Probably the most pleasing features in the immediate neighbourhood are the valley of the Endrick and of the Carron which almost touch each other at the farm house straight down from us. We see the Endrick on its way to the famous “Loup of Fintry,” just a little to the west of Sir John de Graham’s old castle, where it falls over a precipitous rock of more than 60 feet in height, forming a cataract of great beauty. In a “loup,” a “spout,” or “fall” of water there is a great variety of opinion as to what makes it specially remarkable. Some desire a flood of water, others a silvery veil of falling mist, others would have grand natural surroundings. The truth is that a cataract, like a human face, depends a great deal on its surroundings. It is a mistake to go to a waterfall with a measuring line and judge it by height, and breadth, and volume alone. There are comparatively trifling cascades, which, by virtue of their natural position and the sweet and sylvan scenery of their home, are far more attractive than a vaster flood of water filling a greater depth amid tame scenic circumstances. Let our climber make a nearer acquaintance with the “Loup of Fintry,” either to-day or on some other occasion, and he will see what good reason the natives have for their praise of Strathendrick. From its first beginning to its fall into Loch Lomond the Endrick is a thing of beauty, having in its course many a lovely and picturesque scene.
But the valley of the Carron away to the east is not less interesting although its interest is of a more historical character. It is not, however, without an occasional spot of extra loveliness. For example, a little below where it crosses the Kilsyth and Stirling (old) Road, 6 miles behind Kilsyth, it rushes over the Spout or Linn of Auchintilly. In spite of its grand name, which means “field of the overflowing torrent and pool,” it is little known, as it is in a most unfrequented valley. We have made the journey right round by road from Lennoxtown to Kilsyth, a distance of some 19 miles, without meeting more than two people on the highway, although not so far removed from the “madding crowd.” This state of matters reminded us at the time of Dean Ramsay’s story of the English traveller on the out-of-the-way Scotch road, who asked a stone-breaker whom he passed, “Does nobody travel on this road at all?” “O yes,” was the answer, “we’re not that bad. There was a gangrel body yesterday, and there’s yoursel’ the day.” If we were writing in verse, we would be obliged to say of this sexasyllabic, significant, mouth-filling, and loud-sounding name—Auchin-tilly-lin-spout—what Horace says of the little town in which he lodged a night in his journey from Rome to Brundusium, Versu dicere non est. And yet those banks have been sung of both by Ossian and Hector M’Neill, the latter, a native of the shire. M’Neill speaks of it as the classic stream where Fingal fought and Ossian hymned his heaven-taught lays; and Dyer sings of it as still seeming responsive to Ossian’s lyre. The ancient ballad of “Gil Morice” also—the story of which has been formed into the celebrated tragedy of “Douglas”—represents the mother of the unfortunate young hero as having “lived on Carron side.” We have no time to discuss the ornithology of our day’s outing; but we could almost hear the throbbing of birds’ hearts, which portends a sudden and distant flight. Had we been down on the banks, either of the Endrick or of the Carron a month ago, we could have seen the common sandpiper in its old haunts. But now that September is upon us not one is to be seen. Silently but surely they have slipped off in the night, and the rivers will not know them till next April. But the rooks are in abundance admiring their glossy plumage and symmetry, reminding us of the Scottish aphorism, and proving its truthfulness, “Aye, you’re a bonny pair, as the craw said to its ain twa feet.” They are now beginning to assemble in flocks, and those often deserve the appellation of “a craw’s preaching” from the flow of noisy eloquence of which at such times they are capable.
As we prepare to retrace our steps we cannot help being again struck by the vast expanse of land unoccupied by people and so little cultivated. The one moment we are thankful that there is such a place so near to Glasgow, and no one with heart so hard as to bar the rambler’s way; but the next again the stillness becomes oppressive, as when Cockburn wrote to Jeffrey, “This place is as still as the grave, or even as Peebles.” Our hill to-day is certainly in the heart of a district about which the average dweller within 40 miles of Glasgow knows less, we are persuaded, than he does of some of our colonial possessions. And yet it is not more than 12 or 13 miles from the city. We can return as we came, or make for the old Toll House on the road between Fintry and Campsie, and get the train at Lennoxtown, or we can take a walk along the ridge of hills for 2 or 3 miles to the east, and make for Gavel Station, a mile or so on the near side of Kilsyth.
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