Chapter II: Part 2

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.

A Londoner can get “to Brighton and back for four shillings” in the height of the season; but we in Glasgow can have a day’s outing quite as good for half the money, and at any time. It is not “down the water,” but up to the Earl’s Seat, the highest point in what is popularly called the Campsie range. Find your way to Strathblane in the manner most agreeable to your mood. On reaching the station, turn to the right, past the handsome parish church, the pulpit of which was long filled by Dr. William Hamilton of astronomical fame, the father of the still more famous Dr. James Hamilton, of Regent Square, London, and soon after you will readily find the way up the hillside to the Spout of Ballagan.

In doing so you can think of the time when the church and lands of Strathblane were gifted to the hospital of Polmadie, in the parish of Govan, and how those, with one-half of the lands of “Little Govan,” seem to have formed the most important endowment of the hospital. You can think also how the present church occupies the site of the church that preceded it, and that to the Duntreath family are due many improvements which have been made in the building in recent years. Much valuable family history is, we are afraid, slowly decaying among the weeds and mosses of many a neglected churchyard, but Mr. Guthrie Smith, in his book on Strathblane, has acted the part of an “Old Mortality” in this one.

The Spout is a cascade of 70 feet formed by the Blane in its passage to the valley below, and which, with its surroundings of rock and wood, presents a scene of the most wild and romantic beauty; the hollow into which the river plunges being filled up with a vast collection of gigantic stones piled upon each other, and adorned on its sides with many alternate strata of various hues.

Anyone can see for himself at a glance at Ballagan the process by which our mountain glens and gorges are formed—how after a heavy rainfall the descending waters rush down the watercourses, setting all the boulder and rock fragments in the bed of the stream in motion. The last of the old race of the Levenax, or Lennox, had a castle near to and in sight of this romantic glen, from which fact the range of hills was, and frequently still is, called the Lennox range, and its highest point the Earl’s Seat. Ballagan House, which is close at hand, commands a beautiful view of the fall, and is within hearing of its music, even when it has not the power to strike a loud note. In flood-time the Spout is stupendous, and increases its apparent height by covering the huge masses below so as to vie with the sublimity if not the beauty of Cora Linn. This may seem to some to be rather strong language, but all measurement is comparative, and it may be possible to feel that there is more than prettiness or even grandeur here.

The view, even half way up, is not to be despised, the beauty of which consists in its “breadth,” as an artist would say. The meadows, with their green frames of hedges, may be compared to small cabinet pictures—lovely, but small. This is life-like—a broad cartoon from the hand of nature. The sward rises and rolls along in undulations like the slow heave of an ocean wave. Handsome trees of all sorts are scattered around, under whose ample shade cattle can, and, to judge from the brown and bare patches around their trunks, evidently do, repose in the heat of the day. Following up the stream, which in its higher reach is called the Laggan Burn, we come on two smaller cascades, and after a pleasant and comparatively easy ascent up the fretted terraces of trap, reach the summit, 1894 feet above the sea level, 3 miles to the north of the station we have left, and at the meeting point of Killearn, Campsie, and Strathblane parishes.

The climb to the top will well repay a visit, as will readily be believed when we say that the eye embraces a range of scenery extending all the way from Ben Lomond to Tinto. The prospect before us is of the most beautiful description; the vast basin of the Clyde from Kilpatrick to Dechmont lying stretched at our feet, with Glasgow, Paisley, and many other towns and villages scattered on its breast; while the line of the horizon is formed by the Gleniffer, Fereneze, and Cathkin braes. Immediately below us is the valley of the Blane, or Warm River; and we cannot help acknowledging that Strathblane (the valley of the Warm River) is a word that is peculiarly descriptive of the valley, which is sheltered in almost every direction from the violence of the winds. The probability is that, with part of Campsie (the crooked strath, according to some), it was at some long-past date a fresh-water loch, and that subsequently the barriers in the direction of Loch Lomond were broken down, and the valley drained accordingly. The nature of the soil contributes to establish this opinion, consisting largely of sand, gravel, and other comminuted fragments of the neighbouring rocks. The valley of the Blane, as it winds its way westward from the bare and desolate conical hill of Dunglass, 400 feet high, on the east, to the conical and finely wooded hill of Dunquaich, on the west, also 400 feet high, is one of the prettiest in Scotland, quite equal to and not unlike the drive between Crieff and St. Fillans, which Dr. John Brown, in his “Horæ Subsecivæ,” calls the finest 13 miles in Scotland.

Looking south we have to the left a view of Lennox Castle, the seat of a branch of the ancient earldom of Lennox, rebuilt in the boldest style of Norman architecture, nearly 500 feet above the level of the sea, and commanding a most extensive and picturesque prospect; and a little to the west are the gentle undulations of the Craigallion table land, with the venerable Mugdock Castle, of unascertained antiquity, the scene of many bacchanalian orgies on the part of the Earl of Middleton and his associates, who, after the restoration of Charles II., were seeking to subvert the liberties of their country.

But Mugdock, which to most of us suggests a magnificent water supply, has a history long anterior to the Restoration period. All the authorities agree that about the year 750 a great battle was fought at Maesydauc between the invading Picts under Talargan, one of their kings, and the Cymric Britons under their king Tendeor. After a bloody battle, the Picts were defeated and their king slain. Dr. Skene, than whom there is no higher authority, identifies this battlefield with the present Mugdock, in the parish of Strathblane. The field of battle can be traced with but little difficulty. The Cymric army was posted on the high ground on Craigallion, then part of Mugdock, above and to the east and west of the Pillar Craig, with outposts stationed on the lower plateau to the north. There they awaited the Picts, who came up Strathblane valley through Killearn from the north on their way to the interior of Cumbria or Strathclyde. Near the top of the Cuilt Brae, in a line with the Pillar Craig, there is a rock still called Cat Craig, _i.e._, Cad Craig, meaning the “Battle Rock.” In their efforts to dislodge the Cymric army, whom they could not leave in their rear, the Picts, doubtless, had penetrated thus far, and here the battle began. It was continued all over Blair or Blair’s Hill, _i.e._, “the Hill of Battle”—the rising ground on Carbeth Guthrie which commands the valley of the Blane—and Allereoch or Alreoch, _i.e._, “the King’s Rock,” was certainly so named from being the place where King Talargan fell when the defeated Picts were being driven back to the north-west. The standing stones to the south-east of Dungoyach probably mark the burial-place of Cymric or Pictish warriors who fell in the bloody battle of Mugdock.

Immediately opposite is Craigmaddie Wood and Moss, with the far-famed Auld Wives’ Lifts, which are well worthy of a visit themselves, not only on account of their position and their size, but also of the uncertainty of their origin. Some regard them as the work of witches, which is about as good a way of getting out of a difficult as the Highland minister had, who always said when he came to some knotty point, “But this is a mystery, my brethren; we will just boldly look it in the face and then pass on.” Some regard them as the work of glacial action, and yet others as a gigantic Druidical altar, on which in some far-off period the dark rites of Pagan worship may have been celebrated. We tried, but with little success, to give our mind to this difficult problem, and finding the air “vara halesome”—quite too much so, indeed—we made short work of some sandwiches, which, fortunately for us, were thicker than those we get at Lang’s.

Time should be taken to have a look at the prehistoric wall above Craigbarnet, and also at the great stone, “Clach Arthur,” on the brow of the hill, said to mark the site of one of King Arthur’s victories. The remains of the wall are still perfectly visible, and can be traced as far as the Ballagan Burn. From the height above that burn a good view is had of the wall running on westward towards Dungoin.

Earl’s Seat is flanked east and west by two hills, and it sends off from its southern slope not only Ballagan Burn, up which we came, but Fin Burn, passing down through Fin Glen, a little to the east. We make this our route homeward, which, though less known than its neighbour Campsie, or, more correctly, Kirkton Glen, is little inferior in attraction, and for at least its length, its volume of water, and its cascade is much superior. As we descend we have time to have a look at Crichton’s Cairn, immediately above Campsie, so called, according to one account, in memory of a local Hercules of that name, who, after taking a wager to carry up a load of meal to the top, succeeded in doing so, but died immediately after; and according to another, in memory of a smuggler of that name who was overtaken and killed there by gaugers. There is still another account of the matter, viz., that Crichton committed suicide up there by hanging himself. “If this is the true version, it is one of the most determined cases on record, as the poor man would require to take the hanging apparatus with him.” Below the cairn is the well-known Craw Road, between Fintry and Campsie, by which in 1745 a detachment of Highlanders came south to join the Chevalier, and a visit to the bend of which is supposed by some to be “good for the whooping cough.”

Getting to the bottom of Fin Glen, and keeping to the left, we soon find ourselves in the far-famed Campsie Glen, with its Craigie Linn, about 50 feet high, and its Jacob’s Ladder. The little churchyard across the burn is worth a visit with its ruined belfry, its graves of Bell, the traveller; Muir, the Campsie poet; and Collins, the parish minister, who was murdered coming home from a meeting of the Glasgow Presbytery in 1648 by a neighbouring laird who wanted to marry his wife. The tombstones are chiefly flat, reminding one of the times, not so long ago, when the graves of the dead were watched during the night by the parishioners in turn to prevent the eager student of anatomy stealing the bodies away. In former times funerals were conducted on different principles from those in fashion to-day. In the neighbourhood of Campsie when the head of a family died the custom at one time prevailed of issuing a general invitation to the parishioners to attend the funeral. The guests were usually accommodated in a barn, where refreshments, consisting of cake, bread and cheese, ale and whisky, were served in no stinted way. The proceedings began early in the forenoon, but the “lifting,” as the removal of the coffin from the house was popularly styled, did not take place till well on in the afternoon. As a rule the coffin was carried to the place of interment on hand-spokes. After a modest refreshment in the adjoining inn, we make for the station, and reach Glasgow after a most enjoyable outing of six hours.

DUNMYAT.

We started the other day for the top of Dunmyat, the nearest and most picturesque peak of the Ochil range. If you have not been on its summit there is a treat in store for you. We take the train from Queen Street to Stirling, thence by car to Causewayhead, the most fitting place from which to begin the pedestrian part of our journey. Taking the road through the village, up the hill, and keeping to the right, past the Wallace Monument, we soon find ourselves at the Parish Church of Logie. We look into the churchyard a little further on, where we admire the most simple and modest epitaph it was ever our lot to read, over the grave of General Sir James A. Alexander, lately deceased, “He tried to do his duty.” Keeping up past the gardener’s house, by a very pleasant sylvan road, half-grown with grass and self-sown ash and other trees, we come to the road to Sheriff Muir, about a mile up. We might have reached this point from the Bridge of Allan (or the Bridge, as it is locally called), _via_ St. Ann’s Road, but consider that we have come unquestionably the most picturesque route. Keeping to the right for a quarter of a mile, we find a gate which admits us to the moor. Following an easterly north-easterly direction, now through what will be in autumn a red sea of heather, and now through what is already a diminutive forest of brackens, over hill and dale, too numerous to mention, meeting occasionally a sheep or two feeding on the grass (which seems more fresh and green the higher we go) and apparently wondering how ever we came there, we reach the summit of Dunmyat, after a most pleasant walk of two hours from the time we left Causewayhead.

It stands 1375 feet above the sea level, immediately behind another high hill, which breaks almost sheer down in stupendous rocky cliffs into the plain between Blairlogie and Menstrie, at Warrock Glen, a great resort for picnics, where the famous strawberries and cream of the district are in much request. It is a lovely day, and every little rocky spur and crevice is seen with such distinctness that one could imagine only yards instead of miles of space intervening. And, to those who have time to explore them, how many lovely glens and other natural beauties are here to be met with! Then, taking a further look, what a magnificent panorama is here spread for us! Though not so high as either the King’s Seat, near Dollar, or Bencleugh, near Tillicoultry, yet from its peculiar position it commands a prospect which for united gorgeousness and extent is probably not surpassed by any in Britain. We have under our eye at one time a circular space of a hundred miles in diameter, comprising nearly one-third of the surface of Scotland and probably two-thirds of its wealth. On the north the rugged Grampians rise ridge behind ridge. There they all are, the Bens rising one over the other in tumbled confusion—the real Highland hills, peaks, and wild valleys, stormy summits, and dark, dismal clefts, dimly stretching away to the regions of the setting sun. Nearer hand are the well-wooded plains of Perthshire, a part of which is concealed by the spurs and branches of the Ochils themselves. On the west you can distinguish the summits of Ben More, Ben Ledi, and Ben Lomond, and other smaller hills. On the south we have the vast and fertile region extending from the Campsie Hills to the Lammermoor chain, including Edinburgh, Arthur’s Seat, the Bass Rock, and the Pentland Hills. The Devon, rendered classic by Scott, a peculiarly winding river, after having made a complete circuit of the Ochil range, is seen to fall into the Forth at Cambus, almost directly opposite the spot where it rises, on the opposite side of the hill. The Forth is seen immediately below in all its serpentine contortions, and yet clear, luminous, and tranquil as a mirror, enshrined in the centre of a richly-cultivated country. It will give you some idea of its wonderful windings to know that it is 7 miles by road to Alloa and 21 miles by water.

The Forth can here be traced almost from its source in the vicinity of Loch Ard, the country of Rob Roy, to where it joins the German Ocean; and the windings in its upper part, with the islets, capes, and peninsulas which they form, are seen to more advantage here than from Stirling Castle, and the lower part of the Firth is specked with little vessels, and perhaps a steamboat, which give life and interest to the scene. There may be a feeling of disappointment in looking over to Stirling Castle, that it hardly answers to expectation in the way of nobility of outline. But there still remains the Royal palace with its quadrangle quaint and bizarre, adorned, as we know it to be, with the grotesque statues attributed to the taste of James V., the “Gudeman of Ballengeich.” The Carse of Stirling, 60 miles in length and from 10 to 15 in breadth, with decayed and modern mansions, snug farm houses, hamlets, towns and villages, cornfields and meadows, float indistinctly on the view, till all seem lost in aerial tints. Immediately in front of us is the Wallace Monument, a lofty tower of baronial architecture, 220 feet high, crowning the Abbey Craig, which of itself is about 400 feet high, near the base of which Wallace concealed the principal part of his forces before the battle of Stirling in 1297, which proved so disastrous to the English. If we are not mistaken the genesis of the tower was as follows:—A monument to Wallace had been long talked about. In 1818 a gentleman offered £1000 to erect a monument to the hero on Arthur’s Seat or Salisbury Crags. Some people have the idea that all the good things should go to Edinburgh. However, after dragging out a miserable existence for years, this project fell through. In 1856 a bitter attack on the memory of Wallace appeared in the _North British Review_. Mr. Brown, the managing proprietor of the _Glasgow Daily Bulletin_, replied with such telling effect that a committee was immediately formed for the erection of a national monument. Glasgow Green was proposed, but it was finally arranged that it should be built on the Abbey Craig, Stirling, which has the advantage of overlooking the scene of the memorable battle of Stirling Bridge. It is one of the finest sites in the country, and one wonders now how any other place was proposed, as from its commanding situation it can be seen for miles around, and from the top of it you have one of the finest views in the country. The eye can behold the scene of six battles, viz.:—Cambuskenneth, where the battle was fought between the Scots and the Picts; the battle of Stirling Bridge; the plains of Bannockburn; the battle of Sauchie Burn, when King James III. was cruelly murdered in the miller’s cottage; also where the Duke of Argyll fought the Earl of Mar and the Jacobite clans in 1715. A little farther south is Cambuskenneth Abbey and Bannockburn, redolent of Bruce and fighting in the past, and carpets and tartans in the present.

Between the Abbey Craig and the foot of Dunmyat we have the mansion-house of Airthrey, with its pretty wooded policies and its artificial lakes. To the immediate north of Dunmyat is Sheriffmuir, called so, no doubt, from having been one of those plains or moors on which the wapinschaws, a feat of arms of the Middle Ages, took place under the inspection of the Sheriffs. It was the scene of a very sanguinary though indecisive battle during the Rebellion of 1715, on the same day on which the Pretender’s army surrendered at Preston. Both armies claimed the victory, and hence the well-known sarcastic lines—

There’s some say that we wan,
And some say that they wan,
And some say that nane wan at a’, man;
But ae thing I’m sure,
That at Sheriffmuir
A battle there was, that I saw, man;
And we ran and they ran, and they ran and we ran,
And we ran, and they ran awa’, man.

It was in connection with this battle that we heard of a Highlander who had lost at it his “faither and twa brithers, and a gude black belt that was mair worth than them a’.” Half a mile north of the base of Dunmyat there is a very fine well, which issues from more than sixty springs, and bears the name of the Holy Well, and is said to have been anciently an object of superstitious veneration and crowded resort on the part of Roman Catholics. And this reminds us that over yonder, across the wonderful valley that separates this range of hills from its nearest neighbour, are the Touch Hills, and that there, amid the sweet air of May, early in the morning of the first Sunday of the month, crowds used to assemble to drink the water of St. Corbet’s spring, and believed that by so doing they would secure health for another year. Old persons were alive about half a century ago who remembered having in their young days joined the health-seekers on these occasions.

Dunmyat, like the rest of the Ochils, is a rich field to the geologist and mineralogist. But for this it must be examined where it abuts on the highway. Its general character, however, is that of a great igneous mound developing itself in felspar and porphyry, and occasionally in fine pentagonal columns of basaltic greystone. It is penetrated by large workable veins of barytes.

Having once more feasted our eyes on the fair prospect, and recalled to mind those and other historical associations, we proceed to descend on the east side towards the beautifully wooded glen of Menstrie. This can be done in less than half the time we took to reach the summit from Logie. It is as well to proceed for the first 50 or 60 feet with caution, for the freshness and abundance of the grass is apt to conceal the steepness of the hill at that part. Crossing a cart track which leads to a shepherd’s house up the glen of Menstrie, the only house that is visible looking northward from the summit, and keeping to the right, we soon reach the first house of the village, which is styled by the natives “Windsor Castle.” From its elaborate coat of arms, it seems to have belonged to some noble family, but, _miserabile dictu_, it is now tenanted by quite a host of the great unwashed. A popular rhyme assumes some spirit of fairyland to have formerly loved Menstrie for its rural beauty, but to have been driven away from it by the introduction of its manufacturing mills, and represents the phantom as sometimes saying pathetically at dead of night—

Oh, Alva woods are bonnie,
Tillicoultry hills are fair,
But when I think o’ Menstrie,
It maks my heart ay sair.

But we make for the train, which is just at hand, feeling that we could willingly take the same journey at least once a year, and in another hour we are at Queen Street.

AT THE TOP OF BEN DONICH.

Notwithstanding the fact that it had rained for two days previously, we determined to get to the top of Ben Donich, not that it is very high, but that its central position affords far-reaching views, such as many higher hills can lay no claim to. It is in the midst of a network of inland lochs, and the range of high hills, not to call them mountains, not a hundred miles away from the better-known “Cobbler.” The ordinary way to reach it is to take the steamer to Lochgoilhead. When there, there is a temptation to follow the crowd, in the shape of the passengers for St. Catherine’s and Inveraray per the coach road, which is commonly said to be the only road out of Lochgoilhead, and which was a famous drive in the days of old John Campbell, who with every crack of his whip delighted to crack a joke at the expense of some incautiously inquisitive tourist. But we deny ourselves the pleasure of a view of Inveraray and the beautiful seat of the Macallum More, and a peep into Hell’s Glen from that end of it; so we turn up between the grocer’s shop and the Free Church.

The village is no sooner left behind us than we have to put a stout heart to a steep brae. We soon reach the Donich Burn, with its shoals and rapids, its large stones and deep pools, which, although specially dear to the angler, has charms for everybody. We approach cautiously and watch the trout—how alternately mouth and gills open and close, keeping up an incessant pumping—as they lie behind stones watching for luckless flies. Passing over to the other side as at once the quickest route, and that by which the best views are to be got, we are not very far up till we can see the hills that hem in Loch Long on all its sides, standing up weird-like, jagged and fissured, grim and gruesome, even in fine weather, lending sublime impressiveness to the scene. But the view is one that should be seen on its own merits, not in one, but in varying aspects, if it is to be viewed aright.

We felt that if we had been here on either of the two days preceding, 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.