4 September A few points of interest on Arran

Davie C, Davie Mc, Gus, Jimmy, Paul, Rex & Robert

The northerly airstream that gave us brilliantly clear air and blue skies over the last couple of days might have given us some remarkable view today had it lasted. But it didn’t last. It went overnight to be replaced by an Atlantic system that brought heavily overcast sky, building winds and the threat of rain anytime. Indeed the forecast was for persistent rain in the early afternoon. This was a great pity for we were bound for Arran today and hoped for a great day on the high tops.

            On the ferry, interest in the high tops waned as the cloud drifted lower down the slopes and the sky thickened. But where to go to keep out of the weather? Davie Mc had a plan (Doesn’t Davie always have a plan? - Ed.) This was adopted unanimously for we had all lost interest in the high tops by this time. That’s why, just this side of half eleven, the bus dropped us off at the south end of Whiting Bay as the first spots of rain dropped.

            There were some thoughts of ignoring the light rain and hope it would go away but when it became serious, we all donned waterproofs then started off into the damp day. The path was signed for Glenashdale Falls and the Giants' Graves, two point of interest that some of us had already visited but some hadn’t. The path was flattish at first but turned steep as we turned off the main one and took the one climbing towards the Giants' Graves. The rain went off but the waterproofs didn’t, for there was still some dampness in the air. It was a hot, sweaty, zigzagging climb to the Giants' Graves, the walk only being broken by the occasional halt to pick the brambles growing in profusion alongside the path. But we made it to the flat plateau of the graves to overlook a soggy Whiting Bay though the rest of the island disappeared in the damp gloom.

The Giants' Graves turned out to be a bronze age horned valley burial mound mostly robbed out of its covering stones but the grave cist is still more or less intact. And the trees round it have been felled recently so the spectacular siting of it above the sea can be more appreciated now. And appreciate it we did, taking photos for the record. 

 

There is a forest road just above the graves which would take us to the head of Glen Ashdale and the falls. But did we take it? Davie Mc had a plan! We retraced the steps back down the zigzag path, ignoring the brambles this time, to the foot of the glen. Then we turned left, up the wooded glen toward the falls.

The path was flattish beside the burn and the walking was easy. But still the sweat refused to evaporate in the damp air. Then the slope turned steeper and the sweat built up inside the waterproofs. It was a rather steamy bunch of Ooters that stopped on the viewpoint overlooking Glenashdale Falls. The burn was running fairly full today and the falls were spectacular even under the gloomy sky, dropping a hundred and forty feet in two leaps into a dark, deep-looking pool at the bottom. And the rush of the water was deafening. Or was that the rain falling on cagoule hood? For once more the persistent dribble came.

‘Coffee,’ gasped a parched Rex. But Davie Mc had a plan. There is a picnic bench just over the burn above the falls, just up here a bit. (Aye, we’ve heard this one before, Davie. – Ed) This is where we went and took a well-earned break. As we sat for coffee/lunch, the rain went only to be replaced by the midges. We didn’t hang about for coffee/lunch. To escape the biting blasties we set off into the forest.

Almost immediately the path entered the forest. Except for the fringes of the glen, this is coniferous plantation, thick, dark and with no ground vegetation. And it was into this forest that we went. The path was clear and led us to another point of interest, an Iron Age fort. Despite its age and the obvious robbing out for building materials, a substantial part of it remains and we spent some time speculating on it and then reading the information board beside it to see if our speculation was correct before moving on into the forest again. One thing about these forests is that once you are in them the rest of the world disappears. And there is no interest except for the next tree which looks exactly like the previous one. There was nothing to divert the attention away from the blethers of each other. Such was our interest in our own conversation that we missed, all seven of us missed, the signpost, the large blue signpost that directed our path to the left. We went right! Half a mile later we thought we were lost. OK, we have been lost before in the forest. We know what to do. We wander around like headless chickens looking for a way out. Eventually, after wandering about for twenty minutes looking for an exit in the woods, we retraced the steps and found the sign, the large, blue sign that directed our par straight on to the forest road. YEH!!!

The forest road turned to tarmac on the steep downslope into Whiting Bay. In the village itself we stopped to eat again and for some to dispense with the waterproofs for the rain had now gone and the day looked as though it would brighten. So much for weather forecasts! Still, the dampness persisted and sweat still refused to evaporate.  But the day was yet young and we had energy enough to spare. Davie Mc had a plan.

Northward then, he directed us, on the road for Lamlash. Why was he constantly looking in every drive, every break in the hedge, every layby to his right? He was looking for a path he had last trodden some twenty-odd years ago and wasn’t quite sure where it was now. But he found it in due course and we were led along a narrow trod through the trees – real trees this time - and into a field. At the far side of the field we decanted onto another road and turned right, downhill towards the coast. Then we left the road and took to fine manicured grass between stands of whin and brambles, still leading downward, down towards Kings Cross. ‘Why is this called Kings Cross?’ asked the inquisitive one, ‘The name is obviously English and not the usual Gaelic of the island. It must be a much later name’. His answer would come in due course. Down we went then, down between the stands of whin and brambles, and down to an ancient Viking burial ground and fort. On our way we had passed a cyclist, a lady cyclist, having a break on one of the benches scattered around here. Jimmy had stopped to talk to her but caught us up before we reached the fort on Kings Cross. Apparently, according to the lady cyclist, this was where Robert Bruce was camped awaiting the signal from Turnberry that the way was clear to return to the mainland and commence his fight for the Scottish throne. This is where the King crossed hence Kings Cross. Well, we live and learn!

From Kings Cross we came down toward the beach and found ourselves coming into somebody’s garden. Just as we were about to go back, a man approached and showed us through the garden onto the beach. Many thanks to him for allowing us to do that. A gentle stroll thereafter brought us along the beach and back into Whiting Bay.

FRT was taken on the 16:40 ferry back to the mainland. Due to weather conditions this had been a short yet interesting visit to the island and some of us had been to places we hadn’t been to up till now.