Part 27 (1/2)
What beauty, it might be asked, could a lover of nature descry in an old stone fence? Well, look at these d.y.k.es we are pa.s.sing. The mortar between the stones is very old, and in every interstice cling in bunches the bee-haunted bluebells. The top is covered with green turf, and here grow patches of the yellow-flowering fairy-bedstraw and purple ”nodding thistles,” while every here and there is quite a sheet of the hardy mauve-petalled rest-harrow.
Four miles from Falkirk we enter the picturesque and widely scattered village of Bonny Bridge. This little hamlet, which is, or ought to be, a health resort, goes sweeping down a lovely glen, and across the bridge it goes straggling up the hill; the views--go where you like--being enchanting. Then the villas are scattered about everywhere, in the fields and in the woods. No gimcrack work about these villas, they are built of solid ornamentally-chiselled stone, built to weather the storms of centuries.
By-and-bye we rattle up into the village of Dennyloanhead. Very long it is, very old and quaint, and situated on a hill overlooking a wide and fertile valley. The houses are low and squat, very different from anything one ever sees in England.
Through the valley yonder the ca.n.a.l goes wimpling about, and in and out, on its lazy way to Glasgow, and cool, sweet, and clear the water looks.
The farther end of the valley itself is spanned by a lofty eight-arched bridge, over which the trains go noisily rolling. There is probably not a more romantic valley than this in all the diversified and beautiful route from Edinburgh to Glasgow. Tourists should take this hint, and health-seekers too.
Pa.s.sing through this valley over the ca.n.a.l, under the arches and over a stream, the road winds up a steep hill, and before very long we reach the hamlet of c.u.mbernauld.
An unpretentious little place it is, on a rocky hilltop and close to a charming glen, but all round here the country is richly historical.
We stable the horses at the comfortable Spurr Hotel and bivouac by the roadside. A little tent is made under the hedge, and here the Rippingille cooking-range is placed and cooking proceeded with.
Merry laughing children flock round, and kindly-eyed matrons knitting, and Hurricane Bob lies down to watch lest any one shall open the oven door and run away with the frizzling duck. Meanwhile the sun s.h.i.+nes brightly from a blue, blue sky, the woods and hedges and wild flowers do one good to behold, and, stretched on the green sward with a pleasant book and white sun umbrella, I read and doze and dream till Foley says,--
”Dinner's all on the table, sir.”
No want of variety in our wanderings to-day. Change of scenery at every turn, and change of faces also.
On our way from c.u.mbernauld we meet dozens and scores of caravans of all descriptions, for in two days' time there is to be a great fair at Falkirk, and these good people are on their way thither.
”Thank goodness,” I say to my coachman, ”they are not coming in our direction.”
”You're right, sir,” says John.
For, reader, however pleasant it may be to wave a friendly hand to, or exchange a kindly word or smile with, these ”honest” gipsies, it is not so nice to form part in a Romany Rye procession.
Here they come, and there they go, all sorts and shapes and sizes, from the little barrel-shaped canvas-covered Scotch affair, to the square yellow-painted lordly English van. Caravans filled with real darkies, basket caravans, shooting-gallery caravans, music caravans, merry-go-round caravans, short caravans, long caravans, tall caravans, some decorated with paint and gold, some as dingy as smoke itself, and some mere carts covered with greasy sacking filled with bairns; a chaotic minglement of naked arms and legs, and dirty grimy faces; but all happy, all smiling, and all perspiring.
Some of these caravans have doors in the sides, some doors at front and back; but invariably there are either merry saucy children or half-dressed females leaning out and enjoying the fresh air, and--I hope--the scenery.
The heat to-day is very great. We are all limp and weary except Polly, the parrot, who is in her glory, dancing, singing, and shrieking like a maniac.
But matters mend towards evening, and when we pause to rest the horses, I dismount and am penning these lines by the side of a hedge. A rippling stream goes murmuring past at no great distance. I could laze and dream here for hours, but prudence urges me on, for we are now, virtually speaking, in an unknown country; our road-book ended at Edinburgh, so we know not what is before us.
”On the whole, John,” I say, as I reseat myself among the rugs, ”how do you like to be a gipsy?”
”I'm as happy, sir,” replies my gentle Jehu, ”as a black man in a barrel of treacle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
GLASGOW AND GRIEF--A PLEASANT MEADOW--THUNDERSTORM AT CHRYSTON--STRANGE EFFECTS--THAT TERRIBLE TWELFTH OF AUGUST--EN ROUTE FOR PERTH AND THE GRAMPIANS.
”O rain! you will but take your flight, Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow; Though stomach should ache and knees should swell, I'll nothing speak of you but well; But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear rain! do go away.”