in rain and dripping mist, blurring and blotting out the mountain
tops, we would have had sufficient compensation in the enlarged size
and music of the waterfalls. Even as it was we could see almost every
rift and gully on all the hillsides, flashing with small cataracts,
which twisted and whirled in mid-air as they fell like veils of silvery
gauze. After a day or two’s rain every brawling burn becomes a torrent,
and rushes down the valley with resistless force—leaping from rocky
heights into water-worn cauldrons that roar, and seethe, and eddy
amidst a mist of rebounding spray.
In little more than an hour’s walk from where we cross the burn,
through bog and heather alternately, we get near to what seems the
summit, now sinking an inch or two till we touch the stem of what may
be a pre-Adamite tree slowly turning into peat, and now almost putting
our foot on the tail of a grouse, which first gets a fright, and then
gives its back to us as we startle at the “whirr, whirr,” with which it
hurries off beyond our reach.
We have still another quarter of an hour’s walk before us; meanwhile,
however, now that we have got on firmer ground, we sit down on a
rock that feels as hot as if it could frizzle a fish, and are amply
rewarded. We see the large half of Loch Long, with its villas and
cottages, its patches of cultivated land, Douglas and Carrick Piers,
the bare hillside of Ben Cruach, with an occasional patch of wood, and
the road to St. Catherine’s, which at this elevation looks like the
road between Glen Rosa and Shiskin as seen from Brodick Bay, more like
a piece of “string” than anything else. When the cairn is reached we
feel as if we not only deserved but could enjoy a substantial sandwich,
and are thankful that this necessary proceeding need not seriously
interfere with our enjoyment of the special feast for which we had
come up so high. The five nearest counties—Argyll, Stirling, Perth,
Dumbarton, and Renfrew—and Arran with its rugged peaks, all contribute
to the view. The scenery is everywhere of the most awful, the wildest,
and most extensive. The weather is at its best, and every peak, and
scaur, and wrinkle are visible to the naked eye. Below us to the left,
winding under Ben Lochain, Ben Bheula, and Ben Cruach, is Loch Goil,
flashing back the blue sky, and holding the sun-softened lines of the
great hills in its bosom. To the north-west we can see the greatest of
all those lochs that do so much to adorn, and draw tourists to, the
west coast of Scotland, and which even from a commercial point of view
is not without its value as our “great herring pond.” We do not see
it all, nor what we see of it continuously, but in two long reaches,
the one near the top and the one much lower down, the one over Hell’s
Glen and the other over Loch Eck. Beyond Inveraray and its conical
hill of Duniquoich, and rather to the north end of it, we see in two
distinct places Loch Awe, which is now getting to be as famous for a
tourist route as it used to be and still is as a fishing ground. And
over it Ben Cruachan lifts its majestic head 3689 feet high. In the
north-east we catch a glimpse of the narrow ends of Loch Long, under
the “Cobbler,” and of Loch Lomond, the biggest thing of its kind in
Britain, through the neck of ground between Arrochar and Tarbet. Loch
Long itself is of no small size, stretching all the way from Strone
Point on to Arrochar, and running right alongside of half the length
of Dumbartonshire. In the south-east we have in sight Gareloch, and
the Clyde herself in a great variety of places, washing the coasts of
Renfrew, Cowal, Bute, Arran, and the Big and Wee Cumbraes. But pausing,
we give ourselves over to reflection.
How utterly insignificant one feels on the summit of a hill like
this, and in the overpowering presence of those still higher hills.
The mountains all around seem to open up steep passes that lead away
to still higher hills in the distance. There is Glencroe going down
between Donich and Ben Arthur, and the road which was made by the 98th
Regiment about a hundred years ago. Then there is the dark glen between
Ben Bheula and Ben Lochain, down which pour the waters of the Lettermay
Burn, which come out of the little tarn, Curra Lochain. Beyond Loch
Lomond there proudly stands Ben Lomond, lifting its head 3192 feet
high, and dominating all the loch of that name. The peaks that overlook
Loch Long prevent us seeing the best parts of Loch Lomond, but we see
themselves, and in doing so feel the force of the sarcasm which has
named them “The Duke of Argyll’s Bowling Green.” Time would fail to
speak of the immense number of high hills that are to be seen away to
the north, the first of which may be said to be Ben Lui, near which is
the source of the Tay, and a good remnant of the old Caledonian Forest.
But between Glen Orchy and Loch Tay one can see Ben Chaluim, Ben More,
Stobinain, Ben Heskernich, Meal Girdy, Ben Lawers, Sheechaillin; and
when it is remembered that the very lowest of those Grampian monarchs
is several hundred feet higher than Ben Lomond, it will not require a
very lively imagination to conceive what a panorama this comparatively
little hill of Donich affords us. It is even said that in certain
favourable conditions of the atmosphere the mountains of Mull can be
seen away to the north-west.
Enough has been said to tempt anyone that has the time, the lung power,
and a mind capable of being attracted and pleased with the grand in
Nature. But it is not merely the grand that is to be met with. There
is no more delightful spot in summer than a bare hillside. On the
broad slopes of purple heather, with dark hills in the distance, one
suddenly comes upon all kinds of life and beauty. Here is some wild
game, which darts or flies away at your approach. Poor as the pasture
is, no Eastern carpet ever glowed with half the colour of those
flowing slopes. As we come farther down we light upon a little troop
of stonechats—five young birds and their parents—on the branches of a
hawthorn. They are a lively lot, and the clear “chat, chat” of the old
birds is one of the few sounds of life upon the hill. It was perhaps
this note that disturbed a pair of partridges from their resting-place.
They leap a little way into the air, but instead of flying off they
settle down again and crane their necks above the grass. We are told
that some animals, now rare, are not quite unknown on the hillside,
such as the otter, the wild cat, and the fox. Still, any of these are
not likely to disturb the casual visitor. The only thing that can
be regarded as the least uncanny that came under our notice was the
presence in the burn, not a great way up, of an eel.
The natives, we are told, but will not vouch for the truth of it, have
a horror of eels almost as great as of the adders that are to be met
with on the sunny side of the burn, but which will not hurt you if you
do not hurt them. The natives, however, show them scant mercy. But
the perfume of flowers and leaves and heather, the singing of birds,
and the sweeps of wooded braes throw one into a poetical turn of mind
that begets a dreamy content in which nothing either great or small is
overlooked.
If you have a turn for botany you may find here, in the course of
your ascent or descent, specimens of the tufted vetch and the lady’s
mantle and one of the saxifrages, loosestrife, a specific which used
to be laid in the cradles of children to make them of a peaceable
temperament. The dog mercury is also here, which dogs resort to and eat
as a medicine, and many another specimen too numerous to detail. And if
your experience be the same as ours, you will also have the advantage
of a singing competition between a homely thrush and some other bird,
in which the thrush, with his louder, more continuous, and more varied
song, bore away the palm. It was amusing to see how the rival songsters
continued, evidently now listening to each other, and continuing “long
with spiteful energy of sweet sounds.” But the shadows will soon begin
to lengthen and lie another way, and we may make a straight road for
Lochgoilhead.
BEN VENUE.
Who that has read “Rob Roy” would not wish to make a pilgrimage to
the clachan of Aberfoyle, where visitors can see for themselves the
historic coulter of the “Bailie,” still red-hot, hanging on a tree in
front of the hotel? It will be remembered that this implement did no
little damage to the Highlandman’s plaid, and led to the very important
question, when the articles of agreement were being decided on in the
inn, after the fracas—“But who’s to pay for ma new plaid?” And who that
has read of Roderick Dhu and Fitz-James would not wish to go to the top
of Ben Venue? Well, all this can be done in one short day from Glasgow,
and at a very small outlay of money; and with my reader’s leave I will
act as his cicerone, in case he should wish to visit a district which
is more visited and better known by the world at large than any other
in Scotland.
Take a return ticket to Aberfoyle by the North British, and if money is
a consideration, do it on a Saturday. If walking is no consideration
to you, if you can walk six miles over a hill and then climb two, up a
safe but very and continuously steep mountain, start, after you have
had a look around and at the old brig, up the road to the east of the
hill. Take the old road, with its short cuts as often as you can, and
you will be well on your way before the coach, which has to walk the
half of the way, will overtake you.
But on the other hand, if money is no consideration and walking is, you
can get a ride over and back for the reasonable sum of six shillings,
by the new coach road recently and well (in a double sense) made by no
less a person than his Grace of Montrose. Before reaching the summit
you have the slate quarries, giving employment to about 100 men, on
your left, and after passing the summit you have the Gloomy Glen, and
Loch Drunkie, with which it communicates, on your right. Here also you
get an instalment of the land of the mountain and the flood, and as
you see Ben Venue now towering in its lonely greatness to the left,
apparently much higher, though nearly 500 feet less than Ben Ledi in
front of you, a little to the left, you begin to wish you could drive
right up. A few steps further and you are in sight of “the Lake of
the Level Plain,” with “bold Ben A’an” standing aloof to the north.
Even the rude mountains seem to wear a gentler look as they meet the
pure gaze of “lovely Loch Achray,” and the place is a very sanctuary
of sweet and quiet influences. The ascent is best made by leaving the
coach road at Achray House, before coming to the wooden bridge on the
Teith as it is about to fall into Loch Achray. Pass through the offices
of Mr. Thomson, to whose family we Glasgow people are indebted for so
large and so cheap a park as we have at Camphill, go across the burn
coming down Glen Reoch, and keep on the grass-grown cart road, with
the Teith on your right, till near the sluice between Loch Katrine and
the burn which is its overflow. This overflow is not now so large as
before we in Glasgow began to make such a pull on Loch Katrine. Here,
on the left, you will see a clump of eight or ten trees, chiefly birch,
with a mountain stream to the right of it, and there is the place
where you should begin your climb, keeping this little stream on your
right, keeping near to it for guidance, refreshment, and to cool your
fevered brow. When you have reached the first beginnings of the tiny
stream, keep to the right under the shade of a great rock, at the far
end of it turn to the left, make for the ridge before you, and when you
have reached it, the last and pleasantest part of the climb is now to
the right, amid largish rocks, which make the approach to the summit
something like the burying-place of giants, and, strange to say, it is
all covered over with “ladies mantles.” On the way up specimens may
be gathered, if you are that way inclined, of the Burnet saxifrage,
moneywort, and marjoram; also, of the juniper and yew, the fruit of
the latter being exceedingly beautiful with its bright red waxen cup
holding the seed.
The height of Ben Venue, “the little mountain” (as compared with Ben
Lomond), is 2393 feet above the sea level, and the ascent can be
easily made in two and a half hours. I have done it in an hour and
forty-five minutes from Achray House, but this was without a rest,
which I could not advise anyone to repeat. You are now looking down
on the world-famed Trossachs. It has been well said that the scenery
around the Trossachs “beggars all description,” a phrase more forcible
than elegant; still it is true, and only a Scott could do it justice.
The whole district has been immortalised by him; but forcible as are
his descriptions, they do no more than justice to the original, which
has been touched by nature’s fingers with loveliness of no common
kind. There is such an assembly of rude and wild grandeur as fills the
mind with the most sublime conceptions. It is as if a whole mountain
had been torn in pieces and had fallen down by a great convulsion of
the earth, and the huge fragments of rocks and rocky wooded hill
lie scattered about in confusion for several miles along the side of
Loch Katrine. Black and bluff headlands of rock dip down into the
unfathomable water, or, to speak more exactly, into a loch which was
found recently to be 75 fathoms deep, and which on account of its depth
scarcely ever freezes. Then there are deep retiring bays, there are
beaches covered with white sand, and grave rugged cliffs with wood
which seems as if it grew out of the solid rock.
Nothing could well be more wild and desolate than the top of Ben Venue.
You may be there and not hear or have heard anything, not even the
melody of birds, or the bleating of sheep, or the cry of a shepherd, or
the barking of his dog, since you heard the whirr of the partridge in
the valley below. At one time the eagle was to be seen here sitting in
lonely majesty or sailing through the air, but it is now banished. The
heron, however, still stalks among the reeds on the side of the lake
in search of his prey, and the wild ducks still gambol on the water,
or dive beneath the surface. You look down on the most romantic part
of the lake, with the Otter Island, and the “Rob Roy” sailing into the
picturesque pier which is hidden by the western end of “Roderick Dhu’s
lookout,” where nature is shown to best advantage, where mountains and
rocks, which appear to have been thrown around in the rudest forms, are
covered with trees and shrubs that give variety and grace and beauty to
the scenery.
There are some who connect the word Katrine with Cateran, the wild
and lawless freebooters who infested its shores; but it is called
Ketturn, or Keturin, by the natives; and the latter part of the word
when thus pronounced is like the name of many a place in the Highlands
whose appearance is specially wild and savage. For example, we have in
Inverness-shire Loch Urn or Urrin, which means the Lake of Hell; and
in Cowal Glen Urrin, or Hell’s Glen. The loch is the receptacle of a
hundred streams, which after rain foam down their rugged sides as white
as “the snowy charger’s tail,” and after falling into Loch Achray,
and from that into Vennachar, it finds its way, under the name of the
Teith, into the Forth 3 miles from Stirling.
At the base of the mountain you have Coir-nan-Uriskin, the cave of
the Goblins (best got at by a boat from the Trossachs Pier), a place
rendered venerable by Highland tradition and superstition, overlooking
the lake in solemn grandeur. It is a deep circular hole of at least 600
yards in length at the top, gradually narrowing towards the bottom,
surrounded on all sides with steep rocks, and overshaded with birch
trees which shut out the sun. On the south and west it is bordered by
the shoulder of the hill to the height of 500 feet; and on the east
the rocks appear to have fallen down, scattering the whole slope with
fragments, that shelter the fox, the wild cat, and the badger. It is
said that the solemn and staid meetings of the Urisks, from whom it got
its name, and who are supposed to be scattered all over the Highlands,
were held here. “Those,” according to Dr. Graham, “were a kind of
lubberly supernaturals, who, like the brownie, perform the drudgery
of the farm, and it was believed that many of the families of the
Highlands had one of them attached to it.” Sir Walter Scott tells us
that tradition has ascribed to the Urisk a figure between a goat and
a man; in short, however much the classical reader may be startled,
precisely that of the “Grecian satyr.” Behind the precipitous ground
above this cave, at a height of about 800 feet, is the magnificent
glen, overhung with birch trees, called Bealach-nam-Bo, or, the Pass of
the Cattle, through which the animals carried away in a foray in the
Lowlands were driven to the shelter of the Trossachs (rough places).
It looks like an avenue from our nether world to another and a higher
sphere. Not far from the cave is the island to which one of Cromwell’s
soldiers swam to get a boat, and met his doom in the manner described
in the “Lady of the Lake,” at the hand of a woman. With one sweep of
her dirk the Highland amazon is said to have severed his head from his
body.
Opposite you is the steep and pyramidal mount Ben A’an, 1851 feet high,
with the Trossachs Hotel at its left base, which is built on a spot
called Anacheanoch-rochan, a name unpronounceable by any but a Celtic
tongue. A little farther on, at the end of the lovely Achray (the Loch
of the Level Field), is the Brig of Turk (the Brig of the Boar), where
Fitz-James discovered that he had outstripped all his followers. Behind
that you have the Forest of Glenfinlas, once a royal forest; and behind
that rises Ben Ledi (the Hill of God) to 2875 feet. Farther on you have
Loch Vennachar (the Lake of the Fair Valley), with its islands, and the
Ford of Coilantogle at the far end of it, to which Roderick promised
to lead the king in safety, and where the fight took place—“the Gael
above, Fitz-James below.” Still further off is Callander, looking
bright and fair under the influence of Old Sol, and nestling at the
base of Uam-Var. Looking south, you have immediately before you Glen
Reoch and Ben Reoch (the Brandered or Striped Glen and Ben). Over this
you see the long, flat, and fertile carse of the Forth, with the
Kippen and Gargunnock hills on its south, and Stirling Castle, and
Dunmyat above Menstrie, and even Ben Cleugh above Tillicoultry. Due
south you can see Buchlyvie, a much more hospitable place now than it
must have been found to be by the writer of the ancient ballad, who
described it as a
toon
Where there’s neither horse meat, nor
Man’s meat, nor a chair to sit doon.
Farther south is the Strathblane and Kilpatrick hills, while to the
west and south you have, notwithstanding that the mighty Ben Lomond is
now in front of you, a good view of the hills near the foot of Loch
Lomond, and around Loch Eck and Loch Goil. Due west you have the Duke
of Argyll’s Bowling Green, made up of such tidy little mountains as
the Cobbler and his two neighbours to the right of him—Ben More and
Ben Vane—both a little higher in life than himself, he being only a
cobbler. In the north you see Ben More (3845 feet high), to the west of
it Ben Lui (3708), and away in the far west Ben Cruachan (3611), and
many others too numerous to mention.
If you have read the “Lady of the Lake,” as all should do who propose
to make this excursion, you will have been able to follow “the windings
of the chase,” and to have taken a mental picture of a district which,
before the days of Scott, were almost as unknown to the Lowlander as
the interior of Africa, and into which, when they did go, it was with
the apprehensions of Andrew Fairservice, “that to gang into Rob Roy’s
country is a mere tempting of providence.”
It is no part of our plan to describe that wilderness of beauty, “all
in the Trossachs Glen,” which attracts so many tourists from all parts
of the world year after year. But if our hill climber has got any
superfluous energy after he has gone up and come down, it would be a
pity to be so near the Trossachs without actually seeing the famed and
fabled spot.
It is to be hoped that you have brought with you more than the three
brown biscuits recommended by Dr. John Brown, because accommodation
for man and beast is but scarce in this part of the country, except
to those who are not suffering from a depression of trade. The walk
or drive over to Aberfoyle in the cool of the evening will enable you
to catch the last train, which brings you to the city shortly after
eight o’clock. But even if you should miss it, you can telegraph the
fact to your friends at home, and resign yourself to the enjoyment of a
few extra hours in one of the finest districts in Scotland. It is not
given to every one to miss a train, and afterwards be thankful for the
mishap, nor to repent openly and honestly for the harsh words which
escaped his lips when he saw the tail-end of the guard’s van vanishing
down the line. And yet we would not be surprised to learn that such had
been your condition in the supposed circumstances. Your gratitude and
your repentance might be alike sincere.
THE COBBLER, OR BEN ARTHUR.
It is not known why several of our Scottish hills take their name from
the Welsh Prince Arthur, of whom no other trace remains in the country,
but it appears that they have been traditionally considered to be
places of sovereignty. For example, it is said that that huge mountain
at the opening of Glencroe, the naked rocky summit of which is thought
to bear some resemblance to a shoemaker at work and bent to draw his
thread, and which is therefore called the Cobbler, being at one time
considered the most lofty and conspicuous mountain in the domain of
the Campbells, had to be climbed by the heir of that chieftainship,
who was obliged to seat himself on its loftiest peak, a task of some
difficulty and danger, which, if neglected, his lands went to the next
relative who was sufficiently adventurous to scale its heights. Though
we may not have the bribe of a dukedom to entice us, nor any special
need of paying a visit to a shoemaker, yet a climb to the top of this
well-known but seldom scaled steep will live in our memories as a most
pleasurable toil.
The best plan to adopt in order to “do” it, and return to the common
level of Glasgow life in one day, is to take an early train and boat
(Queen Street low level) to Tarbet on Loch Lomond; walk or coach it
from that through the beautiful pass or valley by which King Haco
and his grim, death-dealing warriors in the thirteenth century are
understood to have dragged their boats after sailing up Loch Long.
This they did with the view of devastating Loch Lomond side and its
then populous islands, with a vengeance terrible in its results.
Through this peaceful and dreamy glen also marched Robert the Bruce,
Scotland’s great deliverer from England’s hated yoke, with his five
hundred followers, when making his way to spend the winter in Cantyre.
In passing through this cross valley you can see on the hillsides the
striations of the glacial age over the watershed from Loch Lomond down
into Loch Long.
Keep on the coach or coach road past Arrochar, across the Lyon at
the head of Loch Long, a stream which divides Dumbartonshire and
Argyllshire, till you come down to a point on the other side of the
loch opposite Arrochar. Here—Ardgarton House not being far off,
formerly belonging to Mr. Campbell of Armidale, but more lately to Mr.
Macgregor, of the Royal Hotel, Edinburgh—there is a burn or mountain
stream which rejoices in the name of the “Butter-milk Burn.”
Your course is up the left side of this burn till you come to a hollow
place 500 or 600 feet up; cross the burn here, and, avoiding the soft
ground as much as possible, keep to the right, and instead of making
the old man’s acquaintance too hurriedly, take round to his north side,
and you will find him more approachable and will get better on with
him. The ascent, though stiff, is not difficult till you reach what may
be called the foot of the Cobbler.