Since it takes eight pints of water to make one pint of whisky, I console myself by thinking ‘The more it rains, the more whisky they can make '.
Jimmy’s philosophy for life
The rain came in the night and put an end to the dry spell we’ve enjoyed over the last few weeks. When we gathered at Jimmy’s in Cumnock, it still poured down and the forecast was for a wet day. But our weatherman had consulted his seaweed and predicted that the rain would go by eleven o’clock so, while not fully trusting our weatherman’s prediction and despite Allan’s protestations, we set off for Muirkirk and the De’il’s Back Door. (We felt this was a far better alternative to looking at more of Robert’s holiday photos)
Logistical problems were overcome the same way we overcame them on our first visit to the Back Door (26/4/06) by leaving two cars at Dalblair, though we had to prevail on Jimmy’s good lady to get all of us to the walker’s car park at Kaimes, Muirkirk.
Still the rain came down.
Waterproofs were worn from the outset and we set off, heads down, into the weather. The rain came down and a wind blew but it wasn’t particularly cold and sweat built up under the waterproofs with nowhere for it to evaporate. It was to be a wet day one way or the other.
We took the old Sanquhar turnpike road, past McAdam’s Cairn and the Whisky Knowe, to the Sanquhar Brig, Rex and Robert setting a good pace. There was to be no hanging about to examine silly things like cairns, flowers or stones today. And no looking back for the view either for in that direction blew the wind. We walked on with heads down.
Still the rain came down.
But the fast pair did ease the pace as the slope steepened and the track climbed to the highest point of the day at the Black Gitter but there was still no halt to look at things and the only time we looked back was to check on those bringing up the rear. We waited for them at the gate at the Gitter. ‘The walk hasn’t been too bad so far’, said the novice.
‘Just wait till we get to the dougals’, said Rex.
It was now ten past eleven and still the rain came down. And the wind had freshened as well. We were beginning to loose faith in our weatherman.
The old road degenerates after the fence. Having been abandoned some two hundred years ago, it is now being claimed by the bog around it. Normally this is continuous sphagnum swamp but the long sunny spell had dried it so that, despite the day’s rain, some relief could be found in drier sections. Yet, we had to take time to loup the many sheughs that cut across our path. And by dint of walking and jumping and plunging through bogs, we came to the Ra’ens Cleugh.
Coffee was called for, for it was now well after half past eleven, and in as much shelter as a grassy bank could provide, we sat down for a bite. And still the rain came down.
‘That was slightly harder’, said the novice, ‘but not as tough as I expected’.
‘We’re not at the dougals yet’, said Rex and passed round the Aussie soft liquorice before comment could be made.
We left the old road at the sheep bucht and took to the open hill. One thing we have come to expect of a Jimmy walk is that, it may not involve a lot of climbing, but it is never easy. This section was tough. Feet had to be lifted high over the tussocks, reeds had to be skirted round and sheughs had to be louped. Every step was a different length and at a different height. It was tough. The group split into two, Rex, Jimmy and Johnny making up the first and the rest taking a sensible pace, as we contoured the flank of Connor Hill.
And still the rain came down.
Only two things took the mind off tiring legs. The first was witnessed by all. A deer, some distance away, stopped its grazing to watch and listen to the noisy bunch of men getting too close to it before bounding effortlessly over the stuff through which we struggled. We envied it its grace and energy.
Only Jimmy and Johnny saw the second thing. The skylark showed exactly where her nest was by flying off in a panic as a foot got too close to her. And in the nest were two mottled brown eggs. ‘A second clutch, at this time of year’, said the expert.
They left the nest to allow the adult to return and tried to catch up with Rex who had marched on oblivious to the pair nosing about in the grass. The rest trailed on behind.
Rex was carried away by his enthusiasm for the rough stuff and overshot the gully we should have gone down. The rest followed him only to have to turn back over the flank of the hill to find the top of the stone-chute that dropped us down to the base of the waterfall known to the locals as the De’il’s Back Door.
And the rain stopped!
The rain stopped and the wind dropped. Lunch was called. We settled down on a grassy island in the burn to eat our lunchtime sandwiches. The novice could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘OK, Rex’, said he, ‘What on earth are dougals?’ Rex let him in on another piece of Ooter-speak. ‘They are the tussocks of grass we have just come through.’ Only in the short upland summer do these show green shoots. For most of the year they are covered in long, brown trailers of dead grass, each tussock looking for all the world like the dog, Dougal, from ‘The Magic Roundabout’. Hence, Rex christened them ‘dougals’, and dougals they have remained.
The rain had stopped, the wind had dropped and the midges took full advantage. Fresh blood was on their lunch menu. They bit cruelly and bit often. And there were many of them. We never thought that we would wish for the rain to come again. Now we did. The rain did come again, but not until the midges had driven us away from our island and down the burn towards Glenmuirshaw.
We had to cross the burn to avoid the Connor Crags that dropped directly into the water. Once across we decided to stay on this bank rather than risk watery accidents. (Remember, we had Paul and Jimmy with us.) This was a bad move. Two rocky outcrops that hung above the burn had to be negotiated. The adventurous hung close to the burn and swung precariously round the rock. Those who think themselves more sensible opted for a higher route and a scrambled descent. They thought this would be the safer route. More fool them! It was on the second descent it happened.
Allan, spread like a stranded crab, searching for a foothold on the wet rock with his left foot, lost traction with his right. Down he came, the full four feet to the grassy ledge above the burn. Fortunately, he stopped there but not before bashing himself about a bit on rocky spurs. With nothing but a large graze on his arm to show for his misadventure, a rather paler and quieter Allan walked down the side of the burn. But he had recovered his colour by the time we came to the bridge at the sheep fanks at Glenmuirshaw.
And still the rain came down.
At Glenmuirshaw, we picked up the track that we would stay on for the rest of the walk. The abandoned farmstead of Glenmuirshaw had to be examined, mainly to get us out of the rain for a while but the rain hardly let up at all so we went back out into it and continued along the road. It was now a four-mile walk along the road to Dalblair.
And still the rain came down.
Three miles form Glenmuirshaw there was a brightening in the sky and a cooling in the wind. Was this an indication of the warm front passing through and bringing and end to the rain? Yes, it was, but by the time the rain went, we were only half a mile from the end of the walk, a dry half-mile for a change.
Somewhere else in these annals, it has been said that some of our walks will be remembered for a long time while others have probably been forgotten about already. Today’s walk might have fallen into the second category – it ticked all the boxes – but, for some reason, was quite enjoyable. Or is your scribe showing his masochistic tendencies again?
We returned to the Coach House Inn in Muirkirk for a pleasantly dry, warm and convivial FRT today.
Logistical problems were overcome the same way we overcame them on our first visit to the Back Door (26/4/06) by leaving two cars at Dalblair, though we had to prevail on Jimmy’s good lady to get all of us to the walker’s car park at Kaimes, Muirkirk.
Still the rain came down.
Waterproofs were worn from the outset and we set off, heads down, into the weather. The rain came down and a wind blew but it wasn’t particularly cold and sweat built up under the waterproofs with nowhere for it to evaporate. It was to be a wet day one way or the other.
We took the old Sanquhar turnpike road, past McAdam’s Cairn and the Whisky Knowe, to the Sanquhar Brig, Rex and Robert setting a good pace. There was to be no hanging about to examine silly things like cairns, flowers or stones today. And no looking back for the view either for in that direction blew the wind. We walked on with heads down.
Still the rain came down.
But the fast pair did ease the pace as the slope steepened and the track climbed to the highest point of the day at the Black Gitter but there was still no halt to look at things and the only time we looked back was to check on those bringing up the rear. We waited for them at the gate at the Gitter. ‘The walk hasn’t been too bad so far’, said the novice.
‘Just wait till we get to the dougals’, said Rex.
It was now ten past eleven and still the rain came down. And the wind had freshened as well. We were beginning to loose faith in our weatherman.
The old road degenerates after the fence. Having been abandoned some two hundred years ago, it is now being claimed by the bog around it. Normally this is continuous sphagnum swamp but the long sunny spell had dried it so that, despite the day’s rain, some relief could be found in drier sections. Yet, we had to take time to loup the many sheughs that cut across our path. And by dint of walking and jumping and plunging through bogs, we came to the Ra’ens Cleugh.
Coffee was called for, for it was now well after half past eleven, and in as much shelter as a grassy bank could provide, we sat down for a bite. And still the rain came down.
‘That was slightly harder’, said the novice, ‘but not as tough as I expected’.
‘We’re not at the dougals yet’, said Rex and passed round the Aussie soft liquorice before comment could be made.
We left the old road at the sheep bucht and took to the open hill. One thing we have come to expect of a Jimmy walk is that, it may not involve a lot of climbing, but it is never easy. This section was tough. Feet had to be lifted high over the tussocks, reeds had to be skirted round and sheughs had to be louped. Every step was a different length and at a different height. It was tough. The group split into two, Rex, Jimmy and Johnny making up the first and the rest taking a sensible pace, as we contoured the flank of Connor Hill.
And still the rain came down.
Only two things took the mind off tiring legs. The first was witnessed by all. A deer, some distance away, stopped its grazing to watch and listen to the noisy bunch of men getting too close to it before bounding effortlessly over the stuff through which we struggled. We envied it its grace and energy.
Only Jimmy and Johnny saw the second thing. The skylark showed exactly where her nest was by flying off in a panic as a foot got too close to her. And in the nest were two mottled brown eggs. ‘A second clutch, at this time of year’, said the expert.
They left the nest to allow the adult to return and tried to catch up with Rex who had marched on oblivious to the pair nosing about in the grass. The rest trailed on behind.
Rex was carried away by his enthusiasm for the rough stuff and overshot the gully we should have gone down. The rest followed him only to have to turn back over the flank of the hill to find the top of the stone-chute that dropped us down to the base of the waterfall known to the locals as the De’il’s Back Door.
And the rain stopped!
The rain stopped and the wind dropped. Lunch was called. We settled down on a grassy island in the burn to eat our lunchtime sandwiches. The novice could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘OK, Rex’, said he, ‘What on earth are dougals?’ Rex let him in on another piece of Ooter-speak. ‘They are the tussocks of grass we have just come through.’ Only in the short upland summer do these show green shoots. For most of the year they are covered in long, brown trailers of dead grass, each tussock looking for all the world like the dog, Dougal, from ‘The Magic Roundabout’. Hence, Rex christened them ‘dougals’, and dougals they have remained.
The rain had stopped, the wind had dropped and the midges took full advantage. Fresh blood was on their lunch menu. They bit cruelly and bit often. And there were many of them. We never thought that we would wish for the rain to come again. Now we did. The rain did come again, but not until the midges had driven us away from our island and down the burn towards Glenmuirshaw.
We had to cross the burn to avoid the Connor Crags that dropped directly into the water. Once across we decided to stay on this bank rather than risk watery accidents. (Remember, we had Paul and Jimmy with us.) This was a bad move. Two rocky outcrops that hung above the burn had to be negotiated. The adventurous hung close to the burn and swung precariously round the rock. Those who think themselves more sensible opted for a higher route and a scrambled descent. They thought this would be the safer route. More fool them! It was on the second descent it happened.
Allan, spread like a stranded crab, searching for a foothold on the wet rock with his left foot, lost traction with his right. Down he came, the full four feet to the grassy ledge above the burn. Fortunately, he stopped there but not before bashing himself about a bit on rocky spurs. With nothing but a large graze on his arm to show for his misadventure, a rather paler and quieter Allan walked down the side of the burn. But he had recovered his colour by the time we came to the bridge at the sheep fanks at Glenmuirshaw.
And still the rain came down.
At Glenmuirshaw, we picked up the track that we would stay on for the rest of the walk. The abandoned farmstead of Glenmuirshaw had to be examined, mainly to get us out of the rain for a while but the rain hardly let up at all so we went back out into it and continued along the road. It was now a four-mile walk along the road to Dalblair.
And still the rain came down.
Three miles form Glenmuirshaw there was a brightening in the sky and a cooling in the wind. Was this an indication of the warm front passing through and bringing and end to the rain? Yes, it was, but by the time the rain went, we were only half a mile from the end of the walk, a dry half-mile for a change.
Somewhere else in these annals, it has been said that some of our walks will be remembered for a long time while others have probably been forgotten about already. Today’s walk might have fallen into the second category – it ticked all the boxes – but, for some reason, was quite enjoyable. Or is your scribe showing his masochistic tendencies again?
We returned to the Coach House Inn in Muirkirk for a pleasantly dry, warm and convivial FRT today.
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