45. Nun Mill Bay to Brighouse Bay

On this the third day of my weekend trip to Dumfries and Galloway, I’m filling in a little of the gap I created by jumping ahead to Brighouse Bay on Saturday.

It’ll take a couple more walks to fill the gap completely, but that’ll require another weekend… a weekend when I don’t need to dodge tanks and bullets.

I drive to Brighouse Bay, where the taxi dropped me off yesterday, and get the bike out of the back of my car. There’s no phone signal at the Brighouse Bay beach car park, which means I can’t use Google Maps to get me to the start, but I know I have to head roughly north-east to get there, so I open the compass app on my iPhone and set off in the direction it shows me… south westwards… eh? I know the phone compass can be a bit off sometimes – it uses a magnetometer (a sensor that detects magnetic fields) so any magnets close by can veer it off a bit – but 180° out? That seems unlikely, especially as I don’t have any magnets on me… and I don’t think it’s my personality. Apple’s website has a disclaimer:

Important: The accuracy of the compass can be affected by magnetic or environmental interference; even the magnets in the iPhone EarPods can cause a deviation. Use the digital compass only for basic navigation assistance. Don’t rely on it to determine precise location, proximity, distance, or direction.

Since Apple assures me that it is only imprecise rather than diametrically wrong, the only conclusion I can reach is that there’s a giant alien spacecraft buried underneath the car park, just waiting for their moment to emerge and take over the world with their super magnet rail-gun weapon… it’s the only logical explanation. Where better to hide than Brighouse Bay in Dumfries and Galloway? I’d better get away from here as quickly as I can. I spin the bike round and head off at full speed in the other direction. I hope their spacecraft can’t keep up with my electric bike, especially now I’ve disabled the 15mph limit on it.

It’s only a short bike ride to Nun Mill Bay, as it misses out the whole Ross peninsula, so I have no battery level anxiety – only alien world takeover anxiety which is a tad easier to deal with – so I can freewheel all the way. I arrive at the big car park at Nun Mill Bay (or Dhoon Bay as it’s alternatively called), where lots of camper vans are already parked up, and lock my bike to a large electronic sign warning of aggressive gulls. I have an urge to shout out “Stuff the gulls, there’s an alien spaceship up the road!“, but I don’t want to spread panic.

The OS map here shows a big sandbank called the “Devil’s Thrashing Floor“, which conjures up images of a raging stormy sea. Today, the sun and the tide are both out, so it’s anything but. However, in 1887 the Preston brig “Just” was lost here as were the Whitehaven brig “Mary Isabella”, the Harrington brig “Dido” and the Workington brig “Joshua” all in the same storm in 1822.

Also wrecked here was the schooner Monreith, which in November 1900 was on a voyage from Newcastle, County Down to Silloth carrying 110 tons of granite kerb stones when she put into Kirkcudbright Bay and struck the sand bar. Her crew all got safely ashore luckily, but the skeleton of the wreck is still here, a couple of hundred yards out into the bay. As it’s low tide, I march out across the sands to see it.

The route that I had planned for this section starts along the road, then joins a path running southwards along the coast. I can see the path amongst the trees from here, and as I’m already into my journey in that direction, I decide to take a shortcut and clamber over the rocks and up onto the path.

As I get closer to the rocks the sand gets siltier, and my feet sink into it, getting my brand new walking shoes filthy. I know they were going to get dirty eventually, but I was trying to delay the moment as long as possible. I get up onto the path, round a corner and come to a gate… which is locked.

It seems I’m on private property, and this isn’t the public path, which must be further up the hill. Normally I’d try to find a way round or over the flimsy gate, but there are ladders here, and I can hear someone with a chainsaw somewhere near, so not fancying getting caught spreadeagled in a pile of shattered gate remnants – especially by a man with a chainsaw – I retreat back to the silty beach. Heading a little further south there’s a stony section, and directly above it, the public path.

This is really pleasant, ambling through the woods, with views down to frequent tiny rocky bays.

However, after it passes the remains of Senwick Church (which I completely miss amongst the trees and undergrowth, probably due to a severe period of daydreaming) the path narrows and become less distinct, often reverting to just a vague impression through the soaking wet waist-high grass. In no time at all my supposedly “waterproof” new shoes demonstrate that it was just a marketing slogan rather than a description. At least it’s washed the mud off them. My thin walking trousers let all the water through – although they dry quickly so that’s not such a problem – but they also let all the nettle stings through.

The path dips down to the head of a tiny beach with dark golden sand, where a fisherman is just setting up his gear down by the water. This is “Shaw Hole” according to the map.

Finally the path emerges from the forest, into an overgrown small field… here comes another soaking.

Luckily the waist high wet grass doesn’t extend for long, and I emerge into a tiny field, home to a selection of modern looking beehives, their residents happily buzzing around .

A track veers right and leads westwards along the northern edge of Ross Bay. Across the bay a couple of white cottages sit with enviable views from their front windows. Predictably, they turn out to be holiday lets. Does anyone still live full time on the coast I wonder?

At the head of the bay is a farm with several buildings – now converted to holiday cottages. This is a recurring theme, not just in Britain but around Europe as well. The countryside, the coast, the cities are full of properties to rent for holidays, with little affordable housing for locals to buy. That’s one reason why I left Cornwall at 18 years of age. In the news recently there have been stories of locals in tourist hotspots around Europe – Greek islands, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Athens, Malaga – who have had enough and are actively discouraging tourists. It’s understandable. This morning I heard that in Florence 35% of properties in the city are now holiday lets, forcing locals out of the city centre. Portugal has closed their golden visa scheme where you could get citizenship if you bought and renovated a property, because property prices in the city have reached a level where few locals can afford it.

The path reaches a lane, where thankfully my shoes will start to dry out. I always carry a spare pair of socks, so take the opportunity to take my shoes off, wring out my old socks, and put the clean ones on. I get a couple of pints of water out of them. I realise afterwards I’m being spied on.

The lane passes in front of the farm and holiday cottages. They do have nice views out to sea.

The lane passes some calves (they may not be there if you come here), reaches the white cottages, where the route takes a right turn through a gate and up a steep track over a field to the peak of Meikle Ross, rather than continuing around the periphery of the Ross peninsula.

At the entrance to the field is a long helpful sign with advice for walkers and dog owners, and next to it a quick summary stating that they’ll shoot your dog.

The view when I get to the top is fantastic. To the east is Kirkcudbright Bay and beyond it the gap I’ve left and need to fill once the army take a break from shooting things up over there.

Straight ahead of me is the island of Little Ross, with its lighthouse standing on the summit, which duly goes into my collection of lighthouses.

At the northern end of the island is an unlit beacon that was built in 1819 and enabled daylight navigation into the River Dee and Kirkcudbright, but was deemed insufficient after a storm in 1822 saw five vessels lost and a ship’s captain killed, and led to the building of the lighthouse.

This peaceful little island with it’s pretty lighthouse has a rather gruesome story to tell though.

On 18 August 1960 David Collin made a boat trip over to the island for a picnic with his father. They set out for Little Ross island off Kirkcudbright in the family dinghy to explore the bay. When they arrived on the island, things immediately felt a little bit different from previous trips.

“Both of us were surprised that there were no people in evidence, there were no keepers,” said Mr Collin.

“Usually you saw the keepers somewhere but we thought perhaps they were asleep after being on watch half the night so we didn’t pay too much attention.”

They went up to the lighthouse tower to introduce themselves but got no answer and went for their picnic.

“My father eventually plucked up courage and went into one of the houses, in fact we both went into the house on the right, the principal keeper’s house,” said the retired architect.

“Everything was spick and span, neat, clean, tidy, beautiful – a budgie singing in its cage – no sign of anybody.

“My father went into the second house – I didn’t go in – but he quickly came running out and said: ‘Get help if you can, there is a man ill in his bed’.”

Mr Collin ran to the east quay where he knew two people were lobster fishing – one of them came ashore and all three went into the room.

“We found an elderly man lying in his bed…he was tucked up in his pyjamas and there was a towel beside his head, partially covering his head,” he said.

“We didn’t disturb him at all but we kind of got the impression he was dead, but we didn’t really know and we didn’t have medical expertise so we were fairly cautious.”

His father phoned the police and the doctor in Kirkcudbright and they then waited for help to come.

It quickly emerged, however, that the lighthouse keeper had been killed.

“In fact, the relief keeper Hugh Clark had been shot by the assistant keeper Robert Dickson at very close range with a .22 rifle.”

Dickson had fled the island but he was later arrested in Yorkshire and came to trial at the High Court in Dumfries. The murder and subsequent court case grabbed the attention of the national media, generating lurid headlines and much misinformed speculation. Despite a defence plea of insanity, Dickson was convicted of capital murder and sentenced to hang. That death penalty was later commuted to life in prison but Dickson took his own life in jail.

The path meanders across a golden field of corn stubble, and reaches a gate in the far corner. It then passes through a small vale between the rounded peaks of Meikle Ross and Ree of Ross before emerging above Slack Heugh Bay.

I’m distracted by something shouting at me close by…

This little fella seems most perturbed that I’m walking through his territory, and makes it abundantly clear that he wants me to **** off. I’m so shocked by his language that I mess up the focus on his photograph. I don’t know what he is initially, but I’ve recently downloaded a great app on my phone – Merlin Bird ID – which I fire up, set to record, and it tells me very quickly that the offensive little guy is a European Stonechat. The app identifies the bird, but can’t translate what he’s saying unfortunately, not that I’d be able to publish his profane rant anyway. The stonechat doesn’t seem in the mood for a chat, so I move swiftly on.

Looking down the the hill I can see the route of the track is blocked by a herd of cattle, with their calves. Rather than mix it up with them I veer left towards the coast, which looks a bit boggy, but I’ll take my chances.

My Komoot app tells me that the route leads down here anyway but I’m not so sure, there’s a vague path down to the shore but beyond that no identifiable route. I pass a couple of ponds filled with water lilies – unfortunately not flowering at the moment. The pond water seems to be emerging from the bottom of the pond from an underground spring.

I get to the shore, then its a rough clamber over boulders to skirt round the cows, until I get back onto the track.

Some digging work has been going on here, which is now fenced off. Is this an archeological dig? It looks more like the foundations of some small building, but it’s very small. I’ve no idea.

The track fizzles out completely as I come to an area of machair, marked as “The Bents” on the OS map. There are several huge patches of yellow flag iris which look fantastic… a bit annoying as I’ve just paid £10 at the garden centre for just one of those.

There’s no particular evidence of the path now, not where my app says it should be or anywhere else for that matter, except for occasional spots where it miraculously re-appears and passes through a gate or a style, before disappearing again. I pass a couple coming the other way that have chosen a route down by the shore that looks much more difficult than my wade through the tall grass. I leave them to it. On the OS map this area is called “The Fauldbog”.

I reach a gate in a fence, pass through, and climb up onto a promontory – the Mull Of Ross according to the map. Up here it’s more like moorland, but there’s still no identifiable path so I just keep moving in roughly the right direction. It’s very nice though and I’m enjoying myself.

Occasional patches of ground-hugging flowers line the route, this purple one is Mother of Thyme (thanks to Flora Incognita app). I’m not sure what the white one is.

The path becomes more apparent, and passes a cairn / pile of stones. I consider adding a stone to the pile, but it’s about 10 feet off the route of the path and I don’t consider the extra few seconds or the diversion worth the effort. Clearly enough people with a much lower boredom threshold than me – or just with less things to do – did.

The relatively new hobby of stone balancing is mightily impressive, and I’ve seen some attempts on my walk around the coast and they look great, but just piling stones into a mound like this seems a strange thing to want to do. I guess some strange people collect train numbers, and other strange people collect piers, lighthouses, lifeboat stations, animals, and plants. There’s nowt so queer as folk.

The path crosses a grassy area with views over Brighouse Bay – my destination today – then diverts sharp left into a thicket of gorse, with a gap just wide enough to squeeze through without being too uncomfortable. It passes through a gate with another dog-shooting warning sign, then emerges next to a small cottage – another holiday let unsurprisingly – next to a small jetty.

The jetty is not marked on the OS map, so I decide not to add it to my collection of piers as I wouldn’t know what its name was – and it’s way too small anyway. I still walk to the end of it as is my habit, and take a picture of the sands of Brighouse Bay under a brooding sky, and another one out to sea.

The path joins a track that runs along the south-eastern edge of the bay. I climb down onto the beach to walk along the hard sand. Despite the threatening skies there are quite a few people – mostly dog-walkers – strolling across the sand.

At the other end of the beach, a path squeezes between bushes and emerges into the car park where I previously encountered the “magnetic anomaly”. I hastily get into my car and speed off before that alien spaceship emerges from beneath.

It’s only after I arrive back in Nun Mill Bay to pick up my bike that I notice the small notice above the seagull warning sign stating “DANGER Quicksand. Please stay clear of the wreck”.

Clearly the gulls are considered more dangerous than the quicksand… but only I know that there is a much more sinister danger round here, if only anybody knew.

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This walk was completed on 9th June 2024, and was 7.2 miles long. Here’s the real-time recorded map of my actual route, which you can pan and zoom around: