Right, time to stop lounging about in luxury and resume our rambles. But not before Jennie gets a photo op in her cool RSPB-gifted t-shirt by the Banks O' The Doon to say goodbye to Burns' hometown and advertise the fact we are donating 1/2 of the money we raise to them. If you have not done so already you can still pledge to sponsor us here. We will not collect funds until we make it to John O'Groats, which will be never if we stand about taking endless photos. It's back past Burns cottage and down into Ayr, a skip through the busy town and then a straightforward walk along a long promenade between Ayr and Troon via Prestwick (just the beach, not the airport, thankfully). This section is bustling with people out walking dogs, cycling or trying to stop their infants doing mischief, such as launching Winnie the Pooh into the sea. We witnessed this, it very nearly happened. We do get the odd strange look, not from children so much as adults thinking "why are they dressed as if they are about to climb a mountain when they are just sitting eating ice-cream on the beach front." With everything proceeding as planned, we negotiate more golf-related threats on the way into Troon. Our guide book says we have done 7.8 miles. That's actually been quite a lot of promenading and my feet are hurting a bit. This always happens when walking on concrete and I resolve to stick to the beach where possible. Apparently in around 1800 some of the first rail travellers, miners and weavers from Kilmarnock came down to Troon on their horse-drawn coal wagons for a holiday weekend. We come to a giant grassy mound which seems unnecessarily high. This is actually a Ballast Bank, a load of dumped colliery waste. We consider a shortcut instead of going up it and along the Ayrshire Coastal Path route, the reason being that the feet are already tired and it involves going up, but we get guilt about taking shortcuts. What would the RSPB and Butterfly Conservation think if they knew we'd 'cheated'? So we haul ourselves up the Ballast Bank. It's very windy and we nearly get blown off but it is fun watching the raging sea. For some inexplicable reason there is a sawmill. I don't pay it too much attention and at the end of the promontory we get a photo of a very impressive anchor. As we turn back towards the Troon marina though we have to go disappointingly close to the sawmill. What is worse is the wind is now blowing sawdust in my face. This is a really not a very enjoyable experience and I feel inexplicable rage against all forms of machinery. Oh how I long for the pretty Brig O'Doon and all my imaginary pre-industrial revolution nostalgia back in Alloway. Jennie's alright because she's wearing glasses which keeps the sawdust out of her eyes. We walk as fast as we can to get to a nicer bit of the walk. Indeed we find it because the long stretch between Troon and Irvine is a very pleasant sandy beach with hardly anyone on it and no modern machinery to annoy us; Jennie walks ahead of me as we each lose ourselves in the tranquillity of the scene. It's then I find him. A sad and bedraggled Tortoiseshell butterfly, stranded in the waves, one wing seemingly injured and weighed down with sand. I am alone, there is no-one else around. All I can think to do is to try and get him out of the waves which I do quite successfully and place him in some vegetation to dry out, for which he seems quite grateful. When I tell this story to Jennie she unsympathetically tells me that nature can be cruel and he probably won't make it. I don't believe her, I am confident Tammy will live forever. Evening falls and it is very beautiful (it goes without saying that all good photos on this blog are taken by Jennie). However Jennie's demeanor is somewhat taxed by the sheer amount of time it is taking to walk along this beach and indeed we are starting to wonder if Irvine will ever arrive. Oh yes, art is work. Eventually we reach our B&B at Irvine harbour. We are really tired and collapse into the room. We decide we can't be bothered to go out for a drink and instead after a shower and a brief rest I am sent to Asda and trudge back with some munchies. I'm sure the Kilmarnock miners never had to endure such hardship on their holidays ... A horse, now there's an idea.
Matthew
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