A Dalliance with the Devil

In the shade of the overhanging trees, my senses are bombarded by colours and smells. A sea of blue and white, a carpet of bluebells and the scent of wild garlic. A woodland walk in Spring can be a tranquil and relaxing experience but as I wade through the damp ferns, I hear something.

Shrill screams echoing through the wooded canopy stop me in my tracks.

Every day, hundreds of cars hurtle past the small lay-by on the A809 north of Glasgow, oblivious to the treasures of the glen beyond the row of dense trees. But traverse the fence, pick out the faintly trodden path and another world awaits.

After a pleasant walk, albeit very muddy in places, a dank hole appears in the woodland floor. My eyes gradually adjust to the light and through a rift in the rock, I see them, the 150 year old Victorian steps known as Jacob’s Ladder. They are certainly showing their age. The treacherous narrow descent is steep and slippy. I clamber down, grabbing hand holds on the moss and lichen covered rocks either side. It is not for the faint hearted.

But my efforts are well rewarded. The sound of fast flowing water is deafening as I reach the bottom of the 90 or so steps into the base of the stunning natural gorge. I am in a chasm of richly coloured red sandstone, up to 100 feet deep in places, carved into the rock by Carnock Burn. Shards of sunlight glint through the leafy canopy, countless shades of green reflecting in the crystal clear waters of the burn. I’ve been transported into a film set, a fantasy land.

“Watcha!” I break from my trance. A man stands before me wearing a crash helmet and buoyancy aid, his red face in stark contrasts to his yellow drysuit. He’s quickly joined by a clan of followers in identical attire. This magical land has quickly transformed in a convention for some bizarre children’s TV programme.

They see my confused expression. “We’re canyoning,” one of them explains. And as they wade up the burn, waist deep in the fast flowing icy cold water, I have to admit it looks like fun. They disappear from view behind a prominent green-topped rock at the far end of the gorge. This is the Devil's Pulpit, a name often applied to the whole glen, where legend has it the devil addressed his followers.

The echoed screams of the thrill seekers eventually subsides, the moist air once again filled with the sound of rushing water, the wind in the trees and maybe the hiss of the devil himself. Next time bring sturdier shoes, a better camera … and maybe a drysuit.