place in the guide book is as well known as the Trongate or Jamaica
Street, it is something to discover a hill everybody has not been to
the top of, and which is not in Black or Murray. Such a hill is that
which stands between Fairlie and Kilbirnie, overlooking Fairlie Roads
(that is, the Clyde between Fairlie and the Greater Cumbrae) on the
one side, and the valley of the Garnock on the other. It is best to
make the ascent from Fairlie, which can be reached either by Wemyss Bay
from the Central, or by Ardrossan from St. Enoch’s. At the south or
far end of the railway platform a path will be found, on crossing the
line, which leads to the farm of Southannan. There the road to the left
should be taken, across a nicely wooded burn, which should be followed
up till a wall is reached; which wall should be followed till we come
to the heathery ground. From that the course is, without any track,
in a somewhat south-westerly direction, now over a tiny stream, now
through a stretch of heather, and now past the side of some large old
red sandstone or piece of trap, perhaps 20 feet long, which are the
chief rocks of this hill range.
The upward journey is a thing not to be forgotten, for the foliage is
wonderful, and every step we take almost reveals some new beauty. The
watercourses, swollen with rains that have come rushing down the green
and rocky slopes, are broadening and deepening. There is plenty of
life also in the woods and on the moor. The grouse are not at all in
evidence, and we miss their whirr and cry so pleasant to hear. But the
robins sing where there are branches on which they can perch, and the
rabbits are running races among the ferns.
When what seems the summit has been attained, the view will be found
to be very fine to the north; but it will also be found that there is
still a higher height a little farther back, over softer ground, from
which an all-round prospect can be had. “Kaim” is applied to any ridge
of ground, either moundish or mountainous, with enough of sharpness
and zigzag in its outline to give it some resemblance to a cock’s
comb, and is frequently so used in Scotland; but there can be none of
those hills so called which can possibly boast of a finer outlook
than this one above Fairlie, which seems to be the meeting-place of
all the hills that rise in the parishes of Kilbirnie, Lochwinnoch, and
Dalry, and which hem in the parish of Largs so curiously from all the
cultivated land to the north, east, and south-east as to have produced
the proverbial expression, “Out of the world, into Largs.”
In a north-easterly direction may be seen the thriving town of Beith,
and the high ground behind it, forming part of the watershed between
the basin of the Clyde and the river systems of Ayrshire. Due east is
the valley of the Garnock, the beauty of which is somewhat marred by a
variety of coal and iron works, whose bings of shale and other refuse
are considerably higher than any Dutch hills that we have seen. But
they are suggestive of the spirit of the age, industry and enterprise,
and of the great change that has come over the district since it was
the abode of princes. For Dalry, it should be remembered, means “the
king’s field” or “vale,” and those holms on the river’s side were at
one time the king’s domain. Not far over from where we stand is old
Blair House, whose family charter dates from William the Lion; and on
the estate of Blair, on a precipitous bank of limestone, in a romantic
glen, there is to be seen one of the greatest curiosities in Ayrshire,
a cave 40 feet above the bed of the stream, and covered by 30 feet of
rock and earth. In former times people believed it to be tenanted by
elves, aerial genii, and hence the name it now goes by, “Elf Ho.” It
was frequently occupied in later times by a nobler class of tenants,
the Covenanters, in the time of Charles II. This would make an
excursion by itself. And in visiting it we would have awakened in our
hearts feelings of veneration and pride for those who fought the battle
of religious freedom for us. It is only by visiting such dens of the
earth that we can realise in some measure the hardships they endured,
and how greatly we should esteem the precious heritage handed down to
us by them.
Away to the left is the parish of Lochwinnoch, with its ancient castle
of Barr, which is said to have been built by men who wrought at a
penny a day; and of which it is also said that at one time, when being
besieged, and when the garrison was about to surrender from want of
provisions, one of them threw over the heel of a skim-milk kebbock, all
that remained of their stock, and that the besiegers, taking this as a
mark of abundance raised the siege and departed. And not so far away to
the left, 2 miles to the north of the village of Kilbirnie, are the
ruins of Glengarnock Castle, built some 700 years ago. Tradition tells
us that it was once occupied by Hardy Knute, the hero of the fine old
ballad of that name. It is now the resort of picnickers for purposes of
innocent amusement; but also, sad to tell, of the neighbouring farmers,
who make it a kind of quarry for stone dykes and similar purposes.
Looking north we have Ben Lomond and the frontier masses of the
Perthshire Grampians, and the serrated ridge of Cowal and the Loch Eck
district. Due west we have the hills around the Kyles of Bute and the
coast of Cantyre, and Goatfell, with Innellan, Toward, Loch Striven,
the Kyles, the lovely Bute, with Mount Stuart and Kilchattan Bay, and
the two Cumbraes, with the far-extended Millport and its reminiscence
of the former parish minister who magnified his bishopric and prayed
for “the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland.” The view more
immediately below us, including the beautifully-shaped Knock Hill,
with the still more beautiful half-moon Bay of Largs and the town
in its bosom, and the braes rising in gentle slope all around, and
the Roads of Fairlie, which, with the tide so far out, and the wind
rippling the surface of the water, seems to us to resemble a curling
pond (the ripples having the appearance of little drifts of snow here
and there), all go to constitute as lovely a prospect as can be had
anywhere on the West Coast. It will be interesting to remember here
that if at this place the water is narrow, it is correspondingly deep
to make up for it; and that, as Geikie in one of his books shows us,
if the land all over Scotland could be raised a few feet, it would
add about 150 miles to the size of the country away to the west of
Ardnamurchan, and dry up considerably the Firth of Clyde, but that
there would still be deep water between Fairlie and the Greater Cumbrae.
It will be interesting also to think of a time, now more than 600 years
ago, when the natives in those parts looked out on the dragon prows
and raven pennons of the Norwegian galleys, and recognised in them
the shattered remnants of King Haco’s once noble fleet. A friend who
accompanied me on this climb, and who is great in history, showed that
he could speak of the invasion of the Norsemen, and of Scandinavian
mythology and literature by the yard. There was no end to his talk
about their worship of brute force as personified in their god Thor,
the god of thunder, with his hammer, the “mauler” or “smasher,” and
their high appreciation of the Pagan virtues of valour, courageous
endurance of hardships, and indomitable resolution which made them
the terror and scourge of every northern sea and neighbouring coast.
It was interesting, and not without its touch of pathos, to learn
from him that, after their decisive defeat at the battle of Largs,
whilst lying in Lamlash Bay, in whose quiet and land-locked waters
they had gone to refit, Ivan Holm, the old comrade of Haco, died, and
the broken-hearted king himself only reached the Orkneys to die there
six weeks afterwards. It was also interesting to learn from him that a
little farther down yonder, right over Whiting Bay (though the fish of
that name have long ago, like Haco and his fleet, left those waters),
in Glen Eisdale, there is still to be seen what are known as the
“Vikings’ graves,” the resting-place of some of those who took part in
this ill-fated expedition.
And there below us on the left is Hunterston Ho, with the Bay of
Fairlie terminating in the far-projecting headland of Ardneill. And a
little round the corner is Portincross, with its ancient fortalice on
a bare rock stretching out into the sea, above which it is elevated
only a very little. The fort is not only wild and picturesque, but it
is memorable from the many visits paid to it by the first of our Stuart
sovereigns, as is attested by the numerous charters which received his
signature within its venerable walls. A piece of cannon is shown here
as a relic of the Spanish Armada; a vessel having been wrecked on the
coast close by. It is understood that some of the sailors settled in
the district and left families, whose representatives are still known
by their outlandish names and a slight tinge of the dark complexion of
Spain. Following the coast line, the eye takes in the fertile district
of West Kilbride, the ironworks of Stevenston, Ardrossan, Saltcoats,
Troon, the heights of Ayr, and the Carrick Hills. And yonder is Ailsa
Craig standing up sentinel-like out of the blue waters over which are
passing and repassing richly-freighted ships, bearing the merchandise
of all nations.
And there in the foreground, to pass from the stirring times of Haco,
and in striking contrast to them, is the Isle of Lamlash, so fitly
called the Holy Isle. The distance is too great to discern its sea-worn
cave, where St. Molios, the shaved or bald-headed servant of Jesus,
retired to practice a discipline of himself more strict and rigid even
than that of St. Columba, whose disciple he was. From that little Iona
there shone forth the light which diffused a knowledge of Christianity
amongst the formerly Pagan inhabitants of Arran. The day is almost
clear enough to see on the road to Sannox the boulder from behind
which the angry natives dragged forth the last survivor of Cromwell’s
garrison, and meted out to him the rough-and-ready justice of his and
his comrades’ misdeeds; and far above are the rugged granite peaks of
the Hill of Winds.
Before beginning the descent it might be as well to give a passing
look and thought to the Cumbrae Dykes, the most astonishing natural
monuments in the Big Cumbrae. This is the Heatheren Keipel Dyke
(heth’ren caple)—to call it by its old and time-honoured name—and the
Houllon Keipel Dyke, which lifts its lion-like head and shoulders
one-third of a mile ahead of the others. No other name than this did
it have fifty years ago, says Mr. Lytteil (in his “Guide Book to the
Cumbraes”), except the occasional appellation of Deil’s Dyke—a name
which may be regarded as summarising and embodying in one personage
the host of ogres or fabulous demon-giants which are credited, in an
ancient folks’ tale, with the building of the grim-looking structure.
According to the legend the stupendous wall of Heatheren Keipel was
built up to its present height by the fairies, or good elves; seeing
which, the malignant ogres, or swart-elves, set to work and attempted
in the spirit of keen competition to outrival and excel their betters.
The result was a conspicuous failure; so, finding they could do no
better by their work, these same demon giants, in the person of their
chief, fell into a wild rage and kicked half-a-dozen holes through
the stony heart of their own performance. Mr. Lytteil states that
the names _Heatheren_ and _Houllon_, as applied to these two great
Cumbrae dykes, have been discovered, after much study and research,
to contain the very essence of the ancient legend, and to describe
respectively the benevolent sprites or brownies on the one hand, and
the malevolent demons on the other. Heatheren Keipel Dyke, regarded as
a local name, signifies the dyke of the giants’ contest. On the other
hand, Houllon Keipel Dyke, similarly regarded, means the dyke or wall
of the ogre-giants’ contest. The term “keipel”—also written “keppel”
and “caple”—denotes a contest, a competition. The latter of the two
dykes is pretty well known nowadays by the name of the Lion. It may
be added that, in the raising of these huge fabrics, the legendary
builders had a special object in view—which was to carry a bridge over
the waters of the Sound to the shore of the mainland. And, strange to
say, a corresponding mass of black rock, in the form of a great but
much abraded natural dyke, reappears on the sandy flats of the opposite
coast, and bears the name of the Black Rock.
In whatever direction we turn the scenery is of the finest, and is
undisturbed by any manufacturing chimney or coalpit, though I have
heard of a Cockney who wondered “what kind of work can that be on the
top of that ’ill?” when he saw the Holy Isle with its nightcap on. It
is not easy to leave a sight like this, but time and tide wait for
no man, and we have the station below us as constant mentor, and we
make the descent for it, paying in passing a visit to the old Castle
of Fairlie, which, with the glen in which it stands, all visitors to
Fairlie should see. The site is so peculiar that the popular eye has no
difficulty in tracing in it the real residence of Hardy Knute, the hero
of the well-known beautiful ballad of that name. Whether the story is
wholly a fiction seems to be doubted, but it does not follow that it
had no foundation in tradition. We reach the station again three hours
after leaving it, with a strong desire to do something to make this
hilltop better known than it is, for it has only to be seen once to be
a joy for ever. Our friend, with the view of helping in this laudable
endeavour, suggested the following lines:—
When other lips with other lies
The guide book’s page shall fill,
Be sure you kindly advertise
The name of Kaim’s fair hill.
In another hour and a half we are singing the praises of Kaim to our
home circle.
GOATFELL.
We see that “Cook” is advertising his usual excursions to Switzerland
and Paris in view of the Fair holidays, but, whilst we would not urge
anyone not to go, having been there and enjoyed them, ourselves, to
those who have neither the time nor the money to go any great distance
we would say that we are old enough fashioned to believe that this
“nice little, tight little, island” of our own contains within its
rocky shores as wondrous a combination and as great a variety of
scenery as can be found in any portion of the Continent of Europe twice
its extent and surface. We back Great Britain and Ireland, not omitting
even the adjacent islands of the Great and Little Cumbraes, against
the world for possessing the richest treasures of all that is grand,
beautiful, and lovable in nature. Indeed, none should cross the Channel
till they are tolerably well acquainted with the chief things worth
seeing at home. But, to come to particulars, we back not only this
country against the rest of the world, but we back Scotland against
England and Ireland, and “Arran’s Isle” against the rest of Scotland.
Have you been to Arran? If not, you cannot go to soon; and, as you
must ascend Goatfell, the best thing to do is to steer your course to
Brodick. Everyone will ask you if you have been to the top of Goatfell.
In fact, the question is so universal that, having failed in our first
attempt, we found it advisable whenever we referred afterwards to
having been at Arran to add, “but I did not ascend Goatfell.”
Take the early morning train from the Central or St. Enoch to
Ardrossan, and crossing over to Brodick pull your hat well down on
your head, for, though the captain has a kindly way with him, he’ll
not turn back for any hat that goes overboard. He may only tell you,
as we once heard another skipper tell a man further up the Clyde who
had lost his headpiece, “You shouldn’t travel with a quick boat if you
don’t want to lose your bonnet.” On landing admire the fine sweep of
the bay on to and beyond the big castle among the trees, chief outward
token of the supremacy of the Hamilton family in the past. On passing
the handsome hotel built by the late Duke, and standing in the midst of
its own beautiful and carefully kept grounds, you have time to look on
the face of an old friend, Lord Brougham, a true lithograph written
on stone, on the top of the hills to the left of Goatfell. That row
of houses on the left a little way off the road in the English style
of architecture is “The Alma.” But whether it is so called because
erected during the Crimean War, or because in ancient times there stood
there one of the forts that formed the chain which girdled the whole
coast of the island, deponent sayeth not. The next group of houses is
Invercloy, where, if you have not already a thick staff or Alpine pole,
you may provide yourself with one, and lay aside till your return any
superfluous clothing.
As you pass the Cloyburn it will interest you to know that up the glen
from which it comes is the mansion-house of Kilmichael, the seat of
the Fullarton family, proprietors of Whitefarland and Kilmichael—the
only portions of Arran not owned by the Duke of Hamilton. A little
further up are the remains of an encampment which had been provided
by the islanders for the security of their wives and children on the
alarm of invasion. It was here that Bruce and his followers resided
before taking Brodick Castle. Passing the school-house, examine a
very fine bronze statute of the late Duke in Highland costume, the
workmanship of Marochetti. Here also, at the roadside, is to be seen
a large block of red sandstone set on end, the history of which is
unknown. It is supposed to be one of the many Druidical monuments
and circles to be found on the island; or perhaps it was set up here
to mark the burial-place of some chief, or the spot where one fell
in deadly combat; or perhaps it was meant for something more common
and prosaic—for (Highland) man and beast to scratch themselves upon.
Coming to the cross-road leading to Shiskin and to Corrie, take the
Corrie road over Rosa Burn; but before doing so admire the artistic
manse straight in front, its magnificent position and the liberality
of the Duke in building it at his own expense. The house is as unique
inside as it is outside, and a visit which we recently paid it and its
accomplished occupant will long live in our memory.
At the Rosa Bridge enter the carriage drive to the Castle, and keep on
it till near the gamekeeper’s house; then enter by a small gate on the
left and follow the walk through the wood, which is well stocked with
deer and game, till you come out again on the moor. From the Rosa Burn
to the summit is about 3 miles as the crow flies, but by the windings
of the path it will be at least 4. The highest point is 2800 feet above
the level of the sea at half-tide. The ascent is now more difficult,
the path more abrupt and uneven, following the burn, which runs
through a deep mountain gorge, showing many different kinds of strata
and stone interesting to those who go about with small hammers. At the
mill dam you reach a height of 1200 feet. You may be tempted to strike
across a flat space to the left and mount by the southern shoulder;
but although a shorter cut, it is much steeper and more dangerous than
the usual path which is to the right, and which you should follow till
you reach the sharp ridge of the east shoulder of the mountain. Before
attempting this, the last and most difficult part of the journey, you
will probably think it time to sit down and discuss the contents of
your bag. Tennant’s beer sells at one-and-six the bottle on the Rocky
Mountains; well, this is an exceedingly rocky mountain, yet you can
get “something to drink free, gratis, and for nothing” at anytime
by simply scratching its surface. The path now turns to the left up
the steep ridge among and over huge masses of rock lying in grand
confusion. As you get higher the granite boulders become of immense
size, some of them 20 by 10 feet, toppled on the top of others of all
shapes and sizes, till one wonders how they ever came there, and can
understand what the man meant who said, though his theology might have
been more correct and his language more fitly chosen, “O man, are the
works of God no devilish?” Near the top there is an immense precipice
of granite blocks laid on each other as regular as mason work, which
geologists call a cyclopean wall. Keep to the left till you are clear
of the blocks and are facing a very abrupt steep, put your feet in the
well-worn footprints, and a few minutes of hard toil will land you safe
on the summit of Goatfell.
When we made the ascent it was a very hot day in a very hot week,
each day almost more calm than its predecessor, reminding us of the
sergeant newly arrived in India, who, not much accustomed to such a
warm climate, was always remarking to his commanding officer when he
met him, “Anither het day, kornel.” But he will soon be cooled down
who lingers on this (appropriately termed) “hill of winds.” Therefore,
improve your time in taking a mental photograph of the grand prospect.
Here is a place for learning a lesson in geography; here is a map of
the south-west of Scotland that beats Collins’ all to sticks. On the
north-east you see the two Cumbraes, and behind them Largs, Wemyss Bay,
and the Clyde sparkling with tiny white sails, and the green hills of
Renfrewshire in the background. To the north is the Island of Bute,
and the Kyles, like a silver thread, nearly surrounding it; while Ben
Lomond, Ben Voirlich, and Ben Ledi fill up the distant background.
To the north-west the eye reaches far up Loch Fyne, and round by the
Paps of Jura and Islay and Mull. Looking across Ben Gneiss down to the
Sound of Kilbrannan you see Campbeltown, and over Kintyre, and, if the
day be clear, to the coast of Ireland. Due south you see Wigtonshire
and the lonely Craig of Ailsa, “Paddy’s Milestone,” with Pladda, the
Holy Isle, and Lamlash in the foreground. Looking east, the eye sweeps
round the sunny coast of Ayrshire, taking in Ayr with its tall spire,
Troon, Irvine, and Ardrossan, and inland, the conical Loudon Hill. East
and south-east are the Muirkirk and Cumnock ranges, Cairnsmuir and the
dark mountains between Loch Doon and Loch Trool, several of which are
nearly as high as Goatfell, though, on account of their tangled and
featureless character, they attract little notice.
In the immediate vicinity, and apparently on the same level with
yourself, though really considerably lower, there is probably the most
terrible congregation of jagged mountain ridges to be seen anywhere
in the same compass, and yawning chasms between—all dry, bleak, and
barren in the extreme. Away to the left lies the mighty Glen Sannox,
_i.e._, “the glen of the river trout”—grand and wild and lonely “beyond
the reach of art,” at the foot of which there once stood a chapel
dedicated to St. Michael. Almost at your feet is Glen Rosa, with the
river meandering at the bottom like a silver thread, and the foaming
waterfall of Grabh-alt bounding down the opposite mountain side. We
were slow to leave such a scene, for we felt that we might never see
the like again. At last, with one long soul-satisfying gaze, we bade
farewell to the prospect, which few surely can look upon without a
feeling of awe and a sense of their own insignificance, and which
defies the skill of the painter and engraver.
There are some who make the descent by scrambling down the steep slope
of Glen Rosa; but we had heard that this was a dangerous route, and
that a man-of-war’s man, who, with some shipmates, had previously
made the descent that way under the guidance of a local worthy who
has been up to the top at least once every month in the year, fairly
broke down. We therefore took the advice _Punch_ gave to those about to
marry, “Don’t,” and we didn’t. Come down the way you went up, carefully
observing the track lest you should lose your way and come to grief
among the boulders; once past these you will be out of danger, and will
be able to look around and enjoy the scenery. In coming down you may,
as we did, pass through a herd of deer of close on 150, none of them
putting themselves more about than merely to gaze at us with their
great soft eyes as we pass through their midst. At the kennel turn to
have a look at the old Castle, so often demolished and rebuilt, from
the tower of which Bruce is said to have watched for the fire on the
Turnberry Coast which the faithful Cuthbert was to light, should there
be any hope of striking a blow for Scotland’s freedom. Here also we saw
on our visit a rude deal table, drilled by moths and seasoned with age,
around which the royal exile and his trusty friends were wont to sit
and quaff their wine, drinking revenge to Scotland’s foes. A pleasant
walk will bring you to the road at the old inn, and you are soon at the
pier in time for the steamer.
THE EARL’S SEAT.