28 April West Kilbride to Largs Over the Hills

The clear cool clear weather of last week went sometime over the last few days and left us with a mixed bag of rain and showers and sunny intervals. The wind was in the south today and the sky was overcast and ominous but at least the overnight rain had gone. When nine of us - Alan and Davie were the missing two, Davie for the first time this year - met in Johnny’s to partake of his usual hospitality, there was a general reluctance to move, and a questioning as to the wisdom of today’s proposed route. However, Paul, who suggested this walk and who is our resident weatherman, said that the day would clear up and the walk was not too high anyway, we should definitely go. We trust Paul for he knows things, so off we set for West Kilbride Station and the start of our days walk.
We set off north from the station, leaving the town by Meadowfoot Road and taking the B781. But we weren’t on tarmac too long today. In a little over half a mile we left it altogether and took the Avenue for Crosbie reservoir. The day began to brighten and the hill before us was clear. As the Avenue rose, we should have had a view behind us, but a haar hung over the sea restricting views in this direction. But our spirits were high for the hill before us was clear and brightening all the time we walked towards it.
Through Crosbie Mains Farm we climbed, past all the treasures scattered around – slates, stone sinks, old chains, rusting corrugated iron sheets etc. If we had just bought a JCB with us we might have plundered the treasure. But we didn’t have, we didn’t do and we walked on up the, now steepening, track. When the track swung down to Crosbie Dyke cottage, we left even this and took to the open hillside.
A green path took us through banks of bright orange-yellow whin, skirting the flank of Glentane Hill and paralleling a drystane dyke. On the other side of the dyke a man and a dog were working sheep. While we would usually pass the time of day with those met along our way, the tone the man addressed his dog suggested we would be wasting our time with him so we walked on.
We were now high above the power station of Hunterston, heading round the hill for Glenburn Reservoir. With the time approaching eleven, coffee was called. So, finding a spot behind a group of hillside boulders, sheltered from the freshening southerly and overlooking the waters of the reservoir, we settled down for elevenses. Paul was congratulated for the walk, the walking and the weather had been good. ‘So far’, said Paul promising some rough stuff to come. ‘Where does the path go from, here?’, asked one. ‘Up there’, answered Paul pointing to an outcrop on the skyline, ‘You can see the path climbing the hill’.

The path degenerated as we dropped down to Glenburn Reservoir after coffee and we had to find our own way over the waterlogged ground. Rex, with the skill of the true bushman and some encouraging words ringing in his ears, found a way through the mire and down to the burn. This had to be crossed but it was running too full for a clean jump. (Yes, we know that a couple of feet would be too much for us oldies to jump, but the burn was running full anyway.) The water was crossed with the aid of an iron frame suspended under a few strands of wire and it was crossed without unexpected plunges. Now Rex found a path that led us up to tarmac on the Dalry Moor road.
We crossed this slant-ways and were on Tarmac for fully twenty yards. Then Paul pointed us uphill on the abandoned service track for the old quarry on Kaimhill. This was the outcrop we could see from our coffee stop. The way steepened now. Though the climb wasn’t as steep or as long as some, it was enough to raise the pulse and shorten the breath and we strung out up that slope according to general fitness.
The quarry was a millstone one and great lumps of millstone grit still littered the ground. A few minutes were spent here while we examined the boulders and caught the breath after the climb. Then we moved on, upward yet but on a much gentler slope now.
We topped out of the climb on the scarp of Kaimhill, and ancient sea cliff laid down in some Silurian sea but now heaved high above, and removed from, the sea. Again we stopped, this time to look down on and out over the sea. The haar still hung there and restricted the view to a few miles. The Cumbraes, Great and Small, were visible with Millport easily picked out and Arran tried hard to show itself through the haar but all else disappeared into the greyness. We could only speculate on what the view would be like on a clear day, something we might like to find out in the near future. But the wind that was fresh on the lower ground was strong on the higher. Jackets were worn to cut its strength but it was chilling nonetheless. We moved on.
Now cam some familiar territory. We found the path on Kaimshill that we had taken on the Fairlie High Walk (15/04/2009) and followed it to the summit of the hill. Now came Paul’s rough stuff. No path took us towards our next objective, Blaeloch Hill and we took to the rough grass. And it was rough. Great tussocky doogals and mossy sheughs had to be negotiated. But the doogals weren’t all the same, some were grassy and some mossy. Thus was generated the Porter-Johnstone classification of doogals; hairy – those composed of course grass; spongy – great mounds of moss that give way when stood on; spiky – reeds and rushes that sometimes held the weight and sometimes gave under it. No doubt there will be more added in due course. But whatever type they were, at least three quarters of a mile of them had to be ploughed through to reach firmer ground on the slopes of Lairdside Hill.
That’s where we collapsed for lunch, sheltered from the wind behind a few rocks on the leeward of the hill.

Whether it was the conditions or whether it’s always like that, the scribe wouldn’t like to say, but Blaeloch Hill looked much further away than it actually was and we were on its top quicker and easier than we thought. ‘It’s all downhill from here’, said Paul. We hoped he was talking about the walk and not making observations on our advancing years. We noted, with some relief, that he meant the former and set off looking for an easy descent. But it was those damned doogals again! We stumbled and staggered our way down from Blaeloch top into the valley of the Clea Burn where we found a sheep fank. An afternoon break was called, for we were now out of the wind and, somewhere down the slope of Blaeloch, the sun had come out.
While most relaxed for a bit, Peter went to explore the burn. What he found there he didn’t say but he returned with a smile on his face. And now that we were reunited, we set off again.
A track was found just beyond the fank, a track that took us down towards Fechan Farm and the Kel Burn. We never made the farm. Coming through a gate, we crossed the field, came through another gate and found the track for Kelburn estate. We knew we were in an estate when we found the gates on the track, great ornate things about ten feet high supported by stone pillars. They were obviously Victorian things but they were well maintained and swung open easily to admit us into Kelburn Castle policies.
We followed the estate road down into the gorge of the Kel Burn. A nice wee waterfall greeted us where the road met the burn and a path made down the side of it. But we didn’t take this path; we followed the road we were on. It was now only a mile or so on the estate road before we found tarmac again. That’s when the infantile started their usual games.
The pace quickened, and quickened and quickened until five were racing on ahead. The sensible let them race on and took a more sedate pace. The fast arrived at the bus stop at the foot of the Haylie Brae some five minutes before the slow.
This was another good walk and one which is worth doing again in clearer conditions. Well done to Paul for his suggestion.

We came back to West Kilbride by bus and repaired to The Merrick for FRT. Please, nobody tell the Keeper of the Purse how much it costs for a pint of Italian lager.

10 June Greenock Cut

They say it’s third time lucky. This was to prove true for us today as, for the third time as a group, we set out to tackle the relatively short (7.5 miles) walk of the Greenock cut. The sun shone, the air was clear and the forecast was in our favour. Only a light westerly breeze kept the temperature down and stopped us from overheating. It was a perfect day for walk on the high moors.
We knew the day was to be an improvement on the last twice we had been here when we left the car park at Cornalees, came round the shelterbelt of trees and found the sun still shining, shimmering on the water of the lower loch.

Skylark sang on the moor above us as we walked up the tarmac beside the loch towards the dam of Loch Thom. Already the naturalist had binoculars glued to his eyes though why he couldn’t see that it was a buzzard was beyond us for the rest of us could see it clearly without binoculars. But the bird then swung away over the dam and the binoculars were dropped. We continued the walk.

We came up the slope of the dam to find Loch Thom to the right of us, sparkling in the sunshine as the gentlest of breezes stirred the surface. This is where the tarmac ran out and the way continued as a track that climbed gently over a low rise beyond the loch. This was a delightful part of the walk. Butterflies, mainly whites, flitted from heather clump to heather clump and skylark sang overhead. The naturalist was in his element and the rest just enjoyed the feeling of the open moor. And the sun continued to shine.
There was a call for coffee at this point but the veterans of this walk, i.e. those who had done it twice already, said that, just over the rise, there was a pond with wee jetty and that would provide a seat for our coffee break. We walked on.
We never made the jetty. Just over the road and slightly higher than the pond was a collection of flat-topped boulders, boulders that we hadn’t seen through the rain the last time we came here, but boulders that would provide a good seat for our coffee stop.
Not only did our boulders provide us with a seat but their position on the hill provided us with a remarkable view of the Clyde Estuary and the Dunbartonshire hills. Our moor sloped down towards the blue waters of the Clyde. Helensburgh lay on the other side of the water and the Dunbartonshire hills formed the skyline behind this. What a superb view this was for so little effort on our behalf.
A peculiar shape lay in the water and Ian pointed it out as the upturned hulk of a sugar boat wrecked on its way into Greenock. The naturalist was encouraged to stop looking for moorland birds and turn his binoculars on a boat making its way upriver. According to Ian, who seems to know this kind of thing, it was a pilot boat escorting submarines upriver in a specially dug channel. We knew there was a reason we bring Ian along.
It was during the long coffee halt that the idea of the nude Ooters calendar was brought up. Jimmy refuses to be Mr. January citing reasons of shrinkage in cold weather. Paul didn’t fancy getting sunburn on tender parts so preferred to be Mr. September. Davie didn’t mind what month he was but needed the biggest picture. No, we don’t know why either!
It was noted that there are twelve months in the year and only eleven Ooters. Johnny, our mathematician did a complicated sum and found this doesn’t equate. ‘We could use Holly as a twelfth man’, said he, ‘but we would need to shave her’. We suspected Johnny’s fidophilia* was reappearing so we ended the conversation and moved on quickly before he got overexcited.
The track lay downward now so down we went down with it, towards Greenock and the Cut, still admiring the northward prospect.
The Cut was found easily enough for the track crosses it beside the keeper’s cottage. Now our walk was to be almost level, Alexander Thom’s engineering skills ensuring a minimal drop in the cut between Loch Thom and the cottage, and it was to maintain the height above Greenock, the Tail o’ the Bank and the Firth of Clyde. We enjoyed the views, changing subtly as we walked westward.
We stopped above Greenock for a look at the town. Ian pointed out the various landmarks. Here was Ravenscraig sports ground where the local athletics team train and the junior football team play; that is Greenock jail where the Lockerbie bomber is living out his final months; there was Ravenscraig Hospital; and that was the Academy where some poor souls are still chained to the chalk-face. This is probably the best place to view Greenock from for we know what would happen to strangers who ventured into the town. We kept on walking.
They say we are never too old to learn and we, at our advanced age, are proving this maxim to be perfectly true. Today’s lesson on Platonic solids was beautifully and enthusiastically delivered by the mathematician. The learning support group (Davie and Rex) exhibited disinterest but the clever amongst us know that questions will be asked in future so paid particular attention. (For the sake of Davie and Rex, the answers are A) Polyhedron, B) Tetrahedron, C) Octahedron, D) Dodecahedron, E) Couldnaecarelessahedron, F) Ba’, but don’t tell Johnny where you got them.)

But all this education was tiring and hunger-making so, when we came to a sheltered wee cleugh, we stopped for lunch. Ronnie discovered the climbing abilities of Sherpa Holly as we sat, throwing a stick well up the steep bank of the burn and watching Holly scrambling a way up to get it. Though he said he enjoyed watching Holly learn a new skill, we feel that there must be a deep-seated psychological reason why he took pleasure in torturing the poor dog like this. He needs to consult a psychologist.
Whilst Johnny’s knowledge educated us, it’s more than can be said of the botanist’s. When, after lunch, we came to a patch of white flowers growing in the shallow water of the cut and asked for enlightenment, he was unable to identify them. Poor show, botanist, we expect better. Further research by the scribe has identified them as Bog Bean.
Apart from the mysterious flowers, the northern hillscape held the attention as we walked on. From the hills of Cowal through the Arrochar Alps and the Loch Lomond Mountains to the Campsies and Ben Venue in the Trossachs, the view was superb in the sunshine. We came round a bend and the Clyde islands came into view with Arran looking magnificent as usual. Some were regretting not being on its mountains on a day like this. But we were on the Greenock cut and we had today’s walk to finish.

Another form of wildlife that couldn’t be identified accurately were the small fishes that Paul spotted swimming in the cut. Due to the recent spell of dry weather, the water didn’t flow in the cut today but lay in long, isolated pools and puddles and it was in the deeper of these pools that the fishes swam. We wondered what are their chances of survival if the dry spell continues and the pools shrink even further. Then we found the tadpoles.
Great black shoals of tadpoles swam in a shallow pool. At first we wondered what the heaving black mass at the edge of the pool was for no single creature could be distinguishes from its neighbour. Then, as our eyes isolated individuals, we saw they were tadpoles. They were in even more imminent danger of succumbing to the dry weather for their pool was shallow. Yet they strove and clambered over each other to get to the very edge of the pool. Why they did this was beyond the naturalist but he suggested that the water would be warmer there and amphibians need the heat. Nobody, even Davie, speaks Frog or we might have asked them. As it was we left them to their fate and wandered on.
Cornalees car park came quicker than we expected and we returned to the cars around two o’clock. This was another superb day and easily our best visit to the cut.

At Rex’s insistence, The Merrick in Seamill was the chosen venue for FRT today though why he insisted we go there isn’t known to us. We were almost as disappointed as Rex to find that it was a barman on duty today and not the eye candy we have become used to.

15 April Fairlie High

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