On the Watershed

 

Two rivers merge, in the firth that becomes the sea. The tide reaches half a mile upstream, salt waters mingling, as those springs in the mosses from battle-scarred lands give in to the inevitable. Salmon and trout head upstream, to the spawning grounds. Looking back at the paths travelled they find where they diverged. Each marks the county boundary, Ayrshire on one side, Lanarkshire on the other. The Romans camped between the two burns. The Avon Water flows north, then heads off to the east. Eventually it merges with the Clyde.

Less than a mile from where the Avon turns its back on Ayrshire, the River Irvine turns its southern flow west. Down through the valley which bears its name. To join the waters of the Clyde. Whilst the Avon burbled along its valley, for the Irvine, the journey could not have been more different.

Battle-scarred, tumbling through ancient glaciated rocks, the Irvine grows, slowly. It is not until it is joined by the Gower Water and then the Glen Water that it has sufficient volume to become the power behind the lace towns of Darvel, Newmilns and Galston. Little remains of that industry, along the valley. Where the river flows.

Upstream the headwaters have tales to tell. Roman soldiers washed their armour, their sandals and their weapons in those same waters. The garrison at Allanton stood for almost a hundred years, though the legions continued to move across Caledonia long past 163CE, when this part of Ayrshire was relieved of their occupation.

It is a part of Ayrshire not without other troubles. The burn rises in two headwaters, one in each county. On the Lanarkshire side the marshy ground saw a hotch-potch collection of pitchfork wielding worshippers inflict defeat on Claverhouse, a rare victory through The Killing Times of the Covenant.

Between that Battle of Drumclog in 1679, and the retreat of the Romans in 163, there had been two other notable events, one on each side of the burn. Both William Wallace and Robert the Bruce fought on these slopes, a victory for each.

Wallace’s Skirmish of the English Baggage Train saw the Ayr garrison deprived of a hundred foot-soldiers, and one general. As well as supplies of arms, horses and armour. His men lay in wait, outnumbered 4 to 1, concealed by the earthworks left by the legions of old. Seven years before his more famous battle Bruce took up arms, on the south side of the river. His base too was protected by a combination of Roman earthworks and soggy ground which proved the downfall of the heavy English cavalry.

It is Loudoun Hill that makes this area of special interest. A volcanic plug, 340 million years of ancient rock, stands sentinel above the remnants of glaciation, leaving steep and rocky slopes. At the foot of the gorge the waters of the Irvine flow. Tumbling, burbling and bustling as they drop 100ft or so.

It may be some years since the peregrine rested on the steep crags of Loudoun Hill. The slopes ring to the mobbing of crows, keen to send any wandering buzzard on its way. Songbirds bring joy. The bullfinch, when the hips ripen in the hedges, flits along keeping ahead of passing cyclists. The slopes play host to stoats and weasels; rabbits and hares keep wary eyes on the fox.

Water,

to turn the mills

burbles under the bridge.

Quenching thirsts and nurturing trees

for miles.

I was piped down by the willow warbler, to the little wooden bridge that spans the burn. Before the bridge the burn trickled along, losing height. It pooled under the bridge, spreading to six feet or so. I dipped my toes in the cool, clear waters. Spreading out below the bridge, threading between what used to be stepping stones, the burn works its way around both sides of a willow tree, and burbles on.

My path takes me to higher ground, between burn and crags. I focus on the waters below rather than the rocks above. They meander through trees and lush grasses, often hidden from view. In winter these waters gush, leaving icicles of spray and crusted banks. Today the levels are low, after a long, dry spell.

On the Ayrshire side thick clumps of gorse add heady tones of coconut to the warm air. Turning west, round the base of the hill, I startle a ewe with her lamb, dozing in the ruins of a farmstead, once a significant L-shaped property, now more trees than gables. Below, the burn follows the same arc.

The valley levels out before me. On the horizon the familiar outline of Goat Fell, and in the haze a hint of the sparkle of the sun on the waters of the firth. The chaffinch runs through his repertoire, as the wren and the robin rejoice. However it is the willow warbler that grabs the attention whenever I pass through clumps of woodland, trilling long and loud.

It is after the burn tumbles between the earthworks and the remnant piers of what had been the Darvel & Strathaven Railway, once a majestic 13 arch curve, that the waters take on the appearance of a river. It leaves Loudoun Hill behind, gathering from the hills on both sides.

As I returned to the Lanarkshire side I gazed back, down the valley, up those mighty crags. The eye is always drawn to the cairn atop those raggedy cliffs. Wild honking drew my eyes into the gorge. Following the burn towards the source was a flight of 18 swans, in a narrow V. In all my thirty years in the area only once I have had the pleasure of swans in flight, a mere pair. A lone crow flew menacingly along the crags. Loud, above the honking of the swans, came the unmistakeable alarm call of the peregrine.

And the willow warbler trilled in the woods as I floated back. On the day before the wildfire.