The timber ponds of the River Clyde

Hello you. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.

We can leave Newark Castle behind and follow the River Clyde towards the old timber ponds. These are vestiges of the area’s 18th century shipbuilding boom, when tens of thousands of tons of wood were hauled across the sea from North America before being stored in massive log corrals.

You can imagine logs of yellow pine, pitch pine and oak, looking almost romantic as they floated in their watery cages, waiting to be chosen for a  ship’s hull or bit of decking.

But when the storms hit the logs could break their shackles, floating out to block the river and bringing commerce to a halt until they could be rounded up again.

The timber ponds fell into disuse in the early 19th century and since then nature has been reclaiming the gnarled and kelp-covered posts, wearing them away and drawing them slowly downwards. There is something  beautifully macabre about them, like last-gasp limbs reaching up through their mudflat graves.

On and on they go for more than three miles, a cemetery of industry that has been taken over by wildlife.

The area is now a nature reserve and best time to experience it is in the winter, when thousands of waterfowl and waders make the mudflats ripple with life.

But even now as the days stretch slowly into summer, there are pockets of redshanks still puttering in the shallows, crows perched here and there like inky beacons, and even sometimes a heron strolling calmly through the water like a benevolent stalker.

Walking along, the sense of space and peace is precarious, like a plaster set along the length of the water, a snaking barricade of trees and fields buffering the guttural hiss of nearby motorway traffic.

Across the Clyde, Dumbarton Castle nestles like stone button in its bulging rock jacket. It is one of those places that never seems to get much closer, no matter how far you walk towards it. Perhaps another time, on another beautiful day, we’ll go.

Beneath the shell of Newark Castle

Slowly, slowly, time is wearing away at an inscription above an entranceway to what was Newark Castle’s northern wing. “The blissingis of God be herein,” was carved out by order of Sir Patrick Maxwell, who in the late 1500s oversaw the extensive remodelling of the castle from a drafty medieval box to a beacon of Renaissance fine living on the banks of the Firth of Clyde.

The land on which the castle sits first became part of the Maxwell estate in 1402 and the castle itself dates from the 15th century.

But it was Sir Patrick who did wondrous things for the castle, not only equipping his dining hall with the expected opulent fire place, but insisting that special drainage be installed in the same room so guests could wash their hands before they ate.

Certainly as far as general health and hygiene were concerned, he must have been a man ahead of his time.

My Historic Scotland guidebook refers to Maxwell as “an enlightened and cultured rascal.” On the surface, a respectable citizen and friend to James VI, and behind-the-scenes, a murderer and wife beater.

Maxwell took his dislike for his neighbours to a new height when he murdered two members of the Montgomeries of Skelmorlie, near Largs. It is also said that he killed a member of his own family, another Patrick Maxwell near Paisley. However thanks to his friends in high places, Sir Patrick was never tried for the killings.

Even the term “wife beater” seems too short, too easily tossed into the narrative like something easily forgotten. Margaret Crawford was married to Sir Patrick for 44 years and bore him 16 children. More than once he beat her so fiercely that she was confined to her bed for months.

One early family record shows that his own mother complained to the Privy Council of Patrick's treatment of Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret herself had appealed for help to restrain her “unkind and unnatural husband.”

When one of the couple's sons and his wife attempted to care for the bed-ridden Lady Margaret after Sir Patrick had attacked her with a sword, Sir Patrick threw them out of the house.

Finally after more than four decades with the man, Lady Margaret managed to flee to nearby Dumbarton, forgoing a life of elegant misery and choosing instead the quiet chains of poverty. Then, with charges for his abuse finally forthcoming, Sir Patrick went and died before he could be rightfully punished.

Today Newark Castle is nestled between the cranes and shipyard sheds of busy Port Glasgow. It is strange to wander the empty halls and through the grand dining room and imagine Lady Margaret seated at the long table, her muscles tightened with the anxiety of the slightest wrong move.

Beauty returns with the dovecot which Maxwell had transformed from the old defensive enclosure that was once part of the castle’s outer defences. It is beautifully preserved and stunning. Stepping inside feels like being wrapped in some dual-dimensional stone game board. Put the right stone in the right hollow and the world will start to spin as you advance to the next level.

The building is so lovely, so unique and refined, that to Sir Patrick’s guests it must have seemed a perfect life. But beneath the glossy perceptions are a cascade of terrible stories of violence and suffering.

With such a tumultuous history, it is not surprising that there have been reports of ghost sightings at Newark. It is said to be Lady Margaret, whose soul continues to shudder through the living world, looking for justice that never came, will never come.

Some have said they have seen her looking down from the castle’s high windows. Newark is also a popular place for locals to have wedding photos taken, and there has been at least one report of an unexplained figure appearing in the photographs.

I would certainly go there again, if nothing else to stand in the quiet rooms or look out over the Clyde, and think of Lady Margaret. To let my thoughts grow so large as to push away any ounce of glory to which her husband may have laid claim. To move around the boxes of history until her path is set free.

Reflections of Paisley Abbey

My weather-beaten 2004 copy of A Rough Guide to Scotland describes the exterior of Paisley Abbey as “an unattractive, fat grey façade.” I can’t help but wonder if the guide writers were looking at the same building as I was, as I moved around the nearby square, trying to take in every gothic-loving angle of this beautiful place.

The abbey itself was founded in 1163 and the attached smaller buildings are known as the palace or “The Place of Paisley.” These formed the domestic quarters for the monks and were at one time used as a grand private mansion house before falling back under the care of the abbey.

Paisley may not be on the wider tourist path today, but there was a time when it was a seat of power and struggle. Tucked into the corner of the nave, a long, narrow stained glass window depicts a sombre but brave Samson.

Given to the abbey in 1873, this window is a memorial to William Wallace, who was educated by the abbey monks in the 13th century.

Inside, with flowers lying next to her sleeping form, is the sarcophagus effigy of Robert the Bruce’s eldest daughter, Marjory Bruce, whose marriage to the High Steward of Scotland brought together her family and the Stewart Clan.

Her son became Robert II, the first Stuart monarch, and his son was Robert III, who is also buried at the Abbey. In 1888 Queen Victoria gifted a marble tombstone to the abbey, to commemorate the Stewarts buried there.

Despite visiting on a Saturday, there were only a handful of visitors wandering silently inside what felt like a giant, ornate stone drum. It would be easy to come here every week for a year and still find things to marvel over that you had missed before.

There is vast detail in the huge stained glass windows, and between these there are and other works of art like the 1000-year-old Barochan Cross, and the painting that hangs in the attached St. Mirin Chapel, which depicts “The Death of the First Born.”

Like many historical buildings in Scotland, Paisley Abbey was damaged by time or fire, then rebuilt, was damaged again, etc.

In recent years a huge amount of work has been undertaken to replace the disintegrating 1788 plaster ceiling with a new timber one. In 1988 a modern stained glass window was completed by artist John K Clark.

The eyes are drawn immediately to glowing candles at the centre of the piece, before taking in the overall work as a grand homage to art and music, including a ribbon-like cascade of violins.

Over and over I wandered back to the area around the choir stall to gaze into the mirror that reflected and magnified the incredible detail of the carved ceiling. What a wonderful idea - this small gesture that allows visitors such an intimate look at artwork that is normally too far above to truly appreciate.

Something else that added to the mystery and wonder of the experience: when you enter the main door of the abbey, or if you are going down to the shop and café, you are obliged the open the doors.

But these aren’t just any doors; they are huge, wooden doors with heavy, slightly cumbersome black iron handles that swing on massive iron hinges. They are antique, grand entrances and another unique feature that adds so much to the overall visitor experience.

I neglected to take photos of the entrance doors, and the door below is not one of them, but it gives you a sense of what I mean.

It was more than just pleasure to visit this abbey; it felt like an honour. Once again I am astounded that such a treasure is simply free to visit (although donations for ongoing restoration are gratefully accepted).

There is more to come from Paisley, and I will certainly have to go back because there was so much I missed on my first visit.

Whether you are taken in by the beauty of carved stone, or are fascinated by Scottish history (fellow readers of Scotland, Story of a Nation can turn to page 228), don’t miss a chance to step through the door of this unforgettable building.

Happy Beltane, everyone!

Paisley's gothic wonder

Sometimes I come across a building that doesn’t seem to suit its name. A perfect example is the Thomas Coats Memorial Baptist Church in Paisley, Renfrewshire.

Often called the Baptist Cathedral of Europe, the church was opened in 1894 following its commission by Mr. Coats’ widow and children.

Mr. Coats, a businessman and much-loved member of the Paisley community, was so devoted to helping local societies and charities that when he died in 1883, 2000 people attended the public funeral.

Obviously, Thomas Coats was a wonderful man who deserves to be remembered for his outstanding contributions to society.

But the magic of this extravagant building lies with its architect, Hippolyte Blanc. That is the name that feels like it could be draped in red silk over the crown spire.

Known for his gothic revival style, Blanc’s work includes the Christ Church Episcopal and the Mayfield Free Church in Edinburgh, and the Bangour Village Hospital in West Lothian, a psychiatric hospital that opened in the early 1900s and closed in 2004. In 2005 Bangour was used as a film set for the The Jacket staring Adrien Brody.

The Coats Memorial wasn’t open when I was there, so I walked around it in the slow falling rain, trying to take in the details of the spires and the eerily comic gargoyles that clamour above the front entrance.

Then there were the dragons, carved from the same warm stone as the church itself. I love these dragons - so small but somehow barely contained, like they could unfurl and spring to life at any time.

My favourites are those who are in the process of devouring their own wildly ornate tails.

This church has the kind of atmosphere that causes artists and film makers to go weak with longing. It is a ready-made platform for romantic, grotesque and grandiose stories.

This is why my mind wants to rename it after a woman. Church of our Lady Branwyn or something else that feels like it has been hauled from the sultry mire of the Scottish moors.

There are so many reasons to go back to Paisley for another visit, but high on my list is a chance to walk through the doors and into the deep belly of this stunning building.

Thank you, Hippolyte Blanc.