Allan, Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Paul, Peter & Rex
For a change this year the weather men were forecasting a reasonably dry and sunny Wednesday so our much postponed Durisdeer jaunt was on for today. Yet when we gathered in Jimmy’s in Cumnock, the day looked far from promising; a wet night had given way to a dull, damp and dreich morning. Still, optimists as we are, we believed the forecasters and set off to Durisdeer with the intention of playing it by ear – if the sky lifted and the day was fine, we were for the hill; if not we would take in one of our favourites, the Morton castle circular.
The morning was still dreich when we reached Durisdeer with extensive hill fog hanging down to the eight hundred contour. There were those among us who began to doubt the forecast and waterproofed up from the start. And, despite protestations from the hill men, the consensus was for the low level walk. But, to make it different and appease the hill men, it was decided to do the walk in the reverse of our usual i.e. anticlockwise today. So, with some dressed for the rain and some for the dry, we took to tarmac down out of the village.
At the crossroads we left the Lang Glen and took the road for the Gateslacks (See Burns’ ‘Braw Wooer’), with Davie and Jimmy setting a fair auld pace. And that pace was kept on the flat stretch of tarmac to East Morton Farm, the waterproofed among us feeling the heat as bodies were warmed up with the effort. Yet, with the sky still hanging heavy, there was a reluctant to disrobe, even though Jimmy gave the assurance of a sunny day. So we walked on some of us expecting rain and others waiting for the sun to arrive.
In the tree-lined wee gorge of East Morton bodies, well some bodies were crying out for a caffeine boost for it was a while since breakfast and tongues were beginning stick to dry mouths. But, despite pleas from the parched, Davie insisted that we make Morton Castle before we stop for coffee and without waiting for arguments, pushed on along the road. The rest followed, some with tongues hanging out.
We made Morton Castle around half-eleven and sat down with our backs to the ancient walls and had a well earned coffee. To cheer the birders among us, a pair of Goldeneye bobbed and ducked in the waters of the loch and a gaggle of geese could be heard in the field beyond a drystane dyke only showing as stretching wings seen through gaps. Across the water a new path could be seen running uphill, a path that we’ve now noted for future jaunts in this area.
As we sat taking this in, Rex complained as the first spot of rain hit him and he questioned the weathermen’s ability. He needn’t have wasted his breath for no sooner had the rain come than it was gone again and to cheer even the non-birders, blue sky began to show through the grey.
Yet, even this brightening in the sky failed to convince the cynics who remained happit in waterproofs.
With caffeine levels restored to normal, we moved on. The day was certainly brightening when we left the wee narrow road from Morton Castle and turned down the slightly less narrow road to the bridge over the Kettleton Burn. Then, almost immediately we turned off this on the road past Burn Farm and the sun came out. Snowdrops in cultured bunches and natural-looking swathes decked the roadside banks and nodded in sunshine in the gentlest of breezes and the day turned almost spring- like. At last the pessimists conceded and stripped off their waterproofs. Good job too for we were now approaching the steepest climb of the day.
Tarmac ran out at the waterworks at Shaw and we took to the un-tarred estate road. This would lift us steeply on the flank of Par Hill, high above the Kettleton Reservoir. The sun was now driving the remaining cloud away and blue was filling the sky above us. But the day was wearing on and stomachs were rumbling. We reached the sheep fank and Rex suggested lunch. In this he was supported by Paul. Peter was easy but Jimmy, Davie and Ian were set on pushing on to Kettleton and the bothy there. Johnny sided with Rex so the final decision rested with Allan. We would continue to Kettleton for lunch. And continue the climb on Par Hill.
The warming day and the steep climb were taking their toll and many were the view stops called before we crested the rise. And what view greeted us at each stop. Initially this was in front of us, over the reservoir. We tried to reckon where the new path from Morton Castle led to and to work out a new route to the reservoir. Then, as we gained height, the view was behind, over Lower Nithsdale and the Cairn Valley to the hills of the west. Then higher still and we looked through a gap in the hills, Mid and Upper Nithsdale came in view, Corsencon Hill marking the Ayrshire boundary. Higher yet and the snow covered Lowther Hills shone in the sun. Then, as we crested the rise, we could see the Durisdeer group that had been covered in clag this morning were similarly blanketed in white. Pangs of disappointment stirred in the mountain men but this was as close to the hill as we would get this day.
Hunger eventually overcame Rex and he sat down by the side of the road to satisfy it. Davie was the one who joined him for the rest were still intent on pushing on to the bothy. And push on to the bothy we did. The road ran slightly downward now, down over a wee burn interestingly named Clintycleuch Gutter and on to the shepherd’s station at Blackhill. Two hundred metres further and we sat down at Kettleton Byre Bothy for the peece.
Paul knows where his bread’s buttered – he tells us it’s on the kitchen table – for this was the day he forgot his peece. In walking on with the crowd he had a greater choice of sandwich than if he had stayed with Rex and Davie. Such is the generosity of the Ooters that Paul dined better than if he had brought his own food. Next week everybody is going to forget his peece and be fed by everybody else. Or something like that!
Anyway, Rex and Davie joined us at the bothy and we spent a good half hour or so sitting in the sun outside the old byre.
‘It’s all downhill from here’, said one. We all knew this for many’s the time we’ve struggled up the steep in the opposite direction. And, yes, it was downhill almost immediately we left the bothy. Down then, past more intriguingly named landscape features; past Jock’s Cleuch; past Lane’s Loup; past Sleepy Cleuch and down into Glentaggart (No, Allan, there hisnae been a murdur). Over the ford in the Sheiling Grain we came across the upturned bole of an ancient tree, cut to form a table. By the number of annual rings Paul counted, it must have been in the region of a hundred and fifty to a hundred and seventy years old when it was cut. But why it was upturned and why it was here was beyond our simple understanding. Another of the same ilk was seen further along the glen, as was a man who appeared to be re-building the hillside.
As we approached the man, a man much younger than us, he stopped his labours for a blether. He was a gemmie on the estate and he was setting cage traps for weasels and stoats. What we took to be a re-adjustment of the landscape was him cutting turfs from one side of the road to disguise the trap on the other side. His justification for this was that the vermin eat the eggs of ground nesting birds such as lapwing, curlew and hen harrier. We know the real reason is to protect the pheasant and grouse so that some townie with a gun can have more of them to kill! He also told us the reason for the upturned tree stumps – to provide the shooters with a table on which to have their lunch. Now why didn’t we think of that?
Anyway, we left the young gemmie to get on with his work and continued along the glen. Now a gentle amble in the afternoon sunshine brought us by the cemetery and back into the village.
This was another good walk for this year. What started off so inauspiciously turned into a super afternoon. Well done to those who had faith in the weathermen.
FRT was taken in our usual howf for this part of the world, The Crown in Sanquhar.
For a change this year the weather men were forecasting a reasonably dry and sunny Wednesday so our much postponed Durisdeer jaunt was on for today. Yet when we gathered in Jimmy’s in Cumnock, the day looked far from promising; a wet night had given way to a dull, damp and dreich morning. Still, optimists as we are, we believed the forecasters and set off to Durisdeer with the intention of playing it by ear – if the sky lifted and the day was fine, we were for the hill; if not we would take in one of our favourites, the Morton castle circular.
The morning was still dreich when we reached Durisdeer with extensive hill fog hanging down to the eight hundred contour. There were those among us who began to doubt the forecast and waterproofed up from the start. And, despite protestations from the hill men, the consensus was for the low level walk. But, to make it different and appease the hill men, it was decided to do the walk in the reverse of our usual i.e. anticlockwise today. So, with some dressed for the rain and some for the dry, we took to tarmac down out of the village.
At the crossroads we left the Lang Glen and took the road for the Gateslacks (See Burns’ ‘Braw Wooer’), with Davie and Jimmy setting a fair auld pace. And that pace was kept on the flat stretch of tarmac to East Morton Farm, the waterproofed among us feeling the heat as bodies were warmed up with the effort. Yet, with the sky still hanging heavy, there was a reluctant to disrobe, even though Jimmy gave the assurance of a sunny day. So we walked on some of us expecting rain and others waiting for the sun to arrive.
In the tree-lined wee gorge of East Morton bodies, well some bodies were crying out for a caffeine boost for it was a while since breakfast and tongues were beginning stick to dry mouths. But, despite pleas from the parched, Davie insisted that we make Morton Castle before we stop for coffee and without waiting for arguments, pushed on along the road. The rest followed, some with tongues hanging out.
We made Morton Castle around half-eleven and sat down with our backs to the ancient walls and had a well earned coffee. To cheer the birders among us, a pair of Goldeneye bobbed and ducked in the waters of the loch and a gaggle of geese could be heard in the field beyond a drystane dyke only showing as stretching wings seen through gaps. Across the water a new path could be seen running uphill, a path that we’ve now noted for future jaunts in this area.
As we sat taking this in, Rex complained as the first spot of rain hit him and he questioned the weathermen’s ability. He needn’t have wasted his breath for no sooner had the rain come than it was gone again and to cheer even the non-birders, blue sky began to show through the grey.
Yet, even this brightening in the sky failed to convince the cynics who remained happit in waterproofs.
With caffeine levels restored to normal, we moved on. The day was certainly brightening when we left the wee narrow road from Morton Castle and turned down the slightly less narrow road to the bridge over the Kettleton Burn. Then, almost immediately we turned off this on the road past Burn Farm and the sun came out. Snowdrops in cultured bunches and natural-looking swathes decked the roadside banks and nodded in sunshine in the gentlest of breezes and the day turned almost spring- like. At last the pessimists conceded and stripped off their waterproofs. Good job too for we were now approaching the steepest climb of the day.
Tarmac ran out at the waterworks at Shaw and we took to the un-tarred estate road. This would lift us steeply on the flank of Par Hill, high above the Kettleton Reservoir. The sun was now driving the remaining cloud away and blue was filling the sky above us. But the day was wearing on and stomachs were rumbling. We reached the sheep fank and Rex suggested lunch. In this he was supported by Paul. Peter was easy but Jimmy, Davie and Ian were set on pushing on to Kettleton and the bothy there. Johnny sided with Rex so the final decision rested with Allan. We would continue to Kettleton for lunch. And continue the climb on Par Hill.
The warming day and the steep climb were taking their toll and many were the view stops called before we crested the rise. And what view greeted us at each stop. Initially this was in front of us, over the reservoir. We tried to reckon where the new path from Morton Castle led to and to work out a new route to the reservoir. Then, as we gained height, the view was behind, over Lower Nithsdale and the Cairn Valley to the hills of the west. Then higher still and we looked through a gap in the hills, Mid and Upper Nithsdale came in view, Corsencon Hill marking the Ayrshire boundary. Higher yet and the snow covered Lowther Hills shone in the sun. Then, as we crested the rise, we could see the Durisdeer group that had been covered in clag this morning were similarly blanketed in white. Pangs of disappointment stirred in the mountain men but this was as close to the hill as we would get this day.
Hunger eventually overcame Rex and he sat down by the side of the road to satisfy it. Davie was the one who joined him for the rest were still intent on pushing on to the bothy. And push on to the bothy we did. The road ran slightly downward now, down over a wee burn interestingly named Clintycleuch Gutter and on to the shepherd’s station at Blackhill. Two hundred metres further and we sat down at Kettleton Byre Bothy for the peece.
Paul knows where his bread’s buttered – he tells us it’s on the kitchen table – for this was the day he forgot his peece. In walking on with the crowd he had a greater choice of sandwich than if he had stayed with Rex and Davie. Such is the generosity of the Ooters that Paul dined better than if he had brought his own food. Next week everybody is going to forget his peece and be fed by everybody else. Or something like that!
Anyway, Rex and Davie joined us at the bothy and we spent a good half hour or so sitting in the sun outside the old byre.
‘It’s all downhill from here’, said one. We all knew this for many’s the time we’ve struggled up the steep in the opposite direction. And, yes, it was downhill almost immediately we left the bothy. Down then, past more intriguingly named landscape features; past Jock’s Cleuch; past Lane’s Loup; past Sleepy Cleuch and down into Glentaggart (No, Allan, there hisnae been a murdur). Over the ford in the Sheiling Grain we came across the upturned bole of an ancient tree, cut to form a table. By the number of annual rings Paul counted, it must have been in the region of a hundred and fifty to a hundred and seventy years old when it was cut. But why it was upturned and why it was here was beyond our simple understanding. Another of the same ilk was seen further along the glen, as was a man who appeared to be re-building the hillside.
As we approached the man, a man much younger than us, he stopped his labours for a blether. He was a gemmie on the estate and he was setting cage traps for weasels and stoats. What we took to be a re-adjustment of the landscape was him cutting turfs from one side of the road to disguise the trap on the other side. His justification for this was that the vermin eat the eggs of ground nesting birds such as lapwing, curlew and hen harrier. We know the real reason is to protect the pheasant and grouse so that some townie with a gun can have more of them to kill! He also told us the reason for the upturned tree stumps – to provide the shooters with a table on which to have their lunch. Now why didn’t we think of that?
Anyway, we left the young gemmie to get on with his work and continued along the glen. Now a gentle amble in the afternoon sunshine brought us by the cemetery and back into the village.
This was another good walk for this year. What started off so inauspiciously turned into a super afternoon. Well done to those who had faith in the weathermen.
FRT was taken in our usual howf for this part of the world, The Crown in Sanquhar.
