There are some places on this planet just fated not to be visited. As far as the Ooters are concerned, The Hill of Stake on the Ayrshire/Renfrewshire border is such a place. Three times we’ve tried for this top and three times, for different reasons, we’ve failed. Twice we have gone from Muirshiel (7/5/08 & 11/6/08) and once from Largs (18/2/09) but all were abandoned for one reason or other and the top remained unvisited. But in our euphoria (some would say drunkenness!) after last week’s super walk in Nithsdale, we decided that this would be the time for Hill of Stake.
Johnny’s house in Irvine was the meeting point and nine of us gathered to sample his usual hospitality. The nine included young Davie Clunie, our junior section, released from the chalk face for a week of freedom and deciding to waste it by coming with us. Johnny’s scones were good and such was the weather outside that it was some time before we stirred ourselves for the journey to Muirshiel and the start of the walk.
The weather was driech and the omens were poor. A heavy sky accompanied us to Lochwinnoch and a thick mist closed in as we climbed to Muirshiel Visitor Centre. Already there were mumbles of discontent. ‘Have we no’ had enough walks in the clag for one year?’ ‘We’ll no’ see a bluidy thing’ ‘Ma mammy says Ah’ve no’ tae get wet again’. But the father of the group, Old Rex, reminded us of the resolution of Cairnsmore of Fleet and encouraged the falterers to don boots and follow. Aussies are stout-hearted fellows. So, armed with a new resolve and a waterproof map, we set off up the track towards the barytes mine.
This was new territory for some but familiar ground for most, which was just as well for we could see no landmarks through the gathering mizzle and the terrain we would travel through was featureless and it would be easy to get lost. But we had a track to start us off. We came through a gate telling us that the old mines were four kilometres away, four kilometres for the weather to clear or the mutineers were for home, four kilometres of seeing nothing but each other.
The track split and the newcomers were unsure of which branch to take. The old heads pointed them down to the bridge and up the other side of the shallow glen to a large sycamore tree. This was the last major feature we were to see until we reached the old mines some time later. The way now ran through featureless rough heather and grass moorland and the clag blocked out anything beyond a hundred metres or so. We were grateful for the track. The area is famous for its nesting hen harriers (so the naturalist says) but nary a bird could be seen; nor a hilltop; nor a tree. In fact, nothing could be seen except each other and the four kilometres of track running before us.
We knew we were approaching the mines only when the road started to turn pink with barytes chips but it was a few minutes yet before the remains of the workings were found.
All the old quarry buildings are demolished now but a metal hut of the shipping container type stands in their stead. It was thought that this might provide some shelter from the mizzle and, since coffee was suggested, we approached to see if it would. The door stood open, and our hopes for shelter were raised. Two fellows were already in residence, seated at a table but the sight and sound of nine noisy Ooters seamed to terrify them and they readily gave up occupancy to allow us in. Only six seats sat around the table. The mathematician calculated that nine into six doesn’t go - we really don’t know how he does this but he is good at it - and proceeded to unfold his own chair from his rucksack. So seven of us sat and two stood round while we took coffee in a ship’s container in the middle of a foggy moorland wilderness.
We met two fellows when we left the hut, two fellows we had seen leave the centre before us an hour or so ago. They were local Renfrewshire men and during the course of conversation told us of another walk taking in the Greenock cut and Skelmorlie. This was added to our ‘maybe’ list for next year. In return, we gave them a blog card to look us up. Then we walked up towards the quarry.
We had promised Peter, whose interest in things mineral is well known in the Ooters, a rummage around the old quarry. But ‘Health and Safety’ rules, even in these remote regions. High metal gates now bar the way into the quarry and a fence topped by barbed wire, runs round the perimeter. Signs attached to the gates informed us how dangerous the steep sides and loose rocks of the quarry were, as if this wasn’t already patently obvious. ‘Nae wonder there’s nae money for important things like schools and hospitals if they spend it all on bluidy useless things like this!’ Jimmy’s dander was up. While we agreed with his sentiments, there was nothing we could do about it right now. So Peter had to forgo his poke around the old pit and contented himself with picking up bits of barytes from the track. But he promised he would be back some other time.
Now came decision time. The weather hadn’t improved and the waverers were at it again. Would we go up the hill into the damp fog or find the dry warmth of a welcoming pub? Memories of Cairnsmore of Fleet came flooding back (flooding being an appropriate word) and fears of more of the same conditions coloured our judgement. An informal vote was taken. The result was – Wimps 1, Foolhardy 0. We would return the way we came and Hill of Stakes would remain unvisited.
We trudged, defeated, back down the track towards the centre, our only consolation being that the others we had met had done the same. And we saw only the same things we had seen on the way up. Or did we? The fog lifted; only slightly did it lift but it was sufficient for us to see the other side of the valley and the craggy tors on the skyline. We knew from the map at the centre that a walk went up to this ridge and it looked an interesting walk, but not for today. We had had enough for the day and made our way back to Muirshiel Visitor Centre.
Lunch was taken on the picnic tables and a quick wheech round the Visitor Centre was made. It was only one-thirty and some thought we might have another short outing from the centre, perhaps through the wood. But most had had enough for the day and we came back to Lochwinnoch and the Corner Bar for FRT
At around 9Km, this must be one of the shortest walks in Ooters history and we are now at the point of doubting the very existence of Hill of Stake, thinking it a figment of some cartographer’s imagination. Or like the rainbow tempting us through the rain, everybody can see it’s there but nobody can quite reach it. Still, some day............
We hope for better conditions for next week. At least we know that Darvel and Eaglesham do exist.
Johnny’s house in Irvine was the meeting point and nine of us gathered to sample his usual hospitality. The nine included young Davie Clunie, our junior section, released from the chalk face for a week of freedom and deciding to waste it by coming with us. Johnny’s scones were good and such was the weather outside that it was some time before we stirred ourselves for the journey to Muirshiel and the start of the walk.
The weather was driech and the omens were poor. A heavy sky accompanied us to Lochwinnoch and a thick mist closed in as we climbed to Muirshiel Visitor Centre. Already there were mumbles of discontent. ‘Have we no’ had enough walks in the clag for one year?’ ‘We’ll no’ see a bluidy thing’ ‘Ma mammy says Ah’ve no’ tae get wet again’. But the father of the group, Old Rex, reminded us of the resolution of Cairnsmore of Fleet and encouraged the falterers to don boots and follow. Aussies are stout-hearted fellows. So, armed with a new resolve and a waterproof map, we set off up the track towards the barytes mine.
This was new territory for some but familiar ground for most, which was just as well for we could see no landmarks through the gathering mizzle and the terrain we would travel through was featureless and it would be easy to get lost. But we had a track to start us off. We came through a gate telling us that the old mines were four kilometres away, four kilometres for the weather to clear or the mutineers were for home, four kilometres of seeing nothing but each other.
The track split and the newcomers were unsure of which branch to take. The old heads pointed them down to the bridge and up the other side of the shallow glen to a large sycamore tree. This was the last major feature we were to see until we reached the old mines some time later. The way now ran through featureless rough heather and grass moorland and the clag blocked out anything beyond a hundred metres or so. We were grateful for the track. The area is famous for its nesting hen harriers (so the naturalist says) but nary a bird could be seen; nor a hilltop; nor a tree. In fact, nothing could be seen except each other and the four kilometres of track running before us.
We knew we were approaching the mines only when the road started to turn pink with barytes chips but it was a few minutes yet before the remains of the workings were found.
All the old quarry buildings are demolished now but a metal hut of the shipping container type stands in their stead. It was thought that this might provide some shelter from the mizzle and, since coffee was suggested, we approached to see if it would. The door stood open, and our hopes for shelter were raised. Two fellows were already in residence, seated at a table but the sight and sound of nine noisy Ooters seamed to terrify them and they readily gave up occupancy to allow us in. Only six seats sat around the table. The mathematician calculated that nine into six doesn’t go - we really don’t know how he does this but he is good at it - and proceeded to unfold his own chair from his rucksack. So seven of us sat and two stood round while we took coffee in a ship’s container in the middle of a foggy moorland wilderness.
We met two fellows when we left the hut, two fellows we had seen leave the centre before us an hour or so ago. They were local Renfrewshire men and during the course of conversation told us of another walk taking in the Greenock cut and Skelmorlie. This was added to our ‘maybe’ list for next year. In return, we gave them a blog card to look us up. Then we walked up towards the quarry.
We had promised Peter, whose interest in things mineral is well known in the Ooters, a rummage around the old quarry. But ‘Health and Safety’ rules, even in these remote regions. High metal gates now bar the way into the quarry and a fence topped by barbed wire, runs round the perimeter. Signs attached to the gates informed us how dangerous the steep sides and loose rocks of the quarry were, as if this wasn’t already patently obvious. ‘Nae wonder there’s nae money for important things like schools and hospitals if they spend it all on bluidy useless things like this!’ Jimmy’s dander was up. While we agreed with his sentiments, there was nothing we could do about it right now. So Peter had to forgo his poke around the old pit and contented himself with picking up bits of barytes from the track. But he promised he would be back some other time.
Now came decision time. The weather hadn’t improved and the waverers were at it again. Would we go up the hill into the damp fog or find the dry warmth of a welcoming pub? Memories of Cairnsmore of Fleet came flooding back (flooding being an appropriate word) and fears of more of the same conditions coloured our judgement. An informal vote was taken. The result was – Wimps 1, Foolhardy 0. We would return the way we came and Hill of Stakes would remain unvisited.
We trudged, defeated, back down the track towards the centre, our only consolation being that the others we had met had done the same. And we saw only the same things we had seen on the way up. Or did we? The fog lifted; only slightly did it lift but it was sufficient for us to see the other side of the valley and the craggy tors on the skyline. We knew from the map at the centre that a walk went up to this ridge and it looked an interesting walk, but not for today. We had had enough for the day and made our way back to Muirshiel Visitor Centre.
Lunch was taken on the picnic tables and a quick wheech round the Visitor Centre was made. It was only one-thirty and some thought we might have another short outing from the centre, perhaps through the wood. But most had had enough for the day and we came back to Lochwinnoch and the Corner Bar for FRT
At around 9Km, this must be one of the shortest walks in Ooters history and we are now at the point of doubting the very existence of Hill of Stake, thinking it a figment of some cartographer’s imagination. Or like the rainbow tempting us through the rain, everybody can see it’s there but nobody can quite reach it. Still, some day............
We hope for better conditions for next week. At least we know that Darvel and Eaglesham do exist.
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