As we get into Callander again we are passed by the coaches on their return from Loch Katrine, and when we look at the prancing steeds, the happy tourists, and last, but not by any means least, the red-coated, brass-buttoned, and very superior persons who handle the whip and reins, we have no difficulty in seeing why it is that there should be in our days a coaching revival, even on routes where there is the opportunity of travelling by train. There is no more delightful way of spending a summer day, given sunshine and warmth, than to have a drive on a well-appointed coach, behind an accomplished whip, and four “spanking” horses.
We are not at all sorry, however, that this particular outing did not take that special shape, and although we cannot claim to be the first to bring the glories and the attractions of Ben Ledi into view, as Mrs. Murray did in the case of the beauties of the Trossachs, and who claimed that Sir Walter Scott should have dedicated the Lady of the Lake to her (although her claim has not generally been allowed), we feel that we have done something at least to tempt some Glasgow excursionists to follow us, and climb the hill for themselves.
THE MEIKLE BEN.
It was our Autumn Holiday, and we had decided on a run to one of the choicest spots which abound within a reasonable distance of Glasgow. Of course we wanted to do as much as possible, which is not always wise, especially when there are one or two in the party with different tastes and different muscular capacities. But having got a general idea of our plan, we started, leaving that “divinity that shapes our ends” to give the turn to our holiday which we believed would bring us the best results.
It was a fine balmy morning, becoming overcast, however, as the train hurried on to Milton of Campsie, and when we left the station and started on our way for the Meikle Ben, or Bin, as it is more popularly called, the rain greeted us a little freely. It may be that some of our readers have not even heard of the Meikle Ben. In that case we claim from them a little of the respect and gratitude which all discoverers are entitled to and as a rule get ungrudgingly. In spite of an unpretentious and unromantic name, the Meikle Ben is not only a spot of wonderful beauty, but the approach to the place as well as its immediate surroundings are decidedly much above the dead level of topographical mediocrity.
On leaving the station we cross the Glazert, as it travels on to meet the Kelvin, in a wild rocky channel fretted by the flood of ages. We take the first road to the right, which runs past Antirmony House, formerly the seat of Bell, the traveller, and in more recent years the residence of Mr. C. M. King, a younger brother of the amiable and busy baronet of Levernholm. A few yards along this road bring us to the village school, up past the side of which we take, and make as best we can for the top of a bold brown range now immediately in front of us.
Long before we get halfway to the top of the range we take repeated opportunities of noticing how sharply and distinctly its outline is defined against the horizon, and how clearly the scars and wrinkles on its broad and openly honest face stand out. As we continue our climb up the braes we notice with pleasure that the lights and shades on their breast are beautifully intermingled, a sure sign that there will be little rain to-day. Before we reach the northern slope we take a look at Antirmony Loch at our feet, a little to the east, one of the finest sheets of water within 20 miles of Glasgow, and at Glorat House, about as far to the west, the residence of one of the oldest families in the county (Sir Charles Stirling).
On reaching the summit we are only some 12 miles or so from the dusty, drowsy, smoky metropolis, and yet are in what may be called the Lowland Highlands. We stand upon an eminence of only a few hundred feet above sea level, and yet the landscape stretched out below is sufficiently wide and varied to warrant us in thinking that we stand much higher in the world. Right below us are the little hamlets of Milton and Birdston, with Kirkintilloch and Lenzie, and their church spires standing out clear and bright in the glowing sunshine. To the right is the cosy-looking strath of Campsie, commanded by Lennox Castle, in the boldest style of Norman architecture. The proprietor is said to be in the direct succession of the Earls of Lennox, but this is a subject on which our limited genealogical knowledge forbids us to enlarge.