The sign at the railway station read ‘Fairlie High’. It probably was fairly high for we had already walked up through the town from the car park at sea level to reach it. And Fairlie High it might have been but it was not nearly as high as we were for. Though our destination wasn’t as lofty as we have gone of late, at over four hundred metres it was still fairly high.
When the eight of us – Alan, Paul and Peter were the missing ones - left the cars at the bay car park we felt the wind, an easterly wind, fresh and cold. Jaikets and bunnets were worn from the off though Davie persisted with his shorts. We had to move briskly to stir the blood and build up a heat. Yet, at Fairlie High we had already come into the shelter of the buildings and the trees of Fairlie Glen.
The path climbed on the side of the glen above the sandstone gorge of the burn past the ruins of Fairlie Castle.
It was very pleasant climbing in the shelter of the wood and hearing the wind soughing in the tree tops. Spring flowers decked the floor of the wood; primroses, celandines, bluebells and one yellow thing unknown to the naturalist added colour and wild garlic added scent, aroma or stink according to your preference. However you look at garlic, this was still a pleasant part of the walk.
There came a bifurcation in the path, one track designated ‘To the waterfall’ and the other ‘To the moor’. We decided to leave the waterfall for the return journey and took the path for the moor. This climbed fairly steeply now and left the shelter of the trees after a while. We were now back into the teeth of the wind. And the path continued to climb high above the gorge where the wee burn ‘louped amang the linns’ on its way down past us.
Rex led on the steeper section onto the moor and, as is his wont, set a fair pace until he was called from the rear for a view stop.
Overcast conditions and a general haze combined to restrict the view to a few miles today. Fairlie lay below us and the iron ore terminal at Hunterston threw its concrete and steel tentacle into the sea to the south of the town. Cumbrae was visible to the west with Millport showing well. But beyond this there was nothing to take the interest as the haze swallowed up the rest of the world. There was nothing in the view to hold us and the wind was chilling. We set off again, upward yet.
Eventually the path dropped to meet the burn. We felt the burn glen might offer the best possibilities of a sheltered coffee stop for there was no sign of the gale easing. So, once over the burn and in the lea of some exposed rock, we stopped for early coffee.
Ian, our esteemed leader for the day – he had a map and had been here once – took this opportunity to inform us that there was no path from here on, we would have to make our own way through the heather. Jimmy took this comment literally so, coffee break over he set off upward through the heather; through the coarse heather, through the knee-deep heather, through the heather that grabbed at our legs. And Davie had shorts on. Rex joined Jimmy on setting the pace. Bad move for the rest of us who struggled through the deepening heather. Robert struggled. Allan struggled. Ronnie suggested that next week we should all meet at his place and spend the day walking through his hedge for it would be just as easy as this. What Allan thought of it we are not quite sure but no doubt he will tell us when he recovers the power of speech. Rex and Jimmy stayed just sufficiently out of earshot to avoid hearing the comments thrown in their direction.
Eventually the he-men of the Ooters halted to allow us mere mortals to catch them up. Then they were off again. We struggled upward in their wake. Per ardua ad astra or something. The heather gave way to rough grasses through which ran quad-bike tracks. The sadists waited for the suffering there. Relief! And it was here that Davie succumbed to the wind and donned his trousers.
The slope eased with the easier walking and we found ourselves on the flank of Kaim Hill quicker than we expected. But the wind hadn’t eased. We tilted our head into it and walked across the hill to the trig point that marked the summit. From this top we could look south over Knockendon reservoir and glimpsed the coast some three miles away. But we saw nothing else in this direction. Nor did we hang about too long in the wind to examine the view.
Around us the yellow-brown grasses clothed the knobbly undulations of the Fairlie Moor, running upward to a high point on Blaeloch Hill. This was to be our next and highest objective of the day at 407m. The nature of the terrain and the light of the day belied the scale of the moor making things look higher and further away than they actually are. Blaeloch Hill looked miles away and the climb looked long and hard.
The tough two led us off the top of Kaim. The ground was rough again and we came off that hill every man for himself, each choosing his own tussock to fall over and bog to squelch through, and we were scattered all over the hillside. But the drop was short and somewhere along here the sun attempted to break through and there appeared to be a warming of the wind. Was our weather improving?
Between Kaim and Blaeloch Hills rises the lump of Lairdside Hill. When we reached the lea of this, the supermen stopped and lunch was called. And a very agreeable lunch stop it proved to be. We were well sheltered from the gale and the sun made its hazy presence felt. We warmed up nicely.
The peece-stop was also where Jimmy discovered he had left his coffee on the kitchen worktop. We feel that, now he has reached sixty, his advanced age (or the whisky) is beginning to tell. Silly auld bugger. But sufficient coffee was proffered to slake his thirst and top up his caffeine levels. Perhaps it was the extra strength of Johnny’s coffee that did it but Jimmy was packed up and ready for the off long before some of the rest of us had finished our lunch.
Now we tackled the long, steep climb onto Blaeloch. But, as has already been said, the scale of these hills is deceptive and the climb wasn’t nearly as long or as steep as was suspected. Needless to say, supercharged Jimmy led the way and it took a supreme effort from Ian, our leader, to overtake him and reach the top of Green Hill first. The rest of us were strung out on the slope but the over-caffeinated one waited on this top for the slower of us to gather. Blaeloch was now only a few hundred metres to our right. And the weather was improving. A hazy sun shone and wind had lost its bite. It would not be too difficult a walk over to Blaeloch.
But we never made that top. Robert and Jimmy went left, claiming they had heard Ian say that we were missing out that summit. Whether they had misheard or not, we all followed them and so we missed out Blealoch. We made our way over more rough ground over a nondescript lump of moorish hill to an unnamed rise. ‘Typical Jimmy route’ suggested Ian as we trudged through knee-deep tussocky grasses. And the effort of overcoming this rough stuff was telling on some. Ronnie had to make a diversion. Why he had to do this should remain confidential to the Ooters but suffice to say that there was plenty of moist sphagnum to ‘dicht his bum wi’’. He was greatly relieved when he found us waiting for him in the lea of another knobble.
More rough stuff and a bog had to be negotiated before we found a top where we could look down on the sea once more. The coast lay below us, brighter now than it was before but no less hazy, and, down to our left the Fairlie Burn cut its glen downward towards this. From our position fairly high on the moor we saw our morning coffee stop and it was down towards this that we turned our steps.
For the first time since leaving our morning halt, we found easy going. The grass on the slope was shorter and the way was downward. It was definitely easier going. We came down to our path of the morning in no time at all and followed it fairly high above the Fairlie Burn.
Then there came the split in the path where the other branch pointed us towards the waterfall. Some reneged at the thought of another few hundred metres but Ian, Jimmy, Davie and Rex made the sojourn. Was it worth it? Like Johnson’s view of the Giant’s Causeway, it was worth seeing but not worth going to see. But it added something to the day for those who had made the effort. And they rejoiced in telling us about it as we walked down to the castle.
Robert, in the lead for a change, stopped when he found a clump of small white flowers growing in a thin clump of soil in the split of a tree. ‘Wood Sorrel’ said the naturalist and had us taste the fresh spring leaves. Most declined the offer. Davie tasted nothing but Ronnie identified the tartness that would add zing to salads if you were that way inclined. We reserve judgement until we see the outcome of Ronnie’s tasting.
From the castle we wandered casually back by Fairlie High to sea level and the parked cars.
Once again The Merrick in Seamill was chosen for our post walk refreshment. There is a certain attraction in this pub that we haven’t quite put a finger on yet. There are those who say if we do put a finger on it, we will be immediately arrested.
Report by Jimmy
Photos by Johnnie
