Young Johnny reaches the age of maturity on the thirteenth of this month and in true Ooters style, we were to celebrate his coming of age – bus pass age that is. But, since holidays were in the offing, Johnny chose to celebrate early and this was his chosen day. Because of this, a short walk was the order of the day and Cairn Table at Muirkirk was the preferred destination.
It looked as though the weather gods were smiling on us today for the sun shone in a clear sky and there was a warmth to the air. But, when we gathered at Glenbuck Loch car park, thin wisps of cloud crept across the sky.
We left cars at Glenbuck and motored back to the walkers' car park at Kaimes in Muirkirk. That’s where we felt the first stirrings of a breeze, but it was a mild breeze and we walked on ignoring it.
The old Sanquhar road was taken, not because we always go this way but because this is the best approach to the hill. The road is level and firm and the walking was easy. The moor was alive with birdsong; a whaup burbled in the distance, pipits ‘pipped’ in the heather and skylark sang overhead, invisible to us. But the naturalist was hopeful of better and carried his binoculars just in case. Up past Springhill we went, where John Loudoun McAdam once lived, up past McAdam’s Cairn marking the spot where McAdam’s British Tar Company had their works, and past the Whisky Knowe where barrels of whisky are reputedly buried. A sandpiper piped its way up the Garpel as we approached the Sanquhar Brig but this was the last wildlife we were to see until Glenbuck.
At the Sanquhar Brig there was a split in the ranks. The leading group swung off the main way to follow the newish section to a ford in the burn. Jimmy, Peter and Ronnie went to examine the brig. ‘The Caul’ Watter Spoot’s just ower there’, said Jimmy rattling the words off machine-gun-like. ‘Whit?’ asked Ronnie with a note of incomprehension. ‘The Coeld Woter Spout’, said Jimmy in his best Home Counties accent. Ronnie was relieved; he thought it was some sado-masochistic thing. But then, what else could we expect from a psychologist.
Meanwhile, the rest, having discovered the absence of the three, waited on the footpath by the Tar works Lade. That’s when we saw the trio crawling round the river bank, clambering over the heather and sliding on the bare earth. They had attempted to follow the old footpath only to discover that it had been washed away and ended up clambering round a landslip. Robert’s comment was right - silly auld buggers.
Re-united now, we followed the path through the heather. Despite some grubby sections, the path was surprisingly dry and progress to the foot of the steeper rise was swift. The heathery flank of Cairn Table though steeper, isn’t unduly so but it did separate the men from the boys.
Somewhere up the slope a thin cloud crept in and the sun disappeared. So did the bonhomie of the group. Davie and Rex - who else? - set a fair old pace on the climb. They were followed by Jimmy and Alan and Robert and Ronnie and Paul. Peter, Johnny and Allan brought up the rear, watching the rest disappear into the distance. There came a shout from the tail-enders for a stop. But Davie – who else? – said ‘We’ll stop for coffee just up here’, and walked on, the rest following. Judging by the abuse hurled in the direction of the leaders we don’t think that this action was appreciated by the trailers but we walked on regardless. ‘Just up here’ proved to be three hundred yards further up the flank of the hill. At the cairn where we always stop, we stopped for coffee and to let the rest catch up. When they did, there was dissension from two. Peter and Johnny, with an air of ‘We’ll show you, you sods’, walked on past and on up the hill throwing various comments at the leaders. Allan on the other hand, just happy to have somewhere to relieve his burning legs and lungs, collapsed in a crumpled heap beside the rest.
Whether Allan took in the view from the coffee stop was difficult to say but the rest of us did. From the Glen Afton hills through the high Galloways to the pale blue lump that might have been Ben Lomond in the north, the panorama wasn’t as good as it might have been. A dusty atmosphere hid Arran though the Ayrshire coast was clear. And the Highland line was shown only as a pale blue smudge rising to the lump of The Ben. But various Ayrshire landmarks could be identified so the view occupied the attention during coffee.
It was a short coffee stop for we wanted to catch the dissenters. So upward we plodded, Davie and Rex setting the pace again and the rest strung out down the slope. A brief, very brief, stop was had at the spring near the summit to test the water and catch the breath. This spring is a conundrum. It is situated just off the summit of the hill, higher than any of the surrounding landscape and flows at a constant temperature summer and winter, an indication of the complex geology of the Muirkirk area. It is reputed to have the same chemical make-up as Loch Katrine in the Trossachs, but this is more than fifty miles away. But even if it doesn’t come from this source, how it gets as high is a mystery. No doubt somebody at sometime will resolve the mystery but to us, a mystery it remains.
From the spring it was a short fifty foot climb to the summit where we found the rebel two ensconce in the shelter of the cairn having their own coffee. We sat down to join them.
The view to the east and south was open to us then. Tinto looked good with the sun still lighting it. From here through the Culter Hills, the Moffat hills and the Lowthers to the high Galloways, the panorama was extensive even if a bit on the hazy side and points of identification indicated by those who know. A pale grey-blue patch on the southern horizon showed where Criffel stood above the Solway. ‘Can you see Wanlockhead from here?’ asked a mischievous Paul alluding to a previous dispute on the subject. We could. But Allan’s inquiry about the number of lochs was completely lost on Davie in his own quiet world by the side of the War Memorial.
We sat for quite a while on the summit. But tempus fugit; so must we. So, with bodies recovered and esprit-de-corps restored, we set off downward, into Lanarkshire.
We could see the road we were heading for, a forest type road some half mile away, running down the valley of the infant Douglas Water. But between us and it lay a rough trackless slope of doogals. According to the Porter-Johnstone categorisation of Doogals, these were hairy but they were only grade three and were on our down-slope so presented little problem. We strode down the slope to find the end of our road.
This road was to take us nearly to the end of the walk at Glenbuck Loch. But before that lunch had to be taken. Where the road crossed the infant Douglas, we sat for the peece. We sat on the end of the brig – no more than two concrete pipes with the road laid on top – and dangled our legs over the edge. Though the water is still small here, at this side of the brig was a deepish pool, a pool that we thought Holly would enjoy. To entice her into the water, some started to throw small stones. Whether by accident or design, these stones with their accompanying splashes crept closer and closer to us spraying the legs with water. Retaliation was the order of the day. Eventually, Alan, with Hiroshima style overkill, lifted a boulder and heaved it into the pool. The resultant explosion sent a mushroom of water in the direction of Rex and Jimmy, drenching them from the knees down – particularly Jimmy. Since this blog might be read by those of a sensitive disposition, it is best not to write exactly what Jimmy said to this. Suffice to say that he wasn’t best please and swears (appropriate word) vengeance. Beware Alan. But like Hiroshima, this brought an end to our particular war and, with our infantile antics over, we walked on.
The sun made reappearance as we left the brig and followed the road down the waterside.
After a bit, the road left the side of the Douglas and climbed high on its valley side. At one time there was a breeding programme for Red-legged Partridge here but the birds seem to have disappeared now. Not so their pens. We passed one and the stench of rotting flesh hit us. Dead sheep, possibly casualties of the severe winter, were laid out in it. The smell rather than the sight caused a quickening of the pace. Or perhaps this quickening was due to the road for we were now on the down-slope, heading for Parish Holm. Whatever the cause, we found ourselves at parish Holm in good time.
Now there was only a short mile of level walking along the loch side to our destination. An angler stood on a boat in the water too busy returning his catch to the water to notice us passing on the bank. Perhaps Holly splashing into the water might have drawn his attention but he never acknowledged our presence as we walked round to the bird hide.
The new-comers were impressed by the hide; not only by the quality of construction but the fact that it has remained un-vandalised for so long. We sat in the hide for a few minutes while Davie plunked oranges seeds at all and sundry. He was lucky, on a day such as this, that he didn’t find himself up to the neck in loch water. But he didn’t and we all arrived back at the cars dry, even Jimmy and Rex had dried by this time.
This is turning into a favourite walk of ours. And to finish of another good day we took FRT in the Coachhouse in Muirkirk.
Later that evening we met again – this time joined by Ian – in the Rupee Room in Ayr for Johnny’s birthday do. After the meal we went over to the Wellington for the pub quiz. Result: Them 32, Us 30. Fluky @@@@@@s.
It looked as though the weather gods were smiling on us today for the sun shone in a clear sky and there was a warmth to the air. But, when we gathered at Glenbuck Loch car park, thin wisps of cloud crept across the sky.
We left cars at Glenbuck and motored back to the walkers' car park at Kaimes in Muirkirk. That’s where we felt the first stirrings of a breeze, but it was a mild breeze and we walked on ignoring it.
The old Sanquhar road was taken, not because we always go this way but because this is the best approach to the hill. The road is level and firm and the walking was easy. The moor was alive with birdsong; a whaup burbled in the distance, pipits ‘pipped’ in the heather and skylark sang overhead, invisible to us. But the naturalist was hopeful of better and carried his binoculars just in case. Up past Springhill we went, where John Loudoun McAdam once lived, up past McAdam’s Cairn marking the spot where McAdam’s British Tar Company had their works, and past the Whisky Knowe where barrels of whisky are reputedly buried. A sandpiper piped its way up the Garpel as we approached the Sanquhar Brig but this was the last wildlife we were to see until Glenbuck.
At the Sanquhar Brig there was a split in the ranks. The leading group swung off the main way to follow the newish section to a ford in the burn. Jimmy, Peter and Ronnie went to examine the brig. ‘The Caul’ Watter Spoot’s just ower there’, said Jimmy rattling the words off machine-gun-like. ‘Whit?’ asked Ronnie with a note of incomprehension. ‘The Coeld Woter Spout’, said Jimmy in his best Home Counties accent. Ronnie was relieved; he thought it was some sado-masochistic thing. But then, what else could we expect from a psychologist.
Meanwhile, the rest, having discovered the absence of the three, waited on the footpath by the Tar works Lade. That’s when we saw the trio crawling round the river bank, clambering over the heather and sliding on the bare earth. They had attempted to follow the old footpath only to discover that it had been washed away and ended up clambering round a landslip. Robert’s comment was right - silly auld buggers.
Re-united now, we followed the path through the heather. Despite some grubby sections, the path was surprisingly dry and progress to the foot of the steeper rise was swift. The heathery flank of Cairn Table though steeper, isn’t unduly so but it did separate the men from the boys.
Somewhere up the slope a thin cloud crept in and the sun disappeared. So did the bonhomie of the group. Davie and Rex - who else? - set a fair old pace on the climb. They were followed by Jimmy and Alan and Robert and Ronnie and Paul. Peter, Johnny and Allan brought up the rear, watching the rest disappear into the distance. There came a shout from the tail-enders for a stop. But Davie – who else? – said ‘We’ll stop for coffee just up here’, and walked on, the rest following. Judging by the abuse hurled in the direction of the leaders we don’t think that this action was appreciated by the trailers but we walked on regardless. ‘Just up here’ proved to be three hundred yards further up the flank of the hill. At the cairn where we always stop, we stopped for coffee and to let the rest catch up. When they did, there was dissension from two. Peter and Johnny, with an air of ‘We’ll show you, you sods’, walked on past and on up the hill throwing various comments at the leaders. Allan on the other hand, just happy to have somewhere to relieve his burning legs and lungs, collapsed in a crumpled heap beside the rest.
Whether Allan took in the view from the coffee stop was difficult to say but the rest of us did. From the Glen Afton hills through the high Galloways to the pale blue lump that might have been Ben Lomond in the north, the panorama wasn’t as good as it might have been. A dusty atmosphere hid Arran though the Ayrshire coast was clear. And the Highland line was shown only as a pale blue smudge rising to the lump of The Ben. But various Ayrshire landmarks could be identified so the view occupied the attention during coffee.
It was a short coffee stop for we wanted to catch the dissenters. So upward we plodded, Davie and Rex setting the pace again and the rest strung out down the slope. A brief, very brief, stop was had at the spring near the summit to test the water and catch the breath. This spring is a conundrum. It is situated just off the summit of the hill, higher than any of the surrounding landscape and flows at a constant temperature summer and winter, an indication of the complex geology of the Muirkirk area. It is reputed to have the same chemical make-up as Loch Katrine in the Trossachs, but this is more than fifty miles away. But even if it doesn’t come from this source, how it gets as high is a mystery. No doubt somebody at sometime will resolve the mystery but to us, a mystery it remains.
From the spring it was a short fifty foot climb to the summit where we found the rebel two ensconce in the shelter of the cairn having their own coffee. We sat down to join them.
The view to the east and south was open to us then. Tinto looked good with the sun still lighting it. From here through the Culter Hills, the Moffat hills and the Lowthers to the high Galloways, the panorama was extensive even if a bit on the hazy side and points of identification indicated by those who know. A pale grey-blue patch on the southern horizon showed where Criffel stood above the Solway. ‘Can you see Wanlockhead from here?’ asked a mischievous Paul alluding to a previous dispute on the subject. We could. But Allan’s inquiry about the number of lochs was completely lost on Davie in his own quiet world by the side of the War Memorial.
We sat for quite a while on the summit. But tempus fugit; so must we. So, with bodies recovered and esprit-de-corps restored, we set off downward, into Lanarkshire.
We could see the road we were heading for, a forest type road some half mile away, running down the valley of the infant Douglas Water. But between us and it lay a rough trackless slope of doogals. According to the Porter-Johnstone categorisation of Doogals, these were hairy but they were only grade three and were on our down-slope so presented little problem. We strode down the slope to find the end of our road.
This road was to take us nearly to the end of the walk at Glenbuck Loch. But before that lunch had to be taken. Where the road crossed the infant Douglas, we sat for the peece. We sat on the end of the brig – no more than two concrete pipes with the road laid on top – and dangled our legs over the edge. Though the water is still small here, at this side of the brig was a deepish pool, a pool that we thought Holly would enjoy. To entice her into the water, some started to throw small stones. Whether by accident or design, these stones with their accompanying splashes crept closer and closer to us spraying the legs with water. Retaliation was the order of the day. Eventually, Alan, with Hiroshima style overkill, lifted a boulder and heaved it into the pool. The resultant explosion sent a mushroom of water in the direction of Rex and Jimmy, drenching them from the knees down – particularly Jimmy. Since this blog might be read by those of a sensitive disposition, it is best not to write exactly what Jimmy said to this. Suffice to say that he wasn’t best please and swears (appropriate word) vengeance. Beware Alan. But like Hiroshima, this brought an end to our particular war and, with our infantile antics over, we walked on.
The sun made reappearance as we left the brig and followed the road down the waterside.
After a bit, the road left the side of the Douglas and climbed high on its valley side. At one time there was a breeding programme for Red-legged Partridge here but the birds seem to have disappeared now. Not so their pens. We passed one and the stench of rotting flesh hit us. Dead sheep, possibly casualties of the severe winter, were laid out in it. The smell rather than the sight caused a quickening of the pace. Or perhaps this quickening was due to the road for we were now on the down-slope, heading for Parish Holm. Whatever the cause, we found ourselves at parish Holm in good time.
Now there was only a short mile of level walking along the loch side to our destination. An angler stood on a boat in the water too busy returning his catch to the water to notice us passing on the bank. Perhaps Holly splashing into the water might have drawn his attention but he never acknowledged our presence as we walked round to the bird hide.
The new-comers were impressed by the hide; not only by the quality of construction but the fact that it has remained un-vandalised for so long. We sat in the hide for a few minutes while Davie plunked oranges seeds at all and sundry. He was lucky, on a day such as this, that he didn’t find himself up to the neck in loch water. But he didn’t and we all arrived back at the cars dry, even Jimmy and Rex had dried by this time.
This is turning into a favourite walk of ours. And to finish of another good day we took FRT in the Coachhouse in Muirkirk.
Later that evening we met again – this time joined by Ian – in the Rupee Room in Ayr for Johnny’s birthday do. After the meal we went over to the Wellington for the pub quiz. Result: Them 32, Us 30. Fluky @@@@@@s.
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