I WOULD be hard pressed to tell you if what woke me up on the fourth morning of my April 2024 trip was the sound of seagulls mewing or the threateningly thunderous rumble of my stomach demanding that it be properly fed. I lay in bed awhile, listening to the noises, until I found myself thinking ‘I wonder what seagull tastes like?’ and conceded that my stomach might have a point. I reluctantly arose and, hoping to still the strident seismic sounds, ventured out in search of breakfast…
Anstruther
Anstruther Harbour
A short while later I stood blinking on the quayside of Anstruther Harbour, my stomach as completely silenced as the seagulls were very much not. I ignored them; they were only jealous that I had had breakfast and they hadn’t.
Anstruther’s current harbour was built between 1753 (the west pier) and 1877 (the east pier) but incorporates parts of its predecessor, particularly in the now-truncated central pier. The burgh has functioned as a harbour and fishing port for centuries and had a harbour pier of some sort by at least 1587, when two pirates were hanged upon the end of it!
Reaper
Moored beside the central pier was Reaper, a 21 m historic fishing boat owned by the neighbouring Scottish Fisheries Museum and maintained by the volunteers of the Museum Boats Club.
Reaper is a Fifie, a type of boat once common along the coast of Fife, but now vanishingly rare. Launched in Sandhaven in 1902 and registered in Fraserburgh as FR 958, she served as a herring drifter, trailing up to a mile of net behind her. Originally, this was done purely via sail power, though a motor was fitted to her in 1916. She is of a wooden construction, which employed both oak and larch and has been lovingly restored to her original two-masted sailing lugger configuration. Her most recent refit occurred in 2005.
Mercat Cross
Beside the harbour’s western end stood Anstruther’s mercat cross (i.e., market cross). Dated 1677, this was the mercat cross for Anstruther Easter, which was granted the right to hold a market by James VI (1566-1625) in a charter of 1587. It doesn’t stand in quite its original position, having been moved several metres from the middle of the street in 1875, when it was installed upon its current stepped base.
The column has decorative shield shapes on each side, though these are merely artistic ornamentation rather than actual heraldry. They depict a fleur-de-lys (south), star (west), thistle (north) and something now completely and mysteriously illegible on the eastern face. What was it? Who knows?
Dreel Castle
The street that ran along the edge of the harbour and past the mercat cross was, appropriately enough, called Shore Street. At its western end, this abutted Rodger Street and I was all set to climb the shallow hill of the latter but the Fife Coastal Path had other ideas, instead diverting me down Castle Street instead, the name of which implied the existence of a castle. Sadly, its existence had proved quite ephemeral and nothing now remains of Dreel Castle barring a small section of 16th-century wall incorporated into a later structure.
Overlooking the Dreel Burn that indirectly gives Anstruther its name – An t-Sruthair, ‘the little stream’ – Dreel Castle was home to the Anstruther family. These were the descendants of William de Candela, who was granted Anstruther by Alexander I (c. 1078-1124) in the early 12th century, and in time they came to take their name from their estate. While they may have built a castle right away in the 12th century, they definitely had one by the 15th and remodelled it in the 16th.
In 1663, Sir Philip Anstruther (1625-1702) had a new mansion built – Anstruther Place – which supplanted the castle as his residence. There is a tradition that this rebuilding was spurred by a backhanded compliment from Charles II (1630-1685), who stayed at Dreel Castle in 1651 and commented upon the apparently surprising good quality of his meal, saying ‘Eh, what a fine supper I’ve gotten in a craw’s nest!’ Thereafter, the castle fell slowly into ruin until its last remnants were removed in the 19th century, barring the small section of wall already mentioned.
The arms of the Anstruthers are three black piles (triangular spikes) issuing from the chief (i.e. top) of the shield, upon a silver field. This makes for a simple but striking and easily recognisable design, which was the original point of heraldry – being able to quickly identify armoured knights by their shields. Later, more complex designs sometimes lose sight of that principle.
Dreel Burn Bridge
A narrow alley, Wightmans’s Wynd, led up to High Street East, where a convenience store furnished me with snacks and water for the road. I then followed the High Street around to Dreel Burn Bridge, which spanned the burn separating Anstruther Easter from Anstruther Wester.
Date stones set into the bridge’s northern parapet showed 1630 as its construction year, along with such decorative features as a fret of three fish – a device taken from the burgh seal of Anstruther Wester – and a shield displaying the Anstruther piles. Another stone indicated that the bridge had been rebuilt in 1795. It has been rebuilt at least twice since then, once in 1831 and then again – strengthening it and widening it on the downstream side – in the mid-20th century.
Dreel Halls
Immediately over the bridge, I encountered the squat, yellowish tower of the Dreel Halls. Today, this is a municipal complex that hosts community events but the its buildings comprise those of the former St Nicholas’s Parish Church (completed 1243, with its tower rebuilt in 1510 and transept in 1846) and Anstruther Wester Town Hall (1795).
In 2013, these were purchased from their respective owners – namely, the Church of Scotland and Fife Council – by Fife Historic Buildings Trust (est. 1997), which then set about restoring their exteriors. In 2014, the complex was then transferred to the Anstruther Improvements Association (est. 1950), which had previously rented the town hall from the council. The Association then similarly overhauled the interiors before opening the complex up to public use.
Buckie House
On the opposite side of the street to the Dreel Halls stood the beshelled façade of Buckie House. This was a perfectly ordinary residential building erected in 1692 that, circa 1840, was purchased by a local eccentric, a slater and plasterer named Alex Batchelor. Having acquired the property, he promptly decorated parts of its exterior with seashells.
In Alex’s defence, we’ve already established that he was eccentric. Also, he had other things to part-festoon with shells, such as the wall of another building near Dreel Burn Bridge, or his own coffin, which he’d had made up early and would show off to people for a couple of pennies (for an extra penny, he would allegedly lie down in it for the entertainment of his customers. I guess you just had to be there.
Shore Road
To make my day’s walk easy to navigate, I was planning to pretty much follow the Fife Coastal Path the whole way and that path was very well way-marked. Its signs led me to turn right at Buckie House, into High Street West and from there, via Chrichton Street, into Shore Road (not the be confused with the quite distinct, though similarly-named Shore Street).
Shore Road lived up to the promise of its name by leading me back towards the shore, which earned it several points in my mental estimation. But it arrived there next to Anstruther Golf Club (est. 1890), which caused me to deduct them back to zero.
Great War Memorial
The coast path left Anstruther on a well-made, metalled road that clearly existed in part to service the golf course. This wound closely along the edge of the shore, snaking its way towards the lonely tower that constitutes Anstruther Great War Memorial.
Dedicated in 1921, the memorial takes the form of a 7 m tall crenelated tower, with tablets set into its sides naming Anstruther’s dead from WW1. It cost £550 to erect, which would be roughly equivalent to £22,500, today.
Anstruther Wester Bathing Pool
The metalled road came to an end beside a large storage shed at a position overlooking what was clearly a long-abandoned tidal lido. Abandoned by the council and no longer maintained, that is; I am sure there are plenty of locals who still know that it’s there and splash about in it anyway.
Thereafter, the path become a narrow, unsurfaced footpath, which closely followed the shoreline.
Pittenweem
Pittenweem Priory
At the eastern end of Pittenweem, the path ran in front of, and separated from, a number of houses before emerging onto Abbey Wall Road. This took its name from the perimeter wall of the Augustinian priory that once occupied the village, which moved from the Isle of May in 1318, prompted in part by English raids upon the island. It was subordinate to the canons of St Andrews Cathedral.
There had already been a church in the village and it was not unfamiliar with religious communities, having hosted a community of Culdees circa 1100 and a monastery including St Monan in the 6th century.
Like so many similar establishments, Pittenweem Priory did not survive the Reformation; it was dissolved in 1592. Its priory church reverted to being the village parish church, while its dormitory became a manse. Today, its memory lingers on in names like Abbey Wall Road.
Pittenweem Harbour
Abbey Wall Road led downhill to Pittenweem Harbour, though there was some squeezing past roadworks at the bottom of the hill. Scottish Water was embarked upon an upgrade project to mitigate recurrent sewer flooding in the village by laying new infrastructure, which had caused part of East Shore (the eastern end of Pittenweem Harbour) to be fenced off.
Pittenweem has been a port since at least 1228, when it first showed up as such in records. Stone harbour piers were constructed circa 1600 and in 1724, and the harbour was expanded in the early 1770s by Sir John Anstruther (1718-1799), who in 1771 co-founded the Newark Coal and Salt Company with brother-in-law Robert Fall (1724-1796) and needed docks capable of shipping both products. From then until 1794, when a fire disrupted mining operations, a timber-railed horse-drawn tramway linked the salt pans and coal mine to the harbour, where they had built a dedicated pier (since demolished).
The company collapsed in 1823, out-competed by cheap imports, but Pittenweem retained the benefits of the harbour it had created.
Fishermen’s Memorial
Pittenweem might have lost its salt industry in 1823 and its coal not too long after that, but a new economic success lay just around the corner in the form of the herring boom of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Pittenweem became a thriving herring port and home to around fifty trawlers but ultimately became a victim of its own success as boats moved north to Aberdeen’s larger harbour to escape the congestion in Pittenweem. The village still retains a small but active fishing fleet today, though this mainly focusses on prawns rather than whitefish.
Lucrative as it may once have been, the fishing industry was not without risk, and not every boat that put to sea made it back home again. This grim reality is commemorated in the form of a 2019 sculpture by Alan Herriot, depicting an anxious woman and child, staring out to sea for some sign that their loved one is returning.
The statue was commissioned by the Pittenweem Fishermen’s Memorial Association, a charity established expressly for that purpose, which raised the necessary funds over a period of about four years. A plaque upon its base declares that:
‘This memorial is dedicated to the men and women who make their living from the sea and to those who have lost their lives in so doing.’
Ice Cream
On my approach to the Fishermen’s Memorial, I had passed an ice cream shop that showed every sign of being closed. This naturally made me crave the ice cream I couldn’t have and possibly a cold drink to go with it – the morning had been bakingly hot so far and characterised by mostly blue skies. I still had a bottle of water in my bag but I also had a long way yet to go, so I didn’t want to empty that. Hoping that I may have been mistaken, I backtracked slightly to double check that no, the ice cream shop was not going to sell me anything today.
This was disappointing. But then I saw my salvation in the form of a pedestrian sign that pointed up a steep and narrow alley – School Wynd – towards the High Street. Climbing its steps only added to my thirst but it proved worth the effort. Moments later, I found myself sat outside a shop, an ice cream in hand and a cold drink beside me.
Pittenweem Parish Church
Parts of Pittenweem Parish Church’s nave date back to 1200 as a remnant of the priory church, with additions made in 1532. The tower was actually built as a neighbouring tolbooth in 1588 but was later annexed to the church. Its spire and belfry were added on top circa 1630. The building’s stained glass windows were added in the mid-20th century.
In 1704, the tower was the scene of witch trial hysteria, when Patrick Morton, the sixteen-year old son of the village smith, accused five women of bewitching him. The suspects were incarcerated in the tolbooth (as it then was) and tortured by sleep deprivation, being pricked with needles and beaten with a stick. The wielder of the latter was the church minister Patrick Cowper (1660-1740), who also enthusiastically supported the crushing to death of one of the women who was seized by a mob after escaping. The rest had eventually confessed and were fined £8 Scots apiece (equivalent to about £124 in modern Sterling).
Cowper, who evidently loved this license for violence and terror far too much, brought fresh witchcraft charges against two of the women four years later, in 1708, but was forced to release them when Queen Anne (1665-1714) issued an Act of Indemnity in 1709 before they had gone to trial. The act was actually intended to provide an amnesty for Jacobites involved in the 1708 Rising but was nonspecific enough about crimes that the women fell under its terms.
Pittenweem Tidal Pool
Returning to the harbour, I headed west past a row of sea-facing houses and out onto another clear but unmade path. This curved around a small embayment and passed by my second tidal lido of the day. Like the one at Anstruther Wester, Pittenweem Tidal Pool was abandoned by the council in the 1980s and permitted to fall into ruin. Unlike it, though, it has been restored as part of a local initiative – the West Braes Project – and was reopened for public use in 2021.
What the West Braes Project has done is to fix a breach in the wall and replace a broken valve, so the pool once again retains its water at low tide.
St Monans
St Monans Windmill
The path led westwards for a quarter mile to Pathhead, which had once been a simple row of cottages but today is home to a plant nursery. And then, another quarter mile beyond that, I came to St Monans Windmill. This was associated with St Philip’s Salt Pans – which belonged to Sir John Anstruther – and their ruins lay before it. It’s technically not a windmill but a ‘wind engine,’ as it never did any milling but instead drove the pumps that kept the salt pans supplied with water. The pans were contained within nine buildings (the aforementioned ruins) and evaporation was achieved not through sunlight, as was traditional, but by burning coal, which allowed for 24-hour operation.
The coal came from a mine close by at the site now occupied by the appropriately-named Coalfarm. Both mine and salt works were linked to each other by the tramway that also connected them to Pittenweem harbour. This did not perhaps follow the most obvious route thanks to a dispute between Sir John and his cousin, Sir Robert Anstruther (1733-1818), who owned land that was inconveniently in the way and would not permit the tramway to cross it.
The tramway fell out of use after an underground fire disrupted the mine in 1794 and the salt pans were put paid to by tax changes in 1823, which enabled foreign salt to be imported cheaply than before. The mine limped on a few more decades, while the panhouses and windmill fell into ruin. The latter was restored and reroofed in the 1980s as a landmark and tourist attraction.
St Monans Tidal Pool
Immediately west of the windmill and salt pans lay the third and last tidal lido of the morning , namely St Monans Tidal Pool. This has a similar history to the other two, having been built in the 1930s and abandoned by the council in the 1980s. Like Pittenweem’s pool, it has been restored by community volunteers.
I’ve not included a photo as it was in use while I passed it, with half a dozen women of retirement age and apparent imperviousness to cold, merrily splashing about in it; it would have been a bit weird to stand there snapping their pictures.
St Monans Harbour
Beyond the lido was a seafront park overlooked by the caravans of a holiday park and, beyond that, was the village of St Monans. The path abutted directly onto Rose Street and this, in turn, led me to Forth Street that – as suggested by its name – dropped down to the harbour, which (of course) opened onto the Firth of Forth.
As a fishing village, St Monans’ harbour was central to its existence. Its central pier was built in 1596 creating a sizeable harbour, although this may have been rebuilding or repairing an earlier construction. The harbour was further rebuilt in the mid-17th century and again in 1883, when it was widened by cutting away the rock that surrounded it in order to make room for ever-larger fishing boats. It was extended eastwards again in 1865, with the construction of an outer east pier designed by the Stevenson brothers David (1815-1886) and Thomas (1818-1887), who are better known for their lighthouses. A west pier was added in 1900 and was the work of David’s son, Charles Stevenson (1855-1950), who had followed him into civil engineering. Thomas’s son, by contrast, was the novelist Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894), the author of Treasure Island and Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
It is presumably because of the relatively small gap in the rocks that Sir John Anstruther’s salt and coal tramway extended a mile eastwards to Pittenweem, where the harbour could be more easily improved, rather than less half that distance west to St Monans.
St Monans Church
I made my way past the harbour after which the street called West End turned inland and the Fife Coastal Path went with it. According to my map, the path then turned off this to cut down an alley to St Monans Church. But, according to the barrier across that alley and the diversion sign beside it, no it didn’t. Fortunately, it only a took a few minutes to go the long way around.
The St Monan to whom the church is dedicated, and for whom the village was named, was killed by invading Danes in about 875 and buried in a shrine where his church now stands. This was turned into a proper church circa 1297 and then extensively rebuilt in 1370 by Sir William Dishington (c. 1330-1402), acting on instructions from David II (1324-1371). Much of its current fabric dates from that time, albeit with alteration made by architect William Burn (1789-1870) in 1828.
Old Railway Bridge
Beside St Monans I found two sets of coast path diversions, one preventing me from using that alley I’d gone around, and the other telling me not to head on past the front of the church on a tidal section of Fife Coastal Path, on account of damage further on. Instead I would have to use the alternative high-tide route, which suited me just fine. This conveyed me upstream beside the Inverie Burn until I reached this:
It was pretty obvious just from looking at it that this was an old railway bridge. It was, in fact, a remnant of the Leven and East of Fife Railway’s 1863 extension to Anstruther. The LEFR had been created in 1861 by an amalgamation of the 1854 Leven Railway (running from Thornton to Leven) and the 1857 East of Fife Railway (Leven to Kilconquhar).
After just over a century of service, the line fell victim to the Beeching Axe, closing to passengers in 1965 and to goods traffic in 1966.
The Cloud Whisperer
From the railway bridge, the coast path led southwest towards the farmstead of Newark, which it carefully skirted around. During this part of the walk the sky, which had been gradually clouding over since Pittenweem, darkened in colour and experimented with dropping a light shower. This was unacceptable and I told it so in no uncertain terms.
Amazingly, this worked! The patter of rain lessened and then stopped and I strode along in awe of my new-found power as some sort of meteorological wizard. A ‘Cloud Whisperer’ if you will.
Newark Castle
From Newark, a track led south to reconnect with the coast path beside the ruins of Newark Castle and a nearby round tower that once been a doocot (i.e. dovecote) associated with it.
Built in the mid-13th century by Alan Durward, the Justiciar of Scotia, the original Newark Castle hosted his wife’s half-brother, the child king Alexander III (1241-1286) as part of a successful bid for political dominance over Durward’s rival, Walter Comyn, Earl of Menteith. However, the ruins that stand today survive from a 15th-century rebuilding by Sir John Kinloch of Cruivie, from whose family it passed through marriage to the Sandilands of Calder. In 1649, they sold it to the royalist officer David Leslie (c. 1600-1682), who was rewarded after the 1660 Restoration with the title Lord Newark and lived out his retirement in the castle, remodelling it in part into a mansion.
After Leslie’s death, Newark Castle passed into the ownership of the Anstruthers until the financially-challenged Sir Windham Carmichael-Anstruther (1793-1869) sold the estate to William Baird of Elie (1796-1864) in 1856. It subsequently fell into neglect and ruin and a 19th-century plan by art collector Sir William Burrell (1861-1958) to buy it and have it restored by architect Sir Robert Lorimer (1864-1929) came to naught when the Bairds declined to sell it to him.
Elie & Earlsferry
Ardross Castle
The next three quarters of a mile was a pleasant walk atop a low cliff that revealed the terrain to be an ancient beach raised by post-glacial rebound. This led from the ruins of one castle (Newark) to another, namely Ardross. There was even less of this one remaining:
Ardross Castle was built by Sir William Dishington (who also built St Monans Church), who acquired Ardross in 1368. It then remained in his family for over two centuries until in 1607, when an impoverished Sir Thomas Dishington (d. 1644) sold it to his father-in-law, Sir William Scott of Elie (c. 1546-1628). It was sold again, circa 1690, to Sir William Anstruther (d. 1711), who quarried it for stone with which to build himself a new manor, Elie House. Other neighbouring buildings have also used stones taken from the castle.
The Dishington arms comprised three silver scallops on a black bend over a gold field. Those of Scott of Elie differenced the arms of Scott of Buccleuch (a gold crescent and two stars on a blue bend on gold) by the addition of a red bordure charged with bezants (i.e., gold discs). We have already seen the arms of Anstruther.
Onto the A-road
I was not entirely overjoyed to encounter another coastal path diversion at Ardross Castle, closing the path between there and Elie. I was instead directed to pass alongside Ardross Farm and walk beside the A917 instead.
Fortunately, the A917 wasn’t too busy, thought it was by no means empty. Also in its favour was that it was actually shorter than the route it was replacing (diversions are often very much the opposite) and that I could still see the sea from it. Not particularly closely, admittedly, but I could see it.
Lady’s Tower
Lady’s Tower is a summerhouse in the form of a folly and was built circa 1770 for Lady Janet Anstruther née Fall (1725-1802), who was wife to salt works-owning Sir John Anstruther and younger sister to his business partner, Robert Fall. Lady Janet had a penchant for swimming in the waters around Elie Ness and, after her aquatic exertions, would retire to the Lady’s Tower to relax and watch the waves. This was a daily ritual for her and, local folklore recounts, to prevent her daily dip from being disturbed a servant would ring a bell in Elie to warn the townsfolk it was happening.
Elie House
Just over fifteen minutes later I strolled past the gates of Elie House and into the eastern end of Elie.
Built in 1697 and incorporating an earlier structure, Elie House was built for Sir William Anstruther using material recycled from Ardross Castle. Sir John Anstruther, who built the Lady’s Tower and owned the salt pans, was his grandson. Sir John undertook renovation of Elie House circa 1770, during which he cleared the hamlet of Balclevie – a settlement of seven or eight cottages – because it was spoiling Lady Janet’s view of Kilconquhar Loch. Needless to say, being evicted for such a trivial reason did not sit well with Balclevie’s residents and one old woman cursed them for it, as was recalled by a later poem by the Rev Robert S Armstrong (1883-1958) of Kilconquhar:
Balclevie was a village fair, Balclevie is no longer there,
They took and cast its houses down, Balclevie was a bonnie town.
She cursed the tongue that gave command that not one stone be left to stand,
She cursed the Lady Jenny Fa’ that their wee toon had ta’en awa’.
Elie House was part of the estate that was sold to William Baird. In 1928, the Bairds sold it to Sir Michael Nairn of Dysart (1874-1952), who moved in and lived there until his death. His son, George Nairn (1911-1984), felt that Elie House was too large for a post-war private residence and sold it and it gardens to the Sisters of Mary Reparatrix for use as a retreat, while retaining the remainder of the estate. The nuns remained in occupation until the 1970s, when their dwindling numbers caused them to move out. Thereafter it had owners who performed little maintenance until eventually bought by property developers who converted it to 13 apartments in 2012.
Toll Green
Upon entering Elie, the A917 became the High Street and this led past not just shops and houses but also a tiny wedge of public park named Toll Green. The latter takes its name partly from being a green space, obviously, and partly from being the site of the toll house in the days of turnpike roads. Curiously, if old Ordnance Survey maps are anything to go by, the green and the toll house appear not to have coexisted, with one springing up after the other was removed in the 1870s.
At the northeast corner of Toll Green stood a device that seems to be mainly known as Elie Water Fountain, though is better described as an old water pump. Installed in 1869, it is of a design produced by George Smith & Co. of Glasgow, specifically being No. 8 in their catalogue. In its operational days it would have had a water spout protruding from its lower octagonal section, with a pump handle projecting from that opposite. On Elie’s pump, both of these have been replaced with blank panels.
Elie’s is the only George Smith No. 8 pump remaining in Scotland but this wasn’t my first chance to see one. I walked past one in Faversham, way back in 2010, although I failed to photograph it (it was hidden behind the Town Hall, of which I did take a picture).
Earlsferry Beach
The Fife Coastal Path was routed along the A917, which changed names from High Street to Bank Street as I headed west through Elie. This was by no means unpleasant, but the side-streets leading towards the beach called to me and I could only ignore their siren song for so long. Turning off down one named Fountain Street, I emerged onto a beach of golden sand:
The Earl’s Ferry
Elie and Earlsferry now run into each other (they united in 1929) but began as separate villages and were shown as such on William Roy’s military survey map of 1747-52. Earlsferry takes its name, somewhat predictably, from a ferry instituted by an earl. More specifically, by the Earl of Fife, whose mediaeval ferry crossed the Firth of Forth to North Berwick or Dirleton.
The ferry ran until the 17th century, though was not much used for the latter part of its existence, partly due to having been supplanted by new crossings elsewhere on the firth and partly due to the Reformation, which had done away with the pilgrims heading to St Andrews who had made up much of its traffic.
Chapel Green
I followed the beach until I ran out of it and then scrambled up where some steps probably once were, to reach Chapel Green Road. This led in turn to Chapel Green, the grassy headland that marks the western end of the bay onto which Elie and Earlsferry face. Atop Chapel Green stood, well, you can probably guess…
The medieval chapel of which these are the remains is believed to have been associated with a monastery hospital tending to the needs of pilgrims, with a similar setup at the North Berwick end of the ferry route.
A 19th-century panel set into its gable asserts that the chapel was built in 1093 by MacDuff, Earl of Fife, and repaired in 1830. This may or may not be true but it certainly relies heavily on local tradition and not at all on any reliable evidence. The 1093 part, that is. The 1830 part is probably more reliable; the mason who inscribed it should have known what year it was.
Earlsferry Links
From Chapel Green, the Fife Coastal path headed west along the edge of Earlsferry Links, so I did likewise. As I did so, the clouds gathered and darkened again before suddenly opening up upon me. They had learnt their lessons from earlier, when my angry shouting had overcome their timidity, and this time dropped a veritable deluge with practically no build up. This was binary rain, fully on or off!
I was soaked through in seconds but the clouds had yet to finish, saving up their pièce de resistance for an exciting climax. As I trudged and squelched long, the precipitation switched from rain to sleet. Hailstones pinged painfully off my skin. And then, before I could overcome my shock and marshal my voice for more shouting, it abruptly stopped and the clouds moved on. It had been a masterful meteorological ambush and I was left wide-eyed and gasping like a landed fish.
Kincraig Point
The path alongside Earlsferry Links had been within five metres of mean sea level but progress forwards was interrupted by the 63 m Kincraig Hill, which projects out into the sea to form Kincraig Point. The Fife Coastal Path dealt with this obstacle in the usual coastal path manner, by which I mean going up and over it. This resulted in a combination of warming exertion and an increase in wind exposure proportional with elevation, both of which served to dry my sodden clothes out in double-quick time. By the time I was standing atop it, looking at the traces of a WW2 coastal battery, I was pretty much all dried out and wondering if I’d imagined that sudden burst of sleet.
Elie Chain Walk
While I was following the Fife Coastal Path over the top of Kincraig Point, there was an alternative tidal route around the rocks below in the form of the Elie Chain Walk. This was Britain’s only free via ferrata, which means it was basically a scrambling route with fixed chains and poles and foot-holes to assist progress. It’s meant to be a lot of fun if you have say, a decent sense of balance and coordination and a head for heights. I don’t personally have any of those things, so I was happy to leave it for others to enjoy.
Shell Bay
I merely followed the coastal path around, taking care not to trip and fall to my death. I thus lost height at a safe, controlled rate and descended into Shell Bay to find myself amongst the static caravans of Elie Holiday Park. At the far end of the holiday park, the road through it forked to become two tracks, one leading out onto Ruddon’s Point and the other heading north through a gap in some trees.
I was pretty sure I knew which fork I should be taking but I chose to sit down and get out my map, as much to justify taking a rest as to confirm where I was going. Almost immediately, two young women appeared as if from nowhere and volunteered directions that I didn’t actually need. It seemed pretty churlish to tell them that, though – they were, after all, just being helpful – so I pretended to enormous gratitude and hurried on my way.
Largo Bay
Cocklemill Burn
Once through the trees, I saw the curve of Largo Bay stretching out before me and the 290 m hill Largo Law looming dead ahead. That would not be an obstacle that I’d have to get over, but Cocklemill Burn, which snaked through marshy ground directly in front of me, would. Fortunately, footbridges had been provided.
Dumbarnie Links
Having crossed the burn, the path followed it back downstream to run along the low dunes at the top of the beach (which are part of Dumbarnie Links). I abandoned these pretty much immediately, preferring instead to walk on the beach itself as it curved ever more towards the west. As I progressed along it, a line of WW2 anti-tank blocks began to emerge from the sands.
Looking out to sea, I could see a lone oil rig moored a couple of miles off Buckhaven (the sheltered waters this far up the firth are often used to store them between deployments).
Railway Alignment
I rejoined the actual coastal path where a second line of anti-tank blocks extended perpendicularly to the shore. Right next to this stood a couple of pillboxes.
A short distance beyond the pillboxes, the coast path met with another upon the line of which it had been converging for a while. This second path was suspiciously straight, level and raised above the ground on a long embankment, all tell-tale signs of a disused railway alignment. It was, of course, that of the East of Fife Railway (EFR), which had run between Leven and Kilconquhar.
Lower Largo
The EFR alignment made for an easy-going approach into Lower Largo, which my increasingly tired legs very much appreciated (they would have far preferred a longer rest in Elie Holiday Park). The broad track turned into a much narrower footpath as it plunged into the village and this would have carried me right across it to the site of the old station had I let it. The Fife Coastal Path had other ideas however, and I found them more persuasive. It turned off the alignment just inside the village’s perimeter and cut through a car park onto Main Street.
This was an excellent play, in my book, as it vastly increased the chances of finding somewhere suitable to stop for lunch.
Alexander Selkirk
Lower Largo was the birthplace of the famous castaway Alexander Selkirk (1676-1721), whose experiences inspired Daniel Defoe (1660-1731) to write The Life and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (publ. 1719).
A shoemaker’s son with a misspent youth, Selkirk largely escaped legal consequences by fleeing to see and becoming a privateer. In 1704, this activity saw him sailing master of the 16-gun privateer Cinque Ports under captain Thomas Stradling. When the vessel called in at an uninhabited Pacific island to take on food and water, Selkirk expressed concerns about Cinque Ports’s seaworthiness and declared that he would rather stay on the island than risk sailing without repairs.
As the ships senior professional sailor, he probably expected this dramatic declaration to make Stradling sit up and take notice but instead the captain took Selkirk at his literal word and marooned him. He would spend the next four years trapped alone on one of the Juan Fernández Islands, just over 400 miles from the coast of Chile, where he survived on a diet of mostly wild goat and turnips.
Cinque Ports sank off Colombia, just weeks after Selkirk was marooned.
Alexander Selkirk Statue
The house in which Selkirk was born is now graced by a small statue of him by sculptor Thomas Stuart Burnett (1853–1888).
I spotted a sign pointing to the statue but mistakenly thought it was pointing up an alley and was frustrated that I couldn’t see it, when I should, in fact, have simply been looking up at the wall above my head.
The Aurrie
About 80 m west of Selkirk’s house was Largo Baptist Church, erected in 1860. While I might not ne religious, this answered my prayers, so to speak, and I cheerfully popped inside. My reason for so doing was not to ask God if he knew how I missed the Selkirk statue, but to answer my ever-growing need for lunch and a good sit-down. Having fallen out of use some years before, the Baptist church building was purchased in 2021 and repurposed as an arts centre and café called the Aurrie.
The Aurrie was able to provide me with tea, a cheese and ham toastie and a chair in which to sit while I consumed them, all of which made me very happy. As I rested and refuelled I mused upon the symbolism of this stained glass window:
The window is actually, as it says in the pinkish panel at the bottom, ‘in memory of the Old Scotch Baptists 1778-1927.’
Old Scotch Baptists
The Old Scotch Baptists to which the window refers were Lower Largo’s original Baptist congregation, who met in a smaller building at the western end of Main Street.
They had a schism in 1867 over whether communion should be ‘open’ (i.e. any believers are welcome) or ‘closed’ (i.e., restricted to members of that particular church only), with the former faction splitting off to create what is now the Aurrie.
In 1927, the minister of the Old Scotch Baptists died, and the two churches reunited (by which I really mean that the ‘new church’ absorbed its parent). The window was installed to mark the reunion as a nod to the original church, which had effectively ceased to exist.
Malagan
When I felt sufficiently fed and rested, I resumed my westward journey along Main Street. This quickly brought me face-to-face with a sculpture that suggested a worship of darker and more malevolent gods.
Fashioned from copper and carved and painted oak, this sculpture is titled Malagan and is the work of Alan Faulds, in whose garden it stands. Its design is inspired by multiple influences from around the world, while its name refers to a tradition of ceremonial and funerary carvings in the New Ireland province of Papua New Guinea.
Shuddering slightly at the sight of it, I moved swiftly on lest it spring to life like some appalling avatar of cosmic horror and demand tribute in the form of blood sacrifice.
Drummochy Road Bridge
Main Street came to an end at a junction where it met Harbour Wynd, which ran upstream alongside Keil Burn, and Drummochy Road, which crossed the burn by means of Drummochy Road Bridge.
This is a steel road bridge, which was erected in 1914, replacing a wooden footbridge and vehicular ford. The very first vehicle to pass over it was a car belonging to local carpenter, joiner and building contractor Walter Horne (1864-1940), whose crossing was part of the opening ceremony. Today, the bridge bears a ‘weak bridge’ warning sign and a posted weight limit of 18 tons.
While the footbridge (erected in 1770 and rebuilt in 1894) crossed at pretty much the same spot, the ford was much less direct. Its east bank ramp was situated upstream of the both the footbridge and the 1857 railway viaduct, at what is now a residential cul-de-sac named Seatoun Place but was previously a flax mill. No visible trace of this ramp remains. The west bank ramp, by contrast, was downstream of the footbridge and still exists. With Keil Burn being tidal so close to its mouth, the ford was treacherous to use and careful timing was key.
Largo Viaduct
The railway viaduct mentioned above and shown on the map was the Largo Viaduct, which was opened in 1857 as part of the EFR. The engineer employed by the railway to design its infrastructure was Thomas Bouch (1822-1880) but, in a worrying sign of things to come, construction problems led to his dismissal. He would eventually go on to build the disastrous first Tay Bridge, which collapsed under a train in 1879, killing 75 people.
A single-track four arch masonry affair, Largo Viaduct is about 80 m long and 16 m high. There have been calls to open it as a foot and/or cycle path but at present it stands fenced-off and forlorn, its only value now aesthetic or perhaps as a shelter from the rain.
Drummochy
Confident that, while I had allowed myself to put on a little more weight than I was happy with, I still weighed nowhere near the limit of 18 tons, I crossed over the road bridge. In doing so, I transited from Lower Largo to Lundin Links, a village contiguous with the former and developed in the 19th century primarily to accommodate tourists. As it grew, it absorbed the older hamlet of Drummochy, which was more specifically where I now was.
Given that I was on Drummochy Road, which implied that it had been the road leading to Drummochy, we can reasonably infer that Drummochy has done some expanding of its own, advancing right up to Keil Burn.
I was welcomed to Drummochy by a sight of a small boat, painted in a friendly yellow and employed as a floral planter. This was situated next to the old ramp down to the ford and it brought a smile to my lips. Partly, this was because it was just a pleasant piece of civic ornamentation, and partly because whoever had made it had found the dubious art of excruciating punnage just as alluring as I do:
Also, I know it’s almost certainly accidental, but I love the way that litter bin looks like a buoy the boat is moored to.
Salt Works
Between about 1740 and 1787, Drummochy was home to a salt works, though on a much smaller scale than the one at St Monans, with just a singular panhouse. It was later repurposed for other industries, such as being Walter Horne’s joinery, before its demolition in 1967. A private house now occupies its site, which the Fife Coastal Path routed me in front of.
Lundin Links
The path west out of Drummochy quickly became a sandy trail through the low dunes of the Lundin Links after which the village was named (‘links’ being the Scottish name for dune terrain).
As previously, I quickly chose to abandon the actual path in favour of the sandy beach. The weather may not have been particularly sunny at this point, but nonetheless I thoroughly enjoyed my seaside stroll.
From my position on the beach, I could see sand, sea and that oil rig still floating a couple of miles offshore. One thing I couldn’t see was Lundin Tower, on account of it being a good half mile inland…
Lundin Tower
The tower is all that remains of a mansion that grew out of a small castle. This belonged to the Lundin family, who gave their name to the estate that their ancestor, Philip de Lundin, acquired in the 12th century. They were distant cousins of Alan Durward who built Newark Castle (who descended from Philip’s brother Malcolm de Lundin) and had built their own castle by at least the 14th century, extending and modifying it over the subsequent years. This included adding a square stair turret in the 16th century, possibly just in time for Mary, Queen of Scots (1542-1587) to pay them a visit in 1565.
In 1670, the Lundin line ended and the estate passed through marriage to the Drummonds, who held it until the 1745 Jacobite Rising, when they backed what turned out to be the losing side and forfeited their lands for treason.
By 1876, Lundin House, as it had become, had come into the ownership of Conservative politician Sir John Gilmour (1845-1920), who found it inadequate and had the building demolished apart from the aforementioned stair turret, while he moved into another nearby property that he owned, Montrave House. Today, the tower remains part of a private home, into which it was incorporated in 1995.
Leven & Methil
Silverburn Park
The next thing that I didn’t see from the beach was Silverburn Park. This was the site of a former flax mill and (until 2018 when it burnt down) Silverburn House. The latter was the home of the Russell family, proprietors of paper manufacturing company Tullis Russell.
In the first of an interesting and admirable series of moves for an industrial dynasty, the Russells gifted away the house and grounds to Leven Town Council in 1973, subject to the stipulation that they should ‘remain forever as a quiet area used for the benefit of the public in general and the people of Leven in particular for nature trails, quiet parkland and organised camping.’ In 1986, they kicked off a process to transfer the majority of Tullis Russell Group to employee ownership, leading to 70% of its shares being held by an employee trust today.
The charred and gutted shell of Silverburn House was demolished in 2019, so there was nothing left of it for me to look at anyway.
Poppy
The 81 m, 750 kW wind turbine towering over Methil Dock No. 3 is obviously not a poppy; it’s named Poppy. It belongs to Green Hydrogen, formerly known as The Hydrogen Office, which is a project supporting the accelerated development of the renewable, hydrogen, fuel cell and energy storage industries. It was named ‘Poppy’ by the children of the local Childcare Centre as part of a campaign to win over a community that hadn’t rushed to welcome plans to build it.
Apart from her having a name, there’s nothing particularly exciting about Poppy except that, for me, she served as a landmark, allowing me to gauge my progress towards and through Leven and Methil. On that basis, I was glad of her company. But then, I rather like wind turbines, I find their dynamic elegance pleasing to behold.
And so, with an eye on the diminishing distance to Poppy, I passed by the caravans of Leven Beach Holiday Park and then left the beach to join Leven’s Promenade.
Leven Promenade
Leven (Inbhir Lìobhann) is a seaside town that expanded from a mere village when the Leven Railway arrived in 1854, bringing tourists from Edinburgh and beyond. When it closed again, thanks to the Beeching Axe, in 1969, this dealt a heavy hammer blow to Leven and left it the largest urban population in Scotland unserved by any direct rail link.
As I write this, Leven now has a railway station again, with the Levenmouth Link – essentially the reinstated and rebranded Leven Railway – having commenced service on 02 Jun 2024. But I was in Leven on 25 Apr, with over a month left to go before it opened, so there would be no option for me to cut my walk short. Not that I wanted to, anyway.
As a seaside resort, the mile and a half of broad, sandy beach I had just walked over was obviously one of Leven’s assets, as was the Promenade, catering for those who want to stroll by the sea without getting sand in their shoes. There were also plenty of benches, in case all the strolling got too much.
Postie
A Scottie dog that is perhaps Scottier than most, Postie – or Postcards from Fife to give him his full name – was one of 30 such sculptures, each decorated by a different artist, scattered across Fife as a 10-week art trail project which took place in 2023. At the end of the project, the dogs were auctioned off with the proceeds going to a cancer charity.
Leven was so taken with its dog, however, that Levenmouth Local Tourism Association bid to get him back again, raising £5,270 in public donations over just nine days. Obviously, they won, though they had to beat two rival bidders to do so. The winning bid was £5,000.
Bawbee Bridge
The Promenade continued until the River Leven got in the way, at which point it turned upstream, heading for Bawbee Bridge. Constructed from concrete in 1957, this is the third bridge to span the Leven at this site, replacing a stone-built predecessor that had, in turn, replaced an 1821 suspension footbridge in 1840. The stone bridge was officially called Leven Bridge but its footbridge predecessor had charged a halfpenny toll to cross, this amount being a ‘bawbee’ in Scots parlance, and the nickname ‘Bawbee Bridge’ just kind of stuck.
In the course of reopening the railway line and building its new station, it was necessary to also partially rebuild Bawbee Bridge on account of a litany of reasons, including insufficient clearance for the overhead power cables, salt damage and concrete fatigue. Although already reopened, it was lined with high fencing on its downstream side when I crossed – part of a perimeter fence to prevent unauthorised access to the station building site.
Leven Station
The new station’s building site was visible from Bawbee Bridge and, while work was still clearly ongoing, it looked about as complete as one would expect so close to its opening date.
Methil High Street
On the Methil side of the River Leven, the Fife Coastal Path initially routed me onto South Street, which was effectively a bypass giving road access to the docks. I wasn’t on that for long, though, as it then diverted into Methil’s High Street. This was rather more residential and less retail-oriented than I generally associate with the name ‘High Street’ but it was still way more interesting to walk down than South Street had been. Plus, one of the few shops it did have was able to sell me another ice cream.
It was while on the High Street that I finally drew level with, and then passed, Poppy the wind turbine.
There was a little more High Street than I was expecting – very nearly a mile of it – with its name twice continuing across what I would have thought to be junctions between different streets. Eventually, though, it came to an end, depositing me onto Wellesley Road, which was also the B931. This was as broad and as busy a road as its having a classification might lead you to suspect.
Randolph Wemyss Memorial Hospital
After about a third of a mile on Wellesley Road, I passed the splendidly-turreted, white-harled buildings of the Randolph Wemyss Memorial Hospital. This was opened in 1909 and partly funded by Lady Eva Wemyss (née Welleseley), widow of the Randolph Wemyss (1858-1908) for which it is named. As laird of Wemyss Castle, he had been a prominent local landowner. Note that ‘Wemyss,’ despite how it looks, is pronounced ‘weemz.’
Randolph had wanted to build the hospital to tend to victims of accidents in the Wemyss Coal Company’s mines but, ironically, was indirectly killed by such an accident before he could do so – he wasn’t caught up in it directly, but got hands-on involved in the rescue efforts and subsequently died from exposure.
Lady Eva went ahead with the hospital project anyway as his memorial, donating by £10,000 (equivalent to just shy of £1 million today). The building was designed by the Fife-born but Edinburgh-based architect Alexander Tod (d. 1917), adopting the Scots Renaissance style. As initially constructed, it had ornamental gardens laid out in front of its façade but there are no flowers there, today:
The hospital was extended in 1965 to better serve an expanding and ageing population and received a more recent £4.5 m refurbishment in 2008.
Buckhaven
The hospital stood, not in Methil, but in the neighbouring town of Buckhaven. A former fishing village, this could at one time boast Scotland’s second-largest fishing fleet (198 boats) but later transitioned to a mining town dominated by the Wemyss Coal Company. When that industry also collapsed, it changed again, becoming a tourist resort. In the course of all this growth and development, the edges of Buckhaven and Methil expanded until they met. Thus, I had not even noticed that I had passed from one into the other.
A short distance after passing the hospital, the Fife Coastal Path turned left into College Street and passed through the oldest part of Buckhaven. A shop here provided me with a cold drink that was very much needed – the skies had temporarily cleared of cloud and the temperature was rocketing.
College Street became Randolph Street and then I emerged from Buckhaven to overlook the coast close to where Buckhaven Harbour once hosted all those boats. Today, not only are there no boats but there is no harbour either, on account of the council having filled it in using mine spoil in the 1950s. The sea is apparently no fan of this change and is doing its slow but determined best to recut the harbour through erosion.
I then continued south on a level, well-made path that followed the line of the W&BR.
Wemyss
East Wemyss
The old railway path ended at the edge of East Wemyss, where it met the A955, and the Fife Coastal Path made another left turn to send me past a cemetery and back to the shore. There, standing their crumbly vigil, were the ruins of MacDuff’s Castle.
MacDuff’s Castle
MacDuff’s Castle takes its name from the MacDuff Earls of Fife, whose seat this was. Their line ended with Duncan IV, Earl of Fife (1289-1353) and the earldom passed through his daughter Isabella (c. 1320-1389) to the Stewarts but, by the end of the 14th century, the castle site was in the possession of the Wemyss family, who built the structure whose ruin stands today. They were descended from Gille Míchéil, a 12th-century chief of Clan MacDuff who had briefly been Earl of Fife from 1130 to 1133.
The Wemysses built themselves a new castle – Wemyss Castle – in 1421, making MacDuff’s Castle largely redundant. Shortly thereafter, it was transferred to the Livingstons of Drumry, one of whom had married a Wemyss daughter.
The Livingstons held the castle for about a century, until it passed again through marriage to Sir James Hamilton of Finnart (c. 1495-1540), the bastard son of James Hamilton, 1st Earl of Arran (c. 1475–1529). Having little use for it, he agreed a land exchange with the Colvilles of Culross in 1530. They built a second tower to the south-west, and enclosed a courtyard with a gatehouse.
In 1637, the castle was bought by John Wemyss, 1st Earl of Wemyss (1586-1649), bringing it back under Wemyss ownership and reuniting the West and East Wemyss estates.
Wemyss Caves
The low cliffs upon which Macduff’s Castle perches are riddled with caves and used to be more so; thanks to collapses, only six out of eleven remain: Court Cave, Doo Cave, Well Cave, Jonathan’s Cave, Sliding Cave and Gas Works Cave.
These have long been used by people since ancient times, as indicated by an unusually high number of Pictish carvings on their walls. Later populations and cultures also made use of the caves, with the Wemysses being no exception. Indeed, the name ‘Wemyss’ derives from Gaelic uaimh, meaning ‘cave,’ in reference to them.
Doo Cave & Court Cave
Doo Cave, which I soon encountered, was at one time used as a dovecot and has pigeon-holes carved in the back of its interior.
Court Cave, which I also passed, gets its name because, according the Old Statistical Account of Scotland (publ. 1795):
‘When the lands of Easter Wemyss were the property of the Colvilles, they here held their baron-court.’
In the course of looking into this, I found several websites including the Wemyss Caves 4d website – a collaborative project between the University of St Andrews and Save the Wemyss Ancient Caves Society (SWACS) – that refer to this tradition but place it as having been a non-specific laird of MacDuff’s Castle, who held court in mediaeval times.
This conflicts with the Old Statistical Account not just in relative specificity (it at least mentions which family held court) but also in time – the Colvilles’ residency, being 16th-century, was decidedly post-medieval.
Model Castle
From Court Cave, the coast path led south to connect with the seafront at East Wemyss. There , at the eastern end of Main Street, was a model of Macduff’s Castle as it was when the Colvilles acquired it.
The model was built in 2021 by Wemyss Improvement Group and donated by them to SWACS. Which I guess means they built this splendid piece of civic art and then said ‘here, have this! And the responsibility to maintain it!’
Michael Colliery
East Wemyss is a former coal-mining village. It sits between two Wemyss Coal Company mines – Rosie Colliery (1880-1953) to the north and Michael Colliery (1895-1967) to the south. The latter was the largest pit in Scotland but experienced safety issues pertaining to gas and spontaneous combustion. These culminated in the Michael Colliery Fire of 1967, in which nine men died, the bodies of three of which were never recovered.
While this was tragic, it could have been a lot worse; 302 other men escaped the fire with their lives. Worse loss was avoided through the miners’ professionalism, as Henry S Stephenson, HM Chief Inspector of Mines, noted in his report:
‘That the evacuation was completed in extremely difficult conditions in such a commendably short time is in itself a tribute to the very high standard of self-discipline exercised by all. Under-officials displayed their concern for the safety of the men in their charge and the men an equal concern for the welfare of their workmates. That there was at times some confusion is, in the circumstances which obtained, quite understandable. That there was at no time the slightest degree of panic is remarkable. Had there been, the death role in this incident would undoubtedly have been very much higher.’
The colliery closed as a result of the fire. Its site was cleared in 2001 and marked now only by a pair of concrete plinths, one of which I glimpsed but barely noticed. The once-sprawling complex of pit buildings and railway sidings is now a partially-wooded green space that the coast path pleasantly passes by.
Wemyss Castle
The path away from East Wemyss became absolutely lovely, running right between the shoreline and a wood. This was apparently too lovely, as when it drew closer to Wemyss Castle, it ejected me onto a beach of gravel and shingle that wasn’t the loveliest ever.
Built by the Wemysses as a replacement for Macduff’s Castle, Wemyss Castle is an architectural Frankenstein’s monster of various periods, although thankfully it seldom shambles about and trying to chase it with pitchforks tends to end in embarrassment. Parts of it date back to the 15th century, with many additions made over the subsequent centuries (although several of those were removed again in the 20th).
It was in Wemyss Castle in 1565 that a visiting Mary, Queen of Scots, met her future husband, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley (1546-1567).
A Divided Inheritance
The lairds of Wemyss Castle acquired the title Earl of Wemyss in 1633 and this remained linked with the castle until the death of James Wemyss, the 5th Earl (1699-1756), whose heir’s involvement in the Rising of 1745 had led to attainder for treason and a complicated inheritance situation. As a result, the earldom of Wemyss went to his second son while Wemyss Castle went to his namesake youngest, James Wemyss (1726-1786), whose descendants still live there today.
West Wemyss Tolbooth
The path above the beach resumed after the castle, though not for long. It soon passed by West Wemyss Church (designed in 1890 by Alexander Tod) and then followed a low sea wall around the shoreline of West Wemyss.
This village had no model castles to show me, but it did have a tolbooth that was erected circa 1705 by David Wemyss, 4th Earl of Wemyss (1678-1720), incorporating part of its 1525 predecessor.
West Wemyss Harbour
Following the coast path waymarks, I wandered down to West Wemyss Harbour, which was developed in 1621 to service the coal industry and expanded in 1873.
Also in 1873, it was connected to Hugo Pit (later Wemyss Colliery), via a railway tunnel. In 1893, a railway spur from the W&BR at Coalton of Wemyss connected West Wemyss to the wider rail network via the tunnel. Coalton of Wemyss was an estate village, developed in 1890 to house the workforce of the Wemyss Coal Company.
Closure of mines in the 1960s brought about a reduction in the size of West Wemyss Harbour and its inner basin was infilled with mine spoil, similarly to as happened in Buckhaven. The village’s railway connection was also severed. Its tunnel is now bricked up but still exists, though it’s hard to spot, hidden away behind trees.
Victoria Pit
Victoria Pit was close to the tunnel’s southern portal, lying just over 100 m to its west.
Today, that area is decorated with tiny wooden ‘fairy doors’ and related ornaments as part of Alice’s Fairy Garden. This was initially work of a little girl named Alice Brogan, who was six years old during the 2020 pandemic lockdown, but was rebuilt by the wider community after vandals smashed it. It has since become a kind of community art project, though it was all looking a bit sad and dilapidated on the day that I saw it. I was, however, quite taken with this:
Created in 2010, the swan mosaic was the brainchild of West Wemyss Development Trust, with assistance from Coaltown Primary School, local businesses, the Wemyss Estate, Fife Council and community volunteers. The design by artist Kerry Wilson features two swans, which reference the swan crest and supporters in the full achievement of the Wymyss arms (a crest sits on top of the helm, above the shield, and supporters hold the shield up).
While the mosaic itself is purely decorative, the wall it is displayed in serves a practical purpose, blocking off the entrance to the abandoned Victoria Pit.
Wemyss Chapel Garden
The surfaced road that had led from the harbour terminated at the gate of a surprisingly ornamental turreted wall, which enclosed Wemyss Chapel Garden, and became a beach track.
Walking on this, I passed alongside the wall (erected in 1536), catching tantalising glimpses of the ruined 16th-century tower and house within. No ruins remained of the 14th-century St Mary’s Chapel, for which the garden was named. This had gone out of use in the Reformation and subsequently was demolished.
Blair Point
At the far end of the wall was the very much unruined Chapel Garden House, beyond which a footpath led me along the edge of a wood towards Blair Point. There, the path rapidly ascended 25 m via a flight of stairs, allowing a pretty good view back to West Wemyss.
Kirkcaldy
Frances Colliery Memorial
From Blair Point, the path continued at this higher elevation past trees over which peeked a red-painted mine headframe. This marked the site of the former Frances Colliery, which was established in 1873 by the Earl of Rosslyn, ceased production in 1985 and was formally closed in 1988 by the British Coal Corporation. At the time of its closure, it was the oldest pit in Scotland. As with Michael Colliery, it had been a fire that finally led to its closure, although no one died on this occasion.
Unfortunately, mining being an inherently dangerous occupation, plenty of people had died in other incidents occurring throughout its 112 years of operation. These were commemorated by the Frances Colliery Memorial, which I encountered a few minutes later.
Dysart
The memorial was situated at the very edge of Dysart (Dìseart, meaning ‘hermitage’ from Latin desertum), a town that dates back to at least 1245, when a church was built near St Serf’s Cave. That, unsurprisingly, was a cave once inhabited by ‘St Serf’ –i.e. St Servanus (c. 500-583) – to whom several implausible legends are attached (such as slaying a dragon or having been Pope for seven years, somehow squeezing in between John III and Benedict I, despite never, ever showing up in any papal lists).
As fantastical as Servanus’s hagriographic exploits may have been, his living in a cave did dramatically foreshadow the future working environment of many of Dysart’s inhabitants, for the village expanded significantly from the 16th century onwards, driven by the coal industry.
My first experience of Dysart was a residential street, Edington Place, which led me to the High Street. Below me, on the shoreline, was the site of Lady Blanche Colliery (1870-1929), the commercial failure of which directly led to Dysart’s absorption by its larger neighbour, Kirkcaldy.
St Serf’s Old Parish Church
The Walk led gradually downhill into Howard Place, which in turn led to Shore Road. At the junction of the latter, I paused to gaze upon a tower that I hadn’t accidentally dodged, namely that of St Serf’s Old Parish Church, which was in use from circa 1500 until 1802.
As old as St Serf’s Old Parish Church might be, it stood quite close to the site of an older house of worship in the form of St Dennis’s Chapel, which may have been a Dominican chapel dating back to 1466. Whatever it was, it didn’t survive the Reformation and was later converted into the forge for Lady Blanche Colliery.
Continuing the theme of churches falling out of use, the 1802 replacement for St Serf’s Old Parish Church – Dysart Barony Church –was itself supplanted in 1972. Its congregation merged with that of what had originally been the 1874 Free Church and switched to using the latter.
Carmelite Monastery
Of course, the oldest Christian religious site in Dysart is St Serf’s Cave itself. Perhaps fittingly, this is now within the grounds of a Carmelite monastery, which has occupied Dysart House since 1931.
The house was built in 1726 and remodelled in 1756 to serve as a new home for the St Clair family of Ravenscraig Castle. An earlier (16th-century) house on the site had burnt down in 1722.
Dysart Harbour
Shore Street directed me down to the quayside of Dysart Harbour. This was constructed in the early to mid-18th century (Roy shows it on his map), before which there was a pier at Pan Ha’, from which salt was exported to the Low Countries.
Much of the harbour’s subsequent development was driven by the Lady Blanche Colliery, for which an inner dock was constructed in 1831 to handle the seemingly ever-increasing coal traffic.
Almost a century later, in 1924, they persuaded the burgh council to deepen the harbour but this proved disastrous for both parties. The work cost £5,000 but the Earl of Rosslyn’s Coal Company was only willing to contribute a tenth of that, plunging the council into financial ruin. Worse, the colliers (i.e., coal ships) that normally frequented Dysart had gone elsewhere during the works and found the alternative ports preferable. They didn’t come back and the lack of custom and harbour dues crippled both mine and council.
The company closed the Lady Blanche mine, while the council, now bankrupt, dissolved in 1930 and Dysart was annexed to Kirkcaldy.
Harbour Buildings
One prominent feature of the harbour is the Harbourmasters House, which was converted from a 17th-century warehouse in 1840 and now serves as the headquarters of the Fife Countryside and Coast Trust. In 2015, this pretended to be part of the French port of Le Havre for the filming of the television series Outlander.
Another harbour building is the roofless structure that you can see in the previous photo. This was constructed in 1835 as a boiling shed for rendering whale oil from blubber – a potentially lucrative business – but the Earl of Rosslyn anticipated the foul miasma that would waft up to Dysart House and took legal action to prevent it. The case ended up in the House of Lords, where he eventually prevailed. Though completed, the factory shed was never used for its intended purpose.
Ashlar Head
On the western side of the harbour, overlooking the foot of the west pier, was Ashlar Head, a promontory forming a corner of Ravenscraig Park. Its comprised a rock called The Fort, allegedly because Oliver Cromwell fortified it, although if he did, then no evidence remains.
A set of steps ascending from the harbour to the park above was fenced off as dangerous and have been like this – closed and awaiting repair – for at least a decade. Fortunately, the steps were not my way onwards. This was:
What I mean by this is that it was cut through Ashlar Head in 1890 and fitted with a short tramway to facilitate ballast dumping onto the neighbouring beach (dumping ballast into the harbour basin would just have filled it up).
I mean, obviously, that’s what I meant.
Ravenscraig Park
On the far side of the tunnel, the coast path became a broad and well-maintained but unsurfaced path along the shoreline of Ravenscraig Park. The park, which is partly wooded and partly open, comprises the grounds of Ravenscraig Castle and was donated to the burgh of Kirkcaldy, along with the castle, by Sir Michael Nairn of Dysart in 1929.
While this section of my day’s adventure was a literal walk in the park, it was not entirely without challenge as sunset was firstly imminent and then happening. I wasn’t in too much of a rush, as I figured I had plenty of time to get through the unlit park before the twilight failed, but neither did I have the luxury to dawdle.
I managed to successfully coax some additional speed out of my reluctant legs. Thus, it was with almost surprising soonness, that I found myself staring across a small embayment at the twilit ruin of Ravenscraig Castle.
Ravenscraig Castle
Constructed on the orders of James II (1430-1460) as a home for his queen, Mary of Guelders (1435-1463), Ravenscraig may have been the first castle in Scotland built to defend against cannon fire. This was a case of James enthusiastically embracing modern warfare rather than anticipating Mary’s assassination by artillery but it is supremely ironic that James himself then died before it was completed by being blown up by a cannon. Worse still, it was his own cannon, which misfired while he was trying to retake Roxburgh Castle from the English!
After James’s death, Mary ruled as regent as their son, James III (1452-1488), was only eight. She saw the castle completed and lived in it until her death, which came just three years later.
James III didn’t care much to keep Ravenscraig. In 1471, he gave it to William Sinclair, Earl of Orkney & Caithness (1410-1480) as part of an exchange of estates. William’s descendants lived in it until they built Dysart House and retained ownership of it thereafter, later passing both on to the St Clair-Erskine Earls of Rosslyn. Ravenscraig remained in their possession until 1896, when James St Clair-Erskine, 5th Earl of Rosslyn (1869-1939), sold it the wealthy linoleum magnate Sir Michael Nairn (1838-1915). It was the latter’s son who then gave it to the burgh.
A921
With excellent timing, the Fife Coastal Path ejected me from the darkening park and on the brightly-lit streets. I crossed a roundabout and joined the busy A921, which was noisy to walk beside but not something I had to stick with for too long. As Nether Street, it carried me south towards the East Burn.
The unmistakeable abutments of a vanished dock sidings rail bridge warned me that I was passing Kirkcaldy Harbour as the A921 transformed into the High Street.
The harbour was constructed in the early 16th century and improved and expanded in 1843 and 1909, though many of its wharves have since been replaced with housing developments. I considered diverting to take a look but concluded that I had walked far enough and just wanted to get to the station now. I thus walked straight past the harbour to the top of the Esplanade.
The Final Stretch
I headed down the High Street, past many closed shops (it was late) until I started to suspect that it was taking me too far south and that I needed to get over to the west. A few sparse signs had direct me this way to the station, but they were far enough apart that I wasn’t convinced I hadn’t missed an important turning.
I had just paused to consult my map and/or phone, when I espied a couple of locals coming the other way and prevailed upon them to supply me with directions. I had figured that they might have a better idea of the best route than I might get from the map and so it proved when they directed me via the bus station, which I would never have thought to cut through.
A short while later, I strode across the park-like green space outside the Kirkcaldy Galleries and into the station beyond it. A train then whisked me to Edinburgh, where I would be staying for the night. My day’s walk was done…
This time: 25½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,515 miles
Wow, a hefty hike.
I found images of the via ferrata. I can see why you avoided it!
Yeah, it’s absolutely not for me!
That’s a bit of an epic. Excellent cafe in Lower Largo. If you open the door to the toilet you get a rousing rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus! 🙂
It certainly felt a bit epic but that, I think, had more to do with being a bit out of practice than anything else.
Sadly, I didn’t experience the Hallelujah Chorus, but that sounds like an excellent touch!