Something of a minor miracle occurred today. Whether it was to welcome Robert back into the fold or for some other reason, the deity that looks after the weather favoured us today. While the forecast was for showers and longer outbreaks of rain and the rest of the country had the predicted pattern, we had a day of warm, unbroken sunshine, the first since Dumgoyne at the end of June. (Even on Ben A’an, the sun disappeared for a while.)
Nine of us, including the recuperating Robert, gathered in Dailly for a walk on Barony Hill. Nobody led today for most of us have been here before and know the way and, in consideration of Robert’s recovering, we were to stay together and keep the pace reasonable. And, for a change, we were to stay on recognised pathways.
We left the town and climbed gently up the valley side on the road for Craig Farm ribbing Robert on the effects of his operation. But we weren’t on tarmac too long; just long enough to bring us to the edge of a wood. A local pathway signpost, a well-designed and well-made local signpost, directed us into the wood and along a woodland path above a burn. This footpath was narrow, only wide enough for two, and it was slippy in one or two places. Care had to be exercised at times but it did take us through the wood to find another road, the moor road to Barr.
We didn’t turn for Barr but came in the other direction down toward the floor of the valley again. Down on our right were some pigsties, one complete with satellite dish. ‘Sty Television’, was the comment of our resident wag. Suggestions for the programmes that pigs might watch should be e-mailed to Ian.
By this time, the newcomers were beginning to question whether we were lost again for we appeared to be heading back towards Dailly. But we knew where we were going all right. The road took us down to another signpost directing us up the farm track of Whitehill Farm. Now the climbing started. The climbing wasn’t at all arduous and the banter was kept up. And Robert kept up, remarkably well considering his operation and enforced lay-off. We kept the pace of the climb easy for his sake. (‘So they say!’ thinks Robert). And, at an easy pace, we left the farm road and took to a field track, still climbing gradually.
As the track rose beside the field, the view behind us opened out and a view stop was called. We were now high on the south side of the valley looking down over a landscape of rich green fields and darker green woodlands running down to the sea Ailsa Craig began to show behind the northwest headland - a pleasant, rural, south Ayrshire landscape. We admired the view just long enough for breathing to recover and then moved on, upward yet.
The track came to a gate, a tied gate. The track continued into the field on the other side of it and this is where we should have gone. But this field held a large herd of Ayrshire cattle numbering around the two hundred mark. Some stepped gingerly over the barbed wire fence into the ‘coo park’. Some, preferring to avoid either barbed wire or coos, continued on the other side of the fence. They were the ones to take the long way to Mackrikill Chapel.
The ruins of Mackrikill Chapel (The Chapel of St. Machar’s Cell) stands at the top of the field and Machar couldn’t have picked a better place for his ‘cell’. The view was as before but more extensive now, over the fields and woodlands to Dailly and beyond to the sea and Ailsa Craig. On the ruins of Mackrikill, among the contented Ayrshire cows, we sat for coffee.
We sat as long as it took for coffee for this wasn’t a day for hurrying. Those with itchy feet made the first move, walking down to a style in the fence where we left the good pasture behind us and came onto the rough grazing of the hill. There was no path for a while but another well-made way-marker showed we were on the right course. And, at the way-marker, we found the path again.
Another way-marker was found beside the path but this one was in a prone position, obviously uprooted by a force other than nature. A mass of concrete adhered to the base of the upright and a hole in the ground, filled with brown water and boulders, showed where it should have stood. Some of us who are that way inclined, felt the need to reinstate the marker to the vertical. Robert and Rex pulled boulder after submerged boulder from the flood while the rest of us stood around offering advice. When the last stone was removed, the marker was raised and, with a splash, was inserted into the pit as far as it would go, and was chocked round by the recovered stone to make it stable. Perfect. Pleased with a job well done, we wandered on leaving Robert and Rex to clean and dry their hands. It was now an easy saunter to the top of Barony hill.
For so little effort, the view from Barony hill was extensive today, stretching from Ayr in the north to Ailsa Craig in the south; from Crosshill in the east of the Girvan Valley to the distillery at Girvan in the west; and the green and pleasant south Ayrshire farmland lay below us. Behind us, the moor stretched away to the Rowantree hills in the southeast and some of Jimmy’s favourite power generators waved at us on the south-west horizon. Altogether, this was a remarkable view for so little effort on our behalf. A carved wooden seat afforded us a rest on the top to take in the view while Johnny captured the occasion with the camera – both still and movie – and Rex threw his camera from the top of the trig point. Why he did this is beyond us but the poor thing now has a bashed lens.
Then we walked on.
The way was downward now, towards the lime works of Lannielane (See 28/5/08) barely five hundred metres away. While most of us were content to walk the lip of the quarry, the more adventurous were for down into it to look into the step-sloping mines driven into its north side. We came together at the limekilns where lunch was called.
Nothing much of note happened after lunch. We followed the limekilns track as it slanted downwards across the side of the valley having due regard to the placing of our feet for the track was wet and muddy after the rains of last week, the only wet and mucky bit of the entire walk. But we left the track just after it entered a plantation of conifers, and we climbed steeply on another footpath. (Why there were no complaints about having to re-climb the hill today Messrs. Matthews, Sim and Hill?) This footpath brought us to a viewpoint, still high enough on the valley side to give a good view down towards the sea. And it had another bench to sit on. We sat. It was a day for sitting.
But, the itchy feet lot were for the off again and we followed. We still followed the path as it continued down through the woods of the Falfarrochar Burn to the main valley road. This was crossed and we came through a wee wood to the side of the River.
The walking was level now, on the fisher’s path. Somehow the fast pair had got to the front and were gradually extending their lead, leaving the rest of us strung out in pairs and threes along the narrow path. There came a shout from the rear, from the tiring Robert. We were to visit Dalquharran Castles, old and new, for no other reason than we have always done this (See 11/03/09) but Robert had had enough for the day and was for the direct route back to the village. We decided to go with him and leave a visit to the castle for the next time.
We crossed the river by one bridge, came down the north bank for two or three hundred metres, re-crossed it by another and came back into the village around two.
By general agreement, this was another good day and it was nice to have Robert back with us again.
We came back up the Girvan valley to Crosshill for FRT today. While the surroundings were pleasant, the ale - when we got the right stuff – was good enough and the bar tender offered to make sandwiches if we were ever down this way again, the treasurer suggests we find a cheaper pub the next time for the purse can't stand too much at this price.
Nine of us, including the recuperating Robert, gathered in Dailly for a walk on Barony Hill. Nobody led today for most of us have been here before and know the way and, in consideration of Robert’s recovering, we were to stay together and keep the pace reasonable. And, for a change, we were to stay on recognised pathways.
We left the town and climbed gently up the valley side on the road for Craig Farm ribbing Robert on the effects of his operation. But we weren’t on tarmac too long; just long enough to bring us to the edge of a wood. A local pathway signpost, a well-designed and well-made local signpost, directed us into the wood and along a woodland path above a burn. This footpath was narrow, only wide enough for two, and it was slippy in one or two places. Care had to be exercised at times but it did take us through the wood to find another road, the moor road to Barr.
We didn’t turn for Barr but came in the other direction down toward the floor of the valley again. Down on our right were some pigsties, one complete with satellite dish. ‘Sty Television’, was the comment of our resident wag. Suggestions for the programmes that pigs might watch should be e-mailed to Ian.
By this time, the newcomers were beginning to question whether we were lost again for we appeared to be heading back towards Dailly. But we knew where we were going all right. The road took us down to another signpost directing us up the farm track of Whitehill Farm. Now the climbing started. The climbing wasn’t at all arduous and the banter was kept up. And Robert kept up, remarkably well considering his operation and enforced lay-off. We kept the pace of the climb easy for his sake. (‘So they say!’ thinks Robert). And, at an easy pace, we left the farm road and took to a field track, still climbing gradually.
As the track rose beside the field, the view behind us opened out and a view stop was called. We were now high on the south side of the valley looking down over a landscape of rich green fields and darker green woodlands running down to the sea Ailsa Craig began to show behind the northwest headland - a pleasant, rural, south Ayrshire landscape. We admired the view just long enough for breathing to recover and then moved on, upward yet.
The track came to a gate, a tied gate. The track continued into the field on the other side of it and this is where we should have gone. But this field held a large herd of Ayrshire cattle numbering around the two hundred mark. Some stepped gingerly over the barbed wire fence into the ‘coo park’. Some, preferring to avoid either barbed wire or coos, continued on the other side of the fence. They were the ones to take the long way to Mackrikill Chapel.
The ruins of Mackrikill Chapel (The Chapel of St. Machar’s Cell) stands at the top of the field and Machar couldn’t have picked a better place for his ‘cell’. The view was as before but more extensive now, over the fields and woodlands to Dailly and beyond to the sea and Ailsa Craig. On the ruins of Mackrikill, among the contented Ayrshire cows, we sat for coffee.
We sat as long as it took for coffee for this wasn’t a day for hurrying. Those with itchy feet made the first move, walking down to a style in the fence where we left the good pasture behind us and came onto the rough grazing of the hill. There was no path for a while but another well-made way-marker showed we were on the right course. And, at the way-marker, we found the path again.
Another way-marker was found beside the path but this one was in a prone position, obviously uprooted by a force other than nature. A mass of concrete adhered to the base of the upright and a hole in the ground, filled with brown water and boulders, showed where it should have stood. Some of us who are that way inclined, felt the need to reinstate the marker to the vertical. Robert and Rex pulled boulder after submerged boulder from the flood while the rest of us stood around offering advice. When the last stone was removed, the marker was raised and, with a splash, was inserted into the pit as far as it would go, and was chocked round by the recovered stone to make it stable. Perfect. Pleased with a job well done, we wandered on leaving Robert and Rex to clean and dry their hands. It was now an easy saunter to the top of Barony hill.
For so little effort, the view from Barony hill was extensive today, stretching from Ayr in the north to Ailsa Craig in the south; from Crosshill in the east of the Girvan Valley to the distillery at Girvan in the west; and the green and pleasant south Ayrshire farmland lay below us. Behind us, the moor stretched away to the Rowantree hills in the southeast and some of Jimmy’s favourite power generators waved at us on the south-west horizon. Altogether, this was a remarkable view for so little effort on our behalf. A carved wooden seat afforded us a rest on the top to take in the view while Johnny captured the occasion with the camera – both still and movie – and Rex threw his camera from the top of the trig point. Why he did this is beyond us but the poor thing now has a bashed lens.
Then we walked on.
The way was downward now, towards the lime works of Lannielane (See 28/5/08) barely five hundred metres away. While most of us were content to walk the lip of the quarry, the more adventurous were for down into it to look into the step-sloping mines driven into its north side. We came together at the limekilns where lunch was called.
Nothing much of note happened after lunch. We followed the limekilns track as it slanted downwards across the side of the valley having due regard to the placing of our feet for the track was wet and muddy after the rains of last week, the only wet and mucky bit of the entire walk. But we left the track just after it entered a plantation of conifers, and we climbed steeply on another footpath. (Why there were no complaints about having to re-climb the hill today Messrs. Matthews, Sim and Hill?) This footpath brought us to a viewpoint, still high enough on the valley side to give a good view down towards the sea. And it had another bench to sit on. We sat. It was a day for sitting.
But, the itchy feet lot were for the off again and we followed. We still followed the path as it continued down through the woods of the Falfarrochar Burn to the main valley road. This was crossed and we came through a wee wood to the side of the River.
The walking was level now, on the fisher’s path. Somehow the fast pair had got to the front and were gradually extending their lead, leaving the rest of us strung out in pairs and threes along the narrow path. There came a shout from the rear, from the tiring Robert. We were to visit Dalquharran Castles, old and new, for no other reason than we have always done this (See 11/03/09) but Robert had had enough for the day and was for the direct route back to the village. We decided to go with him and leave a visit to the castle for the next time.
We crossed the river by one bridge, came down the north bank for two or three hundred metres, re-crossed it by another and came back into the village around two.
By general agreement, this was another good day and it was nice to have Robert back with us again.
We came back up the Girvan valley to Crosshill for FRT today. While the surroundings were pleasant, the ale - when we got the right stuff – was good enough and the bar tender offered to make sandwiches if we were ever down this way again, the treasurer suggests we find a cheaper pub the next time for the purse can't stand too much at this price.
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