Once there was a toll here, and here clandestine marriages used to be performed by priests, the last of whom died from an accident some time ago.
I was told I would see a sign pointing out the house for border marriages, but probably it has been removed. These border marriages were considered a saving in money and in time. The priests were not slow in looking out for custom, and would even suggest marriage to likely couples. One priest is said to have united no less than one thousand five hundred.
An old lady came out from the door of one of the cots. I asked her civilly, and I hope pleasantly, if she would marry either my coachman or my valet.
She said no, she kept hens, and they were care and trouble enough.
I found some ginger-ale in the cheffonier, and had it out, and we all drank--
"Here"s a health, bonnie Scotland, to thee."
Then I got the guitar, and sang as the horses trotted merrily on, with music in their footsteps, music in every jingle of their harness, and poetry in their proudly tossing manes.
The scenery around us was pleasant enough, but strange. Of the land we could not see half a mile in any direction, for the scenery was a series of great round knolls, or small hills, cultivated to the top, but treeless and bare. It put me in mind of being in the doldrums in the tropics, every knoll or hill representing an immense smooth wave.
The sea, close down on our right beneath the green-topped beetling cliffs, was as blue as ever I had known it to be.
We stopped for a few minutes to gaze and admire.
There was a stiff breeze blowing, that made the Wanderer rock like a ship in a sea-way. There were the scream of gulls, the cawing of rooks, and the whistling of the wind through the ventilators, and the whispering of the waves on the beach beneath the cliffs, but no other sound to break the evening stillness.
Within two miles of Ayton the road sweeps inland, and away from the sea, and a beautiful country bursts all at once upon the view.
On this evening the sun"s rays slanted downwards from behind great clouds, lighting up the trees and the hills, but causing the firs and spruces that were in shadow to appear almost black.
Ayton Castle was pa.s.sed on the right, just before we crossed the bridge and rattled into the sweet wee town of Ayton itself. The castle is a modern house of somewhat fantastic appearance, but placed upon the braeland there, among the woods, it looks charming, and the braeland itself is a cloudland of green.
Ayton is placed in a lovely valley on the River Eye, which goes wimpling and winding round it. The town itself is pretty, rural, quaint, and quiet. I do wonder if it is a health resort or not, or whether turtle-doves go there to spend the honeymoon.
If they do not they ought to.
The landlord of the hotel where I put my horses, like myself, came from the far north; he soon found me a stand for the Wanderer, a quiet corner in a farmer"s field, where we lay snug enough.
Towards sunset about ten waggon loads of happy children pa.s.sed by. They had been at some _fete_ or feast. How they did laugh and crow when they saw the great caravan, and how they did wave their green boughs and cheer!
What else could I do but wave my hat in return? which had the effect of making them start to their feet and shout till the very welkin rang, and the woods of bonnie Ayton re-echoed the sound.
Reader, a word here parenthetically. I was not over-well when I started from home just one month ago. I got up from "the drudgery of the desk"s dull wood" to start on my tour. Now I am hard in flesh, and I have the power to enjoy life as one ought to. Here is an extract from my diary of to-day written on the road:
"How brightly the sun is shining. What a delightful sensation of perfect freedom possesses me! I cannot be too thankful to G.o.d for this the most enjoyable of all travels or outings I have ever had during a somewhat chequered career. It would hardly be too much to say that at this moment I feel perfectly happy and content, and that is surely saying a deal in a world like this."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
THE JOURNEY TO DUNBAR--A RAINY DAY.
"I lay upon the headland height and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist."
Longfellow.
July 18th.
We make an early start this morning. The horses are in, and we are out of the field before eight o"clock. We have a long journey before us-- three-and-twenty miles to Dunbar--and do it we must.
It is raining in torrents; every hilltop is wrapped in mist as in a gauze veil. The country is fertile, but trees and hedges are dripping, and if the hills are high, we know it not, seeing only their foundations.
About four miles on, the road enters a beautiful wood of oak, through which the path goes winding. There is clovery sward on each side, and the trees almost meet overhead.
Some six miles from Co"burn"s path we stop at a small wayside grocery to oil the wheel-caps, which have got hot. I purchase here the most delicious b.u.t.ter ever I tasted for ten pence a pound. The rain has ceased, and the breaking clouds give promise of a fine day.
I inquire of a crofter how far it is to Inverness.
"Inverness?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, with eyes as big as florins. "Man! it"s a far cry to Inverness."
On again, pa.s.sing for miles through a pretty country, but nowhere is there an extensive view, for the hills are close around us, and the road is a very winding one. It winds and it "wimples" through among green knolls and bosky glens; it dips into deep, deep dells, and rises over tree-clad steeps.
This may read romantic enough, but, truth to tell, we like neither the dips nor the rises.
But look at this charming wood close on our right, a great bank of st.u.r.dy old oaks and birches, and among them wild roses are blooming--for even here in Scotland the roses have not yet deserted us. Those birken trees, how they perfume the summer air around us! From among the brackens that grow beneath, so rank and green, rich crimson foxglove bells are peeping, and a thousand other flowers make this wild bank a thing of beauty. Surely by moonlight the fairies haunt it and hold their revels here.
We pa.s.s by many a quiet and rural hamlet, the cottages in which are of the most primitive style of architecture, but everywhere gay with gardens, flowers, and climbing plants. It does one good to behold them.
Porches are greatly in vogue, very rustic ones, made of fir-trees with the bark left on, but none the less lovely on that account.
Here is the porch of a house in which surely superst.i.tion still lingers, for the porch, and even the windows, are surrounded with honeysuckle and rowan. [Rowan, or rantle tree,--the mountain ash.]
"Rantle tree and wood-bin To haud the witches on come in."
[To keep the witches out.]
The mists have cleared away.
We soon come to a high hill overtopped by a wood. There are clearings here and there in this wood, and these are draped with purple heath, and just beneath that crimson patch yonder is a dark cave-like hole. That is the mouth of a loathsome railway tunnel. There may be a people-laden train in it now. From my heart I pity them. _They_ are in the dark, we in the sunshine, with the cool breeze blowing in our faces, and as free as the birds. _We_ are on the hill; _they_ are in the hole.
As we near Co"burn"s path the scenery gets more and more romantic. A peep at that wondrous tree-clad hill to the right is worth a king"s ransom. And the best of it is that to-day we have all the road to ourselves.
I stopped by a brook a few minutes ago to cull some splendid wild flowers. A great water-rat (_bank-vole_) eyed me curiously for a few moments, then disappeared with a splash in the water as if he had been a miniature water-kelpie. High up among the woods I could hear the plaintive croodling of the cushie-doo, or wild pigeon, and Dear me, on a thorn-bush, the pitiful "Chick-chick-chick-chick-chee-e-e" of the yellow-hammer. But save these sweet sounds all was silent, and the road and country seemed deserted. Where are our tourists? where our health and pleasure-seekers? "Doing" Scotland somewhere on beaten tracks, following each other as do the wild geese.
We climb a hill; we descend into a deep and wooded ravine, dark even at midday, cross a most romantic bridge, and the horses claw the road as they stagger up again.
A fine old ruined castle among the pinewoods. It has a story, which here I may not tell.
If ever, reader, you come this way, visit Pease Dene and the bridge.
What a minglement is here of the beautiful in art and the awesome in nature!
Are you fond of history? Well, here in this very spot, where the Wanderer rests for a little time, did Cromwell, with his terrible battle-cry, "The Lord of hosts," defeat the Scottish Covenanters. It was a fearful tulzie; I shudder when I look round and think of it.