Alan, Allan, Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Paul, Rex, Robert & Ronnie
Distance: 9.3 km
Anywhere last week-end’s snow had been compressed by feet had been turned to ice thanks to the daytime thaw and overnight freezing. Not that we in Ayrshire would have known this for the snow had all but disappeared from God’s own county and the countryside had long returned to green. And, though the morning was overcast, there was sufficient lightness in the grey that promised a good day ahead so we were full of the joys of the morning as ten of us motored into darkest Lanarkshire for another round of the Falls of Clyde.
Yet, even before we reached the Clyde Valley, we had a hint of what underfoot conditions might be like for icy-looking snow lay in the fields and roadsides beyond Stra’ven but no way were we prepared for the full extent of what was to come. When we reached the bridge at Kirkfieldbank we were to find out. The bridge and the access road were caked in an inch or two of bumpy wet ice, wet ice that proved treacherous to Vibram soles. And we now suspected the path round the walk would be the same.
We were not daft enough to try to cross the bridge. Instead, working on the theory that the thaw that caused the wetness of the ice would have worked its magic by the afternoon and the bridge would be safer to cross, we decide to do the walk in and anticlockwise direction for a change.
So up the dry road we started, up to the start of the path. As soon as we turned off the road onto the track we knew we were in for a difficult walk. The same treacherous ice that coated the bridge lay along the length of the track as far as we could see. Extreme care was taken as each tried to find grip on the hazardous surface. Only Rex strode out, his Christmas present of Yak Grips doing what they were supposed to do; the rest of us slipped and slithered our way along the path watching carefully where we placed feet.
There might have been things to see in the trees or over the river but we never saw any of them, we were too busy with heads down watching where we put feet. At one point Rex, twenty metres in front and confident in his Yak Grips, shouted back ‘Careful of the branch’. Jimmy raised his head to see what branch and promptly tripped over the one directly in front of him. Down went Jimmy like a Lithuanian footballer, spread-eagling on the ice. Those behind sympathised in the usual way; those in front walked on oblivious to the drama behind for their heads were down watching where to place feet. Jimmy, bleeding though he was from a cut in his hand, picked himself up and slithered on manfully.
We did stop occasionally, to catch breath and look at any view. Across the water the footpath looked even icier and even more treacherous than the one we were slithering along. With a little reluctance on some parts, we skated on. After what seemed hours of slipping, sliding, glissading, pirouetting, holding on to branches to regain balance, we slid to a halt on the viewpoint overlooking Corra Linn. Here we took a welcome break for coffee.
A lot of water dropped over the falls today, brown water, snow-melt water. None of us, not even Davie, a veteran of this walk, had seen the falls as spectacular as this. Metre long icicles still hung from overhangs and ice still coated some rocks. And a flood of ice-cold, brown water threw itself over the drop into the gorge below. Absolutely stunning. The photographers took the opportunity to get the cameras out. WLFTSTR.
But the cold dampness began to chill old bones so we moved on.
The workers, who appeared to be digging a hole in the path at Bonnington barrage only to be filling it up again with concrete, were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. We thought for a minute or two that they were going to say that there was no way across the barrage and that we would have to go back the way we came. But we needn’t have worried. They were a pleasant bunch of guys and invited us to step over their trench, clamber over their pile of debris, step round their barrowful of wet concrete and cross the barrage. This we did and came to the east bank of the river.
If the thaw had done anything in the last few hours, it was barely noticeable. Under the trees, where the snow hadn’t lain, the ground was clear and we could walk normally, well as normally as we usually do. But these patches were few and far between and we were as often as not back to our slithering progress. Now it was Robert’s turn to see the ice close up. Coming down a slope, a gentle slope, a slope that would not normally be noticed, Robert’s footing went and Robert went. He received the same sympathy as Jimmy, picked himself up, wiped himself down and slid on.
After considerably more pirouetting, glissading, pas-de-basing, arabesque-ing, cabriole-ing and generally flaffing about, we found ourselves down past the peregrine watch, the power station and the board-walk entering New Lanark. Here we found two picnic benches free of ice and wet, on which to have a bite of lunch.
The village was free of ice and it was a pleasure and relief to be able to walk with heads up, not constantly looking down at feet. The relief didn’t last too long though, and we were soon back onto an icy track by the riverside. But was the thaw working its magic? This ice seemed crumblier, less solid than before, and less treacherous. Only in places though, for there were still sections of precarious footing and more ballet steps before we reached the safety of Castlebank Park. Now we had only half a mile or so back to Kirkfieldbank and the icy bridge.
The thaw had indeed worked it magic on the bridge for most of the ice had gone by the time we reached it; only in patches did it lie. We crossed the bridge without breaking stride and returned to the waiting cars.
And the result of all this cavorting on the ice? A walk that would normally have taken us three hours took nearly four. And we expect some stiff thighs in the morning.
FRT was taken in the Bucks (sic) Head in Stra’ven on the way back to safe, green country in Ayrshire.
Distance: 9.3 km
Anywhere last week-end’s snow had been compressed by feet had been turned to ice thanks to the daytime thaw and overnight freezing. Not that we in Ayrshire would have known this for the snow had all but disappeared from God’s own county and the countryside had long returned to green. And, though the morning was overcast, there was sufficient lightness in the grey that promised a good day ahead so we were full of the joys of the morning as ten of us motored into darkest Lanarkshire for another round of the Falls of Clyde.
Yet, even before we reached the Clyde Valley, we had a hint of what underfoot conditions might be like for icy-looking snow lay in the fields and roadsides beyond Stra’ven but no way were we prepared for the full extent of what was to come. When we reached the bridge at Kirkfieldbank we were to find out. The bridge and the access road were caked in an inch or two of bumpy wet ice, wet ice that proved treacherous to Vibram soles. And we now suspected the path round the walk would be the same.
We were not daft enough to try to cross the bridge. Instead, working on the theory that the thaw that caused the wetness of the ice would have worked its magic by the afternoon and the bridge would be safer to cross, we decide to do the walk in and anticlockwise direction for a change.
So up the dry road we started, up to the start of the path. As soon as we turned off the road onto the track we knew we were in for a difficult walk. The same treacherous ice that coated the bridge lay along the length of the track as far as we could see. Extreme care was taken as each tried to find grip on the hazardous surface. Only Rex strode out, his Christmas present of Yak Grips doing what they were supposed to do; the rest of us slipped and slithered our way along the path watching carefully where we placed feet.
There might have been things to see in the trees or over the river but we never saw any of them, we were too busy with heads down watching where we put feet. At one point Rex, twenty metres in front and confident in his Yak Grips, shouted back ‘Careful of the branch’. Jimmy raised his head to see what branch and promptly tripped over the one directly in front of him. Down went Jimmy like a Lithuanian footballer, spread-eagling on the ice. Those behind sympathised in the usual way; those in front walked on oblivious to the drama behind for their heads were down watching where to place feet. Jimmy, bleeding though he was from a cut in his hand, picked himself up and slithered on manfully.
We did stop occasionally, to catch breath and look at any view. Across the water the footpath looked even icier and even more treacherous than the one we were slithering along. With a little reluctance on some parts, we skated on. After what seemed hours of slipping, sliding, glissading, pirouetting, holding on to branches to regain balance, we slid to a halt on the viewpoint overlooking Corra Linn. Here we took a welcome break for coffee.
A lot of water dropped over the falls today, brown water, snow-melt water. None of us, not even Davie, a veteran of this walk, had seen the falls as spectacular as this. Metre long icicles still hung from overhangs and ice still coated some rocks. And a flood of ice-cold, brown water threw itself over the drop into the gorge below. Absolutely stunning. The photographers took the opportunity to get the cameras out. WLFTSTR.
But the cold dampness began to chill old bones so we moved on.The workers, who appeared to be digging a hole in the path at Bonnington barrage only to be filling it up again with concrete, were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. We thought for a minute or two that they were going to say that there was no way across the barrage and that we would have to go back the way we came. But we needn’t have worried. They were a pleasant bunch of guys and invited us to step over their trench, clamber over their pile of debris, step round their barrowful of wet concrete and cross the barrage. This we did and came to the east bank of the river.
If the thaw had done anything in the last few hours, it was barely noticeable. Under the trees, where the snow hadn’t lain, the ground was clear and we could walk normally, well as normally as we usually do. But these patches were few and far between and we were as often as not back to our slithering progress. Now it was Robert’s turn to see the ice close up. Coming down a slope, a gentle slope, a slope that would not normally be noticed, Robert’s footing went and Robert went. He received the same sympathy as Jimmy, picked himself up, wiped himself down and slid on.
After considerably more pirouetting, glissading, pas-de-basing, arabesque-ing, cabriole-ing and generally flaffing about, we found ourselves down past the peregrine watch, the power station and the board-walk entering New Lanark. Here we found two picnic benches free of ice and wet, on which to have a bite of lunch.
The village was free of ice and it was a pleasure and relief to be able to walk with heads up, not constantly looking down at feet. The relief didn’t last too long though, and we were soon back onto an icy track by the riverside. But was the thaw working its magic? This ice seemed crumblier, less solid than before, and less treacherous. Only in places though, for there were still sections of precarious footing and more ballet steps before we reached the safety of Castlebank Park. Now we had only half a mile or so back to Kirkfieldbank and the icy bridge.The thaw had indeed worked it magic on the bridge for most of the ice had gone by the time we reached it; only in patches did it lie. We crossed the bridge without breaking stride and returned to the waiting cars.
And the result of all this cavorting on the ice? A walk that would normally have taken us three hours took nearly four. And we expect some stiff thighs in the morning.
FRT was taken in the Bucks (sic) Head in Stra’ven on the way back to safe, green country in Ayrshire.
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