47. Gatehouse to Mossyard

I’ve been contemplating the route of this walk for months. Walking the coast west from Gatehouse presents two choices… an old military road that goes over the top of the mountain, or the A75 with its thundering lorries hurtling to and from Northern Ireland. Should I climb over the hill, or should I become roadkill? I was veering towards the latter, as I really don’t like walking up hills.

Then Billy’s post landed in my inbox and I found there’s a third way. Billy and Elizabeth had left Gatehouse with the tide receding, and found it quite easy to get nearly as far south as Ringdoo Point (the most southerly point of this section) by walking along the beach, only having to do a mile or so of the main road. I later also found Charles had gone this way – admittedly with mixed results. Hopefully I can do better, learning from their misfortunes… “on the shoulders of giants” and all that. We’ll see. I might do worse.

As you can see from the maps, the planned coastal route is mostly uncharted, and may involve wrapping myself round barbed wire fences, sinking in quick-sand (or quick-mud) and being swept out to sea, but that’s the enjoyment of coastal walking, isn’t it. Isn’t it? It sounds better than walking up a hill, to me anyway. It also avoids the A75 as much as is realistically possible.

The weekend of 22nd August 2025 has the perfect conjunction… a very low tide at 6:30pm on Friday evening, and no firing or activity of any sort at Dundrennan Ranges on the Saturday (I still have to plug that gap between Dundrennan and Mutehill). I can then drive home to Manchester in plenty of time for a night out on Sunday.

I had planned to catch the No 500 bus from Auchenlarie caravan park to the start of the walk in Gatehouse. It all planned out nicely last week, but this week…

Where have all the buses gone? I don’t fancy riding my electric bike along the A75 very much, so the only other options are to hitch or get a taxi. I need to get going while the tide is low so can’t risk waiting an hour for a ride, so taxi it is. Does anyone ever hitch-hike anymore? When was the last time you saw someone hitching? Chances are I’d never get picked up!

So I drive up to Auchenlarie on Friday afternoon – it’s a nightmare, Friday afternoon driving up the M6 on a bank holiday weekend! The taxi is booked for 5:30pm and I’m slightly nervous as one tailback merges into the next. However, I get there with 30 minutes to spare, the taxi arrives spot on time, and I’m in Gatehouse outside the Spar within 10 minutes. The driver told me that I can avoid even more of the A75 by going underneath it just outside Gatehouse – I’m very happy to give that a try.

So, off we go, heading south from the town centre, past the Mill On The Fleet…

…and the very inviting Ship Inn, that used to be the Anworth Hotel.

Here’s the River Fleet, from the bridge. The other day I was trying to remember the names of the rivers that flow through every reasonable size town that I’ve passed through on this adventure, but I was struggling. If I can’t remember them over the last 500 miles, I don’t stand a chance over 5000.

Fleet Street has a row of cottages and a care home, but all the printing presses seem to have gone.

At the bottom of the street, leaving town, is the start of the path that heads up over the mountain. This is the route chosen by Ruth and Helpful Mammal, who strangely prefer walking up hills to the uncertainties of sinking in quick-sand and/or getting run over. It takes all sorts.

The B796 is an easy walk, there’s a pavement, and shortly a very nice path down to the river, to the site of Port MacAdam. I described how the port was developed in my write-up for Brighouse Bay to Gatehouse. There’s pretty much nothing left of the old port now, but old pictures show several ships docking here to serve the mills of Gatehouse.

The path wends its way through some woods, very pleasant, and arrives at the old swing bridge that I visited from the other side of the river back in June last year.

The path rejoins the B796 at the entrance to Cardoness Castle, and just after that an open gate invites me into a field. At the far end of the field a path leads underneath the A75 and into another field.

This field borders the river as it reaches its mouth, and I follow down its left hand side hoping for a gate through to the shoreline.

Unfortunately all I reach is a marsh filled with reeds.

Looking at a satellite view there never was going to be a way through here, the taxi driver must have misremembered. At some point you have to cross the Boreland Burn, which is where the reeds are, and the nearest point to do that without getting muddy from the waist down is on the A75.

Oh well. A gate at the far end of the field leads me onto the main road.

High above the town of Gatehouse, Rutherford’s Monument peers down, apparently “erected A.D. 1842 in admiration of his eminent talents, extensive learning, ardent piety, ministerial faithfulness and distinguished public labours in the cause of civil and religious liberty“

Hmm, what a guy.

Traffic drives fast on the A75. Luckily, just a few yards along on the other side is a little lane serving a couple of cottages that allows me to avoid the road. At the end of that short lane is a longer lane on the other side of the main road that does the same thing.

If I get hungry, there’s plenty of food about. So far I’ve come across hazelnuts, mint, blackberries, hawthorn berries, sloes, and elderberries…

A veritable feast for Ray Mears, but just like him (evidently) I prefer chocolate, and I’ve got plenty of that in my bag.

The lane rejoins the A75, but it’s not too busy and has a solid white line at the edge beyond which there’s some space to walk. Across the road in a field is a menagerie of animals, long haired horses, a donkey, and sheep.

Another lane leads off on the right hand side of the road signposted to Anwoth, again getting me off the A75. Ivy stretches down from the trees like Spanish Moss in south eastern states of America.

The lane rejoins the A75 again, and I have to stay on it for a while this time, maybe half a mile, although there are a couple of laybys to avoid the traffic. The verge is wide enough and not too uneven to walk quite safely.

Looking out to sea I can see what I presume must be one of the Murray’s Isles… I think.

At Skyreburn, crossing the new bridge, the old bridge peers out from among the trees. I manage to create another one of those old/new comparison pictures. Where traffic once roared now trees reclaim the land… you can’t say that about many places.

After another short diversion along a lane, this is where I part ways for the rest of this walk with the A75. A tear wells up in my eyes and my heart feels heavy…. ah, just indigestion.

A small café – the Skyreburn Teapot – marks the point where I can get down onto the beach. It’s still a bit marshy here, but after bending over the reeds to use as stepping stones to avoid wet feet I manage to get to hard dry sand.

The going is easy… wet sand, dry sand, occasional rocks jutting up out of the beach, but never too impenetrable to stop my progress.

In one small bay, perched up on a rocky promontory is a tiny chapel. Colonel William Maxwell who had served with King William of Orange and was present at the Battle of The Boyne, had acquired the estate of Cardoness through his wife Nicholas Stewart (yes, she was called Nicholas, and she was loaded, so nobody took the piss out of her) and built a large house, “Cardoness”, and along with it a small chapel. His grandson, Sir David Maxwell, rebuilt the chapel in 1768 which is what stands today. A history of the house, chapel, and the estate is online here.

Now the days of exploiting serfs, pillaging, and being endowed with the spoils of war are starting to fade amongst the aristocracy, the Cardoness estate has resorted to making its money from static caravans. It’s not the regimented rows of depressing identical huts like some, these are almost randomly dotted amongst the trees, overlooking individual small bays. It’s very expensive tasteful.

Around the next headland is a tiny island with a yacht moored up nearby, like something from the cover of a Famous Five book…

Many of the tiny bays are filled with all sorts of boats. Watersports must be very popular here, as the sand is soft, the waves gentle, the sun blazing, and the water bloody freezing.

The beach stretches on and on, tiny bay, tiny headland, tiny bay, tiny headland. It’s very nice.

At Mossyard I reach a beach with a campsite at the top, and as the beach is getting a bit rocky I decide to head up to the campsite.

And this is where I make my big mistake. Rather than head inland and skirt around the edge of the fields (if you’re following me, do that!), I decide I can make it round the beach. My way starts a bit rocky…

but I can still step from rock to rock. Then it gets a little rockier…

I start to have to use my hands to make forward progress. It then becomes treacherous…

There’s got to be an easier way than this! The water is lapping at the base of the rocky outcrop so there’s no way through down there. I try climbing up to the top, but an impenetrable barrier of thick gorse and brambles blocks my way. I reluctantly admit to myself that I’m in a bit of trouble here.

I take a look at a satellite view on Google Maps, and see there’s a corner of a field up there, close by, if only I can get up to it. It looks easy on the satellite view, but very different down here!

I start climbing down a vertical drop, probably six feet or so, then near the bottom step awkwardly and lurch forwards. I catch myself with both hands and think I’m OK. “F***!” I exclaim in my usual eloquent and sophisticated way. I don’t feel hurt, but looking down I notice my hand is streaming blood. There’s so much of it I can’t see what the damage is, but it must be quite deep.

Clambering forward I can see a gap in the rocks which maybe will allow me an easier way up.

There’s still gorse and brambles dotted around here, but not impenetrable like it was earlier, and eventually I manage to clamber up to the top, where a stone wall marks the boundary of the field. All’s well!

I climb up on top of the wall, leaving a trail of blood behind me, only to discover there’s an electric fence just the other side of the wall. Bollocks. I drop my bag and camera down onto the long grass bordering the field, then jump down, over the live wire. Now, let’s take a look at the damage…

Hmm not sure. I get a wet wipe out of my bag and wrap it round my hand, that’ll have to do for now. It’s starting to get a bit dark, but the walk should be easy from here, across a couple of fields and through the caravan park and back to my car.

A gate allows easy access into the next field. What could go wrong…

Oh bugger, a herd of young bullocks, but I’m in no mood to take any shit off some cows. I head straight across the field with no eye contact. They part to let me pass, but then start following me. I hear their hooves quicken and realise they’re excited and up for a scrap. Great.

I turn around with my arms out and stamp towards them, which stops them for a while, but their curiosity wins out over their caution. I get to the other end of the field without them following too closely, only to find another electric fence. The cows gather round. This really is going fantastically…NOT!

While working out the best way to get up onto the wall without touching the fence, the bullocks come close to help me. I ask their advice but they tell me they’ve never managed to work it out themselves, unfortunately. I follow the wall up the hill a little and find some protruding stones – just enough for a foothold, and climb up onto the top of the wall, managing to avoid the bare wire. Jumping down the other side brings me into the caravan park. The bullock watch and learn.

The park seems like the hell-hole I expected it to be. Arcade machines, screaming kids, squat ugly dogs running wild… jeez I’m a snob!

A winding route up the steep hill gets me to the reception building and shop, where luckily I discover they sell antiseptic cream. The women running the shop kindly ask if I need first aid, but I have an emergency kit in my rucksack, and I decide to do it myself back at the hotel.

After several antiseptic wipes, loads of plasters and a bandage to stop the plasters falling off I’m set and ready for tomorrow’s 11 miles, but for now, a donor kebab from the takeaway opposite the hotel has my name on it…

Hopefully I won’t get gangrene…. or salmonella…

---

This walk was completed on 22nd August 2025, and was about 7.4 miles long. Here’s the annotated map of this not too successful walk:

And here’s the real-time recorded map of my route, which you can pan and zoom around: