24 June Dumgoyne Hill

The Mediterranean weather returned this week producing blue skies, bright sunshine and temperatures touching the eighties. When we gathered at Ian’s in Kilmarnock at nine o’clock this morning, it was already into the high sixties and the forecast was for another hot day.

The target for the day was an easy ascent of the volcanic plug of Dumgoyne at the northwest end of the Campsie Fells. We looked forward to a warm climb and excellent views in the clear summer air. Yet, when we arrived in Blanefield, we must have driven into the only place in Scotland to be overcast. Fog hug on the top of the Campsies and a general haze restricted the viewing to a few miles. But it was still hot and shorts and liberal lashings of sunscreen were the order of the day.

Ian led us today for he had been here once, and he had read a book. (Education is a wonderful thing.) It’s maybe a good thing he did, for none of us would have thought of walking the private road up which he directed us. He chose Blanefield as a starting point in preference to the traditional one from the distillery for, he suggested, this would give us a gentler climb and super views down Strathblane and Strathendrick to Loch Lomond as we climbed. We thought he was just lost but we started walking anyway.
Robert had to be reigned in right from the start. In the absence of Davie and Rex, we were to have a relaxed walk at an easy pace. When Robert got to the front, he was told unambiguously that we were not racing today. But it was OK. Robert was just getting to the front to slow everybody up. So he said, and we believe him, don’t we?
So, at our new relaxed pace, we came to the end of the tarmac and found a continuation of this as a track – The Water Road, Ian called it. This track undulated slightly but mainly held the contour and Ian was congratulated on finding an easy route.
But this all changed when we left the track and took to a grassy path climbing the side of the hill. Though the path wasn’t too steep by mountain standards, it raised the breathing and tested the legs. ‘Coffee!’ was called from the rear. But Ian knew the perfect place for coffee some five more minutes up the hill so we continued the climb, some with tongues hanging out in desperate need of caffienation.
Coffee was taken on a group of outcrop rocks beside a wee glen and looking back through the haze to Blanefield. In the overcast, humid conditions, it didn’t take the midgies long to find us. Johnny sat above us in a slight breeze. ‘There’s no midgies up here’ he gloated. Jimmy moved up beside Johnny. Robert followed Jimmy. The midgies followed Robert. Needless to say, we didn’t spend too long over coffee.
The path continued to rise steeply for a while yet. Then it eased to slant gently up the flank of the hill toward our destination. And the zephyr we felt at coffee freshened into a breeze in the tail. We hoped this breeze would disperse the clag on the hill and drive away the miasma from the valley. But it didn’t, yet. It drove away the midgies but the haze remained.
We walked easily, in Indian file, as the narrowing path lifted us gently up the hill. Well, most of us walked easily. Allan tried hard to add to his bruises of last week by twice stumbling on the narrower parts of the path. We think he is playing for the sympathy vote now but he came to no harm this time. (On the subject of Allan’s fall last week, a grazed forearm and an almighty yellowy-purple bruise from elbow to wrist was the trophy he showed us. He has another on his ar posterior but we declined the offer to view this. He received the usual Ooters sympathy.)
Despite Allan’s efforts to injure himself again, this was a pleasant part of the day and might have proved even more so had we been able to see a view. As it was, the haze limited the viewing but The Kilpatrick Hills and Mugdock Loch could be seen in the west and Loch Lomond could just about be imagined in the north-west. But was that the sun making an appearance over the Campsies? Was the fog clearing from the hill? We had hopes for our breeze. Yet the haze remained in the valley.
Then our path joined the main drag and steepened. Minds were turned away from the view and to the climb ahead. Steep it might have been, but it wasn’t too long a climb and we found ourselves on the rounded top of Dumgoyne almost before we knew it. Lunch was called here. It was to be a lengthy, lazy lunch today for it was a day for taking it easy. The sun shone now and the breeze kept the midgies away. And we hoped that if we hung about long enough the haze would also be blown away. We live in hope.
As we sat, a head appeared over the lip of the rise. A body followed this and a woman joined us on the top. Two men followed her. Then more, both women and men, appeared. Then more. Before they were finished, there were around twenty of them gathered on the top, all chattering noisily. Johnny was volunteered to take the group picture for them and Jimmy, ever the shy one, made enquiries. They were a group from Glasgow Metropolitan College, Catering Section out on a team building day before breaking up for the summer. And they could supply us with a chocolate biscuit if we wanted. We didn’t refuse. It was suggested that the Ooters might try one of these team-building days but, for the life of us, we couldn’t remember what a team was, far less how to build one. And who would supply the chocolate biscuits? Nah, we’ll just guddle awa’ the way we are.
The ‘Team’ left the top before we did. We lay still and enjoyed the quiet. But, ‘Nae man can tether time nor tide, The hour approaches......’ and we were force to move on.
The hour that approached was the hour of the tour of the distillery at the foot of the hill. We had talked each other into a free tour and free dram so we set off downward. Jimmy led the way and made a line for the path we had come up, a path that would take us to the main one to the distillery. Ian, the local expert, took a steeper more direct line and waited for the rest further down the path. He was to continue his steep descent and Johnny went with him. The rest were for the path on the gentler down-slope. This path gave out on the same grassy slope that Ian was on but further north and not quite so steep. Robert was the one who started the jog. Jimmy went with him. Though Robert had the sense to stop after a while, Jimmy jogged on. The silly auld bugger has learnt nothing from his escapade on the Luss Hills and jogged on. We suspect it was the thought of the free dram that motivated him. Eventually he ran out of steam and waited for the rest of us where the path crossed a fence and a wee burn. Half an hour after leaving the top, we were all gathered at the same spot.
Now the slope eased and an easy stroll brought us down a grassy path and through a wood to find the road some hundred metres to the north of the distillery.

The distillery was a disappointment. Contrary to our thoughts of freebies, the tour was to cost £3.50 and, being meanies (stingy auld b******s, say some), we reneged. We use their facilities though, partly because we had to and partly because they contain original Crapper toilets. Robert was so taken on with these that he had to photograph them, and show us the photos. Toilet jokes should be e-mailed to Robert, not inflicted on the rest of us. The best one could appear on this blog beside his photos.

But we left the toilets, left the distillery and, relieved but disappointed, we moved on.
Our route took us back up through the wood to find the Water Road again and this was followed back to Blanefield. The breeze had now done its work and the haze was gone. Not that this was of great interest to us now, for we were far too low for distant views but the strength of the summer sun could be felt and it was turning a pleasantly hot afternoon.
Halfway along the Water Road Ian was discovered missing. We waited for him to catch up, suspecting a comfort break. But he didn’t appear. Paul volunteered to go in search of him. Allan offered to hold himself in reserve in case Paul disappeared as well but he wasn’t needed. Five minutes after Paul went out, he returned with the missing Ian. Ian had stopped to replace the energy he had used up on the steep descent and now appeared devouring what must have been his tenth roll of the day. Like the Prodigal Son, he was welcomed back amongst us and, if we had a fatted calf, we feel sure he would have devoured this as well. Not that we are saying anything about Ian’s appetite but you should see the size of his lunchbox.

The Water Road brought us back to the cars around two o’clock having had a good, easy day on a hill that was new to most of us.
Note to Messrs Porter and McMeekin: This is what walking should be like on a day like this, easy paced and with plenty of time to lounge about.

We returned to The King’s Arms in Fenwick for FRT.

Since Robert will be missing for the next few weeks, we take this opportunity to wish him well and a speedy recovery from his operation.

Ronnie's sore hand and T. Crapper's crapper, Glengoyne Distillery

Route - De'il's Back Door

Distance: 15.4 km

17 June The De’il’s Back Door – Third Visit

Since it takes eight pints of water to make one pint of whisky, I console myself by thinking ‘The more it rains, the more whisky they can make '.

Jimmy’s philosophy for life

The rain came in the night and put an end to the dry spell we’ve enjoyed over the last few weeks. When we gathered at Jimmy’s in Cumnock, it still poured down and the forecast was for a wet day. But our weatherman had consulted his seaweed and predicted that the rain would go by eleven o’clock so, while not fully trusting our weatherman’s prediction and despite Allan’s protestations, we set off for Muirkirk and the De’il’s Back Door. (We felt this was a far better alternative to looking at more of Robert’s holiday photos)
Logistical problems were overcome the same way we overcame them on our first visit to the Back Door (26/4/06) by leaving two cars at Dalblair, though we had to prevail on Jimmy’s good lady to get all of us to the walker’s car park at Kaimes, Muirkirk.
Still the rain came down.
Waterproofs were worn from the outset and we set off, heads down, into the weather. The rain came down and a wind blew but it wasn’t particularly cold and sweat built up under the waterproofs with nowhere for it to evaporate. It was to be a wet day one way or the other.
We took the old Sanquhar turnpike road, past McAdam’s Cairn and the Whisky Knowe, to the Sanquhar Brig, Rex and Robert setting a good pace. There was to be no hanging about to examine silly things like cairns, flowers or stones today. And no looking back for the view either for in that direction blew the wind. We walked on with heads down.
Still the rain came down.
But the fast pair did ease the pace as the slope steepened and the track climbed to the highest point of the day at the Black Gitter but there was still no halt to look at things and the only time we looked back was to check on those bringing up the rear. We waited for them at the gate at the Gitter. ‘The walk hasn’t been too bad so far’, said the novice.
‘Just wait till we get to the dougals’, said Rex.
It was now ten past eleven and still the rain came down. And the wind had freshened as well. We were beginning to loose faith in our weatherman.
The old road degenerates after the fence. Having been abandoned some two hundred years ago, it is now being claimed by the bog around it. Normally this is continuous sphagnum swamp but the long sunny spell had dried it so that, despite the day’s rain, some relief could be found in drier sections. Yet, we had to take time to loup the many sheughs that cut across our path. And by dint of walking and jumping and plunging through bogs, we came to the Ra’ens Cleugh.
Coffee was called for, for it was now well after half past eleven, and in as much shelter as a grassy bank could provide, we sat down for a bite. And still the rain came down.
‘That was slightly harder’, said the novice, ‘but not as tough as I expected’.
‘We’re not at the dougals yet’, said Rex and passed round the Aussie soft liquorice before comment could be made.

We left the old road at the sheep bucht and took to the open hill. One thing we have come to expect of a Jimmy walk is that, it may not involve a lot of climbing, but it is never easy. This section was tough. Feet had to be lifted high over the tussocks, reeds had to be skirted round and sheughs had to be louped. Every step was a different length and at a different height. It was tough. The group split into two, Rex, Jimmy and Johnny making up the first and the rest taking a sensible pace, as we contoured the flank of Connor Hill.
And still the rain came down.
Only two things took the mind off tiring legs. The first was witnessed by all. A deer, some distance away, stopped its grazing to watch and listen to the noisy bunch of men getting too close to it before bounding effortlessly over the stuff through which we struggled. We envied it its grace and energy.
Only Jimmy and Johnny saw the second thing. The skylark showed exactly where her nest was by flying off in a panic as a foot got too close to her. And in the nest were two mottled brown eggs. ‘A second clutch, at this time of year’, said the expert.
They left the nest to allow the adult to return and tried to catch up with Rex who had marched on oblivious to the pair nosing about in the grass. The rest trailed on behind.
Rex was carried away by his enthusiasm for the rough stuff and overshot the gully we should have gone down. The rest followed him only to have to turn back over the flank of the hill to find the top of the stone-chute that dropped us down to the base of the waterfall known to the locals as the De’il’s Back Door.
And the rain stopped!
The rain stopped and the wind dropped. Lunch was called. We settled down on a grassy island in the burn to eat our lunchtime sandwiches. The novice could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘OK, Rex’, said he, ‘What on earth are dougals?’ Rex let him in on another piece of Ooter-speak. ‘They are the tussocks of grass we have just come through.’ Only in the short upland summer do these show green shoots. For most of the year they are covered in long, brown trailers of dead grass, each tussock looking for all the world like the dog, Dougal, from ‘The Magic Roundabout’. Hence, Rex christened them ‘dougals’, and dougals they have remained.
The rain had stopped, the wind had dropped and the midges took full advantage. Fresh blood was on their lunch menu. They bit cruelly and bit often. And there were many of them. We never thought that we would wish for the rain to come again. Now we did. The rain did come again, but not until the midges had driven us away from our island and down the burn towards Glenmuirshaw.
We had to cross the burn to avoid the Connor Crags that dropped directly into the water. Once across we decided to stay on this bank rather than risk watery accidents. (Remember, we had Paul and Jimmy with us.) This was a bad move. Two rocky outcrops that hung above the burn had to be negotiated. The adventurous hung close to the burn and swung precariously round the rock. Those who think themselves more sensible opted for a higher route and a scrambled descent. They thought this would be the safer route. More fool them! It was on the second descent it happened.
Allan, spread like a stranded crab, searching for a foothold on the wet rock with his left foot, lost traction with his right. Down he came, the full four feet to the grassy ledge above the burn. Fortunately, he stopped there but not before bashing himself about a bit on rocky spurs. With nothing but a large graze on his arm to show for his misadventure, a rather paler and quieter Allan walked down the side of the burn. But he had recovered his colour by the time we came to the bridge at the sheep fanks at Glenmuirshaw.
And still the rain came down.
At Glenmuirshaw, we picked up the track that we would stay on for the rest of the walk. The abandoned farmstead of Glenmuirshaw had to be examined, mainly to get us out of the rain for a while but the rain hardly let up at all so we went back out into it and continued along the road. It was now a four-mile walk along the road to Dalblair.
And still the rain came down.
Three miles form Glenmuirshaw there was a brightening in the sky and a cooling in the wind. Was this an indication of the warm front passing through and bringing and end to the rain? Yes, it was, but by the time the rain went, we were only half a mile from the end of the walk, a dry half-mile for a change.

Somewhere else in these annals, it has been said that some of our walks will be remembered for a long time while others have probably been forgotten about already. Today’s walk might have fallen into the second category – it ticked all the boxes – but, for some reason, was quite enjoyable. Or is your scribe showing his masochistic tendencies again?

We returned to the Coach House Inn in Muirkirk for a pleasantly dry, warm and convivial FRT today.

17th June 2009: The Deil's Back Door

Lunch at the Back Door

Allan's Trophy

The Twins

Refreshments at the Coach House Inn.