Drow 'n' Smirr

6.99 miles 3h 35m ascent 287m

A world unfurls, if you but look,
Beyond the grand, beyond the book.
A dewdrop clinging, clear and bright,
Reflecting sun, a tiny light.

The spider’s silk, a silver thread,
Across the garden, softly spread.
A whispered hum, a busy bee,
Lost in the heart of calendula’s glee.

The bark’s deep lines, a map untold,
Of seasons past, of stories old.
A pebble’s hue, a mossy sigh,
Small wonders dancing in the eye.

In these small truths, a richness found,
The quiet beauty all around.
A deeper peace, a gentle art,
To see the world, piece by subtle part.

…. the real experience is in the details.

It was a glorious day. My arms covered by sun-creme rather than sleeves, we walked in Summer’s weather, while Spring’s work still filled the hedgerows. Despite seeing Burnswark’s distinctive flat top on many walks while a few miles away, we could not see the hill for the first half hour of this walk.

We found a spot to park opposite “The Arched House” in Ecclefechan. This house, which carries the inscription, “Birthplace of Carlyle, 4 Dec 1795”, is now a museum in the care of the National Trust for Scotland.

Ecclefechan is a small town, perhaps more akin to a large village. It would once have been a key stop on the Carlisle-Glasgow road and the Ecclefechan Hotel, which we would visit later, was originally a coaching inn. Today’s turnpikes, the motorway and railway run parallel to the old road but by-pass the town changing it from a traveller’s halt to sleepy hollow. The town’s name is source of many a jape, “I missed the ‘fechan bus” etc. though its origin is the Brittonic eglwys fechan, small church.

Thomas Carlyle is the town’s most famous son. A writer, historian and philosopher, he was world renowned in his day and known as the “sage of Chelsea”. He famously walked to Edinburgh, a hundred miles away, at the age of 13 to study at the University. His writings popularised the “Great Man theory” of history which is now regarded as overly simplistic but still has momentum in some leadership teachings. The internet throws up a great many wise quotations from the sage but the simplicity of this verse from his poem “Today”was one that made me think.

Here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.

He died in 1881 having uttered his final words “So this is Death—well …”. His fame was such that he was offered a burial in Westminster Abbey but declined this in his will. He is buried instead in Ecclefechan churchyard.

An information board at what must once have been a crossroads, had a map showing places of interest in Ecclefechan and a few lines from Burn’s “The lass o’ Ecclefechan”.

Gat ye me, 0 gat ye me,
O gat ye me wi naething?
Rock an reel, and spinning wheel,
A mickle quarter basin:
Bye attour my Gutcher has,
A heich house and a laich ane,
A’ forbye my bonie sel,
The toss o’ Ecclefechan

Which left me none the wiser.

Behind the information board, the town’s public toilets are graffited with the names of other Ecclefechan notables: Archibald Arnott, Napoleon’s physician; and Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid, a poet and contemporary of Robert Burns. Her poems aren’t really my cup of tea but “From Snipe, A Favourite Dog, To His Master” reminded me of Burn’s “Twa dogs”.

Langlands Road would once have been a direct route to Burnswark but the A74(M) but now a footbridge is the only way across.

Burnswark Hill was still hidden from sight as we took up the road again on the far side of the motorway. We crossed the railway then continued up a minor road. There were only a couple of vehicles though signs did warn of horses. This was a gentle climb uphill up to the radio aerial on Clint hill.

Beehives, views of Criffel and the Solway, fields of buttercups, a bull by the road, OS GPS marker. Then downhill past Axletreewell to Relief, both rather unusual names.

Burnswark Hill. Just shy of a thousand feet. A Roman fort and before that a hill fort of the

O’er Criffel hill, he loudly roar’d,
O’er Burnswark hill, he wildly snor’d;
Through entries blew wi’ sic a birl,
Baith ricks and houses he did tirl;
Susannah Hawkins – Address to Satan

Kirkconnel Hall Hotel, “a good place to sop for coffee”. Closed. Indeed its closed-ness looked rather longstanding. We almost didn’t find Kirkconnel Tower, a ruined 15th century tower house.

Elizabeth I of England sent a force under Lord Scrope into Dumfriesshire in 1570 to destroy the houses of those who had supported her cousin, Mary. The town of Ecclefechan was burned and the estates of Lord Herries, Lord Maxwell and Murray of Cockpool were singled out for special treatment, they having been deemed to be particularly sympathetic to Mary. Whether or not the tower suffered the same fate is unclear. Stravaiging around Scotland. May have been a victim of the feuding between the “river” families in the area.

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7.55 miles 3h 20m

This is a “circular village and country route” from the access@dumgal.gov.uk website. It is said to be 6 miles, but the way was blocked by cows so we took a slightly longer route.

We arrived at the Old Blacksmith Shop in rain heavy enough to warrant waterproof overtrousers. I don’t think either of us wanted to walk in that but neither wanted to be the one to suggest abandoning it. So we waited. Looked at the weather forecast. Waited a little more, then decided to bite the bullet.

Out of the car, the rain didn’t seem quite as heavy. Waterproof jackets, yes, but overtrousers, no. It was a bit windy and I wondered if Mabel would refuse to walk, but she accepted the challenge so the walk was on. The rain continued for most of the walk so I didn’t take as many photos as I might usually do.

From the Old Blacksmith shop we turned north along a quiet country road through farmland then beside Bensmoor Wood. Audrey noticed Jacob’s Ladder growing in the hedgerows. Presumably a garden escapee. I would have mistaken it for a bellflower if not for the characteristic leaves that give it its name.

Blacksike Bridge crosses the main railway line close to the site of Britain’s worst rail disaster. The bridge carried a memorial plaque and a wreath of poppies.

I took a photo of the railway line and only later realised the image included the rail loops where the rail crash occurred.

It was on the 22nd of May,
In the year Nineteen Fifteen,
The great railway catastrophe
Happened near Gretna Green,
A troop train speeding to the South,
With the Royal Scots aboard,
Ne’er reached their destination,
The holocaust- “Oh Lord.”

A local to let the express pass,
Was slipp’d on the main up line,
O, fatal lapse of memory,
On that Saturday morning fine,
The Signalman, God forgive him,
To the troop train gave “all clear,”
Into the local train it crashed,
With a scrunching roaring tear,

From Carlisle, Longtown and Gretna,
To the rescue many rushed,
They fought like heroes in the flames,
To save the wounded- crushed,
Amidst the wreckage, groaning,
They lay in agony,
Each brave heart did his utmost,
To set the sufferers free.

This terrible disaster
Shall never be forgot,
All eyes on Quinton’s Hill,
That dread historic spot,
A prayer breath’d on the heroes gone,
Those gallant soldiers brave,
All Britain gives with many a tear,
Which waters each quiet silent grave.

Harry Robinson, The Great Railway Disaster

A little further along the road we turned right at a sign indicating “Quintinshill Walk”. This took us through Errolston farm with its large stock sheds, then around Corner Wood. A well maintained gravel track brought us alongside Black Sark, whose water was light brown rather than black.

The track swung right to pass under the railway at Quintinshill Bridge, a wee underpass. An information board there had details of the 1915 rail crash and photographs. 226 people lost their lives but some of the bodies were never recovered, having been completely consumed in the fire. The Wikipedia page gives full details with diagrams to show how the accident happened.

The track took us to the outskirts of Springfield where we came to a wee crossroads. A “Quintinshill Walk” sign pointed onwards but our route turned left. We wondered if the sign was for a shorter version of the walk, visiting Quintinshill but not the Sark or Gretna.

We turned left along a minor road carrying national cycleway 7. Five minutes later we ran into our first problem. We should have turned right through a field. There was a metal kissing gate but a group of cows crowded that corner of the field.

There was no way through and calves with the cows. Even without the dogs I would not have wanted to brave that field. But all was not lost. This was not completely unexpected. I had read a report of this walk where this happened and though the report didn’t give a detailed description of the alternative route there was a route map. We had a Plan B. Or perhaps I should say, we had a rough idea of Plan B.

We walked on. In the distance, just before a bridge, I could see a sign. When we drew closer I could read “Path Springfield 1¼”. Wooden steps took us down to the river bank. We were back beside the Black Sark. As we were to find, however, this was a “Path” in the sense of “right of access” rather than an actual thing one could point at, let alone walk on.

We had a choice as soon as we reached the riverbank. Thigh high grass on the riverbank itself or the field beside us with ankle high grass. There was no discernible path either way but a walkers gate gave access to the field. We chose the field which was easy walking down to where the Black Sark emptied into the Sark. A little way along was another gate, wooden, neglected with the same choice of overgrown riverbank or field of grass. There was a broken post beside it that might once have held a signpost, or could have been a support post.

Beyond the gate was a ford, the water of the Sark flowing fast enough to whisk away a vehicle never mind a person. We didn’t need to cross but still had a decision. We tried the riverbank with its thigh-high wet grass but the ground was very uneven and we could see no sign anyone had walked there, or in the field for that matter. We turned back and chose the field once more. It was easier going, the grass ankle-high and the ground still firm, despite the rain.

The field’s fence curved away from the river at a small wood not marked on the OS map. We could see a gate between the riverbank and the field beyond the wood but could not reach it.A barbed-wire fence ran all the way around the wood and back to the road we had been on.

So we slogged back to the gate at the ford. I don’t know if it was just my imagination but the rain seemed to get heavier, and the wind picked up blowing my hood off and threatening to take my cap. Mabel had to be carried through the overgrown riverbank and I kept Christy close so he didn’t fall into the water. But we actually did find a path of sorts (flattened grass) after a few paces and Mabel squirmed to get back down.

We made it to the next gate, much overgrown with nettles and stepped from the mixed growth of the riverbank into another field of grass, but now high enough to soak my trousers well above the knees. Mabel was lost beneath it and was jumping like a springbok to make headway. I picked her up again so she wouldn’t tire herself out.

Where the river curved, whirlpools formed in the brown waters of the Sark, overlooked from the English side by a stand of sickly larches. Beyond there, the ground we walked on became firmer, flattened by vehicle tracks and at the next gate we joined a farm track. Though a little muddy in places, the grass in the centre always kept us out of the puddles. The spaniel, of course, just splashed through the muddy water.

The track brought us to the road at Plump Bridge. The old stone bridge with its single carriageway was anything but plump, standing beside its much wider two-carriageway concrete replacement. England was on the far side of both but we stayed in Scotland, turning towards Springfield.

A sign with stone squirrels welcomed visitors to Scotland and a large “S” shaped stone seat added to the branding. There was a millennium cycleway sign and a more traditional bench, with wooden slats but we didn’t fancy sitting on a wet seat in the rain.

Our planned route would take us into Springfield but across the road I noticed a sign, “Path Gretna 1”. This presumably followed the riverbank, a continuation of the “Path” we had followed from the bridge over Black Sark. A riverside walk sounded a better option than the road into Springfield, but would it be walkable? Another sign warned “Bull in field” but that looked to be a permanent fixture. I left the dogs with Audrey and went through the kissing gate to check it out.

The field was hourglass shaped, with a great many cows, and calves, in the narrowed section. It might have been an option if the cows had been in another part of the field but I would have had concerns even if we didn’t have the dogs. We stuck with plan B and headed up into Springfield.

We walked up into Springfield. and opposite the The Queens Head we saw more “Path” signs. This is where we would have arrived had the pesky cows not blocked the way earlier but we had walked a little under 2 miles rather than the half mile from the bovine-mobbed gate.

The Queens Head had an information board explaining that it had been the place where couples fleeing the marriage laws in England would tie the knot. Gretna only took centre stage after the bridge was built there in 1814. Scotland’s marriage laws allowed marriage without parental consent. The information board told of Lord Erskine, a widow with eight children from his first marriage, and previous chancellor of the exchequer, marrying his housekeeper, Sara Buck, who had borne him several children.

At that time Scottish law legitimated children on the subsequent marriage of their parents. It would be more than a century before the same law would be passed in England. In order to give their children His name, Lord Erskine decided to marry Sarah in Scotland. He arrived in Springfield dressed as a woman, wearing a large bonnet and long veil. Superstition stated that children should be seen to be unborn and kept ‘under mother’s apron string’, so through the ceremony, Miss Buck kept her children hidden under her cloak. In an attempt to stop the marriage, Lord Erskine’s eldest son from his first marriage arrived in Springfield a little too late, just as the couple were leaving. Thomas tried very hard to persuade his father to dissolve the marriage, but it was proved to be valid and binding. (from the information board)

The pub’s other claim to fame was that it had been nationalised during WW1, to deal with drunkenness in workers from the local munitions factories, an “experiment” that continued until 1971.

At Springfield we rejoined the official route taking a farm track from the village. A couple of bridges took us a road and then the railway. We picked our way over the second bridge which was coated in a thick layer of … “bovine mud”.

The track a petered out in the middle of a field but opened to give us our first views of the Solway. We zigged into the next field then a gate let us into a field that sloped down to the Sark. More “Path” signposts suggested we had rejoined the path passing through the hourglass field. We turned right and headed under the M6.

The waters of the Sark very rapid beside us and I thought it best to put Christy on his lead. He partial to jumping in anything wet. A set of steps back up to the footpath had risers built for basketball players so Mabel needed a lift.

The footpath took us around the Auld Acquaintance Cairn but having visited it a week earlier we just nodded towards it and walked on. The road was very busy but there was a Puffin crossing at hand. Something I would have thought was a Pelican crossing until a few days ago but now I am better informed.

We walked down to the Sark bridge memorial displaying what I now now is Telford’s mark and we then followed another “path” sign. A sign warned that dogs must be kept on a leash no longer than 2m. No problem there since the field was full of sheep. It was a nice touch though that a dog friendly step stile was provided. The Path followed the Sark but we turned right when the river bore left.

We walked by a Japanese garden that looked very tranquil. I couldn’t tell if it was a private garden so we didn’t explore any further. Perhaps it’s a place for wedding photos.

The rain had stopped as we came into Gretna but the air still felt wet. The town was eerily quiet, so much so that it was a relief to eventually see a chap walking his dogs. I thought the town looked like an army base, with roads like avenues, wide and laid out like a grid and a central green. I wasn’t too far off the mark. The town was built by the Ministry of Munitions during WW1 to support the massive cordite factories nearby. A statue of a munitions worker stand in the town centre, recalling its history.

National cycleway 7 passes through the town and is marked by a millenium marker close to All Saints Church, which was also built by the Ministry of Munitions. We walked by the Anvil Hall but didn’t go in to investigate. This was another WW1 construction, originally a catholic church but now a private wedding venue.

A footpath took us out of Gretna, a subway beneath the railway and A75 took us into Gretna Green, famous for weddings and anvil-priests.

A marriage in the Scottish tradition could take place anywhere on Scottish soil. Being so close to the English border, Gretna was popular with English couples wanting to marry but when in the 1770s a toll road was built running through the village making it even more accessible from south of the border, it soon became renowned as the destination for eloping couples.

English couples usually preferred to keep some English marriage traditions and so looked for someone in authority to oversee the ceremony. The most senior and respected craftsman or artisan in the countryside was the village blacksmith, and so the Blacksmith’s Forge at Gretna Green became a favourite place for weddings.

The tradition of the blacksmith sealing the marriage by striking his anvil led to the Gretna blacksmiths becoming known as ‘anvil priests’. Indeed the blacksmith and his anvil are now symbols of Gretna Green weddings. Gretna Green’s famous Blacksmiths Shop, the Old Smithy where lovers have come to marry since 1754, is still in the village and still a wedding venue.
Historic UK

We finished the walk at The Old Blacksmith Shop, with a stroll through the sculpture garden and a look at the courtship maze.

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