The day following our arrival in Oban dawns clear and bright with that indescribable freshness that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, despite the fact that two former visits have somewhat detracted from the novelty of the surroundings. We could never weary of the quiet, land-locked harbor, with its shimmering white sails and ranges of green and purple hills beyond, or of the ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters when looking up the bay. The town ascends the steep hill in terraces and a climb to the summit is well rewarded by the splendid view. One also sees at close range the monstrous circular tower which dwarfs everything else in Oban and which one at first imagines must have some great historic significance. But the surmise that it was the work of ancient Romans in an effort to duplicate the Coliseum is dashed when we learn that Oban is scarcely a hundred years old and that “McCaig’s Folly” was built after the foundation of the town. An eccentric native conceived the idea of erecting this strange structure “to give employment to his fellow-townsmen” and dissipated a good-sized fortune in the colossal gray-stone pile. Its enormous proportions can only be realized when one stands within the walls, which form an exact circle possibly two hundred feet in diameter and range from fifty to seventy-five feet in height.

But we have “done” nearly everything in our two previous visits and have little excuse to linger. The only road out of the town, except the one by which we came, drops southward through a country we have not yet explored. Brown and barren hills greet us at first, relieved here and there by the glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks of grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is given to the landscape by the great beds of blue and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover the marshy spots along the road. For several miles we skirt the shores of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake whose blue-green waters are at their height, making a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a background.

The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet of the loch and here the road re-enters the hills; there is a long steady climb up a steep grade ere the summit is reached and in places the narrow road skirts a sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds of feet to the valley beneath. We fortunately escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the summit we find four men pushing an old-fashioned, high-wheeled car to the top of the grade. It lost its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the hill. Had it gone a rod farther such a catastrophe would surely have occurred; not very pleasant for us to contemplate, since at few places is there more than enough room to pass a vehicle driven with care, let alone one running amuck!

The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady coast brings us to the Pass of Melfort, where a swift mountain stream dashes between towering cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on the sea-shore, following the rugged coast of Loch Melfort for some miles. The road is rough in places and passes a sparsely populated country with here and there an isolated village, usually harsh and treeless. Kilmartin is the exception—a rather cozy-looking hamlet with a huge old church surrounded by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are numerous prehistoric sculptured stones often visited by antiquarians. Thence to Loch Gilphead the road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal, through which steamers bound for Oban and Glasgow pass daily. Loch Gilphead is a straggling fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and the harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not tempt us to pause, though luncheon hour is well past.

For twenty miles or more we course along the wooded shores of Loch Fyne, another of the long narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It is a beautiful run; trees overarch the road and partly conceal the gleaming lake, though at intervals we come upon the shore with an unobstructed view of the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital of Argyleshire and as cleanly and well-ordered a village as one will find in Scotland. The Argyle Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the village, proves a delightful place for our belated luncheon. No doubt the inn is necessary to accommodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors at Inverary Castle, which frequently include members of the royal family, with which the present duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch and a smooth lawn studded with splendid trees slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in style, four-square, with pointed round towers at each corner, and the interior is well in keeping with the magnificence of the outside.

The road we follow in leaving Inverary closely hugs the shores of Loch Fyne for some miles and but a short way out of the town passes beneath the ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of the loch, always keeping near the shore, we strike eastward through the range of giant hills that lie between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a barren stretch of country; the road is rough and stone-strewn, with many trying grades—dangerous in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and interminable winding descents burn the brakes. There is little to relieve the monotony of the wild moorlands save a mountain stream dashing far below the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the hills, but never a village or seldom an isolated cottage for miles. Near the summit is a rude seat with the inscription, “Rest and be thankful,” erected long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed the hills on foot. The poet Wordsworth made this journey and described it in one of his sonnets as “Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,” ending in a grateful allusion to the resting place.

We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, glinting with the gold of the sunset, flash through the trees, for we know that the lake-shore road is good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. Miles and miles it follows the edge of the island-dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as we course southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue mirror, but the hills beyond are still touched with the last rays of the sun—a glorious scene, not without the element of romance which adds to the pleasure one so often experiences when contemplating Old Scotia’s landscapes. It is only by grace of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glasgow by lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the day’s run was not extraordinary, but much of the road was pretty strenuous and tire trouble has been above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the metropolis does not come amiss.

After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our thoughts turn toward Ayr; even though we have already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the spell is unbroken and still would be though our two visits were two score. We will not follow the Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves a singularly uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean and squalid, the small villages are unattractive, and Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would be wholly commonplace had not the poet James Montgomery honored it by making it his birthplace and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax-dresser. The ill luck that befell nearly all the poet’s business ventures pursued him here, for his shop burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now distinguished citizen—though she little knew it then, for Burns was only twenty-two. Perhaps it was a fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he might have become more of a business man than poet, and the world be infinitely poorer by the exchange. A colossal statue recently erected commemorates his connection with Irvine and again reminds one how Burns overshadows everything else in the Ayr country.

The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and satisfactory stopping-place that we cut short our day’s run after completing the forty miles from Glasgow. There is really not much in the town itself to detain the tourist; we wander down the main street and cross the “Twa Brigs;” from the beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky “Heads of Ayr” to the south. In the distance are the dim outlines of the Emerald Isle, seen only on the clearest days, and nearer at hand the Isles of Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there is considerable manufacturing and ship-building and many of the landmarks of the time of Burns have been obliterated.

Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway have not shared the same fate—a third visit to these simple memorials may seem superfluous, but we must confess to a longing to see them all again. The birthplace, Kirk Alloway, the monument, the Brig o’ Doon and the museum, with its priceless relics of the poet—all have a perennial interest for the admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare simple room where the poet was born has a wealth of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and I cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd’s little flight of fancy inspired by this same primitive apartment:

“One can try,” he writes, “to imagine the scene here on the afternoon of that wild winter day when ‘a blast o’ Januar’ win’’ was to blow ‘Hansel in on Robin.’ There would be the goodwife’s spinning-wheel set back for the nonce in a dark corner; the leglins, or milking-stools—on which the bright-eyed boy was to sit a few years later—pushed under the deal table; the wooden platters and bowls from which the household ate, arranged in the wall rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the half-open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters overhead hung hanks of yarn of the goodwife’s spinning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the leathern parts of the horses’ harness. Then, for the actors in the humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and a faint voice in the deep-set corner bed; the inevitable ‘neighbour-woman’ setting matters to rights about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and William Burness himself, whip in hand, hurriedly getting into his heavy riding-coat to face the blast outside.

“A glance at the face of the great eight-day clock, a whispered word and a moment’s pause as he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, with a pale face and some wildness in the eyes, the husband makes off, over the uneven floor of flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute or two the tramp of the hoofs of his galloping mare dies away in the distance, and the women are left, waiting.

“Behind him as he turned from his door on that wild day, the farmer would hear the Doon thundering down its glen, and the storm roaring through the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which his son’s wild fancy was afterwards to make the scene of such unearthly revels. The old road to Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its high hedges, than the present one; and every step of the way had some countryside memory belonging to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose from the steep river-bank among the trees, stood the thorn ‘where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’.’ In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still marks the cairn ‘where hunters fand the murdered bairn.’ Farther on, in a cottage garden close by the road, is still to be seen that ‘meikle stane, where drucken Chairlie brak’s neck bane.’ And on the far side of the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left of the present road, was ‘the ford where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d.’

“As William Burness reached the stream here a singular incident befell him. On the farther side, when he had crossed, he found an old woman sitting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry her over the river, which was much swollen by the rains. This, though he was in anxious haste, he paused and did, and then, dashing a third time through the torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. An hour later, on returning to his cottage with the desired attendant, he found to his surprise the gipsy crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in the house till the child was born, and then, it is said, taking the infant in her arms, uttered the prophecy which Burns has turned in his well-known lines:

“Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment of the carline’s prophecy, the storm, rising higher and higher, at length blew down a gable of the dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the broken gable of a clay ‘bigging’ was not a thing beyond repair.

“Such were the circumstances and such was the scene of the birth of the great peasant-poet. Much change, no doubt, has taken place in the appearance both of the cottage and of the countryside since the twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but after all it is the same countryside, and the cottage is on the identical spot. Within these walls one pictures the poet in his childish years:

And in this rude apartment the immortal scene of “The Cotter’s Saturday Night” was enacted—and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. Dobson to give us his conception of the family group at worship—how well he has succeeded the accompanying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I am sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in connection with the artist’s graphic representation of a scene already familiar the world over.

In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns spent an occasional evening with Highland Mary—for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed as governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely that she was a frequent guest at the Burns cottage—a probability that has supplied Mr. Dobson with another of his happiest themes. Associations such as these are more than the scant array of facts given in the guide-books concerning the old cottage, and they give to the bare walls and rude furnishings an atmosphere of romance that no familiarity can dispel.

From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the seashore, which we are to follow for many miles. It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the sky tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun and purple mists which are rapidly breaking away and revealing a wide expanse of gently undulating water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern outlines of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge.

It is a delightful run along the coast, which is rich in associations and storied ruins. Athwart our first glimpse of the ocean stands the dilapidated bulk of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Kennedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayrshire aristocracy since 1466. Indeed, an old-time rhymester declared:

But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded aristocrats of Ayrshire are superseded by the fame of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at Alloway outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We are again reminded of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny village a few miles farther on the road; here he spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard are the graves of the originals of Tam o’ Shanter and Souter Johnnie. We pass in sight of Culzean Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing on the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which the sea chafes incessantly. It is the seat of the Marquis of Ailsa—one of the Kennedys—built about a century ago, and the curious may visit it on Wednesdays.

What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied by ruinous Turnberry, a scant five miles southward, associated as it is with the name of King Robert Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its walls. Here it was that Bruce, in response to what he thought a prearranged signal fire, made his crossing with a few followers from Arran to attempt the deliverance of his country. The tradition is that the fire was of supernatural origin and that it may still be seen from the shores of Arran on the anniversary of the eventful night. This incident is introduced by Scott into “The Lord of the Isles:”

Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have been rude and comfortless at its best—another reminder that the peasants of to-day are better housed and have more comforts and conveniences than kings and nobles enjoyed in the romantic times we are wont to dream about.

Girvan is the first town of any size which we encounter on leaving Ayr, a quiet trading-place close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig, a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though it looks much nearer. It seems very like Bass Rock, near Tantallon Castle on the east coast, though really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than a thousand feet above the sea. It is the home of innumerable sea-birds which wheel in whimpering, screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indicates that it was once a human abode, though no authentic record remains concerning it.

Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the most picturesque roads in all Scotland. It winds along the sea, which chafes upon huge boulders that at some remote period have tumbled from the stupendous overhanging cliffs. Among the scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide comes rolling landward. Even on this almost windless day the scene is an impressive one and we can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm hurling the waves against the mighty rocks which dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon the road begins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Bennane Head, a bold promontory commanding a wide prospect of the wild shore and sea, with the coast of Ireland some forty miles away—half hidden in the purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view and one which we contemplate at our leisure—thanks to the motor car, which takes us to such points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure—different indeed from the transitory flash from the window of a railway car! A long downward glide takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose rock-bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the road turns inland some miles and passes through a rich agricultural section. In places apparently the whole population—men, women and children—are employed in digging potatoes, of which there is an enormous yield. Hay harvest is also in progress, often by primitive methods, though in the larger fields modern machinery is used.

The road brings us again to the coast and a half dozen miles along the shore of Loch Ryan lands us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a modern-looking town and we stop at the King’s Arms for luncheon, which proves very satisfactory. There is a daily service of well-appointed steamers from Stranraer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula on which Stranraer and Port Patrick are situated is reputed to have the mildest and most salubrious climate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame as a resort. There are many great country estates in the vicinity, notably Lochinch, the estate of the Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy, which was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast extent, with famous pleasure grounds surrounding it. The motorist may well employ a day in this locality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer.

There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the broad, level and finely engineered road from Stranraer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It passes through as beautiful and prosperous a country as we have seen anywhere—and we have seen much of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a short detour—though it proves hardly worth while—to see the mere fragment of the old abbey which the neighboring vicar is using as a chicken-roost. It is utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us about and tell us the story of the abbey in its prosperous days. And it did have prosperous days, for it was once of great extent and its gardens and orchards were reputed one of the sights of Scotland. Here James IV. and his queen came on one of their journeys some four centuries ago and the record of his donation of four shillings to the gardener still stands—a pretty slim royal tip, it seems to us now.

Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the River Cree, whose banks we follow to Wigtown Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in graceful curves. Many country houses crown the green, undulating hills and we catch occasional glimpses of them through the trees—for the parks are all well wooded. The excellent road through Gatehouse and Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly that the sun is still high when we reach Maxwelton. Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct a mistake we made on a previous tour—our failure to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near the village of New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on arriving we learn that the abbey is not shown after six o’clock. A visit to the custodian’s home, however, secures the key and we have sole possession of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour.

There are many abbey ruins in Scotland—and we have seen the most famous—but it may be the hour of our visit, quite as much as the strange story of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory of them all. In its one-time importance as well as in the beauty of its scattered remnants, it is quite the peer of any of its rivals, but none of these have such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweetheart stands forever as a monument of love and constancy, as intimated in its very name. John Baliol of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269, leaving his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. And truly she did mourn it. There are many monuments to her sorrow—Baliol College, Oxford, Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey—or Sweetheart, as it is now known. Both of the latter are in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the daughter of the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. Upon the death of her only sister she became sole heiress to the vast estates of her father and when she became Baliol’s widow she was easily the richest subject in all Britain. She survived her husband for twenty-one years, during which time she was engaged principally in benevolent work, visiting many parts of the country. Her husband’s heart, embalmed and encased in a silver casket, she constantly carried with her and at her death in 1289 it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried in New Abbey, which she built as a memorial to Baliol and a resting place for her own body. When the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled—but her epitaph still exists in one of the old chronicles:

Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, whose roofless and windowless walls rise before us, the harsh outlines hidden by the drooping ivy and softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous and fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but enough remains to show its pristine artistic beauty and vast extent. The sculptures and other delicate architectural touches were doubtless due to workmen sent by the Vatican, since the Scotch had hardly attained such a degree of skill in 1270. It is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself peculiarly well to the art of the carver and which, considering its fragile nature, has wonderfully withstood the ravages of time and weather. An extensive restoration is in progress which will arrest further decay and insure that the fine old ruin will continue to delight the visitor for years to come.

There is no one to point out refectory and chapel and other haunts of the ancient monks—but it is just as well. We know Sweetheart’s story and that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the gathering twilight, to make the hour we linger an enchanting one. And yet the feeling of sadness predominates, as we move softly about over the thick carpet of green sward—sadness that this splendid memorial to a life of sacrifice and good works should have fallen into such decay that the very grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! The spell is broken when one of our party reminds us that it is growing late; that we may miss the dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid farewell to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that the royal burgh of Dumfries is at the end of the day’s journey—an unusually long one for us—for we know that its Station Inn is one of the most comfortable in Scotland.