We see that “Cook” is advertising his usual excursions to Switzerland and Paris in view of the Fair holidays, but, whilst we would not urge anyone not to go, having been there and enjoyed them, ourselves, to those who have neither the time nor the money to go any great distance we would say that we are old enough fashioned to believe that this “nice little, tight little, island” of our own contains within its rocky shores as wondrous a combination and as great a variety of scenery as can be found in any portion of the Continent of Europe twice its extent and surface. We back Great Britain and Ireland, not omitting even the adjacent islands of the Great and Little Cumbraes, against the world for possessing the richest treasures of all that is grand, beautiful, and lovable in nature. Indeed, none should cross the Channel till they are tolerably well acquainted with the chief things worth seeing at home. But, to come to particulars, we back not only this country against the rest of the world, but we back Scotland against England and Ireland, and “Arran’s Isle” against the rest of Scotland. Have you been to Arran? If not, you cannot go too soon; and, as you must ascend Goatfell, the best thing to do is to steer your course to Brodick. Everyone will ask you if you have been to the top of Goatfell. In fact, the question is so universal that, having failed in our first attempt, we found it advisable whenever we referred afterwards to having been at Arran to add, “but I did not ascend Goatfell.”

Take the early morning train from the Central or St. Enoch to Ardrossan, and crossing over to Brodick pull your hat well down on your head, for, though the captain has a kindly way with him, he’ll not turn back for any hat that goes overboard. He may only tell you, as we once heard another skipper tell a man further up the Clyde who had lost his headpiece, “You shouldn’t travel with a quick boat if you don’t want to lose your bonnet.” On landing admire the fine sweep of the bay on to and beyond the big castle among the trees, chief outward token of the supremacy of the Hamilton family in the past. On passing the handsome hotel built by the late Duke, and standing in the midst of its own beautiful and carefully kept grounds, you have time to look on the face of an old friend, Lord Brougham, a true lithograph written on stone, on the top of the hills to the left of Goatfell. That row of houses on the left a little way off the road in the English style of architecture is “The Alma.” But whether it is so called because erected during the Crimean War, or because in ancient times there stood there one of the forts that formed the chain which girdled the whole coast of the island, deponent sayeth not. The next group of houses is Invercloy, where, if you have not already a thick staff or Alpine pole, you may provide yourself with one, and lay aside till your return any superfluous clothing.

As you pass the Cloyburn it will interest you to know that up the glen from which it comes is the mansion-house of Kilmichael, the seat of the Fullarton family, proprietors of Whitefarland and Kilmichael—the only portions of Arran not owned by the Duke of Hamilton. A little further up are the remains of an encampment which had been provided by the islanders for the security of their wives and children on the alarm of invasion. It was here that Bruce and his followers resided before taking Brodick Castle. Passing the school-house, examine a very fine bronze statute of the late Duke in Highland costume, the workmanship of Marochetti. Here also, at the roadside, is to be seen a large block of red sandstone set on end, the history of which is unknown. It is supposed to be one of the many Druidical monuments and circles to be found on the island; or perhaps it was set up here to mark the burial-place of some chief, or the spot where one fell in deadly combat; or perhaps it was meant for something more common and prosaic—for (Highland) man and beast to scratch themselves upon. Coming to the cross-road leading to Shiskin and to Corrie, take the Corrie road over Rosa Burn; but before doing so admire the artistic manse straight in front, its magnificent position and the liberality of the Duke in building it at his own expense. The house is as unique inside as it is outside, and a visit which we recently paid it and its accomplished occupant will long live in our memory.

At the Rosa Bridge enter the carriage drive to the Castle, and keep on it till near the gamekeeper’s house; then enter by a small gate on the left and follow the walk through the wood, which is well stocked with deer and game, till you come out again on the moor. From the Rosa Burn to the summit is about 3 miles as the crow flies, but by the windings of the path it will be at least 4. The highest point is 2800 feet above the level of the sea at half-tide. The ascent is now more difficult, the path more abrupt and uneven, following the burn, which runs through a deep mountain gorge, showing many different kinds of strata and stone interesting to those who go about with small hammers. At the mill dam you reach a height of 1200 feet. You may be tempted to strike across a flat space to the left and mount by the southern shoulder; but although a shorter cut, it is much steeper and more dangerous than the usual path which is to the right, and which you should follow till you reach the sharp ridge of the east shoulder of the mountain. Before attempting this, the last and most difficult part of the journey, you will probably think it time to sit down and discuss the contents of your bag. Tennant’s beer sells at one-and-six the bottle on the Rocky Mountains; well, this is an exceedingly rocky mountain, yet you can get “something to drink free, gratis, and for nothing” at anytime by simply scratching its surface. The path now turns to the left up the steep ridge among and over huge masses of rock lying in grand confusion. As you get higher the granite boulders become of immense size, some of them 20 by 10 feet, toppled on the top of others of all shapes and sizes, till one wonders how they ever came there, and can understand what the man meant who said, though his theology might have been more correct and his language more fitly chosen, “O man, are the works of God no devilish?” Near the top there is an immense precipice of granite blocks laid on each other as regular as mason work, which geologists call a cyclopean wall. Keep to the left till you are clear of the blocks and are facing a very abrupt steep, put your feet in the well-worn footprints, and a few minutes of hard toil will land you safe on the summit of Goatfell.

When we made the ascent it was a very hot day in a very hot week, each day almost more calm than its predecessor, reminding us of the sergeant newly arrived in India, who, not much accustomed to such a warm climate, was always remarking to his commanding officer when he met him, “Anither het day, kornel.” But he will soon be cooled down who lingers on this (appropriately termed) “hill of winds.” Therefore, improve your time in taking a mental photograph of the grand prospect. Here is a place for learning a lesson in geography; here is a map of the south-west of Scotland that beats Collins’ all to sticks. On the north-east you see the two Cumbraes, and behind them Largs, Wemyss Bay, and the Clyde sparkling with tiny white sails, and the green hills of Renfrewshire in the background. To the north is the Island of Bute, and the Kyles, like a silver thread, nearly surrounding it; while Ben Lomond, Ben Voirlich, and Ben Ledi fill up the distant background. To the north-west the eye reaches far up Loch Fyne, and round by the Paps of Jura and Islay and Mull. Looking across Ben Gneiss down to the Sound of Kilbrannan you see Campbeltown, and over Kintyre, and, if the day be clear, to the coast of Ireland. Due south you see Wigtonshire and the lonely Craig of Ailsa, “Paddy’s Milestone,” with Pladda, the Holy Isle, and Lamlash in the foreground. Looking east, the eye sweeps round the sunny coast of Ayrshire, taking in Ayr with its tall spire, Troon, Irvine, and Ardrossan, and inland, the conical Loudon Hill. East and south-east are the Muirkirk and Cumnock ranges, Cairnsmuir and the dark mountains between Loch Doon and Loch Trool, several of which are nearly as high as Goatfell, though, on account of their tangled and featureless character, they attract little notice.

In the immediate vicinity, and apparently on the same level with yourself, though really considerably lower, there is probably the most terrible congregation of jagged mountain ridges to be seen anywhere in the same compass, and yawning chasms between—all dry, bleak, and barren in the extreme. Away to the left lies the mighty Glen Sannox, i.e., “the glen of the river trout”—grand and wild and lonely “beyond the reach of art,” at the foot of which there once stood a chapel dedicated to St. Michael. Almost at your feet is Glen Rosa, with the river meandering at the bottom like a silver thread, and the foaming waterfall of Grabh-alt bounding down the opposite mountain side. We were slow to leave such a scene, for we felt that we might never see the like again. At last, with one long soul-satisfying gaze, we bade farewell to the prospect, which few surely can look upon without a feeling of awe and a sense of their own insignificance, and which defies the skill of the painter and engraver.

There are some who make the descent by scrambling down the steep slope of Glen Rosa; but we had heard that this was a dangerous route, and that a man-of-war’s man, who, with some shipmates, had previously made the descent that way under the guidance of a local worthy who has been up to the top at least once every month in the year, fairly broke down. We therefore took the advice Punch gave to those about to marry, “Don’t,” and we didn’t. Come down the way you went up, carefully observing the track lest you should lose your way and come to grief among the boulders; once past these you will be out of danger, and will be able to look around and enjoy the scenery. In coming down you may, as we did, pass through a herd of deer of close on 150, none of them putting themselves more about than merely to gaze at us with their great soft eyes as we pass through their midst. At the kennel turn to have a look at the old Castle, so often demolished and rebuilt, from the tower of which Bruce is said to have watched for the fire on the Turnberry Coast which the faithful Cuthbert was to light, should there be any hope of striking a blow for Scotland’s freedom. Here also we saw on our visit a rude deal table, drilled by moths and seasoned with age, around which the royal exile and his trusty friends were wont to sit and quaff their wine, drinking revenge to Scotland’s foes. A pleasant walk will bring you to the road at the old inn, and you are soon at the pier in time for the steamer.