Fyne for some miles and but a short way out of the town passes beneath
the ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of the loch, always
keeping near the shore, we strike eastward through the range of giant
hills that lie between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a barren stretch
of country; the road is rough and stone-strewn, with many trying
grades--dangerous in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and
interminable winding descents burn the brakes. There is little to
relieve the monotony of the wild moorlands save a mountain stream
dashing far below the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the hills,
but never a village or seldom an isolated cottage for miles. Near the
summit is a rude seat with the inscription, "Rest and be thankful,"
erected long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed the hills on
foot. The poet Wordsworth made this journey and described it in one of
his sonnets as "Doubling and doubling with laborious walk," ending in a
grateful allusion to the resting place.
We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, glinting with the gold of
the sunset, flash through the trees, for we know that the lake-shore
road is good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. Miles and miles
it follows the edge of the island-dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as
we course southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue mirror, but the
hills beyond are still touched with the last rays of the sun--a glorious
scene, not without the element of romance which adds to the pleasure one
so often experiences when contemplating Old Scotia's landscapes. It is
only by grace of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glasgow by
lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the day's run was not
extraordinary, but much of the road was pretty strenuous and tire
trouble has been above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the
metropolis does not come amiss.
After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our thoughts turn toward Ayr; even
though we have already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the spell is
unbroken and still would be though our two visits were two score. We
will not follow the Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety
will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves a singularly
uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean and squalid, the small villages are
unattractive, and Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would be
wholly commonplace had not the poet James Montgomery honored it by
making it his birthplace and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year
within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax-dresser. The ill luck
that befell nearly all the poet's business ventures pursued him here,
for his shop burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now distinguished
citizen--though she little knew it then, for Burns was only twenty-two.
Perhaps it was a fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he
might have become more of a business man than poet, and the world be
infinitely poorer by the exchange. A colossal statue recently erected
commemorates his connection with Irvine and again reminds one how Burns
overshadows everything else in the Ayr country.
The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and satisfactory
stopping-place that we cut short our day's run after completing the
forty miles from Glasgow. There is really not much in the town itself to
detain the tourist; we wander down the main street and cross the "Twa
Brigs;" from the beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky "Heads
of Ayr" to the south. In the distance are the dim outlines of the
Emerald Isle, seen only on the clearest days, and nearer at hand the
Isles of Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there is considerable
manufacturing and ship-building and many of the landmarks of the time of
Burns have been obliterated.
Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway have not shared the
same fate--a third visit to these simple memorials may seem superfluous,
but we must confess to a longing to see them all again. The birthplace,
Kirk Alloway, the monument, the Brig o' Doon and the museum, with its
priceless relics of the poet--all have a perennial interest for the
admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare simple room where the poet was
born has a wealth of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and I
cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd's little flight of fancy
inspired by this same primitive apartment:
"One can try," he writes, "to imagine the scene here on the afternoon of
that wild winter day when 'a blast o' Januar' win'' was to blow 'Hansel
in on Robin.' There would be the goodwife's spinning-wheel set back for
the nonce in a dark corner; the leglins, or milking-stools--on which the
bright-eyed boy was to sit a few years later--pushed under the deal
table; the wooden platters and bowls from which the household ate,
arranged in the wall rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the
half-open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters overhead hung hanks
of yarn of the goodwife's spinning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the
leathern parts of the horses' harness. Then, for the actors in the
humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and a faint voice in the
deep-set corner bed; the inevitable 'neighbour-woman' setting matters to
rights about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and William Burness
himself, whip in hand, hurriedly getting into his heavy riding-coat to
face the blast outside.
"A glance at the face of the great eight-day clock, a whispered word and
a moment's pause as he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the
neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, with a pale face
and some wildness in the eyes, the husband makes off, over the uneven
floor of flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute or two the
tramp of the hoofs of his galloping mare dies away in the distance, and
the women are left, waiting.
"Behind him as he turned from his door on that wild day, the farmer
would hear the Doon thundering down its glen, and the storm roaring
through the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which his son's wild
fancy was afterwards to make the scene of such unearthly revels. The old
road to Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its high hedges,
than the present one; and every step of the way had some countryside
memory belonging to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose from
the steep river-bank among the trees, stood the thorn 'where Mungo's
mither hanged hersel'.' In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still
marks the cairn 'where hunters fand the murdered bairn.' Farther on, in
a cottage garden close by the road, is still to be seen that 'meikle
stane, where drucken Chairlie brak's neck bane.' And on the far side of
the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left of the present road, was
'the ford where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd.'
"As William Burness reached the stream here a singular incident befell
him. On the farther side, when he had crossed, he found an old woman
sitting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry her over the river,
which was much swollen by the rains. This, though he was in anxious
haste, he paused and did, and then, dashing a third time through the
torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. An hour later, on returning to
his cottage with the desired attendant, he found to his surprise the
gipsy crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in the house till
the child was born, and then, it is said, taking the infant in her arms,
uttered the prophecy which Burns has turned in his well-known lines:
'He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart abune them a',
He'll be a credit till us a';
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.'
"Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment of the carline's
prophecy, the storm, rising higher and higher, at length blew down a
gable of the dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the broken gable of
a clay 'bigging' was not a thing beyond repair.
"Such were the circumstances and such was the scene of the birth of the
great peasant-poet. Much change, no doubt, has taken place in the
appearance both of the cottage and of the countryside since the
twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but after all it is the same
countryside, and the cottage is on the identical spot. Within these
walls one pictures the poet in his childish years:
"There, lonely by the ingle-cheek
He sat, and eyed the spueing reek
That filled wi' hoast-provoking smeek
The auld clay biggin',
And heard the restless rattons squeak
Aboot the riggin'."
And in this rude apartment the immortal scene of "The Cotter's Saturday
Night" was enacted--and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. Dobson to give
us his conception of the family group at worship--how well he has
succeeded the accompanying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I am
sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in connection with the
artist's graphic representation of a scene already familiar the world
over.
"The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care,
And, 'Let us worship God!' he says, with
solemn air."
In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns spent an occasional evening
with Highland Mary--for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed as
governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely that she was a
frequent guest at the Burns cottage--a probability that has supplied Mr.
Dobson with another of his happiest themes. Associations such as these
are more than the scant array of facts given in the guide-books
concerning the old cottage, and they give to the bare walls and rude
furnishings an atmosphere of romance that no familiarity can dispel.
From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the seashore, which we are to
follow for many miles. It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the
sky tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun and purple mists
which are rapidly breaking away and revealing a wide expanse of gently
undulating water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern outlines
of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge.
[Illustration: "THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT"
From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W.]
It is a delightful run along the coast, which is rich in associations
and storied ruins. Athwart our first glimpse of the ocean stands the
dilapidated bulk of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the
Kennedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayrshire aristocracy since
1466. Indeed, an old-time rhymester declared:
"'Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr,
Port-Patrick and the Cruives of Cree,
No man may think for to bide there,
Unless he court Saint Kennedie."
But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded aristocrats of Ayrshire
are superseded by the fame of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at
Alloway outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We are again reminded
of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny village a few miles farther on the road;
here he spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard are the
graves of the originals of Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie. We pass in
sight of Culzean Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing on
the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which the sea chafes
incessantly. It is the seat of the Marquis of Ailsa--one of the
Kennedys--built about a century ago, and the curious may visit it on
Wednesdays.
What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied by ruinous Turnberry,
a scant five miles southward, associated as it is with the name of King
Robert Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its walls. Here it
was that Bruce, in response to what he thought a prearranged signal
fire, made his crossing with a few followers from Arran to attempt the
deliverance of his country. The tradition is that the fire was of
supernatural origin and that it may still be seen from the shores of
Arran on the anniversary of the eventful night. This incident is
introduced by Scott into "The Lord of the Isles:"
"Now ask you whence that wondrous light,
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight?--
It ne'er was known--yet gray-hair'd eld
A superstitious credence held,
That never did a mortal hand
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand;
Nay, and that on the self-same night
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleamed the light.
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor,
And glittering wave and crimson'd shore--
But whether beam celestial, lent
By Heaven to aid the King's descent,
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath,
To lure him to defeat and death,
Or were but some meteor strange,
Of such as oft through midnight range,
Startling the traveller late and lone,
I know not--and it ne'er was known."
Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have been rude and comfortless at
its best--another reminder that the peasants of to-day are better housed
and have more comforts and conveniences than kings and nobles enjoyed in
the romantic times we are wont to dream about.
Girvan is the first town of any size which we encounter on leaving Ayr,
a quiet trading-place close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig,
a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though it looks much nearer.
It seems very like Bass Rock, near Tantallon Castle on the east coast,
though really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than a thousand
feet above the sea. It is the home of innumerable sea-birds which wheel
in whimpering, screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indicates
that it was once a human abode, though no authentic record remains
concerning it.
Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the most picturesque roads in
all Scotland. It winds along the sea, which chafes upon huge boulders
that at some remote period have tumbled from the stupendous overhanging
cliffs. Among the scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on
which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide comes rolling
landward. Even on this almost windless day the scene is an impressive
one and we can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm hurling the
waves against the mighty rocks which dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon
the road begins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Bennane Head,
a bold promontory commanding a wide prospect of the wild shore and sea,
with the coast of Ireland some forty miles away--half hidden in the
purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view and one which we
contemplate at our leisure--thanks to the motor car, which takes us to
such points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure--different
indeed from the transitory flash from the window of a railway car! A
long downward glide takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose
rock-bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the road turns inland
some miles and passes through a rich agricultural section. In places
apparently the whole population--men, women and children--are employed
in digging potatoes, of which there is an enormous yield. Hay harvest is
also in progress, often by primitive methods, though in the larger
fields modern machinery is used.
[Illustration: THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY
From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.]
The road brings us again to the coast and a half dozen miles along the
shore of Loch Ryan lands us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a
modern-looking town and we stop at the King's Arms for luncheon, which
proves very satisfactory. There is a daily service of well-appointed
steamers from Stranraer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and
much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula on which Stranraer and
Port Patrick are situated is reputed to have the mildest and most
salubrious climate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame as a
resort. There are many great country estates in the vicinity, notably
Lochinch, the estate of the Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy,
which was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast extent, with
famous pleasure grounds surrounding it. The motorist may well employ a
day in this locality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer.
There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the broad, level and finely
engineered road from Stranraer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It
passes through as beautiful and prosperous a country as we have seen
anywhere--and we have seen much of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a
short detour--though it proves hardly worth while--to see the mere
fragment of the old abbey which the neighboring vicar is using as a
chicken-roost. It is utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the
mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us about and tell us the
story of the abbey in its prosperous days. And it did have prosperous
days, for it was once of great extent and its gardens and orchards were
reputed one of the sights of Scotland. Here James IV. and his queen came
on one of their journeys some four centuries ago and the record of his
donation of four shillings to the gardener still stands--a pretty slim
royal tip, it seems to us now.
Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the River Cree, whose banks we
follow to Wigtown Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in
graceful curves. Many country houses crown the green, undulating hills
and we catch occasional glimpses of them through the trees--for the
parks are all well wooded. The excellent road through Gatehouse and
Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly that the sun is still high when we
reach Maxwelton. Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective
and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct a mistake we
made on a previous tour--our failure to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near
the village of New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on arriving
we learn that the abbey is not shown after six o'clock. A visit to the
custodian's home, however, secures the key and we have sole possession
of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour.
[Illustration: GLENLUCE ABBEY]
There are many abbey ruins in Scotland--and we have seen the most
famous--but it may be the hour of our visit, quite as much as the
strange story of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory of
them all. In its one-time importance as well as in the beauty of its
scattered remnants, it is quite the peer of any of its rivals, but none
of these have such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweetheart
stands forever as a monument of love and constancy, as intimated in its
very name. John Baliol of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269,
leaving his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. And truly she
did mourn it. There are many monuments to her sorrow--Baliol College,
Oxford, Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey--or Sweetheart, as it is now
known. Both of the latter are in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the
daughter of the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. Upon the
death of her only sister she became sole heiress to the vast estates of
her father and when she became Baliol's widow she was easily the richest
subject in all Britain. She survived her husband for twenty-one years,
during which time she was engaged principally in benevolent work,
visiting many parts of the country. Her husband's heart, embalmed and
encased in a silver casket, she constantly carried with her and at her
death in 1289 it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried in New
Abbey, which she built as a memorial to Baliol and a resting place for
her own body. When the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled--but
her epitaph still exists in one of the old chronicles:
"In Devorgil a sybil sage doth dye as
Mary contemplative, as Martha pious.
To her, O deign, high King, rest to impart
Whom this stone covers, with her husband's heart."
Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, whose roofless and
windowless walls rise before us, the harsh outlines hidden by the
drooping ivy and softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous and
fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but enough remains to show its
pristine artistic beauty and vast extent. The sculptures and other
delicate architectural touches were doubtless due to workmen sent by the
Vatican, since the Scotch had hardly attained such a degree of skill in
1270. It is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself peculiarly well
to the art of the carver and which, considering its fragile nature, has
wonderfully withstood the ravages of time and weather. An extensive
restoration is in progress which will arrest further decay and insure
that the fine old ruin will continue to delight the visitor for years to
come.
[Illustration: SWEETHEART ABBEY]
There is no one to point out refectory and chapel and other haunts of
the ancient monks--but it is just as well. We know Sweetheart's story
and that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the gathering
twilight, to make the hour we linger an enchanting one. And yet the
feeling of sadness predominates, as we move softly about over the thick
carpet of green sward--sadness that this splendid memorial to a life of
sacrifice and good works should have fallen into such decay that the
very grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! The spell is
broken when one of our party reminds us that it is growing late; that we
may miss the dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid farewell
to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that the royal burgh of Dumfries is at
the end of the day's journey--an unusually long one for us--for we know
that its Station Inn is one of the most comfortable in Scotland.
XIV
ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND
Who could ever weary of English Lakeland? Who, though he had made a
score of pilgrimages thither, could not find new beauties in this
enchanted region? And so in our southward run we make a detour from
Carlisle to Keswick by the way of Wigton, a new road to us, through a
green and pleasant country. We soon find ourselves among the hills and
vales of the ill-defined region which common consent designates as the
Lake District. Rounding the slopes of Skiddaw--for we have a rather
indirect route--we come upon a vantage point which affords a glorious
view of Bassenthwaite Water, glittering like a great gem in its setting
of forest trees. We have seen the District many times, but never under
better conditions than on this clear, shimmering July day. The green
wooded vales lying between the bold, barren hills, with here a
church-tower or country mansion and there a glint of tarn or river, all
combine to make an entrancing scene which stretches clear and distinct
to the silvery horizon. We pause a short space to admire it, then glide
gently down the slope and along the meandering Derwent into Keswick
town.
It is the height of the summer season here and the place shows
unmistakable marks of the tourist-thronged resort; the Hotel Keswick,
where we stop for luncheon, is filled to overflowing. It is the most
beautifully located of the many hotels in the town, standing in its own
well-cared-for grounds, which are bedecked with flower-beds and
shrubbery. The Keswick is evidently a favorite with motorists, for we
found many cars besides our own drawn up in front. It is a pleasant,
well-conducted inn--everything strictly first-class from the English
point of view--with all of which the wayfarer is required to pay prices
to correspond.
Keswick is anything but the retired village of the time of the poet
Southey, whose home, Greta Hall, may be seen on an eminence overlooking
the town. As the gateway by which a large proportion of tourists enter
the Lake District, and as a resort where a considerable number of
visitors--mostly English--come to spend their vacations, it is a lively
place for some weeks in midsummer. There is not much of consequence in
the town itself or in the immediate vicinity. It is the starting-point,
however, for an endless number of excursions, mostly by coach, for the
railroad does not enter many parts of the District frequented by
tourists. Even wagon-roads are not numerous and the enthusiast who
wishes to thoroughly explore the nooks and corners must do much
journeying on foot.