20 May Ayrshire Coast part 6 – Dunure to Alloway

All’s well that ends well

To paraphrase the poet, ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice and men though aften gaein’ agley, juist as aften turn oot for the best’. Or, to quote yon ither bloke, ‘All’s well that ends well’. So it was with today. The proposed tour of Bute by bike was cancelled in the light of a poor weather forecast and Davie’s reluctance to get wet on a bike. Instead, we opted for the short section of the Ayrshire coast from Dunure to Alloway with the view that if the weather did turn nasty, we would be out of it quickly and into the warmth of a pub somewhere. Oh we of little faith.
We gathered at Rex’s place. Jimmy and Peter would like it noted that, not only were they early but they were first there. But everybody else was early so their glory was short-lived. We left cars at Rex’s and took two to Dunure. Though a cool southwesterly blew as we left the cars, the morning sun still shone and Davie was getting peculiar looks from some who suspected the sun also shone on Bute.

Rex had the book so we were relying on him to set uson the right path. ‘Climb away from the harbour to the railway bridge at Fisherton’ read Rex. So, off we went in that direction. Hawthorn flowers scented the air as we took the road up through the trees, came into more open farmland and climbed away from the sea towards the railway bridge. Concern grew when we realised we were walking too far away from the sea. We halted to re-examine the book. This time Rex read the right paragraph, not the one that had us on the diversion over the Carrick hills.
So back down the road we came, through a field gate, down through the field to the sea and lo, we beheld the coastal path. (Sorry fellows but poetry may well be a recurring theme of this posting.) Now that we had found the path, it was easy enough to keep to it: all we had to do is follow the white paint marks on the rocks. We could ignore Rex’s book now.

The path led us through a machar festooned with spring flowers.
If we thought that last week’s walk was the epitome of ‘flow’ry May’, today was to prove us wrong. Apart from the afore mentioned hawthorn, red campion grew in the hedgerows and the higher parts of the shoreline; blue spring squill, white daisies with yellow centres and red buds, orange-yellow bird’s-foot trefoil and field buttercups decked the drier sward; pink thrift and stonecrop filled crevasses in the orange-lichened rocks while early purple orchids and yellow marsh marigolds grew in the wetter areas. And the flower show continued all along the shore, with white bladder campion, oxeye daisies, green wall pennywort and sea spurges all flowering in their own particular habitat. We all agreed that it was a superb show.

One of those wetter parts took us down to the beach where we were to stay for the next four or five miles. At first, the going was on coarse sand but this soon gave way to shingle and larger cobbles. Peter was in his element, looking amongst the tide-washed boulders for agates and examining with enthusiasm many of the coloured cobbles. Jimmy and Ronnie were a willing audience for his passion. Said Jimmy ‘Isn’t it great, Peter, that we have reached sixty-odds and still retain a childlike interest in the world around us?’ This childlike interest extends from rocks and landscape features to wildlife and history, all of which we would encounter today. Peter loaded his rucksack with pebbles which, no doubt, will appear in a painting in due course.

By this time, we were split into two groups, Davie and Robert in the van some twenty metres in front and rest examining the beach for treasures. There now came a burn to be crossed, a shallow burn and not too wide. There should be no problem here for we didn’t have Paul today. But there was a problem. The advanced pair cleared the stream and walked on. Rex cleared it and waited for the others. Jimmy could see the boulder in the middle was dry and provided a safe stepping-stone. Jimmy was wrong. His foot slipped on the wet algae and in went the left foot. Not content with this, when he tried to retain balance his right foot slipped. It also went in. Now both feet landed on the slippery bottom and gave way. Doon went Jimmy with a resounding splash and a yell. He emerged form his unexpected bathing drookit from the waste down, torn breeks, a might graze and bruise where his shin hit the offending boulder, a gash dripping blood on one hand and a staved finger on the other. A sight to behold.
This was when Rex displayed his well-honed first-aid skills, applying the plaster to the cut on Jimmy’s finger. For this act of mercy, we have awarded Rex an honorary doctorate. Henceforth he shall be known as Doctor Porter and never again as that wee Aussie b******.
The advanced pair walked on oblivious to the drama being played out behind. But, being hailed from a hundred metres back, they halted to let the rest catch up. We were now at a point where the beach gave way to a rocky outcrop and behind this, sheltered from the breeze we sat for coffee.
Many were the words of sympathy offered to Jimmy.
‘If you had two walking poles, you could have kept your balance’
‘Mair like twa crutches he needs’
‘Better wear a cycle helmet next walk just in case’
‘He’ll no damage onything if he hits his heid’
‘I wish I’d seen it. It must have been funny’
‘Did ye get the video, Rex?’
‘Can I put this sticky plaster on your hairy leg?’ asked the sadist.
Jimmy declined the offer. While he accepted the sympathy, he would have preferred drink.

Post coffee we continued the walk (or hobble according to who you were). We came onto the flat sand again under a low crag and the walking was easy. The day was turning pleasantly warm and we hadn’t too far to go so the pace was casual. The birders enjoyed themselves, the stone gatherers enjoyed themselves and the novice botanists enjoyed finding new plants. We all enjoyed that section of the walk. But it was now approaching twelve-thirty and lunch was called. Again, we found a sheltered spot behind a crag and sat for lunch, a long lunch as the day warranted.

We came under a high cliff, the start of the Heads of Ayr, where ‘the raven soars and the seabirds nest’. There were some shallow caves beside a waterfall. The adventurous climbed to examine the caves while the timorous and the lame waited for their report. ‘Shallow caves, barely twenty feet deep and not worth the effort to see’, was the comment. So we continued along the shore. 

The sand and shingle gave way to boulders and rocks around the cliffs at the north end of the Heads. Care had to be taken here. Somebody offered to take Jimmy’s hand just in case. Jimmy asked for a carry but this was refused so we all took our own degree of care in crossing the boulders. But the rocks were soon passed and the sand was regained.

Greenan Castle now came in view, perched on its crag at the far end of our sandy bay. Daviesuggested we cut the corner by going straight across the bay. ‘The tide’s out and the sand’s firm’ said he. We followed Davie (Again?). The tide was out but burns, broadened to river width on the flat sand, ran across our path. There was no option but to wade through. ‘I don’t mind’, said he of the torn breeks, ‘My feet are wet anyway’, and off he strode through the flood. We were forced to follow, picking our route carefully. But we all reached Greenan with relatively dry feet.

Greenan castle had to be explored. We climbed up the steep grass beside the crag to get to it. The door of the castle is bricked up but a hole has been punched in the brickwork and, with sufficient wriggling, it would be possible to gain entrance. None of us tried it.

From the height of the castle, we could look over the sea to Arran bathed in sunshine and right up the Ayrshire coast to the Clyde islands. ‘What a great day this would have been for a cycle on Bute’, said somebody. Davie ignored the comment and recounted his Greenan Castle tramp story instead. Then we turned our backs on the castle and walked on.

Not only did we leave the castle but we also left the Coastal Path and the shore and turned inland. We came by Greenan Farm and the road by High Greenan to find the cycle path along the old railway. On the flat tarmac amongst the trees, the pace was gradually increased to our usual rate. We came to the Doon and stopped on the railway bridge. Here was a superb view upriver to the two brigs o’ Doon, the auld one seen through the arch of the new. Photos were taken.
Immediately on the left of the north end of the old railway brig is the well made famous in Tam O’ Shanter as the place ‘where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’’. This was examined by some though others missed it and marched on past.
The old railway was left and we came into Alloway near ‘the auld haunted kirk’. But we didn’t visit there today. Instead, we turned our footsteps along past the ‘auld clay biggin’ and on to Rex’s place.
This was another superb section of the walk, probably made so by the weather. None of us was too unhappy to have cancelled the cycle on Bute.

But we had to get back to Dunure for the cars left there. And while we were there, we partook of a small refreshment in the same place as we did last week.

Photos by Bob.