Exploring the Mast Road from Priestland
Linda Brown
Chiff chaff, chiff chaff. For me, the insistent but cheery call of the aptly named chiffchaff always heralds the beginning of spring – that, and the welcome sight of wild daffodils and crocuses popping up along hedgerows.
This bright, if nippy, March morning, a little chiffchaff, fresh from its winter migration in southern Europe or North Africa is hopping from branch to branch in a tall ash tree loudly proclaiming its safe return to Ayrshire. Nearby, a crabbit sounding blue tit seems to be telling it off. With my eye fixed to my camera’s viewfinder, I manage to snap a few images of both birds.
Earlier today, my husband dropped me off just outside Priestland in East Ayrshire. From here, my plan is to walk the six and a half miles home along the rural road known locally as the Mast Road. Named after the Darvel TV transmitter located on the route, which has served the surrounding area for decades, the road climbs high above the Irvine Valley.
Well prepared, with my packed lunch and water bottle tucked in my rucksack, I cross the bridge over the River Irvine and steel myself for the steady uphill yomp. Soon Loudoun Hill, standing sentinel behind me, begins to shrink in the distance.
Walking the Mast Road always sparks memories – childhood sponsored walks, chaotic car treasure hunts and summer Friday evenings dropping off my son for weekend Scout camps at the Changue Burn.
Sheep lift their heads from their mid-morning munch, casting me judgemental looks as I huff and puff past. A host of sparrows skim low along the hedge tops, taking turns to zip in and out of the tangle of twigs and new greenery, already on the look-out for snug nesting spots.
I pause to take a breather. To my right, the town of Darvel sprawls across the valley floor, and above it, on the opposite hillside, the blades of turbines on the edge of Whitelee Windfarm turn with slow, hypnotic precision.
Further along the road, forests of sitka spruce – planted for future harvesting – mingle with native trees such as birch, beech and ash. Timber from fast-growing sitka is widely used, from the construction industry to paper manufacturing to even crafting musical instruments. Meantime, these dense woods shelter a variety of wildlife including squirrels, owls and weasels. Sometimes, if you’re lucky and keep sharp eyes peeled for antlers camouflaged among the trees, both roe and red deer can be spotted from the roadside. But imagine my surprise – nae, shock – when the road finally levels out and I spy two parrots, one bright red, the other deep blue (perhaps of the Monty Python Norwegian Blue persuasion?) clinging to a broad tree trunk. Now those are birds I never expected to see – and they don’t even flinch a feather when I snap their photo.
Moving on, I pass yet more sitka forest. Then the landscape opens up and I can see the TV transmitter and station – set well off the road, at over 500 feet tall the ‘mast’ dominates the bleak terrain around it. My grumbling stomach tells me I must be almost at the halfway point of my walk. So, it’s time to take a break and bring out the cheese pieces!
It’s too early in the year to hear the distinctive cuck-ooo call. Cuckoos, like chiffchaffs, are migratory birds, but they don’t tend to arrive back in Scotland until mid-to-late April. Over the last couple of years, I’ve heard a cuckoo – but never seen one – along the Mast Road. Of course, cuckoos are notorious for being rather shy and sleekit, laying their eggs in the nests of unsuspecting smaller birds, such as meadow pipits, reed warblers and dunnocks, leaving them to hatch the parasitic egg and rear a giant interloper. Mother Nature is nothing if not innovative, and, amazingly, the female cuckoo can adapt her eggs to resemble the size and colour of eggs laid by species she prefers to trick. When the baby cuckoo hatches, it dispatches any unfortunate unhatched eggs, or young chicks, belonging to the ‘adopted’ parents, ensuring it has the nest – and all the food – to itself. Despite all this cleverness, and the fact that Mother cuckoo can deposit as many as 25 eggs in different nests – cuckoo numbers are falling.
I’m finishing my sandwich when a pair of curious meadow pipits swoop down to land on nearby fence posts. I click some images and wonder if, come early summer, these wee birds will be run ragged, feeding a sturdy big chick with an insatiable appetite. If only I could warn them.
Another mile stomped and I’m heading downhill. I pass the farm track that leads up to the Gallow Law Cairn. The cairn – built by local miners during the General Strike to replace an earlier cairn commemorating Covenanter martyr, James Smith – celebrates its 100th anniversary this year. It’s well worth a wee visit; on clear days the views are marvellous, and allegedly, you can glimpse the top of Ben Lomond. But today I’m too tired to stray off the road and plod through a muddy field to reach it. I’ll return on another bright, dry day – when I might just get to hear a cuckoo too.
I follow the twists and turns of the road. A stoat darts out from undergrowth, sprints across the tarmac, then disappears under a hawthorn hedge, temporarily distracting me from the spectacular vista of Ayrshire opening up before me. I can see the Carrick Hills, and on the horizon, beyond a sliver of shimmering sea, Arran’s snow-capped peaks stand out stark against the pale blue sky. The island looks so close, you’d hardly think it was over thirty miles away.
As I try to inject a spring into my weary steps, my second chiffchaff of this spring pipes up from its perch on top of blossoming golden broom – chiff chaff chiff chaff. I bet he’s saying, “Still two miles to go. Get a shoogle on, slowcoach.”
