Alan, Allan, Davie C, Davie Mc, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Peter, Rex, Robert & Ronnie
We knew there was a reason for having Ian in our group. Despite the fact he keeps winning our competitions – our sloe gin contest being the latest – there is one good reason we keep him; he knows some good walks in the extreme south of our county having spent many long boyhood summers in Lendalfoot. Today’s was another of Ian’s walks.
Jimmy and Peter were late. Not that this worried them particularly for they were ensconced in a nice warm car, but we stood shivering by the cars in the car park at Bennane Head, backs turned to the chill February breeze blowing off the sea, cursing the tardy pair. (Silly auld buggers might have waited inside the cars – Ed) Eventually they arrived and we could start the walk in what was new territory to many of us.
Though the morning was lightly overcast, there was the promise from the met office that at the very least it would get no worse and there was the possibility of some sunshine later so we anticipated a decent day as we set off southward along the A77. Ian set a cracking pace along the side of the road, partly to generate some body heat and partly to get off the busy drag as quickly as possible. And at an Ayrshire Coastal Path sign pointing across the road, we did just that, taking an unclassified road past Little Bennane Farm. This took us across country to a junction with the B734 at Liggatcheek.
Now we had a decision to make; should we turn left and come to the shoulder of Knockdolian that we could see on the skyline, or should we leave tarmac and take the grass track directly opposite that would take us to the old lime kiln that we could see barely quarter of a mile away on the side of the hill. We opted for the latter.
The track took us directly to the limekiln – a stance for shooters by the looks of the heap of spent cartridges that lay in the angle of the wall. But a few minutes examination of the kiln was enough and we set off again, up past the abandoned limestone quarry, now filled with water and forming a small lochan. For some reason known only to them, Robert and Jimmy then made directly for the steepest part of the hill and, like sheep, we followed. This was a mistake for, when we had all cleared the rusting barbed-wire fence without damaging the fence or ourselves, we were confronted by a grassy slope that rose ominously steep in front of us. But we were assured by those in front that it was a shorter climb than it appeared and that the slope eased off after that. Ha! Some fifteen lung-bursting, leg-burning minutes later we topped the steep and, though the slope did ease, we found that it was still rising. However those in front took pity on the rest of us and, in the lea of a crag, on a spot that offered a great view up the valley of the Stinchar, we collapsed for a well needed cuppa.
We were now on the craggy volcanic outcrop of Knockdolian itself and after coffee we continued the upward progress, coming round the foot of our present crag to a fence we could see on the skyline, a fence that we thought we could follow to the summit. Wrong. The fence ran out against the crag. But there was a gap in a lowish section of the rock and we clambered through this to find an easier, grassy slope that would indeed take us to the summit.
Rex and Davie (who else?) reached the summit trig point first with Ronnie and Allan acting as ‘lanterne rouge’ and the rest somewhere between. And what a view greeted each one as we reached the trig point even under today’s overcast sky. The three-sixty degree compass included: Below us was the Stinchar valley running eastward to the hills around Barr and Rowantree, hills that were still clothed in hill-fog: To the north Byne Hill sloped down to the sea: the northern hills of Arran were smothered in clag but, as is common, Holy Isle stood out and the south end of the island was clear: Ailsa Craig stood out like a sair thoom in the near distance, the lighthouse showing white: to the south the moors of Wigtownshire and the hills above Glenluce were clear, Beneraird standing proud above them: altogether a superb viewpoint. ‘And for so little effort’ said Davie Mc.
A wee while was spent on the summit admiring the view and taking pictures. The Belfast ferry steamed its way out of Loch Ryan, turning Corsewell point as we watched, giving Ian a chance to try out his new binoculars. But the wind that chilled us at the car park also chilled us here and the time came to move on.
We came off the hill to the south, avoiding the crags and the steeper slopes. The tarmac strip of a road could be seen below us. Down a grassy slope and through a stand of flowering whin we found a farm track. But this appeared to run too far up the valley for us so it was decided to cross the field directly for the road. Easier said than done for between the field and the road was a wee copse of hazel scrub. Robert found the ground here to be both slippery and extremely wet on the backside. Ian found the barbed wire to be stronger than his skin. And all of us found some difficulty coming through that copse. Still we made it and found ourselves on a road heading for Ballantrae.
Rex and Jimmy, well to the front, found a sign pointing down towards the river and indicating a ‘Riverside Walk’. This was the way we went. And we were glad we did for the pad took us down to a delightful, sheltered riverside picnic spot complete with table and seats. This is where we chose to lunch. The sun made an appearance now making the lunch stop even more delightful. We hoped that this was an indication of Wednesdays to come for the rest of the year. In the field across the river some dozen or so whooper swans grazed, adding to our wildlife count for the day - two buzzards, one raven, a brown hare, a single rabbit and two roe deer already. Delightful though the picnic spot was, we had to move on.
We followed the riverside walk down to Ballantrae Bridge and on into the village. Now we would pick up the Ayrshire Coastal Path and follow it back to Bennane.
A strange thing about the human mind –at least the strange minds of the Ooters – is that it tends to blank out bad memories. We had forgotten just how bad this part of the coastal path this is. It goes on to the beach, a shingle beach here. The tide was high and there was no alternative but to take to the shingle, shingle that moved under the feet, shingle that gave no purchase, shingle that exhausted already tired legs. And shingle that stretched in front of us for the best part of a mile. Conversations dried up as each retreated into his own private hell, got his head down and slogged his way along that blasted shingle.
Welcome relief came when we crossed the Bennane Burn and found the old road at Snib’s Cave. (See
www.geograph.org.uk/photo/1715945) A short break was had here to allow legs to recover from the travail of the shingle and allow those of that kind of nature to investigate the cave. Then we continued up the old road, the road that was abandoned when the new stretch was opened over the Bennane in the last years of last century. Conjecture was made as to the possibility of keeping this section of the road are a tourist only route with parking areas and picnic sites. If anybody from South Ayrshire is reading this, it shouldn’t involve too much money for parking areas already exist here and the road is still in good nick. And it was up this road in good nick that we came. This was easy enough going until near the top. The farmer obviously uses the old tarmac as a place for feeding his cattle and the area around the feeders is inches deep in wet slurry. We had to take to a field to avoid the gunge. Still, this was only on the last fifty metres or so before the main A77 again. Then we had only fifty more metres to the car park at Bennane.
There was a pre-walk suggestion of a visit to Sawney Bean’s cave just underneath the car park but the shingle had taken its toll and such was the energy left at the end of the walk that not one of us considered even more exertion with a visit to the cave. ‘Next time’ was the consensus.
This was a good walk – highly recommended except for the shingle – and a great suggestion, Ian.
FRT for the day was taken in the Harbour Bar in Girvan where the welcome was somewhat different from we are used to.
APOLOGY: At the sportsman's dinner last night it was drawn to the scribe's attention that when he was at the front, head down and slogging along the Ballantrae shingle, a drama was being enacted behind him. Robert and Allan thought that the best plan of action to avoid the slog was to step over the fence into the cow-muddied field. While Allan negotiated the fence without incident, Robert put his hand on the top wire only to find it was electrified. Oyah! The scribe is sorry he missed this incident.
Rex and Davie (who else?) reached the summit trig point first with Ronnie and Allan acting as ‘lanterne rouge’ and the rest somewhere between. And what a view greeted each one as we reached the trig point even under today’s overcast sky. The three-sixty degree compass included: Below us was the Stinchar valley running eastward to the hills around Barr and Rowantree, hills that were still clothed in hill-fog: To the north Byne Hill sloped down to the sea: the northern hills of Arran were smothered in clag but, as is common, Holy Isle stood out and the south end of the island was clear: Ailsa Craig stood out like a sair thoom in the near distance, the lighthouse showing white: to the south the moors of Wigtownshire and the hills above Glenluce were clear, Beneraird standing proud above them: altogether a superb viewpoint. ‘And for so little effort’ said Davie Mc. 
Rex and Jimmy, well to the front, found a sign pointing down towards the river and indicating a ‘Riverside Walk’. This was the way we went. And we were glad we did for the pad took us down to a delightful, sheltered riverside picnic spot complete with table and seats. This is where we chose to lunch. The sun made an appearance now making the lunch stop even more delightful. We hoped that this was an indication of Wednesdays to come for the rest of the year. In the field across the river some dozen or so whooper swans grazed, adding to our wildlife count for the day - two buzzards, one raven, a brown hare, a single rabbit and two roe deer already. Delightful though the picnic spot was, we had to move on. 
A strange thing about the human mind –at least the strange minds of the Ooters – is that it tends to blank out bad memories. We had forgotten just how bad this part of the coastal path this is. It goes on to the beach, a shingle beach here. The tide was high and there was no alternative but to take to the shingle, shingle that moved under the feet, shingle that gave no purchase, shingle that exhausted already tired legs. And shingle that stretched in front of us for the best part of a mile. Conversations dried up as each retreated into his own private hell, got his head down and slogged his way along that blasted shingle. 
ince none of us had been there before, today seemed the perfect opportunity, especially as the weather was settled into a warm summery spell and we needed an easier walk than last week. That’s why seven of us waited at Girvan harbour for the bus to Pinwherry. The seven was soon raised to eight when we were joined quite unexpectedly by Ian who had come away from an appointment rather earlier than expected and had rushed down the road from Killie to join us. Now there was eight of us (and Holly forbye) we set off on the bus for Pinwherry.
we weren’t to go to the station. The bus dropped us in the middle of the village and Paul, reading the leaflet, directed us southward through it and over the bridge on the Duisk Water. A hundred metres further on he had us turn off the road on to a well surfaced track under the railway. This was the start of the coach road.
, was the general comment but whether this was on account of his anniversary or on his supplying cake, the scribe is not quite sure. Still, it is well done Johnny. 
tarmaced, it was just as narrow as the old coach one. Then he came back past and we stepped aside again. But when he came back for the third and fourth time we suspected he was just doing this to see the look on our faces as we gave way. Maybes naw, but by the smile on his face, maybes aye. However the fourth time was the last time and we walked on keeping the ever approaching Knockdolian as our reference point.
or the rest of the walk.
ards later, and out of sight of the main road, other things were pointed as Rex’s coffee of an hour before found its way into bladders and there was now a row of Ooters facing the shrubbery, watering an already damp landscape. However the road was dry and, at the moment, though the sky lowered, the rain stayed away. A forest-type road slanted up the hill on the north side of Glen App. Rex’s book told us it would take us onto a landscape of purple heather, the haunt of merlin and hen harrier, and give us superb views of Loch Ryan and the Rinns of Galloway. At least it got the colour right for the heather was in full flower today and clothed the hillside on both sides of the track. But there were no birds to be seen, only the occasional grouse could be heard amongst the heather. And, slightly higher still, there was no landscape to be seen either for we were into a fog. And the rain came, not particularly heavy rain but enough to make us hap up.
cliff top grasses still held their water in large dewy drops. And the grass was long. Trouser bottoms were soaked and, in due course, trainered feet were likewise. But the path did afford us a different perspective now, north-westward this time. The Mull of Kintyre lay on the skyline and Arran showed to the north. Jimmy commented how Holy Isle is often visible when Arran is obscured. Some had never noticed this phenomenon before but promised to look out for it in future. If they remember. But both islands were visible today. And Paddy’s Milestane stood out clear enough for us to see the lighthouse.
