There’s Cairnsmore o’ Fleet,
An’ there’s Cairnsmore o’ Dee,
But the Cairnsmore o’ Deugh,
Is the highest o’ the three.
Traditional Galloway rhyme
An’ there’s Cairnsmore o’ Dee,
But the Cairnsmore o’ Deugh,
Is the highest o’ the three.
Traditional Galloway rhyme
Eight of us gathered at the Green Well of Scotland just north of Carsphairn, where the Water of Deugh cuts its gorge through a ridge of hard whin rock. Our objective for the day was the ascent of the highest of Galloway’s three Cairnsmores, Cairnsmore o’ Deugh, now known as Cairnsmore of Carsphairn, at 2624ft.
The hot, Mediterranean-type weather of the last two or three days went in the night. It was a cooler, fresher morning that greeted us when we woke: cooler and fresher but still sunny and warm enough for some to sport shorts. Yet, when we arrived at the Greenwell, it seemed that this shorts wearing caper might have been an imprudent impulse brought on by too much sun over the week-end, for thick cloud had now gathered over the hill and a cool northerly breeze stirred. Most donned woollies. Only Jimmy carried on stoically with the short gear.
The walk was to be short – ‘Three miles in and three miles back’, said Jimmy and we all trust his judgement of distance, don’t we? – so the pace was to be casual from the start. Davie led the way through Brigend farm to find the track that would take us to the base of the hill.
Sheep, not yet loosed on the hill, scampered out of our way as we passed and a single oystercatcher ‘peeped’ an alarm above us. ‘Must have a nest nearby’, said the naturalist. Others were surprised to see such a bird inland but were happy when it was explained that they come inland to breed. And happily we walked on toward the hill now lowering in front of us under the heavy sky.
We came to the burn that defeated us the last time we came this way (25/06/08) but the water flowed much calmer and lower this time and boulders that would provide stepping stones rose high above the stream. Paul and Jimmy were advised to be careful for we wanted no unexpected sit-downs in the water today. But cameras were readied just in case. It’s slightly disappointing to note that all crossed the burn without mishap.
The track climbed gently now as the river valley gave way to the easy hill-foot slopes. And, as it climbed, the western landscape opened up for us, the broad Carsphairn valley giving way to the tree-covered steeps leading up to the ridge of the Rhinns of Kells. And Loch Doon began to show to the north of this. But we didn’t stop much to admire the view, only enough to open and close the few field gates that the track passed through.
But the climb was out of the breeze and the day was turning warm. A slightly longer halt was made as woollies were removed and we returned to lighter gear. And was the sky beginning to clear? Were we to get a decent day after all?
Eleven o’clock beeped on somebody’s watch and coffee was called for. Davie suggested we wait a wee. There was an ideal place for coffee in a few minutes time. We waited. The track came to an end and the hill proper was taken to. We climbed round a wee slope and above the valley of a burn, with our backs to a drystane dyke, we sat down for coffee. The conversation was as you would expect from the Ooters. Only Allan sat in silence staring at the hill rising in front and savouring the thought of the climb.
Yes we sat, but we didn’t sit long. Nobody had noticed the midges before we sat. Everybody noticed them now, clouds of them now, each with a voracious appetite for blood, for our blood. The words of the inimitable Alastair Mcdonald came to mind when he sang:-
The Midges, the midges, I’m no gonnae kid ye’s
The midges is really the limit.
Wi’ teeth like piranhas, they’ll drive ye bananas
If ye let them get under yer simmet.
Whether they were into our undergarments or not, the wee blasties were certainly driving us bananas. We didn’t sit long for coffee.
We left the scourge of the Scottish uplands in a hurry, nearly running down the slope of the wee burn and up the other side, to avoid their irritating bites. Now we started the climb of the hill proper. And, as we were into the gentlest of northerly breezes, we left the midges behind.
Davie led the way up the hill with Allan, savouring every upward step, bringing up the rear. (Oh, how he is enjoying these climbs.) Somewhere in between were the rest of us.
The climb was just as steep as Allan expected it to be and old legs were soon burning. In an effort to relieve the pain, the naturalist pointed out the upland flora; insectivorous Butterwort; Milkwort, which if eaten by nursing mothers, increased the milk production; Tormentil, the only cruciform yellow flower native to Britain; Lousewort with the drop of nectar at its base; all were pointed out to those interested. The assessment sheet was promised for when we next go to the hill so, as an aide memoir, Johnny photographed each plant.
The climb was hot, even more so when the cold front passed through taking its associated cloud with it and leaving us with sunshine for the rest of the day. We climbed in many groups, each stopping as the need arose. And, as we climbed, the western hillscape was opening up. Many were the view stops taken to admire it. Immediately below us lay the broad Carsphairn valley giving onto the forested lower slopes of the Kells range. (Once more, the superb day we spent on that ridge (10/10/08) was brought up.) Then the trees gave way to the broad ridge of the Kells which filled most of the western skyline. Behind this and slightly to the north, the Awful Hand range filled the rest with Merrick standing proudly above them all. And between the two ranges, the north end of Loch Doon showed. Those who know these things pointed out the various hills in each range and Allan was desperately keen to know the names of each ‘bleeping’ hill he would have to climb. But first he had to finish the climb of this one.
We came near to the rock-strewn summit and Paul recollected something about an aircraft crash near here. When a peculiarly artificial-looking rock formation was spotted some hundred metres to our left over the boulder-field, it was thought that this might mark the site. Johnny was dispatched to investigate. What did he find? He found a peculiar artificial-looking rock formation. We were glad we sent him.
When we arrived at the top Davie and Rex were found ensconced behind the summit cairn, out of the fresh northerly that swept the summit, and already half way through their lunch. We joined them to eat for it was now twelve thirty. We had taken a little over two hours for the climb.
What a remarkable view is had from this summit. Though the day wasn’t as clear as could be, there was still a range of some fifty miles and a compass of three-sixty degrees. From Tinto and the Pentland outliers in the northeast to Cairnsmore of Fleet and the Solway in the southwest, from Skiddaw in the south to the extent of the Ayrshire plain in the north the view was superb. Only in the northwest was the view restricted – no Arran today. But the panorama of hills in our immediate circle made up for any distant disappointment. Windy Standard just had to be pointed out to those who had been on it but had not seen it (See 11/03/08). And the high Galloways filled the western skyline.
Jimmy was asked to name the lochs we could see. This he did with his usual confidence but we suspect he made up some of the names. Loch Ken we could accept for we have all heard of this one. Earlston and Carsfad? Maybe. But Loch Urr indeed! And Lochinvar is a poem! Still, the view was remarkable and we might have stayed there much longer to admire it but the cool northerly was beginning to chill. We set off downward.
Down the broad ridge of the Black Shoulder, we came. The rarefied air of the high summit must have affected Ronnie’s brain in some way for he started on his repertoire of jokes. (If the scribbler was being perfectly honest, on the ascent Ronnie had no wind to speak let alone tell jokes but now we were on the descent, he was in full flow.) One story followed another and kept us amused as we dropped down beside the drystane dyke on the Black Shoulder.
We heard the splashing as Holly found the wee lochan in which to cool off. We had lost the breeze now and the sun was hot and the afternoon turning pretty warm. Holly had the right idea. What wasn’t right, though, was that she should come out and shake herself all over the legs of those with shorts on.
Then we came onto a top that Jimmy and Davie, the experts on this area, called Willieanna and halted for a drink stop. Many, but not so varied, were the comments made about all of us men being on top of poor Willieanna, and at the same time. No need to worry, dear reader. Further research, i.e. looking at a map, showed that Dave and Jimmy don’t know what they're talking about. The top on which we halted was in fact Dunool. We won’t let either of these two tell us anything again. Black marks, boys.
Now there came a steep descent to the col between Dunool and the real Willieanna. This was taken in as many groups as the ascent of the Cairnsmore this morning, and for the same reasons. But the slope was short and all were down without mishap or undue exertion.
We never made the top of Willieanna. Instead we turned down from the col to find the road we had travelled this morning. The fast waited for the others on the track. Now, a casual stroll in the afternoon sun down the last mile or so had us back at the cars by two-thirty, suntanned/burnt and sweaty and badly in need of FRT.
FRT was administered in the Dalmellington Inn where Johnny added to his collection of pictures of ‘Pubs we have known and loved’.
The hot, Mediterranean-type weather of the last two or three days went in the night. It was a cooler, fresher morning that greeted us when we woke: cooler and fresher but still sunny and warm enough for some to sport shorts. Yet, when we arrived at the Greenwell, it seemed that this shorts wearing caper might have been an imprudent impulse brought on by too much sun over the week-end, for thick cloud had now gathered over the hill and a cool northerly breeze stirred. Most donned woollies. Only Jimmy carried on stoically with the short gear.
The walk was to be short – ‘Three miles in and three miles back’, said Jimmy and we all trust his judgement of distance, don’t we? – so the pace was to be casual from the start. Davie led the way through Brigend farm to find the track that would take us to the base of the hill.
Sheep, not yet loosed on the hill, scampered out of our way as we passed and a single oystercatcher ‘peeped’ an alarm above us. ‘Must have a nest nearby’, said the naturalist. Others were surprised to see such a bird inland but were happy when it was explained that they come inland to breed. And happily we walked on toward the hill now lowering in front of us under the heavy sky.
We came to the burn that defeated us the last time we came this way (25/06/08) but the water flowed much calmer and lower this time and boulders that would provide stepping stones rose high above the stream. Paul and Jimmy were advised to be careful for we wanted no unexpected sit-downs in the water today. But cameras were readied just in case. It’s slightly disappointing to note that all crossed the burn without mishap.
The track climbed gently now as the river valley gave way to the easy hill-foot slopes. And, as it climbed, the western landscape opened up for us, the broad Carsphairn valley giving way to the tree-covered steeps leading up to the ridge of the Rhinns of Kells. And Loch Doon began to show to the north of this. But we didn’t stop much to admire the view, only enough to open and close the few field gates that the track passed through.
But the climb was out of the breeze and the day was turning warm. A slightly longer halt was made as woollies were removed and we returned to lighter gear. And was the sky beginning to clear? Were we to get a decent day after all?
Eleven o’clock beeped on somebody’s watch and coffee was called for. Davie suggested we wait a wee. There was an ideal place for coffee in a few minutes time. We waited. The track came to an end and the hill proper was taken to. We climbed round a wee slope and above the valley of a burn, with our backs to a drystane dyke, we sat down for coffee. The conversation was as you would expect from the Ooters. Only Allan sat in silence staring at the hill rising in front and savouring the thought of the climb.
Yes we sat, but we didn’t sit long. Nobody had noticed the midges before we sat. Everybody noticed them now, clouds of them now, each with a voracious appetite for blood, for our blood. The words of the inimitable Alastair Mcdonald came to mind when he sang:-
The Midges, the midges, I’m no gonnae kid ye’s
The midges is really the limit.
Wi’ teeth like piranhas, they’ll drive ye bananas
If ye let them get under yer simmet.
Whether they were into our undergarments or not, the wee blasties were certainly driving us bananas. We didn’t sit long for coffee.
We left the scourge of the Scottish uplands in a hurry, nearly running down the slope of the wee burn and up the other side, to avoid their irritating bites. Now we started the climb of the hill proper. And, as we were into the gentlest of northerly breezes, we left the midges behind.
Davie led the way up the hill with Allan, savouring every upward step, bringing up the rear. (Oh, how he is enjoying these climbs.) Somewhere in between were the rest of us.
The climb was just as steep as Allan expected it to be and old legs were soon burning. In an effort to relieve the pain, the naturalist pointed out the upland flora; insectivorous Butterwort; Milkwort, which if eaten by nursing mothers, increased the milk production; Tormentil, the only cruciform yellow flower native to Britain; Lousewort with the drop of nectar at its base; all were pointed out to those interested. The assessment sheet was promised for when we next go to the hill so, as an aide memoir, Johnny photographed each plant.
The climb was hot, even more so when the cold front passed through taking its associated cloud with it and leaving us with sunshine for the rest of the day. We climbed in many groups, each stopping as the need arose. And, as we climbed, the western hillscape was opening up. Many were the view stops taken to admire it. Immediately below us lay the broad Carsphairn valley giving onto the forested lower slopes of the Kells range. (Once more, the superb day we spent on that ridge (10/10/08) was brought up.) Then the trees gave way to the broad ridge of the Kells which filled most of the western skyline. Behind this and slightly to the north, the Awful Hand range filled the rest with Merrick standing proudly above them all. And between the two ranges, the north end of Loch Doon showed. Those who know these things pointed out the various hills in each range and Allan was desperately keen to know the names of each ‘bleeping’ hill he would have to climb. But first he had to finish the climb of this one.
We came near to the rock-strewn summit and Paul recollected something about an aircraft crash near here. When a peculiarly artificial-looking rock formation was spotted some hundred metres to our left over the boulder-field, it was thought that this might mark the site. Johnny was dispatched to investigate. What did he find? He found a peculiar artificial-looking rock formation. We were glad we sent him.
When we arrived at the top Davie and Rex were found ensconced behind the summit cairn, out of the fresh northerly that swept the summit, and already half way through their lunch. We joined them to eat for it was now twelve thirty. We had taken a little over two hours for the climb.
What a remarkable view is had from this summit. Though the day wasn’t as clear as could be, there was still a range of some fifty miles and a compass of three-sixty degrees. From Tinto and the Pentland outliers in the northeast to Cairnsmore of Fleet and the Solway in the southwest, from Skiddaw in the south to the extent of the Ayrshire plain in the north the view was superb. Only in the northwest was the view restricted – no Arran today. But the panorama of hills in our immediate circle made up for any distant disappointment. Windy Standard just had to be pointed out to those who had been on it but had not seen it (See 11/03/08). And the high Galloways filled the western skyline.
Jimmy was asked to name the lochs we could see. This he did with his usual confidence but we suspect he made up some of the names. Loch Ken we could accept for we have all heard of this one. Earlston and Carsfad? Maybe. But Loch Urr indeed! And Lochinvar is a poem! Still, the view was remarkable and we might have stayed there much longer to admire it but the cool northerly was beginning to chill. We set off downward.
Down the broad ridge of the Black Shoulder, we came. The rarefied air of the high summit must have affected Ronnie’s brain in some way for he started on his repertoire of jokes. (If the scribbler was being perfectly honest, on the ascent Ronnie had no wind to speak let alone tell jokes but now we were on the descent, he was in full flow.) One story followed another and kept us amused as we dropped down beside the drystane dyke on the Black Shoulder.
We heard the splashing as Holly found the wee lochan in which to cool off. We had lost the breeze now and the sun was hot and the afternoon turning pretty warm. Holly had the right idea. What wasn’t right, though, was that she should come out and shake herself all over the legs of those with shorts on.
Then we came onto a top that Jimmy and Davie, the experts on this area, called Willieanna and halted for a drink stop. Many, but not so varied, were the comments made about all of us men being on top of poor Willieanna, and at the same time. No need to worry, dear reader. Further research, i.e. looking at a map, showed that Dave and Jimmy don’t know what they're talking about. The top on which we halted was in fact Dunool. We won’t let either of these two tell us anything again. Black marks, boys.
Now there came a steep descent to the col between Dunool and the real Willieanna. This was taken in as many groups as the ascent of the Cairnsmore this morning, and for the same reasons. But the slope was short and all were down without mishap or undue exertion.
We never made the top of Willieanna. Instead we turned down from the col to find the road we had travelled this morning. The fast waited for the others on the track. Now, a casual stroll in the afternoon sun down the last mile or so had us back at the cars by two-thirty, suntanned/burnt and sweaty and badly in need of FRT.
FRT was administered in the Dalmellington Inn where Johnny added to his collection of pictures of ‘Pubs we have known and loved’.
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