Our Western Hills: How to reach them; And the Views from their Summits / By a Glasgow Pedestrian

by Anonymous

If, however, a good day is chosen in a dry season, and the mists should keep away, we can promise you something out of the common run of things in mountain scenery even in the west of Scotland. It is said that in many of the towns of Switzerland the best houses were formerly built with their backs to the Alps as if the view of them were hateful. The natives, in fact, spoke of the region of ice and snow as “the evil country.” But those who have made the ascent of Ben Ledi in the favourable circumstances that I have referred to will wish not only to set their faces to Ben Ledi, but will be anxious for another opportunity of enjoying the view from its summit, a view which commands all the way from the Bass Rock to the Paps of Jura, and from the Moray Firth to the Lowther Mountains. Loch Vennachar is seen lying at our feet with its 5 miles of water, and its two islands, one at its eastern end, and the other, called Illan-a-Vroin, or the “island of lamentation,” further west, and covered with wood. To the south, where now stands the ruins of an old mill, the Teith flows past. A peep, but little more, can be had of Invertrossachs House, which was occupied by the Queen in 1869.

There has been many a visit paid to the summit of Ben Ledi since that day, but the largest, probably, and certainly the most enthusiastic party was that which went up to erect the Jubilee Cairn. The loyal Highlanders and the inhabitants of the classic district embracing Loch Lubnaig, Loch Vennachar, and Glenfinlas, in answer to a summons, which, like the “fiery cross,” was carried down the valley of the Teith, and up the Pass of Leny by the Kirk of St. Bride, erected a cairn on the top of an older one, which had existed for sometime, but had probably been blown down by the high winds which sweep across the hills with great violence. The new cairn, which was erected out of an abundant supply of building material to be found in the summit, has a base of 14 feet, and its height is equal to its diameter. It is chiefly made up of great slabs of a slaty sandstone, which had, we understand, to be dug, in not a few cases, out of the mountain side, in which they were embedded, in some cases, several feet. At a height of 12 feet the slaty material was no longer used, and for the next 2 feet, to the summit, the cairn consists of white quartz, which, when the sun shines upon it, has a beautiful effect even at some little distance. The fact that the cairn only took five hours to be “begun, continued, and ended,” speaks volumes for the number and the diligence of the willing and loyal workers. And if the cairn is not quite as firm as the “Eddystone Lighthouse,” it will at least outlive the reign of the next two of our crowned heads.

But though the jubilee builders were numerous, and although the quartz on the crown of the cairn can shine and sparkle in the proper given circumstances, these are as nothing to the concourse of grave Druid priests who used to worship here, and to the glittering of their fires far and wide. It is said that at sunset on the night before the first of May they found their way to this summit ready to welcome the rising of the God of day with a fire offering, which could be seen from all parts of the Lowlands of Scotland from the German Ocean to the Atlantic, and which the superstitious natives took to be kindled by the hand of God. All private and domestic fires had been put out, and the country was universally waiting for the first gleam of the new Bal-tein, or Baal-fire from heaven, for another year.

As we rest behind the Jubilee Cairn to eat our biscuit and cheese, and get shelter from a stiff north-wester, we again and again look round in all directions, but the views to be had are at once so grand and so various that it would only bewilder the reader to go into details, and we would recommend him to lose no time, but embrace the first opportunity he has of making the ascent and getting the view himself. One other reason why we should not go into particulars is that we have to embrace much of the same prospect that we had on Ben Venue, although with this difference that we have now a much better view away to the north.

It is not often that we have a sheet of water on or near the summit of our Scottish hills; but this is something that Ben Ledi can boast of. On its shoulder, a little way below us, there is a small and dark tarn, only a few yards in width, which yet was made the unwilling witness, nay, worse, participator in a terrible tragedy. The tarn is called Loch-an-nan-corp—“the small lake of dead bodies,” a name the origin of which tradition ascribes to the calamity which “once upon a time,” not to be too particular, overtook a funeral procession there. Two hundred persons journeying from Glenfinlas to a churchyard on the pass of Leny, found this lake frozen over and covered with snow, and attempted to cross it, but the ice gave way and they were all drowned. An interesting writer in the Illustrated News, a year or two back, a writer who, we are pleased to hear, belongs to Glasgow, says, writing on this point, “No tablet on that wind-swept moor records the half-forgotten disaster; only the eerie lapping of the lochlet’s waves fill the discoverer with strange forebodings, and at dusk, it is said, the lonely ptarmigan may be seen, like souls of the departed, haunting the fatal spot.”

Those who, instead of retracing their steps, and coming down again by Coilantogle, prefer to make for the Pass of Leny, will find at the foot of the mountain a little mound, close to where the river leaves Loch Lubnaig, the burying-ground to which the clansmen were carrying their dead friend. There is now only a low scone wall around this diminutive grave-yard, but here once stood the small chapel of St. Bride, “which,” according to Sir Walter Scott, “stood in a small and romantic knoll in the middle of the valley,” from the Gothic arch of whose doorway, we read in the Lady of the Lake, the happy marriage company were coming out when Roderick Dhu’s messenger rushed up to the principal one of the party and thrust into his hands the fiery cross of the Macgregors. After rounding this knoll we arrive, about a mile farther on, within sight of Loch Lubnaig, or the “Crooked Lake,” which is some 5 miles in length, overhung on both sides by rugged hills, and surrounded by groves of birch, pine, and hazel. We do not know a better position than the farmhouse of Ardchullary for getting a good view of the loch. Unless you have provided yourself with a very liberal allowance of the biscuits and cheese to which we have already referred, you will be glad to get near to some such kindly and hospitable place. And if you are a little tired and done up with your day’s travels, additional interest will attach, in your eyes, to this house, from its having been the favourite summer quarters of Bruce of Kinnaird, the Abyssinian traveller, who retired to these solitudes for the purpose of arranging the materials for the publication of his travels.

The date of our visit to Ben Ledi’s summit was “on or about” the time when the young grouse begin to lose the number of their covey, and to learn that every man who treads the moor is not so harmless as the shepherd, especially when a dog accompanies him. And ever and again we come across them sitting warily and watchfully among the heather, and saw them rising far out of gunshot. The grouse, indeed, were now being deserted for the black game, which, on account of the general lateness of the grey hen in sitting compared with that of her red sister of the moor, are allowed a little rest. Of course some men make it a rule to pull a trigger upon a blackcock how or whenever they can, and some birds fall to the guns of those who do not know the difference between heath-fowl and moor-fowl. Most people, indeed, remember the canny reply of the Scotch keeper to the English sportsman who was out on the moors for the first time, and had missed what he thought was a grouse. “I was too soon, Donald, I am afraid,” said the latter. “’Deed, and you were, sir, eight days too soon; it was an auld blackcock.” We saw over and again in the course of the day good proof of what we had often heard that the blackcock is far from a model husband, and anything but resembles the grouse-cock in his devotion to his mate.

But we must step out on our homeward and southward journey with the Leny accompanying us in the valley, the road being quite equal, during its mile or two, to that between Callander and Coilantogle. The river is low to-day, and runs under banks that are hung with ferns and lingering foxgloves, with golden rod and harebells, and all the flowers of the late summer. But in a wet season, when each rivulet along the mountain side swells into an angry torrent, and from an occasional cliff “the wild cataract leaps in glory,” it exults in the added strength of all its hundred turbulent vassals, and rises in its might, and seething, and struggling, and overflowing its banks, rises and roars a furious stream.