Where paths grow wild

9 hours ago , by Richard Lutz

Leave a trail untended and it disappears, Richard Lutz finds

Between Glen App and the small harbour town of Ballantrae, the coastal path remains quiet.

And quiet means not too many feet.

And that means it’s where the wild things grow. Grasses, brambles, gorse, whin, bracken along with rills and bumps that lay hidden can trip you up and twist an ankle, a knee, a hip. And also hide the twisting track and sometimes the directional signs too.

The hundred miles of the Ayrshire Coastal Path therefore need a bit of care. Not gentle care either. I guess you’d call it tough love really. Noisy strimmers and petrol bushwhackers along with razor sharp pruners cut back the growing brush to manageable lengths especially on sharp steep coastal edges so no one gets hurt or takes a tumble. You don’t want to fall down a gully around here.

That’s why it’s gets a severe haircut whenever possible. It’s vital.

Especially when you’re confronted with the blue of an eternal western afternoon sky and an empty shoreline below. A gaze tends to take your eye off where you’re going and a small pebble can become a ballbearing and down you go.

And if you’re alone on this lonely beautiful stretch of headland…well… you’re really on your own. And that’s why it’s a good idea, say many, to walk with someone. Anyone will do. It doesn’t take much to get into trouble. You look out at a rock and see it move. It’s full of seals. You see a cormorant still as a black statue spreading its wings to grab a breeze. You watch fulmars and oystercatchers whisk below the headland. Your gaze wanders to a smuggler’s cove. You’re not watching your step.

And the terrain alters. Bracken and ferns reach hip height very quickly. If not chopped back, a brief belt of rain with your name written on it will make it slippery, muddy and hard to keep a stride on a headland that is on an angle anyway.

It’s a tilted world ready for mischief. And maybe that’s one reason I always keep a whistle hidden in the recesses of my rotten old backpack. Why? I’m not sure. But one troubled day, I’ll find out when I take my eye off the path and tumble.

Failing the time and energy of going to places like Glen App where the land meets the sea, there’s an easier way to bring the outdoors home to a front step. Try this:

Take a terminally knackered pair of old boots. And recycle. They grace any garden. And cost a whole lot less (actually nothing) than those fancy schmancy pots you get soaked for online or blow a deep hole in your credit card. Then stuff them with whatever’s around and chuck some nasturtium in for no apparent reason.

I’m no great innovator, by the way. I borrowed (ie, stole) the idea from a Cumbrian village called Kirkby Stephen which decorates its front doors with Old Boot flower pots. Nice idea. And, a tip: the more beat up, the more leaky the boot, the better it is as a flower container. And that’s a well known fact. Keep it in mind.