28 January Ayrshire Coast part 3 - Lendalfoot to Girvan

Distance via Balsalloch Hill 14.5 km

Nine of us - Alan was the missing one today - boarded the bus in Girvan though only two paid. This is the advantage of public transport for the bus-pass brigade. The disadvantage today was the unexpected tour of the streets of Girvan. A convoluted tour it was as well, taking in nearly every street in the scheme. At one point we thought the driver was lost and was trying desperately to find a way out. The irritating thing for the two fare-paying Ooters was that the one or two passengers picked up in the maze also produced bus-passes. Roll on bus-pass day, say they.
The intention was to complete another section of the Ayrshire Coast Walk, the section between Lendalfoot and Girvan. To do this we were relying on Ian’s local knowledge - many a long summer spent here in his boyhood - and, just in case this failed, Rex’s handbook.
As we drove down the coast towards Lendalfoot, it became obvious that the promise of the bright morning would not be fulfilled for, even as we left Girvan, it was noted that fog hung over the low hills of the coast. Decanted from the bus, we felt the cause of this hill fog, a bitterly cold wind blowing over the snow on the high Galloway Hills to the east and meeting the warmer coastal hills. This was not a day in which to hang about.
This thought obviously occurred to Ian who took off southward along the main road as if his a*** was on fire. He was heading in the wrong direction, away from Girvan, though he seemed to know where he was going. And, like good little Ooters, we followed in his wake, trusting in his local knowledge. Four hundred metres along the road we left tarmac, came through a field gate and immediate stopped to don mountain gear for we could see where Ian was heading now. Well we might have seen it if the fog had cleared. But we knew where he was heading, upward into the fog. All stopped to don warmer gear, all that is except the bold Ian who strode up the field like a man possessed only to stop when he realised he was on his own.
Some reneged at the thought of another foggy climb. It has to be admitted that the scribbler was the instigator of this mutiny - he holds his hands up to it - so must rely on the depute scribe for description of the hill climb. The stalwarts continued the climb but renegade four returned to tarmac arranging a rendezvous for the castle.
The wimps came to the Varyag Memorial. Johnny told the history of the famous Russian ship to those who were ignorant and the memorial itself was examined. This was much to Peter’s liking being made of bronze and highly sculpted. It is and impressive piece of work. Then we wandered through the village, took a right, left the sunshine behind and came up the road to Carleton Castle.
The historian was asked what he knew of the castle. He admitted ignorance but promised to find out. The Gazetteer for Scotland has this to say:-‘The ruined remains of Carleton Castle are located to the south of the settlement of Lendalfoot in South Ayrshire, 6 miles (10 km) southwest of Girvan. Built in the 15th century, the castle comprises a small rectangular tower, with one of its corners having fallen down. Carleton was the property of the Cathcart family and legend suggests that one laird, Sir John Cathcart, funded his lifestyle through a succession of wives, murdering each before moving on to the next. However, his final wife, May Kennedy of Culzean, realising her fate, pushed him from a cliff. His ghostly screams are still said to haunt the castle.’
We thought that might explain the eerie cursing sound we heard emanating from the mist on the hill but it transpired that this was only Robert venting after sliding in the mud and landing on his ar posterior.
Two minutes later the hill walkers were seen descending out of the mist. We came together at the castle.

Whilst Jimmy's dastardly mutineers took the low road, Ian's intrepid mountaineers had taken the high road. This entailed a steep and at times muddy climb up the sheer face of Balsalloch Hill. As we neared the top we moved into the clouds, but Ian's navigation was spot on. It turned out that we didn't actually need to see the view hidden by the mists because Ian gave an impressive description of the view lying before us, stretching from the coastline of Northern Ireland, around to Ailsa Craig and on to Girvan.

We didn't linger on top, cogniscent of the fact that the lowlanders would be concerned about our welfare. The descent towards Carleton Castle was as muddy as the ascent and as your mutinous scribe has already noted, Robert managed to fall into a mixture of glaur and coo cack, an event greeted with general mirth on both sides of the divide.

And so it was that once more we formed one great big happy group. (Depute Scribe)

Peter searched for treasures on the beach while we took coffee. Somebody suggested coffee at the castle but Ian had other plans. There was a spot down by the beach, in the sun and out of the wind so down the road we went, back to the main road. Once more Ian turned us southward, away from Girvan. However, this was only for a few metres before we turned off the road to a picnic table by the beach. Some had coffee at the table but it was still in the cold wind and the sensible took theirs in the lea of a garden wall, looking out to sea.
Somebody suggested coffee at the castle but Ian had other plans. There was a spot down by the beach, in the sun and out of the wind so down the road we went, back to the main road. Once more Ian turned us southward, away from Girvan. However, this was only for a few metres before we turned off the road to a picnic table by the beach. Some had coffee at the table but it was still in the cold wind and the sensible took theirs in the lea of a garden wall, looking out to sea.
It was a short coffee stop for some felt the need to move on to stir the blood against the cold so we moved off towards Girvan. And, an hour and bit after leaving the bus we left Lendalfoot.
The trudge along the main road was only interesting in the seaward direction for the road was busy with heavy traffic and the fog still hung over the high ground. The enclosed monument to the drowned fishermen was looked at, the surf breaking on the shore was commented on and the birders looked for their feathered friends. This, combined with the usual blethers, took us towards Kennedy’s Pass.
The observant among us saw the old Turnpike road slanting up the hill and, when we reached a field gate with a track heading towards it, we were for this way. But Ian had local knowledge (and had read the book) and pointed us further along the road. We turned into an old quarry from which there appeared to be no escape. We doubted Ian. Oh! we of little faith. Our glorious leader led us to a parting in the quarry wall. A track lead steeply up through this and we were directed up the track by he who knew all along. And, as we climbed the track, the sun broke through the hill fog to shine on us for the rest of the day.
Striding out on the old turnpike road.We were now on the old Turnpike road, high above the new road and looking out to sea. We strode out. At the old toll house, we sat down for lunch.
We carried on along the old turnpike after lunch, enjoying the views seaward. Eventually this dropped us to sea level again but stayed to the east of the main road for a while yet. However, it was muddy at this level and Ian’s lugs were abused for it was thought that he led us here. Ian emphatically denied this and blamed it on the book for this was new to him as well. We believe him. Then the mud finished and we were decanted once more onto the main road.
The main road was as it had been earlier and the trudge into Girvan was the same as that of leaving Lendalfoot. Holly found a ball and was amused by this all along the sea front. (Rex and Johnny also enjoyed the ball, showing off old, and obviously forgotten, cricketing skills)
A good walk in places but the sections beside the main road were somewhat uninteresting.
(Interesting sideshow in Girvin harbour, prawn fishermen preparing their catch - jmatt)
The harbour Bar provided the FRT for today.

17 September Ayrshire Coast Part 2 - Ballantrae to Lendalfoot

'Then I knew I was lost indeed. For by the flickering light of a dying fire of driftwood I could see that I was again in the cave of Sawny Bean, with the same narrow hams a-swing on the roof, the tubs of salt meat festering under the eaves, and the wild savage crew dancing about me'

from: The Grey Man

SR Crocket

We thought we had missed the bus. The intention was to drive to Lendalfoot, take the bus to Ballantrae and walk the Ayrshire Coastal Path back to the cars. But we thought we had missed the bus. The timetable (don't you just hate that word?) said the bus was to leave Lendalfoot at 10:22. We were held up by road works but still managed to arrive at the bus stop at 10:22. We waited. For fifteen minutes, we waited. We thought we had missed the bus but, fifteen minutes late, it arrived.
The bus dropped us at The King's Arms in Ballantrae. This is where we finished the last part of the walk so it was the appropriate place to start the second. If the walk of a fortnight ago was to be the example for the Ayrshire Coastal Path, we looked forward to a super walk again today. It wasn't to be a long walk - six and a half miles, said Rex's book - but Ian, who knows well this part of the coast, promised some interesting bits. But first, we had the village to clear.
As we walked down towards the beach, we came across a gang of grass-cutters standing round a lorry-load of lawn-mowers. Community service boys by the look of them, overseen by a man of our own age. Rex copped an earful when he asked if they were having another busy day. 'How come you fellows never pass us when we're working?' was the gist of what was said but perhaps these weren't the exact words. And why he should question Rex's parentage is beyond us.
Jimmy was beginning to do likewise when Rex led us onto the beach. 'I don't do soft sand' was his comment. But he was assured that it was okay for the beach wasn't soft sand, it was soft shingle. Yes, it was soft shingle and it stretched on before us meaning tough going for a while. The birders took their mind of the going by spotting. Wheatear, Sparrowhawk, Ringed plover etc. caught their attention. And the rest? Burn crossing and looking for firmer footing was their relief.
We cleared the shingle eventually by coming on to the old road, that section of the road that was abandoned when the new one over Benann was made. This should provide us with more stable footing now. Our ire was raised when we came to a locked gate across the road. Was this not a public road? As such was it no a 'Right of Way'? Is it not illegal to obstruct a right of way? We were indignant and climbed the gate anyway. Nobody was going to obstruct our passage! What we hadn't noticed was that the farmer who had barred the way was using the old road as a dump for farmyard manure. We waded through an inch or so of slurry while trying to avoid the bulk of the pile. We watched our feet carefully. But Ian was off the road and heading up a grass path. He was for Snibs cave and we followed.
Snibs, according to the memorial that Rex and Davie read, was a banker in Dundee. For some reason known only to him, he gave up banking, gave up society and came to live in this cave. He lived here for many years before his death at the tail end of last century. The cave is dry, even in this wet summer it is dry, and might have given Snibs a comfortable shelter. Not comfortable enough for us softies, though and we were soon back on the road. Back on the road and avoiding the glaur again.
There came another locked gate. and we climbed it thinking the way would be better on the other side. But we were wrong. The road was still mucky with animal droppings as the road is now used as part of the surrounding fields and sheep and cattle grazed here. There was another locked gate. And another. And another. Kissing gates beside these, obviously made as part of the long distance pathway, had been chained and nailed shut. Our indignation was raised again. And this was our progress towards the top of the hill and the main road.
Hunger called. Ian said we were only ten minutes from Sawney Bean’s cave and suggested were eat there. We agreed and left the main road on an overgrown grass pad heading towards the sea. This took us to the top of a cove ringed by craggy cliffs and steep grassy slopes. It looked as though there was no way down to the shingle below but our path became more distinct here and dropped us down a steep, and in some places slippery, grass slope to the beach. The sea lapped gently on the gravely beach and splashed against rocks at our end. It was among these rock that lay the entrance to Sawney Bean’s cave. We sat on outcrops in the shingle and ate.
Everybody in the group had heard the legend of Sawney Bean and his cave but none but Ian had been here. So, after lunch we went in search of the cave. It was easy to find, especially when Ian showed us where it was. Ian and Jimmy went first, clambering up the slippery rock to the cave entrance and entering the darkness. No hams hung from the roof, no fires burned under cooking pots and no voices other than ours could be heard. But it was easy to see how stories of such caves could be believed. The two were joined after a few minutes by Davie and the trio made an exploration into the cavern for around thirty metres until it narrowed. Speleology is not to any of our liking and they ventured no further. The entrance chamber was enough.
Rex fancied seeing the cave after Jimmy and Davie came back and told him about it. Ian returned with him. But Johnny and Paul preferred to stay on the shingle rather than risk the slippery rock to the entrance. Four of us sat on the beach and waited for the other two to return.
The climb from the beach back to the road was somehow easier than the descent. Now poor Holly's freedom had to be curtailed for we were now to follow the main road and busy road it is. We stayed on the grass verge on the descent of Benann, at least as far as the caravan park entrance, with the traffic speeding past. Not the best of walking conditions now. An old railway or something like it lay some twenty metres seaward and we thought that this would make a better walkway. Perhaps as the walk is established, it will be taken along this and through the caravan park. But, at the moment, we had to keep to the main road watching out for potholes in the grass. We found a pavement at the caravan park and this provided easier walking. It was kept to for the rest of the walk.
Seals lay on the rocks near the Varag memorial lay-by, grey seals according to the naturalists, and we watched them as we walked to the lay-by car park. Paul and Davie examined the Russian writing on the Varag monument and Davie gave Paul a lesson on Cyrillic script. Ian lingered by the shore talking to a woman about the seals. Jimmy called for an official photo round the monument but was largely ignored. And Johnny and Rex ambled on to the cars.
This was a curate’s egg of a walk - good in parts. The parts that were good were extremely interesting but the parts that weren’t so good will need a lot of work done if this is to become an official long distance walk.
The Fish inn in Girvan provided our fluid replacement therapy today. It will be the last time it does. The place was cheerless and what was left of the ale was tainted. We won’t be back.