Eight Ooters gathered in Jimmy’s place in Cumnock. No Bacon rolls this morning but scones (Tesco’s finest) and coffee was more than welcome. Had Rex stopped gallivanting abroad at the drop of a hat, and Alan had taken a rest from playing builders and Paul remembered that he had bare feet when he kicked the garage doorpost, there might have been a full complement. However, Ian was returned from abroad and Peter returned to the fold after a long absence – it was nice to have him back again – so eight of us gathered in Jimmy’s place. Then we left for the long drive to the start of the Scaur Water walk.
The weather picked up as we drove down Nithsdale, the morning cloud breaking and the sun showing through. Davie’s car with the sensible group stopped in Penpont at the start of the walk but Ronnie, at Robert’s insistence, drove through the village and on to Moniaive. Why? Well, last week Robert was given the task of intimating the proposed walk on the blog, but mistakenly put Moniaive as the starting point and, either by neglect or intention, those who knew better failed to point out his error and he had Moniaive fixed in his mind. Robert and his companions ended up in the latter village before realising the mistake. It should be noted for future reference that there is no mobile phone reception in Moniaive so, despite our valiant efforts to contact them, we had to wait for a sheepish Robert and his companions to make the six miles return journey before we could start the walk.
By the time the lost boys rejoined us, the sun had come out. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day and give us a pleasantly bright and warm autumn day.
Only for Ronnie was this new territory and the rest looked forward to an enjoyable flat road walk for a change, and in superb country. It was suggested that we do the walk in reverse for this is our fourth visit here and we have always gone clockwise round the walk. This was agreed but for some reason everybody started walking in the same old direction. Nothing much changes in the Ooters and it would appear that memories are short.
It seemed that the purpose of our being in Nithsdale today was to gather sloes for another sloe-gin competition. Johnny loves his competitions and is still fair miffed that he lost out in the last one due to a technical error. No prizes then for guessing whose idea the new competition was. We were barely started the walk when we were stopped picking sloes.
We had come along the Moniaive road and turned up the minor road designated Scaur Valley and immediately found a blackthorn bush hanging heavy with sloes. ‘Not very big berries’, said the knowledgeable one, but this didn’t deter the avaricious sloe pickers who were determined to fill their plastic boxes right reason or none. Ten minutes picking and the plastic ice-cream tubs, margarine tubs and Tupperware boxes were almost full and it was time for us to move on.
Given where we were, the time of year, the nature of the day and the absence of Rex, this was to be a relaxed walk at an easy pace. We walked on, chatting away in one group, allowing Robert to dictate the pace from the front. And he set an effortless pace.
We thought Robert was lost again when he overshot the path down towards the river, but the wee man refuses to get lost twice in one day. (He says!) He knew where he was going all right, for he found an alternative entrance a bit up the road and joined the rest of us on the path a few yards inside the wood. We walked down to the side of the river.
The Scaur cuts a gorge for itself through the whin-stane here and the water roars and rushes spectacularly through it. And we stood above this gorge for a while, mesmerised by the white water roaring through. Metal fishers' ladders, anchored to the naked rock of the gorge, led down to natural platforms above the torrent. Robert volunteered to test the solidity of one of these and climbed down into the gorge. We would have left him there but the ladder was fastened to the rock too securely for us to move. Robert managed to escape and joined us as we walked on through the wood.
The last time we came through this wood Peter found mushrooms – ‘Bollies’, he called them – but no such luck today. Try as we might, nary a fungus could be seen. So we walked back to the road. We were to stay on the road for the rest of the walk.
The day was turning pleasantly warm and the crack was good. We ambled on. Then Robert and Ronnie were found to be missing. Nobody had noticed them go so we had no idea where we had lost them. Somebody suggested they might just want to be alone, so we wandered on enjoying the sunshine, unworried about the missing pair. When they caught us up again, Robert drew from his pocket all the sloes that they had been collecting, much larger berries this time and juicy looking, and added them to his collection. We only hope the effort was worth it.
The light on the landscape was superb, the low autumn sun picking out every detail with warm highlights and deep shadows. Cameras were used more than usual. Jimmy got some verbal treatment when he stooped to get a better composition in one shot. 'Thinks he’s David Bailey 'Just stick your bum out a wee bit further' were the more printable comments. It didn’t put our arty-farty friend off in any way though; he would repeat the posture later. But not before lunch.
Lunch was taken on the wee bridge on which we always take lunch and for no other reason than we always take lunch here. As has been said before, we are creatures of habit. Holly must have been hungry today as well for, for the first time in her life, she sat and watched us eat, devouring any morsel that was given to her. Hardly surprising that she was hungry for she covers at least twice the distance we do and at double speed. Once again, we were jealous of her fitness.
The road continued up the valley and after lunch, so did we. We wandered down by Knockelly towards the bridge on the river. The light on the hills of the upper valley was superb and the high ground looked particularly inviting. A proposal to walk these hills was made and was generally accepted but not today, today was to be an easy walk on the road and it would stay that way. We added this area to our ‘to do’ list and walked on. We crossed the river and made our way upward to Druidhall before turning back towards Penpont.
The buzzard was heard before it was spotted being harassed by crows. Then Robert, our fledgling birder, stumped the naturalist. ‘Do buzzards mate for life?’ was the question. The naturalist replied that most birds of prey do but wasn’t sure of buzzard specifically. He would find out, though, now that the question had been raised.*
We stopped beside a sign pointing into a field and telling us that the Roman Bridge was only three miles away, along a faint track. Again, if we had time enough, or energy enough, or inclination, we might have gone along to see the ‘Roman’ bridge. But we had none of the three today, we would continue on the road. So, with another walk added to the ‘possible’ list, we walked on.
We would have kept to the road for the remainder of the walk but Peter veered off into the trees. We followed and found Peter rummaging about in the fallen beech leaves. Well, we weren’t quite sure of his behaviour until he unearthed a mushroom, then another, and another. Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius), he said. Most were past their best but there were enough good ones for Peter to pick and place in the box he had brought specially for the purpose. We hope he enjoys his free food and is still with us next week.
We returned to the road and now we kept to it.
The way was downward now, two miles of gentle slope that took us off the higher ground and down beside a wee burn running through some trees. The infantile started to up the pace as we approached Penpont and even broke into a run at one point, well as much of a run as they could muster at their age. There are times when we wish they would grow up. But, as has been pointed out by them, growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional. And they opted to act young again.
This is how we came back into Penpont – the childish racing and the more mature (lazy?) taking their time, all having had a great walk on a super autumn day.
The Crown in Sanquhar provided the FRT today.
PS Note to Robert: Buzzards do indeed mate for life though ‘divorces’ have occasionally been reported.
The weather picked up as we drove down Nithsdale, the morning cloud breaking and the sun showing through. Davie’s car with the sensible group stopped in Penpont at the start of the walk but Ronnie, at Robert’s insistence, drove through the village and on to Moniaive. Why? Well, last week Robert was given the task of intimating the proposed walk on the blog, but mistakenly put Moniaive as the starting point and, either by neglect or intention, those who knew better failed to point out his error and he had Moniaive fixed in his mind. Robert and his companions ended up in the latter village before realising the mistake. It should be noted for future reference that there is no mobile phone reception in Moniaive so, despite our valiant efforts to contact them, we had to wait for a sheepish Robert and his companions to make the six miles return journey before we could start the walk.
By the time the lost boys rejoined us, the sun had come out. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day and give us a pleasantly bright and warm autumn day.
Only for Ronnie was this new territory and the rest looked forward to an enjoyable flat road walk for a change, and in superb country. It was suggested that we do the walk in reverse for this is our fourth visit here and we have always gone clockwise round the walk. This was agreed but for some reason everybody started walking in the same old direction. Nothing much changes in the Ooters and it would appear that memories are short.
It seemed that the purpose of our being in Nithsdale today was to gather sloes for another sloe-gin competition. Johnny loves his competitions and is still fair miffed that he lost out in the last one due to a technical error. No prizes then for guessing whose idea the new competition was. We were barely started the walk when we were stopped picking sloes.
We had come along the Moniaive road and turned up the minor road designated Scaur Valley and immediately found a blackthorn bush hanging heavy with sloes. ‘Not very big berries’, said the knowledgeable one, but this didn’t deter the avaricious sloe pickers who were determined to fill their plastic boxes right reason or none. Ten minutes picking and the plastic ice-cream tubs, margarine tubs and Tupperware boxes were almost full and it was time for us to move on.
Given where we were, the time of year, the nature of the day and the absence of Rex, this was to be a relaxed walk at an easy pace. We walked on, chatting away in one group, allowing Robert to dictate the pace from the front. And he set an effortless pace.
We thought Robert was lost again when he overshot the path down towards the river, but the wee man refuses to get lost twice in one day. (He says!) He knew where he was going all right, for he found an alternative entrance a bit up the road and joined the rest of us on the path a few yards inside the wood. We walked down to the side of the river.
The Scaur cuts a gorge for itself through the whin-stane here and the water roars and rushes spectacularly through it. And we stood above this gorge for a while, mesmerised by the white water roaring through. Metal fishers' ladders, anchored to the naked rock of the gorge, led down to natural platforms above the torrent. Robert volunteered to test the solidity of one of these and climbed down into the gorge. We would have left him there but the ladder was fastened to the rock too securely for us to move. Robert managed to escape and joined us as we walked on through the wood.
The last time we came through this wood Peter found mushrooms – ‘Bollies’, he called them – but no such luck today. Try as we might, nary a fungus could be seen. So we walked back to the road. We were to stay on the road for the rest of the walk.
The day was turning pleasantly warm and the crack was good. We ambled on. Then Robert and Ronnie were found to be missing. Nobody had noticed them go so we had no idea where we had lost them. Somebody suggested they might just want to be alone, so we wandered on enjoying the sunshine, unworried about the missing pair. When they caught us up again, Robert drew from his pocket all the sloes that they had been collecting, much larger berries this time and juicy looking, and added them to his collection. We only hope the effort was worth it.
The light on the landscape was superb, the low autumn sun picking out every detail with warm highlights and deep shadows. Cameras were used more than usual. Jimmy got some verbal treatment when he stooped to get a better composition in one shot. 'Thinks he’s David Bailey 'Just stick your bum out a wee bit further' were the more printable comments. It didn’t put our arty-farty friend off in any way though; he would repeat the posture later. But not before lunch.
Lunch was taken on the wee bridge on which we always take lunch and for no other reason than we always take lunch here. As has been said before, we are creatures of habit. Holly must have been hungry today as well for, for the first time in her life, she sat and watched us eat, devouring any morsel that was given to her. Hardly surprising that she was hungry for she covers at least twice the distance we do and at double speed. Once again, we were jealous of her fitness.
The road continued up the valley and after lunch, so did we. We wandered down by Knockelly towards the bridge on the river. The light on the hills of the upper valley was superb and the high ground looked particularly inviting. A proposal to walk these hills was made and was generally accepted but not today, today was to be an easy walk on the road and it would stay that way. We added this area to our ‘to do’ list and walked on. We crossed the river and made our way upward to Druidhall before turning back towards Penpont.
The buzzard was heard before it was spotted being harassed by crows. Then Robert, our fledgling birder, stumped the naturalist. ‘Do buzzards mate for life?’ was the question. The naturalist replied that most birds of prey do but wasn’t sure of buzzard specifically. He would find out, though, now that the question had been raised.*
We stopped beside a sign pointing into a field and telling us that the Roman Bridge was only three miles away, along a faint track. Again, if we had time enough, or energy enough, or inclination, we might have gone along to see the ‘Roman’ bridge. But we had none of the three today, we would continue on the road. So, with another walk added to the ‘possible’ list, we walked on.
We would have kept to the road for the remainder of the walk but Peter veered off into the trees. We followed and found Peter rummaging about in the fallen beech leaves. Well, we weren’t quite sure of his behaviour until he unearthed a mushroom, then another, and another. Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius), he said. Most were past their best but there were enough good ones for Peter to pick and place in the box he had brought specially for the purpose. We hope he enjoys his free food and is still with us next week.
We returned to the road and now we kept to it.
The way was downward now, two miles of gentle slope that took us off the higher ground and down beside a wee burn running through some trees. The infantile started to up the pace as we approached Penpont and even broke into a run at one point, well as much of a run as they could muster at their age. There are times when we wish they would grow up. But, as has been pointed out by them, growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional. And they opted to act young again.
This is how we came back into Penpont – the childish racing and the more mature (lazy?) taking their time, all having had a great walk on a super autumn day.
The Crown in Sanquhar provided the FRT today.
PS Note to Robert: Buzzards do indeed mate for life though ‘divorces’ have occasionally been reported.
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