It will be interesting also to think of a time, now more than 600 years ago, when the natives in those parts looked out on the dragon prows and raven pennons of the Norwegian galleys, and recognised in them the shattered remnants of King Haco’s once noble fleet. A friend who accompanied me on this climb, and who is great in history, showed that he could speak of the invasion of the Norsemen, and of Scandinavian mythology and literature by the yard. There was no end to his talk about their worship of brute force as personified in their god Thor, the god of thunder, with his hammer, the “mauler” or “smasher,” and their high appreciation of the Pagan virtues of valour, courageous endurance of hardships, and indomitable resolution which made them the terror and scourge of every northern sea and neighbouring coast. It was interesting, and not without its touch of pathos, to learn from him that, after their decisive defeat at the battle of Largs, whilst lying in Lamlash Bay, in whose quiet and land-locked waters they had gone to refit, Ivan Holm, the old comrade of Haco, died, and the broken-hearted king himself only reached the Orkneys to die there six weeks afterwards. It was also interesting to learn from him that a little farther down yonder, right over Whiting Bay (though the fish of that name have long ago, like Haco and his fleet, left those waters), in Glen Eisdale, there is still to be seen what are known as the “Vikings’ graves,” the resting-place of some of those who took part in this ill-fated expedition. And there below us on the left is Hunterston Ho, with the Bay of Fairlie terminating in the far-projecting headland of Ardneill. And a little round the corner is Portincross, with its ancient fortalice on a bare rock stretching out into the sea, above which it is elevated only a very little. The fort is not only wild and picturesque, but it is memorable from the many visits paid to it by the first of our Stuart sovereigns, as is attested by the numerous charters which received his signature within its venerable walls. A piece of cannon is shown here as a relic of the Spanish Armada; a vessel having been wrecked on the coast close by. It is understood that some of the sailors settled in the district and left families, whose representatives are still known by their outlandish names and a slight tinge of the dark complexion of Spain. Following the coast line, the eye takes in the fertile district of West Kilbride, the ironworks of Stevenston, Ardrossan, Saltcoats, Troon, the heights of Ayr, and the Carrick Hills. And yonder is Ailsa Craig standing up sentinel-like out of the blue waters over which are passing and repassing richly-freighted ships, bearing the merchandise of all nations.