From the Forth to Clyde
EDINA! Scotia’s darling seat!The contention, and the reconcilement, of Lowland and Highland, of the Saxon and Gael, may be read in the landscape, as in the history and in the speech, manners and character of the people living there in the land between the Lummermuirs and the Moorfoots and the sea. The North Sea and the Firth that wash its Eastern and Northern coasts render it easy of access by salt water. But on the land side it is girded, for the most part, by a broad and high rampart of moorland hills, which, in the days when Scotland and Lothian were coming into being, were a much more formidable barrier to intercourse and aggression than in modern times.
Many gain their first glimpse of Edinburgh from the crest of Soutra Hill. This is on the ancient “King’s Way,” known also as “Malcolm’s Road” and “Dere Street,” by which the Romans penetrated into the Unknown North.
Few are those who reach the crown of the ascent and do not pause and gaze down and abroad. For below is spread, along with the loveliness of the Lothians, a wide page of the story of Scotland. With broken outlines of crest and hollow – for volcanic forces have been at work in shaping the landscape – the hills subside to the plain and to the sea. In glimpses “the gallant Firth the eye may note.” With the May Island, and Bass, past Berwick Law and Athur’s Seat, to where it narrows at the “Queen’s Ferry.”
East Lothian is spread below as in a map. Much is seen but much is concealed, or only suggested. The highway in front winds deep down steeply to the lower levels on its way to Edinburgh and, a few miles beyond the spire of Fala Kirk, tilts over into the upper valley of the Lothian Tyne at Pathhead and Ford, and is lost in the spacious woods of Oxenford and Vogrie, and of Prestonhall and Fordel. To the right, in “lirks” of the hills, or in curves of the wood-fringed streams descending to the Tyne, are homes of old romance that are also beauty-spots – Johnstounburn and Woodcote and, farther apart, Salton, the seat of the Fletchers, renowned in national story and in that of the agriculture which has made this part of Lothian so famous.
“Goblins’ Ha’,” on the trail of “Marmion,” is hidden in a fold of the hills behind the Lammerlaw. Noble timber surrounds it, and at the gates is the village of Gifford, which contests with Ormiston and with Dirleton, the praise of being the prettiest village in the Lothians.
The ancient burgh of Haddington lies crouched in the Lower Valley of the Tyne, under the Garleton Hills. It is a county town with a long history going back beyond the War of Independence, and can boast that in it, or in its close neighbourhood, were born and reared William Dunbar, Scotland’s Chaucer, John Major, her early historian, and John Knox, her great Reformer.
Whittinghame, also, the hatching place of the Rizzio Plot, is out of view, like the massive shape of Lethington, now Lennoxlove, as are the stately fabric of Biel, and other haunts of beauty in a historic and fertile country. Dunbar is well apart, round the corner of the Doon Hill, whence the Covenanting Army descended to receive, by the Broxburn ravine, its quietus at the merciless hands of Oliver Cromwell.
These, with Dunbar Town and Castle itself, are best reached by taking the coast route, by the defile of Cockburnspath and the Pease Bridge, and past the charming wooded dens of Dunglass and of Bilsden, and of Thornton and Thurston, each of them guarded by a fragment of ancient fortalice; or even by following hill-roads up the valley of the Whittader, that climb into the heather before debouching into the East Lothian plain.
But Dunpender Law – Traprain – is clear in sight from Soutra, as from the “Long Mile” on the road to Dye Water, or from “The Hungry Snout” on the Whittader opposite Priestlaw, or from the Lammerlaw. And Traprain impends over the ruins of Hailes Castle, that hold, on a crook of the Tyne, to which Bothwell conveyed the “Scottish Helen” form Dunbar. It is a scene in the tragedy which unfolds with every step one takes into this part of Lothian territory, whether one approaches from the west by the head streams of Tyne, where Cakemuir Castle and the grand mass of the ruined Hepburn stronghold, Crichton Castle, overlook its infant waters, or enters it from the east within range of Fast Castle, the “Wolf’s Crag” of “The Bride of Lammermoor.”
The line of the Great North Road, on another highway, nearer to the sea, can be scanned. From the sands and links of Bellhaven Bay this leads across the willow-fringed stream of the Tyne by the village and ruined Priory of Tynninghame into the great beech and oak woods of Binning, so entrancingly lovely when clad in the colours of spring or autumn. From this “Land of Saint Baldred,” it emerges at the fine old Sancturay Church of Whitekirk, burnt by the “Suffragettes,” and since restored, and at Aldhame comes suddenly upon the grim red walls of Tantallon, the Douglas hold, seated on the cliff looking across a mile or two of sea to the Prison Island of the Bass.
The Pyramid of North Berwick Law is close in sight, and along well-nigh a score of miles of coast stretch famous golf links – past favourite bathing resorts, of which the little burgh sheltering under the pyramidal Law is the chief; past the remains of medieval castles and of ancient homes of religion, like Dirleton and Luttness, with, by and by, fishing villages or little colliery ports, Aberlady, Port Seton, Cockenzie and Prestonpans, or woods, shorn close by the scythe of the east wind, that screen Gosford, Prestonfield, and the walls of Seton Palace and Chapel. Following this broad and fair highway, the sea is generally close at hand and never far away; and by it one comes at length to Inveresk Church spire, to Musselburgh Links and the outer margin of Edinburgh Town.
In Lothian, whether we follow imagination or the map, all ways lead to the Castle Rock and to Princes Street, to the High Street of “Auld Reekie” and to the Pier of Leith. But to see these nearer range, and with full effect, we must move westward out of Haddingtonshire, the western bounds of which do not extend far beyond the fields on which Prestonpans and Pinkie were fought and won, under the ridge crowned by the ruins of Fawside and Elphinstone Towers and the woods of Carberry, where Queen Mary cast, and lost, what was almost her last stake.
One of Sir Walter’s well-frequented approaches through Midlothian to the city of his birth, takes us through the heart of the Moorfoots, in sight of Windlestrae Law, Blackhope Scars, and Bowbeat, all rising over the 2000 feet line, and down into the valley of the South Est. It leads through and out of the valley of the Heriot, and looks down, from the Cut of Carcant, upon as fair a prospect as is spread from the top of Soutra. Below, in a deep hollow, is one of the most secluded and charming nooks in Lothian, the spot where the Knights Templars, or their successors, the Knights Hospitallers, built the church, the remains of which still stand on a ridge between high-wooded banks, although it has changed its Celtic name of Ballantrodach – the “Stead of the Warriors” – to Temple.
A glimpse of the Kirk of Borthwick, dedicated to Saint Mungo, overlooking the little valley of the Gore, and of the lofty grey mass of Borthwick Castle, can be gained from Middleton Moor.
With Arniston, and with Gorebridge and Newtongrange, the note of industry breaks in upon a pastoral scene. But stately mansions, great woods and historic churches attend the course of the South Esk, until, skirting Dalkeith, the home of “Mansie Waugh,” it mingles its waters with those of the North Esk, a few miles above where the united stream flows through the arches of the “Roman Bridge” at Musselburgh to the sea.
The North Esk, which is not less rich in scenery and history than its southern neighbour, has been still more favoured by the Muses. Its gathering-ground is up in the folds of the Pentland Hills, which, from the west, thrust a wedge of granite, crowned by peaky summits, for twenty miles into the Lothian plain. It bickers down in linns and pools from its head waters around the North Esk reservoir to Carlops – the Carline’s Loups – and winds through the woods and glades of Newhall, by “Habbie’s How” – scenes in Allen Ramsay’s pastoral of “The Gentle Shepherd,” – and by “Harbour Crag,” a refuge of the Covenanters in Harley Moor, towards the parks of Penicuik. Not far away, behind the crests of those “Hills of the Cuckoo,” Scald Law and Carnethy, is that deep inlet into the heart of the Pentlands. Glencorse, and, within the compass of the same lovely glen of the Logan Burn, are hidden also, cleugh, precipice, and waterfall, and the still waters of Loganlee and Glencorse compensation ponds.
Lower down the North Esk Valley are “Auchendinnie’s beechen shade and haunted Woodhouselee.” Yet lower, and still retaining its beauty and romance, comes Roslin – its Linn and Dell, its feudal Castle, and “proud Chapell.” The Lothians abound in fine examples of collegiate churches of the 15th century, among them Dunglass, Crichton, Seton, Dalkeith, Corstorphine, Trinity College – some of them in ruin, some still standing. But this gem of later Gothic art, dedicated to St Matthew, far surpasses all of them in richness of design and elaboration of ornament; and happily it is no longer in danger of neglect or defacement.
Down the Dell a footpath winds under steep cliffs and over high-wooded banks where, rising from the opposite side of Esk, are the towers, and under them the caves, of Hawthornden, and so to Polton, to Drummond’s grave and Scott’s cottage at Lasswade, and to Melville Castle’s “beechy shade.”
The Water of Leith comes next in the roll of the Lothian rivers. As the North Esk drains the southern slopes of the Pentlands, this little but valiant stream bathes their flanks that are turned away from the sun. There is no way for wheels across these breezy heights. But hill paths and drove roads, familiar of yore to the reiver, the drover and the tinker, as today to the tramper, climb over from Glencorse and the site of the old cattle tryst at House of Muir, by Castlelaw fort and the Howden Glen to Dreghorn, or by Bonaly to Colinton; or by the Kirk Road or the Green Cleuch they lead to Currie brig and church; or skirt the Kips and the Black Law, the “King’s hunting seat” of Bavelaw and Threipmuir and Harlaw Lochs, in the descent to Balerno and the Leith Water.
When Balerno is reached, the bed of the valley begins to be hampered by paper works and by the lades and weirs and crumbling walls of abandoned snuff and meal-mills. But the old glamour of the Water of Leith yet lingers. Woodland and waste claim a share of its banks, with here claim a share of its banks, with here the fragment of an ancient seat, such as Lennox Tower, Darnley’s hunting lodge, overlooking the stream from Lymphoy.
Swanston, the old playground of R.L.S., lies apart at the foot of Caerketton and near the tail-end of Pentland; its pastoral fields, like other parts of the range – Lothianburn and Torphin, for example – have been appropriated by sport or by war. So that from the teeing-grounds from which the “Roaring Shepherd” once shouted his warnings, the golfer may pause to admire views of the Firth or of the Grampians. Nor does beauty or legend desert the Water when, leaving behind the Craiglockhart Hills and Slateford, where the City Fathers came out to offer the keys of the capital to Prince Charlie, it turns aside from the marshy hollow – once filled by a lake – to burrow through the gorge overhung by the Dean Bridge on its way past Inverleith and Canonmills to Leith Harbour.
Neither golf nor villadom has yet invaded the Dalmahoy Craigs and the Kaimes Hill, although the quarrymen is making incisions on heights that bear the mark of prehistoric camps and hut-circles. They look down, among much else, on the confines of Midlothian and West Lothian, and on the valley of the Almond that, for the greater part of its course, is the dividing line; and on he grey tower and turrets of Hatton, whence Bothwell set out to lay hands on Mary, at the bridge over Almond, near Kirkliston, on her journey back to Holyrood from Stirling.
Calder Wood may no longer climb up into the Pentlands by Camilty and Crosswood as, according to an old saying, it did once on a day yet a good remnant of it is left around the old House of Calder, where John Knox is reported to have dispensed his first Communion service: and woods follow the Almond down through Almondel to Illiston and Clifton.
Westward from the creek of the Almond to near Blackness Castle, the coast, for a dozen miles or more, is occupied by the spacious demesnes of Dalmeny and Hoptoun. In the gap between their park walls – a gap that holds, also, the ancient Norman church of Dalmeny – the Hawes Inn, known to Monkswood of “The Antiquary” and to David Balfour of “Kidnapped.” Here is the bourne of multitudes of travellers; for across the narrows stretches the lace-like fabric of the Forth Bridge, the main link of communication between Fife and Lothian, between North and South.
There is still a nook of west Lothian, and that the most crowded with scenes out of the past, to be looked into before turning back to Edinburgh. It lies close up against the Avon, the last of the Lothian streams, which separates it from the bare moors and the rich carse lands of Stirlingshire and from the docks Grangemouth. As seen from the surrounding high places – its Royal Palace, a group of gaunt and empty grey walls impending over its Loch, and its great church of St Michael presiding over a sorry assemblage of plain houses drawn up in line – the glory may well seem to have departed from Linlithgow. The Peel Tower, built by Edward Longshanks, was transformed into a Palace by successive Scottish Kings. A chance fire in the ’45 made it a roofless ruin, but it retains marks of former grandeur in its gatehouse, bearing emblems of four “Orders of Chivalry”; in the Lyon Chamber, or Parliament Hall, of its great quadrangle – the largest and finest of its kind in Scotland – and in many details of ornament and structure, in stairway, fireplace or fountain; while the restored St Michael’s is one of the stateliest of Scottish parish or burghal churches.
Binns looks down on Linlithgow, and commands also Blackness Castle, one of the Scottish strongholds preserved from demolition by the Treaty of Union. The view extends past Bo’ness and the Duke of Hamilton’s House of Kinneil, beyond the beginnings of Antonine’s Wall, and the beginnings of Lothian’s history.
Of late years the town of Edinburgh has plunged boldly into the country. It has spread its front along nine or ten miles of seaboard; and annexed seaports and fishing havens and bathing sands – Granton and Cramond, along with Newhaven, Portobello and Leith.
A city of wide spaces and far prospects, it is also a city of dark mysteries and strange enchantments. To be seen and known aright, one must live with it through all the changeful Northern year, must watch it whilst its spires and crags, from the Castle to Calton, from Corstorphine to Arthur Seat, are released from the mists of a pearly spring morning, or set against a stormy red sunset; under the stars, too, or when it is gemmed by its street lamps, or, in times of festival, has its strong features thrown into bold relief by flood-lighting. It abides closer view even if modern tastes and requirements have made sad havoc with its antiquities.
It is true the garment of the High Street is sorely worn and seamed and tattered. Fresh rents and patches have been made in it by the extended City Chambers and by the clearance made to receive the new Sheriff Courts; and like many ancient wynds and closes beside them and elsewhere, Advocates’ Close and Roxburgh Close are left in parlous case. But St Giles’ Kirk stands clear and fair on the “croon of the causey” between the Parliament House and the Royal Exchange, the seats of the mighty in the Law and in the Municipality.
Northward, roads find their way down to the level of Princes Street and its gardens, and so on to Leith, where reminders of a grimy past continue to linger about the Kirkgate and St Mary’s Church, the Shore and the Links. The main way of Edinburgh’s history holds gently downhill, constricted to half its breadth by the intrusion of Knox’s House, past Canongate Tolbooth, dating from 1592, and Canongate Church and graveyard, past Moray House and Huntly House, in which the City’s antiquities have found housing, until, at the Abbey Gates we come front to front with the dark grey ghost of Holyrood.
Almost too thronged with spirits out of the days of other years are the archways and pavements of the House of the Austin Canons, which David the Saint founded here in 1152; and the halls and stairways and tapestried chambers of the Palace hard by, built or added to, and lived in by his descendants and later generations of the royal blood. But first or last, it is the Queen of Scots who chiefly rules in Holyrood; and Rizzio’s slaughter marks perhaps the critical hour in the tragedy.
Here, also, there are light and air in plenty outside. The hill rises almost from the Palace door. There is solitude and space to be found, if not in the Hunter’s Bog or by St Anthony’s Chapel, or by Dunsappie or by Duddingston Loch, where sanctuary is assured even for the wild birds, at least when one has toiled by arduous ways “to the stars,” as says the motto of the City’s Patron Saint, or at least to the Lion’s Head – unless it happens to be “May Morning.”
For the devotee of Edinburgh, however, its innermost core, its most holy place, is in its acropolis, the Castle. Form the esplanade, and from the moat and drawbridge and the gate, guarded by the armed figures of Wallace and of Bruce, one climbs through the living rock and by portcullised arch and battlemented wall to the tiny chapel that remains a testimony of the art and piety of that early age.
In front of it, looking down on the gay and busy scene of the Princes Street traffic 300 feet below, and on the gardens through which trails a smear of engine smoke, is Mons Meg, a shattered relic of the wars long ago. Grouped behind are other insignia of the power of the past, State Prison, Cromwell’s Bastion covering the David’s Tower, the old Parliament and Banqueting Hall, the Crown Room with the “Honours of Scotland” in Crown and Sceptre, the little chamber in which, with James First and Sixth, was born the Union of the Island, and in the midst of all, and above all “Scotland’s National Shrine” the Hall of Honour, dedicated to the One Hundred Thousand men of Scottish birth or descent who gave their lives as sacrifice in the Great War, 1914 – 1918.