

Recent Mosset Visit

Vernet les Bains

Kate on the walk from the Prades College to Ria.

Ansignan Viaduct

I have uploaded a few pictures to let you see some aspects of our recent holiday. The weather was mostly clear and bright with a snell breeze blowing combined with occasional snow flurries.

Wanlockhead route

Distance 15.9 km

Wanlockhead

20 January - Brown Carrick Hill

When working people fill the street
and couthy Ooters, Ooters meet,
as Wed-nesday begins to dawn
an’ folk can scarcely haud that yawn,
while we sit sipping on our coffee
in Rex’s splendid little bothy,
we think na on the lang Scots miles,
the waters, mosses, slaps and styles
that lie ahead from Rex’s hame
where sits oor Bluey’s lovely dame
watching o’er the plumbers’ work -
who, from their travails, mustn’t shirk.

Distance: 15.6 km

This truth fand oor eight Early Ooters
as they tae Ayr toon took their motors
Auld Ayr wham ne’er a town surpasses
For traffic jams and exhaust gases.

Oh Ooters had ye been sae wise
as tae listen tae Allan’s guid advice,
ye wouldnae hae gotten aw wet through.
Instead ye could hae gotten fou,
for he had said instead of walkin’
we could hae stayed chez Rex, jist talkin’.
Or sent out one man wi’ his dog
and he could just hae penned this blog.
But naw, ye went tae Greenan Shore
which Ronnie had heard of long before.
Quite why this was I can’t report,
but t’was some kind of outdoor sport.

And here young Bob did don those goggles
to frighten off the sprites and bogles
that lay between us and our quest -
Brown Carrick Hill – braw Ayrshire’s best.

But to our tale – along the beach
Craig Tara Park was soon in reach,
having passed auld Greenan Castle
which did but cause us little hassle
Because yon Neptune’s tide was oot –
No need to deviate our route.
In olden days t’was Butlin’s Camp
But then came many a full revamp.
The chalets they are all long gone
though Happy Campers’ ghosts live on
Now, split-new caravans abound
But noo in Januar, there was not a sound.

Ian provided news, quite kosher
That in the War this was HMS Scotia
For this rhyme, I do regret
That it was the only one I could get.

Then off we strode, all of us in line
along the side of the A719.
The cars sped by at fearful pace
as if it were a diabolic race.
We left the road at Genoch Mews,
pausing, to take in the views
of Fisherton and old Dunduff
when the going got too tough,
as upwards we began to climb
o’er ice and mud and muck and slime.
T’was as though we rose into the vera heaven
But first a break – it was ten past eleven.

We sat a while sipping up our coffee
As Allan and Johnny passed round their toffee
And Ronnie tauld his queerest stories
Our raucous laughs were ready chorus.

Back on the road, and Ian was last
as we approached the aerial mast.
O’er stiles and wires we made our way
though this time, I am pleased to say,
oor Davie didn’t feel a shock
from fences built to hold livestock,
which give them just a little tingle
should they wish, with other beasts, to mingle.
And so it was the trig point beckoned
jist about half past twelve, we reckoned
“A wondrous view”, I’d like to say,
but sadly, all we saw was gray.

Upon the top we didn’t linger
though Johnny pointed with his finger
to islands, seas and sandy bays
which alas were hidden in the haze.


And so returned the jolly bunch,
stopping just for a bit of lunch;
for the weather was now getting worse
which caused the company to curse
the sleet and rain which assailed them all.
And yet a sadder fate was to befall
young Holly who was all forlorn
having stood upon a wayward thorn.
But her valiant master came to her aid,
and mindful of the last vet’s bill paid
did pluck right out that painful prick
and Holly ran off to find a stick.

T’was then we saw an unco sight,
enough to gie a man a fright.
An unlikely looking hairy mammal –
from far Cathay, a Bactrian camel!
“Jings, whit’s that!” said Ian (who likes a drama)
from Andes hills a long-legged llama!
“And look o’er there” said Ian,( ‘cos he knew)
“That ugly looking bird’s an emu!”
Oh Jimmy, Jimmy if you had only heard
what was said by us when we saw yon bird!
Whilst you were laid up with your gammy knee
we did some proper ornithology!

The rest of our story is best left untold
for we were wet and soggy and cold
when we returned to Greenan Shore.
We really couldn’t take much more!

And after the walk there was no pub!!
We all went home to wash and scrub
and then to Ronnie’ we did scurry
to tuck into our well-earned curry.
And then there was the sloe gin test
where Gordon’s was proclaimed the best.
And after that a Buckie sample.
Just one glass proved to be quite ample.
There was Absinthe, Mad Dog, beer aplenty -
all was there for our cogniscenti.
So much drink yet no one was blotto.
We all took heed of Rabbie’s motto.

Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear,
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

13 January Portencross Circular – Fourth Time

At Jimmy’s insistence, we went the ‘wrong’ way round the walk today. Perhaps this is an attempt to shake us out of our ‘sameness’, a sort of New Year’s resolution imposed on the group. Whatever his reason, and despite the ‘We always go this way’ brigade, Jimmy set off in the ‘wrong’ direction, back toward Seamill and we followed, though some did reluctantly.
We had gathered at Allan’s place in Irvine this morning and slipped and slithered our way along his still iced-up path. We suspected that the ice might still be lying on our proposed walk and dreaded another Auchincruive escapade. And a raw wind blew making the day feel cold. It seems since the big freeze finished and the temperature’s risen, it’s got perishingly cold. However, we are nothing if not adventurous (stupid, some would say) so we set off, car sharing, to the car park at Portencross castle for what we call our Portencross Circular.
No ice lay on the Portencross peninsula and the only hint of the previous week’s snow lay on the hills behind West Kilbride, and in the cold wind that blew off these. It was into this wind that Jimmy led us the ‘wrong’ way round. And it was a lazy wind, one that couldn’t be bothered going round us, it just cut into us. Jimmy was getting his blessings from those who would rather have gone the other way and had this vicious wind on our backs. But he, and we, plodded on into it, taking it in the face like men. Well, the front of the group did but the sensible like Jimmy walked in the middle of the group and were sheltered from the brunt of it. On the plus side for everybody, we hadn’t encountered any ice yet.
A few hundred yards of the cruel wind and Jimmy was feeling justified. As we turned off on a wee road for Thirdpart Farm the wind was on our backs and walking with it proved relatively warm. The road is deteriorates after a while as the council has relinquished maintenance, and ice-filled potholes pitted the breaking surface. These were easily negotiated, though, and hardly hindered our progress. Then we found real tarmac at Thirdpart and that was the last we saw of any ice. And the wind was still on the back and appeared to be dropping as we came into the shelter of the hills.
For some reason, the pace was brisk and we covered the ground to the main A78 in good time. Poor Holly was leashed, a thing she thoroughly detests, for this is a busy road. But she wasn’t tethered long for we turned off the main road on the old drive for Hunterston House.
It was then we heard the geese. At first a small skein of around twenty caught our attention. Then as we stood and watched, more and more drifted in from the south, cackling to maintain contact with the flock. ‘Barnacles, by the look of it’, said our expert, ‘They’re probably coming to feed on the stubble fields here’. We watched the geese, hundreds upon hundreds of them, turn and wheel and honk their way into the fields beyond the trees and out of our sight. Then we walked on.
By now, we were approaching Hunterston Castle. And, by now, the clock was approaching eleven - coffee time. Some of our Ooter ‘sameness’s’ are that for very good reasons. The best place for coffee on this walk is where we always stop. That is just to the south of Hunterston Castle for it is here that we are sheltered from any wind, there is a reasonable view to the heights of Goldenberry and there is a low drystane retaining wall for us to sit on. It was here we sat and had coffee.

(Hunterston Castle, Doors Open Day 2005)

A lot has been said of Ian’s capacity for food. He was still eating when the rest of us had long finished and were ready to walk on. But we promised him another food stop further round so he packed up and walked on with us.

We came quickly to Hunterston Castle. Davie, the linguist memorised the Latin motto on the clock there, promising, for once and all, to find the definitive translation. We wait with baited breathe. (Ed: LATET ULTIMA CURSUM PERFICIO -the end lies hidden I complete the course. Could be the motto of the ooters!)

By the time Davie had committed the Latin to memory, the non-linguists (and the non-interested) were past Hunterston House and approaching the road for the nuclear power station. Here, they waited for the classicist to catch up. Then we all walked down to the shore of the Fairlie Roads at a place called on the map Gull’s Walk, part of the Hunterston Sands. This, apparently, is a super place for bird watching and our birders were in ecstasy. Wee broon birds were separated into, redshank and dunlin; big broon yins were apparently curlew; what looked like to us like ducks were, it seems, widgeon, mallard, teal and shelduck. We think they just make it up at times. However, it kept them amused as we walked along the shore to the power station.
As we walked along the road through the power station complex, people with bright yellow jackets came and went through a door that we suspect led to the cafeteria. Ian suggested that if Davie had worn his yellow jacket, he might have been able to pruch a free meal. He reckons it’s something worth considering for the next time. And the talk of food reminded Ian that we had promised another eating stop. His call from the rear brought us all to a halt, and just where the road gave out onto the raised beach of Portencross barely a mile from the cars, we sat down for lunch. It wasn’t a particularly long lunch stop and once again we were ready for the off before Ian had finished eating. He needn’t have worried though; he could have eaten on the hoof for we took our time on the last stage.

We sauntered along the raised beach under the Ardneil cliffs, the birders watching for movements on the crags. We were split into two groups, the saunterers and those who were even slower. When we came to the village of Portencross, the advanced party were for keeping to the road but were shouted back by the others to leave the road and come round to the castle. ‘We always visit the castle’, said they. Oh dear, here we are reverting already. So much for resolutions, imposed or otherwise. But they leaders returned to the fold and we all walked round to the castle.

Portencross Castle, December 2009

The castle was covered in scaffolding and men in yellow jackets and hard hats came and went into it. We stopped a pair who came in our direction to make inquiries. (Not that we are nosey, we just like to know.) It seems that the castle is being restored to its former glory and will house conference rooms, function rooms et al. The money comes partly from the public purse and partly from a French donor with local connections. The public money, European as well as Scottish, is because of the historical importance of the castle. The French oak beams are part of the contribution of the private individual. The whole project is due to be finished by the end of February so we look forward to seeing the results. Bet the advanced group were glad we called them back now.
It was only a five-minute walk from the castle to the car park. Another short walk to start the New Year but and interesting one.
The Merrick in Seamill was chosen for FRT today but the place has lost its attraction. Perhaps we will try somewhere else in future for we are beginning to change our ways.

Portencross Castle, September 2005

6 January Cumnock to Ochiltree

The Arctic type weather of the last couple of weeks continues with snow and ice blanketing the country. A fresh snowfall yesterday had Jimmy phoning round to suggest an alternative meeting place and an alternative walk. The plan was for all to meet in Jimmy’s in Cumnock and travel to Wanlockhead for a snowy walk on the Lowthers. But the recent snow made Jimmy’s hill treacherous, almost impassable, so a quick phone round to suggest we meet at the Cumnock Swimming Pool car park and have a walk along the river to Ochiltree was accepted.
Only four of us met in Cumnock, a small but select band, for the rest had other matters to attend to but the four who did turn up were treated to a superb winter walk. The compensation for all the lying ice and sub-zero temperatures of the night was a morning of breathless air, cloudless blue sky and a low winter sun that accentuated every bump and hollow in the snow-bound landscape – a perfect day for a winter walk. And we set off into the perfect day.
We climbed the main road towards Auchinleck, yesterday’s snowfall providing traction on the iced-up pavement, and as we climbed, the landscape behind us opened out. We looked out over snowy Cumnock to the Glen Afton Hills gleaming white against the blue. But we didn’t have too much time to look behind us for Jimmy set a good pace up towards Auchinleck and Holly, desperate for freedom from the lead, pulled at Davie to be getting on.
The Auchinleck Burn forms the southern boundary of Auchinleck town, running under the main road in a deep gully. It was here that we left the road and took a path down the side of the gully. Now Holly could be released to run on ahead, Davie could relax for a while and the pace could be eased. We wandered down the path above the burn, through a wood of pine trees that still carried snow on their branches, snow that fell before Christmas and has lain long in the still, sub-zero air. A halt was called where the path came close to the bypass; not that we wanted to look at the bypass. No, we stopped to look at a winter wonderland of snow coated spruces and fields of pristine white. The low sun refracted on each icy crystal and sent back sparkles of blue, green and red. Davie used the first of his superlatives for the day. ‘Fabulous’, said he. We agreed.
For a few minutes, we stood and discussed the scene but eventually tore ourselves away and walked down the path into the living Christmas card. The path took us down through the spruces – ‘Planted in the bog that used to be here’, said Jimmy – and down to the side of the Lugar Water. The river was partly frozen with only the midstream running liquid, looking quite black in contrast to the surrounding snowy landscape. But we didn’t stop to admire the frozen river. Without halt, we turned downstream, came under the bypass bridge and into the policies of Dumfries House. The fresh, powdery snow crunched under the boots and provided good footing on the frozen under-layer, the walking was level and the pace was easy. We took our time through the old gravel works, through the woods and on to the main drive to the ‘big hoose’ enjoying the winter sun on our backs and the light on the snow. Davie used his second superlative. ‘Superb’, said he. We agreed.
Davie thought we were going to Adam’s Brig (see 4/3/2009) for coffee but Jimmy and Peter had other ideas. We turned away from the river and took the track for the old walled garden. It was Peter’s idea to visit the old garden. What he expected to see, he wasn’t quite sure, but the garden is derelict now with only the surrounding wall and a few ruined buildings giving a hint of its former use. If he was disappointed, Peter didn’t show it too much, instead he turned his attention to the ruined buildings on the outside of the wall.
A few minutes of nosing around were enough to satisfy everybody and we started off again. We had to retrace our snowy footprints for a bit for in our enthusiasm to visit the walled garden, we had overshot the path that would take us the rest of the way to Ochiltree. But the path was found easily enough, being picked out from the surrounding snowy fields by parallel fences.
Though we weren’t the first people to use the path during the snowy spell, we were the first on the fresh stuff. We weren’t the first creatures though. Tunnel-like runs showed where mice or voles searched for food through the frozen snow; heron prints came up from the wee sheugh and crossed the path, parallel scratches in the snow showed where it had clawed at something; hare prints crossed and re-crossed our path, the long rear legs making sausage-shaped indentations in the snow. It’s a good job we had the naturalists with us to point out the various prints. And, just to prove them right, a hare loped across the face of the old Barony Pit bing as we walked towards it.
The old bing is being reclaimed by nature and an open scrubby wood of birks, sauchs and alder covers its flanks and it was through this scattered scrub that the path climbed the side of the bing. Now from a higher vantage point, we looked backwards up the valley of the Lugar to its parent hills – to Aisyart Hill (Avisyard, on the map) above Cumnock, to the southwest of our watercourse, to Cairn Table at Muirkirk and to Pepper Hill where our river has its source. And downstream, Ochiltree seemed very close. But did Jimmy let us stop here for coffee? Did he heck! He walked on.
We left the official footpath and followed a track to the site of the old Barony Pit. The pit closed ages ago but apparently, it had a unique ‘A’ frame, the frame that was used to hoist and lower the cages in the pit shaft and it was left standing when the pithead buildings were demolished. It has been restored and the site turned into a visitor attraction complete with picnic tables and children’s play area. Information panels detail the mining heritage of the area through this one pit and an audio station lets real people tell their stories of the pit. It was on the seats of the audio station that we sat for coffee, for the picnic tables, like the rest of the world, lay under many inches of snow. ‘I’m glad you brought us here’, said Davie, pressing another audio button, ‘It’s awfie interesting’.
Coffee took a wee while for the sun beat on the information panel that we leaned against and warmed our backs nicely. Then we had an investigation of our surroundings to make before making our way back down the track we had come up.
We came back down and found our path again, at least we found the compacted icy footprints that showed where the path was, and turned down it into a wood and towards the river once more. A brick shed was noticed through the trees standing beside the water some twenty feet below our path. ‘Contains some sort of pumping gear’, said Jimmy who had made an investigation in warmer days. We were inclined to take his word for it for the slope down looked treacherous and the icy water lay below. ‘We’ll come back and have a look some other day’, said Peter. It was then that he noticed the man on the ice on the other side of the water.
The man seemed in no danger; he seemed to know what he was about. A tripod stood in front of him with a long lens attached. But whether this had a camera on the end or whether he was ‘twitching’, we don’t know for none of us shouted to him for fear of cracking the ice or bringing an avalanche down on our heads from the snow-covered branches. We just left him to whatever he was doing and walked on.
Another halt was called at the foot of a slope for we were now at the riverside and we stopped to look at the frozen water. Now the river was frozen from side to side and last night’s snow dusted the ice. More animal footprints marked this snow and we stopped for a look. Our attention was pointed the way we had just come. ‘Who could ask for a better view than this?’ said one. The view backwards was indeed super with the bare tree trunks of the wood standing almost black in the surrounding snow and the branches traced in black and white against the deep blue of the sky. Davie used a superlative again. ‘Fabulous’, he said. We nodded.
We came to a holm where, Jimmy said, the made path runs out for a few hundred yards by Mill Affleck farm. Whether it did or didn’t, didn’t matter for all was lost under the blanket of snow. We followed the icy footprints around the loop of the frozen river. A rusting millwheel stood in isolation in the middle of the holm to make where the old Parish Mill, the Mill Affleck, stood. Sadly, it seems that it’s being left to rust and rot away. Perhaps some day somebody will restore it as they’ve done with the ‘A’ frame. Until then it’s being left to decay. After the budding archaeologists, Jimmy and Allan, had discovered the course of the mill’s lade and tail, we walked on.
The river was frozen solid now for we were nearing the mill dam of Ochiltree and the water here runs deep and slow. We walked the few hundred yards down the side of the frozen river to find the main road and the end of our walk in Ochiltree.
We took the bus back to Cumnock and took FRT in The Mercat there.

This was a good walk, made so by the super winter day. That Davie enjoyed it was evident from the superlatives used. We leave the last word to him. ‘A fabulous day’, said he.

Christmas party headshots - Alpine Arran the Irvine backdrop

Arran - Irvine's Alpine backdrop 06/01/10

All present and correct for the Christmas bash.
Allan

Paul

Ronnie and Jimmy

Robert and Rex

Alan

David

Ian

Peter

Johnny

Annals of an absent Ooter

On Wednesday (6th) I should have been enjoying a short break in the Lake District. However, bad back pain and apprehension about road conditions resulted in us into cutting the holiday short and returning home on Tuesday (Margaret driving all the way). I was unfit for Wednesday's walk and still am unfit. I'm having to walk very gingerly about the house otherwise stabbing back pains catch me unawares. I'm sure Jimmy will sympathise.

Given a history of gall stones I was quite convinced the seasonal over-indulgence had got the better of me, but the doctor, whom I visited this morning, reckons it's a musculoskeletal problem. I hae ma doots. If the doc had looked less like he was due to sit his Highers this summer I might have had more confidence. Still we shall see what transpires.

Before I was laid low, we had a pleasant sojourn in Lancashire in my ahem second home, so being bored with having to sit about indoors, I've put together a few photos to give you a wee impression of the area and an idea of some of the walking we did.

First of all our location in Hoddlesden (Blackburn is just off the map, to the north of the motorway):


And the hoose:
















On New Year's Day we did a walk, very popular with the locals, up to Darwen Tower (or the Jubilee Tower to give it its posh name). There was a little snow lying in Hoddlesden (650 feet asl) and around the Tower (1200 feet) but the ascent was perilous with ice everywhere.





Trig point at the Tower (looking north beyond Blackburn to Longridge Fell:












Looking east from Tower towards Darwen. Hoddlesden is hidden in the valley behind the long line of trees (Roman Road) in the middle distance.











Looking north to Darwen Tower












It snowed heavily on the morning of January 2 and with driving not being an option we decided to walk into Darwen from Hoddlesden. The main street in Hoddlesden was really only negotiable in a 4x4.

Walking in the snow was pleasant but as we descended into Darwen the snow became slush and it was all quite horrible. We decided to head up the other side of the Darwen valley towards, (but not as far as) the Tower and we soon found better snow conditions.

The ducks in Bold Venture Park were clearly anticipating a bread opportunity as we approached the pond.









From the park we followed a path above the town in the direction of Whitehall. This path affords a fine view of Darwen's other landmark - India Mill chimney, at 303 feet high it's a haunt of peregrine falcons.







We then headed back across the valley towards Hoddlesden. This shot of the Tower was taken approaching the Roman Road which runs along the crest separating the Darwen and Hoddlesden valleys. Between the camera and the Tower lies Darwen!







Pendle Hill (1700 feet) from the road into Hoddlesden.












Harwood Farm, Hoddlesden.













January 3 was fine day. Largely blue skies, but with a period of snow around lunchtime. We had planned to walk east to Belthorn but this walk had to be aborted. In Early Ooter style we were adopted by a dog at Pickup Bank. The dog seemed to be a hunting dog since it spent the whole time it was with us sniffing the terrain for all it was worth. The snow cover had clearly disorientated the poor lost mutt and it simply tagged along with us. Having climbed to the top of Pickup Bank we decided we couldn't really take it further away from where we had picked it up; so we doubled back. As luck would have it, a couple with a dog were making their way along another track. Our mutt spotted them and abandoned us. Amidst a lot of growling and shouting we hurriedly left the scene.

We decided to do a loop from Pickup Bank to Waterside and then up to the Roman Road and home.

Pickup Bank is a fascinating place, riddled with tracks leading to ancient hamlets, or "Folds" as they are known in the area.







A view of part of Pickup Bank from the house.











At one time Waterside had a large cotton mill. The mill lodge remains and is a popular fishing location and there is plenty of birdlife to be seen on the water (or ice on this occasion). Seldom have I seen such miserable looking birds as they sat forlornly on the ice. One Muscovy Duck had abandoned the water and was perched on the handrail of a bridge totally oblivious to us. It appeared to have entered some kind of suspended animation.






Belthorn on the skyline with Waterside below.








All offers for the house will be given serious consideration!.

Annbank-Auchincruive walk

Tuesday 05 Jan 2010 - Irvine, Bank Street

More snow last night. Conditions for local walking made easier.
The snow cover gives a better grip than the polished ice of the last few
days. The road surface on the main roads having been the only 'safe'
place to walk with confidence. I won't be with you guys tomorrow(if
a walk goes on) the cardiology dept. are running an 'extra' clinic and have
invited me along - who knows what for? That will be my task tomorrow-
get to Crosshouse hosp. - hopefully the roads will be OK. All the best to
you and yours for 2010. Look forward to see you all soon. I dread to think
how many feet of snow Cumnock lies under!
Johnny

Looking west along Bank Street

Looking East

Cherry trees, Holly, Palms, Berberis, Escalonia

Brick wall

30 December Annbank to Auchincruive Circular or An Ice Day For A Walk

The snow that caused the cancellation of last week’s walk lay for over a week and, except where feet and wheels had compressed it, it lay soft and powdery. A slight thaw yesterday and an overnight frost combined to turn the compressed stuff into ice, and light rain this morning added a watery skim to the surface of this making underfoot conditions treacherous. Later in the day we were to discover just how treacherous. Still, at least the roads were clear which meant we could travel today. That saw seven of us make the trip to Annbank for the short walk to Auchincruive and back.
We gathered in the ice-covered car park of the Annbank Bowling Club. Some say that the Ooters are old and set in their ways. Today we were to disprove this theory, well at least in part. A momentous decision was made. We would do the walk in the reverse of the way we usually go. Does this foretell a change in the attitude of the Ooters? We will wait and see.
Anyway, slithering our way over the ice of the car park we came to the cleared tarmac of the main road. Walking up the middle of the road seemed the safest option and this is what we did, straggling up the main street and only stepping on to the icy snow to let traffic past. Not that we were a danger to traffic in any way for Davie had his luminous yellow jacket on, a jacket that can probably be seen from the moon on a clear night, so should be eminently visible to oncoming vehicles here on earth. We proceeded in relative safety along the road.
It was noted with some surprise by the cynics that the Christmas tree in the village square, though unguarded, still had all its lights intact. ‘Aye, but ye’re no’ in Kilmaurnock noo’ was the response from our east county man. But full credit must go to the citizens of Annbank for this.
The good walking on tarmac took us through the village to Mill Road. Now we left the safety of the black tarmac and took to the icy Mill Farm track. This runs steeply downhill towards the river and proved extremely tricky today especially to those with Vibram soles. The few spots of rain falling on the ice made it particularly slippy and feet had to be placed judiciously to avoid mishap; on the McGarry scale this was definitely a ten plus. Davie, just to prove the point, decided to demonstrate his old ice skating skills by landing on his arse on the wet ice. Not content with this, he showed us his impression of ‘Dancing on Ice’ as he tried to regain his feet. Did we laugh? Course we did. Wet arse for Davie though.
Allan was being particularly careful on the down slope and the brave/rash/stupid* waited on the more level ground at the foot of the hill for him to catch up. It was now that the rain came seriously and added its wetness to the lying ice. And ice covered the path down to the river. Great care had to be taken once more. Even on the level, feet slipped and slithered, and it was fortunate for us that there was a path-side fence to hang onto or more might have had wet bottoms. We never thought that crampons might be useful at this low level. But they might have been, if we had them.
But the rain didn’t last long and the ice eventually gave way to crunchy snow. We were now on the holm by the fishing pools of Wee Beth and Big Beth, and some decided the best option was to cut a corner and cross this holm. But Jimmy and Rex were out for a walk and kept to the longer pathway by the side of the river. We thought they might just want to be alone so left them to it and crossed the field. A cormorant stood on a snow covered boulder in the river like it was frozen to the spot. Rex stopped for a picture. Jimmy walked on to join the rest of us where the path enters the trees by the riverside. Rex joined us a few minutes later.
The path narrowed in the trees for it crossed a steep slope running up from the river and we were strung along it in Indian file. Some ice did patch the path but overall it was good walking until we left the shelter of the trees. We were now on another holm with other fishing holes. Again, the fence was an aid on the slippery ice-covered path.
Perhaps this was where Jimmy sustained the damage; we will never know for sure for even he doesn’t know where it happened. All we know is that when we stopped for coffee in one of the anglers' shelters, blood flowed freely from the back of Jimmy’s hand and dripped into the dry sand. Whether it was to celebrate the impending New Year or to ward off any shock that Jimmy might be experiencing we are not sure but Allan produced a hip flask and proceeded to fortify the coffees with Chevas Regal. Those without coffee, including the injured Jimmy, just took the crature neat. The remedy worked for the blood dried on Jimmy’s hand and not one of us fainted at the sight it. We feel that Allan should bring his hip flask more often – just in case of emergencies like this.
Now, well bolstered against the cold, we set off again.
We crossed the holm to the corner of another wooded slope. Again, the path narrowed as it crossed the slope, and again we were reduced to single file. Nothing as easy as a grassy bank this time though. Cliffs of limestone underpinned by friable shale rose vertically above us on the right, and on the left, the bank fell nearly as steeply into the river. This has never given us a problem before for the path is wide enough and the ground is stable underfoot. But today was different. The path was icy and slippery. New rock falls – the result of the prolonged cold snap?- spilled over it and these also were coated in watery ice. The going was treacherous and a slip here would surely have precipitated the unfortunate into four feet of freezing water. This was surely the most hair-raising part of the walk – so far. However, by carefully finding a rare half-inch of less frozen snow and by grabbing at tree trunks, roots and tussock of lank grass growing out of the shale, we managed to cross our hundred metres of mauvais pas without mishap, much to the relief of everyone. Easier going now brought us to Tarholm Bridge.
Some thought about turning back up the road to Annbank but Bob’s assertion that the path would be ice-free from now on, ‘because it’s through the trees’, brought them back into the fold. We all crossed the bridge to the south side of the river. Robert, with the eye of the artist, saw the watery winter sun light up the snow and reflect in the still water of the river and stopped to photograph it. We look forward to seeing the resultant picture on the blog.
Bob was nearly right in his assertion. For the most part the path was ice-free but, on the rise toward Wallace’s Seat, we came across more of the slippy stuff. This wasn’t nearly as difficult as we had encountered earlier but it was enough to have Allan scrabbling about on all fours trying to avoid a wet bum. Fortunately, most of the group were to the front and missed Allan’s antics but those who witnessed it sympathised in the usual way.
We didn’t stop at Wallace’s Seat – another first for the Ooters – but continued on the low path for Auchincruive. Davie, Robert and Rex set the pace with Allan and Jimmy bringing up the tail. Ian and Ronnie, for reasons known only to them, decided not to follow the leaders on the path but to continue along the old railway but, being hailed from above by the advance group, soon learned the error of their ways. Ian climbed the steep bank to join the rest of us but Ronnie, having nothing to do with such strenuous activity, continued on his way. The rest of us headed down toward the river again.
Rather than risk the icy path beside the river, we took to the field and came to the fishers’ shelter for lunch. Here we found the lost Ronnie. He had taken a shorter way than we had and arrived at the shelter immediately before us. We took our peece in the shelter.
From the shelter to Oswald’s Brig was a matter of fifty metres or so, but icy metres. Again, with a little care we covered the distance without accident. We crossed the brig, and turned right onto the drive of Auchincruive House and immediately found the ice again, even on the tarmac of the drive. But the worst was to come when we left the drive and took to the walkway under the gardens. Wet, rutted ice covered the path between the garden wall and the riverside parapet. It was almost impossible to find secure footing. And totally impossible to avoid the ice. However, by keeping to the edge of the walkway and finding the occasional loose patch in the ice, we slithered our way past the retaining wall and the informal garden to the garden wall. Now came the most difficult part of the entire day. The stone-built stile in the wall was coated in two or three inches of wet ice. Cautiously placing one foot before moving the other and hanging onto the wall as best we could, each took it in turn crossing the stile, being supported, and guided by the others. (Remember, ‘compassion’ is the new watchword of the Ooters) It is pleasing to note, and somewhat surprising given the severity of the obstacle, that all came safely over the stile.
We left our difficulties behind us at the style for we were now back into a wooded area and the ice was less severe; we could almost walk normally. We followed the path past the remains of the old railway, up beside a burn whose name has been forgotten by the scribe and back into Annbank.

We've done this walk many times before and it has given us no problems in the past. But, given the underfoot conditions today, it was a severe test and we suspect some stiff legs in the morning.

FRT was taken in The Tap O’ The Brae, but this time inside and not on the veranda.

*Delete as you think appropriate.

Jimmy can see again

Please stop looking everyone,
Jimmy’s specs hae jist been fun.
While we huntit near and huntit faur,
Jimmy’s specs were in Davie’s caur.

The Walk- Wed 6th January 2010.

Meet at Jimmy's house around 9.00a.m. If it is a good day we will go to the Lowther Hills and if it is a poor day we will walk from Cumnock.

Christmas snow

Hi Guys,

Nice to see your pictures of the snow. Johnny, that's no snaw you've got in Irvine. that's just a heavy frost. Here's some real snaw from Cumnock.

Christmas morning and we still have four or five inches lying on the road here.

To all of you, have a very Merry Christmas.

Travelling difficult - but easy walking round Irvine

The better half had the idea to walk round the town. So off we set on the two hour jaunt to Eglinton Park. The road conditions and pavements were treacherous but once on to the New Town Walk the going was excellent under foot - thin layer of crunchy snow allowing easy walking. A low winter sun gave life to super views.
The first two pictures are from last weeks visit to Glasgow.
Seasons Greetings - Hope the weather allows our walk next Wednesday.
Her indoors - just doesn't do the slagging thing.

Solitary walk in the snow

The weather may cause havoc on the roads, but the snow transformed the valley into a veritable winter wonderland today.
After I had retrieved my car which I had abandonned in Newmilns yesterday on my way home from my swim in Troon, I decided not to miss my Wednesday walk and headed off up the cottage road walk in Darvel. I was on my own as Holly is still hors de combat because of her injured paw. Here are some of the photos that I took.


near Lanfine House
Looking down on Darvel
Looking up to Greenbank
Darvel park
Looking across Darvel park (Why so empty? Where are the snowman-building weans?)
deux sangliers

papa sanglier

For Jimmy: hunners of wee burds - bullfinches, robins, blue tits, great tits, 1 coal tit, grey wagtails, goldfinches, blue dykies, shelfies, blackies.

All in all a first class wee walk. Davie

River Ayr Walk

The arrangements for Wed 23rd Dec have now been transferred to Wed 30th Dec , weather permitting. Meet at Annbank bowling club at 10a.m.

9 December: Kilmarnock-Irvine route

Distance: 16.1 km (for those who caught the bus back to Kilmarnock). Now with a slightly amended route for the approach to Irvine, following advice from our local guide.

9 December Kilmarnock to Irvine

1. It came to pass that a decree went out that all the Ooters should be gathered unto one place. And the gathering should be in the abode of Alan the Carpenter and his good wife Ann in the city of Kilmarnock. And the appointed time was in the first week of the sixty-first year of Allan of the Complicated Sums.
2. The Ooters came from all of their cities, from Killie and from Darvel, and from Irvine and Troon and Alloway yea, even from the distant places of Catrine and Cumnock. And a great multitude filled Alan’s conservatory even unto the bulging of the walls for they fed on the leavened fruitcake and the mince pies baked in the oven of Alan. And they fed well and were thankful.
3. Gifts were given according to the custom of the Ooters for this was the season of Yule. The discs with the digital symbols were offered and the cards with the sacred messages were given even unto all. And thanks were given each unto the other.

(Hey, enough o’ the King James stuff, jist get oan wi’ it! He hisnae been richt since he discovered that quote fae Isaiah a fortnicht ago. - Editor)
OK, Ed.

After the exchange of Christmas cards and the devouring of Alan’s baking, we took to the road, a full complement of us for the first time in weeks. Ian was returned from his cruise in the Caribbean and that he enjoyed it was evident from the way he told us about it. And told us about it. And told us about it. By the time he had told us the forty-first thing about the breakfast, dinner, supper and the snacks in between, we had wandered the streets of Killie and found ourselves on the Western Road, on the bridge over the old Irvine railway.
A sign on the bridge told us that the old railway was now part of the Sustrans National cycle network route 73 and that Irvine was eight miles away, Ardrossan, seventeen. We weren’t going as far as Ardrossan but we were going onto the cycleway, and to Irvine.
A cycleway it may be, but directly under the bridge the old railway is being given a new lease of life with new track being laid as this is written. A gang of workmen toiled at the end of the new-lay. We asked why they were reinstating the track here but, by the time the leader, obviously the joker in the pack, had joked and capered and threw his hard-hat to the ground in despair, we were none the wiser. ‘They don’t tell us, they jist send us tae drill holes’, said he, before they all lifted tools and walked back towards the station. So, in our ignorance, we walked on, towards Irvine.
The walking was easy for the old railway is level, tarmaced for bikes, reasonably straight and runs through the flat lands of the Ayrshire plain. The scenery was uninspiring, low bankings and shallow cuttings combining to keep the views short, but the birders were delighted for many of their feathered friends fluttered among the saughs and scrubby trees, possible Tree Sparrows – ‘these are getting scarce now’ – and a flock of fifty to seventy Whooper Swans being the highlights. And Ian told us about his cruise.
The cycleway took us through the gently undulating countryside of the Ayrshire plain, by Knockentiber, over the Carmel Water, under Crosshouse and past Springside. By the time we gained the outskirts of Dreghorn the time was approaching eleven. ‘Too early to make directly for the town’, said Johnny and turned us up the road Jimmy was already walking up. Somebody called for coffee but there was no real place to sit for the ground was damp and the roadside verges were far from clean. We walked on ignoring the hungry and thirsty. (Whatever happened to compassion?)
The tarmac took us by various directions, by minor roads, main roads and short-cuts to the walled garden of Annick Lodge. A dip in the road brought us down to a bridge on the Annick water. A stiff climb that brought comments like ‘Thought this was a flat walk’, took us back up to the level. And on the level, on a wee bridge over a sheugh we concede to the thirsty and stopped for coffee. And Ian told us about his cruise.
We were to be at Johnny’s for soup and beer around one. It was now just after half past eleven and only a lang Scots mile or twa to his house so, despite the dampness of our seats and the coolish air, we spent longer over coffee than we might otherwise have done. The rain was forecast to come around half past eleven and, right on cue, we felt the first spots. We walked on.
As we approached the outskirts of Irvine, a man of mature years walked towards us. The advanced group walked past the man but Alan recognised him as a former teaching colleague, long time retired, and stopped for a blether. By the time pleasantries had been exchanged, another few minutes towards the soup hour had gone and now appetites were being sharpened for the feast.
We came into Irvine via the Girdle Toll and arrived at Johnny’s around the appointed hour.

4. And they feasted well of the warming soup and quaffed well of the ale. And each was satisfied and gave thanks unto Johnny even for this bounty he prepared before them.

Amen

2 December Loudoun Hill - Fourth Visit

(photo taken 30/11/2009 as the sun was sinking)

The view from Loudoun Hill wasn’t as nearly as impressive today as it has been on previous visits, the overcast sky and the damp conditions cutting the distance to a few miles. Still, it was good enough for a view westward down the Irvine Valley to the flatter ground around Killie, northward over the Darvel Moor to the wind farm of Whitelees and eastward to Drumclog and Stra’ven. In the south, Blacksidend and Wedder Hill filled most of the skyline with Cairntable at Muirkirk forming the rest. But there were no Afton Hills, Arran or the southern Highland hills today. Yet, we enjoyed our time on the top, resting in the lea of a rocky outcrop, taking a bite of peece and taking in what landscape was shown to us.
We had come to the hill by the south side of the Irvine valley, leaving Davie’s in Darvel around nine thirty. Nine of us gathered at Davie’s before taking to the road in light-hearted mood. Already Jimmy was getting it in the neck from all directions for his newfound sartorial elegance.
‘Ooh, new trousers!’
‘Nah! Old trousers, just that you haven’t seen them before’.
‘New shirt?’
‘Nah! Same reason’
‘New stick?’
‘Well, I have got a sair knee’
‘New Grandpa bunnet’
He had to concede there. Walking stick, Grandpa bunnet, it seems Jimmy is turning into an auld man and he took some stick for it. It was suggested the pipe and slippers would come next. And all this before we’d even left Darvel.
We did leave the town shortly after leaving Davie’s, crossed the bridge to the south side of the river and took the road eastward toward the top of the valley.
The walk up the south side of the valley is interesting for the variety of terrain and scenery. We started off on a road beside a wood, climbing above and away from the river to the new house at Bankhouse. Compassion is the new watchword of the Ooters and compassion was felt for Jimmy who hobbled on the climb. ‘You’d be better with twa sticks’ was the consensus. ‘Then we could call you Two Sticks Jimmy’, said Bob. There ended the compassion. Two Sticks Jimmy hobbled on.
Then a track through the open fields brought us down to Greenside and a wee bridge over the Gower Water. We turned into the burn-side trees at the bridge and came along a path beside the burn to find tarmac again after a few hundred metres. This brought us to the farm of Bransfield. Turning right here, we followed tarmac to the Mason’s Brig. Davie, he with the local knowledge, was asked why the Masonic compass and square were carved into the parapet. We were disappointed. He didn’t have an answer, not even a made up one. And we like a good story whether true or not.
The tarmac climbed away from the bridge. Did I say Two Sticks hobbled? There he was, at the front on the climb, setting the pace with Robert and Davie. And a fair old pace they set. At least they had the ‘compassion’ to wait on the high ground at Loanfoot for the rest of us to catch up. Now Loudoun Hill looked impressive, showing its rugged face to us. And we walked on towards it from Loanfoot; on by the Long Cairn and the footbridge over the Gower again; over the high grazing of Parbeth and nearer to the craggy face of the hill.
(the Spirit of Scotland monument by Richard Price, taken on 9/2/2009)
We stopped before the hill, at the Spirit of Scotland monument placed under the hill to commemorate both Wallace’s and Bruce’s victories here in Scotland’s struggle for independence, for the sculpture just had to be inspected and admired. We looked at the monument with different eyes. The artists admired the concept and construction. The historian picked out the historical meanings of the carvings. The poets recognised the patriotic words of Scott, Burns and Blin’ Harry.
‘At Wallace’s name what Scottish blood,
But boils up in spring-like flood?’
Our tame Englishman said very little.
Whatever way we looked at it, the monument is an outstanding piece of work and very appropriate to its surroundings. We spent a few minutes here but then took to the hill itself.
The lame one was asked if he wanted to climb the hill or go round the side. Allan was relieved when he opted for the top even slower o the climbs than he was. The two were kept company by Johnny while the rest walked on, halted until they caught up, and then walked on again. This happened more than once, ‘compassion’ coming to the fore again. Some opted for the quick, steep ascent while those with more sense (or sair knees) chose the longer route. But, whichever route was chosen, we all reached the top, sat down in the lea of a rocky outcrop, took a bite of peece and took in what landscape was shown to us.
The descent was by the easier, grassy northwestern slope and through the beeches there. If it was Jimmy’s turn to be the butt of the comments on the way towards the hill, it was Davie’s turn now. He had warned us that the slope would be slippy. When we reached a rocky step, he compounded his error by announcing that the ground was slippy here. And it was. So it was further down and the general cry went up, ‘Watch out, slippy bit!’ ‘Slippy bits’, were now announced to Davie on a regular basis as the walk progressed, particularly when we gained the old railway and styles separated fields. Thus began the McGarry scale of slipperiness.
Each style was given a numerical grading by Robert according to slipperiness. A level one is just a slight ‘oops’ as a foot slips an inch or so; level ten is a complete down on the a*** job. The rest are somewhere in between and yet to be defined but we did get level four shouted at us as he made his way over another. And it was by climbing styles of different degrees of slippiness and avoiding mucky sections where the cows had been, that we made our way back along the old railway towards Darvel.
We did stop once, ‘compassion’ coming on us once more. For some reason Johnny struggled and we waited compassionately for him to catch up. And we waited compassionately for him to recover. Then we walked on.
We came back to Darvel, turned down the side of the Glen Water and came back to Davie’s around two having had another pleasant walk in the Valley. Then it was over to the Black Bull for FRT.

Christmas lunch walk

Meet at the back of the Botanic Gardens, off Kirklee Drive, (turn right at Kelvinside Academy), at 10 am. Bring coffee and we'll stop at Maryhill Aqueduct. The Ashoka is booked for 1pm.

2 December: Loudoun Hill route

Distance: 15.8 km

Catrine walk 25 November - map and links to some old photos

Distance 11.7 km

Photos courtesy of Ken Baird, Sorn

Old Howford Bridge:
flood damage 1966

Construction of new Howford Bridge
Photo 1
Photo 2


There are hundreds of photos in the collection. Either press L/R button at top of a photo to move through slides or click on "slideshow" to see all titles.

25 November Catrine to The Haugh

And the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped.
Then shall the lame man leap as an hart,
Isaiah 35:5

It’s difficult to believe, given the weather we’ve had this year, that there was a fifteen to eighteen month spell when the Ooters first escaped from the chalk-face, we barely had a wet Wednesday. The past fortnight in our tiny corner of the world has seen torrential rain and flooding with only a few dry hours between downpours. Today was to continue the pattern, only this time the rain was combined with severe gales with storm-force gusts that rattled the trees and blew about anything that wasn’t fixed down. On the plus side, it wasn’t too cold for the time of year.

It was through this weather that eight of us drove to Peter’s in Catrine for an easy day on the byways around there.
We sat for a while in Peter’s enjoying his coffee and carrot cake, for not one of us fancied going out into the weather, least of all Davie whose facial expression said what most of us were thinking. Who made the decision to go can’t be said for certain, but after a while and somewhat unenthusiastically we all dressed top to toe in waterproofs, trooped outside and prepared for the worst. The worst was wind-driven rain; the best was just wind.
But the rain had subsided and the wind was on our backs as we walked away from Catrine’s Mill Square, along St Germain Street towards the Ayr Bridge. Already Davie was chatting up the women. ‘The wife of an old friend’, said he; a likely story, says we.
Dragging a reluctant Davie away from his encounter with Alice, we continued the walk and found a bit of shelter from the wind when we turned on to Newton Street. This was Peter’s walk so we knew to expect the unexpected. Turning off Newton Street, we came towards the institute and found ourselves on the far side of a bridge fifty metres from where we started at the Mill Square. Peter had taken us on the longer walk just because he likes to show off Catrine. That’s what we think anyway.
We were now on the River Ayr Way and turned our faces downriver, a river running full and brown with the last fortnight’s rain. And, as we turned downriver, we turned into the strong westerly. And the rain came again, light rain but, driven on the gale, it was wetting. Yet, we knew that here in the valley we were sheltered from the worst of the weather. We didn’t anticipate better on the higher ground.
Down past the sewage works we came. (Told you Peter likes to show us the best bits of Catrine.) The gale-driven drizzle had gone again and we walked a bit easier. A heron was disturbed from its fishing at our approach and flapped away downriver, making heavy weather of it into the wind. We made slightly better progress on terra firma but Jimmy was struggling, even on the flattish ground beside the river. His knee hadn’t fully recovered from Mosset and now his back was playing up, the result of a bout of decorating and furniture moving. When we came to the rise to the top of the valley, despite the fact he used a stick today (see 3 November), he slowed to a crawl. We had to wait for him, and Johnny who had kept him company, in the wind on the high ground. Bugger!
Eventually, the two joined us and we walked under the concrete span of Howford’s new brig (C1964) and on to the tearoom of Catrine House. The rain came again as we waited for the curious to return from the new animal house they felt they just had to visit. ‘When you’ve seen one coo, you’ve see them a’, said Davie with a touch of cynicism in his voice. But the inquisitive returned with tales of coos and weird sheep and reindeer. We took their word for it and walked on to find tarmac at a crossroad.
We stood in the rain at the crossroads waiting to see where we were going next. Whether Davie misheard Peter (He didn’t have his sound system installed today – ‘Nae bloody use in the wind!’) or whether Peter changed his mind, your scribbler can’t be sure but as Davie prepared to go off in one direction, Peter walked off in another. We followed Peter. Davie followed us, with some mutterings about making up your mind. Not that Peter, or the rest of us for that matter, was lost or anything remotely like it for we are all too familiar with this walk and knew exactly where he led us. He led us down the old main road to the sandstone built old Howford brig (C1760) where we were again sheltered from most of the blow.
We always stop on the old brig. Why should today be any different? We did halt at the brig but only long enough for the rain to go off again. Then we continued up the old road.
When we reached the abutments of the old footbridge of Lady Alexander’s walk, Davie was for the climb onto the sandstone cliffs. But the lame Jimmy was for none of this exertion and opted for the longer but more level walk of the official River Ayr path. The party split with some joining Jimmy and the others following the more adventurous Davie. We came together again under Ballochmyle’s ‘Big Brig’.
According to the historian, at the time of its construction towards the end of the 1840’s, this viaduct had the largest masonry arch in the world at around 181ft span and 160ft above the river. No matter whether it had or hadn't, it still represents a tremendous engineering achievement and it is still the largest true masonry arch in the Europe.
We might have been forced to make a decision at the ‘Big Brig’ but happily, the conditions made it for us. (Remember we don’t do decisions very well in the Ooters) One thing was a certainty, though. If we took the low path there was no way we would get along the riverside ledge under the sandstone at the Haugh; it would be well under the spate. We were forced to take the high road. This took us along the top of the gorge where we could look down and see the brown river lap over the ledge. We were right to take the high road.
‘Coffee’, was called as we started the descent towards the Haugh, and in the shelter of the trees, on a fallen tree-trunk, we sat down for coffee.
Barely had we started the descent after coffee when the rain came again. This time it was serious and we were about to leave the shelter of the trees and come into the gale once more. We did just that, heads down into the weather, and trudged along to Haugh farm. Here we found the tarmac again and a decision had to be made this time. Peter offered alternative routes. ‘One’s six and the other’s half a dozen’, said the sage from somewhere under the hood of a dripping rain-cape. We listened to his wise words and went the way we always go.
We kept to tarmac for a while now. The rain went on the climb from the Haugh to the south side of the valley, which was just as well for we were about to come onto the high ground again and back into the force of the gale. And there was a strange brightening in the western sky as we approached Syke Farm.
A track came onto the road from the right, from Auchinleck House. Peter suggested we might go this way but most who had had enough of a soaking for the day, told him politely ‘Naw!’ and walked on before any argument could be made in his favour. We climbed to the high ground beyond Syke.
On this high ground, the wind blew but not as fiercely as before. And it was on our backs and was no particular hindrance. Peter planned it this way – so he says and we believe him. And, as we walked on, the wind pushed us along the road and the sky continued its brightening. The ‘Big Brig’ lay over to our left. A ray of sun lit it up for a minute or so before returning it to shade. The clag lifted from the heights of Blacksidend and the western sky continued to brighten. We had seen the last of the rain for the day.
We came back to our crossroads of earlier, down by the tearoom and on to Howford’s concrete bridge. Jimmy’s back was playing up by this time and his knee started to play up on the descent to the river again; he was reduced to a crawl on this section. Robert and Johnny took pity and kept him company to the level ground by the riverside.
Meanwhile, the advanced group had reached the river. Despite the spate, Holly was washed in the river. As if the dug wasn’t wet enough already! By the time most of the muck was off her, the lame had returned to the fold.
We came back to the Institute and the bridge over the river to the Mill Square. This time we took it, there was no thought of diversions and arrived at the starting point around lunchtime.

Those who read these scribblings on a regular basis will know that we sweaty buggers get just as wet inside the waterproofs as out. Today was no exception and a complete change of clothing from the skin out was the order of the day even before any eating was done. Both of these tasks were carried out in Peter’s place before we went in search of FRT. We found ourselves in the Brewery Bar a little after one o’clock. Now for some real wetting in the inside.

11 November Cumbrae Again – Fifth Visit

(photo taken 27/12/2008)

After the exertions of last week, it was decided to have an easy day today, easy but interesting. Where better fits the bill than the Isle of Cumbrae? So, after sampling Johnny’s hospitality again, eight of us made our way to Largs for the short crossing to the island that is becoming one of our favourites. And a biting northerly wind greeted us at the ferry slip. We hurried onto the ferry.
It has been said many times that the Ooters are creatures of habit, old boys set in their ways. Davie had thought of going anticlockwise round the island and cutting up one of the footpaths to the top of the Glaidstane but for some reason the front party turned left and so clockwise when we left the ferry – for this is the way we always go. Davie’s plans were abandoned.
We walked southward to the Scottish National Water-sports Centre. While we were now sheltered from the wind, it continued to ruffle the water a few yards offshore. A few hardy souls braved the wind and took to the water on sailboards. Partly silhouetted against the southern light, they formed a picturesque scene and presented the photographers with an opportunity for more prize-winning snaps. Rex had the camera out while the rest walked on.
We weren’t by the shore for long. Just beyond the water-sports centre a road rose to the right, a road that rose to the highest point of the island at the Glaidstane. We went this way.
An indication of things to come was given on the rise to the Glaidstane. Both Jimmy and Rex had appointments to keep this evening. Not that Jimmy was in a particular hurry; as long as he got back to Largs by half-past three he was happy. But Rex seemed to be in more of a rush and he set the pace on the climb. By the time we gained the corner where the bucket lorry was stuck on the ice the last time we were here, the party was split into two - Rex, Davie, Robert and Paul to the front and moving away, Jimmy, Johnny, Ian and Alan, giving in to gravity and burning legs, bringing up the rear. At least the speedsters had the decency to wait at the Glaidstane for the rest to catch up.
Coffee was taken at the Glaidstane. Though the wind still blew cool, the heat of the effort of the climb was still with us and we sat for a wee while over coffee. The view was improving all the time. We sat and watched a watery sun break through, silvering the water to the south and lighting the immediate landscape. We sat and watched the ducks on the lochan to the south – widgeon said he with the binoculars - and a flock of gulls feeding on the sea to the north. We sat and watched the Rothesay ferry crossing from Wemyss Bay. We sat and watched as the day brightened for us. We sat and watched for a while but eventually the cold wind got to us and we moved on.
We came down from the top of the island to Millport, Rex continuing to set the pace. And the weather continued to improve, the sun getting as strong as it can at this time of year. When we got to the shore, Jimmy was discovered to be missing. He had stopped to take a picture of the Cathedral of the Isles while we walked on and was now way behind. We waited for him in a seaside shelter. Jimmy took his time to get to us, having stopped for more pictures en-route but get to us, he did – eventually. Then, together again, we walked along the promenade of a very quiet Millport.
Quarter of an hour later Jimmy was missing again. This time it was buzzard-watch that detained him. Once again, we waited in a seaside shelter. And since we were seated there, we had lunch. Who says we are creatures of habit? Here we were having lunch somewhere other than our usual place on the picnic tables further round the coast. Set in our ways? Huh!
It was quarter past twelve when we finished lunch and stood up to continue the walk round the west side of the island. We were aiming for the half past two ferry. Six miles in two and quarter hours – no problems there then. An easy walk would take us there in around two hours, no need to hurry. But obviously some didn’t believe this. We started casually enough and even had time to see stonechats perching accommodatingly on the thorns and reeds for us. But then the speedsters started.
Almost imperceptibly, the pace had picked up to a briskness that was fast but comfortable. Then Robert and Johnny started playing silly buggers and broke into a competitive jog. We all increased the pace to keep up. Allan stopped for a call of nature and found himself well off the tail. Davie likewise a little later. Ian and Jimmy tried to keep up with the racers for a while but the pace was uncomfortably fast for them and they eased up. The fast ones kept up the racing speed and disappeared into the distance.
Davie was first to join the slower pair, having taken the best part of a mile to get there. Then Alan joined them and they walked at a much more comfortable pace for the rest of the day, taking time to look at the seascape and the wildlife.
Meanwhile, there was no let up at the front. Onward they sped. Then realising that the others weren’t with them, they sat down at the monument to the drowned sailors barely two hundred metres from the ferry terminal to wait for the slow. For a good ten minutes, they waited. The slow arrived at the monument in time to see the half past one ferry leave the slip. Even the tardy group had covered the best part of six miles in a little over an hour and a quarter. Much too fast for an enjoyable walk.
We took the two o’clock ferry back to the mainland and took FRT in McCabe’s Bar in Largs

For at least one of our number the speed of today’s walk was too much. ‘If it’s going to be like that next week, I’ll no’ be there’, said he. Most agree.

Irvine-Ardrossan route

Distance: 14.9 km (The route through the vennels of Irvine is maybe a tad sketchy.

18 November Irvine to Ardrossan

Nine Ooters met at Johnny's in Irvine for the now legendary coffee and scones. Missing today were Jimmy (an old knee injury) and Rex (attending to building work). Since the weather forecast was dire with heavy rain scheduled to move in during late morning and lasting for the best part of the next 36 hours, a prompt start was made at 9.30am with Johnny leading us down into the town centre before following the path across Irvine Moor and onwards towards the site of the old Ravenspark Hospital ( The Poors' House aka The Pares' Hoose, as the locals refer to it). Building at the new 'Ravenspark Village' stopped months ago when the company went bust and there is little sign of works being resumed any time soon.
The walk then continued towards the Recycling Centre at Bartonholm and from there across to the outskirts of Kilwinning where we proceeded on the walkway/cycle track skirting the industrial estate that borders the Kilwinning bypass. The pace was brisk as usual but after the shenanigans of last week the group stayed together with the unusual sight of the gang stopping en masse when a one of our esteemed colleagues had to make a pit stop. (We'll see how long this will last - remember the motto!). Robert kept using the word 'compassion' - a word not normally in the Ooters' vocabulary.
As we traversed the hinterland between Kilwinning and Stevenston the first of today's wildlife was spotted, first a deer, then a buzzard and then a kestrel, allegedly. Our resident naturalist being missing today meant that it was up to the rest of us to make up what we didn't know. Robert helpfully stopped to alert a local nature lover, at least he had a pair of binoculars, as to the wonderful sights to be seen. 'I've been here before', was the stoic reply. Despite calls for coffee, we marched on past Ardeer and into Stevenston, past the Auchenharvie Golf Centre, noting some coots, swans and mallards in a pond, and back on to the main road for the stretch up to the the boundary with Saltcoats. So far the weather had remained kind, dry but with a wee edge to the wind at times.
On the Stevenston/Saltcoats border we crossed over a wooden railway bridge which looked well past its sell by date and stopped beside the water's edge for coffee/lunch. The border guards insisted on bribes being paid to enter Saltcoats. After some discussion we decided to take their bribes and continued into the Costa Clyde. A few spots of rain hastened our progress but thankfully they came to nothing as we walked along the shorefront between Saltcoats and Ardrossan, avoiding the occasional soaking as the waves broke over the sea wall.
Without any ceremony the bus stop was reached by 12.50 and the big blue no 11 bus arrived to take us back to Irvine cross. This route took us past two schools until recently home to two of the Ooters ( Auchenharvie and Irvine Royal) and through Pennyburn whose quality of building was scorned by the assembled company. Busses have come a long way in recent years - this one had come down from Kilmarnock this morning - no seriously, relatively comfortable and quiet with closed circuit television. It is sometimes amazing what you can see from the top of a bus that you miss when on the ground. We saw ... well...er... some lesser spotted jakeys at the front of the bus. No doubt they would have settled at the back had we not bagged these seats first.
Soon we were back in Irvine and made our way without delay up to Johnny's as the rain was just starting to fall gently. We certainly had won a watch today with the weather. Our host provided beer, crisps and sausage rolls ( 8 for £1 in Aldi's) and as usual the crack was good. Eventually we left just after 3 o'clock wishing Ian well on his Caribbean cruise. However thanks also go to Alan for the wee Black Label to celebrate the birth of his second grandchild, Emma, who, with her mum, is doing well.

This had been a day where finishing the walk before the rains came was a priority. It was part of the Ayrshire Coastal walk but to be honest we did not really meet the coast until leaving Stevenston. Peter suggested that the route was null and void and the walk would need to be redone. Gaun yersel’, Peter!

One for the diary - the annual Christmas walk along the canal path in Glasgow followed by a meal at the Ashoka will be on December 16th.

28 October – 4 November Mosset Visit

We extend our apologies to all our readers in foreign parts - Australia, Canada & Burnley - who logged on last week expecting a report on the Wednesday walk and were disappointed. This omission was due to our annual sojourn in southern France.
Nine Ooters left Prestwick on Wednesday 28 October and flew Ryanair to Girona, Barcelona where we hired two cars for the onward journey. We drove northward into France, bypassed Perpignan, took the road west for Andorra as far as Prades and turned northward up the valley of the Castellane to Robert’s place in Mosset. A long and tiring journey for us old boys so an early bed was made, well that’s what we tell the wives anyway.

Thursday 29 October - Shopping, sightseeing and sauntering down the valley

The first full day of our jaunt dawned as warm and sunny as we’ve come to expect in this part of the world, even at this time of year. And this was the first year in four that there was no snow on the high tops of Le Canigou. Davie was immediately into shorts and prepared for the day.
But some had chores to do before we could think about a walk. Supplies had to be laid in. After breakfast, the group split into two, those who enjoy this kind of thing would do the shopping while those allergic to supermarkets would take the newcomers for some sightseeing. We divided with the agreement to meet back at the house for lunch.
The shoppers drove down to Super-U in Prades. Like a well-oiled machine, they entered the supermarket, Johnny driving the trolley like he was born to it. Then, like an exploding grenade, all shot off in different directions to collect what they though would be needed. Unfortunately, they didn’t tell Johnny where they were going and he pushed the trolley around in search of his own supplies. So nobody really knew where to find either Johnny or the trolley and each wandered around with aching arms full of groceries. However, after an hour or so two hundred Euros had been spent on sufficient beer for breakfast, ample red wine for lunch and some meat and veg to cover the rest.
Meanwhile, the renegers had bypassed Prades and taken the road to Vernet Les Bains and the mountain village of Casteil. They were to show Ian and Ronnie L’Abbaye St. Martin du Canigou. The shade was cool in the village but the sun and the climb soon warmed them up. An upward journey on a concrete road with plenty of halts for pictures brought us to L’Abbaye. But they weren’t content with this. Another climb on a path took them to a higher viewpoint which looked down on the abbey and where they could watch the comings and goings below. Many photographs were taken for this is an especially scenic part of the world. They sat and absorbed the scene for many minutes and might have remained there much longer but, remembering the agreement on lunch, the descent was started.
The descent was faster than the ascent and the group arrived back at Bob’s place just a few minutes after the shoppers.
Lunch was taken and around two we set off for a walk as one group.
An irrigation system topped by the headwaters of the Castellane, runs right down the valley in the form of a mini-canal. Beside this ‘canal’ is a maintenance path. This is what we took and it led us through delightful sun-dappled oak and birch wood alive with blue and red winged crickets, yellow, blue and white butterflies, and colourful jays. It really was as pleasant as we remembered from previous years.
The canal took us the five kilometres or so through the wood to the village of Molitg. That’s where we met Nuala. She asked us in French where she might get a bottle of water and when Robert pointed her in the direction of the nearest bar, we all took this as sign that we should stop for a beer as well. So we sat in the sun outside the bar and talked with Nuala and her Dutch companion for the day, Michael.
Nuala was from Dublin, in her late fifties and had the looks that would get a Dutch companion for the day anytime she wished. She had the typical easy-going Irish nature and talked freely about many things. Michael on the other hand was quieter but his English was excellent and he had been to Ayrshire. But when tatties were mentioned he misheard the vowel sound and thought we were talking about female anatomy. It was pointed out to him that we eat tatties and neeps and do other things with titties and nipples. A good half hour of friendly crack was had with Nuala and Michael but tempus fugit and we must be on our way.
We came down into the valley bottom at Campôme, another pleasant little village, and followed the quiet ‘back’ road through the meadows to Mosset. That’s when the juvenile started the race. Paul, Johnny and Jimmy were well in front and looked as though they would walk it (pardon the pun). But fate had a last hand to play. The proud leaders, who thought they had it in the bag, took a wrong turning and ended up in a cul-de-sac half a mile from the house. By the time they had retraced their step the rest of us were past them and heading for home. They should remember their bible which says, ‘Pride cometh before a fall’ and ‘The first shall be last’. They entered the house rather sheepishly to the usual Ooters welcome.

At around 10km, was a good introductory walk for the week

Friday 30 October - Le Pic del Madrès (2,469 m)

This morning dawned bright and clear, not as clear as we have seen on previous visits to Mosset but clear enough and settled enough for a more strenuous outing to be considered. We would tackle the Pic del Madrès.
The car park at the Col du Jau sits at fifteen hundred and thirteen metres so you might expect this to be a good starting point for the climb, leaving us some ten kilometres walk in and less than a thousand metres climbing. We thought so, but Bob had other ideas. He suggested we take the cars along the forest track to cut the distance down a bit. This was easier said than done. Rough boulders stuck up from the surface and two-foot deep potholes lay in wait for the unwary. This was not the easiest of drives but it did save us around a kilometre on the walk in.
The track continued from our parking place for a kilometres or so and dropped us down to a refuge some hundred metres lower than our starting point before climbing gently again. Where it went after we can’t be sure for we left it a few hundred metres beyond the refuge and took to a path through the wood.
This path crossed the road a couple of times as it meandered upwards through the wood, sometimes steeply catching the breath and sometimes more gently but always upwards. One of the sprinters from yesterday found the effort catching up with him and struggled up through the forest. Surprisingly, so did Davie, probably the fittest of us all at the moment. But the rest plodded on manfully Per ardua ad astra, or as near the astra as we were likely to get today.
The enclosing nature of the forest blocked any distant views but the nature of the woodland held its own interest. Broadleaved oak and beech gave way to pine and larch as we climbed. Then even these gave way to scattered stunted pines as we reached the tree-line. Then we were onto the open mountainside.and at last the view opened out for us. Behind us, the Castellane cut its way down towards the main valley of Le Tet. The outliers of the Canigou lay to the south and the lower ground round the Med was in the east though the sea couldn’t be seen today. In front of us, a huge rim of crags filled the skyline. And it was onto these crags we were heading. We climbed yet.
We crossed the burn and climbed steeply to a little stone hut built into the side of a crag, a stone hut called La Coume. A halt was called for coffee at La Coume. We sat and reflected on the last time we were here. That time two feet of snow had hindered our progress and it took two and a half hours to reach this point. Today it took just under two. And there was no prospect of snow hindering further progress today for the way ahead was completely clear and dry. Clear and dry but not quite so dramatic looking.
Yet, the crags themselves held drama. As we looked upwards a large bird was spotted on the skyline. ‘Eagle of some sort’, said the naturalist. Then a much larger one was seen close by. ‘Vulture of some sort’, said he. We couldn’t argue.
The birds seemed to stir us into activity and we set off again. The landscape opened into a huge corrie, flat bottomed and surrounded by a ring of crags. The last time we were here we lost the path in this corrie and spent ages trudging through deep snow to get to the other side. No such danger today for the path was clear on the other side of a wee burn. Some took the high road and some the low but all came together to start the steep climb under Roc Negro. Lunch was called on this climb and we settled down to baguette, pate, ham, cheese and tomato.
As we sat, a herd of deer-looking animals, five or six, ran across the base of the corrie. We suspect, though without being positive, that they were Pyrenean chamois or Izard. We watched them cross the open ground, move into dense shadow below a crag and disappear from our view.
The climb continued steep after lunch, but it was short and brought us into another corrie behind Roc Negro. Johnny had had enough at this point and when the path steepened again he halted and would go no further. We left him lying in the sun beside the path to await our return and pushed on for the few hundred metres that would take us up onto the ridge we could see before us. This was the steepest climb of the day and, though the racer of yesterday had regained his vigour, Davie continued to struggle. But Davie is nothing if not determined and he stubbornly refused to give in to the mountain. No one was more relieved than he was when we crested the ridge and found an easy grass slope that would take us to the summit.
We wandered up that grassy slope to the top of Pic del Madres and the world opened out to us. Peak upon peak, the higher ones snow covered, and ridge upon ridge filled the skyline to the south, west and north. To the east was the ridge we had come up and its associated peaks behind which was the plain running down to the coast though the Med hid herself in a low-level clag today. Immediately below us to the west, the ground dropped away to a tree covered valley running down to Le Lac Matemale. Beside this, the ski resort of Les Angles lay sun-drenched and snowless, just as we were. This was a magnificent three hundred and sixty degree panorama which the photographers tried, perhaps vainly, to capture for posterity.
A French couple, M. et Mme. Baco, and their collie, Plume, were already on the summit, having come up from a different direction. Some time was spent talking with them, our linguists translating for the ignorant. And some time was spent just absorbing the magnificence of the view. But there came a time when we had to leave the summit for Johnny was waiting below for our return.
We found Johnny. He hadn’t been idle in our absence but had constructed and sturdy cairn of boulders to mark the occasion of our climb and the spot where he lay. We can only hope that it survives the harsh mountain winter.
The descent to the cars was much quicker than the ascent though Davie still struggled with aching knees. No halts were made except for breathers and when we gained the track again, the party split into three - the boy racers to the front, the sensible in the middle and Davie and Ronnie bringing up the rear somewhere behind. When we reached the cars, Jimmy took pity on the struggling two and drove further along the road to meet them. Though they wouldn’t admit it, we suspect the two were glad he did.

There is a sign near where we parked that directs the walker on the walk. It gives the time to the top and back as seven and a half hours. We did the fifteen and a half kilometres (9.5 miles) and the one thousand three hundred and fifty odd metres (4170 ft) climb in six and a half. Us old boys are fair chuffed.

Saturday 31 October - Castelnou and Thuir

Once again, the morning was fair. But, given the efforts of yesterday, we were to have an easier day today. Anyway, we needed something for dinner for the next two days – we had drunk most of our supplies – so a visit to the supermarket was the order for the morning. Again, the group split. The non-shoppers had a walk round the village while the shoppers drifted down to Prades for supplies. We came together for an alfresco lunch in the public space outside Robert’s house.
The afternoon was to be easy so we drove down to the main Tet valley, turned east and south to the pretty little mountain village of Castelnou. The village was busy for this was Halloween and festivities were planned for later in the day. Witches and devils roamed narrow streets festooned with cobwebs. Even the tourist catching shops got in on the act with shopkeepers dressed as vampires and shops suitably decorated. Pumpkin heads leered at us from every window. If only the home of Halloween could enter into the same spirit!
We wandered up through the streets to the castle. But castle visits are not for us – it costs too much for stingy auld so-and-sos – so we wandered out of the village and found a path of sorts that took us down into lovely wee tree decked gorge under the castle walls. The photographers got busy once more.
The gorge path took us down to the main road and back to the car park. But the day was yet young so where to now? Thuir, was the answer.
We drove back down the way we had come up and spent the afternoon wandering around the market square and shops of Thuir.
A much easier day but one that was needed to refresh us for the days yet to come.

Sunday 1 November - The High pastures of Le Pic de Rousillon

There was a change in the weather overnight. Low cloud hung on Canigou and some spots of rain had fallen before daybreak. But even as we sat at breakfast, the sky cleared and left us with another bright, sunny morning though the clag persisted in the Tet Valley all day.
We were refreshed after our easy day yesterday and took to the road to the south of the village with a spring in the step for we were for the high pasture of the Pic de Roussillon. Three times we’ve done this walk and three times we’ve lost the path on the high ground but now we know where we have gone wrong in the past, there was no holding us back today.
We left tarmac at the south end of the village and climbed steeply up to the irrigation canal, and upward yet for a few hundred feet. Now we found the well-graded path slanting easily up through the woodland on the side of the valley and the effort was eased. The light dappling through the scrub oak and birch of the wood was very pleasant and the same crickets, butterflies and jays of our first day combined to make this a delightful part of the walk. And we climbed easily.
Last year when we came this way, we found a rocking stone precisely balanced on to of a boulder. Well, it was balanced until Mr. Clumsy touched it and, try as we might, we couldn’t quite get the equilibrium to balance it again. Some time was spent by those who do this kind of thing in trying to recreate the rocking stone of last year but their efforts were in vain and they only succeeded in making static cairns. Still, they were artistic static cairns. It remains to be seen whether a different Mr. Clumsy touches and demolishes them.
The pleasant climb continued past Donkey Field, through the birch wood which was the scene of Bob’s famous painting of the Ooters in a line, and up to Colchicum Clearing. There is no local Catalan name for this place but we call it Colchicum Clearing because this is where the trees finally give way to thorny scrub and patches of open grass. Our clearing is a patch of open grass where the wild colchicum flowers at this time of year. We sat down, rather lay down, on the dry grass for coffee and absorbed the warming sun.
Colchicum Clearing affords good views over the trees to the other side of the Castellane valley. We couldn’t quite see the Pic del Madres we had climbed on Friday for the hill above Mosset intervened, but the approach ridge to it was clear and pointed out. And in the south, the peaks and ridges of Canigou rose high above the fog in the Tet valley. We lay long for coffee.
We have gone wrong before at Colchicum Clearing so today were extra vigilant in looking for the way-markers when we started up again after coffee. The marks were obscure but we did find them and followed a path through the scrubby vegetation. This is where some regretted wearing shorts. But Johnny, who had taken all manner of stick for wearing gaiters, ploughed cheerfully though. Scratched or otherwise, we came to the old ruin that gave us superb views over the fog-filled Tet valley to Canigou rising above it into the clear blue sky. More photos were taken.
As we stood, we were joined by two dogs, hunting dogs, dogs with bright orange collars and bell that hung from their necks; two dogs but no owners. They were to be our companions for the best part of the remainder of the walk, clanging and tinkling alongside us as we made our way toward the vehicle track that would take us close to the summit of Pic du Roussillon.
But we lost the path in the scrub again and found ourselves going down when we should have gone up, but a quick backtrack and some scouting around found us on the right path once more. The track could be seen with our path heading towards it but, for reasons known only to him, Rex had us up a narrow path, through some more scrubby thorns and onto the grass of the high pastures. A couple of white cattle lay together, ruminating on the grass and we wondered how the sparse vegetation could sustain such magnificent creatures, but obviously it does. We wandered past the cattle (not before more pictures were taken) and over the parched grass to find the track much higher up than we found it last year. We would stay on this track for a few kilometers now and it would raise us to around the twelve hundred and fifty metres contour.
Lunch called and we settled down with our backs to a mountain hut and ate. Our canine companions failed to bring a lunch with them so spent the time cadging scraps from the rest of us. For hunting dogs they were remarkable gentle in taking food and not nearly as greedy as we expected. Still, they ate what was offered. And they appeared grateful.
Lunch took a wee while for the sun was warm and the day was yet young and we were content to laze about for a change. But there comes a time……. And we had reached it now.
We followed the track, delighting in the openness of the high ground, the huge sky and distant views. And all the time our canine companions clanged and tinkled alongside adding to the ambiance of high alpine pasture.
The track didn’t quite take us to the summit of the Pic, it was some seventy metres to our right and some twenty metres above us. Did we leave the track to reach the summit? No, we didn’t but who cared? We just enjoyed the freedom of the flat walk on the high ground. The day was warm, the pace was easy and not one of us suggested the Pic.
Down to our left was an old farm and a filed full of horses. We tried to decide whether these were being uses for pony-trekking or for food. Given that this is a Catalan area, we concluded that the horses were being farmed for food. Robert photographed them before they reached the plate. It would be interesting to photograph them on the plate, a sort of before and afters.
Such discussions brought us to a drop in the track of around a hundred metres or so, down through a wee wood and on to another farm. We thought that our doggy companions might stop at the farm, especially when they met other dogs, but, no, they continued on. So did the track.
The day was reaching its warmest and the sun was strong. We came down to a rocky outcrop where we sought out some shade and sat for an afternoon drink. Why here? Because we’ve always stopped here! And, as we lay, the two dogs became very friendly with Ian, lying by his side and rolling in the heather around him. We suspected Ian would be scratching his flea bites that evening. Again, we lay long for it was a day for that.
When we eventually stirred ourselves, we continued to follow the track, and the dogs followed us. The way was downward now, into the valley of the Castellane. We left the high pasture behind, came into the scrubby woodland then the mature oak and birch trees, sometimes leaving the track to take a shorter way through the wood. When we emerged from one of these shortcuts, we had to stand aside and let a pick-up pass us, a truck with dogs in the back. This was followed by a four-by-four which drew to a halt. The driver had recognized our doggy friends. Without undue ceremony, the pair were thrown into the back of the vehicle and the last we saw of our faithful canine companions was two hairy faces looking forlornly out of the rear window of a four-by-four as it wheeched off in a cloud of stoor. We came down the rest of the road somehow missing the tinkling of dog bells.
A short kilometre brought us to the television mast above the village and another kilometre saw us home. In total, a distance of fifteen kilometres and a climb of around four-fifty metres gave us another great day on the high pastures of the Pic du Roussillon.

Monday November 2 - La Tour de Madeloc and Collioure

There was a complete change in the weather today. A wind had sprung up through the night and rain was falling when we breakfasted. Today was to be a relatively easy day with two shortish walks near the coast. We hoped the weather would be better there.
As we prepared for the off, the rain, now no more that a heavy drizzle, subsided. But we felt the wind as we drove down to Port Vendres for the first of our walks, La Tour de Mateloc.
We wouldn’t climb the full six hundred and fifty six metres from sea level to le tour, but drive up a twisty wee road to a viewpoint high above the sea where there was a small car park. When we opened the doors of the cars there, we felt the strength of the wind, even in the lea of the ridge we were to climb. Below us, white horses chased each other across the surface of the Med and the trees by the viewfinder bent themselves away from the blast. But we had only two hundred metres to climb so we didn’t think the blow would be any stronger at the top than it was here. We set off, securely wrapped against the gale.
A vehicle track slanted up the ridge towards and old fort some kilometer away, a track used by those attending the vines that clothed the slope below us. We took this track. It took us to a point some hundred metres below the crest of the ridge before dropping down to the fort. We left it at its high point and took to a well-constructed path. As this path zigzagged its way to the crest we felt the real strength of the wind and prepared ourselves for the worst. And we got the worst on the ridge crest.
The gale blew strongly but this wasn’t the problem. The gusts were the problem, coming suddenly and threatening to lift us off our feet. A sort of Groucho Marx posture was adopted as we struggled to keep upright on the more expose sections. And there was no way we and look at the view, all our concentration was fixed on staying on the ground. At one point Jimmy grabbed Davie as he appeared to be blown towards the edge and almost at the tower, he himself took a tumble over a rocky outcrop. Eventually we all reached the shelter of La Tour de Madeloc, rested and appraised the damage.
Johnny had lost his sunspecs, blown to who knows where and Davie’s woolly hat was flying somewhere over the Med. But Jimmy claimed that bodily damage outweighed loss of property – he had lost the tip of a fingernail in his encounter with the rocks. Still, no real damage though we would hear about jimmy’s fingernail for days to come.
A tarmac service road came to the tower from the other side. Though this was more sheltered than the ridge, it was still far from calm and the wind buffeted us about on the descent. But, at least we had firmer footing and a broader base with which to cope with the gusts. This was probably just a weel for at one point we were almost horizontal as a prolonged gust stopped us in our tracks.
We were nearly back at the cars when we saw our first wildlife or rather wild-death for it was a dead southern grass snake lying by the side of the road. Then it was into the welcoming shelter of the cars and a drive down the continuation of the wee twisty road to Banyuls.

Lunch was had in a sea-front restaurant in Banyuls and the afternoon was spent wandering around the harbour and shops of Collioure.

Tuesday 3 November - Gorges de la Carença

The last walking day of the trip dawned bright and sunny. The poor weather of yesterday was gone and the day looked bright and promising. Not that we needed the sun today for we were for a spectacular walk in the Gorges de la Carença and, so long as it was dry and warm, we could do without the sun. But before the walk, we had other business to attend.
Those who are that way inclined had us down to Prades for this was the day of the street market and we have amongst us aficionados of street markets. So, off to Prades we went, wandered aimlessly around the market (The woman with the big melons wasn’t there this year again.) and ended up in French style with coffee in a pavement cafe.
The morning was wearing on as we drove westward from Prades to the start of the gorge in the village of Olette. A sign near the railway bridge told us that one of the passerelles was down. The linguists translated ‘passerelles’ as ‘bridges, connections or, more probably, gangways’, and it was the sixth one that was down. A decision had to be made. We would go only as far as we could.
That Davie was fully recovered from his feebleness of the first day was obvious now as he set the pace on the path towards the gorge. It was a wide path to start with but narrowed very quickly as it led us under the railway bridge and immediately into the gorge and was carved into the rock face a few metres above the river. We were reduced to Indian file to round the first rock. And we would stay in Indian file for the rest of the walk for the path didn’t widen much after this. Still, as long as the path, was level the going was easy.
The path stayed level for around half a kilometre. Then the fun started. It climbed steeply and turned rocky. Though it was still a path, it needed hands as well as feet for upward progress. Rocks, tree roots, somebody's leg, in fact we used anything that would help haul us up that slope. And it climbed for some distance. Where it did level out for a bit there were seriously steep slopes down to the river some distance below. It was difficult to take eyes off feet. Still we climbed, until the path levelled out for a bit and somebody shouted for lunch.
Lunch was taken on the side of a precipice where the trees failed to grow and the path widened sufficiently to allow us a seat – and a view over to the other side of the gorge. For once some wished we didn’t have a view for we looked across at a vertical limestone wall with the scar of a path, a narrow looking path, cut into it. And below this path was nothing until the river some hundred metres vertically down. Robert assured us that the path was wider than it looked; it had to be for, from where we sat, it looked too narrow, and too low to admit us. And this was the path we would have taken had the passerelles had been intact. But the passerelles weren’t intact so we would see how far we could go.
The path continued to climb over rock slabs, through crevices split in the gorge side and round rocky outcrops with steep slopes falling away to the river below, to top out high on the side of the gorge. Over the tops of the trees we could see the upper valley, a valley of different nature, a valley of harder rock, a round bottomed valley with less steep sides. We had conquered our side of the gorge. Only the challenge of the other side was left for us. But right now the way lay downward, down to the river and the first of the passerelles.
This passerelle was a bridge over the river, a shoogly suspension bridge that carried no more than two at a time. The other side of the bridge finished in mid-air and an equally shoogly ladder dropped down to terra firma again. A few minutes were spent playing on and around the bridge taking photos. Then the realisation set in. If all passerelles were like this, and there was the suggestion that many were out over the face of the gorge, and if even one was down, there was not way we would get past. A decision was taken to return by the way we had come. This pleased Jimmy no end for somewhere on the first climb his legs started to ache then turn jelly-like.
We did come back the way we went. Jimmy did suffer as ‘toothache’ set into his knees. But we all made it back down through the gorge reflecting on another good walk. We didn’t do the tricky bit, but do we care? Not a bit do we care, we had a good walk and there’s always next time. And Jimmy has been talked into using walking poles to ease the pressure on his knees.

Wednesday 4 November - Clean up, boules and home

Our last morning saw a flurry of activity in the house; beds had to be stripped, floors had to be swept, empties had to be disposed of. Like a weel-oiled machine we swung into action and had the place spic and span in no time at all.
We didn’t have to be at Girona until four so that left a morning free. We had talked about it all week so the spare time was given over to a boules competition. We drove down to Molitg to the piste there. Well most of us drove down, two reneged. At the end of all the chuck and throwing, oohing and ahing, cursing and fuming, Ian emerged as the winner.
We had on last lunch in the house then it was time to bid farewell to Mosset for another year.

Our thanks go to Robert for the use of his house and his expert guidance on the walks, to the cooks who served up their usual high standard and to the dishwashers without whom we would have had no dishes on which to eat. In fact, everybody thanks everybody else for what was another super Mosset experience.

How we spent our money on holiday - JM

This is how the money was spent. (repost - copied from wordpad and hand formatted)
DATE....................................... Income........................... Expenditure................ %
28/10/2009 ...............€100 each €900.00 ................Robert bought wine/beer ...............€20.00 1.7%
...................................................................................Supper in Prades ...................€180.00 15.4%
29/10/2009................................................................ breakfast ....................................€16.20 1.4%
...................................................................................shopping ....................................€218.31 18.7%
....................................................................................coffee/pasties.................................€8.80 0.8%
....................................................................................drinks in Molitg ...........................€28.00 2.4%
30/10/2009 ................................................................breakfast + ..................................€17.30 1.5%
31/10/2009 .................................................................breakfast .....................................€12.30 1.1%
...................................................................................shopping .....................................€178.00 15.2%
....................................................................................coffee/pasties/extra bread .........€18.00 1.5%
01/11/2009 ................................................................breakfast .....................................€44.80 3.8%
02/11/2009 ............€30 each €270.00........................ shopping .....................................€144.77 12.4%
......................................................................Lunch in Banyuls ................................. €200.00 17.1%
03/11/2009 ................................................................coffee ...............................................€20.00 1.7%
.......................................................................................parking/payage Robt. .................. €10.00 0.9%
.......................................................................................breakfast .........................................€12.30 1.1%
04/11/2009 ................................................................breakfast .........................................€12.30 1.1%
.......................................................................................payage J&D car (2 ways) ...............€20.00 1.7%
.......................................................................................mellon/coffee(Rex) ...........................€8.92 0.8%

.........totals ............ €1,170.00 ........................................................................................€1,170.00

Please note
Cents have been pauchled in some instances to allow for a neat balance -
the lost dross is no doubt down the back of the couch.
meals out .....................................................32.5%
shopping .....................................................46.2%
croissant/bread/odds&ends ..........................9.8%
coffee/drinks out .........................................6.4% .............................................J Matthews 5/11/2009

Mosset 2009 Group Pics + Mosset church Tower

Jimmy lit up like a christmas tree

Al fresco lunch - communal garden outside Robert's house

Icon of Mosset - the church tower

18 inches of snow on this spot two years ago

A gentle walk on day 1 after the shopping trip



A big thanks to all who managed to thole my moods
- and to Robert for the bravery shown in taking us
all on the trip to Mosset once again. I think we are
all still on slagging terms :-)

21 October Darvel to Whitelees over the moor.

Some said it couldn’t be done, the logistics were too complicated for us oldies to cope with. To get nine or ten Ooters across the moor from Darvel to the visitor centre at Whitelees Wind Farm with transport at each end was a task beyond our capabilities. Ha! We laugh at the scoffers! It was done.
Usually, before we depart for our week in foreign parts, we opt for a short walk. This was to be a short walk; Davie told us it was so and he has done this many, many times before. We believed it was to be a short walk. And it would be easy for it was mainly on roads of varying description.
Unusually for this year, a full compliment of eleven Ooters gathered in Davie’s place in Darvel. Kay supplied the pancakes and Davie the coffee as we waited for the Killie contingent to return from dropping cars at Whitelees. But by ten o’clock all were gathered, coffee’d and raring to go.
The morning was dull with rain falling at seven and the forecast wasn’t good. Yet, as we sat in Davie’s, the sky brightened and a touch of blue came at one time. Despite the gloom of Met Office, our weatherman promised us a fair day and we trust in our weatherman. But waterproofs were carried, just in case.
We set off up the Burn Road. The sides of the Irvine Valley are steep, no matter what road you take out of it, and the climb up the Burn Road was warm and tested legs not quite loosened off yet. A view stop was called as the slope began to ease. That touch of blue had gone now and the sky was a pale grey. But a blink of watery sun broke through and spotlit Darvel lying in the valley immediately below us. Yet the rest of the landscape, from Loudoun Hill to the coastal plain remained dull under the grey sky. We walked on
The slope eased as we gained the high ground. We strolled up to join the Astonpapple and turned right. We would follow this road up past the remains of the old Loudoun Moor School (only the house remains as a private dwelling), up to the Darvel Moor, past Lochfield where Alexander Fleming of penicillin fame was born, to its end at High Overmuir. The crack was good, the pace was easy, the weather showed signs of improving and the miles flew in. One Ooter thought that Dyke Farm was where they bred lesbians but he was soon brought back to political correctness, Holly renewed old acquaintance with the barking collies at the Old School House and a young woman on a horse turned onto the road some fifty metres in front of us.
As we approached the bend in the road above Mucks Bridge, Holly, well in front as usual and out of our sight round the bend, started barking furiously. Davie thought she might be barking at the young lady on the horse and called her back. But Holly, most unlike herself, remained out of sight and continued barking and when we rounded the bend, we saw the cause of this un-Holly-like behaviour. The corpses of four foxes hung over the roadside fence, shot and left hanging there as evidence for some doubting farmer. Whether Holly understood that they were dead, deceased, departed, ex-foxes, or not we couldn’t say but she continued to bark at them even as we stood there. And they had been there for some time according to our amateur pathologist who examined the maggot activity in the wounds. The ghouls would have their pictures (including maggots) before we moved off again.
The turbines of Whitelees wind farm were seen even before we stopped for coffee, appearing on the skyline through a gap in the forest. But we lost sight of them as we dropped down to Pogiven Bridge and stopped for coffee.
The tarmac ran out on the bridge but the road continued as a track. We walked up towards the ‘windmills’ growing ever larger on the skyline. Then the track ran out and we took to a pad through the remains of a recently cleared forest. This pad was not so much a path as a series of indentations in the rank grasses, and brashings lay where the trees had been cleared. Progress was difficult and tiring. Fortunately, the ‘path’ was marked by a string of taped canes or we might never have found our way through for there were many gaps in the indentation and many cul-de-sac diversions. Rex, Peter and Jimmy led us like they knew where they were going and we followed slipping, sliding and stumbling up to a road, a forest type road, a road oozing with wet mud but a road that provided some relief for some tired legs.
But what road? According to the wind farm blurb there were ninety-four kilometres of road scarring the moor. Which were we on? And Where? This was new territory even for Davie for the wind farm roads have destroyed the old path and upset Davie’s sense of direction. The rumblings of an approaching lorry were heard and we flagged it down. It was a log transporter and the driver could assure us this was the Spine Road (marked on our map) and we should go ‘that wey and follow the signs’. We went that way, down to where we could see more lorries loading logs. And we found a sign; at least Ian found a sign for the rest of us, engrossed in debating some philosophical point or other, had walked past. The sign said ‘Timber operations. Footpath diversion’, and pointed us off the road and into what would have been a forest ride before the trees on one side had been cleared. Again, we stumbled on through rank grasses.
Ian’s ears were suffering as abuse was hurled in his direction. Why Ian? Because he was the one who had noticed the sign. If it hadn’t been for him we would still be on the mucky road in blissful ignorance. Now we were up to the knees in rank grasses and doogals with no obvious ending. To relieve the pressure on legs, we found a wee burn, not a very wide burn, but a burn sufficient to cause the hydrophobes some concern. We had hopes for some amusing accidents here but, sorry to say, all came safely over and the rough grassy travail continued.
A wind turbine loomed before us as we rounded a corner of the wood. And where there was a turbine, according to the map, there was a road. We made directly for the turbine, found the road and at a place by the foot of turbine nineteen, we sat out of the breeze for lunch.
During peece-time we had a chance to see the scale of the wind farm, ‘windmill’ upon ‘windmill’ filled the skyline over to the east and away to the north. Alan consulted his map. ‘That’s only a fraction’ he said ‘most are over the hill’. Now, if that was just a fraction some wondered, how far have we to go on this short walk. But no matter how far it was, or how many tussocky diversions lay in wait for us, it looked like we would do it in fairer weather for brightness could be seen approaching from the west.
Alan had obviously studied his map well for he told us that we would be on the road for the rest of the way. So after restoring energy, we set off down the road from turbine nineteen, down into the forest and down to the grotty Spine Road again. According to Alan, this would take us close to Lochgoin Reservoir, which was very much on our route, so we stuck with it and it took us out of the trees on to the open moor.
The day was definitely brightening and turning pleasantly warm for the time of year. We walked casually down the Spine Road, over the moor festooned with waving ‘windmills’, towards the reservoir. Just as the water of the reservoir appeared, a road joined our one from the right. Alan directed us along it and, sure enough, we found ourselves on a road above the waters of the reservoir. It was clear to us all then that this would take us to the visitor centre. What wasn’t clear to anybody except themselves was why Rex and Alan turned off the road trudging through the rank grass again heading down to the water. We followed, wondering and cursing and mumbling, especially when feet got wet in a bog near the water. But the two heroes knew where they were going and why. A land bridge of sorts, rather a fabricated barrage, cut the reservoir in two here providing us with a safe crossing point and a short cut to the centre. And the exertion was worth it. Half way along we stopped to look across the reservoir to see ‘windmills’ silhouetted against the brightening western sky and reflected in the calm water. The photographers were in raptures as they attempted to capture the scene. It will be interesting to see if there are any original pictures.

A few minutes later, we were off the barrage and into those damned doogals again. The mumbling started again.
But it was only a hundred metre climb through the horrid stuff to find the road again. Once we had found turbine fifty-six, we knew we were almost home and dried, barely a mile to go. That’s when the silliness started. The infantile upped the pace. First Rex, Robert and Johnny pulled away but were caught on the hill by Ronnie and Jimmy. The latter group then kept the speed up. But, I am sorry to say, we have cheats in the Ooters. When the leading pair kept to the road, the cheats cut the corner. To save embarrassment, the cheats won’t be named but now Robert, Davie, Alan and Rex had a good lead. Davie dropped off the pace as Ronnie passed him. Now Ronnie joined the leaders with Jimmy and Davie just behind. The final uphill push produced a photo finish only because Davie and Jimmy cut the corner. With all the infantile claiming victory, it is best if we call it a dead heat. Anyway, that last mile was covered in record time for old boys like us – ‘Whaur’s yer Roger Bannister noo?’
Meanwhile, the sensible took their time and finished a few minutes behind.
No matter whether we were one of the infantile or one of the sensible, all agreed that it was a good walk. And, at just over eighteen kilometres, it was a good, long short walk before our sojourn in foreign parts.
Now all we had to do was get back to Darvel and partake of a small refreshment on the Black Bull there.

Darvel - Whitelee Windfarm

Whitelee Windfarm

Surreal?

A Big Yellow Truck

Awesome

Ronnie - Tackle intact?

Even more blue sky

The day improves as we walk through the forest

A long and winding road

The foxes are dead Holly.

Leaving Darvel down in the valley

11 Ooters and Holly

An attempt at a £250 clip - failed!

Darvel-Whitelee Windfarm route map

A super-enlarged version this week:



Distance 18.8 km

14 October Is There Such a Place as Hill Of Stake?

There are some places on this planet just fated not to be visited. As far as the Ooters are concerned, The Hill of Stake on the Ayrshire/Renfrewshire border is such a place. Three times we’ve tried for this top and three times, for different reasons, we’ve failed. Twice we have gone from Muirshiel (7/5/08 & 11/6/08) and once from Largs (18/2/09) but all were abandoned for one reason or other and the top remained unvisited. But in our euphoria (some would say drunkenness!) after last week’s super walk in Nithsdale, we decided that this would be the time for Hill of Stake.
Johnny’s house in Irvine was the meeting point and nine of us gathered to sample his usual hospitality. The nine included young Davie Clunie, our junior section, released from the chalk face for a week of freedom and deciding to waste it by coming with us. Johnny’s scones were good and such was the weather outside that it was some time before we stirred ourselves for the journey to Muirshiel and the start of the walk.
The weather was driech and the omens were poor. A heavy sky accompanied us to Lochwinnoch and a thick mist closed in as we climbed to Muirshiel Visitor Centre. Already there were mumbles of discontent. ‘Have we no’ had enough walks in the clag for one year?’ ‘We’ll no’ see a bluidy thing’ ‘Ma mammy says Ah’ve no’ tae get wet again’. But the father of the group, Old Rex, reminded us of the resolution of Cairnsmore of Fleet and encouraged the falterers to don boots and follow. Aussies are stout-hearted fellows. So, armed with a new resolve and a waterproof map, we set off up the track towards the barytes mine.
This was new territory for some but familiar ground for most, which was just as well for we could see no landmarks through the gathering mizzle and the terrain we would travel through was featureless and it would be easy to get lost. But we had a track to start us off. We came through a gate telling us that the old mines were four kilometres away, four kilometres for the weather to clear or the mutineers were for home, four kilometres of seeing nothing but each other.
The track split and the newcomers were unsure of which branch to take. The old heads pointed them down to the bridge and up the other side of the shallow glen to a large sycamore tree. This was the last major feature we were to see until we reached the old mines some time later. The way now ran through featureless rough heather and grass moorland and the clag blocked out anything beyond a hundred metres or so. We were grateful for the track. The area is famous for its nesting hen harriers (so the naturalist says) but nary a bird could be seen; nor a hilltop; nor a tree. In fact, nothing could be seen except each other and the four kilometres of track running before us.
We knew we were approaching the mines only when the road started to turn pink with barytes chips but it was a few minutes yet before the remains of the workings were found.
All the old quarry buildings are demolished now but a metal hut of the shipping container type stands in their stead. It was thought that this might provide some shelter from the mizzle and, since coffee was suggested, we approached to see if it would. The door stood open, and our hopes for shelter were raised. Two fellows were already in residence, seated at a table but the sight and sound of nine noisy Ooters seamed to terrify them and they readily gave up occupancy to allow us in. Only six seats sat around the table. The mathematician calculated that nine into six doesn’t go - we really don’t know how he does this but he is good at it - and proceeded to unfold his own chair from his rucksack. So seven of us sat and two stood round while we took coffee in a ship’s container in the middle of a foggy moorland wilderness.
We met two fellows when we left the hut, two fellows we had seen leave the centre before us an hour or so ago. They were local Renfrewshire men and during the course of conversation told us of another walk taking in the Greenock cut and Skelmorlie. This was added to our ‘maybe’ list for next year. In return, we gave them a blog card to look us up. Then we walked up towards the quarry.
We had promised Peter, whose interest in things mineral is well known in the Ooters, a rummage around the old quarry. But ‘Health and Safety’ rules, even in these remote regions. High metal gates now bar the way into the quarry and a fence topped by barbed wire, runs round the perimeter. Signs attached to the gates informed us how dangerous the steep sides and loose rocks of the quarry were, as if this wasn’t already patently obvious. ‘Nae wonder there’s nae money for important things like schools and hospitals if they spend it all on bluidy useless things like this!’ Jimmy’s dander was up. While we agreed with his sentiments, there was nothing we could do about it right now. So Peter had to forgo his poke around the old pit and contented himself with picking up bits of barytes from the track. But he promised he would be back some other time.
Now came decision time. The weather hadn’t improved and the waverers were at it again. Would we go up the hill into the damp fog or find the dry warmth of a welcoming pub? Memories of Cairnsmore of Fleet came flooding back (flooding being an appropriate word) and fears of more of the same conditions coloured our judgement. An informal vote was taken. The result was – Wimps 1, Foolhardy 0. We would return the way we came and Hill of Stakes would remain unvisited.
We trudged, defeated, back down the track towards the centre, our only consolation being that the others we had met had done the same. And we saw only the same things we had seen on the way up. Or did we? The fog lifted; only slightly did it lift but it was sufficient for us to see the other side of the valley and the craggy tors on the skyline. We knew from the map at the centre that a walk went up to this ridge and it looked an interesting walk, but not for today. We had had enough for the day and made our way back to Muirshiel Visitor Centre.
Lunch was taken on the picnic tables and a quick wheech round the Visitor Centre was made. It was only one-thirty and some thought we might have another short outing from the centre, perhaps through the wood. But most had had enough for the day and we came back to Lochwinnoch and the Corner Bar for FRT
At around 9Km, this must be one of the shortest walks in Ooters history and we are now at the point of doubting the very existence of Hill of Stake, thinking it a figment of some cartographer’s imagination. Or like the rainbow tempting us through the rain, everybody can see it’s there but nobody can quite reach it. Still, some day............
We hope for better conditions for next week. At least we know that Darvel and Eaglesham do exist.

Ode to the Hill of Stake

Nine Ooters met at Chateau Bank Street
Still traumatised by the Cairnsmore of Fleet
The day was dreich but the welcome was good
Fresh scones and coffee made up the food

‘Young’ Davy was met with great affection
Founder member of the junior section
Rex was there without his fruity Merlot
Peter had made it two in a row

Johnny’s sloes were in his gin
Jimmy’s old gaiters were in the bin
Ronnie was seen to open his purse
Had he enough to entice a nurse?

The cars were loaded, we decided on three
Muirshiel was reached with no stops for a pee
A strange thing happened as we put on our boots
Ooters were discussing alternative routes

For the weather was against the Hill of Stake
To try it today might be a big mistake
It’s not like the gents to act with sense
This change in mood was indeed immense

We marched up the track and into the glaur
Allan’s mantra ‘Whit we daein’ this for’?
The container was reached at the Barytes mine
For coffee and a biscuit this was just fine

Fellow walkers were welcomed and tales exchanged
To try the hill would be deranged
The choice was: the rain and the mist
Or the pub and an early chance to get pissed

Was there a choice?

The visitors’ centre was soon regained
A picnic table for us was retained
Peter’s joke is now part of folk lore
Unfortunately, for most of us, we’d heard it before

Five crows, a gun and a boy with a wink
Well Peter, we like the way you think
But this was not the only wheeze
Pepper they say can make you sneeze

Lunch was over too soon by far
A wee walk or go to the bar?
The Corner Bar was the place of choice
A decision without a dissenting voice

The Bar was empty but the beer soon flowed
The patter was great and never slowed
Davy Senior was in his element too
Sitting adjacent to the ladies loo

Big Davy would give the ladies a fright
By leaving the seat standing well upright
Wee Davy was looking awfa’ drawn
After his story about tasting the prawn

By 3.15 it was time to depart
Before the drink its effects did impart
For if one of us got truly blotto
The rest would simply remember the motto

Maybe this should be an annual event
For some it would be heaven sent
A short walk and some beer to partake
The day we don’t do the Hill of Stake

Merrick photos

The Merrick with loch Enoch taken from Carlin's Cairn today

Loch Doon

14th Oct 2009: Attempt on the Hill of Stake

All ready at Muirshiel.

Holly way in front.

Container in the Mist.

Outside the Corner.

Who's wearing new Gaiters?

14th Oct 2009 - Not the Hill of Stake - Again!

Early to FRT - Allan(designated driver) pours
Scotland's other national drink.

Early to lunch

Autumn colours

Arteeest at work

Not up to Paul's standards (9km return)

7 October The Scaur Valley 4 or Sloe, Sloe, Pick-pick, Sloe

Eight Ooters gathered in Jimmy’s place in Cumnock. No Bacon rolls this morning but scones (Tesco’s finest) and coffee was more than welcome. Had Rex stopped gallivanting abroad at the drop of a hat, and Alan had taken a rest from playing builders and Paul remembered that he had bare feet when he kicked the garage doorpost, there might have been a full complement. However, Ian was returned from abroad and Peter returned to the fold after a long absence – it was nice to have him back again – so eight of us gathered in Jimmy’s place. Then we left for the long drive to the start of the Scaur Water walk.
The weather picked up as we drove down Nithsdale, the morning cloud breaking and the sun showing through. Davie’s car with the sensible group stopped in Penpont at the start of the walk but Ronnie, at Robert’s insistence, drove through the village and on to Moniaive. Why? Well, last week Robert was given the task of intimating the proposed walk on the blog, but mistakenly put Moniaive as the starting point and, either by neglect or intention, those who knew better failed to point out his error and he had Moniaive fixed in his mind. Robert and his companions ended up in the latter village before realising the mistake. It should be noted for future reference that there is no mobile phone reception in Moniaive so, despite our valiant efforts to contact them, we had to wait for a sheepish Robert and his companions to make the six miles return journey before we could start the walk.
By the time the lost boys rejoined us, the sun had come out. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day and give us a pleasantly bright and warm autumn day.
Only for Ronnie was this new territory and the rest looked forward to an enjoyable flat road walk for a change, and in superb country. It was suggested that we do the walk in reverse for this is our fourth visit here and we have always gone clockwise round the walk. This was agreed but for some reason everybody started walking in the same old direction. Nothing much changes in the Ooters and it would appear that memories are short.
It seemed that the purpose of our being in Nithsdale today was to gather sloes for another sloe-gin competition. Johnny loves his competitions and is still fair miffed that he lost out in the last one due to a technical error. No prizes then for guessing whose idea the new competition was. We were barely started the walk when we were stopped picking sloes.
We had come along the Moniaive road and turned up the minor road designated Scaur Valley and immediately found a blackthorn bush hanging heavy with sloes. ‘Not very big berries’, said the knowledgeable one, but this didn’t deter the avaricious sloe pickers who were determined to fill their plastic boxes right reason or none. Ten minutes picking and the plastic ice-cream tubs, margarine tubs and Tupperware boxes were almost full and it was time for us to move on.
Given where we were, the time of year, the nature of the day and the absence of Rex, this was to be a relaxed walk at an easy pace. We walked on, chatting away in one group, allowing Robert to dictate the pace from the front. And he set an effortless pace.
We thought Robert was lost again when he overshot the path down towards the river, but the wee man refuses to get lost twice in one day. (He says!) He knew where he was going all right, for he found an alternative entrance a bit up the road and joined the rest of us on the path a few yards inside the wood. We walked down to the side of the river.
The Scaur cuts a gorge for itself through the whin-stane here and the water roars and rushes spectacularly through it. And we stood above this gorge for a while, mesmerised by the white water roaring through. Metal fishers' ladders, anchored to the naked rock of the gorge, led down to natural platforms above the torrent. Robert volunteered to test the solidity of one of these and climbed down into the gorge. We would have left him there but the ladder was fastened to the rock too securely for us to move. Robert managed to escape and joined us as we walked on through the wood.
The last time we came through this wood Peter found mushrooms – ‘Bollies’, he called them – but no such luck today. Try as we might, nary a fungus could be seen. So we walked back to the road. We were to stay on the road for the rest of the walk.
The day was turning pleasantly warm and the crack was good. We ambled on. Then Robert and Ronnie were found to be missing. Nobody had noticed them go so we had no idea where we had lost them. Somebody suggested they might just want to be alone, so we wandered on enjoying the sunshine, unworried about the missing pair. When they caught us up again, Robert drew from his pocket all the sloes that they had been collecting, much larger berries this time and juicy looking, and added them to his collection. We only hope the effort was worth it.
The light on the landscape was superb, the low autumn sun picking out every detail with warm highlights and deep shadows. Cameras were used more than usual. Jimmy got some verbal treatment when he stooped to get a better composition in one shot. 'Thinks he’s David Bailey 'Just stick your bum out a wee bit further' were the more printable comments. It didn’t put our arty-farty friend off in any way though; he would repeat the posture later. But not before lunch.
Lunch was taken on the wee bridge on which we always take lunch and for no other reason than we always take lunch here. As has been said before, we are creatures of habit. Holly must have been hungry today as well for, for the first time in her life, she sat and watched us eat, devouring any morsel that was given to her. Hardly surprising that she was hungry for she covers at least twice the distance we do and at double speed. Once again, we were jealous of her fitness.
The road continued up the valley and after lunch, so did we. We wandered down by Knockelly towards the bridge on the river. The light on the hills of the upper valley was superb and the high ground looked particularly inviting. A proposal to walk these hills was made and was generally accepted but not today, today was to be an easy walk on the road and it would stay that way. We added this area to our ‘to do’ list and walked on. We crossed the river and made our way upward to Druidhall before turning back towards Penpont.
The buzzard was heard before it was spotted being harassed by crows. Then Robert, our fledgling birder, stumped the naturalist. ‘Do buzzards mate for life?’ was the question. The naturalist replied that most birds of prey do but wasn’t sure of buzzard specifically. He would find out, though, now that the question had been raised.*
We stopped beside a sign pointing into a field and telling us that the Roman Bridge was only three miles away, along a faint track. Again, if we had time enough, or energy enough, or inclination, we might have gone along to see the ‘Roman’ bridge. But we had none of the three today, we would continue on the road. So, with another walk added to the ‘possible’ list, we walked on.
We would have kept to the road for the remainder of the walk but Peter veered off into the trees. We followed and found Peter rummaging about in the fallen beech leaves. Well, we weren’t quite sure of his behaviour until he unearthed a mushroom, then another, and another. Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius), he said. Most were past their best but there were enough good ones for Peter to pick and place in the box he had brought specially for the purpose. We hope he enjoys his free food and is still with us next week.
We returned to the road and now we kept to it.
The way was downward now, two miles of gentle slope that took us off the higher ground and down beside a wee burn running through some trees. The infantile started to up the pace as we approached Penpont and even broke into a run at one point, well as much of a run as they could muster at their age. There are times when we wish they would grow up. But, as has been pointed out by them, growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional. And they opted to act young again.
This is how we came back into Penpont – the childish racing and the more mature (lazy?) taking their time, all having had a great walk on a super autumn day.

The Crown in Sanquhar provided the FRT today.

PS Note to Robert: Buzzards do indeed mate for life though ‘divorces’ have occasionally been reported.

Penpont - sloe-ly at pace

Wine - decanted and half pound of sugar in solution
added - ferment slower now --
Sloe gin - getting close to 'drinkable' - 9/11/2009


18 hours on - pulp removed and topped up with
sugar 2 and a half pounds so far - air lock added
- note the the gin - deeper colour

Sloes - Slow and Quick
Fermenting sloes and sloes flavouring gin.
6 months for the wine, 6 weeks for the gin.
Bring on the competition.

Slate me!

Why are you down there Robert?

Traditional lunch stop, end grouping has the look
of an American civil war picture ;-)

Doesn't get much better

3D route map - Cairnsmore of Fleet

Distance (return): 12.4 km

30 September A View From Cairnsmore Of Fleet

What would life be if once bereft,
Of wildness and wetness? Let them be left.
Oh, let them be left, the wildness and wet,
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Jimmy’s Caravan seemed crowded. Roomy though it is, with eleven of us (nine Ooters and two wives) sitting round, tucking into bacon rolls provided by Elizabeth, and all blethering at the same time, the living room definitely seemed crowded.
We were to meet Jimmy and Johnny at Jimmy’s Galloway hideaway and had driven down to Newton Stewart through a mixture of blue skies and a claggy drizzle that occasionally brightened the valleys but kept the hilltops hidden in blanket fog. The objective of the day was the summit of Cairnsmore of Fleet, new territory for all but Jimmy. We had chosen this particular Cairnsmore because somebody had heard of the remarkable views from it and Jimmy confirmed this to be the case, having been on its summit more times than he cared to remember. But our leader was well aware of the hill conditions this morning and had thought up alternative low-level walks, walks that greatly appealed to Allan. And by the time the Killie contingent arrived, the decision had been made. Are we not men, men of considerable calibre? Yes we are. Are we terrified of a bit of weather? No we’re not. We would conquer that mountain despite anything nature threw at us. Yet we sat long in Jimmy’s caravan and enjoyed our bacon rolls.
When we did start walking, it was already half past eleven and the fog was still down on the summit. But we had a twenty minute walk into the base of the hill for the new car park is much lower than the old one, so there was time yet for the clag to clear. We set off up the Cairnsmore House road full of the joys of living, Davie and Jimmy at the front setting a good pace. Up through a wood showing signs of autumn colour we went, round Cairnsmore Farm we went, and up to where Jimmy pointed out the old car park. He hadn’t got us lost, so far.
At the end of the track was a gate into a field. There was no sign of a path here. Our leader wasn’t lost, was he? But Jimmy opened the gate and strode purposefully across the field. Whether he had noticed the cows lying in the middle of the field before we got into it, we don’t know but he made a line that would take us right though the middle of the herd. And we followed. It wasn’t until we were nearly on him that we saw the bull, barely twenty feet from us. He raised his head, gave us a look, realised we were no threat to his harem and went back to his lazy rumination, much to the relief of some of our number who were already eyeing up escape routes. And Jimmy’s line took us through the herd to the far corner of the field where we found the path for the Cairnsmore.
The way steepened now but not excessively so and the walking was comfortable. We were in a mature conifer plantation so the views were limited; only behind us could we see the grey-green grass of the merse and equally grey water of the Cree meanders. Ahead of us, the path rose into the mist. Now Robert got to the front and set a fair old pace on the upward. Sweat built up with nowhere to go, damp air congealed in globules on fleeces and a few spots of rain were felt. It was a soggy group that stopped to don waterproofs. Perhaps Jimmy had the right idea. Rather than pull on an extra layer, he stripped off his fleece and walked in his cool-max shirt for, despite the damp, the day was far from cold and the climbing was hot. Sweat built up inside waterproofs.
We crossed the forest road, examined the stone seat commemorating Rosemary Pilkington and continued the climb in the trees of the plantation, totally unaware of the wind springing up. But when we cleared the trees, we became aware of it rather quickly. Even the hardy Jimmy was forced to get into waterproofs to cut the bite of the damp blow. Then the rain came.
Wind driven rain battered into us for a few minutes but went again before we reached the style in the fence. The waterproofs remained though, as we climbed upwards to the remains of a drystane dyke. We stopped here for the view. According to our leader the view of the windings of the Cree from here is superb. We had to take his word for that for the view today was limited to the thirty yards or so we could peer through the fog and, given the fog, wind and smirr, we didn’t linger to listen to his description of the view we might have seen. We walked on into the clag.
Walking into the clag might be one thing but the path ran with yesterday’s rainwater and we felt that we were walking into a burn as well. It was inches deep in some places and flowed down the breadth of the path making it difficult to avoid. And the ground on each side of it was just as watery. Feet as well as bodies now felt the wet. The joie de vivre of earlier had dissolved in the mist and was blown away in the wind. It was now heads down and plod upwards through the water and into the weather.
The path steepened now; steepened, but didn’t dry in any way, and water gushed over boots. Rex and Alan now took up the challenge of being leaders. It has been said before and will be said again, it is a bad move to let Rex get to the front on a climb. Today was no exception. Rex ploughed on, head down into the wind, fog and smirr. Alan, Davie and Jimmy went with him for a while but the rest were wiser and climbed at a reasonable rate. Then even Davie and Alan fell off the pace leaving only Rex and Jimmy at the front.
On the summit plateau, the path split and the fast thought it a good idea to wait for the rest, just in case. Bodies were counted as they appeared out of the clag. Davie came first followed by Paul then Robert. Some time passed before the trio of Allan, Johnny and Ronnie could be heard above the wind even before their solid shapes materialised. All nine of us were together again.
The togetherness didn’t last though. Rex and Jimmy took off like whippets and again we were strung out along the path. All came past the monument to the aircrews that lost their lives in crashes on this summit with barely a sideways glance, across the flat top and onto the summit cairn. Here we found the fast pair ensconced in the shelter provided by a drystane built enclosure. Two hours after leaving the cars, we ‘lunched’ here. Still the wind and mizzle persisted.
Two hours it took for the climb that Jimmy said would take and hour and a half. We are all well aware of Jimmy’s propensity to underestimate distance (hence Jimmy miles!) but now a new phrase has entered the language of the Ooters – ‘Jimmy hours’ are anything between a standard hour and two of the same.
The clag was still as thick as ever and our leader started to tell us of the view we should have had from this summit. ‘Looks pretty similar to the view from Windy Standard, Ben Lomond, Lowther Hill ...........’ said Davie, recounting some of our foggy climbs of the last year or two. But the cold wind and numbing fog had gotten to the leader for he had no response. And the cold was getting to us all now so it was time to move on.
Allan and Johnny left first, followed by Alan and Jimmy then Rex. The rest took a minute or two to gather themselves together and followed in the wake.
A few cold minutes were spent examining the monument to the airmen of many nationalities – German, Polish, British, Canadian, New Zealanders and Australians – who lost their lives in crashes on this particular hill. Sadly, none of the dead had reached their thirtieth birthday.
But the wind was chilling and there was the threat of more rain so we moved on. Jimmy set the pace to build up the body heat, and a cracking pace he set. He seemed determined to prove his three-hour round trip theory. Rex, Johnny, Robert and Alan went with him, the others had more sense. Eventually others saw sense, slowed to a reasonably fast speed and watched as Jimmy and Rex disappeared downward into the fog. There was no halt on this downward section for there was no need; the slope wasn’t too steep, there was no view and the wind was nippy. Anyway, the fast two were well in front and would hardly stop just to suit the rest of us. We followed as fast as our wee legs would take us. It didn’t take long to reach the tree level. In the shelter of the trees, there was no wind and the body temperature rose immediately. And it was in the shelter of the trees that we found the fast pair waiting for us.
We waited for the tail-enders to arrive and, with everybody together again, wandered down the path between the trees. The fog cleared as we approached the forest road and down the line of the forest break there was a view at last, stretching from the meanderings of the Cree immediately below us, to the high ground of the central Machars; away to the south, through a gap in the trees we could see the sun glint on the distant Solway. ‘See, told you the view was superb’ said our leader.
The sun shone in the south but no sun shone on us and we continued downward under the clag that topped our hill, downward at a much more sedate pace now. The cows were away in a corner of the field when we came to the edge of it, Johnny Bull amongst them keeping watch. We crossed the field without danger of goring this time and came to the track round the farm. An easy fifteen-minute stroll took us down through the autumn wood and back to the car park for around three.
Post walk, we retired to Johnny’s Kirkcowan retreat to partake of his legendary hospitality. Johnny and Helen supplied the lentil soup and bread, and Robert brought the apple crumble. The kitty provided the funds for liquid refreshment and a convivial hour or so was spent. The highlight of the visit was a tour of the Matthews' estate, an outhouse full of materials for renovation of the house and an enormous garden that Johnny and Helen, with a little assistance from at least one of our company, have recovered from the weeds.

Altogether, this was a different kind of day for us. Despite the climb in the cold clag, it was a good day out and our thanks must go to the suppliers of the food. Well done to all.

Cairnsmore of Fleet photos 30th Sept 2009

Ready for the off !

David approaching the top.

23rd Sept 09. Ooters and Adders

23 September - Four lochs and four adders

Distance: 22.6 km, (14.0 miles)


After last week’s adventures in the undergrowth, seven Ooters (Davie, Rex, Allan, Paul, Jimmy, Johnny and Robert) succeeded in following Davie's and Kay’s directions to a spot halfway along Loch Doon.

A snell wind, harbinger of the coming winter, greeted us as we stepped out of the cars and for the first time in several months a few of the Ooters felt the need to don woolly hats and gloves.

Davie wore shorts.

“You’ll soon warm up” said Davie, and he was right . As we climbed up through the forestry the exertion and the windbreak provided by the trees meant that before long we were stripping off.

Davie had recently reconnoitred the walk and this time had come equipped with binoculars to view more closely the castle in the middle of Loch Finlas, which he had spotted on his earlier visit. However, since his previous visit it had disappeared only to be replaced by a few nondescript rocks. Still, the view along the length of the loch was fine and afforded an excuse for a wee breather. Davie tested Jimmy over the whereabouts of Balloch Castle and after Jimmy admitted ignorance Davie set Jimmy the task of finding out for homework

Soon we were out of the forest and after a brief change of direction as we skirted the edge of the trees, we continued to head West/South West, still climbing, but this time over open terrain and on a poorer track used by mountainbikers. The view back over Lochs Finlas and Doon was admired.

Morning coffee was taken on a convenient rocky outcrop overlooking the third loch of the day, Bradan. Naturally, conversation turned to the path, or lack of, on the far side of the loch. In discussions alarmingly reminiscent of the previous week, some doubt was expressed about following the path below us which seemed to be going away from our destination. However, this time commonsense prevailed and we followed this track down the hill towards the loch. Here we met the path we had followed on our earlier never-to-be-repeated circumnavigation of Loch Bradan.

The wind was driving waves across the waters of Bradan, but the idyllic beauty of the location was disrupted by the roar of jet engines as one RAF fighter chased another at low level over the loch.

Further round the loch two fishermen were observed. Davie informed us that they had been there the last time he did the walk. Whether or not they had left the spot in between times must remain one of life’s little mysteries.

The walk along the lochside was brisk on a well-made path and Ballochbeatties soon came into view. On reaching the the Forest Drive we paused for a break and Johnny settled down on his rucksack-cum-armchair in the middle of the drive. However the sight of a 20 ton log transporter driving towards us soon had Johnny heading for the side of the road.

The driver was lost. He had a map but he was lost. We empathised with him. Now how unlucky was that - to be lost in a forest and of all the people you might meet, you encounter a group who the previous week had got lost in somebody’s overgrown garden? There was a touch of the blind leading the blind but we soon worked out that he had overshot the side track he wanted and that he would have to turn round. Forest Drive wasn’t designed to permit 20 ton lorries to do U-ies (I’ll check with Bluey for the correct spelling) and a good 10-15 minutes elapsed before he passed us further down the track.

Mention of “Ballochbeatties” had stirred a few brain cells amongst some of those who had listened to Davie’s earlier question and Jimmy was excused homework when it was declared that “Balloch Castle” must have been the old name for “Loch Doon Castle”

And to prove it, here’s one of the photos Davie took when he was a lad:




Walking through the forest, the group disintegrated into 3 sub-groups. The pay and display machine for motorists using Forest Drive was spotted and the general consensus was that the chances of Ooters paying the requested fee were akin to Fort William’s on their visit to Auchinleck at the weekend. Nevertheless we proposed stopping the next vehicle to check that a valid ticket was being displayed. Needless to say we didn’t carry this out when a car did approach us, but we were surprised to see that it carried a French registration plate.

Riecawr, the final loch of day, came into view and lunch was taken at a viewpoint, complete which picnic area and adventure playground. There was room for six at the table so it was as well Johnny had brought his own furniture with him. A chill wind blew off the loch and there was a smirr in the air, but we hunkered down and tucked in. Afterwards some of the kiddies went off to play in the adventure playground.

It has oft been remarked upon by Jimmy that there are those in the group who walk in order to get from A to B as quickly as possible and those who walk in order to take in the landscape. As the former raced off down the hill to the Doon that awaited them, the second group encountered an adder on the road – one missed completely by the sprinters. Charitably the wannabe Bolts were called back to view this rare sight. It was alive, but not very. Or perhaps it was just feeling the cold. Either way, all it did was raise its head slightly and tried to adopt an aggressive look. It made no attempt to slither away. With growing confidence, photos were taken from an increasingly close range.

Photo opportunity concluded, we continued our descent to Loch Doon, taking in Riecawr’s dam on the way. By the time we reached the loch more than one Ooter was complaining of sore feet. The hard track had taken its toll, and there were at least of couple miles of tarmac still to walk.

Afternoon refreshments were taken at the castle-formerly- known-as-Balloch. Or was it? Philosophical discussion ensued, about whether this was the ‘same’ castle that had once occupied the now-submerged island in the loch . The conclusion was, erm, inconclusive.

And off we went again; a little wearier by now. Amazingly we spotted another adder by the roadside. The adders were multiplying. Including Johnny and Allan that made it four in one day. This one was decidedly dead but it didn’t stop some of our number being a little edgy as it was lifted up on a walking pole. It might just have been pretending.

We trudged past Lambdoughty or Lamdoughty, depending on the side of the road you live on, and after a further mile during which we had time to contemplate the beauty of the area, we reached our departure point, where the morning’s chill wind was still blowing down the valley.

It was a great walk with plenty of variety. Well done again Davie.

Refreshments were consumed in Dalmellington, in a pub whose name escapes your scribe. However, you can’t miss it. It’s the one that isn’t boarded up.

Four Lochs, Two Adders, Half marathon walk

First Stop

First of the two adders to be seen.