Day 28 - The Hunterian Museum, Glasgow University, Botanic Gardens, Ashton Lane and the Ubiquitous Chip

Well I’m indulgent this morning. I wake early as usual and spend some time catching up on the journaling and blogging. As it often does, this is a case of just a few more minutes and then a few more and a few more until the morning is slipping away. Just as well we have a deadline! Today is slated for the West End. We’ve kept our car. The original plan was to lose the car when we got to Glasgow and stay above the train station then just get the train to London. We’ve chosen a more intimate form of accommodation recommended by a close friend and in the process get a bit more interaction with local people. In any case, some of the things we want to do we figure will be easiest with the car when one wants to limit the walking a bit. So, we’re driving over to Glasgow University and Linda agrees it shouldn’t be a problem on a Sunday and gives us some useful tips on where to look for parking. Excellent. We’re away. I’m tardy on the sad camera out the car window grabbing passing sites front. Perhaps just as well. It’s not that clever to go sticking your arms out of a moving car in the city anyway. Glasgow is wall to wall stone. There’s a range of colours, there’s the pretty and unusual red sandstone and there’s paler colours as well. Then there’s some that’s still dirty from the coal fires of times past. The dirty stuff is few and far between but it’s around. I try to imagine the city before the cleaning. It must have been a dark grimy city back in the day but what a wonderful legacy the stonework is. Even the simplest dwellings have facades that show a good deal of style and skill on the part of the stone masons.

Linda’s advice was that we would know University Avenue when we saw it because it’s wide and tree lined and lovely. We have no difficulty getting a pretty good parking spot and it is tree lined and lovely but it turns out this lovely road is called Kelvin Way. We climb out of the car all decked out in our rain gear and enquire of Dr Google how best to find the Hunterian Museum. As we round the corner there’s loud Paul Simon playing… I could be your bodyguard, I could be your long lost friend… and there’s a huge sign on the building from which the music is coming. It’s Fresher week and there’s clearly some orientation activities on today.

We have a little time to kill before our guided tour but first things first we had better make sure we know where we need to be. We do this. We ask dumb questions that are answered on obvious signage. Then we puzzle some more how to get into the Hunterian. The signage we can see is all about accessing the Hunterian via a lift that isn’t working. Eventually we figure it out and enter through the cloisters and up several flights of stylish staircase.

Our education begins with William Hunter himself, his wide ranging interests and expertise and his place in The Enlightenment. To understand this of course we must have a brief explanation of the Enlightenment complete with medallion portraits of some leading lights of that period all of whom taught at the University of Glasgow and were correspondents of William Hunter. Below a quote from Voltaire “We look to Scotland for all our ideas of civilisation.” Are displayed presumably rare medallion portraits of

Adam Smith (whose statue I admired in Edinburgh). He was Professor of Moral Philosophy 1752 -1763, an economist and the author of the landmark text the Wealth of Nations. He was followed by Thomas Reid, Professor of Moral Philosophy 1763 -1796, a founder of the “common sense” school of philosophy.  Below we see the profile of William Cullen, Professor of Medicine 1751-1756, the ‘father’ of Scottish Medicine, and that’s saying something because the Scots were the leaders in the medical field globally. Next to him Joseph Black, Professor of Practice of Medicine 1757-1766 listed simply as “One of the most prominent figures of the Scottish Enlightenment”. Not illustrated but acknowledged in Hunter’s own education at Glasgow University is one of his professors, Francis Hutcheson, “…an important leader of the Enlightenment, who taught students to think for themselves.

Hunter lived much of his life in London. He applied the Enlightenment principles of observation and analysis to the teaching of anatomy and was able to contribute significantly to the development of medicine.” This continued through his support and encouragement of others, his brother John who became the most eminent surgeon in England and his nephew Matthew Baillie who is now considered the father of modern pathology.

It is its connection to the Scottish Enlightenment that has brought me to the University today. This institution, its leaders and its graduates made a massive contribution to the advancements in western civilisation that underpin much of what we hold most precious today. Hunter did not restrict himself to writing on limited subjects, he was one of the greatest medics of his time but his thoughts and his writings ranged broadly and he owned one of the best private museums in London. He bequeathed his collection to Glasgow University on his death and it remains at the core of the Hunterian collection to this day.

Each major area of Hunter’s endeavour is illustrated with a representative object, for example a pair of wooden forceps used in obstetric practice. Hunter delivered all but one of Queen Charlotte’s children including George IV. To have the Queen come through so many confinements successfully was something of a landmark in royal history. It is the items associated with his medical practice which intrigue me most. Perhaps because I think Daughter2, herself a doctor, would be fascinated to see these items. Human specimens are always a bit confronting but I struggle to even label the feelings associated with looking at the gravid uterus at 5 months, in its specimen jar, an item so significant to the achievements of William Hunter that it is included in the posthumous portrait of him hanging here. The foetus is clearly visible through an incision in the wall of the uterus, tiny, perfect fingers curled delicately. It seems so small, even for 5 months, but then of course people were so much smaller then as we know. How Hunter came to be in possession of this item is explained and it’s all above board thankfully. Across the way is a rare copy of Hunter’s greatest achievement The Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus which was published in 1774 and is still an essential reference on the subject.

Suitably awed by the context of the collection and the presence of the Blackstone Chair, we move into the sacred hall of knowledge. I wander through artefacts of the Roman Empire in Britain. Perhaps my greatest appreciation arises from the fact that they make such photogenic displays. We well know my struggles with Ancient civilisations. I’m trying to overcome my antipathy to the subject but so far with limited success.

I spark up at the displays about William Hunter’s library which contained 10,000 printed books and over 600 manuscripts. About a third are on medical subjects and the rest range broadly providing research sources that support his museum collections.

As we head into the natural history galleries, it seems so appropriate to have a plesiosaur skeleton hanging in pride of place as we enter. A juxtaposition perhaps between ongoing mystery and superstition and the practice of scientific enquiry exemplified by the Loch Ness Monster which is today most usually illustrated as this real, ancient creature that some people are persuaded still lives in the depths of the loch.

I laugh as I finally get a good, up-close look at a pair of Hen Harriers, stuffed in a glass case. I also very much enjoyed the displays of insects and especially the butterflies arranged as a beautiful monument to their usually short lived flash of colour and beauty.

I head upstairs to the sections on physics and some more technical displays. I studied physics at school somewhat but really this stuff is way more in Hubby’s line than mine and I’m more inclined to head down to the gift shop to sus that out properly while he takes his time. Time is limited, our tour starts fairly soon.

There’s a lot of people on the tour today and our guide makes several attempts to close up the payment paperwork and get going as more and more people indicate they’d like to pay. There’s a number of new students, accents betraying how far they’ve come to study here. Quite a few are from North America. Some parents are with some of them and there’s a strong sense of excitement and anticipation. Our guide kicks off our tour by encouraging us to ask him to repeat things we don’t understand because of his accent. He’s got a good strong Scottish brogue and he says with a laugh, not even his friends understand him, so don’t be embarrassed about it. Really, his accent is fine, he’s exaggerating, but as we have given ample demonstration on this trip to date, tourists are stupid and fairly deaf when it comes to making sense of even slight accents.

We crowd around the model of the university and a bit of a run down on the history which is impressive having been founded in 1451. Then we head out into the open air in front of the main building. How old do we reckon this building is? Why? The group makes the obvious suggestions based on various architectural features. Well, we’re wrong. The campus we’re touring is not of such venerable age. The major building is something of a fraud and was built in the 19^th century in a style calculated to trick the uninitiated into feeling that the physical fabric of the university is as old as its academic history, even to the point of having vacant positions for statuary as a silent reference to the reformation and removal of perceived idolatry from buildings throughout the nation.  The area known as the “cloisters” has no actual religious connection, they are all about atmosphere and carrying off the architectural deception. At first this aspect is a bit of a bubble prick for me, but as we tour the grounds and I contemplate the intangibles of the institution, I appreciate the appropriateness of this nod to architectural history in the design of the updated and expanded campus in Victorian times, for truly this architecture gives a physical gravitas to one of the world’s greatest and most venerable institutions of learning.

How many times do the locals on TripAdvisor have to tell us! The weather in Scotland can spin on the tip of a unicorn's horn. The clear weather has given way to rain. Having barely had them off our backs since we arrived in the country, we have left our raincoats in the car. Luckily we’re a committed bunch on this tour today. Few people are wearing rain gear or carrying brollies but we withstand the passing rain showers to hear about Lord Kelvin, who first came from his birth city of Belfast to study at the university at the age of 10.  He then went down to study in England and was back as a teacher here by the age of 22, though he wasn’t a Lord in his early years, his Lordship was given on his obvious merit. Who knows what Lord Kelvin is famous for? We are quizzed here and as we go around the university, the fame of the achievements by Kelvin and others are global, great landmarks of human kind, usually someone in the group can answer. We prowl around noting everything from coal shute hatches and carriage steps, the locations of ground breaking discoveries, patronage over the years and on to the qualifications required to get married in the University Chapel. We see the traditional place for graduation photographs which are the steps through which all manner of intelligentsia have entered the hallowed halls.  Everyone from Einstein to Charles de Gaulle and of course Lord Kelvin. The photograph spot is flanked by a stone Unicorn (symbol of Scotland) and a stone Lion (symbol of England). The steps are of venerable age, one of a few structures relocated from the previous campus. We learn why the students never ever walk on the grass and no, don’t bother daring or enticing our guide to do so. There is nothing that would make him do it.

Yep, heritage listed.

As universities often are, this one has grown and built new facilities as needed over the years. Some are attractive some are well, just old and outdated looking and apparently in need of a spruce up. The vast majority, I think he said over 80 percent, of these buildings are heritage listed. I can’t help but think what a burden that must be to a research university. Any educational institution which seeks to provide equitable access and undertake ground breaking research has a task greater than its budget. How do they fund the maintenance and care of such an enormous burden of heritage structures as well?

The academic and heritage side of university life and achievement is not the only source of pride here. Our start to our day brought our attention to the student union. Our guide who, by the way, is a fourth year student, told us with pride that the Glasgow University Student Union is independent. Most student unions are affiliated with a national body. Not this one. He seems to feel that this enables them to be more effective and progress a more local agenda. As we’ve wandered around the aesthetics of the campus haven’t really been helped by lots of construction fencing and torn up pavements. The reason for this is because the Student Union successfully lobbied for the university to update its energy source to a more sustainable technology and this work is in underway.

At the conclusion of the tour we assemble in front of a memorial to St Mungo and I steal the punch line as we hear about one of St Mungo’s miracles. Sorry.

There’s only one thing about our tour that I’m really disappointed in – we didn’t get to see Bute Hall. I don’t remember now if that was because it’s Sunday or it’s being used for something today or whatever but it would have been good to see. .. and yep, it's called Bute hall, not because it's a beaut hall (groan) but because it was paid for by the Marquis of Bute, the same stonkingly wealthy bloke who owned Dumfries House among his huge and impressive real estate portfolio. 

We head back to the car the way we came in, through a gateway that was another of the relocated structures from the old campus, passing under the stone plaque that was added on the insistence of Charles II when he (allegedly) was unimpressed at the level of deference and enthusiasm for the monarch displayed during his visit. The gesture didn’t help because there developed a tradition at the University (no longer active!) that students passing under the sign threw stuff at it. That’s why it is so damaged! Just another little indicator of the traditional tensions that between England and Scotland and the whole Act of Union issue.  

This time as we round the corner of University Avenue, the music has changed to Carol King…. Winter, spring summer or fall, all you gotta do is call, and I’ll be there.. yes I will.… you’ve got a friend….I’m sensing a theme in their playlist.

We um and ah. We’ve got loads of time left on our pay and display here and we’re by no means certain of getting a spot closer to Ashton Lane but we figure we’ll give it a shot and we can always come back here and walk over if necessary. I've been trying to get some photos to do justice to the beautiful stone everywhere. The West End is full of beautiful opportunities... I keep trying but it's not easy.

We prowl about looking for parking. Ah yes. There’s an issue I’ve been noticing as we’ve travelled about. They’re not new, we noticed them in England in 2012 too. The “Polite Notice”. There’s this, we think, completely bizarre practice of labelling notices erected here and there in this way. This is an example I photographed later at Luss. These are not actually polite. They are just a notice like any other with some superfluous text. In this day and age of internet ettiquette, it just seams like someone shouting at you that they are polite and you aren't if you park in this area.

That's not polite.

Today in Glasgow we get a chance to photograph one of the notices that IS actually a polite notice. There’s another version that thanks people for not doing something or other.

This is polite.

Note to notice posters. Your notice isn’t polite because you say it is a polite notice. If you want credit for being polite, you would do well to adopt the practice of just asking politely. J

It’s happened again. We’ve got the wrong idea about Ashton Lane. I’ve read a bit about it online and Linda has been really enthusiastic about it. Totally a must see. I’ve been thinking that it’s somewhere you go and wander down and poke about in little stores etc and take a bit of time over. It’s actually quite small, short and pretty much entirely eating places. Quite cute and atmospheric probably even more so in the evening when there’s more people about… and the Ubiquitous Chip is quite the biggest actual presence in Ashton Lane, so I’m glad we’ve got a reservation there tonight. But Oh. Right. Tick.

That’s taken all of 5 or 10 minutes including the time taken just standing about wondering how we got such a different idea about what is here and wandering back and forth to make sure we’ve not just missed where we’re supposed to go or something.

“So, what now? We could hobble up to the Botanic Garden.” “Yeah” says Hubby. “Let’s do that or go to the place Linda was talking about.” “Oran Mor? That’s up near the Botanic Gardens too. Are you sure you want to walk all that way?” With a great demonstration of the potential of utility Hubby reassures me on that score by saying, “well we can go up there and if it’s too much we can come back”. Hmm. I give up. We set off slowly but purposefully. Mostly the rain holds off. The street is full of people it’s quite a bustling festive sort of vibe and it’s not really too far.

We cross the street to try to get a better angle on appreciating Oran Mor. “Do you want to go in and have a look, maybe get a drink and sit down for a while?” “No.” I shrug. It’s the interiors that Linda was raving about. Nah. He’s happy. Let’s cross over to the gardens.

They are beautiful. The glass houses are lovely against the grass. I’ll never stop being amazed by the velvety texture of the cold climate grass. I’m distracted by some Magpies stalking around. I so want a good photo of the blue on them. I know Mapgies aren’t popular because they’re a predator bird and a bit pesky, but they are definitely beautiful looking birds.  I’m defeated. They just won’t cooperate but meanwhile it’s started raining and the pigeons are providing the entertainment. They’re laying on the ground and raising their wings as though they’d be glad of a wash in the rain or something. I’ve never seen pigeons do that before.

The rain is getting heavier. I head into the first of the glass houses while Hubby makes a detour to check out the facilities. It’s white, and it’s beautiful. What a wonderful place for people to come in inclement weather. There’s seats and a long promenade within and around the plantings. I wander in to the path into the plantings and am stopped in my tracks by a fabulous display of tree ferns. I check their labels, yep, Australian tree ferns. What a glorious garden. You just don’t see displays like this in Australia. We take our tree ferns for granted. Here they are pride of place in a beautiful structure. Green and lush and celebrated. I just spend some time hanging out trying to capture a photo that will remind me of the impact it has in real life. It’s just magnificent.

Hubby catches up and I show him the ferns and we walk through together. There’s a wattle tree in here as well. It’s one of the really fine leaved varieties. Pretty, but it’s not as happy as the ferns. It is happier than the sad little Kauri that does nothing to communicate the stately grandeur of its kind in its native land and sadly never can in this restricted space.

Fuchsias of all kinds - another plant that the UK excels in cultivating

Quick, let’s have a look at the next green house. I can’t wait to see what they’ve got in there now. This building is more utilitarian and less decorative overall but it has a series of spaces with different conditions provided where they have stuffed an enormous quantity of plants.  We’ve seen some very impressive glass houses in the UK. We’ve had a quick look at the enormous examples there and they are amazing, but they are SO big you hardly notice the structure while you’re in them and I suppose that is the point of making them so large. They feel more like wandering in a tropical botanic garden somewhere. Here in Glasgow I’m just overwhelmed by the abundance of the collection. It’s a brilliant ambience in here. I duck carefully as I pass through the orchid house. Marvel at the huge bank of dendrobiums. Wonder at the space allocated to Impatiens. Context is everything. 

There’s a cactus room which includes a REALLY tall Australian Xanthorrhoea (grass tree) which must be hundreds of years old, a pond with waterlilies, a beautiful room full of carnivorous plants and a room of economic plants. It’s a wonderful collection and so interesting. We learn heaps we didn’t know, especially about the Australian plants and it’s not because we take no interest at home either. Did you know that the speaker's chair in the House of Commons in Westminster was a gift from the Australian Government as part of repairing the damage of WWII? It's made of Morton Bay Chestnut wood a beautiful and durable Australian Native timber. You’re not inundated with information everywhere, just here and there are little tags or signs jam packed with fascinating information about the particular plant. This is just a wonderful garden and they have really made a big effort. This has been a real highlight we are so glad we came in here. .. just one point of correction.. spell Aboriginal with a capital A please. It means a lot to Aboriginal people that we do that. It’s the same when using “Indigenous”.  

Time now to start heading back to the Ubiquitous Chip for our early dinner reservation. Rather than back track we take the path down behind some plantings where it's quieter. Stop as we spot a grey squirrel scurrying about under the trees. Instinctively framing up a photo I grab it while I can when I notice he's got an acorn in his mouth. Stockpiling for the winter I suppose. 

We walk in and are shown to our quiet corner table for two in an amazing space. The ambience is brilliant and just so perfect having come from the greenhouses. Indoor creepers dangle luxuriantly from their planter boxes, the room is filled with light.  To start Hubby goes for a San Miguel. I’m pushing the boat out and request a drink that is both non-alcoholic and not fizzy. A Cosmopolitan is recommended. This is made from pureed strawberries, cranberry and lime and depending on the sweetness of the strawberries some corn syrup may be added to get the right sweet note. Let me tell you that is a delicious drink! Very special.

Our next offering of note is a shot glass with beetroot, apple and horseradish. This is a beautiful blend of sweet piquancy and the texture too is a balance of silky and fluffy with an occasional bite of tiny perfect cubes. Very very special. Ah no, we forgot to photograph it before we've started. I spin it round to disguise the damage as much as I can. It's a visual feast.

We nibble on some very tasty slices of bread with soft butter while we wait for battle to be joined.

Round 1. Hubby claims the right to decide the winner by ordering The Chip’s own, since 1971, venison haggis, champit tatties, carrot crisp, neep cream £8.95. I’m sorry I just don’t do offal. So I choose the Mull of Kintyre crab and roast corn beignet and corn chowder, hold the chilli oil £6.45. We tie. Hubby does like haggis, he’s been having it everywhere with breakfast too.

Round 2: Hubby never can pass by an opportunity to have Guinea Fowl, this time served with Dorset snails, cep gnocchi, broadbeans, cevenne onion veloute. £23.95. In response I go simple but classic with the Chip’s fillet steak au poivre with dauphinoise potatoes with Bearnaise sauce, hold the mushroom duxelle. £28. As a side we simply must try the Nine hole beef stovies. £3.45. Still level pegging.

Round 3: Hubby, with some encouragement from me orders the Knockraich Farm crowdie mousse, with strawberry jelly, pistachio crisp, sherry vinegar ice cream £7.45. I’m sticking with the specialties of the house, The Chip’s famous Caledonian oatmeal ice cream, whisky macerated summer fruits with honeycomb £5.95.  And the winner is the Ubiquitous Chip. That’s as it should be. Every dish a winner, beautiful balance of flavours and textures, no dish too rich without something to balance and refresh the palate. Superb meal in every respect. Very memorable. .. and I must say both the oatmeal ice cream and the sherry vinegar ice cream were absolutely sensational.

We’re happy campers heading home nice and early. We figure it might be wise to find our way to the SSE Hydro where we need to be tomorrow. In particular we want to sus out the parking arrangements. This gives us an opportunity to see the multi-story parking station with its attractive silver cut out panel façade and I enjoy seeing an alien head hovering above the port.  

We haven't suffered too much slippage on the early night. Well, until we’re crossing the Clyde and I realise that the weather is clear. Let’s take the opportunity to go over and take some photos of the Convention Centre (The Armadillo) and the Hydro. We cheekily park up and Hubby waits while I wander down past the Premier Inn and get some photos, stopped dead in my tracks by the beautiful symmetry of Bell’s Bridge. 

It’s a lovely spot here. Quiet this evening. I linger enjoying the changing light as the sun sets and the breeze ebbs revealing a mirror effect in the water then freshens, wiping the face of the buildings from the surface of the water. Time for me to go.

Even the Clydeport hammer crane looks like a work of modern art in the uber modern convention precinct.

Satisfied, I tell Hubby what he’s been missing and we head home, chat with Linda then call it a night.

Day 27 - Wanlockhead and Leadhills and to Glasgow

Today we are heading to Glasgow. We’re not sure what time we have to be out but it can’t be before well after breakfast which runs until 10 am.  We take our time.  Eventually we drag ourselves down to breakfast and return to pack up. Hubby goes to pay and return the keys and we’re off.

I’m behind the wheel today providing the entertainment and sparking some misgivings on Hubby’s part as I let all the other vehicles know my turning intentions by flicking on the windscreen wipers to a faster speed! I enjoy the driving but it means that Hubby’s on his learner’s wheels documenting our journey with photographs along the way. Our whole arrangement of duties this morning is un-natural. Simply un-natural! But Hubby barely slept last night so we just have to suffer the initial adjustment, it doesn’t take long to get back in the groove.

Today we’re heading to Wanlockhead via Muirkirk which are both villages with family associations. Our route takes us through Cumnock and I notice that what we’re passing meets the description our Alloway informant gave for finding the location of Alexander Peden’s grave. It’s a grey day today and raining lightly as we turn off the main drag, park in a little side street then walk back around the corner to where the grave is located facing the street. I puzzle how best to try to deal with the awkward position. It’s almost impossible to get a clear angle on the memorials and inscriptions because the fence is so close. The little enclosure has three stones of remembrance of differing ages and varying legibility. In frustration I divert myself with a photo of the nifty stile nearby. I’ve never seen one like that before. 

We can’t stand here in the rain all day so I bite the bullet and do my best on the grave and memorial and contemplate the inscriptions. I can’t decipher the oldest, but the next headstone is better:

Here lies Mr Alexander Pedin. Faithful Minister of the Gospel some time at Glenluce who departed this mortal life the 26^th January 1686: and was raised after six weeks out of the grawf and buried here out of contempt. Memento Mori.

We already know that erecting memorials was very fashionable in Victorian times. Clearly the local worthies thought that an inadequate explanation of the worth of the deceased and the honour of his suffering so in 1891 an additional effort in Aberdeen granite was added to the site in honour of the martyr. This time they’ve made it much bigger and more durable

In Memory of Alexander Peden (A native of Sorn) That faithful minister of Christ, who for his unflinching adherence to the covenanted reformation in Scotland, was expelled by tyrant rulers from his parish of New Luce, imprisoned for years, and hunted for his life on the surrounding mountains and moors till his death on 26 January 1686, in the 60^th year of his age; and here, at last, his dust reposes in peace awaiting the resurrection of the just.

Such were the men these hills who trode

Strong in the love and fear of God

Defying through a long dark hour,

Alike the graft and rage of power.

I wonder again if this famous local son was related to our Susanna Peden or her father Hugh Peden. I suppose it’s possible. Alexander Peden had a brother Hugh though multiple generations must separate him from our Hugh Peden who would have been born about a century after the death of prophet Peden. It’s pretty profound to contemplate a potential connection to such momentous historical events.

Once we get to Muirkirk we don’t do a great deal of looking about. I’m just happy to pass close by and get a general sense of the country there.We head generally eastward across cold, rolling countryside before turning south to Leadhills and Wanlockhead. It’s not as green and lush as the lower areas closer to the coast. As we near the high altitude mining villages we start to see a lot of flowering heather. It starts as a lovely avenue, sometimes accompanied on the road verges by the bright yellow of what I think is probably ragwort, then it spreads in a brightly purple marbled patchwork across vast areas on either side of the road. This is the closest we’ve got to such an extensive display. Clearly this land is managed for game birds.

Suddenly Leadhills is upon us. Wanlockhead isn’t far away.  Leadhills is a sweet little place and we notice the local library which is the first subscription library in the British Isles, it is tempting to stop as bidden but we press on conscious of the time and I almost regret our lazy morning. I always regret not having more time.

Sheep graze on the verges and in waste ground around the villages. Here and there a sheep munches on some food supplements provided in big yellow bins left by the road. They as all sheep we’ve seen are marked with a large blob of colour on their fleece to identify where they belong when it’s time to head back into confinement and shelter for the winter.

Finally we arrive in Wanlockhead, the highest altitude village in Scotland just before 1pm. It’s only a tiny place and it’s not hard to find the museum. We’re lucky with parking and score a spot right opposite the door of the Visitor's Centre when a car pulls out. There’s a lot of people around despite the cold, wet weather. As we pay our entrance fee the lady serving us books us straight on to the next mine tour at 1.55 pm. That gives us almost an hour to kill so first up we check out the café. Hubby has bowl of vegetable soup and I try a dark treacley brown slice of date and walnut cake from among the range of home-made cakes and slices. The little café is decorated with historic photographs and information which amuses us as we eat and chat.

Meanwhile, the staff have been plotting and as we get back to the lobby, heading for a look at the museum displays, a staff member asks if we’d like to go up to the library for a quick look before our mine tour. Yeah, sure, if we have time. We’ll only have 20 minutes but that’s just enough. We hurry out and take a path that zigs and zags its way up through a memorial garden, tempting us with views across the village. Sweet little cottages sit brightly white on the green and great daubs of purple heather stretch out across the hills behind them. We don’t have a lot of time and fine drizzle of rain is falling but still I linger momentarily behind to enjoy the scenes, confident that I’ll be able to catch up with hobbling Hubby.

We climb the steps and brush our feet on the mat as we pass through the little porch and are welcomed into the library. There’s just three of us. I’m the last having hung back a little to take a photograph of the building without people in it and rushing the last bit, arriving a little out of breath. Our guide explains the history. This library and the one in Leadhills were set up and run by the miners for their mutual improvement. The miners were comparatively well paid for their era but it is still impressive that they prioritised self-education in this way. Around the walls of the room bookshelves are full of obviously antiquarian volumes. Some costumed figures are set up and there’s an amusing recording that’s been made of a young miner joining up to the library. It explains the rules and how the library operates. Although the older man getting the details already knows most of what he's asking, it’s a very formal process and no shortcuts are taken. It’s well done and gives us a few laughs as the young applicant makes sarcastic jokes from time to time.

The library was first established in 1756 in a small space like a walk in cupboard. When that was outgrown the Duke of Buccleuch gave the miners a cottage to use, it was that one we can see with yellow windows over on the opposite hillside. When that was also outgrown the present library was built using money from the sale of the previous building and contributions from miners. The book collection that the miners built up is now one of national significance. They started with religious texts and moved on to engineering and technical books and finally fiction. The mine at that time was operated by the London Mining Company. They were Quakers and they were good people who treated their workers well. Some credit too is due the Duke of Buccleuch who provided a school for the children and paid for the teacher. By 1845 everyone in Wanlockhead could read and this was at a time long before high literacy rates were commonplace.

We are invited to take a seat by the window as the miners would have done and spend a little time having a look over reproductions of some of the books in the collection. Hubby is handed a religious text and soon tires of that and swaps with the lady next to him who has been looking at a dictionary of slang. I’m more than happy with my little book of advice for child rearing, which has some things that are very sensible and good and some things that are barking mad. A great deal of concern was expressed at the evils of training children in academic subjects at too young an age. Apparently this is a common trap that mothers fall into with their first child, but luckily the second comes along and the elder child is saved from the damage that would be caused by encouraging their abilities too soon because their mother is now too busy. Fascinating reading.

I ask our guide how far back library records go and mention that my forebear was a miner in Wanlockhead. She enthusiastically enquires after his name and relevant dates and starts checking what library records she has on hand in plastic sleeves.  Janet Harkness, whose memorial we visited in Auchinleck Cemetery, was born here in Wanlockhead. I only know what is shown on her death certificate in 1861 when she was into her 80s. So we’re looking for someone adult in the latter part of the 18^th century. The earliest John Harkness we find today is shown as having a birth year of 1819.  There’s a subsequent John Harkness that is clearly the next generation of the same family and both are position holders in the running of the library. There may be more records held by the museum. If I email the museum with what I know, the researchers can do some research for us. It seems possible if not likely that those we’ve found today are relations of my John Harkness. I will have to do some more research of my own on these men too and see if we can confirm a connection. We have had just enough time here in the library. Just. Our guide gets a call to hurry our return for the mine tour, so we reluctantly but hurriedly say our goodbyes and return down the hill.

We are heading for the mine entrance which is in the depths of the valley fairly close to the little burn, just a little opening with a neat blue sign in the side of the hill.  Altogether, we’re a group of about 8 or 10 and we have a mix of children and adults in various ages. Our guide hands us a hard hat and gives us a quick health and safety briefing and warns us that the mine is shared with a couple of different species of bat, so don’t freak out if one flutters past us, then we duck as quickly as we can into the mine tunnel away from the few midges that are hanging around. Luckily the midges don’t like the mine. Equally lucky I do. It’s dank and dark, wet and glistening from the lights that shine with a dim, yellow light periodically. At first our path is through an area that has been lined with wooden beams. None of this is original. After the mine closed villagers threw rubbish into the mine entrance so to reopen the mine a new mining effort was required and this shoring up work was done as part of that.

Our guide is very enthusiastic about the mine and its history. She delightedly points out tiny ferns and mosses that grow around the lights, explaining and marvelling at how little light they get.  This tunnel is part of a large complex of runs but the lower levels are now flooded.  We’re walking slightly uphill and this is no accident. The burn floods occasionally and having this slope gave the miners half a chance to get the water out when the floodwater receded. The mines in this area are on land that is owned by the Duke of Buccleuch. He invited a mining company in to manage the mines on his behalf and at one time there were 47 lead mines in a 5 mile area. To attract workers to the dangerous dirty work he offered them land on which they could (at their own expense) build a house and grow vegetables. I’m puzzled by the land tenure issue. Did the people have to pay rent for their houses. No, the houses are privately owned here, but the land belongs to the Duke.

Teams of miners, usually brought together from the men and boys of a family, made a “bargain” with the mine manager as to what they would be paid. Each of the tunnels in the mine represented a “bargain”. They were paid annually after the smelting had been completed. Meanwhile they were provided with credit at the company store in the village. When time came to be paid, what they owed would be deducted from their earnings. When I hear this I have a sinking feeling that this might turn out to be a virtual slavery such as been the case in similar situations in other areas and countries, so I am relieved to hear that this left them, typically, with about £20. This doesn’t seem like much today, but it was a good living for them in those days.  Good enough that over the summer months teams of miners would come from the continent and live in tents along the burn for the season.

Lead mining was not as dangerous as coal mining and there were few fatal incidents. The tunnelling was through rock so they didn’t tend to get collapses. Most were accidents with explosives and were injuries rather than fatalities. The miners would make a little cavity in the rock, fill it with gunpowder and a fuse, tamp it down with a copper tube (copper doesn’t spark) then light the fuse and stand back. Voila. The rock and rubble would be dragged out in little crates by boys of about 11 – 14 then younger boys of 8 – 10 would sit in the creek and wash the rocks clean of dirt and clay. You earned more in summer because the day was longer but you still worked in the winter time. They didn’t have shoes, just rough cloth tied around their feet. All I can do is shake my head. I cannot imagine a life so hard.

It was unlucky for women to enter the mine. Lucky them we all agree. The men ensured their own luck by never mining the first seam they found. Instead they would keep going and touch the first seam on their way in and out every day. This first seam is still right there, worn smooth by the constant caressing over so many years. Throughout our tour our guide emphasises how clever the miners were, finding solutions to problems in innovative ways, using as much as they could and not taking out anything that didn’t give them an adequate return. Working underground the miners carried small lights. If the lights went out or burned low it warned them of low oxygen and they would have to get out.

The ore wasn’t the only product of the mine, they also mined manganese clay which was sold as a base for paint, and used some of the clay to tamp down the explosives because it didn’t create the dust which they had found was making them ill.  Although cave-ins were uncommon they stored enough food in the mine to feed 21 people for 3 days.

We marvel at a sodden piece of pitch pine that is an original beam still present in the mine. It would crumble away to nothing if removed and dried out. Press it and it oozes water.

We make our way back out of the tunnel, return our hard hats and move along to see the miner’s cottages. This is a series of connected rooms that are set up to show what living conditions would have been like across in the 18^th, 19^th, and early 20^th centuries. I’m fascinated to see these and of course since my direct forebears were here in the 18^th century, my closest attention is on the room with its dirt floor and pad of dried heather covered in blankets for sleeping; rudimentary fire and low stools that kept them down underneath the thick smoke that would accumulate under the thatch. Over the years living conditions improved but they died young and the people were tiny by modern standards. The model in the room that looks like a little girl of about 10 years old, is actually a representation of a young woman of about 19 years of age. We are all suitably amazed.  Getting enough food and good nutrition was a struggle.

It occurs to me that if the cottages were constructed on land owned by the Duke then presumably the Duke would have the power to tell the miners to go from his land when it suited him. Apparently this is the case and the most recent attempt to do that occurred in the 1960s after the mining ended. The Duke attempted to clear the village.  Some strong people simply refused to go and it is down to them that Wanlockhead is still here. As we hear this information I feel seethingly angry, my emotion smoulders bitterly and impotently. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live under such a system. The issue of compensation or whether it was offered is not discussed. Perhaps it is really not so different from the compulsory acquisition of property that takes place when land is needed for public infrastructure etc. But historically in the context of the clearances a century before it just feels so outrageous to even think you should try such a clearance on. I look forward to reading the book I picked up about land ownership in Scotland that appears to be in almost all the gift shops I’ve visited. It’s called “The Poor Had No Lawyers” and the long subtitle says “Who owns Scotland and how they got it”. Or words to that effect. I expect it to say basically that a cabal of wealthy and powerful individuals just decided they owned everything that had previously been common land and voila. Bob’s your uncle. What’s anyone going to do about it? The author seems to be asking that very question of the Scottish parliament and keeping the book updated to that end.  It’s not a situation unique to this country by any means. Australia had the very same process of wealthy squatters just taking vast areas for themselves and then collectively using their wealth and influence to have legal tenure granted to them. Rebellions and the global trend to democracy had its effect and land reforms were implemented. No law can stand that cannot be enforced. The people consent to the system under which they live.

Venturing outside, we look at the pump that was installed to provide water for the cottages. You couldn’t drink the water from the burn because it was/is contaminated with lead and filth.  Water from the pump was ridden with lead too but at least it was clean. The climate here is harsh and it’s a real fight against the elements to grow vegetables of any sort due to such an incredibly short growing season. Historical photos show plots under cultivation though, so the people must have worked really hard to succeed in supplementing their food. Indeed they really had to. In the 1860s there was an outbreak of disease. Luckily a doctor with experience at sea recognised it at once as scurvy.

Someone raises the question of the sheep. Do they belong to the villagers? No, they belong to the Duke. They are not for food, nor for wool. They are “tick bait” and roam through the heather attracting ticks so that come the shooting season there’s not too many ticks hanging about. Our guide seems to feel some sympathy for these tick bait sheep but it sure sounds better than being bred for meat or wool and these ones look like they are doing OK. Having the Duke’s sheep wandering about crapping on your front step or nibbing on the garden plants seems an imposition, whatever the legality of the situation.

Off in the distance we see an enormous grey, fresh looking slag heap. The Duke is still making money from the mines today, all these years since they closed. The slag is sold for use in roads and such things.

Our tour concluded we slowly make our way back up to the visitor’s centre. I’m more impressed than ever at what the local community has achieved with their museum. It’s a wonderful effort and reflects such a proud, strong heritage. In the static displays at the visitor centre, they note that they estimate some 40,000 people around the world have roots in Wanlockhead. I am very proud to be one of them. Very proud.

I wander back slowly to the visitor’s centre mulling over all we’ve seen and heard. Somewhere along the line today someone told us that there was a mine band and in one case one of the miners was a very good player and was offered a job playing for his living. He told his "employer" (the reason for the quotation marks will become clear) and they threatened to throw his whole family out if he left. Faced with that prospect he ended up staying.

Time to get into the museum displays. There’s a range of local history recorded there. It’s not just about lead mining. I think my favourite was about the local embroidery industry. Local women were engaged in the production of handmade Ayrshire Lace and there are a number of pieces on display including a partially completed example of the pattern pieces they were provided with to work on. It is not much different from embroidery templates you can still buy today. Younger, less experienced embroiderers would do the simpler stitches and the more expert would specialise in the trickier parts. Before the industrial revolution the work paid reasonably well, but the woman who ran it was demanding as to the speed and quality of the finished work. Apparently she became very wealthy off the enterprise.

Hubby was interested to hear about the mine manager’s son that lost an arm at the Battle of Culloden. When he was repatriated he went to work for his father as a book keeper calculating the weight of the lead. There was also a drum that is believed to have been used at the Battle of Waterloo, though some assumptions have been made as to how it was passed along following the battle. Of course the museum also has displays about the lead mining and the community have made some convincing mock ups including a forge. It’s only small but it is interesting.

By about half past three we are ready to move on and this is encouraged by the helpful running schedule for the Leadhills and Wanlockhead Railway. This is the highest adhesion railway in Britain. Assured we have time to get there, I conclude my browsing in the gift shop and we head straight off. It’s only a few minutes down the road and we noticed the sign to the station when we were coming through earlier so that helps. We climb out of the car glad of a break in the rain. It’s bitterly cold and there’s a bit of a breeze that is adding to the chill factor. I’m thankful for my hoody and gloves and the comparative warmth of the ticket office. It’s a modest affair with a few souvenirs for sale. It’s time for departure so we waste no time getting up to the little set of carriages smartly painted in red and white. 

We fumble with the intelligence test door latches. Let me do that, I say, edging Hubby out of the way, narrowly beating our friendly engineer who has come to explain the workings.  We climb in and secure the door. We’re ready to roll, but aaghh this is an open carriage. There’s no windows. It’s probably a good thing this trip only takes about 20 mins up to Glenconnar!

Once there, we and the other little group of passengers who are local people, a couple of ladies and a couple of kids of about 7-10 years old, alight from the carriages. We’re all hunched up in the cold breeze and the chill is the first topic of conversation. It’s mild for Scotland they all laugh. We can’t believe our driver is getting about happily in a polo shirt all bare fleshed bonhomie. This is where he tells us all about the railway and the volunteer organisation that runs it as well as their plans for the future. The fence ahead of us is the border between South Lanarkshire (where we are) and Dumfries and Galloway, which is the other side of the fence. See that group of trees visible through the cutting? That’s Wanlockhead. The railway used to run all the way up there and we’re aiming to reinstate the railway the rest of the way, but so far the tenant farmer who has that stretch hasn’t given permission.

We also hear about the game birding and he describes the process of beaters. The target bird here is Red Grouse. Red Grouse are the more common, but our driver has seen a Black Grouse just recently from the station platform here at Glenconnar.  I’m proud to be the only person present who knows the answer to his question whether any of us know when the grouse season commences (it’s the 12^th August). Apparently this area is abuzz on that day each year. Did we noticed the row of round shooting positions on the way up here. I did. 

The shooters stand there and the beaters walk through the heather with big flat paddles on long sticks that they whack the heather with, driving the birds towards the shooters. I’m a bit disappointed at how easy it’s made for the shooters. Where’s the sport in that? May as well do clay pigeon shooting. I hope they eat the birds but I’ve been told (elsewhere) that when it comes to pheasant and partridge at least, most of the birds are not eaten. It’s just pointless bloodsport with literally hundreds of birds slaughtered and no market for the meat, that information apparently from someone who was a game keeper on an estate who got out of it for that reason. I hope that the grouse are managed and taken in a more sustainable and ethically justifiable way on the Duke’s estate.

It’s hoped an agreement can be reached. Our driver is a friendly and jolly man, but my goodness it’s cold and we’re not unhappy when the all aboard for the return is called.  We rattle and bump along down the slope. This is the last trip of the day so we have to stop and close gates behind us as we come in to Leadhills platform. We’re a bit more efficient with the catches on the door and we say our goodbyes and continue on our journey. It’s now about 4:30 pm and we need to head in to Glasgow fairly directly to get there at the time we’ve given to our Airbnb host.

I’m tired and slow on arrival and traffic flow doesn’t give me much chance to capture the lovely streets of red sandstone, um, tenements as we pass. There’s a beautiful consistency in the stonework everywhere, some of the shopfronts underneath could use a bit of jazzing up but even the run down ones are leant an air of class, by the beautiful stone above. I do believe I’m going to like Glasgow!

We have no difficulty finding our Airbnb address and parking is easy just across from the entrance. We find our hostess sitting on the front step having a ciggie, chatting on the phone and waiting for us. No smoking is allowed in the house. We’re busy fussing about too, but before long it’s friendly greetings all round and we’re shown our room and around the place which is all very comfortable and beautifully decorated. We talk happily for a while, pass on greetings from mutual friends, then we need to duck out fairly promptly to our dinner reservation at Sapori d’Italia which is a short walk away. Linda has given us directions and I’m leaving Hubby in charge so there’s no dramas. Good move. As expected, especially given it’s Saturday night the little restaurant is full of people. Just as well we booked our table.  A young lad and lass are tag teaming our service. She doesn’t seem too enthused, but he’s good enough to make up for it.  Hubby indulges in a Peroni and we await the arrival of our selections. Hubby’s a bit disappointed that there aren’t more pasta options on the menu. We’re both really in the mood for pasta and we’ve heard that there’s a large Italian community in Glasgow and the food is great.  I break a personal rule and decide to get the lasagne. Hubby goes for the carnivore’s version of the cannelloni, there’s also a spinach and ricotta version available. I’m a bit concerned that the two dishes may be pretty similar just a different layout but my fears turn out to be unfounded. Hubby wins though. My lasagne was delicious but his cannelloni was even more so. We’ve had a big day and we’re pretty tired. I don’t feel like another long night of eating. The dessert looks good over in the cabinet but we decide to give it a miss this time. From the response of the wait staff, I get the impression that doesn’t happen too often!

Day 26 - Alloway Robert Burns Trail, Queen Elizabeth Walled Garden and Woodlands Restaurant

Having had a slow day yesterday we’re keen to get about and see things today. It was a near run thing whether to do the Robert Burns trail while we’re in this area but we’ve decided to have a look at Alloway thismorning and come back for the Walled Garden here this afternoon.

We’re fairly business-like about breakfast. Today as yesterday, it’s menu only and this includes all the items you would normally find on the breakfast buffet. It’s not worthwhile to put the buffet out for just a few guests and it’s much quieter today than our first morning. Today Hubby decides he’ll join me in having the porridge again. We have the option to have it made with milk so we do so. Today I’m trying it with maple syrup. Not exactly traditional but we’re here to experience new things aren’t we so I’ll give it a go.  The maple syrup is quite runny and even more sweet than I’m used to. I’m wondering if it’s genuine or imitation. Either way it’s nice. Supplemented with some of Hubby’s cream it’s perfectly satisfying, even indulgent.

We’re away by 9.24. We’re parked and waiting for the entrance to the Robert Burns Birthplace Museum to open up at 10 am, still marvelling at what a pretty place Alloway is with its beautiful tall trees, shady avenues and stone houses. It’s handy that our membership means they don’t have to get their cash handling arrangements set up so that saves us a little time. We’re given a map and our friendly attendant explains all that there is along the nearby trail for us to see. Tam O Shanter is in the field adjoining the cottage. 

Now, I have to confess that I know virtually nothing about Robert Burns’s life or works. I once had a brief look at a poem or two but found it hard to understand, not being familiar with the Scots language he often used. However I’ve become intrigued by him, that’s why we’re here. The cottage and surrounds are very well presented. We linger in an enclosed rose garden, I’m drawn close by the sign telling me that the roses therein are Just Joey. I lean in to enjoy the rich fragrance.

We pass the chicken coop and note that there are four “girls” in the little flock, each named and treasured as they would no doubt have been in the past. I very gently touch the darkened thatch as I enter the cottage noting the individual hollow reeds and the cottage garden growing cool climate vegetables such as leeks and brassicas.

In the first room, which is fairly Spartan we pass a bank of screens that give a bird’s eye view of activity in the cottage, presumably during the time Burns was growing up. We move on, drawn through to the next room by the sounds of activity. There’s livestock mooing and people talking and I am struck by the authentic atmosphere. It’s amazing what a difference the sounds or smells can make to one’s experience of historic presentations. The whole cottage seems as though the family is nearby and I wonder when it was preserved as a museum and how much of what is here has been restored from research on what was typical rather than what the family had when William Burnes (Robert’s father) originally built the house.

The walls here and there have brief lines of text. Sometimes a line from a Burns poem, other times quotes from others or statements that are designed to prompt your contemplation in a particular way, without being enough to take you away from simply being in the house and imagining the lives of the ghosts that are speaking and shuffling around you. I am struck by the similar background to the poet John Clare whose childhood home we visited in Helpston on our last trip, though Burn’s work is more political both then and now. Or is it? John Clare covered issues of the enclosure of common ground, so at the heart of it I suppose both their themes are political if not always aggressively so.

Being only small and there not being all that much to read here, it’s not long before we’re outside again and heading into the street to photograph the iconic exterior. It’s a beautiful street but very hard to capture due to the intrusion of the modern world and obstruction from the parked cars and workmen’s vans.

Our next priority is the Auld Kirk and Brig o’ Doon which we’ve been told we should do together. They’re a few hundred metres along the Poet’s Pathway. It’s good we were warned it’s just a modern pathway, nothing historic about it. Burn’s didn’t sit and contemplate along it or anything like that, just an easy way to get between the locations, so we’re not disappointed to find a wide pavement bordered on one side by lawn with occasional sculptures and on the other by a velvet cricket field.

I go to wander up to peer over a little brown picket gate approached by a short compacted dirt path and Hubby tells me to beware, he’s just been stung by that plant there that’s leaning out to do it’s worst. Might this be stinging nettle?

If we had more time we could just relax on the little bench seats provided at the start of the walk and read one of the books stored in the Burns Birthplace Bus stop Book Bank Bench and wait for the volunteer buggy driver. There’s nothing to say when the services start though. The bench was made by volunteers from reused pallets.

Auld Kirk is along a pretty, leafy road. It is a ruin now and was already a ruin when Burns lived so close. We stop to read a monument of polished stone embossed with some poetic lines of advice highlighted in yellow by a bed of begonias.

William Burnes’ grave is in a small enclosure marked and protected by low black chain swags. Paving stones with lines of text carved in them lead us on a trail around the ruined church but I’m slow to notice them and wander to the left.  Coming to my senses I head back to the beginning and follow the trail to the right as is intended. It’s just a small atmospheric place. Hubby peers in ruined doorframes and listens to indistinguishable whispers before we move along to the next Burns icon, the Brig o’ Doon, but not before pausing to admire the lovely Brig O Doon Hotel and its pretty garden. Weddings are popular here apparently. We can see why!

We wander up a pretty pathway to a gateway into a lovely garden at the top of which sits an impressive memorial structure. As I’m composing the obligatory photograph, a man starts to walk through and is taken aback. We compete on pleasantries and deference and we are persuaded that we should come on through. I’m wearing my Wallace Monument T-shirt with blazing blue saltire on the front and this prompts a pleased response from our new acquaintance. We’ve certainly gotten off on the right foot, he is a passionate Scottish republican and it’s no time at all until we are having a lovely broad ranging chat. Australia, the recent Scottish independence referendum, the many iniquities inflicted on the Scottish people, past and present, arrangements for supply of power to the national grid, boundaries redrawn in secret to carve off resources, use and wastage of Scottish troops in various conflicts. I'm struck by the similarity in some of the tensions noted to us and those historically of concern to Australians in our relationship with Britain. We are of course asked about Australia and why the heck we aren't a republic, what's going on there? It's extremely interesting considering the situations of the two countries from the different perspectives we each hold.

We take a turn in the garden and our friend leads us up into the tower of the memorial. Our own personal guide. There’s a current fundraising project underway to make it possible to restore and implement state of the art visitor experiences. We consider the places all over the world where statues of Robert Burns have been erected. Several in each of Australia and New Zealand and others I take to be locations where the Scottish diaspora have congregated to celebrate the poet and, I expect, issues of concern to him, including rights for the common man. Our chat continues with our trip and the reason we’re in the area. It turns out I’ve got all the right names in my family tree. Morton, Peden, Aird and so forth. We’re getting on like a house on fire. Our new friend’s father rescued a Morton from drowning in the river one time.  Alexander Peden back in the day was, of course, a leader of the covenanters and I am today informed he was originally buried in Auchinleck Cemetery but the opposing powers dug him up to disrespect his corpse before he was reburied later in his current grave in Cumnock. Instructions for finding it helpfully provided.  I ask about the birthplace cottage and apparently it was preserved rather early in the story so has been a site of pilgrimage since not long after Burn’s death, leased by a man who erected an extension to house an inn or tavern. Later, a couple of hundred years ago mind you, the extension was demolished and a proper museum was made of the cottage which the publican had preserved to attract customers. Such is the iconic status of Robert Burns. A legend that has never dimmed.

We look out over the immaculate gardens and across the Brig o Doon, that is the old arched and cobbled bridge over the River Doon. Apparently when they built the new bridge the contract allowed the company to take the stone from the old bridge and reuse it in the new. The local community however had other views on the subject and would not allow the Brig O Doon, iconic in Burn’s work, to be destroyed so here it stands today all these many decades, nearly two centuries later. I have to learn more about the man who has inspired such passionate loyalty and support for such a very long time. It seems that he was the voice of the oppressed and the caller of a spade a spade with regard to the shifty and exploitative dealings of the wealthier classes and their agents to the cost of ordinary people.

Time is moving on and we head down from the memorial for a closer look at the gardens, complementing the gardener and his small team on their work. This really is a well cared for garden, we're really glad we've come here. Hubby takes a seat while I wander down onto the Brid O Doon. Thoughtfully considering all that we’ve discussed.

If we want a look at the Museum or lunch we really need to get going. We hobble across and our first order of business is to check out the café. There’s a range of traditional Scottish items on the menu and we decide we’ll try some of those.  Hubby loves trying the different soups around the place. Makes me think of FawltyTowersWatch’s comment about the obsession in Australia with Pumpkin soup. You’ll rarely find any other variety at cafes across the nation. It’s not like that in the UK, though I have to say, there are a few that seem to be universally popular. Leek and Potato high on the list and of course Cullen Skink in Scotland. I digress. So Hubby has the corn chowder and a cappuccino, I’m greedy and have the local version of macaroni cheese which uses larger “elbow” shaped pasta and looks less drowned than usual along with a slice of rubarb tart and belatedly insist we also share a serve of cloutie dumpling with custard. We haven’t seen that around much.  The staff are lovely and friendly and the lass serving me when I say to stop that’s enough on the portion size, suggests we have some vegetables or something to get our money’s worth. The garden veg looks nicely cooked. We go with that the green and orange looks so nice doesn’t it. . The young lass observes that she thinks so too, she likes the beans because they are so summery. Mmm. I’ve never thought of that. We don’t have the seasonality on the summer veges in Australia. In the garden yes, but in the shops they just bring them down from Queensland or wherever. In the far north, they are a dry season crop, their version of winter rather than summer.  Accompaniment by the veges improves macaroni cheese a lot I have to say. So not much to say about the Rhubarb tart other than it was good. Fairly standard home made sort of thing. The Cloutie Dumpling is new to us. It’s like a light textured plum pudding, but heavily spiced and very dark in colour. My guess is there is quite a lot of cloves in this example and mainly raisins, maybe some sultanas. Interesting, warming and very filling. Well, hard not to be filling when we’re already pretty full before we start.

Given than it hasn’t taken us as long as we expected to get to Alloway from Dumfries House Lodge we decide to stay a bit longer and have a quick look at the museum. It’s designed to be dipped in and out of. It’s not a chronological layout at all. We pretty much go our separate ways as we find things that spark our particular interest. I choose a song on the Burns jukebox. Hubby reads about lewd verse that Burns is believed to have written to amuse his male friends. I read some panels these are the most amusing or surprising elements but there is a lot to see. I’m drawn to a display about Tam O Shanter also but we haven’t a lot of time and having got the general gist of the set up. We don’t want to find ourselves without time to see the walled garden so we make a move and start trying to find our way back to the car, which with our or rather my usual level of directional competence involves some puzzled backtracking and stops at dead ends before Hubby takes the map and leads us out. You’d think he’d learn not to give me the lead! Haha.

Despite the time we are diverted when we again reach the AA signs promising us a big tractor at Gemmel’s Garden World. This I’ve got to see. We thought Australia had the front running on stupid “big things” let’s see how this one stacks up. We find the garden centre and can see no sign of a giant anything. We’re about to leave in disgust when I decide I’d better go inside and check, though if it is inside it’s not that big. I find a department store that has the garden side of the operations uppermost. I can’t see any sign of this alleged big tractor. I stalk back out to the car to report my findings. As we’re driving away down the hill, Hubby sees it in the mirror and cries out There it is!! I swivel in my seat. Bugger. OK. At least they’ve got one. Not sure how really big it is in global standards of “big” things, especially from a distance, but it is certainly large and no doubt would be fun if kids can climb in or around it. Satisfied we move on, enjoying the short drive across the countryside.

Back at Dumfries estate we park in the visitor parking and head straight in to pay our garden entry. We’re a bit footsore after our walking about in Alloway but we’re determined to last the distance. It’s not far to the restored Adam bridge, originally designed to lift the travellers up for a view of the house. Nowadays the house is obscured by the trees having grown up to block it. Just across to our right is a fenced construction area where they are in the closing stages of building a maze. Like everything else here it will have a high quality finish. Around this area there are a number of swinging seats. Across the bridge we can see the young Maguire Arboretum. There’s seats all over the place there too. You will never be far from a place to sit at Dumfries House Estate. I can’t help but wonder if this is another of the Prince’s instructions. I’ve never been anywhere else like this where such an effort has been made to provide this level of amenity. We’re making fairly directly for the Queen Elizabeth Walled Garden and plan to do the openly accessible parts along the way on our return.  The Queen Elizabeth Garden has good bones, one might say. The plantings are young and seem to me to be high maintenance.

We wander through admiring the scale of it all and I’m imagining how it might look when the wires on the walls are more covered and the trellises round about more drenched in the honeysuckle or roses that are beginning their journey upwards. The farthest extent of our wanderings is the wall beyond which is a centre where school children come to learn and where the various local schools have a plot for the children to grow things. We can see this is a really light hearted, fun space. We spend quite a while employing the zoom on my camera to photograph the flower pot men. 

Bill and Ben I suppose! Haha. Hang on! There’s another one over there! Where? Hubby’s eyes light up. Oh yeah. And another one near that building! Once we start to really look there’s more Haha. They’re brilliant. What’s that one doing? I can’t see from this angle. We tear ourselves away and head up the slope. Check out the folly which is abundantly ornamented by wyverns and thistles as is the entrance of the house. It smells new though so it’s either newly constructed or heavily renovated. There’s some leaching of salts from the bricks so I’m backing it as a new build.

Where to now? I’m done. My feet are sore. God knows what Hubby’s must be like. He’s walking back towards the children’s gardens again. There’s a lower fence there where we can see in better. Ah look we can see even more flower pot men from here. What a fun place for kids. What a wonderfully inclusive community initiative. There’s a big artwork face made of sticks on the far wall. Strikes me as very “Prince Charles” using scraps of wood in that sort of way.

Another item that sparks Hubby’s interest are the little mini greenhouse frames here and there in the garden. He’s never seen something like that before. I explain that they are for protecting young plants from frost and aiding early germination or development of plants to give a bit of a head start on the growing season.

Finally done we wander back through the arboretum via the pond and the little folly there. We take a seat briefly out of the cold wind that’s sprung up. There’s seats in a little sun trap under the eaves of the folly. You’d find somewhere protected to sit no matter where the prevailing weather is coming from here. As the planting matures this estate is going to be simply wonderful. As we walk around the ponds, we pass some wild terrain where the Rosebay Willowherb has finished and has evolved into a fluffy mass of spent seed pods.

We move on again and walk, slowly and tiredly back to the Lodge, grateful of a chance to ease our weary bones. Sad that this is our last day here. Dumfries House Lodge is a wonderful place to stay.

Our Dinner tonight is at the Woodlands Restaurant and our reservation is at 7pm. We drive down there, do our usual stalking about stupidly looking for an entrance that is totally obvious and are welcomed warmly. We have an option of sitting comfortably with our drinks in the arm chairs until our food is ready or go straight to our table. We choose the comfy option. We love this trend.

The room is decorated with art works left as a gift to Prince Charles by young artists in residence. I get up to look at them and in the course of my wanderings get chatting about the art to our hostess and then an elderly lady having dinner on her own who joins in as we look at the large picture near her table. I return to my table as it becomes apparent, no rush, that our first course is ready to be served.

To start Hubby chose Wild Mushroom Risotto £6.50 followed by Venison loin served with roast garlic pomme puree, pickled red cabbage, baby carrots and venison jus £18.95.

I’m backing Smoked salmon pillow and trout mousse served with a lemon saffron dressing £6.50 followed by Leek and Parmesan Tart with fries and petit herb salad £11.95.

We know that of course I’m going on Hubby’s assessment for winner of round one. I don’t have any inclination to try his mushroom affair. We’re even. Both are delicious. Both are extremely well executed. Mains: my leek and parmesan tart is perfect and the accompanying chips are beautifully soft and tender and consistent but even so his venison takes the crown this round. It is cooked exactly as requested, every element on the plate complements the others and is perfect. It’s a superb meal and everything on the plate is off the estate. Brilliant. A very very memorable meal, and that’s saying something given all the flash dining we’ve been doing over weeks now.

Dessert. There’s no way we’re skipping it after the perfection of the first two courses and there’s no problem for me in deciding what I’m having. I’m trying the Vanilla Panacotta (safe) with damson berry compote and shortbread biscuits £6.50. Hubby’s less certain. He’s tempted by the Bread and Butter Pudding with crème anglais and marscapone cream but in the end he’s persuaded to try the Sticky Toffee Pudding with Tablet Icecream and caramel sauce also £6.50. My verdict this time. I win. The damson compote was thick with damson fruit, the whole balance of flavour and texture, creamy, tart and sweet was perfect. Nothing to fault with the Sticky Toffee Pudding. It was also a very superior example of its kind but not up to toppling my choice this evening.

We’re so pleased that our dinner tonight has lived up to our greatest expectations. Along the way throughout the evening our young waitress has been very attentive and friendly. Our hostess has come over to chat with us for a while here and there, as she has the few other tables here tonight. As our meals draw to a close the elderly lady comes over to say goodbye and we chat some more. She too is a big fan of the prince and all his many worthy projects. She tells us she was last here a couple of years ago and simply cannot believe what’s been achieved in that time. We agree. It’s completely fabulous and a credit to everyone involved.

We linger at the door as we say our goodbyes, talking about Australia and our hostess’s recent visit there. She’s very local and asks about my family in the area. Morton is a big name around Sorn, have we visited Sorn? Yes, it’s beautiful isn’t it. So lovely there by the water. Goodnights and best wishes all around we head home. We’ve had a completely fabulous day. Really really great.