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.
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.
