Lockdown walk: Julia and Jasper - take three!
Register for free to read more of the latest local news. It's easy and will only take a moment.
'Up the Top': The Yalla Whins, Fezzies and Ducks!
Julia King, from Macduff, and her dog Jasper continue their walks around Banffshire for her 93-year-old mum, who lives in England and she hasn't seen in lockdown. She wanted her to share in the wonder of the local area by describing her walks.
Jasper's lockdown locks have become insupportable. They harbour an entire ecosystem of their own with embedded burrs and entangled twigs that will never be coaxed out by a comb, and he can hardly see through his fringe. But try to remove any of his collection or approach him bearing scissors and all hell breaks loose in a frenzy of snarls, snaps and bared teeth. Our normally happy waggy-tailed boy reverts to wolf! Heaven only knows how the dog groomer (classed as non-esssential and currently not operating) deals with him. I suspect she knocks him out with lavender oil or puts him in a doggy straight jacket plus muzzle, probably both.
Whatever method she uses, he always emerges shorn, svelte and exuding wafts of Johnson's baby powder - the exact opposite of his present state - shaggy, unkempt and smelling like the bottom of a pond. So, where to take him when the tide is too high for the beach, but where he cannot accumulate yet more plant detrius in his furry depths? The answer has to be 'up the top', to the gorse-covered Hill of Doune and the Temple of Venus.
We take a left turn from the House and, with Jasper on the lead, set off at a cracking pace. A friend who used to live at the top of the road told me that from her kitchen window she would catch a brief glimpse of an outstretched arm and blur of a red anorac, and know that 'J Squared' (Jasper & Julia) were on the move! I feel a feeble fool being swept along in this manner by a dog who looks relatively small, but he's deceptively powerful and spaniels are notoriously difficult to train to 'walk to heel'. But by the time we reach the foot of the near-vertical hill, known as Canker's Knowe,
leading up to the war memorial, I am heartily grateful for his impressive haulage capabilities.
The war memorial is a tall, slender, castellated, medieval-looking octagonal tower, 63 feet high, and made of Kemnay granite. Built to a design by John Fowie, at one time employed on Lord Seafield's estate, it was actually constructed between April 1921 and October 1922. The names of those from Macduff who perished in the two world wards, and later, are remembered in plaques around its base.
From its hilltop perch there's a panoramic view of the towns of Banff and Macduff, the surrounding sea, and mountains beyond. I love the fact that we can see the brooding tower from our garden and that, like the church atop another hill, it's a landmark to mariners from the sea.
We continue past the memorial in a perfectly straight line from the house until we come to an uphill alleyway between residential gardens. Jasper accelerates in happy anticipation of the doggy paradise beyond - a large expanse of grassy scrubland and gorse, home to his beloved 'fezzies' (pheasants). His greatest joy here is to pick up a scent, scuttle along like a demented duracell bunny, nose down, tail up, tracking it to its source. Then the moment of triumph, he flushes the poor bird out from wherever its been sheltering and it rises into the air from a near vertical take off with a great whoosh and flapping of wings. Jasper is beside himself with the excitement of his achievement and bounces up and down, looking wildly from me to the rapidly disappearing bird with what looks like an enormous grin. But his elation soon turns to disappointment as I fail to fulfil my function in this exercise. I am now supposed to shoot the bird and bring it down so that the talented Jasper may then demonstrate his formidable retrieval skills. "What a let down" his expression tells me, before he bounces away following yet another scent, always willing to give me a second chance.
This time he disappears for ages and I welcome the respite form our furious pace. But it's gone suspiciously quiet for some time so I decide I had better retrace my steps and investigate.
I find Jasper guarding a gorse bush and periodically snuffling into its depths. When he sees me he starts barking, which is unusual, so I rush over to see what's wrong. A long elegant brown and beige tail feather protrudes from the tangled roots of the bush and I see that a poor bird has gone to ground with Jasper in pursuit, but cannot now penetrate any further, nor dare re-emerge with Jasper standing guard. To his great credit Jasper has not tried to maul the bird or pull it out from its hiding place. It's as though, without any training in game bird retrieval, he's hard wired to know that he must not hurt or harm his prey. I tell him he's a clever boy, but we must leave this particular fezzie to its own devices and continue on our way. We take a gravel track past the BT phone mast, leading to the imposing Dickensian-looking building that is Dounemount Care Home on our left whilst our good friend, the grey horse, lives in the field on our right. He's a handsome, friendly fellow. I've never seen him being ridden, or even leaving his field, but an elderly gentleman comes to feed him each evening and he seems content to graze the meagre grass in his field and watch the world go by, the comings and goings of the care home and passing walkers who might offer a carrot or apple.
We cross the Gellymill Road,which here has narrowed to a country lane, and start skirting the rolling fields that lead to the Temple of Venus. These farmer's fields for me, more than anything, mark the rhythms of nature and the changing seasons, with their never ending cycle of ploughing, sowing, the barley growing from tiny green shoots to full golden, bearded 'John Barleycorn' crop, swaying and dancing to every sea breeze, through harvesting and laying fallow during winter months. Like most places in Macduff the terrain is hilly and undulating. Once, walking around these fields in early September with my daughter, Laura, a combine harvester suddenly loomed over the crest of a hill, bearing down on us, and sending us screaming and running for shelter amongst the gorse! Just a few weeks ago we avoided the fields as the tractor was chugging to and fro in great swirls, creating clouds of dust as it scattered the seed. Now, in early May, the land is covered with a green velveteen sheen as the first shoots of the new crop start to emerge.
We're now walking towards the sea, but so high above it we can look down the gorse covered hillside to waves crashing beneath us. Our path leaves the fields and briefly disappears between the high 'yalla whins', then emerges onto more grassy scrubland and, straight ahead of us is the Temple of Venus. The little belvedere temple was designed by William Adam, architect of Duff House, as a folly to be seen from the house, which nestles amongst its woodland in the distance below us, across the river and the golf course. Just its four roof top turrets are currently visible amongst the greenery.
We are at the summit of the Hill of Doune with breathtaking views along the River Deveron and its bridge, to the sea, across the entire town of Banff, and the hazy mountains beyond. The temple was constructed in 1737 and was originally home to a statue of the godess Venus, but she was removed when the Duke of Fife (formerly the 6th Earl), having married into the royal family and no longer wishing to live at Duff House, gave the house and estate to the people of Banff and Macduff in 1906.
The little fishing village of Doune was renamed Macduff in 1783 when James Duff, the 2nd Earl Fife, raised it to the status of a burgh and built the harbour, the one in Banff being prone to silting up. Today Banff harbour houses mainly small leisure craft, whilst Macduff takes far larger fishing vessels which often come in for repair and maintenance. But the name 'Doune' remains firmly embedded in the fabric of the town and its placenames. A bronze age urn was discovered on the Hill of Doune in 1769 and local tradition has it that the farmland adjacent to the temple was the site of a Pictish wooden palisade fort around 1,200 years ago. The innate history bore in me always experiences a frisson of excitement as I tread these paths and think of all those who have been here and experienced these places before me. I am sure their spirits linger!
Normally, we would from here continue our loop around the fields and head for home but, continuing our trend for longer and more exploratory walks during quarantine, we now descend the Hill of Doune and continue towards Banff.
This entails a very steep drop through the blazing golden gorse. But in the case of a great swathe of these bushes there has quite literally been a very recent blaze as a whole section is simply charred skeletons. From January through to June or July Banff and Macduff are a riot of yellow gold as the gorse flowers and the sweet scent can be overwhelming. Looking from the Banff side of the river the whole of Macduff's Hill of Doune is lit up in gold.
I recall the story of Moses and the Burning Bush in the book of Exodus, when Moses was appointed by God to lead the Israelites out of Egypt into Canaan. We are told the bush was on fire but was not consumed by flames and I do wonder whether this was because God was actually communicating from the depths of a gorse bush in full glorious flower!
Our descent leads us beneath an old, picturesque and now overgrown railway bridge. The Prince of Wales, future Edward VI, arrived in Banff by rail for his 'shooting party' stay at Duff House in 1883, but the local railway network has long since closed, with the tracks taken up, although their old routes are often discernable and now form many an enjoyable, often easy walking, ramble through the countryside. From here we join a gravel track which leads down to the Macduff end of the Deveron bridge. Jasper's excitement mounts as he realises we're approaching the river and, once more on the lead, he overcomes his fear of big roads and traffic (admittedly not much at the moment!) for the wonderland on the other side. Free of his lead at the river estuary, he runs and runs....and runs, whilst I am doing a quick risk assessment. The tide is now receding, revealing an enticing expanse of golden sand; the river is fast flowing as it tumbles onwards to the sea; there is a strong wind blowing downriver, out to sea. There are several people and dogs on the Banff side of the river but no one (for Jasper to interfere with or annoy!) on ours. What could possibly go wrong? I take Jasper's ball thrower from my haversack and hurl his ball as far as I can for him to retrieve. This is usually his favourite game on the beach but for some reason he's having a 'go get it yourself' moment and has set his sights on more important issues.
Then I see them - three tiny specks bobbing alluringly in the centre of the choppy waters of the river, paddling steadily down towards the sea - ducks!!! Beloved water fowl! And he's off, launching himself straight into the frothy waters of the river and swimming strongly, propelled by the fast current and the wind, gaining on the ducks. Of course, as soon as he's within paw-striking distance of them they simply fly further ahead and then settle calmly back on the water and continue their journey seawards. This happens several times but the intrepid hound is not to be deterred....
I meanwhile, am running alongside to keep up, shouting myself hoarse, but my cries fall on large deaf ears which, battered as they are by wind and waves, couldn't hear me even if they wanted to. Just before they hit the churning spume and crashing waves where the river finally meets the sea, the ducks rise effortlessly from the writhing waters and fly back inland. Jasper doesn't seem to realise and continues swimming out to sea, waves now crashing over his head! Then he stops, as if treading water, peers around, disorientated, looking just like a seal with his sleek black head bobbing in the foam. Unlike me, he doesn't seem unduly panicked, rather he is just trying to assess the situation and decide which direction he should take. Just as I am on the point of plunging in to attempt a rescue, he seems to pull himself together, get his bearings, and starts swimming strongly, now against both tide and wind, back upriver.
Eventually he notices me, a deranged spectacle, waving and shouting, and redoubles his efforts. He emerges from the water, shakes himself, and give me his 'so where's my ball?' look. No Jasper! You are not having your ball. I'm cross, shaken, exhausted, and we're going home. He seems to get the message and trots along in subdued mode, although not quite tail between the legs, until we start the long slog back up the Hill of Doune, and then he's off again, merrily flushing out fezzies from the gorse.
As we pass the Temple of Venus I wonder what she would have made of the debacle on the beach below, viewing the follies of (wo)man and beast from her vantage point. Suddenly Jasper returns to my side and looks up at me with crumpled brow and sorrowful eyes which seem to say 'I'm sorry I failed in my mission today...but next time I'll get those ducks, and then this will be my favourite walk!'. Then he suddenly lifts his nose to the wind and is off, irrepressibly, in pursuit of yet another enticing scent, so that he misses my returning glare which would have conveyed the message:
'Hmmmm! Although all is forgiven, Jasper, I suspect we will NOT be doing this particular walk again in a hurry...!'
Postscript: We're not doing this walk for the time being as the pheasants are now nesting, very vulnerably, on the ground, amongst the 'yalla whins' (gorse bushes) - far too accessible and alluring for inquisitive hounds!
