(Distance walked twenty miles.)

Thursday, October 5th.

We were up early this morning and went to have a look round the village of Drymen and its surroundings before breakfast.  We were quite near Buchanan Castle, and took the liberty of trespassing for a short time in the walks and woods surrounding it.  The Duke of Montrose here reigned supreme, his family the Grahams having been in possession for twenty generations; among his ancestors were Sir Patrick de Graham, who was killed at the Battle of Dunbar in 1296, and Sir John de Graham, the beloved friend of the immortal Wallace, who was slain at the Battle of Falkirk in 1298.  The village had been built in the form of a square which enclosed a large field of grass called the Cross Green, with nothing remarkable about it beyond an enormous ash tree supposed to be over 300 years old which stood in the churchyard.  It measured about 17 feet in circumference at 5 feet from the ground, and was called the Bell Tree, because the church bell which summoned the villagers to worship was suspended from one of its branches.  The tree began to show signs of decay, so eventually the bell had to be taken down and a belfry built to receive it.

[Illustration:  THE SQUARE, DRYMEN]

We finished our breakfast at 8.30, and then, with the roads in a fearfully muddy condition owing to heavy downfalls of rain, started on our walk towards Stirling.  The region here was pleasing agricultural country, and we passed many large and well-stocked farms on our way, some of them having as many as a hundred stacks of corn and beans in their stack-yards.  After walking about seven miles we arrived at the dismal-looking village of Buchlyvie, where we saw many houses in ruins, standing in all their gloominess as evidences of the devastating effects of war.  Some of the inhabitants were trying to eke out their livelihood by hand-loom weaving, but there was a poverty-stricken appearance about the place which had, we found, altered but little since Sir Walter Scott wrote of it in the following rhyme which he had copied from an old ballad: 

  Baron of Buchlivie,
  May the foul fiend drive ye
  And a’ to pieces rive ye
  For building sic a town,
  Where there’s neither horse meat
  Nor man’s meat, nor a chair to sit down.

We did not find the place quite so bad as that, for there were two or three small inns where travellers could get refreshments and a chair to sit down upon; but we did not halt for these luxuries until we reached Kippen, about five miles farther on.  Before arriving there we overtook two drovers who were well acquainted with Glencoe and the Devil’s Stairs, and when we told them of our adventures there they said we were very lucky to have had a fine day when we crossed those hills.  They told us the story of the two young men who perished there, but thought their death was partially caused through lack of food.  Kippen,