Day
16

TROON

TO

LOCHRANZA

A tourist goes into a butcher’s shop in Troon. The butcher is stood with his back to an electric fire. The tourist says: ‘Is that your Ayrshire bacon?’And the butcher says: ‘No, just warming my hands.’

After a late and copious breakfast, as one would expect in a hotel of this calibre, we set off from Troon, leaving not quite enough time to cycle around the coast to Ardrossan in time for the ferry to Arran. (Most End-to-Enders don’t find themselves on the ferry to Arran. It is not exactly the most direct route; a dash though Glasgow or an east-coast route through Edinburgh is quicker. But we (I!), had decided it would be such a shame to miss out the beautiful west coast of Scotland and so we planned to travel up though Arran before catching another ferry back to the mainland and on to Oban and Fort William. We had estimated 10 miles, but in fact it was nearly twenty and the wind was gusting in our faces. Unusually, Mick was lagging behind. In an effort to encourage him I gave him a chivvy up. 

‘Come on you low-gear, low-mileage, low-effort, lowlife,’ I shouted.

It had the desired effect, as he cycled hard to catch me up (probably to beat me up) but I stayed ahead all the way to Ardrossan. As we turned the corner to head down to the harbour, a tornado-like vortex of wind whirled its way up the street, scooping up discarded newspapers and sweet wrappers, and twirling them in the air like a mad flamenco dancer. I am not at all surprised that Ardrossan has a large wind farm at the back of the town; it probably generates enough power to light up all of Ayrshire.

The harbour area has been transformed since the last time I was here ten years ago. Then the area was semi-derelict, with pubs and shops boarded up, and it had the feel of a place that had abandoned all hope. Now there was a brand new marina and ferry terminal, and many of the dockside buildings had evidently been restored and were being put to new uses; the elegant power station was now a fancy Italian restaurant. We couldn’t stop, though; the ferry was in port and we swiftly boarded and took shelter from the wind below deck. Soon we were heading away from the town and across to Brodick. The one-hour ferry trip was very enjoyable, mainly as Arran traders were inviting passengers to sample local produce. Naturally, we availed ourselves of these offerings, merrily tucking into Arran mustard Cheddar sliced onto Arran oatcakes, washed down with Arran malt whisky. We then wandered into the shop and bought an Arran map, a bar of Arran soap and some Arran chocolate. Mick disappeared, so I read the Arran paper for a while and then did the Arran crossword. If we had been on board for much longer, I’d have bought the sodding island.

Crossing the Firth of Clyde, the weather had changed dramatically for the better and the sun shone on our backs as we waited to disembark. We were at the front of the queue, keen to get on land and explore. Unfortunately Mick had forgotten how much weight he was carrying on his bike and, as soon as he started moving, toppled over on the ramp, scattering his belongings. I had been too close behind him and I braked sharply but, alas, it was too late. I collided into the back of him and we both lay on the gangway of the boat in an undignified heap. The other cyclists and foot passengers picked their way past us. When they had gone we collected our gear and crept, shamefaced, off the boat.

‘Did anyone see us?’ Mick asked anxiously.

‘Nooo,’ I replied, ‘only about three hundred passengers and all of the crew.’

After recovering our composure, we set off in search of the Isle of Arran Brewery and some Arran beer. Using our Arran map we soon found the brewery and visitors’ centre shop. We were offered a taste of Red Squirrel, its new brew. Unsurprisingly, it was a dark, reddish-brown brew, with a nuttyish flavour. The launch was delayed, the assistant told us, because it had proved difficult to obtain a photograph of the elusive Arran red squirrel, and the brewery were keen it should be an Arran native that adorned the label.  In the very next breath she assured us that if we bought a bottle of beer and sat outside we would be sure to see a red squirrel in the nesting box opposite – practically guaranteed in fact. We stared at the box for ages but no squirrel appeared. We had, we suspected, fallen victim to Arran’s superlative sales techniques, but the beer was good and it was a fine place to stop and soak up some rays, so we didn’t mind. I even bought an Arran hat. It had ‘Arran’ emblazoned on it. This island could teach the world a thing or two about marketing.

Red squirrels are in vogue, if not in sight; say ‘grey squirrel’ in a whisper in Scotland, as these North American interlopers are about as popular here as a fox in a henhouse. Initially kept in zoos, it became fashionable in the late-nineteenth century to release grey squirrels into the wild, presumably because the Victorians thought it would be an interesting thing to do. Larger, and with a wider diet than the reds, the greys are largely blamed for the dramatic fall in numbers of the red that has been driven from its natural habitat. They have also been discovered to carry parapoxvirus or squirrel-pox. The grey squirrels are apparently immune to the disease but it is a killer for the reds.

However, in the case of the disappearing squirrels, we humans are like Billy in the playground, saying to the teacher: ‘Please miss, it wasn’t me, miss, it was that nasty boy over there, miss, I never did nuffin!’ Because we, too, have had a hand in the decline in the red squirrel population. We just don’t talk about it much and prefer to point the finger of blame at the little acorn-munching alien. ‘It’s your fault grey nutkin,’ we cry, ‘you bushy tailed thug. And we are going to get you.’

Long before the grey squirrel had colonised the countryside, we humans were going hell-for-leather for the red squirrel. By the early-twentieth century we had brought out the big guns – literally. Squirrel clubs encouraged members to shoot red squirrels, as they had spread so successfully they were deemed pests and a threat to woodlands. The Highland Squirrel Club alone, between 1903 when it was formed and its demise in 1946, killed more than 100,000 red squirrels. Greys were also in their sights by then, and by the end of 1947 squirrel clubs had also killed more than 100,000 grey squirrels. Now red squirrels are keenly protected, but there is a price on grey nutkin’s head. Scotland, home to 75 per cent of the remaining red squirrel population has a massive culling policy for these critters. Any grey squirrels in the area would be wise to keep a very low profile indeed.

We headed north up on the road to the east of the island. The road hugged the coastline and the sun cast dapples of light on the azure sea, warming our faces as we coasted along. Goat Fell towered majestically above us on our left, one of four Corbetts on Arran. We could see the tiny forms of walkers making their way to the summit, possible Corbett baggers keen to strike another off the list. In addition to the Corbetts there are six Marilyns and a Graham on Arran. There are no Munros, however, and Donalds don’t venture this far north.

These are the main categories of Scottish mountains, of course. It all started with Hugh Thomas Munro. Born in 1856, he was the eldest son of Sir Campbell Munro, third Baronet of Lindertis. As a boy Hugh liked collecting things: shells, eggs, fossils and the like (egg collecting not being frowned upon then) and, like many boys, he also liked lists. Later on he began collecting mountains. He was co-founder and a keen member of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, and in its journal in 1891 he published a list of all the mountains and summits in Scotland more than 3,000 feet. This was the first time the Scottish mountains had been comprehensively catalogued. Despite the advent of the metric system, which converts 3,000 feet to the more prosaic 914.4 metres, the Munro Tables remain much as Sir Hugh originally listed them, albeit with some revisions over the years. When you consider that during his lifetime Munro climbed all but three of the original 283 mountains, despite being afflicted with arthritis from his thirties onwards, his achievement was remarkable. He died in 1919 after contracting pneumonia whilst volunteering for the French Red Cross in Tarascon, southern France.

Since then many people have completed the Munros in what has now grown into a sport of its own: Munro bagging. Bagging is the activity of collecting the summits of mountains, hills or peaks (not literally obviously, or there would be none left for the rest of us). After Munro, making lists of mountains really took off. Another member of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, John Rooke Corbett provided climbers with a list of Corbetts, summits between 2,500 and 3,000 feet. Peaks between 2,000 and 2,500 feet are named Grahams after Fiona Torbert (née Graham). Donalds are hills in the Scottish Lowlands of more than 2,000 feet; catalogued by Percy Donald, yet another member of the Scottish Mountaineering Club. Marilyns are hills anywhere in Britain with a relative height or prominence of at least 490 feet. Alan Dawson, a prolific hill-lister, coined the name as a humorous reference to the famous Munros. Dawson argued that little hills are often more interesting to climb than then the higher ones, and relative height rather than absolute height was a more useful criterion.

So enthusiasts can now enjoy Corbett bagging, Donald bagging, Graham bagging and Marilyn bagging, as well as Munro bagging, and outside Scotland, Wainwright bagging, Hewitt bagging and Nuttall bagging. That’s an awful lot of bagging for one small and not very mountainous country like Britain, if you ask me. Maybe it’s just that we British love making lists.

As we cycled farther north we passed a huge erratic boulder, shortly after which the road swung inland and began to rise up. Within a few short minutes we felt as if we were in a completely different place – in a way I suppose we were. Arran is known as Scotland in miniature because, like Scotland itself, it has both ‘lowlands’ and ‘highlands’, and we were now entering the highlands of Arran. The island is bisected by the Highland Boundary Fault, an ancient collision of land masses, which bisects the mainland of Scotland and cuts right across the centre of Arran. Jagged mountains of granite surrounded us, with mists swirling around the peaks.

As we continued up the hill, the temperature dropped markedly and we stopped to dig around in our panniers for our coats, hats and gloves. The contrast with Brodick was breathtaking; it was as if we had, in an instant, been whisked from the shore of Loch Lomond to the Cuillins of Skye. We toiled up the hill and it was with some relief that we finally reached the top and began the downward coast into Lochranza at the northern tip of the island. This end of the island is much quieter than the southern half of Arran, and there’s not an awful lot at Lochranza; a small settlement of 200 souls, perched at the end of Loch Ranza that gives the place its name. It does have a campsite, however, situated next to the golf course, and we booked in and pitched our little tent.

We were amused to see sheep grazing on the greens – not a sight you would see at Troon! Apparently red deer can sometimes be seen grazing as well. A game of golf must be interesting – they must have to use sweepers to brush the shit out of the way before taking a putt; it must be like playing curling on grass. Once we had set up camp we strolled down to the Lochranza Hotel. En route we admired the view of the ruined Lochranza Castle, perched on a spit of land right on the edge of the loch itself. The castle is a small tower house, originally built in the twelfth century and used as a royal hunting lodge. It was substantially extended and rebuilt in the sixteenth century, and bought in 1705 by Anne, Duchess of Hamilton and Countess of Arran who had already inherited most of Arran, including Brodick Castle, following the death of her father. The family stopped using the castle later in the eighteenth century and it was left to fall into disrepair. Lately, Historic Scotland has been doing some restoration work, although the castle remains in private hands, which presumably means the taxpayer pays for it on behalf of the owner. Lochranza Hotel was a typically Scottish affair, a large building with an interior dating from the 1970s, as well as 1,000 bottles of malt whisky but no draught beer. The barman said they usually sold Deuchars, but it was off that evening. We settled for a couple of rather expensive bottles of Sunset from Isle of Arran Brewery to wash down our fish and chips, before heading back to the campsite and retiring to our little tent. I drifted off to sleep listening to the rain hammering down on the canvas.

 

 

Stats
Miles: 32
Total miles: 752
Pints of beer (each): 2 bottles
Red squirrels sighted: 0
Arran products spotted: 14,983