The sky becomes overcast, but we are not to be deterred by the muster of the elements, and we step out valiantly in the face of a rising wind, and also in the face of an interminable procession of rough looking cattle, feeling that there is a little credit in being “jolly,” as Mark Tapley would put it, under such circumstances. In spite of the gloomy aspect of clouds there is something hopeful in the strength of the wind, and soon they begin to draw off, and by the time we are a little on our way the old battle has been waged and won, and we are glad to take off any superfluous clothing as the sun throws off the last porous film, and looks down on us with a cheery smile. The soil here is not of the very richest. It reminds us of the saying in regard to the Carse of Gowrie, which must have had for its author some one who was foiled in his battle with the strong clay—“It greets a’ winter, and girns a’ summer.” But for all that there are some good fields of grain to be met with amidst the wide extended breadth of pasture land, and an occasional flock and herd furnish an element of life which adds to the interest. When we find ourselves on the main road we make for a reddish small quarry on the hillside to the south of us. We reach it by a short cut past the front of the first thatched house we come to, and then turn to the left for about five minutes’ walk on the Stirling and Carlisle road. When we get to the top of the quarry there is a very good path that leads all the way to the summit. As there is no omnibus that runs to the top, we zigzag it in our own way. Now we make a false step; we are finding our way over some troublesome stones, and often a huge mass of bright flesh-coloured felstone. Like all other felstone hills, such as the Pentlands and North Berwick Law, it is worn into smooth conical eminences, usually coated with turf, which, when broken here and there along the slopes, allows a long stream of angular rubbish to crumble from the rock, and slide down the hill. We are for ever mistaking the top, thinking we are at it, when, behold, there it is, as if farther off than ever. And so on we go, up and down, over the elastic heather, enjoying the ever-widening horizon, till at last we reach the very summit, 2312 feet above the level of the sea, but not much more than 1700 feet vertically from its base. It stands on the mutual border of the parishes of Carmichael, Wiston, Symington, and Covington, and forms a sort of vanguard to the Southern Highlands. We could see parts of sixteen different counties from it, including Hartfell and Queensberry Hill in the south, Cairntable in the south-west, the peaks of Arran in the west, and the Bass Rock in the north-east.