half hours; and on no account should you either come down quickly or
make short cuts unless you wish to have strained muscles for days to
come, which will lessen the pleasant memories of a day you are not
likely to forget. As you sail homewards on the loch below, you can
sympathise somewhat with the man who had never been beyond the parish
of Buchanan, and who, on ascending Ben Lomond, declared that he “never
ken’t that the world was sich a big affair till it was a’ spread oot
before” him.
MOUNT MISERY.
Guide-books are but too often blind guides, as they present certain
objects for our admiration, which are accordingly visited and admired,
but leave out all mention even of others of as great, if not greater,
interest. For example, there rises up from the margin of the Queen of
Scottish Lakes, Lomond, at its south end, about 3 miles from Balloch,
a little mount, easy of access even to those who can only afford a
Saturday afternoon to visit it, from which undoubtedly the best view of
the loch is to be obtained. Here, if anywhere on earth, are congregated
the choicest elements of pictorial wealth.
Take a return ticket to Balloch Station (not Balloch Pier); on
arriving cross the Leven by the graceful suspension bridge, keep on
the Kilmaronock road till you come to Haldane’s Mill, so-called from
a former proprietor; then turn to the left, pass Balloch Castle, the
seat of A. D. Brown, Esq., and when arrived at Boturich Castle, R.
Finlay’s, Esq., you will find a path on the right which will lead you,
without any difficulty of a physical kind, to the top, a quarter of a
mile up. It would be as well to ask permission, however, at some of
the officials close by to make the ascent, as, on account of a stupid
vandalism on the part of excursionists, the proprietor has had lately
to become somewhat conservative in his policies.
It is not known how this beautiful spot came to get such an unhappy
name, but unless he had been atrabilious on the day he visited it,
or had been a Southerner, who could not appreciate the beauties of a
Scotch mist, its inventor could neither have had heart nor eye for
the wilder beauties of nature, nor been a lover of the romantic. The
steamer can take you up and down the loch to see its beauties of one
kind and another, and there is not a finer sail in any part of the
three kingdoms; but yet it is only a very faint and limited idea of
its splendid scenery that one can get from the deck of a steamer. To
get anything like an adequate conception of its many beauties you must
ascend one or more of its hilltops. And for such a purpose we would
strongly recommend Mount Misery.
Here, looking towards the head of the loch, it is seen in its greatest
breadth, stretched out like a scroll beneath your feet. Here, also, it
is seen in its greatest length, the eye reaching almost as far up as
to Tarbet. You have a full view of its islands, which in a general way
may be said to be as numerous as its miles in length, from the entrance
of the Falloch to the exit of the Leven, and also of the different
mountain ranges on its east and west banks, which seem to meet at
the top, shutting up the prospect and mingling their bold and broken
outline with the sky. Here, also, you get a view of its many curves and
windings, now seeing it swelling out into a breadth of 7 or 8 miles,
and then compressing itself into the narrow compass of something less
than a mile. You can also understand, as you look at those high hills
at its northern end, how it should sometimes have a depth of 600 feet,
and how, partly from this fact, and from those others, that there are
many shelving rocks at the bottom, and that the latter always run in
one direction (there being no tide), it is rarely that the bodies of
the “drowned” in it are recovered. Here, also, you can see some of its
principal feeders, such as the Fruin, the Finlas, the Luss, and Douglas
on the left, with the Endrick on the right, which, with its other
tributaries, are said to pour in a larger supply of water than the
Leven takes away.
Immediately in front of you is Inchmurrin, the longest of the islands,
fully half-a-mile long, which the Duke of Montrose uses as a deer
park. It is beautifully wooded. Brown seems the most becoming colour
for this season of the year. The summer dies gloriously in leafy places
with such a splendour of beauty that it is difficult to recognise it
as decay. The golden and brown leaves, mingling with the greens that
still retain their colour, are pleasant accompaniments of the season.
But we need not look so far away for autumnal tints. They are all round
us. The golden brown hues of the pheasant hang in every leaf; the
bird itself, wonderfully protected by nature, stands among herbage,
wearing his colours and eyeing the wayfarer as he passes. And what can
look warmer and more comfortable than those brown brackens which are
everywhere? And are they really brown? They look so in the distance,
but near they are yellow as well as brown; and some are a beautiful
bronze, and in sheltered spots the lady ferns are just as green and
fresh as they were in July and early August.
But once more for the loch and its islands. Inchmurrin has at its
west end the ruins of an old castle which was inhabited in former
times by the family of Lennox. The Duchess of Albany resided here
after the execution at Stirling, in 1425, and within sight of their
own castle at Doune, of her husband, father, and two sons, on the
restoration of James First. She herself was for some time confined
in Tantallon Castle, but on her release she resided here. Passing
over the two smaller islands of Creinge and Torinch, you have to the
right Inchcailliach, the largest and probably the most lovely of all,
notable as being the burial-place of the Macgregors. “Upon the halidom
of him that sleeps beneath the grey stone at Inchcailliach!” was a
favourite oath among the members of this warlike clan. Rob Roy used it
when promising the Bailie payment of his money. It is sometimes called
the Nun’s Island, or “the Island of Old Women,” from a nunnery which
once stood there; and when seen from the direction of the Endrick its
outline resembles that of a dead human body, from which it is called
sometimes the corpse of Loch Lomond. To the east of it is the small
island of Clairinch, from which the Clan Buchanan took their slogan or
battle cry, “Clair Inch.” To the west of it is Inchfad, or the Long
Island, close to which, and in a dry season, within wadeable distance
of it, is Darroch Eilan, the general lunching rendezvous. Here, also,
there is a mighty oak, which has sheltered generations of anglers,
and of poachers too, for even to this day the “otter” is here used
in spite of honour or law. To the west of Inchfad is Inchcruin, or
the Round Island, an island which for many years formed an asylum for
insane boarders; it is also the unwilling resort of those who “cannot
take a little without taking too much,” and therefore it has the sadly
significant cognomen of “the Drunken Island.”
To the west of this is Inchmoan, or the Peat Island, which is covered
with moss. It is sometimes called “the Gull Island,” and in the spring
one has to be very careful how he walks, as nests with one, two, or
more eggs are scattered everywhere. To the south-west of this there is
a small island, Inchgalbraith, with a ruin which at one time must have
been a place of considerable strength, but to visit which is sometimes
resented by the jackdaws who have taken possession of it, and, like
the crofters, refuse to quit. North of Inchmoan is the large island
of Inchconachan, or Dog’s Isle, a Colquhoun’s island, covered with
oak and fir, but quite uninhabited. To the west of those two is Inch
Tavannach, or Monks’ Island, so called from its having been the site
of a monastery. This island has also frequently been converted into a
kind of sanatorium for dipsomaniacs, and is celebrated for having many
of our finest British ferns. There is a narrow strait between these
last two, near the northern entrance of which a stone is visible at low
water, from which tradition says that the Gospel used to be preached
to audiences on both islands, and this stone is still called “The
Minister’s Stone.” A little to the north of those is Inch Lonaig, “the
Yew Island,” remarkable for its old yew trees, some of which are said
to have been planted by the Bruces.
Turning now from the loch to its surroundings, from the waterscape
to the many landscapes that as a frame enclose the picture, you have
close at hand the beautifully-wooded conical hill of Duncruin, with
Ross Priory projecting into the loch, a favourite place with Sir
Walter Scott, who wrote “Rob Roy” while living here as the guest of
Mr. Hector Macdonald, an Edinburgh advocate of that time. It is not
difficult, apart from his friendship with the master of the place, to
understand Scott’s attraction to the house. He was keenly alive to the
beauty of woodland and loch; and the district around was teeming with
memories—every glen the home of a romance. We find the influence of
these upon him in some of the most famous episodes in “Rob Roy” and
“The Lady of the Lake.” The Priory has, however, a much sadder story
to tell—that of the betrayal of the Marquis of Tullibardine, eldest
son of the Duke of Athole, who after Culloden took refuge with his
former friend, Buchanan of the Ross. Buchanan, however, betrayed him,
the Marquis hurling out the imprecation as he was taken prisoner,
“There’ll be Murrays on the Braes of Athole when there’s ne’er a
Buchanan at the Ross,” and the prophecy has been fulfilled. Beyond this
we have the fertile valley and the mouth of the Endrick, with Buchanan
House, the seat of the Duke of Montrose. The valley of the Endrick is
celebrated in the old song of “The Gallant Graham” as “Sweet Enerdale,”
stretching far up to the hills at Killearn, which, with its monument to
George Buchanan, “the father of modern Liberalism,” we easily recognise.
Though in his time Lord Privy Seal of Scotland, Moderator of the Kirk,
and tutor to James VI. of Scotland and I. of England, Buchanan openly
advocated tyrannicide, maintaining that “tyrants should be ranked
amongst the most ferocious beasts.” Professor Morley, in his eighth
volume of “English Writers,” has devoted a large space to this great
yet simple-minded man. The picture of the great scholar—the greatest,
perhaps, in the Europe of his day—teaching his serving-man in his
death-chamber “a-b, ab—e-b, eb,” &c., and defying the “British Solomon”
and “all his kin” in the same breath, is surely worthy of the brush of
some one of the numerous artists to whom Scotland has given birth. We
charge nothing for the suggestion.
And there is the steamer on her upward trip going into Balmaha, where
there is the famous pass along which the Highland clans were accustomed
when on the “war path” to direct their march into the Lowlands. Rob Roy
often took this route, and, in the words of Scott—
Kept our stoutest kernes in awe,
Even at the Pass of Beal’maha.
Above this you see Conie Hill, 1175 feet high, with the huge Ben Lomond
in the distance. You can see, standing between Drymen Station and
Kilmaronock Church, Catter House, near which the Lennox family had a
castle, that stood on the Moot Hill, a large artificial mound, where
justice was administered in former times, and on which stood the earl’s
gallows, a necessary appendage to a feudal court, especially on the
borders of the Highlands.
Turning now from the east side of the loch to its west, from what
might be called its Montrose side to its Colquhoun side, we have in
close succession not far off the splendid mansion houses of Cameron,
Auchendennan, Auchenheglish, and Arden. Immediately above Arden is
Glen Fruin (the Glen of Sorrow), coming down from near Garelochhead.
It has the ruins of an ancient castle of the Colquhouns, and it was
here that a fierce conflict took place between the Macgregors and
the Colquhouns in 1602, when the latter were routed with a loss of
200 men, the Macgregors only losing two, one of them, however, being
John, the brother of the chief. It is this battle which is popularly
called “The Field of Lennox.” It is said that the Macgregors also put
to death in cold blood some 80 youths, popularly called “the Students
of Dumbarton,” who had gone out to see the fight. A short time before
this Sir A. Colquhoun had appeared before James the Sixth at Stirling,
and complained of the cruel murders committed by the Macgregors, and to
give emphasis to his complaint he was attended by a considerable number
of women who carried the bloody shirts of their husbands and sons. The
king gave him a commission to repress the crimes and apprehend their
perpetrators, and the battle of Glen Fruin was the result. And this in
its turn led to the king issuing letters of fire and sword against the
Clan Gregor, to the confiscation of their lands. Their clan name was
proscribed by Act of the Privy Council. But the Acts passed against
them were repealed in 1775. Till then, however, the members of the clan
usually took the name of various landed proprietors. Thus, the famous
Rob Roy, who died in 1736, was Campbell, after the family name of his
patron, the Duke of Argyll.
Not far up the glen from Arden there is the hill of Dunfion, which is
said to have been at one time the residence of Fingal, and traces of a
fortress said to have been built by him are still pointed out. Two and
a-half miles farther up you can see Ross Dhu (the black promontory), on
which is the tower of the ancient castle of the Luss family, and their
mausoleum near it; the mansion-house standing on a promontory almost
surrounded by water.
Taking one more soul-filling look up to the mighty Ben, on the side of
the loch, and to the hills at its head, chief among which, and closing
the distant vista, is Ben Voirlich, it is perhaps time to think of the
train, for yonder is the “Queen” coming down the loch. As you begin to
retrace your steps do not forget that standing on this hill you can see
Renton, where Smollett the historian was born; Killearn, where George
Buchanan first saw the light of day; and Garlios, the birthplace of
Napier, the inventor of logarithms—all of whom added a new lustre to
the literature and science of Scotland. Also take a peep at Tillichewan
in its sylvan beauty, and the gentle slopes of the hillside forming
such a picturesque background to it. And in recrossing the bridge it
will help you to pay your second halfpenny with more complacency if
you remember that possibly before the creation of man this valley
was covered with the dashing waves of the Atlantic and German Oceans.
For at that far back period all Scotland was under water except its
highest peaks, which would then be like so many islands in one great
sea. Down the stream a little way is Alexandria, suggestive of the
lost Cleopatra’s Needle in the past and British influence in the
present. And it may surprise you to learn that this grand mouth-filling
name is one of recent date comparatively, and that its former title
was of a more homely kind—namely, “The Grocery,” from a store which
formerly kept the indispensable articles shadowed forth in that word of
unclassical derivation. As you pass it directly in the train you see it
to be now a large and prosperous place, which requires more than one
“Grocery”—a place
Where cloth’s printed, dyed, and steamed,
Bleached, tentered, in the water streamed,
Starched, mangled, calender’d, and beamed,
And folded very carefully.
You reach Glasgow five hours after leaving the hill, with many pleasant
recollections of your trip to Mount Misery.
BEN LEDI.
The most popular excursion in Scotland, both with ourselves and with
strangers from all parts of the world, is that which takes us to, and
through, the Trossachs. But it is somewhat unfortunate that the idea
exists in the public mind that it is an impossible excursion to any but
rich people on account of its expense. We propose to-day to lead any
who are willing to follow us to one of our Scottish mountains which
more than any other may feel proud of its surroundings, which is, so
to speak, at the very gate of the Trossachs, and to reach and climb
which demands no great expenditure of time or of money although we can
scarcely add strength, for Ben Ledi is not one of the easiest of our
western hills to climb.
And yet it was not till Sir Walter Scott threw the spell of his genius
over this district that it was regarded as anything else than a
desolate, cut-throat country, into which no decent folk could venture.
Our route of course is _via_ Stirling, with its rock and Castle and
history; Dunblane, and its ancient cathedral with memories of good
Bishop Leighton, and its window facing us, which Ruskin has pronounced
the finest of its kind in the country; Doune, with its mills and old
castle, to Callander, lying about 256 feet above the level of the sea,
on the banks of the river Teith. Here we get our first view of the Ben
4½ miles to the north-west, and prepare to take our walk for the day.
When it is remembered that with the exception of the episode at
Stirling Castle, the whole scenes of the _Lady of the Lake_ lie within
the parish which gives its name to and has its centre in the town of
Callander, it will be at once seen that it would be superfluous on our
part to describe the scenery _en route_ to the base of Ben Ledi. The
best guide book here is the _Lady of the Lake_, “every step and every
scene being made classic in the beautiful and vivid word-painting of
that poem.”
The ascent can be best made from Portnanellen about 2¾ miles from
Callander, in the immediate vicinity of Coilantogle Ford. This was
“Clan Alpine’s outmost guard,” the place where Roderick Dhu stood
vantageless before Fitz James; “but it has lost its romance by the
erection of a huge sluice of the Glasgow waterworks.” So thinks a
writer in the latest Ordnance Gazetteer. However, as we make for it,
crossing the Leny, pattering along its stony bed, after it has come
down one of the prettiest passes either in this or any other country,
as we admire the hollies thickly covered with berries, and think what
an added beauty they will have from the first snows of winter, and as
we get a foretaste or two of the mountains and the floods that we are
to see before the day is done, we have neither the time nor the mind to
be disturbed by thoughts of Glasgow and her waterworks.
The best and usual route of ascent can be best learned on the spot
before starting. When a beginning is made the way opens up gradually,
and as we have so much more that is readable to say, we will dispense
with a detailed account of how each of the 3875 feet of the “Mountain
of God” is to be covered.
The Gaelic name read commonly as _beinn-le-dia_ is more correctly
_beinn schleibhte_ or _schleibtean_. According to this latter reading
the Ben is not the “Mountain of God,” but the “Mountain of Mountains,”
or “Mountain girt with sloping Hills.” And this corresponds with its
size and surroundings. It rises from a base of about 11 miles in
circuit; in fact it occupies most of the space between Loch Lubnaig
on the east, Loch Vennachar on the south, and Glenfinlas on the west.
The fact that it has sometimes been called the “Mountain of God” is
not due to the shape or size of the hill itself, but to this, that
Druidical worship lingered on its summit after it had disappeared from
the rest of Scotland.
One of the chief dangers, and one of the principal causes of
discomfort, in climbing Ben Ledi is its liability to mists, and the
number of bogs that surround its base. It is not every stout-legged
counter-jumper who buys a return ticket to Callander, or every pretty
lass who thinks to put colour in her cheeks by the toilsome walk, shall
be allowed to treat the “Mountain of Mountains” with the contempt
begotten of familiarity. They may struggle to the top, only to be
knocked about by “air rending tempests,” or to find that the Ben has
put on the fleecy mantle which the clouds seem ever ready to invest
him with on the shortest notice. They may ascend voluble, expectant,
and dry, but descend much more briskly, sad, sodden, and woefully
disappointed. But even before they get well started, if the weather has
been wet, and they are not careful, they may get occasionally up to the
ankle, and if not, have to struggle at least with some sopping ground.
If, however, a good day is chosen in a dry season, and the mists
should keep away, we can promise you something out of the common run
of things in mountain scenery even in the west of Scotland. It is
said that in many of the towns of Switzerland the best houses were
formerly built with their backs to the Alps as if the view of them
were hateful. The natives, in fact, spoke of the region of ice and
snow as “the evil country.” But those who have made the ascent of Ben
Ledi in the favourable circumstances that I have referred to will
wish not only to set their faces to Ben Ledi, but will be anxious for
another opportunity of enjoying the view from its summit, a view which
commands all the way from the Bass Rock to the Paps of Jura, and from
the Moray Firth to the Lowther Mountains. Loch Vennachar is seen lying
at our feet with its 5 miles of water, and its two islands, one at its
eastern end, and the other, called _Illan-a-Vroin_, or the “island of
lamentation,” further west, and covered with wood. To the south, where
now stands the ruins of an old mill, the Teith flows past. A peep, but
little more, can be had of Invertrossachs House, which was occupied by
the Queen in 1869.
There has been many a visit paid to the summit of Ben Ledi since that
day, but the largest, probably, and certainly the most enthusiastic
party was that which went up to erect the Jubilee Cairn. The loyal
Highlanders and the inhabitants of the classic district embracing Loch
Lubnaig, Loch Vennachar, and Glenfinlas, in answer to a summons, which,
like the “fiery cross,” was carried down the valley of the Teith, and
up the Pass of Leny by the Kirk of St. Bride, erected a cairn on the
top of an older one, which had existed for sometime, but had probably
been blown down by the high winds which sweep across the hills with
great violence. The new cairn, which was erected out of an abundant
supply of building material to be found in the summit, has a base of 14
feet, and its height is equal to its diameter. It is chiefly made up
of great slabs of a slaty sandstone, which had, we understand, to be
dug, in not a few cases, out of the mountain side, in which they were
embedded, in some cases, several feet. At a height of 12 feet the slaty
material was no longer used, and for the next 2 feet, to the summit,
the cairn consists of white quartz, which, when the sun shines upon
it, has a beautiful effect even at some little distance. The fact that
the cairn only took five hours to be “begun, continued, and ended,”
speaks volumes for the number and the diligence of the willing and
loyal workers. And if the cairn is not quite as firm as the “Eddystone
Lighthouse,” it will at least outlive the reign of the next two of our
crowned heads.
But though the jubilee builders were numerous, and although the quartz
on the crown of the cairn can shine and sparkle in the proper given
circumstances, these are as nothing to the concourse of grave Druid
priests who used to worship here, and to the glittering of their
fires far and wide. It is said that at sunset on the night before the
first of May they found their way to this summit ready to welcome the
rising of the God of day with a fire offering, which could be seen
from all parts of the Lowlands of Scotland from the German Ocean to
the Atlantic, and which the superstitious natives took to be kindled
by the hand of God. All private and domestic fires had been put out,
and the country was universally waiting for the first gleam of the new
Bal-tein, or Baal-fire from heaven, for another year.
As we rest behind the Jubilee Cairn to eat our biscuit and cheese, and
get shelter from a stiff north-wester, we again and again look round
in all directions, but the views to be had are at once so grand and
so various that it would only bewilder the reader to go into details,
and we would recommend him to lose no time, but embrace the first
opportunity he has of making the ascent and getting the view himself.
One other reason why we should not go into particulars is that we
have to embrace much of the same prospect that we had on Ben Venue,
although with this difference that we have now a much better view away
to the north.