4 January Darvel to Galston Or What IS the capital of Wisconsin?

Alan, Allan, Davie C, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny & Ronnie

Johnny is learning the state capitals of the USA. In order to preserve his ageing memory he has set himself the task of memorising lists, the first of which is the state capitals of the US. We would put his new learning to the test throughout the day.

Davie Mc wasn’t going on the walk today. He was suffering from sinusitis which was a great pity from his point of view for we all descended on his house in Darvel to enjoy his hospitality whether he was feeling up to it or not. From our point of view this was one of the highlights to the day for the morning was dreich, the forecast dire and the rain had just started. Not only were we reluctant to carry out the proposed walk, we were also reluctant to leave the warm comfort of Davie’s living room and take to the cold January dribble. In view of this reluctance and the conditions outside, Jimmy’s suggestion that we curtail the walk from the long, high level to a more direct low level one along the river, was eagerly accepted.

The walk itself was a wet but fairly straightforward affair. We crossed the Ranoldcoup Bridge and found the road down the south side of the river towards Newmilns. The effects of Tuesday’s storm and the rains of the last four months were evident as we walked down the road. Blown-over trees, sawn up and roughly cleared from the road, and large pond-like puddles lying on the sodden fields reinforced our belief that this had been a particularly wet and windy winter so far. A tree yet to be sawn and cleared caused a minor diversion but no real inconvenience to our progress down towards Newmilns.

The decline in manufacturing in our area was commented on as we passed the empty and demolished mills and factories of Newmilns. Even the large employer Vesuvius Crucible is in a state of dormancy with only the office seemingly occupied. And Newmilns is typical of many Ayrshire towns. Yet there are signs of possible recovery with smaller units occupied. We will wait and see.

We left tarmac west of Newmilns and took to a pathway beside the river. There was a warning notice there that the path was temporarily closed due to flood damage but we don’t pay much attention to notices. We walked on. Near Galston we came across this flood damage to the path. The river in spate had changed course and washed away some fifty metres of the south bank and with it the path. The authorities have erected a temporary fence along the steep bank and local feet have created a temporary pad alongside this. This is the way we went, joining the made path at the side of the football ground in Galston.

The bus drew up at the bus stop just as we arrived. We took it back to Darvel. Lunch was taken in Davie’s and a fine old Macallan was liberally dispensed by our host – just to drive away the dampness of course.

After lunch we repaired to the Black Bull for FRT. That’s where we really tested Johnny’s new-found brain training. What’s the capital of Texas? Austin! Florida? Tallahasse! New Jersey? Trenton! Johnny was in good form. Idaho? Boise! Alabama? Montgomery! Quick as flash was Johnny. Nebraska? Lincoln! Wisconsin? Em! Em! Try as he might this was one that stumped Johnny. Not only did it stump Johnny, it stumped the rest of us as well. For all the time we sat in the Black Bull Johnny scratched his head (metaphorically not literally or we might have suspected that he was keeping pets) but nothing would come back. Not that anybody cared for we had better things to take our attention.

When we were only half way through our first pint, the barmaid came over to our table. ‘Have you boys had your Ne’erday from us yet?’ she asked. When we replied in the negative she gave us the next round on the house. Many thanks to her and to the Black Bull – may they have a happy and prosperous 2012.

And a Happy New Year to all our readers - both of you.

PS The capital of Wisconsin is Madison - Ed

1 December The Best Laid Schemes Part Two – The Irvine Valley in the Snow

When it snows, ain't it thrilling,
Though your nose gets a chilling
We'll frolic and play, down Darvel way
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Alan, Allan, Davie, Ian, Jimmy, Johnny, Malcolm, Paul, Robert, Ronnie

There are times when, it would appear, that the thing called organisation is just a figment of a collective Ooters’ imagination. So it seemed when ten of us gathered in Davie’s place in Darvel. A fortnight ago in the warm comfort of Poosie Nancies in Mauchline we thought to be organised for the next four ‘ootings’. Today was to be a trip through to Lanarkshire for the Falls of Clyde walk. But the Siberian blast that gripped the country in an ice hand and hit the north and the east of the country with the heaviest November snowfalls in living memory, extended a snowy finger into the south-west overnight and left us with a couple of inches of the white stuff. And as we drove to the gathering place in Darvel, it seemed that more was on its way. Then, as we sat in Davies and watched great flakes of the stuff add to the lying whiteness, a re-evaluation of the plan was called for. We would now walk from Davie’s and have another day in the Irvine Valley. Somehow, in the general babble of the morning, Jimmy (Surprise, surprise - Ed) never caught the end of the plan, something that was to prove costly later in the day.
Around the nine-thirty mark the snow went off and, with a little reluctance in some quarters, we set off for another walk in the valley. Ranoldcoup Bridge was crossed and Davie asked as if giving us a choice, ‘Will we go up through the estate or stick to the road?’ before moving off in the road direction. We followed for we didn’t really care so long as we got out for a walk.
The snow shower swept away to the westward and the sun did its best to break though the heavy cloud, leaving us with a soft diffused light and some dramatic moments in the sky as we walked up towards Dyke farm. In a field by the farm, just as we left tarmac and took to the footpath, stood two long horned, black highland cattle with the last snow shower still on their backs. The cameras were out again despite the lack of sun. We look forward to seeing the results. But the itch-footed were ready for the off again even before the cameras were safely stowed away.
We moved on up the footpath on an old track, climbing high on the side of the valley. At one point Loudoun Hill appeared away to our left but only distantly and greyly as the tail-end of another snow shower cleared its face. And the sky above it was threatening still more snow. Yet away to our right the sun was showing as a bright peachy-pink streak on the horizon; the coast seemed to be in sunshine. We had hopes for a brighter day.
The old track took us up into the wood and what a winter wonderland greeted us there. The bare grey branches of the beech, and ash and the almost black of oaks held an edge of new-fallen white. The floor was carpeted with virgin snow and it seemed such a shame to spoil the scene with footsteps. But this is exactly what we did. With no sense of the aesthetics we followed the footpath, climbing gradually through the wood to our highest point of the day at Keilands and leaving a wreckage of broken and trampled snow behind us.
Now we were pretty close to the Darvel TV transmitter, only a couple of hundred yards away. The cloud that hung over us was lower than we thought for when we looked at the mast of the transmitter, it rose to disappear into the clag. Yet, once again we could look under this and see the sun as a bright streak to the south. We still had hopes of a brighter day though it didn’t look like it at the moment.
We found tarmac at Keilands; not that we could see it for the road was as white as the surrounding landscape and could only be distinguished by its flatness, straightness and parallel hedges. But we took to this flatter, firmer whiteness, turning right towards the brighter sky. And it looked like the brightness was coming towards us for now more of the sky had a peachy hue to it. We wandered along the road enjoying the ease of the slight downward slope and the crispness of the snow. The brighter sky wasn’t the only thing coming towards us though. A car was struggling to make headway up to meet us, occasionally sliding sideways but crawling ever upwards. The driver stopped the vehicle as we came to meet it just in case it slid into us. He was a chatty soul and wound down a window for a blether. It turned out that he was making for the mast to carry out some technical stuff, too technical for our simple minds. But standing still, even for these few minutes, encouraged the chill to seep into the bones. So we left the technician to continue his slithery crawl towards the mast and we continued our downward progress towards the ever brightening sky. That our driver had difficulties on the slope was evident from the zig-zag nature of his tyre tracks in the snow. ‘Did anybody smell drink from him?’ asked one, staring at the drunken nature of the tracks. While we were inclined to believe that this zig-zagging showed that he was a very experienced driver, the question was re-asked as we followed the drunken tracks down the road.
We were down past the Middlefield road end when the sun found us. It was to stay with us for the rest of the day. It was also near here that we left tarmac and took a sign-posted footpath down a row of trees to the headwaters of the Burnawn (Burn Anne). It’s amazing what a blink of sunlight does to a snowy landscape. What was once a flat white expanse was now crisp with every bump and hollow picked out by the low angle of the sun. Each snow crystal reflected the light sending back sparkles that changed colour as we passed. View stops were called frequently and cameras clicked constantly as we crossed the burn-head and found tarmac again near Cairnhill Farm.
Though this was not quite our highest point of the day, it was high enough and the views in front of us were much more extensive than on the Keilands road. Across the west end of the valley, a snowbound Ayrshire stretched from Mauchline to Stewarton and from Galston down to the coast at Irvine. Craigie and Dundonald Hills prevented us seeing the coast in this direction but Ailsa Craig still managed to pop its head out. Arran that looked so clear and sunny and inviting earlier was partly obscured as another snow shower swept down the firth. And the view would stay with us changing subtly as we dropped down the road towards Threepwood.
But Threepwood was never reached. We found the path that we had come up back in April (April 21st to be exact) and followed this to find a picnic bench by the t-junction of the paths. Stomachs were telling us that it was approaching lunch time so snow was scraped clear from table and chairs and we sat down for lunch.
It was during lunch that Jimmy became aware of the rest of the plan. We would walk down to Ga’ston and take a bus back from there. Choice and loud were the expletives Jimmy aimed in our direction for he had deliberately left his bus pass back in Darvel expecting to walk all the way round, as we have always done, and claiming no one had told him of this plan. Not only that but he had left his money with it. (Now there’s a surprise! – Ed) Despite his annoyance, we were unrepentant – the daft auld so-and-so will have to learn to listen in future. Then, just as we thought Jimmy’s spleen was fully vented, Malcolm announced that he didn’t have his bus pass either. That set Jimmy off again. Now it was Malcolm’s turn to get it this time for allowing the rest of us to abuse Jimmy for his forgetfulness. But Jimmy’s ire lasted only as long as his coffee and he was restored to calm before we set off again.
Whether it was because we had been sitting in the cold for as long or whether the temperature really had taken a drop, we couldn’t be sure but when we set off again it was cold. We met a light easterly as we left the picnic table, an easterly that blew the powdered snow into mini drifts across our path. Exposed cheeks burned with the frosty blow and fingers fairly nipped even inside gloves, and it took a wee while for us to warm up again. Down the slope of the valley side we came, down past the pond where the tadpoles used to be, down past East Threepwood where James Smith ‘dayed’ in 1685, and down to the valley of the Burnawn. We turned a corner into the shelter of some trees and immediately the temperature changed. Now with the protection of the trees and the valley side, the day was quite pleasant again.
We followed the Burnawn down through the wood into Ga’ston. We were just in time; the bus had just arrived at the bus stop. Jimmy cadged enough from the kitty to pay his fare in the understanding that he would pay it back when we reached Darvel. (Serves him right – Ed). Malcolm at least could pay his own fare. But they weren’t at all chuffed. ‘Two pound forty-nine! Nearly fifty bob! I only wanted a hurl in the man’s bus, I didnae want tae buy the b***** thing’, was Jimmy’s comment much to the amusement of the other passengers.

With Jimmy’s wallet retrieved and the kitty reimbursed, we repaired to the Black Bull for FRT.

11 August Anither Irvine Valley Walk

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley
An’ lea’e us naught but............

.....................................................Anither Irvine Valley Walk

We looked forward to a walk in the Campsies, a walk that would be new to most of us. All week long we looked forward to it. Paul looked forward to it, even to the extent that he did a ‘reccy’ at the week-end and posted i t on the blog just to keep us looking forward to it. Oh, how we looked forward to that walk in the Campsies.

Came the day, came the weather. A depression in the North Sea was dragging rain southward across the country. Paul, very unlike himself, was reluctant to go to the Campsies suggesting that the rain would reach there around eleven, just about the time as we would. Should we really go that far for another soaking? Or would it be more sensible to stay local and get another soaking? Yielding to Paul’s reticence, we opted for the latter. We would walk from Robert’s house along the Irvine valley trails.
We were joined today by Malcolm Campbell a recent escapee from the chalk face who, in the exhilaration of his new-found freedom, had a sudden rush of blood to the head and decided to join us. Time will tell if this was a wise decision.

As for the walk we did undertake, it followed a route we’ve done before (20 August 2008) taking us by Kay Park along McKenzie Drive and McPhail Drive over the bypass by a footbridge and on to the Milton Road. Not a lot happened that was worth reporting over the next hour or so. We walked to Templetonburn where some of us might have missed the route such was the conversations and our interest in the surroundings. But Davie called us back and had us down the fisher’s path by the river. And we kept to the riverside for a bit eventually finding tarmac again at Greenwood Bridge Then we came by Grougar Row and Burnbank to the ancient kirkyard of Loudoun Kirk where coffee was taken.

While most of us sat and conversed socially (blethers again – Ed.) Jimmy took himself off in search of a particular grave, that of Janet Little poetess of this parish, leaving behind his rucksack and camera. Now, haven’t just we learnt a new jape from young Davie Clunie? (see Allan’s poem of 28 July last) When it was time for us to go, we shouted to Jimmy, handed him his rucksack and walked on.

We came down a track to Ga’ston. It was suggested that we might walk on to Darvel as we did the last time we came this way and take the bus back to Killie. This nearly caused apoplexy in Jimmy who had left his wallet and bus pass in his car. So, to keep theold soul happy we decided to return by the old railway, now a cycle path, to Hurlford. So it was up through Ga’ston then.

The old railway is now The Sir Chris Hoy Cycle Way. ‘Why Chris Hoy, Why not Graeme Obree’, asked one. We had to agree that the local man should have been commemorated rather than the Edinburgh fellow. However, it was along the Chris Hoy Way that we went.
Cycle path or no, this is still the old railway, straight, level and uninteresting in itself. The highlights included a yellow plant that our botanist could identify * and our meeting with Boydy.

The yellow flowers grew profusely in clumps around forty centimetres high on both sides of the tarmac but what they were stumped Jimmy. ‘You could always photograph the flower and look it up when you get home’ suggested Davie with something of a twinkle in his eye. But Jimmy was for none of this. ‘My camera’s in my bag and I cannae be bothered getting it oot. Anyway I’ve got a fair idea in my mind’. So we walked on.
Boydy was a collie and was accompanied by a wee lassie of around eleven on a bike. ‘Boydy?’ we queried. ‘Aye, ma faither’s a Rangers supporter’ came the reply. ‘But Boydy disnae play for Rangers ony mare’ we smirked. ‘S’no ma problem’ said she, threw her head high and cycled haughtily up the track with Boydy trotting alongside.

By this time Ian was reminding us that it was lunch time. So, when we reached the viaduct over the Cessnock, we sat down and took the peece.

The amusement during lunch was the men painting the electricity pylons. ‘That would make a good photo’ said Robert in Jimmy’s direction. At this comment Allan took the opportunity to wander round the group photographing everything in sight. For some reason he seemed particularly interested in taking Jimmy’s picture. Not until he asked Jimmy if he liked his new camera, did the latter realise that it was his. The bold Alan had picked it up at Loudoun Kirk when Jimmy went walkabout and Jimmy hadn’t missed it until now. I refuse to repeat what he called us all when we burst out laughing, such things are not for sensitive ears. But he has sworn revenge. We quake in our boots. See what you’ve started, Davie Clunie.

From the Cessnock viaduct we followed a path behind the houses of Hurlford. This took us to the main Valley road and turning along this we came to Hurlford cross where we crossed the river. Then taking a footpath beside the river, we came back to the Milton Road and retraced our steps back into Killie.

The ultra-observant among you will have noticed that there is no mention of rain in the above narrative. That’s because there was none. The sky was overcast but there was no rain. But Paul assures us that it would probably be chucking it down on the Campsies.

*The mystery plant would appear to be a thing called common toadflax – not so common in this area.

20 August Killie to Darvel - The Long Way Round

Davie, Jimmy, Johnny, Peter & Robert

‘With you, dear Jenny, I would pass some hours,

Amongst its shady walks and fragrant bow'rs.’*

This was the day we welcomed Johnny back for his first outing since breaking his femur in April. And the walking wounded of last week were not fully recovered either. So this was to be a short and easy walk. It suited Peter for he had appointment to keep and was cutting the walk short anyway and it suited the rest as well for we were in the mood for a short walk .

It was raining when we met at Bob’s place in Kilmarnock. Not that it mattered at that time for Bob had prepared a slide show of his Canadian adventure and Peter had pictures from Australia. And Bob made coffee so we didn’t care whether it rained at that time so long as it dried up for us going out. By the time we had been to British Columbia and Alaska, Perth and the west of Australia it was the back of eleven and the rain had dwindled to a steady spit. Still, we waterproofed just in case and set off for a short walk.

Bob led us through the houses on a road that only he among the group had travelled. He was to lead us for the first part of the walk, into the Irvine valley, and Davie was to take over from there. So, through the houses he led us, over the busy A77 by a bridge and into a wee country lane. Too early yet for the brambles which hung in orangey-green clusters in the hedgerows but we now know where to get them. And too early for the scribes growing on stunted trees beside the old Crookedholm school. Our indignation was raised again to see how this substantial Victorian building was being allowed to decay. It had obviously been used as some sort of council department until recent years but was now abandoned and showing signs of wear. We wondered how long it would be before it was demolished and the land sold off to housing developers. Sad.
Peter left us when we reached a path for Crookedholm. A couple of locals blethered at the end of the path and we stopped to blether with them and to remove the waterproofs for the rain had now gone. They pointed Peter in the right direction. He took the path through the wood and we carried on along the road. We were for the Old Loudoun Kirk so stuck to tarmac.

Past Templetonburn we went. Jimmy suggested an association with the name and the Knights Templar. Paul agreed. Then it was past Grougar Row, still on tarmac. And we would have stayed on tarmac but Davie wanted to show us Burnbank Loch so we diverted along a footpath. He promised Jimmy that he would point out a comfortable chair along this path. Johnny thought this was a good thing for Jimmy might not recognise a chair, comfortable or otherwise. Its good to have him back with us. We stopped beside the comfortable chair which overlooked the loch for Davie also said that, in winter, this was a great place for watching wildfowl. Today there were only two swans on the far side of the water. Not much to hang about for so we walked on.

We came back to tarmac and to the ancient Kirkyard of Loudoun Kirk (founded 1415 said our dates expert). Jimmy related the story of Janet Little (1759-1813), ‘The Scottish Milkmaid’, who is buried here and Davie told of Lady Flora Hastings (1806-139) who also lies here. But Robert and Johnny heard none of it, they were off in search of a comfortable seat on which to have lunch. So we all took lunch here, sandwiches eaten between throwing sticks for Holly. This might have been to stop her looking for bones.

Davie led the way after the peece. Waymarkers pointed us down a track towards Galston and this is the way we went. The way marker pointing to the left after a few hundred yards was noticed but it was assumed that Davie knew a better way since he strode on past it. We followed him. We have done this before and with the same sort of result. We came to a barbed-wire fence separating us from the main road. There was no sign of a path. We looked but there was no path. Surely Davie wasn’t lost? Not a bit of it, he just wanted to show us the new Irvine Valley flood defences. And they were well worth the seeing, weren’t they? But there was no path. We climbed the aforementioned barbed wire fence carefully, clambered up the bank, walked along the verge of the busy road and came into Galston.

A quick conference was held to decide our way back to Darvel with Davie offering the options and the walking wounded being given the casting vote. We opted for the high road.

Galston was left by the Sorn Road. A few spots of rain were felt and, by the time we reached the entrance to Burnhouse Brae Wood and the start of the Burn Anne walk, it was getting heavier. We walked up through the wood, the steep slopes catching out the infirm who hobbled their way to the tops. And the rain came seriously. Even in the shelter of the trees it was serious. Waterproofs were donned.

The trees of the ‘Burnawn’ were left, tarmac was regained and we started the climb of the valley side in the rain. Up by Middle Third and Moorend we went, and up towards ‘the mast’. The day wasn’t particularly cold and the climb was steep and heat built up inside waterproofs. It was a sweaty climb. Johnny (he of the broken femur who was having his first outing for a while) upped the pace on this climb. He was to suffer for it later but he upped the pace now. And this was to stay brisk as we climbed by the Galla Hill path-end and on towards the transmitter. Johnny started to flag. A halt was called to divest of the outer garments. ‘Meh beck is sooming’, said Jimmy and the rest said likewise for it had been a long, fast and hot climb and sweat had failed to evaporate in the damp air. A breather was also called, for Johnny‘s benefit.

At the smallholding of Keiland we left tarmac and turned downward into the valley. Then came a Davie diversion. Instead of sticking to the track like sensible folk would do, he turned right on a path. Certainly it was signposted as a part of the Valley network but it was narrow and wet. And, as we came into the trees it turned mucky as well. And slippery. We all slid at sometime along this part. Johnny slid. He cursed for now the fast pace was telling on recovering joints and a jar was the last thing he needed. Jimmy slid. He cursed more silently than Johnny. He had jerked his back and was reduced to a painful, slow progress. The rest waited to give him a rest but he preferred his slow progress and gradually, as the downward slope eased, he recovered. We reached tarmac again and the wounded were recovered sufficiently to make a slightly faster pace but still lagged behind, each sympathising with the other. We waited for them in Darvel and we all returned to Davie’s together. We changed out of sweat-wet clothing and felt more human again.

We retired to take refreshment in the Black Bull where the suffering sat and were waited upon. Such is our concern for our fellow Ooters. We hope the b*****rs are recovered for next week as we cannae keep this show of concern going for too long.

*Janet Little. From 'Epestle to Nell, Wrote from Loudoun Castle'