I wanted to get in one last tour before I flew back to Atlanta, and had been eyeing the trip to the Ayrshire Coast, featuring Burns country and a trip to Culzean (pronounced “Cul-ayne”) Castle. But it left from Glasgow, and that extra step—going to Glasgow—is what had prevented me from going on the tour any earlier. Did I really want to get up at the crack of dawn and catch a train? But I put on my big girl panties and took the express to Glasgow for one last adventure.
I had picked up a sandwich and a pain au chocolat at Sainsbury’s for breakfast and walked to the Buchanan Bus Station and found a seat. The pigeons were interested, and I can’t help it, I threw bread to them—they’re experts at looking so hungry. But then they frenzied all around me, stepping on my shoes, flying onto my legs, flying to the garbage bin right at elbow level, trying to cadge some food. One pigeon even perched on my index finger (until I shook it off) and another flew at my head! The other people in the waiting area were as amazed (and frightened) as I was. What is it about pigeons that they attract as well as repel? They are kind of charming, but maybe it’s the old idea that they carry disease. (Gross–I just Googled the diseases pigeons carry. Why did I do this?) But I kept feeding them as I waited for the bus to arrive.
And when it arrived, who should be our driver, but good ol’ Stewart! I was so happy to see him yet again, and the feeling was mutual. The tour was small—there were only seven of us: four people from Australia (two were sisters, though one lives in Berlin), a couple from Aberdeen, and me. We bonded pretty quickly, but then Stewart is good about making everyone feel welcome and comfortable. I knew that it would be a wonderful day.
Our first leg of the journey saw us at the Whitelee Wind Farm, on the Eaglesham Moor, about 9 miles outside of Glasgow. It was an unexpected stop, but something about all the wind turbines, with their graceful lines, and blowing blades, was compelling to watch. The wind farm has 215 such turbines, with the capacity of 540 megawatts of power, and it’s the largest on-land wind farm in the UK. It was a chilly and somewhat drizzly morning, so we all went inside to the coffee shop, and sat and chatted for half an hour over a cup of hot chocolate, until it was time to head out. I would have liked a little time to visit the wind science museum, but it was also nice just to visit with the other people on the tour. Sometimes it’s ok to forego museums.
Our next stop was Culzean Castle, home of Clan Kennedy (and later President Eisenhower, who was gifted the top floor), and fortunately, the drizzle had stopped. The sun even popped out a little, making the Firth of Clyde (which feeds into the Irish Sea and backs up to the castle) seem bluer. There was a bit of a walk through the woods from where Stewart dropped us off but it was pleasant, and when I got to the castle itself, I took a few moments to look out on the Firth and admire the soft waves. The castle, which dates from the late 1700s, had a proscribed path to follow for touring, which took us through dining rooms and bedrooms and sitting rooms and even a room decorated entirely with pistols and other weapons—like, thousands of them. (Turns out it’s the armory.) Of course, the rooms were finely-appointed, with rich red carpeting and bedspreads, and paintings everywhere, including what I’m sure is a Canaletto painting of Venice. The castle also had a couple of bedrooms with cradles made to look like small boats. The kitchen was a bright yellow, and led out to a tiny gift shop where (of course) I bought a guide to the castle.
Outside the castle, I walked through the gardens which were nice, but not overly impressive. They had a great lawn though, and I could imagine someone setting up lawn tennis there. People walked their dogs and one family seemed to be fighting and shouting at each other in Portuguese, I thought, never mind that I was sitting on a bench seat and couldn’t help but to listen in. I wondered what they could be arguing about. It seemed like the father was impatient with his younger son, the same younger son that was being bullied by the elder son. Their mother was shouting at her husband to quit shouting at the kids (I presumed). But eventually, they slipped past the wall to the garden and I had peace again. But I was getting hungry, so I made my way back to the main entrance, where there was a café.
My lunch was comprised of “creamy macaroni cheese” (they don’t say macaroni AND cheese in Scotland, I’ve noticed), chips (fries), and a little salad. I don’t really understand why you’d serve a starch with a starch side, but the chips and entrée were tasty, and the salad was small but good. Afterwards, I poked around the gift shop but didn’t see anything that spoke to me, and I met up with the Australian sisters and we chatted some more. They were eating jellybeans.
Stewart and the others arrived, and we got back on the bus and did a little touring. We drove past Trump Turnberry Golf Course and gave it a universal Boo! And then we drove on something called the Electric Brae (known locally as “Croy Bray”), a stretch of road that appears to be going uphill, but is actually going downhill. (A “brae” is a slope, declivity, or hillside, according to the dictionary.) Stewart got out some water and demonstrated: he poured the water on the ground, and it looked as if it were traveling upwards on the ground, instead of downwards. I took a picture of the sign, but for ease of reading, this is what it says (punctuation mine):
“This runs the quarter mile from the bend overlooking Croy Railway Viaduct. In the west (286 feet above ordinance datum) to the wooded Craigencroy Glen (303 feet AOD) to the east whilst there is this slope of 1 in 86 upwards from the bend to the glen, the configuration of the land on either side of the road provides an optical illusion making it look as if the slope is going the other way. Therefore, a stationary car on the road with the brakes off will appear to move slowly uphill. The term “Electric” dates from a time when it was incorrectly thought to be a phenomenon caused by electric or magnetic attraction within the brae.”
Then we made our way into the town of Dunure (which sort of rhymes with—ahem—manure), to poke around the ruins of Dunure Castle, which dates from the 13th century. There’s not much left—a keep, some outer walls, and a beehive shaped dovecote (or “doocot”) which appears well-liked by pigeons and gulls. I climbed the stairs to the top to look out on the sea, and passed a fenced-off part of the castle, where an empty whisky bottle lay in the dirt and rocks.
Afterwards, we were off to auld Rabbie Burns’ cottage and museum. We passed by Brig o’ Doon (the bridge over the river Doon), making me think of Brigadoon, the 1954 movie with Gene Kelly and Van Johnson). We listened to “Tam o’ Shanter” on the way—I think I understood maybe 20% of what was said! The cottage was a long, cream-colored building with a thatched roof. It was quite dark inside, but all around the walls were words that Burns had used (or made up?) in his poetry. One wall reads, “This cultivated the latent seeds of Poesy” from a letter (I presume) from Burns to Dr. John Moore, in 1787. Part of the cottage would have housed smallish animals—goats and chickens, maybe sheep—part was an area for a butter churn and other household tasks. There was also a kitchen with a tiny baby bed constructed into a wall. I wasn’t sure where the adults slept.
The Robert Burns’ Birthplace Museum was a twelve-ish-minute walk away on the “Poet’s Path,” so after looking at everything in the cottage, I headed there. A few statues stood along the way, representing images from his poems, including a large mouse from “To a Mouse,” and a bench with “The Twa Dogs” (Caesar and Luath). The museum, when I got there, was also decorated on the outside with Scottish language words that Burns had used. Inside, again, the room was dark, to preserve the pages of books, ephemera, and portraits of Burns and his family. To my mind, the room was too dark, so that you had to struggle to read the information cards on the wall, but it was kind of nice to see how appreciated Burns is, not just in Scotland but internationally (on display were copies of his work in Polish and Russian and maybe Chinese). It does my poet-heart good to see another poet so beloved… even if that other poet writes in an almost unintelligible language (to English ears, anyway).
When I was finished with the museum I stopped in the giftshop and bought a couple of things, including a copy of “Tam o’Shanter,” thinking if I could see the words I could maybe figure out what is being said, a dictionary of Scottish words, and (of course) a museum guidebook. Then I went to the café and drank a mint lemonade and ate a raisin shortbread (very tough). And by then the museum was closing, and it was time to ride back to Glasgow.
Stewart very kindly dropped me off at the Queen Street station, and I promised that I would see him again next year (assuming I go back to Scotland to teach). Then I caught my train and headed back to Edinburgh. A delightful tour overall.
More photos