Some images of the walk through the Ness Glen featuring Alan McQ, Allan, Davie C,
Davie McM, Ian, Jimmy and Robert.

    Setting off alongside the Muck Water on a cold and frosty morning

 

    Footbridge across the River Doon near Bogton Loch

 

    Holly at Dalcairnie Linn

 

 

     Cold out of the sun

 

 

    On the main drive to Craigengillan House

 

 

    In the Ness Glen

 

 

 

    View down Loch Doon

 



    Heading back to Dalmellington



 

 

    Robert unwraps Alan McQ's Christmas gift to the Ooters. What could it be?

 

    It's a wee book detailing 40 walks within Ayrshire!

17 February - Coran of Portmark circuit

The drifts lay deep on the grizzly Rhynns, 
An' the deep-scarr'd rugged Meaul ; 

An dim through the haze, the stately Bow 
Loom'd ghostly, grim, an' tall. 

Eight Ooters (Alan, Allan, Davie, Paul, Rex, Robert, Ian and Johnny) gathered outside the Dalmellington Inn at 9.30 am, not to await opening time, but to proceed to the Green Well of Scotland from where they would repeat last February's (February 4th to be exact) Coran of Portmark circuit.

Last year, this had been Ronnie's first ooting with the Ooters and it had left such a lasting impression upon him that he was missing at roll call. This had been a spectacular walk on ice and snow so it was pleasing (to the majority) to see, as we headed towards Carsphairn, that a fresh fall of snow was lying on the tops.

Leaving the cars on the abandoned bit of road to the west of the main road (more of this anon), we took the old miners' road to the ruins of Woodhead lead mines. We approached the bridge, and even in Jimmy's absence, the question was put:

"When was this bridge built?"

Robert reckoned the 1830s, Paul reckoned 1936. Both were wrong. It was 1935. Robert commented it was hard enough remembering his name, let alone when some bridge in the middle of nowhere was built.

Garryhorn Farm was reached. The walled garden by the farm was a blanket of white from the countless snowdrops. Meanwhile, the dogs we met on our previous visit were cooped up, but we could hear them barking as we passed. There was no farmer around for Robert to insult this time.

As we approached the Woodhead mine buildings no discussion was necessary as telepathically we headed for the ruins of the old school to take our morning coffee.

We were now into the wet snow as we climbed a stile, left the stony path and headed up the hill. The wet snow soon gave way to the real thing and we paused more than once to observe the view, the peace being disturbed only by a couple of RAF jet planes.

The top of Coran of Portmark (623 m) afforded fine views, especially to the north where Troon and Irvine could be made out and to the west over Loch Doon towards Lochs Riecawr and Macaterick.

Looking south towards Meaul something/someone was spotted on the track ahead. A walker? A quad bike? Some of us could see it moving, others weren't sure.

Off we set again. Davie and Robert took the path over Bow (613 m). The rest took another path which skirted the hill. They were advised by Robert that he and Davie were on the right path. We kept to the wrong path which seamlessly rejoined the right path a little further on. Here, on the col between the Garryhorn valley and Loch Doon, the snow was deep and the barbed wire fences were coated in ice. There were some threatening clouds around which looked as if they might bring more snow but the day remained dry.

The walker/quad bike some of us had seen moving down the hill earlier turned out to be a bale of barbed wire. It certainly wasn't moving as we passed it.

Now began the steep ascent of Meaul. Last year this had been an icy stretch but today the fresh snow covered the ice below and gave a relatively firm footing. The length of Rex's strides in the snow were remarked upon and discussion naturally turned to inner leg measurements. After more stops to admire the view, the trig point on Meaul (695 m, 2280 ft in old money) was reached and the view to the south opened up to reveal the Solway, the snow covered Lake District hills and possibly the northern tip of the Isle of Man. And unlike the last time Davie and Paul 'spotted' the hills of the Lake District (from Byne Hill?) they didn't drift across the sky.

At this point Allan was asked where he would like his lunch (with Davie suggesting Carlin's Cairn, in the distance). Allan replied by suggesting he would have liked his lunch at the foot of the hill he had just climbed! Touché.

Because of the cold breeze on the summit we decided to have lunch in the lee of the wall just below the summit. It wasn't the most comfortable spot, with the choice of seating being a cold snowy rock or cold snowy snow. Johnny, of course, had brought his own seat with him.

After lunch we followed the wall down the steep side of Meaul, with snow, deep in places and more underlying ice. Then up to Cairnsgarroch and the Shepherd's Cairn at 659 m for the last climb of the day.

Last year we had cut across the top of Cairnsgarroch as we headed back to Woodhead mines, but the descent was found to be steep and rocky. This time we skirted round the eastern edge of the hill, but it was no better. Instead of rocks we had dougals and walking laterally along the slope was tiring and sore on the feet (of some of us). The snow gave way to slush and then to bog. Robert slipped twice prompting Alan to suggest he needed a zimmer. All in all this short stretch was a bit unpleasant. We vowed that next time we'd find a better way down.

The Garryhorn Burn still had to be negotiated and 8 Ooters appeared to find 8 different ways across. Some crossed by jumping part the way across and getting a wet boot, others crossed using poles and fencing which had been built over the burn whilst Davie disappeared into the distance only to re-appear at our meeting point by a mine shaft with a beautiful stone wall around it. How he got there, no one knows.

And so we set off back down the miners' track to the cars.

'Concatenation' had been the word of the day and quite late in the day Davie announced that the word was derived from the Latin 'concatenare' - to link together, which in turn came from 'catena' - a chain. He added for good measure that the Italian football defensive tactics 'catenaccio' came from the same root.

Was that impressive, or was that impressive? Had he been saving this erudite exposition until late in the day or had he just remembered?

And he still had one trick left. As we approached the farm buildings near the foot of the road he announced that he would offer the kitty (or was it just a bit of the kitty?) to anyone who knew the name of this farm. Of course the kitty was safe, so he proudly announced that it was called Holm of Daltallochan. And to prove it he went to show us the sign bearing the name ....except it was no longer there. Did we believe him? Of course not.

After our 6 hour excursion we were back at the cars, to be met with a large trailer which had been deliberately placed across the exit from where the cars were parked.

"I've had words with this farmer before" said Davie, "he's a miserable old ....".

Ten minutes later a tractor drew up and a youngish friendlyish driver got out .... his mood perhaps tempered by the sight of 8 Ooters awaiting him. No harsh words were exchanged although he pointed out we had blocked an area he needed for turning his tractor and trailer. That was all, and off he went with his trailer. It had the potential for another Dollar incident but it was averted.

And for the second successive week we found ourselves in the Dalmellington Inn.

A great walk repeated in similar conditions to last year. We must make it an annual event!


Computer problems have prevented me from mapping the walk but based on last year's walk I reckon it was approx 17.5 km.

10 February Ness Glen Again

The day dawned crisp and clear. An overnight frost left the sky cloudless and the air still and crystal in its clarity, a perfect day for a walk. And we had the perfect walk for such a day. We would visit one of our old favourites, Ness Glen at Dalmellington, for the fifth time as a group.
Loch Doon looked superb when we gathered at the dam there, dead calm and reflecting the blue sky. Ice round the shore gave a white edge to the water separating it from the yellow and orange winter-dead grasses. The mountains to the south rose yellow and brown into the clear sky. And on the heights, many white patches of snow, still lying from Christmas time, gleamed in the morning sunshine. A magnificent starting point for our walk.
But, we turned our backs to the view and dropped down a path by the face of the dam, a path that would take us into the Ness Glen.
In keeping with our new philosophy of not doing things the same way all the time, we opted to do the walk in the reverse of our usual way, for the first time ever. So, when we reached the first split in the path, we took the higher route along the top of the gorge. The walk through the woods was an absolute pleasure this sunny morning. The ground was frozen solid, making the walking easy. The low winter sun shone through the canopy to dapple the ground, light the trunks of the pale beeches and dark alders and limes, and filigree the frost-rimed branches against the blue sky – an absolute delight. The first snowdrops of the year were spotted, showing white bells through the brown woodland grasses. And we, in light spirits to match the mood of the morning, walked along the top of the gorge to where Tracy’s bench once stood.
There was some dispute about whither this was really the spot of Tracy’s achievement but ‘he who knows’ was adamant and the doubter soon conceded. This was the very spot. Ronnie, the Ness Glen virgin, was told the story of the bench and was equally as taken with it was we all were and looked forward to meeting Tracy, as we all would like to do some day, if only we knew what she looked like. For five minutes we stood there discussing this and enjoying the winter sun on our backs. Then we moved on.
From Tracy’s bench the path dropped to the riverside again, and the estate road for Craigengillan. We turned up the road and approached the house. This is where Holly disgraced herself again, running and barking at the horses being fed by two women and totally ignoring Davie’s call back. When she eventually came to the call she was put on her lead, the ultimate punishment for a dog that always has the freedom to run, and she knew she was in disgrace. Now, with the errant dog on her lead and her tail between her legs, and with Davie’s blood pressure slowly returning to normal, we walked on down the main drive.
Halfway down the drive we took a left turn and came up through the trees onto the open moor. The track – ‘The old turnpike from Newton Stewart’, said the historian - continued to rise, and we continued to rise with it. On a knoll high above the home farm and overlooking the Doon valley, we sat down for coffee. The morning was pleasant, the sun warming and the views good. We settled down and took our time over coffee, a long time over coffee. But this is still February and the air is still cool. Eventually the cold drove us on.
We came down off our knoll, found the old turnpike track again and came to the ruined house of Barbeth. The reason for stopping here has been forgotten by the scribe but stop, we did. Perhaps was just another opportunity to have a blether and take in more of the sun. Or perhaps, which is more likely, it was a call of nature that caused the halt. Whatever the reason, the scribe spent this time taking photos over the Doon and Bogton Loch to Ben Beoch and Lethanhill. But five minutes later we were on our way again
Another stretch of open moor brought us to another ruin, Nether Barbeth. This is where we left the old turnpike, it to run westward and we to turn down towards Dalcairnie.
Dalcairnie Linn is one of Ayrshire’s hidden gems. The Dalcairnie Burn drops thirty feet into a rock-walled caldron surrounded on top by mature beech and ash trees. Today, the falling water was cold and splashes solidified as ice on the boulders strewn at the bottom where the sun failed to reach. And in the gloom of the cauldron the water gathered darkly before rushing out the narrow open end. The spray of the falls was back-lit by the sun and misted the far bank and the bridge above. Ronnie was impressed, as impressed as the rest of us were, and still are by the spectacle of the Linn.
A new path running away from the low end of the caldron needed exploring and remembering our new philosophy, we explored it. It took us down the side of the burn, below Dalcairnie Farm across a field and brought us to tarmac near to Bogton Loch. The first of the deer was spotted by Jimmy who halted everybody including the couple coming in the other direction for a sighting of it. The couple pointed out another three nearer the loch edge. Jimmy, the nature lover, would have spent time observing the deer but the rest walked on and he was forced to follow. That didn’t stop him spotting buzzard soaring in the thermals above Dalnean Hill, nor the kestrel flying over the road to hunt the rushes by the waterside. He does like to see this kind of thing, does Jimmy.
By the time nature had been pointed out to us, well to some of us, we had come along the Dalcairnie tarmac and were approaching the Straiton Road. The path to the Doon footbridge is now complete (see 7/11/07 & 1/10/08) and we took it to come onto Tarmac once again. And once again poor Holly had to be leashed for this is a busy road and narrow. Despite a suggestion that we should take the path to the west of the road where Holly might be freed again, Davie insisted we stick to tarmac. We think he was getting tired and needed the dog to help him along.
However, we weren’t on the road too long, just long enough for us to get to the Muck Bridge and turn onto the burn-side path. Davie asked the question. It was the same question he has asked before and he got the same response as before; no, we didn’t know what this bit of countryside was called. We were informed it was called ‘The Promised Land’ and commemorated an escapade by one McNab during the Wars of Independence. And how did the knowledgeable one know this? He learnt it from the information board we were now approaching. The ability to read is a wonderful thing. Well done Davie.
It was nearing lunch time when we walked up Craigengillan main drive. The pace was quickened by those at the front. They knew that the place chosen for lunch had only one bench and that held only four bodies and only the fleet would get a seat. It was a quick march the four hundred metres or so up the drive to the chosen place. That place was beside the nature ponds under Bellsbank. As we sat and ate, we were passed by many people out to enjoy the sunny day, some we had already seen on the other side of Bogton Loch. Many pleasantries were exchanged for it was a day for such things and we were in no hurry to leave our lunch spot. But some ‘had promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep’. So, somewhat reluctantly we packed up and took to the road again.
The woodland of Bellsbank was every bit as delightful as that of earlier for the sun hadn’t risen too high in the sky and the soft light filtered through the branches. Holly enjoyed herself by finding sticks, more accurately in this instance, tearing up half tree trunks, and cracking the back of knees with them. We enjoyed ourselves just wandering up the tarmac road through the woods.
We left the main drive as it crossed the river for we were to take the track on the east side of the water and come under Bellsbank to the bridge at the foot of the Ness Glen gorge. We almost made a mistake here for some were for taking the high road, the way we always go. But sense prevailed and we turned our steps towards the gorge.
The gorge was as spectacular as usual, another one of Ayrshire’s hidden gems. Not as much water came down the river as the last time we were here but there was sufficient to impress Ronnie. The water roared in the narrower parts and the echoes resounded off the rock walls of the gorge. Icicles hung from the rocks above the path dripping water on to us as we passed. The inner vandal showed in one or two of us who took delight in breaking off these icicles and dropping them into the river. A few fallen trees and landslips threatened to block our path, but somebody with a chainsaw had cleared most of the wood and the landslips were easily climbed round. So, while it is always interesting in the gorge, it presented us with no danger and we came safely through.
The gorge stops abruptly under the face of the dam of Loch Doon and it was here that we rejoined the path we had come down this morning. A hundred metre saunter brought us back to the cars around one.

Fluid Replacement Therapy was taken in the Dalmellington Inn.

1 October Ness Glen 4

Nine of us gathered today, the biggest gathering of Ooters for any walk so far. Only Peter was missing. Not only had we the biggest gathering of Ooters, but this outing was to make Ness Glen our most walked route. Arran should have been the destination but a foul weather forecast and a day of rain yesterday caused a change of mind and Ness Glen was chosen as a suitable wet weather alternative. Yet, when we gathered at the dam at Loch Doon, the sun was shining and it would shine for most of the walk. A continuing theme for the day was that it would be an excellent day for Arran but we were now set for Ness Glen
Alan and Paul led the way towards the gorge for they had been here before and knew the way. However, when they came to the split in the path, they deferred to those who knew better. Jimmy pointed them along the lower path through the gorge. We were glad he did for, following the recent rains, the river ran full and the gorge was at its most impressive today. The water rushed down its channel, sometimes comparatively quiet, sometimes roaring through narrower parts making conversation difficult. And mini cataracts tumbled down what are usually dry clefts in the rock walls, adding to the din. This is the first time we have seen this. Only Johnny could be heard above the noise of the water for he was in fine form today.
There came a point where one of these mini-torrents had washed away one of the path footbridges which lay intact on the bed of the river. The burn had to be crossed. There was no alternative. The rock walls of the gorge rose vertically and the river was running full and fast so the wee burn had to be crossed. This caused some consternation for some for the rock looked wet and greasy and it was a good, wide step on to the safer ground of the path. Trepidation was the order of the day as feet searched for grip on the wet stone for each preferred the evidence of his own eyes rather than the guidance of his fellow Ooters. However, the gap was crossed without wet feet or other incident and the rest of the gorge could be enjoyed.
Our usual path under Bellsbank was taken this morning despite suggestions that we should do the walk in the reverse. And our usual coffee spot was to be our first halt. Johnny was in fine fettle on this section as he set the world to rights once again. Even the advanced group of Davie, Paul, Jimmy and Robert who were hundred metres in front, heard him. The speedy (some would suggest the selfish) four had upped the pace for they knew that there was only room for four on the seat at the coffee stop. And they were for a seat. We took coffee with four seated on the bench and the rest, with the exception of Johnny who carries his own seat, standing round making comments. The seated ignored these.
We continued on our usual route after coffee. We had hoped the new path would have been constructed beside the Straiton road but no work has been done since we were last here (07/11/07). Holly had to be leashed for this road is narrow and busy. No work has been carried out on the footpath to the new bridge either. The bridge spans the Doon in splendid isolation with no path to or from either end. Still, we had to cross it, path or no path. The river was full and overflowed its banks in places. One of these places was the south end of our bridge. Brown water lapped the end of the bridge and stretched for ten feet in front of us. How deep it was couldn’t be said for it was brown and opaque. Johnny tested it and found it to be over ankle deep. He had gaiters on and made a plunge through the water; the rest turned tail and came back to the road bridge. We met him on the Dalcairnie road.
Lunch was called at Dalcairnie Linn.
Spectacular is the only word to describe the linn today. The rains of yesterday had swollen the burn. Brown, peaty water rushed under the bridge to the lip of the cauldron, threw itself into space and dropped in a solid sheet for thirty feet only to be dashed into a white spray on the rocks at the bottom. Magnificent. Thirty yards away on the edge of the gorge we could feel this spray and, at times blinks of sun lit it making it visible to us. The same blinks of sun filtered through the autumn foliage of the beeches spotlighting the already fallen leaves on the slope on which we sat and ate. Altogether, this was an idyllic spot for lunch. Though the photographers were in action, photos can’t do justice to a scene that will live long in the memory.
We would have sat longer but the first spots of rain hit. We waterproofed and moved on but the rain came to nothing. We followed our usual route. When we reached Barbeth, we halted. The newcomers couldn’t believe we were this high above Bogton Loch for we didn’t appear to climb that high. We allowed them to take in the view before we moved on again, crossed the moor and came down to Craigengillan.
The rain came seriously when we reached the tarmac of the Craigengillan estate road. We stopped under a huge beech for some shelter. This is a route that Holly has covered as often as the rest of us but when we looked round there was no Holly. Even with many shouts, ‘coooooo-ees’ and whistles, there was no Holly. Davie went into the rain to retrace our steps. Five minutes late Holly was found. She had taken a liking to the man who passed us going in the opposite direction and had followed him back the way we had come. We can always tell when Holly is in disgrace. Gone is the carefree, bouncy demeanour. Her tail is dropped and her head hung. She makes ‘sookin-in’ gestures to Davie until she thinks she has made enough. And she felt she had enough made by the time we got back to the bottom of the gorge.
Davie was for back through the gorge but the consensus was for the high road. This is the way we went. Tracy’s bench is gone. The pillars are still there but the seat is gone. We suspect that Tracy has it as a testimonial to her prowess. Alan suggests she might even have it as a headboard. Wherever it is, it will be missed for it was situated near the top of the slope and provided a bit of a rest for weary legs. Disappointed with the loss of the bench, we continued upward.
We arrived at Loch Doon around two-fifteen. A good four hour walk. A good pint was taken in the Loch Doon Hotel in Dalmellington.

Fashion note (to keep the wives interested): Johnny was dressed in his leg-vanishing gaiters today and Bob was in fetching black. The rest were gaiterless. Davie even had shorts (we think his regression to early childhood is nearly complete for he was babbling things at Holly when she disappeared). He and Jimmy wore short sleeves today, Jimmy in pale blue and Davie in a little black number over a smart pink and navy hoop. The others wore Gortex. Faither bunnets were worn by Alan, Paul, Ian and Davie while Johnny sported an olive safari hat with a floppy brim and Rex his second favourite blue cap. We look forward to next seasons combinations.

25 June Not Cairnsmore of Carsphairn

Alan, Robert, David, Rex and Paul gathered at Bridgend at the allotted hour for the ascent of Cairnsmore of Carsphairn.

After 15 minutes of cursing Jimmy for being late it was remembered that he was out of the country, having told us the previous week that he was planning to visit his beloved England.

The cursing then continued.

The weather was distinctly unpleasant with rain falling and the Water of Deugh (for a sassenach, this is easier to write than to pronounce) impressively in spate. After a walk of about a mile we came to a footbridge over the Benloch Burn, a tributary of the aforementioned Deugh. The footbridge was down and looked as if it had been down for some time.

This didn't matter much to Holly who merrily crossed back and forth between the banks, but for we mere humans the burn was impossible ford at this point. We followed the burn upstream, looking for a crossing point but although one or two locations appeared promising to some (to your correspondent they seemed akin to the Soldier's Leap at Killiecrankie) we finally admitted defeat.

After some deliberation it was decided to return to Bridgend and to visit the Woodhead lead mines and smelter instead.

En route we encountered the farmer at Garryhorn out with his 4 collies. Good natured as the dogs were, the farmer lacked David's mastery of the breed. As they charged about, out of control, Robert remarked "I take it you don't take them to sheepdog trials!"

Thankfully, the farmer was good natured too.

We explored the mines etc, identifying the line of the old flues up which workers were sent to scrape off the lead which had condensed on the inside. Mind you, unpleasant as it must have been, it might still have been a marginally better job than teaching 4C last period on Friday. David explored a mineshaft whilst the rest of us headed up to the final building of the village to seek shelter for lunch. A search of the web suggests that this was the old school.

The Lead Mines at their peak



In somewhat improved weather we returned to Bridgend. From there we headed for our refreshments at the Loch Doon Hotel in Dalmellington, which had reopened after modernisation. We were greeted like long-lost friends by 'Chic Murray'. Initially we sat outside in the courtyard but eventually we were driven indoors by the inclement weather. The indoor area in which we sat was notable for the water cascading down one wall - a thoughtful, impressive and novel feature of the modernisation.