2 June Ayrshire Coast – Maidens to Dunure Or Why Can't We Have A Walk Like This Every Week?

Old Rex, the father of the group, joined the ranks of Senior Citizens at the week-end and, as is our wont, we joined him to celebrate this mile-stone in his life. But we didn’t celebrate on the Wednesday evening, as is our custom, for Rex had promised a home-made pizza party and he suggested the Tuesday evening to give him time to prepare the dough. Who were we to disagree with the old fella? So we gathered at Rex’s place to consume a mountain of home-made pizza and copious amounts of red wine. Our thanks go to Rex for his hospitality but not for the way some heads felt in the morning.

Because of last night’s celebration, we opted for a short, local walk today. That’s why we were back on the Ayrshire Coastal Path doing the section from Maidens to Dunure, a very scenic, very familiar and very enjoyable part of the route. And to make it especially enjoyable for us today, the sun shone and the air was clear, soft and warm with just the hint of a sea breeze.

That this was to be a short, relaxed walk was evident from the start when we drove into Maidens, turned right along the sea front and drove on, and on, and on, finally parking just short of the caravan park. When eventually we did start walking, we took to the sandy beach. The nature of this walk is such that there are no extensive inland views, and seaward, there was only Arran and Ailsa Craig. The views today were confined to the immediate locality. But views were ignored as blethers were exchanged and watery sections were negotiated and we wandered along that beach hardly noticing our surroundings. Then the path climbed from the sand onto the crags of Culzean. Up through the burnet roses we climbed, up through the pine wood, and along through the gorse and blackthorn. On a clear area of soft, springy turf on a crag above the sea, we sat down for coffee, the first of the day.

Looking back towards Maidens

Maidens!

What a pleasant spot this is, sheltered as it is by the surrounding gorse and blackthorn and dotted with the yellows and whites and blues of wildflowers. And catching the full sun today was a bonus. We sat for some time over coffee, enjoying our surroundings and looking seaward to where oystercatcher ‘peeped’ above the rocks and gannets wheeled and dived, plunging arrow-like into the water. Yes, this was a delightful spot today. And we sat for a while.
Though Robert didn’t want to be the one to say it, we all knew what he was thinking. So, somewhat reluctantly, we packed up and moved on into Culzean estate.
We came to the Swan Pond.

That’s where the split in the ranks came. The leaders turned alongside the pond but some were for the cliff-top walk. After some discussion – well shouting, actually – it was decided that each party should go its different way, six along the pond and four along the cliffs agreeing to meet further along the path. Davie opted for the cliff path while his faithful companion, Holly, chose to go with the ponders. Some dugs, eh!

No matter which path was taken, Culzean wood was a sensual delight on this early June morning – scented and coloured by wildflower, alive with an opera of birdsong and dappled with warming sunlight. The budding botanists (pardon the pun) tried to identify the flowers while the fledgling birders (sorry) tried to identify and place the different birds by song. On the whole this was successful with only the more difficult remaining a mystery.

The two groups came together at the Battery and wandered casually through the formal gardens. The herbaceous border was coming into full summer flower and Robert showed off his horticultural knowledge by naming the plants, much to the astonishment of the ignorant. Only two escaped identification. While Jimmy came to the rescue with one, the other had to remain a mystery. It was not that they didn’t know what it was but at their age recollection is an increasing problem. So, in ignorance, we walked on.

In front of the castle two men were digging a deep and perfectly rectangular hole in the lawn. The curious were curious. It turned out that there was a burst water main. The two were waiting for the water folk to turn off the water. The water men couldn’t do this until the fire service had a tender in place just in case a fire should suddenly break out. The fire service couldn’t say when they would have a tender available. So the men just stood waiting, occasionally looking into their perfectly dug hole. We left them to it.

‘There’s a tea room at the home farm’, said one. There certainly was. At a couple of tables outside in the sun, we sat and had coffee and cake. ‘This reminds me of Mosset’, said one relaxing over his espresso ‘All this sitting about in the sun drinking coffee’. We had to agree. ‘Why can’t we have more walks like this?’ asked Allan. And why not indeed!

We came back onto the beach just north of Culzean Gas House. Half an hour of sand, shingle and one particular rocky area where Jimmy was asked if he need his hand taken (see 20 May 2009), brought us to a gently sloping sandstone outcrop. We had lunch there. Despite the annoying flies that buzzed about our heads, we had a long lunch break. (Why can’t we have more walks like this?)
But, there comes a time.......

The beach was sandy with a shingly edge on the landward side. The oystercatcher gave herself away by her panicky calling at Holly. ‘There’s a nest in the shingle’, said the ornithologist and set off in search. His labours were not in vain. Though he didn’t find the nest, he did find two fluffy chicks playing possum in the shingle. We all went for a look while the parent bird screamed its annoyance over our heads. The chicks, mottled and camouflaged, lay perfectly still with an attitude of ‘I’m not a bird. I’m only a stone. Go away and leave me alone’. (Poetic birds then? – Ed.) We left them alone and continued along the beach.

A chick in the grass - easily missed - but not our eagled eyed bunch

The path left the beach after a while and zigged and zagged steeply up a high grass slope. What Johnny had in his lunch box we don’t know but we could all do with some. What a cracking pace he set on this up-slope. Conversation, which had been a feature of our relaxed walk, dried up as the slope and Johnny’s pace took its toll. And those at the end thought he would never stop. But he did. Where the path entered a field, he stopped. It was only for a moment or two though, just long enough to let us mere mortals catch up then he was off again but this time more slowly.
We were now high above the sea on the edge of a field where sweet corn and thistles poked their heads through rows of plastic covering. On our left the ground fell away in steep crags to the sea below, a meeting that was hidden from us by stunted shrubby trees and patches of gorse. Some of this shrubbery, which at first glance looked like blackthorn but had strange elongated fruits, was beyond the ken of he who should know and remains another of his ‘must find outs’.*

The path continued to slope upward at the side of the fields, upwards past an abandoned WW2 look-out turret, up towards the Dunure road. At the roadside we reached the highest point of the day and the path dropped seaward once more. Down through the shrubbery it led us. Round a corner and there was Dunure castle in front of us, its short cropped grass park busy with sight-seers. But before we left the rank grasses to join the park, the walk had one more joy to show us. On the very path in front of us more young chicks scurried away in panic. In the long grass, disturbed by Holly, a mother cheeped to attract the chicks. What it was we can’t be quite sure for it hid itself well. The closest the ornithologist could fathom, despite a valiant search, was that it was either a partridge or a pheasant (Well it was running away through the coarse grass with its head down.) It was still a pleasure to see the chicks no matter what they were.

A seat in the sun by Dunure Castle was followed by a small refreshment in the Anchorage Bar. In a relaxed moment Allan was heard to ask himself, ‘Why can’t we have a walk like this every week?’

The Ayrshire coast is a fine place on a fine day. This was a fine day and this part of the coast gave us a great walk. But not as great as The Cobbler.

* The shrub in question was sea buckthorn.

Photos by Johnnie

20 May Ayrshire Coast part 6 – Dunure to Alloway

All’s well that ends well

To paraphrase the poet, ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice and men though aften gaein’ agley, juist as aften turn oot for the best’. Or, to quote yon ither bloke, ‘All’s well that ends well’. So it was with today. The proposed tour of Bute by bike was cancelled in the light of a poor weather forecast and Davie’s reluctance to get wet on a bike. Instead, we opted for the short section of the Ayrshire coast from Dunure to Alloway with the view that if the weather did turn nasty, we would be out of it quickly and into the warmth of a pub somewhere. Oh we of little faith.
We gathered at Rex’s place. Jimmy and Peter would like it noted that, not only were they early but they were first there. But everybody else was early so their glory was short-lived. We left cars at Rex’s and took two to Dunure. Though a cool southwesterly blew as we left the cars, the morning sun still shone and Davie was getting peculiar looks from some who suspected the sun also shone on Bute.

Rex had the book so we were relying on him to set uson the right path. ‘Climb away from the harbour to the railway bridge at Fisherton’ read Rex. So, off we went in that direction. Hawthorn flowers scented the air as we took the road up through the trees, came into more open farmland and climbed away from the sea towards the railway bridge. Concern grew when we realised we were walking too far away from the sea. We halted to re-examine the book. This time Rex read the right paragraph, not the one that had us on the diversion over the Carrick hills.
So back down the road we came, through a field gate, down through the field to the sea and lo, we beheld the coastal path. (Sorry fellows but poetry may well be a recurring theme of this posting.) Now that we had found the path, it was easy enough to keep to it: all we had to do is follow the white paint marks on the rocks. We could ignore Rex’s book now.

The path led us through a machar festooned with spring flowers.
If we thought that last week’s walk was the epitome of ‘flow’ry May’, today was to prove us wrong. Apart from the afore mentioned hawthorn, red campion grew in the hedgerows and the higher parts of the shoreline; blue spring squill, white daisies with yellow centres and red buds, orange-yellow bird’s-foot trefoil and field buttercups decked the drier sward; pink thrift and stonecrop filled crevasses in the orange-lichened rocks while early purple orchids and yellow marsh marigolds grew in the wetter areas. And the flower show continued all along the shore, with white bladder campion, oxeye daisies, green wall pennywort and sea spurges all flowering in their own particular habitat. We all agreed that it was a superb show.

One of those wetter parts took us down to the beach where we were to stay for the next four or five miles. At first, the going was on coarse sand but this soon gave way to shingle and larger cobbles. Peter was in his element, looking amongst the tide-washed boulders for agates and examining with enthusiasm many of the coloured cobbles. Jimmy and Ronnie were a willing audience for his passion. Said Jimmy ‘Isn’t it great, Peter, that we have reached sixty-odds and still retain a childlike interest in the world around us?’ This childlike interest extends from rocks and landscape features to wildlife and history, all of which we would encounter today. Peter loaded his rucksack with pebbles which, no doubt, will appear in a painting in due course.

By this time, we were split into two groups, Davie and Robert in the van some twenty metres in front and rest examining the beach for treasures. There now came a burn to be crossed, a shallow burn and not too wide. There should be no problem here for we didn’t have Paul today. But there was a problem. The advanced pair cleared the stream and walked on. Rex cleared it and waited for the others. Jimmy could see the boulder in the middle was dry and provided a safe stepping-stone. Jimmy was wrong. His foot slipped on the wet algae and in went the left foot. Not content with this, when he tried to retain balance his right foot slipped. It also went in. Now both feet landed on the slippery bottom and gave way. Doon went Jimmy with a resounding splash and a yell. He emerged form his unexpected bathing drookit from the waste down, torn breeks, a might graze and bruise where his shin hit the offending boulder, a gash dripping blood on one hand and a staved finger on the other. A sight to behold.
This was when Rex displayed his well-honed first-aid skills, applying the plaster to the cut on Jimmy’s finger. For this act of mercy, we have awarded Rex an honorary doctorate. Henceforth he shall be known as Doctor Porter and never again as that wee Aussie b******.
The advanced pair walked on oblivious to the drama being played out behind. But, being hailed from a hundred metres back, they halted to let the rest catch up. We were now at a point where the beach gave way to a rocky outcrop and behind this, sheltered from the breeze we sat for coffee.
Many were the words of sympathy offered to Jimmy.
‘If you had two walking poles, you could have kept your balance’
‘Mair like twa crutches he needs’
‘Better wear a cycle helmet next walk just in case’
‘He’ll no damage onything if he hits his heid’
‘I wish I’d seen it. It must have been funny’
‘Did ye get the video, Rex?’
‘Can I put this sticky plaster on your hairy leg?’ asked the sadist.
Jimmy declined the offer. While he accepted the sympathy, he would have preferred drink.

Post coffee we continued the walk (or hobble according to who you were). We came onto the flat sand again under a low crag and the walking was easy. The day was turning pleasantly warm and we hadn’t too far to go so the pace was casual. The birders enjoyed themselves, the stone gatherers enjoyed themselves and the novice botanists enjoyed finding new plants. We all enjoyed that section of the walk. But it was now approaching twelve-thirty and lunch was called. Again, we found a sheltered spot behind a crag and sat for lunch, a long lunch as the day warranted.

We came under a high cliff, the start of the Heads of Ayr, where ‘the raven soars and the seabirds nest’. There were some shallow caves beside a waterfall. The adventurous climbed to examine the caves while the timorous and the lame waited for their report. ‘Shallow caves, barely twenty feet deep and not worth the effort to see’, was the comment. So we continued along the shore. 

The sand and shingle gave way to boulders and rocks around the cliffs at the north end of the Heads. Care had to be taken here. Somebody offered to take Jimmy’s hand just in case. Jimmy asked for a carry but this was refused so we all took our own degree of care in crossing the boulders. But the rocks were soon passed and the sand was regained.

Greenan Castle now came in view, perched on its crag at the far end of our sandy bay. Daviesuggested we cut the corner by going straight across the bay. ‘The tide’s out and the sand’s firm’ said he. We followed Davie (Again?). The tide was out but burns, broadened to river width on the flat sand, ran across our path. There was no option but to wade through. ‘I don’t mind’, said he of the torn breeks, ‘My feet are wet anyway’, and off he strode through the flood. We were forced to follow, picking our route carefully. But we all reached Greenan with relatively dry feet.

Greenan castle had to be explored. We climbed up the steep grass beside the crag to get to it. The door of the castle is bricked up but a hole has been punched in the brickwork and, with sufficient wriggling, it would be possible to gain entrance. None of us tried it.

From the height of the castle, we could look over the sea to Arran bathed in sunshine and right up the Ayrshire coast to the Clyde islands. ‘What a great day this would have been for a cycle on Bute’, said somebody. Davie ignored the comment and recounted his Greenan Castle tramp story instead. Then we turned our backs on the castle and walked on.

Not only did we leave the castle but we also left the Coastal Path and the shore and turned inland. We came by Greenan Farm and the road by High Greenan to find the cycle path along the old railway. On the flat tarmac amongst the trees, the pace was gradually increased to our usual rate. We came to the Doon and stopped on the railway bridge. Here was a superb view upriver to the two brigs o’ Doon, the auld one seen through the arch of the new. Photos were taken.
Immediately on the left of the north end of the old railway brig is the well made famous in Tam O’ Shanter as the place ‘where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’’. This was examined by some though others missed it and marched on past.
The old railway was left and we came into Alloway near ‘the auld haunted kirk’. But we didn’t visit there today. Instead, we turned our footsteps along past the ‘auld clay biggin’ and on to Rex’s place.
This was another superb section of the walk, probably made so by the weather. None of us was too unhappy to have cancelled the cycle on Bute.

But we had to get back to Dunure for the cars left there. And while we were there, we partook of a small refreshment in the same place as we did last week.

Photos by Bob.

13th May Ayrshire Coast, Part 5 – Maidens to Dunure

Sweet is the morn in flow’ry May,
And sweet the e’en in autumn mild,
When roving through a garden gay,

Or wand’ring in some lonely wild.

The Bonnie Lass o’ Ballochmyle
Robert Burns

What the autumn mild has in store for us we will need to wait to see, but it was certainly a sweet May morning that greeted us when we gathered at Dunure for our next leg of the Ayrshire coast. The sun shone early, the air was clear. The only thing that sopped this being the perfect morning was the cool westerly that greeted us when we left the cars but the forecast was in our favour and we expected the day to warm up nicely as it progressed.
And there was to be no lonely wild for us today. There would be ‘gardens gay’ though, both formal, as in the sunken lawn and borders at Culzean Castle, and informal as we walked through the ‘Pleasure Garden’ of the Culzean woodlands and the flower-decked machar of the coastal fringe. The botanists amongst us anticipated it eagerly. And the birders anticipated some excellent spotting.

Leaving Maidens

We left Maidens in two groups with the first ambling along the beach to allow the other to catch up. Davie had turned to the north car park and the rest to the south one some half mile away so we left in two groups. But the first group enjoyed the speed of the amble; it was a day for taking time. The sand was firm and the walking easy. The second group set off at the usual speed and we were all together by the time we approached the caravan park. They were reduced to the speed of the first bunch. Somewhere along the beach we lost the wind; we came into the shelter of the Culzean cliffs and lost the breeze altogether. Coffee was called for, but Davie suggested we wait until the top of the headland where we would get a great view seaward. This is what we did.
A flight of sandy steps rises from the beach to the scrub-covered headland some fifty feet above. This should be no problem for any one of us but Johnny had us stopped. Not that he had a problem; it was just for one of his photo-shoots. We posed dutifully as directed and then continued up onto the scrubby cliff-top. Davie led us through the shrubbery to a grassy clearing overlooking the sea where we settled down for coffee.


Off the beach into Culzean

Heading for Culzean

Davie was right, this was a superb place to stop. We were in the sun and out of the wind and the view seaward was first class on a day like this. The sky was azure, though high altitude cloud trailed the southern horizon adding creaminess in that direction: the sea reflected the blue of the sky but turned it cobalt and ultramarine: the greens and yellows of cliff-top whins added colour to the scene while orange lichens and thrift tinted the rocks below. The Ayrshire coast was visible all the way from Turnberry lighthouse in the south to the crags of Portincross in the north. The Clyde islands and the hills of Cowal formed the northern horizon. Arran filled the north-west skyline and, west of this, the blue-grey line of Kintyre ran southward to its Mull. Paddy’s Milestane stood proud in the southern sea. And Gannets, dive-bombing for fish, entertained us as we took coffee. Bob said ‘The Med would be goin’ some to beat this the day’. Nobody argued.

Ailsa Craig

We spent some time over coffee, just lazing in the sun. Surprisingly, Peter made the first move. (Robert would like it recorded that he didn't move first - this time.) Reluctantly we raised ourselves from the sun-warmed, springy turf and followed Peter.
Culzean’s swan pond was through a wood of more mature trees. When we reached it, we turned right for there were some who wanted too visit the aviary. What a disappointment. A notice on the door informed us that the aviary was now closed. The PC brigade has triumphed again. It seems that it is unacceptable now to keep birds in cages so all the Culzean birds have been given to local breeders. Eh! Do these breeders have bigger cages than Culzean? We very much doubt it. But the birds are gone now and NTS are looking for a new use for the aviary.
The path on the east side of the swan pond was taken. This took us into more mature woodland, a woodland that was alive with birdsong and decked out in spring flowers. Here was ‘flow’ry May’ in all its grandeur. Bluebells, red campion, wild garlic and a yellow flower Jimmy identified as Doronicum coloured the ground level under a canopy of fresh spring green. And, once again, we were sheltered from the breeze. This really was an enjoyable part of the walk.

The battery

But the wood ended, too soon for the naturalist who was still tuned into the birdcalls, and we came out into the immediate environs of Culzean Castle at the Battery. We were now into the more formal part of the park. Davie spoke of the Orangery and this was our first port of call in the formal garden.
A collection of different varieties of oranges and lemons grew in pots under the protection of the Orangery. We had to watch Rex for, as an Aussie his natural inclination was to pee on the lemon trees. But he managed to contain himself and the lemons avoided urination.

Oranges and lemons

The sunken garden, with its lawns and fountain was a suntrap today and heat built up as we wandered by the formal borders and up to the castle itself.
Culzean Castle is such a well-known feature of Ayrshire landscape and history that it needs no description here. We halted for a few minutes on the mortar terrace to look over the sea to Arran and see the Ayrshire coast run northward. The naturalist was disappointed not to see any seals on the water, which he assures us, is the usual case from this terrace. But Peter and Ian had other interests apart form wildlife and landscape: Peter for the gashouse and Ian for the caves underneath the castle.
Down at sea level, we turned left for the caves, assuring Peter that we would return to view the gashouse. The rocks were scrambled over, too much scrambling for Ronnie and Johnny who chose to remain on the sand and await our return. The first cave is nothing more than a shallow opening in the cliff face so excited no particular interest from the newcomers. But the second was deeper and longer and allowed us entry, after a duck through a manmade doorway, into a netherworld, a dark and damp netherworld. While the rest of us were content to remain in the spacious cavern with a chink of daylight reminding us of our own world, Jimmy and Ian were for further into the cave. They were, until Jimmy, in the complete darkness, stood in the mud-slimy puddle. His howls, as the cold water oozed into his trainer and his head hit the roof as he stood up, might have been interpreted by those hearing it outside as some modern day Minator roaring in its labyrinth. But it was only Jimmy with a wet foot and a sore head. The speleologists returned to the company and we all returned to the daylight world.
The third cave was to be the one that provided most interest according to those who knew. More rocks were scramble over to reach it. But it was to prove a disappointment for both entrances are gated and barred now. Health and Safety rules, OK! We could do nothing but gaze into the darkness through the bars before admitting defeat and returning over the rocks to find Ronnie and Johnny and return to the gashouse.
The gashouse was worth the visit and we spent time here examining the information boards. It’s amazing the number of Ayrshiremen who were at the forefront of the social, economic and technological developments of the industrial revolution. (For further information, consult your history expert)
We left the gashouse and took along the shore. The going was easy on the firm sand and the walking was casual. Culzean policies were left when we turned round a headland and came to Maybole Shore. This is a name you won’t find on a map but it is a local name for this part of the shore and Ian told the story of its naming. It is too long to quote here but if you wish to know, the writer feels confident that Ian will relate it again.
An excited cry from one of the birdie folk drew our attention to a pair of birds that Davie identified as whimbrel. They looked like curlew to us but we were assured they were whimbrel and we should consider ourselves lucky to see them. Some of us were underwhelmed.
Lucky or not, we continued the walk along Maybole Shore. Hunger came calling for it was now approaching lunchtime and, on flat rocks at the end of Maybole Shore, we settled down to eat.

Lunch was long and unhurried for we were only a short distance from our destination, the day was turned pleasantly warm and the view over the water to Arran was superb. Again, there was a lack of interest in moving after it. But we forced ourselves reluctantly to our feet and continued the walk. The beach was stony now, multi-coloured cobbles as far along as we could see. But we had time and took plenty of it to find a way through. Peter looked for agates. Some, naughty boys, helped themselves to a brightly coloured stone or two and carried them home. Some just took their time and enjoyed the day. The cobbles lasted for two or three hundred metres but it must have taken fully twenty minutes for us to cover this distance. When we did leave the cobbles, it was not by choice.
We approached another bluff where crags came down to the shoreline and a sign pointed us inland and upward over the head. We climbed with a track of sorts. This ran out though but further signage pointed us down into a wee burn that ran full of last week’s rain. There was a shoogly, four-inch plank across the burn beside a fence but no other way over. We looked forward to the antics of the hydrophobes, Rex even getting the camera ready for the inevitable fall. But there was no fall and we were all safely on the other side. Rex was disappointed.
Dunure Castle

Dunure

Approaching Dunure

The path continues upward beside fields of sprouting corn, towards the road. One of those military lookout posts, the remainders of WW2, stood beside the field. The sensible ignored it and walked on. Those in their second childhood were for into and up it. Was it worth it? The sensible would say no for the view wasn’t improved any. But the boys enjoyed it.
We thought for a moment that the path would take us onto the Dunure road but we were wrong. It took us back down through grass, long even at this time, to the short, springy machar above the sea. Now we had only a few hundred yards to Dunure Castle and it was taken at a very leisurely pace. Here the advanced group waited for the sluggards. We all waited for a while before making our way back into the village and to the Anchorage Bar for FRT.
Perhaps it was the day, perhaps the easy pace, perhaps the way the path avoided roads, but it was the general opinion that this was the best section of the walk that we have done so far. We look forward to more.
Leaving Anchorage Bar

Photos by Johnnie