Allan, Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Paul, Rex & Robert
Another damp and dreich Wednesday – it seems to be the norm for this year – saw another postponement, this time our trip to the Luss Hills. The weatherman said there might be a window of dry for a few hours in the southwest so when we gathered in Ian’s in Killie, a local alternative was sought. Some suggested Killie to Fenwick; another put forward another Irvine valley day; but we eventually settle on Paul’s suggestion of Troon to Dundonald, a walk that was new to most. And we kept our fingers crossed for this window of dry.
As we drove the few miles to Troon we thought that we were in for another soaking for a heavy downpour hit somewhere west of Kilmarnock and threatened to stay for a while. But it was shorter lived than it first seemed and it had gone by the time we drew up in the car park at the south end of the south esplanade in Troon.
Now, the writer’s sense of geography is pretty good and he can normally tell the juxtaposition of different towns in Ayrshire. Surely Dundonald is north-east of Troon. So why should Paul and Ian direct us southward along the beach towards Prestwick? They did though, and seemed confident enough about it so we followed their direction walking along the hard sand taking care to avoid the long drifts of wet, slippery seaweed. But we weren’t on the beach too long before the leaders had us off the sand and on to the Royal Troon golf course crossing this by a footpath.
It was on the golf course that Rex was recognised by one of the golfers preparing for another shot. ‘I thought you were a mountain man, Rex’. Rex explained that sense prevails in the Ooters now and that this was an alternative to a soaking on the hill. We’re not too sure whether this explanation satisfied the inquirer but we didn’t care, we pushed on before any more comment could be made. The footpath took us over the railway by a footbridge and through a wee wood, across the Southwood Road, through the Southwood, by Lochgreen House and on to Crosbie Church.
Crosbie Church is a roofless ruin now and only the standing walls and the wee graveyard surrounding them. The present walls were built in 1681 to replace an older one of the mid thirteenth century. They have stood as a ruin since the roof blew off the church in 1759 when it was abandoned. Had we known it at the time there are one or two interesting gravestones in the old graveyard (see en.wikipedia.org/.../Crosbie_Castle_and_the_Fullarton_estate). But we didn’t know this and though we did spend a few minutes in the churchyard while speculation was made and photographs were taken, photos of the church and the masses of snowdrops growing amongst the graves, we never did find these stones.
Leaving the church, we took to tarmac along quiet lane towards Fullarton, a lane designated ‘Smuggler’s Trail’. Now we were heading for Dundonald. We had seen snowdrops last week at Durisdeer and again today at Crosbie Church but they were as nothing compared with the sight in Fullarton wood. Snowdrops upon snowdrops upon snowdrops in great clumps and drifts covered the floor of the wood until most of it was white. And the white carpet extended to a few hundred square metres. The cameramen were at it again. We look forward to seeing the results. While the cameramen had done their stuff the rest of us had walked the few hundred metres to where once stood Fullarton House (see the above web site) and, since it was now approaching eleven, we found a picnic table for coffee and let the camera boys catch up.
The main road onto which the path from Fullarton decanted us and along which The Smugglers Trail sign pointed us, was busy but at least there was a pavement for us to walk on. We kept to the pavement through Loans and beyond before we came to another sign that pointed us along a narrower road and over the even busier A77 by a bridge.
This was the road for Collenan and the old Troon reservoir. The reservoir, instead of supply Troon with water, is now the base for Troon Angling Club which stocks it annually and fly-fish it. Nobody fished it on this dreich Wednesday. Yet, as we walked across the dam, a quick glance seaward showed the sky brightening. And was that a blink of sunshine that lit the water? Would our few hours window of dry be blessed by some sunshine as well? We could only hope. Not that we would see any sunshine anyway for we were now approaching Aught Wood.
Now, as we entered the wood, we felt for the first time that we might be following the smugglers on the trail. Tradition has it that this was the route through the wood by which the goods smuggled from the Isle of Man found their way from the safe landing beaches of Troon and Barrassie to Dundonald and the rest of Ayrshire (Read John Gault’s ‘Annals of the Parish’). On this section of the trail you can almost feel the presence of these eighteenth century ‘gentlemen of the night’.
But we didn’t complete the trail to Dundonald. Paul had us climb a dirt pad, a dirt pad that brought us to the top of Hillhouse Quarry. What a pockmark on the face of the earth this is; no doubt a necessary pockmark but a grey and unsightly one from where we stood. It was Ian who spotted the fox, a spot of rusty red, the only colour on the grey floor of the quarry. As we watched, the fox ran away along a grey road until it all but disappeared in the distance, the act of which lent some true scale to the excavation of the quarry. And it was nearly gone before Rex could spot it. Poor old soul – should’ve gone to Specsavers.
We came off the lip of the quarry and found a track to old Auchens House (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auchans_Castle,_Ayrshire). It was to Achens that James Boswell brought Doctor Johnson from Auchinleck to visit the aged Lady Susanna Montgomery, dowager countess of Eglinton after their sojourn to the Western Isles.
Auchens is only a short hop from Dundonald and we found ourselves entering the village around lunch time. The best place for lunch was thought to be Dundonald Castle perched on its mound above the village. So we climbed the hill, found a place out of the breeze and sat down for lunch. What a magnificent place this is for a castle. The views into north and central Ayrshire are extensive, ranging from Blacksidend in the south-east through the Irvine Valley and Loudoun Hill, over the Fenwick and Stewarton Moors to the low-lying plains around Irvine. It is the perfect place for a seat of governance, both to see over and be seen from most Cunninghamme.
How the righteous are blessed. This was a remarkably good walk considering what we expected of the weather and it has given some of us new territory.
After lunch - Paul remembered his today - we came down off the hill to find a bus stop for we were not to walk back to Troon but to ride (Aren’t bus passes wonderful). Half-way back to Troon on the bus, the heavens opened. We had been lucky enough on the walk to get a window of dry now it looked as though that window was about to shut. When the bus dropped us in central Troon the rain was still coming down, and we had still a mile or so to walk back to the cars. Bugger! We got wet.
Still, a quick change of gear and a seat by the fire in The Anchorage for FRT soon restored our spirits.
Another damp and dreich Wednesday – it seems to be the norm for this year – saw another postponement, this time our trip to the Luss Hills. The weatherman said there might be a window of dry for a few hours in the southwest so when we gathered in Ian’s in Killie, a local alternative was sought. Some suggested Killie to Fenwick; another put forward another Irvine valley day; but we eventually settle on Paul’s suggestion of Troon to Dundonald, a walk that was new to most. And we kept our fingers crossed for this window of dry.
As we drove the few miles to Troon we thought that we were in for another soaking for a heavy downpour hit somewhere west of Kilmarnock and threatened to stay for a while. But it was shorter lived than it first seemed and it had gone by the time we drew up in the car park at the south end of the south esplanade in Troon.
Now, the writer’s sense of geography is pretty good and he can normally tell the juxtaposition of different towns in Ayrshire. Surely Dundonald is north-east of Troon. So why should Paul and Ian direct us southward along the beach towards Prestwick? They did though, and seemed confident enough about it so we followed their direction walking along the hard sand taking care to avoid the long drifts of wet, slippery seaweed. But we weren’t on the beach too long before the leaders had us off the sand and on to the Royal Troon golf course crossing this by a footpath.
It was on the golf course that Rex was recognised by one of the golfers preparing for another shot. ‘I thought you were a mountain man, Rex’. Rex explained that sense prevails in the Ooters now and that this was an alternative to a soaking on the hill. We’re not too sure whether this explanation satisfied the inquirer but we didn’t care, we pushed on before any more comment could be made. The footpath took us over the railway by a footbridge and through a wee wood, across the Southwood Road, through the Southwood, by Lochgreen House and on to Crosbie Church.
Crosbie Church is a roofless ruin now and only the standing walls and the wee graveyard surrounding them. The present walls were built in 1681 to replace an older one of the mid thirteenth century. They have stood as a ruin since the roof blew off the church in 1759 when it was abandoned. Had we known it at the time there are one or two interesting gravestones in the old graveyard (see en.wikipedia.org/.../Crosbie_Castle_and_the_Fullarton_estate). But we didn’t know this and though we did spend a few minutes in the churchyard while speculation was made and photographs were taken, photos of the church and the masses of snowdrops growing amongst the graves, we never did find these stones.
Leaving the church, we took to tarmac along quiet lane towards Fullarton, a lane designated ‘Smuggler’s Trail’. Now we were heading for Dundonald. We had seen snowdrops last week at Durisdeer and again today at Crosbie Church but they were as nothing compared with the sight in Fullarton wood. Snowdrops upon snowdrops upon snowdrops in great clumps and drifts covered the floor of the wood until most of it was white. And the white carpet extended to a few hundred square metres. The cameramen were at it again. We look forward to seeing the results. While the cameramen had done their stuff the rest of us had walked the few hundred metres to where once stood Fullarton House (see the above web site) and, since it was now approaching eleven, we found a picnic table for coffee and let the camera boys catch up.
The main road onto which the path from Fullarton decanted us and along which The Smugglers Trail sign pointed us, was busy but at least there was a pavement for us to walk on. We kept to the pavement through Loans and beyond before we came to another sign that pointed us along a narrower road and over the even busier A77 by a bridge.
This was the road for Collenan and the old Troon reservoir. The reservoir, instead of supply Troon with water, is now the base for Troon Angling Club which stocks it annually and fly-fish it. Nobody fished it on this dreich Wednesday. Yet, as we walked across the dam, a quick glance seaward showed the sky brightening. And was that a blink of sunshine that lit the water? Would our few hours window of dry be blessed by some sunshine as well? We could only hope. Not that we would see any sunshine anyway for we were now approaching Aught Wood.
Now, as we entered the wood, we felt for the first time that we might be following the smugglers on the trail. Tradition has it that this was the route through the wood by which the goods smuggled from the Isle of Man found their way from the safe landing beaches of Troon and Barrassie to Dundonald and the rest of Ayrshire (Read John Gault’s ‘Annals of the Parish’). On this section of the trail you can almost feel the presence of these eighteenth century ‘gentlemen of the night’.
But we didn’t complete the trail to Dundonald. Paul had us climb a dirt pad, a dirt pad that brought us to the top of Hillhouse Quarry. What a pockmark on the face of the earth this is; no doubt a necessary pockmark but a grey and unsightly one from where we stood. It was Ian who spotted the fox, a spot of rusty red, the only colour on the grey floor of the quarry. As we watched, the fox ran away along a grey road until it all but disappeared in the distance, the act of which lent some true scale to the excavation of the quarry. And it was nearly gone before Rex could spot it. Poor old soul – should’ve gone to Specsavers.
We came off the lip of the quarry and found a track to old Auchens House (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auchans_Castle,_Ayrshire). It was to Achens that James Boswell brought Doctor Johnson from Auchinleck to visit the aged Lady Susanna Montgomery, dowager countess of Eglinton after their sojourn to the Western Isles.
Auchens is only a short hop from Dundonald and we found ourselves entering the village around lunch time. The best place for lunch was thought to be Dundonald Castle perched on its mound above the village. So we climbed the hill, found a place out of the breeze and sat down for lunch. What a magnificent place this is for a castle. The views into north and central Ayrshire are extensive, ranging from Blacksidend in the south-east through the Irvine Valley and Loudoun Hill, over the Fenwick and Stewarton Moors to the low-lying plains around Irvine. It is the perfect place for a seat of governance, both to see over and be seen from most Cunninghamme.
How the righteous are blessed. This was a remarkably good walk considering what we expected of the weather and it has given some of us new territory.
After lunch - Paul remembered his today - we came down off the hill to find a bus stop for we were not to walk back to Troon but to ride (Aren’t bus passes wonderful). Half-way back to Troon on the bus, the heavens opened. We had been lucky enough on the walk to get a window of dry now it looked as though that window was about to shut. When the bus dropped us in central Troon the rain was still coming down, and we had still a mile or so to walk back to the cars. Bugger! We got wet.
Still, a quick change of gear and a seat by the fire in The Anchorage for FRT soon restored our spirits.
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