The clear cool clear weather of last week went sometime over the last few days and left us with a mixed bag of rain and showers and sunny intervals. The wind was in the south today and the sky was overcast and ominous but at least the overnight rain had gone. When nine of us - Alan and Davie were the missing two, Davie for the first time this year - met in Johnny’s to partake of his usual hospitality, there was a general reluctance to move, and a questioning as to the wisdom of today’s proposed route. However, Paul, who suggested this walk and who is our resident weatherman, said that the day would clear up and the walk was not too high anyway, we should definitely go. We trust Paul for he knows things, so off we set for West Kilbride Station and the start of our days walk.
We set off north from the station, leaving the town by Meadowfoot Road and taking the B781. But we weren’t on tarmac too long today. In a little over half a mile we left it altogether and took the Avenue for Crosbie reservoir. The day began to brighten and the hill before us was clear. As the Avenue rose, we should have had a view behind us, but a haar hung over the sea restricting views in this direction. But our spirits were high for the hill before us was clear and brightening all the time we walked towards it.
Through Crosbie Mains Farm we climbed, past all the treasures scattered around – slates, stone sinks, old chains, rusting corrugated iron sheets etc. If we had just bought a JCB with us we might have plundered the treasure. But we didn’t have, we didn’t do and we walked on up the, now steepening, track. When the track swung down to Crosbie Dyke cottage, we left even this and took to the open hillside.
A green path took us through banks of bright orange-yellow whin, skirting the flank of Glentane Hill and paralleling a drystane dyke. On the other side of the dyke a man and a dog were working sheep. While we would usually pass the time of day with those met along our way, the tone the man addressed his dog suggested we would be wasting our time with him so we walked on.
We were now high above the power station of Hunterston, heading round the hill for Glenburn Reservoir. With the time approaching eleven, coffee was called. So, finding a spot behind a group of hillside boulders, sheltered from the freshening southerly and overlooking the waters of the reservoir, we settled down for elevenses. Paul was congratulated for the walk, the walking and the weather had been good. ‘So far’, said Paul promising some rough stuff to come. ‘Where does the path go from, here?’, asked one. ‘Up there’, answered Paul pointing to an outcrop on the skyline, ‘You can see the path climbing the hill’.
The path degenerated as we dropped down to Glenburn Reservoir after coffee and we had to find our own way over the waterlogged ground. Rex, with the skill of the true bushman and some encouraging words ringing in his ears, found a way through the mire and down to the burn. This had to be crossed but it was running too full for a clean jump. (Yes, we know that a couple of feet would be too much for us oldies to jump, but the burn was running full anyway.) The water was crossed with the aid of an iron frame suspended under a few strands of wire and it was crossed without unexpected plunges. Now Rex found a path that led us up to tarmac on the Dalry Moor road.
We crossed this slant-ways and were on Tarmac for fully twenty yards. Then Paul pointed us uphill on the abandoned service track for the old quarry on Kaimhill. This was the outcrop we could see from our coffee stop. The way steepened now. Though the climb wasn’t as steep or as long as some, it was enough to raise the pulse and shorten the breath and we strung out up that slope according to general fitness.
The quarry was a millstone one and great lumps of millstone grit still littered the ground. A few minutes were spent here while we examined the boulders and caught the breath after the climb. Then we moved on, upward yet but on a much gentler slope now.
We topped out of the climb on the scarp of Kaimhill, and ancient sea cliff laid down in some Silurian sea but now heaved high above, and removed from, the sea. Again we stopped, this time to look down on and out over the sea. The haar still hung there and restricted the view to a few miles. The Cumbraes, Great and Small, were visible with Millport easily picked out and Arran tried hard to show itself through the haar but all else disappeared into the greyness. We could only speculate on what the view would be like on a clear day, something we might like to find out in the near future. But the wind that was fresh on the lower ground was strong on the higher. Jackets were worn to cut its strength but it was chilling nonetheless. We moved on.
Now cam some familiar territory. We found the path on Kaimshill that we had taken on the Fairlie High Walk (15/04/2009) and followed it to the summit of the hill. Now came Paul’s rough stuff. No path took us towards our next objective, Blaeloch Hill and we took to the rough grass. And it was rough. Great tussocky doogals and mossy sheughs had to be negotiated. But the doogals weren’t all the same, some were grassy and some mossy. Thus was generated the Porter-Johnstone classification of doogals; hairy – those composed of course grass; spongy – great mounds of moss that give way when stood on; spiky – reeds and rushes that sometimes held the weight and sometimes gave under it. No doubt there will be more added in due course. But whatever type they were, at least three quarters of a mile of them had to be ploughed through to reach firmer ground on the slopes of Lairdside Hill.
That’s where we collapsed for lunch, sheltered from the wind behind a few rocks on the leeward of the hill.
Whether it was the conditions or whether it’s always like that, the scribe wouldn’t like to say, but Blaeloch Hill looked much further away than it actually was and we were on its top quicker and easier than we thought. ‘It’s all downhill from here’, said Paul. We hoped he was talking about the walk and not making observations on our advancing years. We noted, with some relief, that he meant the former and set off looking for an easy descent. But it was those damned doogals again! We stumbled and staggered our way down from Blaeloch top into the valley of the Clea Burn where we found a sheep fank. An afternoon break was called, for we were now out of the wind and, somewhere down the slope of Blaeloch, the sun had come out.
While most relaxed for a bit, Peter went to explore the burn. What he found there he didn’t say but he returned with a smile on his face. And now that we were reunited, we set off again.
A track was found just beyond the fank, a track that took us down towards Fechan Farm and the Kel Burn. We never made the farm. Coming through a gate, we crossed the field, came through another gate and found the track for Kelburn estate. We knew we were in an estate when we found the gates on the track, great ornate things about ten feet high supported by stone pillars. They were obviously Victorian things but they were well maintained and swung open easily to admit us into Kelburn Castle policies.
We followed the estate road down into the gorge of the Kel Burn. A nice wee waterfall greeted us where the road met the burn and a path made down the side of it. But we didn’t take this path; we followed the road we were on. It was now only a mile or so on the estate road before we found tarmac again. That’s when the infantile started their usual games.
The pace quickened, and quickened and quickened until five were racing on ahead. The sensible let them race on and took a more sedate pace. The fast arrived at the bus stop at the foot of the Haylie Brae some five minutes before the slow.
This was another good walk and one which is worth doing again in clearer conditions. Well done to Paul for his suggestion.
We came back to West Kilbride by bus and repaired to The Merrick for FRT. Please, nobody tell the Keeper of the Purse how much it costs for a pint of Italian lager.
We set off north from the station, leaving the town by Meadowfoot Road and taking the B781. But we weren’t on tarmac too long today. In a little over half a mile we left it altogether and took the Avenue for Crosbie reservoir. The day began to brighten and the hill before us was clear. As the Avenue rose, we should have had a view behind us, but a haar hung over the sea restricting views in this direction. But our spirits were high for the hill before us was clear and brightening all the time we walked towards it.
Through Crosbie Mains Farm we climbed, past all the treasures scattered around – slates, stone sinks, old chains, rusting corrugated iron sheets etc. If we had just bought a JCB with us we might have plundered the treasure. But we didn’t have, we didn’t do and we walked on up the, now steepening, track. When the track swung down to Crosbie Dyke cottage, we left even this and took to the open hillside.
A green path took us through banks of bright orange-yellow whin, skirting the flank of Glentane Hill and paralleling a drystane dyke. On the other side of the dyke a man and a dog were working sheep. While we would usually pass the time of day with those met along our way, the tone the man addressed his dog suggested we would be wasting our time with him so we walked on.
We were now high above the power station of Hunterston, heading round the hill for Glenburn Reservoir. With the time approaching eleven, coffee was called. So, finding a spot behind a group of hillside boulders, sheltered from the freshening southerly and overlooking the waters of the reservoir, we settled down for elevenses. Paul was congratulated for the walk, the walking and the weather had been good. ‘So far’, said Paul promising some rough stuff to come. ‘Where does the path go from, here?’, asked one. ‘Up there’, answered Paul pointing to an outcrop on the skyline, ‘You can see the path climbing the hill’.
The path degenerated as we dropped down to Glenburn Reservoir after coffee and we had to find our own way over the waterlogged ground. Rex, with the skill of the true bushman and some encouraging words ringing in his ears, found a way through the mire and down to the burn. This had to be crossed but it was running too full for a clean jump. (Yes, we know that a couple of feet would be too much for us oldies to jump, but the burn was running full anyway.) The water was crossed with the aid of an iron frame suspended under a few strands of wire and it was crossed without unexpected plunges. Now Rex found a path that led us up to tarmac on the Dalry Moor road.
We crossed this slant-ways and were on Tarmac for fully twenty yards. Then Paul pointed us uphill on the abandoned service track for the old quarry on Kaimhill. This was the outcrop we could see from our coffee stop. The way steepened now. Though the climb wasn’t as steep or as long as some, it was enough to raise the pulse and shorten the breath and we strung out up that slope according to general fitness.
The quarry was a millstone one and great lumps of millstone grit still littered the ground. A few minutes were spent here while we examined the boulders and caught the breath after the climb. Then we moved on, upward yet but on a much gentler slope now.
We topped out of the climb on the scarp of Kaimhill, and ancient sea cliff laid down in some Silurian sea but now heaved high above, and removed from, the sea. Again we stopped, this time to look down on and out over the sea. The haar still hung there and restricted the view to a few miles. The Cumbraes, Great and Small, were visible with Millport easily picked out and Arran tried hard to show itself through the haar but all else disappeared into the greyness. We could only speculate on what the view would be like on a clear day, something we might like to find out in the near future. But the wind that was fresh on the lower ground was strong on the higher. Jackets were worn to cut its strength but it was chilling nonetheless. We moved on.
Now cam some familiar territory. We found the path on Kaimshill that we had taken on the Fairlie High Walk (15/04/2009) and followed it to the summit of the hill. Now came Paul’s rough stuff. No path took us towards our next objective, Blaeloch Hill and we took to the rough grass. And it was rough. Great tussocky doogals and mossy sheughs had to be negotiated. But the doogals weren’t all the same, some were grassy and some mossy. Thus was generated the Porter-Johnstone classification of doogals; hairy – those composed of course grass; spongy – great mounds of moss that give way when stood on; spiky – reeds and rushes that sometimes held the weight and sometimes gave under it. No doubt there will be more added in due course. But whatever type they were, at least three quarters of a mile of them had to be ploughed through to reach firmer ground on the slopes of Lairdside Hill.
That’s where we collapsed for lunch, sheltered from the wind behind a few rocks on the leeward of the hill.
Whether it was the conditions or whether it’s always like that, the scribe wouldn’t like to say, but Blaeloch Hill looked much further away than it actually was and we were on its top quicker and easier than we thought. ‘It’s all downhill from here’, said Paul. We hoped he was talking about the walk and not making observations on our advancing years. We noted, with some relief, that he meant the former and set off looking for an easy descent. But it was those damned doogals again! We stumbled and staggered our way down from Blaeloch top into the valley of the Clea Burn where we found a sheep fank. An afternoon break was called, for we were now out of the wind and, somewhere down the slope of Blaeloch, the sun had come out.
While most relaxed for a bit, Peter went to explore the burn. What he found there he didn’t say but he returned with a smile on his face. And now that we were reunited, we set off again.
A track was found just beyond the fank, a track that took us down towards Fechan Farm and the Kel Burn. We never made the farm. Coming through a gate, we crossed the field, came through another gate and found the track for Kelburn estate. We knew we were in an estate when we found the gates on the track, great ornate things about ten feet high supported by stone pillars. They were obviously Victorian things but they were well maintained and swung open easily to admit us into Kelburn Castle policies.
We followed the estate road down into the gorge of the Kel Burn. A nice wee waterfall greeted us where the road met the burn and a path made down the side of it. But we didn’t take this path; we followed the road we were on. It was now only a mile or so on the estate road before we found tarmac again. That’s when the infantile started their usual games.
The pace quickened, and quickened and quickened until five were racing on ahead. The sensible let them race on and took a more sedate pace. The fast arrived at the bus stop at the foot of the Haylie Brae some five minutes before the slow.
This was another good walk and one which is worth doing again in clearer conditions. Well done to Paul for his suggestion.
We came back to West Kilbride by bus and repaired to The Merrick for FRT. Please, nobody tell the Keeper of the Purse how much it costs for a pint of Italian lager.
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