When it snows, ain't it thrilling,
Though your nose gets a chilling
We'll frolic and play, down Darvel way
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Though your nose gets a chilling
We'll frolic and play, down Darvel way
Walking in a winter wonderland.
Alan, Allan, Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Malcolm, Paul, Robert, Ronnie
There are times when, it would appear, that the thing called organisation is just a figment of a collective Ooters’ imagination. So it seemed when ten of us gathered in Davie’s place in Darvel. A fortnight ago in the warm comfort of Poosie Nancies in Mauchline we thought to be organised for the next four ‘ootings’. Today was to be a trip through to Lanarkshire for the Falls of Clyde walk. But the Siberian blast that gripped the country in an ice hand and hit the north and the east of the country with the heaviest November snowfalls in living memory, extended a snowy finger into the south-west overnight and left us with a couple of inches of the white stuff. And as we drove to the gathering place in Darvel, it seemed that more was on its way. Then, as we sat in Davies and watched great flakes of the stuff add to the lying whiteness, a re-evaluation of the plan was called for. We would now walk from Davie’s and have another day in the Irvine Valley. Somehow, in the general babble of the morning, Jimmy (Surprise, surprise - Ed) never caught the end of the plan, something that was to prove costly later in the day.
Around the nine-thirty mark the snow went off and, with a little reluctance in some quarters, we set off for another walk in the valley. Ranoldcoup Bridge was crossed and Davie asked as if giving us a choice, ‘Will we go up through the estate or stick to the road?’ before moving off in the road direction. We followed for we didn’t really care so long as we got out for a walk.
The snow shower swept away to the westward and the sun did its best to break though the heavy cloud, leaving us with a soft diffused light and some dramatic moments in the sky as we walked up towards Dyke farm. In a field by the farm, just as we left tarmac and took to the footpath, stood two long horned, black highland cattle with the last snow shower still on their backs. The cameras were out again despite the lack of sun. We look forward to seeing the results. But the itch-footed were ready for the off again even before the cameras were safely stowed away.
We moved on up the footpath on an old track, climbing high on the side of the valley. At one point Loudoun Hill appeared away to our left but only distantly and greyly as the tail-end of another snow shower cleared its face. And the sky above it was threatening still more snow. Yet away to our right the sun was showing as a bright peachy-pink streak on the horizon; the coast seemed to be in sunshine. We had hopes for a brighter day.
The old track took us up into the wood and what a winter wonderland greeted us there. The bare grey branches of the beech, and ash and the almost black of oaks held an edge of new-fallen white. The floor was carpeted with virgin snow and it seemed such a shame to spoil the scene with footsteps. But this is exactly what we did. With no sense of the aesthetics we followed the footpath, climbing gradually through the wood to our highest point of the day at Keilands and leaving a wreckage of broken and trampled snow behind us.
Now we were pretty close to the Darvel TV transmitter, only a couple of hundred yards away. The cloud that hung over us was lower than we thought for when we looked at the mast of the transmitter, it rose to disappear into the clag. Yet, once again we could look under this and see the sun as a bright streak to the south. We still had hopes of a brighter day though it didn’t look like it at the moment.
We found tarmac at Keilands; not that we could see it for the road was as white as the surrounding landscape and could only be distinguished by its flatness, straightness and parallel hedges. But we took to this flatter, firmer whiteness, turning right towards the brighter sky. And it looked like the brightness was coming towards us for now more of the sky had a peachy hue to it. We wandered along the road enjoying the ease of the slight downward slope and the crispness of the snow. The brighter sky wasn’t the only thing coming towards us though. A car was struggling to make headway up to meet us, occasionally sliding sideways but crawling ever upwards. The driver stopped the vehicle as we came to meet it just in case it slid into us. He was a chatty soul and wound down a window for a blether. It turned out that he was making for the mast to carry out some technical stuff, too technical for our simple minds. But standing still, even for these few minutes, encouraged the chill to seep into the bones. So we left the technician to continue his slithery crawl towards the mast and we continued our downward progress towards the ever brightening sky. That our driver had difficulties on the slope was evident from the zig-zag nature of his tyre tracks in the snow. ‘Did anybody smell drink from him?’ asked one, staring at the drunken nature of the tracks. While we were inclined to believe that this zig-zagging showed that he was a very experienced driver, the question was re-asked as we followed the drunken tracks down the road.
We were down past the Middlefield road end when the sun found us. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day. It was also near here that we left tarmac and took a sign-posted footpath down a row of trees to the headwaters of the Burnawn (Burn Anne). It’s amazing what a blink of sunlight does to a snowy landscape. What was once a flat white expanse was now crisp with every bump and hollow picked out by the low angle of the sun. Each snow crystal reflected the light sending back sparkles that changed colour as we passed. View stops were called frequently and cameras clicked constantly as we crossed the burn-head and found tarmac again near Cairnhill Farm.
Though this was not quite our highest point of the day, it was high enough and the views in front of us were much more extensive than on the Keilands road. Across the west end of the valley, a snowbound Ayrshire stretched from Mauchline to Stewarton and from Galston down to the coast at Irvine. Craigie and Dundonald Hills prevented us seeing the coast in this direction but Ailsa Craig still managed to pop its head out. Arran that looked so clear and sunny and inviting earlier was partly obscured as another snow shower swept down the firth. And the view would stay with us changing subtly as we dropped down the road towards Threepwood.
But Threepwood was never reached. We found the path that we had come up back in April (April 21st to be exact) and followed this to find a picnic bench by the t-junction of the paths. Stomachs were telling us that it was approaching lunch time so snow was scraped clear from table and chairs and we sat down for lunch.
It was during lunch that Jimmy became aware of the rest of the plan. We would walk down to Ga’ston and take a bus back from there. Choice and loud were the expletives Jimmy aimed in our direction for he had deliberately left his bus pass back in Darvel expecting to walk all the way round, as we have always done, and claiming no one had told him of this plan. Not only that but he had left his money with it. (Now there’s a surprise! – Ed) Despite his annoyance, we were unrepentant – the daft auld so-and-so will have to learn to listen in future. Then, just as we thought Jimmy’s spleen was fully vented, Malcolm announced that he didn’t have his bus pass either. That set Jimmy off again. Now it was Malcolm’s turn to get it this time for allowing the rest of us to abuse Jimmy for his forgetfulness. But Jimmy’s ire lasted only as long as his coffee and he was restored to calm before we set off again.
Whether it was because we had been sitting in the cold for as long or whether the temperature really had taken a drop, we couldn’t be sure but when we set off again it was cold. We met a light easterly as we left the picnic table, an easterly that blew the powdered snow into mini drifts across our path. Exposed cheeks burned with the frosty blow and fingers fairly nipped even inside gloves, and it took a wee while for us to warm up again. Down the slope of the valley side we came, down past the pond where the tadpoles used to be, down past East Threepwood where James Smith ‘dayed’ in 1685, and down to the valley of the Burnawn. We turned a corner into the shelter of some trees and immediately the temperature changed. Now with the protection of the trees and the valley side, the day was quite pleasant again.
We followed the Burnawn down through the wood into Ga’ston. We were just in time; the bus had just arrived at the bus stop. Jimmy cadged enough from the kitty to pay his fare in the understanding that he would pay it back when we reached Darvel. (Serves him right – Ed). Malcolm at least could pay his own fare. But they weren’t at all chuffed. ‘Two pound forty-nine! Nearly fifty bob! I only wanted a hurl in the man’s bus, I didnae want tae buy the b***** thing’, was Jimmy’s comment much to the amusement of the other passengers.
With Jimmy’s wallet retrieved and the kitty reimbursed, we repaired to the Black Bull for FRT.
There are times when, it would appear, that the thing called organisation is just a figment of a collective Ooters’ imagination. So it seemed when ten of us gathered in Davie’s place in Darvel. A fortnight ago in the warm comfort of Poosie Nancies in Mauchline we thought to be organised for the next four ‘ootings’. Today was to be a trip through to Lanarkshire for the Falls of Clyde walk. But the Siberian blast that gripped the country in an ice hand and hit the north and the east of the country with the heaviest November snowfalls in living memory, extended a snowy finger into the south-west overnight and left us with a couple of inches of the white stuff. And as we drove to the gathering place in Darvel, it seemed that more was on its way. Then, as we sat in Davies and watched great flakes of the stuff add to the lying whiteness, a re-evaluation of the plan was called for. We would now walk from Davie’s and have another day in the Irvine Valley. Somehow, in the general babble of the morning, Jimmy (Surprise, surprise - Ed) never caught the end of the plan, something that was to prove costly later in the day.
Around the nine-thirty mark the snow went off and, with a little reluctance in some quarters, we set off for another walk in the valley. Ranoldcoup Bridge was crossed and Davie asked as if giving us a choice, ‘Will we go up through the estate or stick to the road?’ before moving off in the road direction. We followed for we didn’t really care so long as we got out for a walk.
The snow shower swept away to the westward and the sun did its best to break though the heavy cloud, leaving us with a soft diffused light and some dramatic moments in the sky as we walked up towards Dyke farm. In a field by the farm, just as we left tarmac and took to the footpath, stood two long horned, black highland cattle with the last snow shower still on their backs. The cameras were out again despite the lack of sun. We look forward to seeing the results. But the itch-footed were ready for the off again even before the cameras were safely stowed away.
We moved on up the footpath on an old track, climbing high on the side of the valley. At one point Loudoun Hill appeared away to our left but only distantly and greyly as the tail-end of another snow shower cleared its face. And the sky above it was threatening still more snow. Yet away to our right the sun was showing as a bright peachy-pink streak on the horizon; the coast seemed to be in sunshine. We had hopes for a brighter day.
The old track took us up into the wood and what a winter wonderland greeted us there. The bare grey branches of the beech, and ash and the almost black of oaks held an edge of new-fallen white. The floor was carpeted with virgin snow and it seemed such a shame to spoil the scene with footsteps. But this is exactly what we did. With no sense of the aesthetics we followed the footpath, climbing gradually through the wood to our highest point of the day at Keilands and leaving a wreckage of broken and trampled snow behind us.
Now we were pretty close to the Darvel TV transmitter, only a couple of hundred yards away. The cloud that hung over us was lower than we thought for when we looked at the mast of the transmitter, it rose to disappear into the clag. Yet, once again we could look under this and see the sun as a bright streak to the south. We still had hopes of a brighter day though it didn’t look like it at the moment.
We found tarmac at Keilands; not that we could see it for the road was as white as the surrounding landscape and could only be distinguished by its flatness, straightness and parallel hedges. But we took to this flatter, firmer whiteness, turning right towards the brighter sky. And it looked like the brightness was coming towards us for now more of the sky had a peachy hue to it. We wandered along the road enjoying the ease of the slight downward slope and the crispness of the snow. The brighter sky wasn’t the only thing coming towards us though. A car was struggling to make headway up to meet us, occasionally sliding sideways but crawling ever upwards. The driver stopped the vehicle as we came to meet it just in case it slid into us. He was a chatty soul and wound down a window for a blether. It turned out that he was making for the mast to carry out some technical stuff, too technical for our simple minds. But standing still, even for these few minutes, encouraged the chill to seep into the bones. So we left the technician to continue his slithery crawl towards the mast and we continued our downward progress towards the ever brightening sky. That our driver had difficulties on the slope was evident from the zig-zag nature of his tyre tracks in the snow. ‘Did anybody smell drink from him?’ asked one, staring at the drunken nature of the tracks. While we were inclined to believe that this zig-zagging showed that he was a very experienced driver, the question was re-asked as we followed the drunken tracks down the road.
We were down past the Middlefield road end when the sun found us. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day. It was also near here that we left tarmac and took a sign-posted footpath down a row of trees to the headwaters of the Burnawn (Burn Anne). It’s amazing what a blink of sunlight does to a snowy landscape. What was once a flat white expanse was now crisp with every bump and hollow picked out by the low angle of the sun. Each snow crystal reflected the light sending back sparkles that changed colour as we passed. View stops were called frequently and cameras clicked constantly as we crossed the burn-head and found tarmac again near Cairnhill Farm.
Though this was not quite our highest point of the day, it was high enough and the views in front of us were much more extensive than on the Keilands road. Across the west end of the valley, a snowbound Ayrshire stretched from Mauchline to Stewarton and from Galston down to the coast at Irvine. Craigie and Dundonald Hills prevented us seeing the coast in this direction but Ailsa Craig still managed to pop its head out. Arran that looked so clear and sunny and inviting earlier was partly obscured as another snow shower swept down the firth. And the view would stay with us changing subtly as we dropped down the road towards Threepwood.
But Threepwood was never reached. We found the path that we had come up back in April (April 21st to be exact) and followed this to find a picnic bench by the t-junction of the paths. Stomachs were telling us that it was approaching lunch time so snow was scraped clear from table and chairs and we sat down for lunch.
It was during lunch that Jimmy became aware of the rest of the plan. We would walk down to Ga’ston and take a bus back from there. Choice and loud were the expletives Jimmy aimed in our direction for he had deliberately left his bus pass back in Darvel expecting to walk all the way round, as we have always done, and claiming no one had told him of this plan. Not only that but he had left his money with it. (Now there’s a surprise! – Ed) Despite his annoyance, we were unrepentant – the daft auld so-and-so will have to learn to listen in future. Then, just as we thought Jimmy’s spleen was fully vented, Malcolm announced that he didn’t have his bus pass either. That set Jimmy off again. Now it was Malcolm’s turn to get it this time for allowing the rest of us to abuse Jimmy for his forgetfulness. But Jimmy’s ire lasted only as long as his coffee and he was restored to calm before we set off again.
Whether it was because we had been sitting in the cold for as long or whether the temperature really had taken a drop, we couldn’t be sure but when we set off again it was cold. We met a light easterly as we left the picnic table, an easterly that blew the powdered snow into mini drifts across our path. Exposed cheeks burned with the frosty blow and fingers fairly nipped even inside gloves, and it took a wee while for us to warm up again. Down the slope of the valley side we came, down past the pond where the tadpoles used to be, down past East Threepwood where James Smith ‘dayed’ in 1685, and down to the valley of the Burnawn. We turned a corner into the shelter of some trees and immediately the temperature changed. Now with the protection of the trees and the valley side, the day was quite pleasant again.
We followed the Burnawn down through the wood into Ga’ston. We were just in time; the bus had just arrived at the bus stop. Jimmy cadged enough from the kitty to pay his fare in the understanding that he would pay it back when we reached Darvel. (Serves him right – Ed). Malcolm at least could pay his own fare. But they weren’t at all chuffed. ‘Two pound forty-nine! Nearly fifty bob! I only wanted a hurl in the man’s bus, I didnae want tae buy the b***** thing’, was Jimmy’s comment much to the amusement of the other passengers.
With Jimmy’s wallet retrieved and the kitty reimbursed, we repaired to the Black Bull for FRT.
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