Studio: international art (59.1913)

The Isle of Arran

“THE ROCKING-STONE ON THE ROAD TO SANNOX ”

The island of Arran is roughly about fifty-six
miles round by road, and a cycle fitted with a pair
of good brakes is not a bad addition to one’s
sketching paraphernalia, for with it one can easily
travel the road hugging the sea from Machrie to
Pirnmill with its scattered little houses, where the
waiting and launching of the ferry-boat to meet the
daily call of the Campbeltown steamer makes the
only break in the otherwise solitary outlook. From
Pirnmill to Catacol, some seven miles farther on,
the roadway becomes steeper and more interesting.
Catacol is a charming little place with a glen and
bay resembling Sannox in many respects though
less grand; then it is within an hour’s easy walking
distance of its more populated and historically
interesting neighbour Loch Ranza.

From the artist’s point of view few places on the
island can quite compare with Sannox and Corrie’s
little village of whitewashed houses nestling over
and at the foot of the hills between Loch Ranza
and Brodick. Corrie does not boast of a pier like
its two neighbours, but nature has bestowed ample
amends in a wonderful rock-formed inlet. Here,
too, those who like an unobtrusive but comfortable
hotel life will find all they desire, and at the post
214

WATER-COLOUR SKETCH BY E. A. TAYLOR

office next door all their provisional wants will be
supplied, from a needle to a sou’wester.

On the hill less than a mile from the ferry lies
the little village of South High Corrie with its
scattered shielings where one may find peaceful
shelter and awake with the bleat of the moorland
sheep and the sound of the nimble patter of the
red deer. From here one need not go far afield
to sketch ; the open door reveals a new world across
the changing waters and behind the white face of
the white water burn is the pathway to Goatfell
towering above the Devil’s Punch Bowl and the
mysterious ever-changing Glen Sannox peaks.
Here, too, when the earth darkens and the starlight
falls, the island is not less beautiful; one may
sit and watch the almost infinite varieties of sky
or idly eavesdrop on the sea’s grave converse with
the chattering burns. A storm, too, brings much
glory in its train ; in small glen and gully, the ripples
of yesterday become swollen spates and the jagged
peaks seem to float like dark violet monuments on
a misty base. And if you would bide the time with
Sandy Kelso he’ll tell you the airts of the wind and
if you’ll be needing your boots oiled for the morrow
—and maybe some of the island’s secret lore and the