30 March Dalry – Braidland Hill Walk

Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Paul, Rex & Robert There’s a lot to be said for fair weather walking – the Blue Sky Scotland boys have the right idea – but there’s not a great deal to be said for trudging through the rain for hours at a time. (Except if you’re a masochist, or Paul.) But that’s exactly what six hardy, some say stupid, Ooters did today. I suppose we were due another wet Wednesday considering how dry the month of March has been, but being due one and being prepared for one are entirely different matters from experiencing one. The intention when we left the sloe-gin evening last week was to take another turn up to Luss for a walk on the hills there but the threatened rain and the horrendous forecast for the Loch Lomond area caused a change of mind among those who gathered in Ian’s in Kilmarnock. Robert, our decision maker, had anticipated the usual confusion in deciding where to go so came prepared. He had found a leaflet with details of a walk around Dalry in north Ayrshire. Thank heavens for Robert. And if we were lucky we might get a window of dry as we did on the Troon to Dundonald day. But we weren’t lucky. No sooner had we arrived in the car park in Dalry than the rain came on, a constant rain, a wetting rain, a rain that would last for the duration of the walk. None of us had done this walk before so it was new territory for us but Robert had the leaflet and Ian has a working knowledge of Dalry so we were confident in our direction finding. The two had us set off along the Kirk Close into the rain. ‘At least it’s no’ that cauld an’ there’s nae wind’ said Ian, trying to lift the spirits as we trudged uphill through the town, rain incessantly pattering on hoods. We came along Sharon Street and up past the cemetery, directed by Ian and Bob’s leaflet. Robert knew something was wrong as we climbed the hill so stopped to accost a friendly looking native walking a dog. She was unsure of the route we wanted but felt confident enough to tell us to continue up the hill. Wrang missis! When we came to a house named Langlands and consulted the map on the leaflet, we knew she was just as wrong as us for this road was taking us away in entirely the opposite direction from where we wanted to be. So back down the hill towards the cemetery we went. The road alongside the cemetery was the one we should have taken so we took it now, still quite unsure if this was our route for there was no indicator at the junction to show us. Still, we took it, confidence growing as we left the town and saw the sign telling us this was the way for ‘Braidland Hill Core Path’. Half a mile along the road and another look at the leaflet, a leaflet that was turning increasingly wet and soggy, showed that we were still on the right course and directed us along the left fork in the road towards a T-junction. We took a right at the junction and the road steepened. We knew that we were on the road for Braidlands Hill even if we couldn’t see it for this road was designated ‘Braidland Mains’. A fellow on a quad-bike (complete with standing collie) passed and shouted through the rain, ‘I wish I could say it was a fine day for a walk’, then sped on upward ignoring Jimmy’s thumbing plea. We trudged on upward. The road steepened and the sweat flowed to join the water already falling on us dampening inside the waterproofs as well as out. But we trudged on. Then came a shout for coffee, a shout that was welcome in most ears. We thought the shelter belt of conifers might just give some protection from the constant dribble so we crawled and scrambled into it to find a place of relative dry. Standing, sitting or squatting in the conifer wood, we took coffee. But the trees only afforded a wee bit of protection and the rain could be felt splashing through them. And the larger drops as the water collected on branched made this a less than comfortable coffee stop. And it was a quick coffee stop. Within ten minutes we were packed on our feet and moving on. At the edge of the plantation, at the corner of the farm, a style and signpost directed us into the corner of a field. Then another style took us onto a track across the hill and into the mist. We knew this was Braidalnd Hill only from the map; it might have been anywhere for all we could see, for we were now into the cloud and the fog restricted visibility to around the thirty metre mark – and the rain still came down. We came through a gate to the side of a plantation. We passed a wee quarry. We heard the woosh – woosh - woosh of the wind generators before we saw them. We passed a larger quarry, one where cars were parked and men went about their everyday business. We passed all of these in the fog, in the rain filled fog. Then the track turned downward and came back out of the cloud. Now we had a view – of sorts. Through the rain, a rain that seemed to be getting lighter now, we looked out over a grey, damp and dreich Garnock valley. There was Dalry lying to our left, just appearing through the rain. Below, to our right was the reservoir of Caff. And behind us, the rain-sodden, cloud-covered Braidland Hill. We walked down off the hill to find tarmac again. And was the rain easing? It appeared that way. At a sharp elbow in the road, we sat to have a bite of peece. We dined in two groups for, while some made themselves comfortable on the road verge, Robert had noticed a chair some fifty metres further along the road. Three of us made for the chair. And we sat there in the dribble and had lunch. Yes, the rain was slightly lighter now but still it was there, pattering on hoods. Lunch was only slightly longer than coffee. Now we were back on the road that we had come up this morning, a road that would take us back into Dalry. But some weren’t happy with his. When we reached the outskirts of the town we found a path joining the road, a path that Ian said would take us back to the centre of town. The path appealed to some but not to all for there were those fed up of the rain and desperate to get back to the cars. The group split evenly into two, three taking the path and three the road. The ‘roaders’ came back to the cemetery and followed the main road back into town. The ‘pathers’ came to a wee scrubby woodland in a shallow valley. The path took them down through old mine workings and into a modern estate. ‘That’s where my son lives’, said Ian as they passed one particular house, ‘That’s how I knew the path’. And the estate road did bring them into the centre of town. No matter which route was taken, we all arrived at the car park at the same time. And it was still raining! As I said, not a lot can be said for trudging through the rain for hours at a time and not a great deal could be said for this day. This was easily our wettest walk since our first of the year at Portencross and perhaps the best that can be said about it was the change into dry clothes at the end of it. In the corner of a car park in Dalry six drookit wrinklies stripped off and changed into dry gear. Shear bliss. The Volunteer and Masonic Arms at the corner of the Kirk Close provided FRT for the day. And it was most welcome!