THE MEIKLE BEN.
Itwas our Autumn Holiday, and we had decided on a run to one of the choicest spots which abound within a reasonable distance of Glasgow. Of course we wanted to do as much as possible, which is not always wise, especially when there are one or two in the party with different tastes and different muscular capacities. But having got a general idea of our plan, we started, leaving that “divinity that shapes our ends” to give the turn to our holiday which we believed would bring us the best results.
It was a fine balmy morning, becoming overcast, however, as the train hurried on to Milton of Campsie, and when we left the station and started on our way for the Meikle Ben, or Bin, as it is more popularly called, the rain greeted us a little freely. It may be that some of our readers have not even heard of the Meikle Ben. In that case we claim from them a little of the respect and gratitude which all discoverers are entitled to and as a rule get ungrudgingly. In spite of anunpretentious and unromantic name, the Meikle Ben is not only a spot of wonderful beauty, but the approach to the place as well as its immediate surroundings are decidedly much above the dead level of topographical mediocrity.
On leaving the station we cross the Glazert, as it travels on to meet the Kelvin, in a wild rocky channel fretted by the flood of ages. We take the first road to the right, which runs past Antirmony House, formerly the seat of Bell, the traveller, and in more recent years the residence of Mr. C. M. King, a younger brother of the amiable and busy baronet of Levernholm. A few yards along this road bring us to the village school, up past the side of which we take, and make as best we can for the top of a bold brown range now immediately in front of us.
Long before we get halfway to the top of the range we take repeated opportunities of noticing how sharply and distinctly its outline is defined against the horizon, and how clearly the scars and wrinkles on its broad and openly honest face stand out. As we continue our climb up the braes we notice with pleasure that the lights and shades on their breast are beautifully intermingled, a sure sign that there will be little rain to-day. Before we reach the northern slope we take a look at Antirmony Loch at our feet, a little to theeast, one of the finest sheets of water within 20 miles of Glasgow, and at Glorat House, about as far to the west, the residence of one of the oldest families in the county (Sir Charles Stirling).
On reaching the summit we are only some 12 miles or so from the dusty, drowsy, smoky metropolis, and yet are in what may be called the Lowland Highlands. We stand upon an eminence of only a few hundred feet above sea level, and yet the landscape stretched out below is sufficiently wide and varied to warrant us in thinking that we stand much higher in the world. Right below us are the little hamlets of Milton and Birdston, with Kirkintilloch and Lenzie, and their church spires standing out clear and bright in the glowing sunshine. To the right is the cosy-looking strath of Campsie, commanded by Lennox Castle, in the boldest style of Norman architecture. The proprietor is said to be in the direct succession of the Earls of Lennox, but this is a subject on which our limited genealogical knowledge forbids us to enlarge.
Away in the south-west we catch a glimpse of Glasgow, cloud-capped and grey; beyond it are the flats of Renfrew and the surrounding country, the monotony of which in a clear day is somewhat relieved by the blue tops of the Paisley and Kilmalcolmhills. Looking across the valley at our feet we can see the streams trickle like silver threads, and the sunbeams tremble and play in mingled gleams of green and yellow. Wonderful hills those old Campsie hills, with what might be called the Garden of Scotland at their base (for is not this the earliest part of Scotland, speaking from an agricultural point of view?) and the glory of God’s sunshine on their brows. Those in city pent, and those whose days are for the most part spent in the rush and crush of business could not enjoy an afternoon to more profit and pleasure than up here. From the summit of these hills, down past the eastern base of the Meikle Ben a little to the north of us, there is no carriage drive to the Fintry and Denny Road; but, for all that, the walk does not seem to be one of any great difficulty, whereas, on the other hand, the way would be beguiled by scenes of rarest beauty. We have made the stiff uphill walk or climb to this in a little less than an hour; but the bracing air, the scenery around us, far and near, and some pleasant seats on the soft turf have made us forget all fatigue.
We have to dip down a little on the other side before we begin the ascent of the Ben pure and simple. As we do so we lose sight of all human habitations, and for a mile or more not even a treeor shrub is to be seen except the heather. We have heard it said that a would-be suicide who was anxious to “lay hands on himself” by hanging up here was frustrated in a very simple fashion. He found it would be impossible to carry out his horrid purpose in this “heaven-kissing” locality unless he could manage to throw a coil over the horn of the moon, a blaeberry bush or a clump of heather being the nearest approach to a tree which could be found. We begin to wonder why there is such an extent of land lying waste, and our mind naturally turns to the poor crofter, or once more to the overcrowded dens in our large cities. We are ready to exclaim, “Why, here is sufficient land to sustain thousands of our population, and we have been quite ignorant of it,” but when we examine the soil we find that the crop it grows is sufficient for black cattle and sheep, but could not be easily cultivated for the support of man.
The summit of our hill is not at all difficult now to reach, although, as the “Gazetteer” tells us, it is 1870 feet high. But we may be said to have been climbing it ever since we left Milton. And now we see, what can only be seen when we are close to it, that it is really a hill of itself. To those who live a few miles to the south, our Ben appears only a large cairn on the highest point of the front part of therange. To those up here, or still farther to the north of this, it seems a considerable independent hill, and to those who live away to the east and south-east, in the Slamannan direction, it looks as if it could hold its head almost quite as high as Ben Ledi or Ben Venue. It is even said to be seen from a great distance in the Lanark direction, and forms a conspicuous landmark from the Firth of Forth.
We are here in the south-east corner of the parish of Fintry, close to the meeting point with Campsie and Kilsyth. We can see at a glance that it is a central summit of the Lennox hills, occupying such a position as to unite the Fintry, Campsie, and Kilsyth sections of those hills. On the north-east of it, there is what is called the Little Bin, some 1446 feet high, and on its south-west side the Bin burn runs away to the north and becomes a head stream of the river Carron.
Standing here, or rather stretching ourselves along the grateful turf, we are in the very centre of Stirlingshire, and at the source of a river which nowhere is very large, and yet, than which there is none in Scotland, and probably few in the whole island, whose banks have been the stage of so many memorable transactions. When the Roman empire was in all its glory, and had its eastern frontiers upon theEuphrates, the banks of the Carron were its boundaries on the north-west; for the Wall of Antoninus, which was raised to mark the limits of that mighty empire, stood in the neighbourhood of this river, and ran parallel to it for many miles. This last fact suggests one of the probable origins of the word Carron, for there are more than one. The meaning of the word has been a puzzle to the etymologists. “Even ministers they ha’e been kenn’d” to arrive at very different conclusions on this interesting subject. Some derive it from Caraon, which means “a winding river,” and “The bonny links of Carron Water” are poetically celebrated. This expresses one feature of the stream which, in former times, before it had forced a new channel to itself in some places, and been straightened by human industry in others, made almost as many serpentine links as the Forth itself.
In the valley below the river runs through the well-known Carron bog, and for 3½ miles flows in a slow serpentine course over one of the finest and most fertile tracks of natural meadow in Scotland. The Carron Company, whose works are at the other end of the river, and in summer utilise almost all its water, wished at one time to convert this bog into a great reservoir for their works, but the hay crop was found to be too valuable, the tract containing upwards of 1000 Scotch acres in one continued plain, bearingfrom 130 to 150 stones per acre, which is all the more valuable from the fact that the artificial crops are a little precarious from their elevated situation. From the adjoining heights as many as 20 or 30 different parties of people may be seen on it in the season making hay, and in the winter again the river is industriously led over its whole extent to fertilise it for the following crop.
On the other side of the road from the bog, a little to the west of it, and close to where the infant Endrick comes down from the Kippen hills, we have the old castle of Sir John de Grahame of Dundaff, who fell at the battle of Falkirk. For courage and military skill he was reckoned next to Wallace, and was commonly called by the great hero himself his “Right Hand.” The gravestone of Sir John in the churchyard of Falkirk has the following Latin motto, with a Scotch translation:—
Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.
Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.
Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.
Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,
Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.
While some of Cromwell’s troops were stationed in Falkirk, an officer asked the parochial schoolmaster to translate the Latin. This he did in the following witty manner:—
Of mind and courage stout,Wallace’s true Achates,Here lies Sir John the Graham,Felled by the English Baties.
Of mind and courage stout,Wallace’s true Achates,Here lies Sir John the Graham,Felled by the English Baties.
Of mind and courage stout,Wallace’s true Achates,Here lies Sir John the Graham,Felled by the English Baties.
Of mind and courage stout,
Wallace’s true Achates,
Here lies Sir John the Graham,
Felled by the English Baties.
On our left, looking north, we get a sight of what was in former years called the “Moor Toll,” near to which the Carron rises, which we ourselves will soon cross in the valley. This veritable “lodge in the wilderness” has been a welcome sight to many a weary traveller from either side of the hill on a stormy night, and many a dreary winter day “Honest Peter,” the carrier, and his horse, were glad when they got this length.
Hitherto we have only been looking at things within easy reach of us, but we are not allowed to forget long that we have scenery here which equals any to be had, it might almost be said, in any part of Scotland. Looking to the north-west we have a view of country before us
Where broad extended, far beneath,The varied realms of fair Menteith.
Where broad extended, far beneath,The varied realms of fair Menteith.
Where broad extended, far beneath,The varied realms of fair Menteith.
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
The stretch of country lying before us from Port of Menteith round by Aberfoyle, taking in Fintry, Buchlyvie, Balfron, Gartmore, with the majestic Ben Lomond and a host of other hills, is a sight not to be forgotten. Certainly no such beautiful panorama of hill and dale is to be seen within the same distance from Glasgow.
Probably the most pleasing features in the immediate neighbourhood are the valley of the Endrick and ofthe Carron which almost touch each other at the farm house straight down from us. We see the Endrick on its way to the famous “Loup of Fintry,” just a little to the west of Sir John de Graham’s old castle, where it falls over a precipitous rock of more than 60 feet in height, forming a cataract of great beauty. In a “loup,” a “spout,” or “fall” of water there is a great variety of opinion as to what makes it specially remarkable. Some desire a flood of water, others a silvery veil of falling mist, others would have grand natural surroundings. The truth is that a cataract, like a human face, depends a great deal on its surroundings. It is a mistake to go to a waterfall with a measuring line and judge it by height, and breadth, and volume alone. There are comparatively trifling cascades, which, by virtue of their natural position and the sweet and sylvan scenery of their home, are far more attractive than a vaster flood of water filling a greater depth amid tame scenic circumstances. Let our climber make a nearer acquaintance with the “Loup of Fintry,” either to-day or on some other occasion, and he will see what good reason the natives have for their praise of Strathendrick. From its first beginning to its fall into Loch Lomond the Endrick is a thing of beauty, having in its course many a lovely and picturesque scene.
But the valley of the Carron away to the east is not less interesting although its interest is of a more historical character. It is not, however, without an occasional spot of extra loveliness. For example, a little below where it crosses the Kilsyth and Stirling (old) Road, 6 miles behind Kilsyth, it rushes over the Spout or Linn of Auchintilly. In spite of its grand name, which means “field of the overflowing torrent and pool,” it is little known, as it is in a most unfrequented valley. We have made the journey right round by road from Lennoxtown to Kilsyth, a distance of some 19 miles, without meeting more than two people on the highway, although not so far removed from the “madding crowd.” This state of matters reminded us at the time of Dean Ramsay’s story of the English traveller on the out-of-the-way Scotch road, who asked a stone-breaker whom he passed, “Does nobody travel on this road at all?” “O yes,” was the answer, “we’re not that bad. There was a gangrel body yesterday, and there’s yoursel’ the day.” If we were writing in verse, we would be obliged to say of this sexasyllabic, significant, mouth-filling, and loud-sounding name—Auchin-tilly-lin-spout—what Horace says of the little town in which he lodged a night in his journey from Rome to Brundusium,Versu dicere non est. And yet those bankshave been sung of both by Ossian and Hector M’Neill, the latter, a native of the shire. M’Neill speaks of it as the classic stream where Fingal fought and Ossian hymned his heaven-taught lays; and Dyer sings of it as still seeming responsive to Ossian’s lyre. The ancient ballad of “Gil Morice” also—the story of which has been formed into the celebrated tragedy of “Douglas”—represents the mother of the unfortunate young hero as having “lived on Carron side.” We have no time to discuss the ornithology of our day’s outing; but we could almost hear the throbbing of birds’ hearts, which portends a sudden and distant flight. Had we been down on the banks, either of the Endrick or of the Carron a month ago, we could have seen the common sandpiper in its old haunts. But now that September is upon us not one is to be seen. Silently but surely they have slipped off in the night, and the rivers will not know them till next April. But the rooks are in abundance admiring their glossy plumage and symmetry, reminding us of the Scottish aphorism, and proving its truthfulness, “Aye, you’re a bonny pair, as the craw said to its ain twa feet.” They are now beginning to assemble in flocks, and those often deserve the appellation of “a craw’s preaching” from the flow of noisy eloquence of which at such times they are capable.
As we prepare to retrace our steps we cannot help being again struck by the vast expanse of land unoccupied by people and so little cultivated. The one moment we are thankful that there is such a place so near to Glasgow, and no one with heart so hard as to bar the rambler’s way; but the next again the stillness becomes oppressive, as when Cockburn wrote to Jeffrey, “This place is as still as the grave, or even as Peebles.” Our hill to-day is certainly in the heart of a district about which the average dweller within 40 miles of Glasgow knows less, we are persuaded, than he does of some of our colonial possessions. And yet it is not more than 12 or 13 miles from the city. We can return as we came, or make for the old Toll House on the road between Fintry and Campsie, and get the train at Lennoxtown, or we can take a walk along the ridge of hills for 2 or 3 miles to the east, and make for Gavel Station, a mile or so on the near side of Kilsyth.