KAIM HILL.
Nowthat everybody is out of town, on Saturday at least, and every place in the guide book is as well known as the Trongate or Jamaica Street, it is something to discover a hill everybody has not been to the top of, and which is not in Black or Murray. Such a hill is that which stands between Fairlie and Kilbirnie, overlooking Fairlie Roads (that is, the Clyde between Fairlie and the Greater Cumbrae) on the one side, and the valley of the Garnock on the other. It is best to make the ascent from Fairlie, which can be reached either by Wemyss Bay from the Central, or by Ardrossan from St. Enoch’s. At the south or far end of the railway platform a path will be found, on crossing the line, which leads to the farm of Southannan. There the road to the left should be taken, across a nicely wooded burn, which should be followed up till a wall is reached; which wall should be followed till we come to the heathery ground. From that the course is, withoutany track, in a somewhat south-westerly direction, now over a tiny stream, now through a stretch of heather, and now past the side of some large old red sandstone or piece of trap, perhaps 20 feet long, which are the chief rocks of this hill range.
The upward journey is a thing not to be forgotten, for the foliage is wonderful, and every step we take almost reveals some new beauty. The watercourses, swollen with rains that have come rushing down the green and rocky slopes, are broadening and deepening. There is plenty of life also in the woods and on the moor. The grouse are not at all in evidence, and we miss their whirr and cry so pleasant to hear. But the robins sing where there are branches on which they can perch, and the rabbits are running races among the ferns.
When what seems the summit has been attained, the view will be found to be very fine to the north; but it will also be found that there is still a higher height a little farther back, over softer ground, from which an all-round prospect can be had. “Kaim” is applied to any ridge of ground, either moundish or mountainous, with enough of sharpness and zigzag in its outline to give it some resemblance to a cock’s comb, and is frequently so used in Scotland; but there can be none of those hills so called which canpossibly 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 aromantic 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 milesto 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 havingthe 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 indomitableresolution 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 cannonis 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 survivorof 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 theperson 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 namesHeatherenandHoullon, 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 manufacturingchimney 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 liesThe guide book’s page shall fill,Be sure you kindly advertiseThe name of Kaim’s fair hill.
When other lips with other liesThe guide book’s page shall fill,Be sure you kindly advertiseThe name of Kaim’s fair hill.
When other lips with other liesThe guide book’s page shall fill,Be sure you kindly advertiseThe name of Kaim’s fair hill.
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.