A Return to Straiton Monument

Breathless, heart pumping like an out-of-control piston, dragging myself up the final few metres, I urged myself forward to the steps of the monument and collapsed. Just over thirty minutes. I threw down my walking pole, turned back to face the village nestling sleepily down below, and suddenly felt the strong northerly wind from which I had been protected during my dogged ascent. Confident of my solitary situation, I shouted defiantly into the wind, ‘I’m back.’

Early May 2021, with national restrictions lifted, I was at last permitted to drive fifteen miles inland from Ayr to Straiton, self-proclaimed "Rambling Country". Few, if any, outsiders had rambled in this area for many months. As usual, Straiton had an almost ghost town demeanour that Sunday morning, though I noted that the community shop was open.

The climb from the village car park to the summit is short but very steep. To make it additionally challenging I take exactly the same route every visit and time myself and see by how much, if at all, I can complete the climb inside thirty minutes. On that first visit of 2021, more than any time, I struggled over the final few metres. I chose not to look up to assess my progress, but simply took each step one at a time. I did not want to be disappointed. I knew that I would get to the top eventually. It felt like a summary of the last fifteen months.

I record my visits and times on my phone and saw that my last visit had been in the previous September. Earlier in the year, on the 28th March 2020 to be exact, I had completed my climb and returned to the car by around 9.30am. I was taken aback to find stern warnings had been posted up and emergency tape had been installed all around the carpark by the town community council urging non-residents not to use the car park and to stay at home. That startling initiative by the town’s community council early on a Sunday morning, more than anything in those early challenging days brought home to me the gravity of the situation. Straiton had drawn up a metaphorical drawbridge. I was not to return until mid-summer. One hour's exercise close to home was all that we were permitted.

I had missed this climb. In general, fell-walking terms, it is of course paltry but it seems to meet a personal need. For many years now, on Sunday mornings, whilst my wife goes to church, I have gone for an early morning, solitary hill walk. In Lancashire, before we moved north, it was Nicky Nook, a hill beside Scorton on the fringe of the Trough of Bowland.

Now settled in Ayrshire, I find this hour and a half walk meets my own spiritual and physical needs. The roads are quiet and the hill, save for the occasional disinterested sheep and a few rabbits, is mine. I can’t remember ever meeting another walker. I can think clearly. I can reflect and enjoy the inexorable movement of the seasons. As far as writing is concerned, I maintain an optimistic hope for inspiration. If I remember, I even take a notepad and pencil.

As I recover my breath a skylark chooses this moment to serenade me. What a superb and uplifting welcome. How wonderful to hear this song once more. I follow its flight until it is almost invisible, marvelling at its ability to sing so joyously and fly so vigorously at the same time.

In the past I would set off almost immediately, but on this, my long-awaited return, I dwell a few minutes and remind myself of the words on the monument. It was erected in 1856, two years after the death of James Hunter Blair, the son of the local estate owner and also the local MP. James died at the Battle of Inkerman and the monument, which dominates the locality for many miles "was erected by his friends and neighbours". It has always struck me that it is remarkable that such a large and imposing monument could have been completed within two years. I imagine the logistical difficulties of completing the almost Sisyphean task. Getting planning permission today would take longer.

On a clear day one can easily see Arran and Ailsa Craig. On a crisp, bright, wintry morning Ben Lomond can be just made out. On that hazy May morning I could make out Arran, but no more. Having finished my apple, I resolved to head back on the gentler descent. As I set out along the short ridge, two larks chose that moment to spiral slowly upwards. They must be in competition, and I am to be the judge. They were equally impressive.

What better celebration of spring? I felt that I was being rewarded for my return to this special place. The collective name for skylarks – an exaltation – seemed so apt at that moment. Fluid, persistent and distinctive, their songs are always carried out on the wing. I marvel at their energy and exuberance. Having set out with a degree of apprehension in view of the abrupt but understandable closure of the village car park those many months ago, these two birds hovering above me gave me a welcome injection of confidence to go with my two jags of Pfizer.

Our lives have undoubtedly changed forever. The ever-present facemask in my pocket is testimony to that. The seasons, however, remain fixed and reliable. Nature, and in particular birdlife has flourished during the successive lockdowns. It is said, in fact, that awareness of bird song has increased markedly. There was an extra spring in my step as I headed back down the hill and back home for breakfast and the Sunday papers.

The Straiton walk is back on my calendar. Emotionally and physically, I am so much the better for it.