Keats and Buchan, Scott
and Sayers all knew the
rugged charms of Bonnie
Galloway. Andy Murray
and photographer
Edward Jones follow in their footsteps
Nobody ever mentions that
Dumfries and Galloway
is the first Scottish
region not to pump raw
sewage into the sea
FAR too few tourists have sufficient gumption these days to visit
''the land of the stranger-Gaels'' instead of dodging skin cancer in the
shadow of concrete costa condominiums; yet, before the mass predilection
for getting basted on Continental beaches, generations of travellers
were content enough to bask in the penetrating Solway Firth breezes.
Dandering along leafy lanes and clifftops enthralled them more than
any taverna would. Bonnie Galloway, now an underrated swathe of southern
Scotland, magnetised them all.
Galloway is all things to all men. The region's raw charms reminded
the nineteenth-century travel writer Richard Ayton of ''the wild
beauties of Caernarvonshire''; and when he stayed at Auchencairn, John
Keats recorded: ''Kirkcudbright county is very beautiful, very wild,
with craggy hills somewhat in the Westmorland fashion. The country is
very rich - very fine - and with a little of Devon.''
The poet was captivated by the rocky headlands of the Colvend coast,
the sandbanks, the mudflats, the cliffs and the shady coves where
smugglers hid their contraband from the Excisemen, thereby providing
source material for Sir Walter Scott.
I once met a Cornishman who had settled in Galloway, but who felt at
home. ''It's Cornwall minus the Wimpys,'' he confided. The
late-Victorian Glasgow Boys, who established an artists' colony around
Kirkcudbright, called the coastal part of Galloway the Scottish Riviera.
Old guidebooks, the ones which admittedly got the use of superlatives
down to a super-fine art, referred to Galloway as the Southern
Trossachs: so mild was its climate; so brilliant its midsummer light; so
wild and grand its long and stabbing littoral; so formidable those
cairn-strewn Corbetts which inspired Buchan's The Thirty-nine Steps.
When Dorothy Leigh Sayers based one of her detective stories, The Five
Red Herrings, around the towns of Gatehouse of Fleet and Kirkcudbright,
most of Galloway fished or painted, or combined the two. In the
intervening 70 years, fishing has almost disappeared as an industry,
although artists still abound. Sayers' lonely by-ways, moreover, have
been modernised by the likes of the A75 ''Euroroute'' to Ireland.
Not everything has changed, though. Joe Dignam, ''kindliest of
landlords'', to whom the author dedicated her book, is long gone, but
you still get a hearty welcome in most of the pubs in Gatehouse (Sir
Walter Scott's Kippletringan), a picturesquely situated former
mill-town, which is celebrating its 200th anniversary this year.
Some pockets of Galloway are Little Englands; therefore, you could
transport Campbell, the fictional landscape painter, straight into
Scottish Watch; and Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey would not look out of
place in Gatehouse, since it is a tweedy sort of a place, which would
fit into the Lake District, although it is no less inviting for that.
If I drive west on the A75, the wooded ruins of Cardoness Castle
perched on a twisted knoll, never fail to beckon me to indicate right.
Cliche or no cliche: the visitor from the north who turns off the A75
a bit further west, at Newton Stewart, and heads for the sea, motors
into a bygone age. Look at your map and the Machars are shaped much like
India. Yet there is no Calcuttan melee: the Machars are as sparsely
populated as areas of the Highlands, and as green as Ireland.
''In green places there are angels,'' the commendably idealistic Rev
Andrew Patterson informed me as we strolled along one of the many
narrow, twisting tracks which pass for roads in this pristine
hinterland.
Many species of wild flower beautified the verges, where you would
expect cow parsley and rosebay willowherb. We stood at the top of the
brae and held our breath as the prominent humps of the Galloway hills
struggled out of the haar in the distance.
These hills, none of them big enough to rub shoulders with a Munro,
made ideal beacon-points during the warring times: Criffel, Bengairn,
Cairnsmore of Fleet and Knock of Luce, all had fires lit on their tops
to warn of dangers ahead. Together with Merrick, the Rhinns of Kells,
Corserine, The Dungeon and the Range of the Awful Hand, they constitute
good limbering-up country for Munro-baggers before they head north
again.
But the mini-Alpine grandeur of the Galloway Corbetts would have to
wait. The peninsula we were exploring is as flat as a girdle-scone, but
for the drumlin bumps deposited by the Ice Age: the low-lying land of St
Ninian, the first Scottish saint, who converted the southern Picts from
Whithorn - long before St Columba reached the shores of Iona. Ninian's
Candida Casa, at Whithorn, was Scotland's first Christian church.
''You can see five kingdoms from here: Scotland, where we're standing,
England over there, the Isle of Man, Ireland -- and the Kingdom of
Heaven up there,'' Patterson said with a smile.
As we watched the distant shape of the Isle of Man emerging from the
fog during our walk in the vicinity of Cruggleton Castle, he also took a
delight in revealing that Edward Woodward had been burned on the
headland here in the film The Wicker Man.
Many monarchs, including Robert the Bruce, Mary Queen of Scots and
James IV, visited the shrine of St Ninian. Now thousands of day-trippers
visit the Whithorn Trust. Dumfries and Galloway Tourist Board's top
tourist attraction last year, Whithorn is one of the largest excavation
sites in Europe. Be prepared for real skeletons, though.
Andrew Patterson has spent seven years, first as parish minister of
Mochrum and latterly as a pulpit supply man and author of guidebooks,
trying to open Whithorn up to those of us who prefer shanks's pony to
sitting in tin boxes.
''Walking and cycling on quiet roads, farm tracks and coastal paths
can be a deeply healing and enjoyable experience,'' he beams over a pint
of 80 shilling in the Steam Packet Hotel on the Isle of Whithorn.
The Whithorn Pilgrim Way will eventually run down the western side of
the triangular peninsula - from Glenluce Abbey to Whithorn, the
so-called ''cradle of Scottish Christianity''. It will thread its way
north again to Wigtown and the Southern Upland Way.
Patterson first dreamt of a long-distance walk for latter-day pilgrims
in 1987, when the Church of Scotland urged presbyteries to think up
job-creation projects. Part of the route was eventually waymarked in
1993, the same year in which Patterson received an encouraging letter
from the Pope.
In 1997, the minister hopes to pull off a publicity coup for the Way
to Whithorn. That year marks the 1400th anniversary of the death of St
Columba of Iona, and the 1600th anniversary of the landing of St Ninian
at Whithorn.
A mass pilgrimage to Whithorn is a possibility, but Patterson is
looking for plenty spondulicks under the European Objective scheme for
hard-up rural areas, along with cash from the Millennium Fund.
''The Whithorn Trust, and whatever form of local government evolves
out of the reorganisation process, could liaise with Canterbury, Rome,
Iona and the Isle of Man to facilitate the celebrations of 1997,''
Patterson told me.
He knows what he is talking about. Last year he puttered along the
Celtic fringe on a motorbike whose engine was cannibalised from a
lawnmower. He took in Ireland, Cornwall, Britanny and Compostela.
Now that he is back, he points out that European money has helped to
construct thousands of miles of footpaths in Germany, France and Spain.
Why not Whithorn, he asks? It has the largest rural unemployment rate in
Scotland.
For those wary of walking through Scottish smir on a dankish day,
Patterson offers: ''The sabre-toothed midge of the Highland glens is
unknown in the Machars of Galloway.''
Billy Marshall occupies as prominent a place on the Gallovidian
pantheon as Ninian. At Marshall's funeral, the November wind mottled the
weatherbeaten mourners and whistled through dykes sabotaged 60 years
beforehand by the man in the coffin.
The Earl of Selkirk is said to have been chief mourner of ''the king
of the Galloway gypsies''. They say he had his senses about him to his
final hour, and had been walking the hills the day before his death,
despite his love of whisky.
''Billy, ye should watch how you treat that stuff. It's been the ruin
of many a fine man,'' a well-wisher had told Marshall on his last
Hogmanay.
''It maun be damned slow, then. For I ha'e drunk it for a hunner
years, an' I'm livin' yet,'' was the rejoinder.
A year later, Billy Marshall's headstone in St Cuthbert's churchyard
near Kirkcudbright would read:
The Remains of WILLIAM MARSHALL Tinker, who died
28th November 1792 at the advanced aged of 120 years
Some say Marshall was the last of the Pictish kings. Records show that
he fought at the Battle of the Boyne, and that he was married 17 times,
famously to Flora Maxwell, the prototype of Sir Walter Scott's Meg
Merrilees.
Legend has it that Marshall ruled the whole of Galloway, ''from the
braes of Glenapp to the brig-en' of Dumfries''. He was as happy
waylaying travellers as he was sitting smoking, drinking and cracking
with the infamous Dutch smuggler, Captain Yawkins.
They would sit for hours in Dirk Hatteraick's cave (Scott used Yawkins
as the prototype of Matteraick, another character of Guy Mannering).
When Marshall was not breaking the law, he would be crafting spoons
and other trinkets, some of which are on display at Kirkcudbright
museum. (While you are in Kirkcudbright, you should visit Broughton
House - once the home of the artist Edward Hornel, now the location of
the largest private collection of Burnsiana).
The coast east of Kirkcudbright is notched with caves. Unfortunately,
a good slice of the coastline here is off-limits, thanks to the presence
of the MoD base at Dundrennan. Ironically, Port Mary stands on the
fringe of the danger zone; for the romantics, it was here that Mary
Queen of Scots spent her last night on Scottish soil before sailing into
exile.
One man who knows the treacherous tides of the Solway is 79-year-old
Eddie Parker, who has leased a little island off this coast for 35
years. Heston, which Samuel Rutherford Crockett enlarged into Rathan in
his book The Raiders, is accessible by foot during low tide.
Eddie, the lighthouse-keeper, keeps salmon nets on the islet, so he is
often to be seen making his way over the sands on foot, on tractor or on
a boat. One of the chaps who kept the lighthouse when Eddie was a boy
earned #25 for his troubles. He paid #24 rent for the island and
supplemented the #1 disposable income by keeping sheep.
There are still sheep. Every spring there is a sight to behold: the
procession of the island's resident lambs as they head to the market
over the Solway. Sue Gilroy of Auchencairn keeps the lambs. She also
keeps wild boar on the mainland.
Yes, Galloway does have its eccentricities. Take the Scottish
alternative games at Parton, on the road to Dalry, whose events include
snail-racing and the world gird 'n' cleek championships.
Then there are the world flounder-tramping championships at Palnackie,
on the Urr estuary. Scaremongering about radioactive mud fails to deter
hundreds of participants homing in on the coastal village on the
appointed day every year.
Sandyhills Bay on the true Riviera stretch of the Colvend coast,
sports one of Scotland's top beaches, and is highly recommended. With
the para-Wagnerian backdrop of Galloway peaks and forests, the sweeping
bay and its rocky headlands form one of the most magnificently
picturesque scenes west of Sorrento.
Enter Frank Gourlay, regional councillor, chairman of the steering
group for the new area tourist board, and proprietor of award-winning
chalet complexes at Sandyhills and Kippford.
''Galloway gives people a sense of getting away from it all: I know it
sounds corny and brochure-speak, but it really is Scotland in miniature.
Years and years ago I took my architect all over Galloway and he told
me: 'It's got a little bit of everything.'
''It is good and green and, although more middle-aged people come here
than young people, it is versatile. Nobody ever mentions that Dumfries
and Galloway is the first Scottish region not to pump raw sewage into
the sea.''
And finally to the Rhinns of Galloway, that elongated chunk of land
west of Stranraer, which would have been an island but for the isthmus
between Loch Ryan and Luce Bay.
When I visited the Rhinns I resolved to move there as soon as I had
the right six numbers on Saturday night. But for the odd telephone line,
it is a peninsula, unspoilt in the pre-brochure sense of the word; a
peninsula where two cars constitute a traffic jam.
Portpatrick, that characterful little yachting village, is worth
pottering around, and most folk drive south to Drummore and thence to
the Mull of Galloway, Scotland's Land's End. For me, though, the
northern route to Corsewall Point, where Robert Louis Stevenson's
grandfather built a lighthouse, gladdens the heart that wee bit more.
IT must be said that I caught Scotland's surprising south-west on a
good day, full of sunshine and colour. That morning, however, the sun
had been slow in waking. Haar had clung to the fields and the gnarled
headland, and the fog-horn of one of the ferries to Northern Ireland had
dispelled any hopes of our picking out the Irish coast way out west.
The secluded Knocknassie Hotel was shut, too - which was a pity, since
I had gone there to see some of the fittings. The hotel managed to
procure the shower-room, admiral's cloakrooms and other pieces of the
Ark Royal, scrapped at Cairnryan after a distinguished career.
As the drone of another horn drowned out the tranquillising tunes of
the seagulls, I spared a thought for the 133 ill-fated passengers of the
Princess Victoria, which had sunk in the loch during a ferocious storm
en route to Larne in 1953.
If the fog is not on your side, maybe it is time to drive down to the
Mull, which shares a latitude with Hartlepool, but lacks the kudos of
Scotland's other pole, John o' Groats. The Mull has seen its tragedies -
and not just shipwrecks.
According to an ancient ballad, a noted brewer by the name of Trost of
the Long Knife threw himself and his son off the cliffs there rather
than surrender his recipe to aggressive rivals.
FACTFILE
* Some of Scotland's top Scandinavian-style chalets and log cabins are
offered by Barend Properties (01387 780 663/648) (STB four crowns,
highly commended) along the Scottish Riviera at Sandyhills.
Galloway has more than its share of Taste of Scotland hotels and pubs.
The Corsemalzie Hotel, Port William (098886 254), has wonderful
cruisine. So has the Creebridge House Hotel, Newton Stewart (01671
402121), STB four crowns commended, Taste of Scotland award-winning
chef-proprietor Chris Walker, golf and speciality breaks for the
discerning tourist.
Good pubs for bar lunches:
King's Arms, Castle Douglas (01556 502097). Imperial Hotel, Castle
Douglas, four crowns commended (01556 502086). Bank o' Fleet, Gatehouse
of Fleet (01557 814302), regular ceilidhs. Fernhill Hotel, Portpatrick,
four crowns highly commended (01776 810220).
Whithorn Pilgrimage Trust: 01988 402312. Dig Visitor
Centre/Priory/Museum: 09885 508.
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