SHORES OF THE CLYDE AND FIRTH. 
47 
be spent. Boarding the steamer, then, at Gourock's now 
spacious Railway Wharf, on our way to " Scotland's 
Madeira," we are soon cutting through the ozone-laden 
breezes of the firth, and in about an hour or so, without 
going into the town of Rothesay, we land at the pier of 
Craigmore. 
The ripening hand of August has already thrown the 
roseate tints of Autumn over the face of nature. The day 
is calm and clear, and in the midst of the yellow corn- 
fields, stretching up the gentle slopes, we see and hear the 
whirring reaping machine levelling the ripened grain, and 
the busy reapers in its wake binding together the golden 
sheaves. The mineral well, close by the pier, is still the 
same spot it was in the days of our boyhood. We scarcely 
miss a stone from the old haunt. But what a chan.e has 
come over the face of the landscape above. Beautiful villas 
occupy the ground along the shore, from the verge of the 
beach to the beetling crags behind. In an odd villa 
here and there we recognise an old land-mark, but through 
intercepting high stone walls and the thick foliage of tree 
and shrub-planted lawns, we can only get an occasional 
glimpse of the towering cliffs behind, whose once sheltering 
caves we have seen the undisputed abodes of wandering 
Highland gipsies. 
Proceeding along the shore we soon reach Millhole, a 
romantic little spot, where in our own day a little wool- 
carding mill was in operation. Perched upon the rocks, 
on the very verge of the beach, it was a beautiful little 
picture, with its water wheel spinning round, and the 
foaming waters dashing down the rocks to the sea below. 
In ten minutes more we reach our desired haven, the 
charming little bay of Ascog. The state of the tide is not 
yet favourable for operations, but a ramble round the 
