To amatory young gentlemen and ladies this walk presents many attractions—even its drawbacks to ordinary pedestrians in the way of stiles and old dykes to be climbed, and dry passages to be selected, are attractive, as affording many charming opportunities of displaying gallantry and provoking discussion between the parties. Besides, it is comparatively little frequented, and the almost only intruders on a delightful tête-a-tête are the roe-deer and rabbit, and they, of course, communicate no secrets. It is a walk you may have almost all to yourself, and this exactly suits the temperament of the class alluded to, who are generally selfish enough to desire exclusive possession of the path. Nevertheless, it affords a pleasant stroll to any pedestrian who is above such a base consideration as spotless boots, and is willing to undergo a little fatigue for a large recompense of pleasure. Why it has been called the Highlandman’s Road is not very easily determined, as it leads to no precise locality to which Highlanders could be supposed to have any good inducement to travel. The most plausible supposition is that, as all Highland roads were anciently constructed in as nearly a direct line as possible, and with a delightful disregard to all minor inconveniences of bog, brier, and stream, this one, from these circumstances, has fairly earned the designation. Passing through Woodend farm, at the west end of Helensburgh, the pedestrian finds a cart-road leading right up the hill for some distance, and then losing itself in a distinct footpath. To this he keeps, as he best can, pursuing his course through a rather difficult country, broken and irregular in surface, for about a quarter of a mile farther up the hill, and pretty close to the boundary of Ardencaple estates. Pausing and turning round when he has fairly reached the summit of the first elevation, he obtains a beautiful view of Helensburgh, and the lands of Camiseskan, from a point which introduces many features quite new and different from any be has previously seen. Indeed, there is no point in the neighbourhood from which, in such beautiful panoramic detail, the eye can embrace the whole buildings, gardens, and streets of the village as the foreground, and stretching out beyond the fair pasture lands, woods, and hills of Cardross parish. If a botanist, the visitor will find here many beautiful specimens of mosses, ferns, and the common flora of our fields and woods. and may spend half a day in supplying his tin case with varieties not easily obtainable elsewhere. In the spring months specimens of the lilac gentian, blue cuckoo flower, sweet woodruff, blue hyacinth, buttercup, heartsease, and primrose, are abundant, from the mossy ground, later in the year, the orchis family, and from the alder and birch-grown banks of the little streams flowing across the path, the wild rose, hawthorn, and sloe, breathe a sweet perfume on the summer air. On the right hand, in a romantic little hazel dell, are the sources of the Glenan Burn—now considerably diminished in volume from what it used to be, by its feeders being diverted to supply a mill-dam at some distance. In this dell, the sides of which are somewhat precipitous and difficult of descent, sheltered from the winds, and, in its centre, fringed by the yellow broom, and almost isolated by the bounding stream, is a beautiful patch of smooth greensward known as the Fairies’ Ring always green and always sheltered from the storm—a little gem in a dingy setting. Had you here wandered a century since, under the calm light of a glorious summer moon, bathing in its silver radiance the whole landscape, and had courage to examine its mysteries, what vision might have been enjoyed of the secrets of the fairy-folk, and what wondrous music of fairyland you might have heard! Alas! we have been born too late to enjoy these pleasures of a past and believing age we can only envy those who have shared them. In this spot the good folk in our great-grandmothers’ days enjoyed many a night of revel, and held high carnival on Beltane and Hallowe’en. Belated shepherds and benighted travellers have often listened to their weird-like music, stealing in measured unearthly strains down the glen; and more than one rash spectator has witnessed a fairy festival on that green. But Jock Bateson, half a century since, saw the last of them here. Indeed, Jock has the credit or dishonour, whichever you will, of having banished them from this favourite spot. Coming across the hill one harvest night from the Chapel of Glen Fruin, and naturally anxious to avoid any beaten path or stray traveller, by reason of a small suspicious keg which he bore, strapped to his shoulders, Jock, after wading through a mile or two of heather, struck down by the Old Mains farm, right above there, and into the channel of the burn. Resting the keg against a rock for a little, to recruit his strength, and fortify himself for the remainder of the road, Jock was startled by the sound of music, borne on the night breeze, mingled with the laughter and the echoes of tiny voices, proceeding from a spot not far distant. His first impulse was to leave his precious burden and run for it; but second thoughts are best, and after a short perplexing study of the question, Jock felt himself impelled by some ungovernable desire to ascertain who the musicians were. Again slinging the keg on his shoulders, with no small trepidation he crept cautiously along the banks of the streamlet, careful of every broken bough and loose stone in his way, and peering through the branches of the hazel as he went. Reaching this little dell, at a sudden angle, he found himself behind a large boulder, a witness of a scene bewildering and novel. In the beams of the bright autumn moon, resting in full radiance on the green ring, were scores of tiny men and women, some engaged in a fantastic dance, others, seated on the grass and on the branches of the broom and hazel, were playing a shrill unearthly melody, from pipes of reed and corn. Round and round in giddying circles the dancers flew, and tumbled over each other in uncouth gambols amid shouts of laughter. Suddenly the music ceased, and a grim visaged little fellow, with a tall, peaked cap on his head, amid temporary silence, stepped forth to the spot where Jock stood, tremblingly feasting his bewildered eyes, and said, “Welcome, Jock Bateson.” Amazed at hearing his own name uttered in such tones, Jock, who was no coward, would willingly have retreated, but in an instant he was surrounded by a score of small people, who dragged him forth into the centre of the ring, and presented him to one taller and more important looking than the rest, and who seemed to be leader of the band, from the deference which was shewn to him. “Sit down, Jock Bateson,” said their chief, “and let us know what you have got in your cask.” Jock obeyed the order to sit, and muttered something about the cask containing a drop of “small still brew.” This information apparently being inadequate to convey the knowledge wanted, it was taken possession of forthwith and broached. A fox-glove cup was filled with its contents and handed to Jock, who drank it off, to their united healths, with a mental observation that “the gude folks’ measure was unca sma’.” In succession the whole group quaffed from the same miniature goblet, amidst much laughing and gesticulation; and the keg, its owner feared, was sadly diminishing. The consequences of this imprudence, however, soon became apparent in the scene of excitement which followed. All order and rule was lost, and amid a confusion indescribable, Jock was led through a series of dances by a succession of partners, to a music unparalleled in the annals of fairyland till cockcrow, when suddenly Jock heard a rushing sound through the air, and was conscious of nothing more till the burning sun of the following morn, beating on his face, awakened him— sick and bruised—to a dim recollection of his whereabouts. Casting his eyes about, he saw his keg lying among the grass with its ping drawn, and its contents escaped; and, at a little distance, his cap and oak stick he remembered carrying overnight. Gathering himself together, with pain racking all his limbs, he made the best of his way home. It was some months later before he fairly recovered and told the story of his meeting with the fairies. Some few believed it, and many disbelieved it; but unbelief was a little shaken by the after history of Jock. He sunk into a drunken idler, spending his days in the gratification of the basest habit man is a victim to, and unnerved for any steady application to his work, was reduced to abject poverty. His death was attended by some peculiar symptoms—so unusual, that an Edinburgh physician, who happened to be in the neighbourhood at the time, thought proper to carry off Jock’s brain with him for the benefit of medical science, and to the serious future injury of Jock, who, it seemed, did not rest quiet in his grave afterwards. For many years subsequently he was reported, upon the best authority, to wander up and down the burn, at full moon, howling and jibbering after his lost brains.

After ascending about half a mile above the source of this stream, the foot-track diverges into a cart-road, which stretches along the hid-side towards Row. A long, deep belt of fir plantation clothes the hill on the right hand side, but towards the Firth the view is open. From this road, which has lately been put in excellent repair by the Duchess Dowager of Argyll, the visitor has a beautiful uninterrupted view of Ardencaple Castle and policies—once the possession of the M‘Aulay, a formi
dable chieftain, and invested with considerable authority, if the old rhyme be correct—
“Aulay, M‘Aulay, Laird of Cairndow,

Bailie of Dumbarton, and Provost of the Row.” The road winds along the side of the hill for about half a mile, till it reaches the Torr farm, a neat, comfortable house, in modern style, invisible from beneath, but well known in the surrounding district from the agricultural science and zeal of its tenant. Here the pedestrian may either strike down past the farm to the loch-side, or pursue his stroll further westwards. The road continues to wind among the villas scattered on the hill-side, towards Row, passing gardens, orchards, shrubberies, and many picturesque little cottages, clothed with woodbine and roses, till further progress is debarred by Ardenconnal policies, and a descent to the highway becomes necessary at last, whence the return home may be effected pleasantly by the sea-shore.