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OUR WESTERN HILLS.

LOUDON HILL.

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There is hardly any excursion within a few miles of Glasgow that combines more of what is pleasing in history, poetry and patriotism, and varied scenery of the sweetest kind than a trip to Loudon Hill. Either the South-Western or the Joint Line, from St. Enoch, takes the traveller to Kilmarnock, or “Old Killie,” as it is pettingly called by the Kilmarnockians, a place that is suggestive of St. Marnock in the eighth century, Burns at the end of last century, and bonnets in the present. The line now takes him past Galston, where there is to be had a view of the well-trimmed hedges, characteristic of the roads on the Loudon estate, and the plantations of magnificent trees, which from their age—at least a century—tell that Scotland had proprietors fond of planting before the time of Dr. Johnson. And here is to be seen, rising among the greenery of “Loudon’s bonnie woods and braes,” which Tannahill sings so sweetly of, the palatial-looking towers of Loudon Castle, that has been not inaptly called the Windsor of Scotland. It is said that here were signed the Articles of Union between England and Scotland, beneath the branches of a gigantic yew tree, which yew tree is also memorable from the fact—for this at least is a fact—that James, second Earl of Loudon, addressed letters to it, when secretly communicating with his lady during the period of his banishment—“To the Gudewife, at the Old Yew Tree, Loudon, Scotland.”

The old churchyard of Loudon nestles in a quiet nook by the wayside, which has been the burying-place for nearly 400 years of the Loudon family, a family which, in its first Earl, Chancellor Loudon, and oftener than once since, has done good service to the cause of liberty. Here also lie the remains of the gifted but unfortunate Lady Flora Hastings, who is said to have died of a broken heart on account of a cruel and unfounded slander raised against her by one of the ladies of the bedchamber of H.R.H. the Duchess of Kent.

The traveller by the train which reaches Newmilns at one o’clock will get the help of a brake (if so inclined) as far as Darvel.

It was doubtful weather when we started, and the leaden clouds drove over the sky in heavy masses, “one long drift of rugged gloom”—but it is a waste of time to pay any attention to the weather in this country, one has only to go on and take its buffets and its rewards “with equal thanks.” Presently there appeared a bit of blue sky no larger than one’s hand, not even enough to make the Highlandman’s well-known nether garment, which soon spread over the heavens, and in the course of a few minutes the sun’s beams straggled though the lovely green foliage, making golden patches among the roadside flowers, and the wild ferns, and causing the long grass to sparkle as if all the diamonds of Brazil had been scattered over it.

The distance from Darvel to Loudon Hill is three miles, although it seems much less to the traveller, from his having such a clear view of its rugged and well-defined outline straight before him. The hill springs up suddenly from the surrounding level, and it looks higher than it is. At Loudon Hill Inn, 2½ miles from Darvel, a road to the left over the Irvine, which is here a mere burn, leads to the hill, which is easily accessible in more senses than one. From the large number of excursionists that visit this hill, it would not be surprising to hear that the farmers in the neighbourhood preferred that it should be less free to the public. But the Earl of Loudon, though not possessing the ground round about, is the proprietor of the hill, and makes the public welcome to visit a place so memorable and picturesque. The unpleasant and unfortunately too-much-resorted-to “Notice to Trespassers” finds no place here, and we can only say that if there were more of his disposition in the country the relations between high and low would be much more friendly than they are at present. Of course there is another side to the question—this, namely, that landowners are frequently tempted to put up prohibitory notices because of the deplorable fact that a certain section of the public do not show a sufficient regard for the rights of property.

The hedges look beautiful, hung as they are with garlands of the milk-white thorn; and those who care for a study of silver and blue may have it now. The silver—the drifted snow of the water crowfoot, the wee crimson-tipped daisy, and the pendent snowballs of the wild cherry. Of the blue—patches of wild hyacinth, with just shade enough for varying tones from the purple spikes of the unfolding bells in the deeper shade to where the sunshine ripples on paler blue, in charming contrast to the new spring grass. The summit is reached from the western side, there being a pathway through the trees, and, though a little toilsome, the ascent is more than repaid by a most extensive prospect.

The hill is round, conical, and of romantic appearance, formed of columnar trap, and part of an extensive trap-dike which is said to trouble the whole coalfield of Ayrshire in a north-westerly and south-easterly direction, having its beginning in the vicinity of Greenock. Looking north and east and south, there is little within the first 8 or 9 miles but a wide expanse of moorland, that, with the exception of one or two spots on which farmhouses stand, seems to stretch for miles. About a mile to the north-east is the schoolhouse of Drumclog, and a small monument marking the spot where Claverhouse and his dragoons were routed by the Covenanters under Hamilton, Burley, Cleland, and Hackston, on June 1st, 1679, a Sabbath morning. In this affair Claverhouse lost his cornet and about a score of his troopers, while the Covenanters lost only four men. This whole district, being quite inaccessible to cavalry, was a favourite place for the holding of conventicles. The locality, as well as the engagement itself, are described in “Old Mortality,” and by Allan Cunningham in his poem, “The Discomfiture of the Godless at Drumclog.”

A little to the north of Drumclog the Irvine rises in what at the time of the battle was a mere moss, but the rivulet is now conveyed in a straight line through an artificial ditch, and inclining to the west is joined by the Hairschaw Burn, and flows past the south side of the hill in a deep ravine. At one time trout were readily got here; but a lime work at the junction of the Hairschaw and the Irvine, according to an old angler, “seems to have hurt the health of the fish, for they have never been seen since it was started.” It has sometimes been a question whether the parish got its name from the hill or from the valley; but as Loudon or Loddam means marshy ground, and as not long ago the Irvine flooded the whole valley, it is probable that the parish was named after the valley. The banking of the river and tile-draining make the name no longer appropriate; but the memory of the marshy ground is kept alive in the “Waterhaughs,” a farm not far off on the Galston side of the river. About a quarter of a mile to the south of the hill, on the summit of a precipitous bank overhanging the old public road, there is a small turf redoubt, about twenty yards in length, called Wallace’s Cairn, to mark the spot where some of his men were buried after the battle which took place in the narrow gorge below. At this place, which is the watershed for the Clyde and the Irvine, in a narrow pass, down which the winds come in grand style, and which is therefore called the Windy Hass or Wizen (Gullet), Wallace and a small band of warriors lay in ambush, attacked and defeated a rich English envoy from Carlisle to the garrison at Ayr, although they were only 700 against 3000. A large quantity of booty was got, and, according to Blind Harry, “a hundred dead in the field were leaved there.”

While to the north, south, and east there is nothing but moor, with an occasional hill to relieve the monotony; to the west there is a landscape of unrivalled beauty. In the foreground there is the fertile valley of the Irvine, dividing Galston on the south from Loudon on the north, and Kyle from Cunningham, a vista of little less than 20 miles in length.

This picture includes such details as these:—First, there is the hamlet of Priestland; beyond which, close to Darvel, the Irvine is joined by the Glen Water, supposed to be the scene of Pollock’s popular tale of “Helen of the Glen,” up which also there are the remains of a British fort, one of those round forts which are always to be found in the track of the Roman invaders, which had been surrounded by a ditch, and had a bridge and a gate. Then there are Darvel and Newmilns, with their prosperous lace factories and their looms. On the south side there are the beautiful plantations on the Lanfine Estate, almost rivalling “Loudon’s bonnie woods and braes” on the north side, both contributing to give a rich appearance to the landscape, and taking away the barrenness which once characterized this now lovely valley. Still farther off there are to be seen Hurlford and its smoke, Kilmarnock and its Burns memorial, Dundonald Hill, the Firth of Clyde, and the rugged heights of Arran. In the north-west there are the hills above Dalry, Kilbirnie, and Lochwinnoch, hiding the heights of Cowal; in the north there is the lion-like Ben Lomond, to the right of which there is a view of Ben Venue, Ben Ledi being shut out by the high ground at Avonmuir, 5 or 6 miles in front of us. Farther east there is an occasional peep of the eastern part of the Campsie range, and a full view of the Ochils. Due east Strathaven, 9 miles off, is plainly seen, and the high ground near Carluke still farther away. In the near south-east we have the Avon flowing away from us to the Clyde, and the hills in which it takes its rise, and behind which Cairntable rises, some 12 or 13 miles away. Due south there is Distinkhorn, only some 6 miles distant, and behind it in the dim distance are the hills of Galloway. This is not by any means a bad view for a hill only 600 feet above the level of the surrounding country; according to an old saying, “One may go farther and fare worse.”

Then, around its foot, as we saw on our way up, there is much that will please botanists. We passed here quite a small battalion of them, each with the symbol of his order—a vasculum. Here are to be seen dark red spikes of fumitory, which Shakespeare calls “rank fumitory,” from its abundance, a sign of waste ground. It is a pretty little flower. The flowers bruised in milk is a favourite village cosmetic. Among the nettles is borage, a plant whose azure-blue blossoms and little white rims at the centre figure so prominently in Titian’s picture of the “Last Supper of our Lord,” and which has called forth the warmest praise of Mr. Ruskin. At one time every country garden had its plant of borage. It was used for quite a variety of purposes, and like many a good but plain individual, it is better than its ragged appearance would lead us to imagine. You need not be at all surprised if a cock pheasant steps out proudly from the thicket, or if a squirrel darts up a tree, or a rabbit comes out of the brackens to see what you are after, or a partridge should alight on the stump of some tree that has seen better days.

A walk back to Darvel for the coach to Newmilns station will enable the traveller to reach Glasgow early in the evening.