ON DAY five of my April 2024 trip, I bounced out of bed, ready and eager to continue my peripheral perambulation of Great Britain by walking from Kirckaldy to North Queensferry. Sorry, did I say ‘bounced?’ I meant ‘slumped.’ For one reason and another, I had become slightly out of practice at the hiking thing and, while that hadn’t been too bad an issue so far, four days’ worth of cumulative fatigue had suddenly manifested all at once. I briefly considered making it a rest day, but I knew I didn’t want to do that. I resolved instead to set off and see how far I could get before fatigue forced me to quit…
Kirkcaldy
Pliable Plans
I could afford to be so flexible about that day’s end point because I was staying in Edinburgh. This not only allowed me to travel light, because I could leave stuff I didn’t need in my hotel room, but also meant that so long as I stopped somewhere with a station, I could still get to my accommodation. As the title of this post gives away as a big spoiler, that end point wouldn’t be North Queensferry as was originally planned.
My start point was absolutely not in question, though. That would be Kirkcaldy railway station, where I left off last time.
Kirkcaldy Station
The station was opened in 1847 by the Edinburgh & Northern Railway (E&NR), which connected Edinburgh to Perth and Dundee. The E&NR was absorbed by the North British Railway (NBR) in 1862, which was in turn amalgamated into the London & North Eastern Railway (LNER) in 1923. That was then nationalised as part of British Railways (BR) in 1949 and it was under BR’s watch that the original station was demolished and rebuilt in 1964 as part of a controversial redevelopment of Kirkcaldy’s town centre.
Today, Kirkcaldy Station is served by ScotRail, one of whose trains deposited me on the station platform, ready and raring to go, Well, sort of:
Kirkcaldy Galleries
The station was tucked away behind Kirkcaldy Galleries and the town’s war memorial, which both face onto the small park-like War Memorial Gardens. The galleries and memorial were both constructed in 1925 and were always intended to exist in combination with each other. That neither was completed until seven years after the end of WW1 is partly due to wrangling and infighting over both design and funding, which turns out to be a constant factor in the history of pretty much everything ever built in the town.
A large chunk of the funding that finally made the site purchase and construction possible was donated by John Nairn (1853-1928), chairman of linoleum manufacturer Nairn & Company (est. 1847). He had lost his only son in the war.
The galleries underwent a £2.5 million refurbishment in 2013, care of Fife Council.
Nairn & Company
Nairn & Company continued after John Nairn’s death, initially in the hands of his nephew. In the latter part of the 20th century it was bought by Unilever plc (est. 1929) and then sold to Swiss lino manufacturer Forbo AG (est. 1928). It remains in business today, under the Forbo name.
Adam Smith Theatre
Crossing the war Memorial Gardens brought me to a crossroads at an adjacent corner of which was the Adam Smith Theatre. This is named for the economist and philosopher Adam Smith (1723-1790), who is famous for developing the concepts of division of labour and the free market economy.
Adam Smith is not famous for any theatrical inclinations, either as a performer or an audience member, but in 1886 the town Provost, Michael Beveridge (1836-1890), wanted to commemorate the upcoming centenary of Smith’s death and privately set up a memorial fund to raise cash to do so. With awful timing, Provost Beveridge then dropped dead himself in early 1890.
The fund had raised quite a lot of money, but not quite enough, while his will donated a larger sum for the provision of a park, hall & library, for which the Town Council were trustees. A lot of argument and wrangling followed before the memorial fund and council agreed to set up a joint committee to consolidate their efforts in 1892. Together, they saw the construction of the Adam Smith Theatre, which finally opened in 1899, almost a decade too late for the centenary.
Corn Exchange
Perhaps mindful of its namesake’s lofty philosophising, the Adam Smith Theatre preferred to focus on highbrow productions, leaving variety hall entertainments to the rival Corn Exchange (this multi-purpose building served as a theatre and event venue, in addition to being a commercial exchange, from 1860 until gutted by a fire in 1921). Not that the Adam Smith Theatre was above a little spectacle itself – it hosted the town’s first-ever moving pictures in 1901!
Sheriff Court
A short stroll down a street named Wemyssfield brought me to two buildings whose imposing structures I had previously just hurried past in darkness. I now got to see them both in daylight and one of them, at least, did not disappoint, even if it did look like some sort of Frankensteinesque architectural hybrid:
The above building is Kirkcaldy Sheriff Court, a sheriff court being the lower criminal court in the Scottish justice system. The right-hand half, as seen in the photo above, was built in 1894 and looks like it, with its Scots baronial style turrets. The left-hand half is an extension added in 1982 and, well, let’s just say that architectural fashions can change quite a bit in the course of 88 years!
Town House
Adjacent to the Sheriff Court was Kirkcaldy Town House, which was built – very slowly – between 1937 and 1956. The delay in this case was due to a particularly big argument, namely WW2, although there was also plenty of local discussion regarding the design and the cost.
The town council’s original plan was to commission the modernist architect Thomas S Tait (1882-1954) to design its new headquarters, presumably in the art deco style that he preferred. His design was projected to cost £120,000, however, which is equivalent to about £7.2 million today. This was not popular with the public, who thought it perhaps a tad extravagant.
Binning that idea, the council held an architectural competition, of which Tait was the judge. This was won by David Carr (1905- 1986) of Berwick, with a Scandinavian-influenced design that looks very 1930s and was not universally loved by Kirkcaldy’s townsfolk.
I mean, it’s not terrible. I’ve certainly seen worse civic building choices – I’m looking at you, Plymouth! – but its style strikes me as ‘early office block.’ As I said, it’s not terrible; I don’t hate it. It’s just slightly disappointing.
High Street
And so, having given Kirkcaldy Town House my very best ‘I expected better of you’ stare, I walked around to the back of it, from where I could cut past the 1970s Bus Station – which helped to redeem the Town House by dint of its very existence – and make my way onto the High Street. There, I stocked up on water and snacks for my day’s travels. Plus, maybe, a sugary snack or two for right now.
The Esplanade
Having ensured that I was both well-stocked and quite wired, I made my way to the Esplanade and regarded the sea.
The sea wall and Esplanade were mostly built during 1922-23 with funds from the Unemployment Grants Committee. This body was part of HM Treasury and was set up to oversee government grants intended to combat spiralling unemployment. Essentially, HM Government was paying for make-work schemes that would result in useful civic infrastructure (in this case, a sea wall). A key condition was that 75% of the workforce should be local, unemployed ex-servicemen.
Esplanade Datestone
The datestone inscription is now hard to make out, but it reads:
‘The sea wall and esplanade were constructed by the Corporation of Kirkcaldy during a period of trade depression in order to relieve unemployment.’
The arms borne by the council from 1673 until its abolition in the 1975 Local Government reforms showed a triple-spired abbey in silver upon a blue field, with gold cross finials topping the spires. The same symbol, shown within an arched shape, can be seen on the datestone in the photo above.
Contrary Contractors
Although it was built for the corporation, i.e., the Town Council, they didn’t actually build it themselves. Nor did it actually help that much with local unemployment because the contractor chosen, Sir Robert McAlpine & Son (est. 1869), promptly breached the grant conditions by bringing in its own labour, leading to the funds being withdrawn.
Angry meetings and legal action followed which ultimately resulted in the grant being reinstated in 1924, saving the council from having to find £85,000 that it didn’t have spare. And Kirkcaldy got the seawall and Esplanade that it wanted, even if at least partly built by the wrong people. The fuss didn’t do Sir Robert McAlpine any harm, either; the company is still going today (unlike the council).
Tiel Bridge
I followed the Esplanade south until I reached its end at the mouth of Tiel Burn. Prior to the sea wall’s construction, this had been crossed only by a footbridge at the shore, with the nearest road bridge – the West Bridge – a quarter-mile inland from the mouth of the burn. The building of the Esplanade included the addition of a road bridge – Tiel Bridge – which today carries the A921.
Seafield Beach
Immediately across Tiel Burn I encountered an enormous Morrisons supermarket at which I could add to my water and snacks, if I wished. I was already about as snacked-up as I needed to be, but more water sounded like a good idea. The day was proving unexpectedly warm.
Running alongside the Morrisons was Seafield Road, which got me off the A-road and heading towards the shore. This road ended at a car park, beside Seafield Beach, from which a broad but unmade path led southwards.
Tyrie Breakwater
As it turned out, what it was that I was about to find was a ruined structure not indicated on my modern Ordnance Survey map! I first became aware of it when I saw what looked like a harbour and seawall ahead, where none should be, according to OS. Or Google Maps’ map view, for that matter, though that’s usually lacking in detail. The Google Maps satellite view did show it, though – a mysterious breakwater curving out into the sea.
Seafield Dock
The Tyrie Breakwater is the northernmost remnant of an ambitious but ultimately doomed scheme to build the deepest and largest dock on the east coast of Scotland. Another broken harbour pier stood in mute testament to this project a couple of hundred yards further south.
The original 1830s plan was to build this massive dock – Seafield Dock – and a railway line to Auchtertool to serve it. This remained a pipe dream for roughly half a century until Kirkcaldy Harbour hit maximum capacity in the 1870s and building a new dock to take the pressure off became an idea with more merit.
An Act of Parliament established the Seafield Dock & Railway Company in 1883, with Ronald Munro Ferguson of Raith (1860-1934) as its chairman. A civil engineer, John Howard, was also appointed and slow progress made, resulting in the harbour piers I’d just come across.
Ronald Munro Ferguson was a Liberal politician who went on to serve as Governor-General of Australia for six years, from 1914 to 1920, after which he was raised to the peerage as Viscount Novar. His arms displayed a blue lion rampant between three buckles, all on a silver field, with a silver and blue chequered chief.
John Walker
Intractably opposed to the project was John Walker, who was simultaneously general manager of the North British Railway and chair of the Burntisland Harbour Commission.
Walker foresaw the threat of revenue from NBR’s eye-watering rail haulage fees and Burntisland’s harbour dues draining away to rival Seafield and became determined to prevent it. He repeatedly obstructed the project through every legal means possible until its last roll of the dice – a proposed partnership with the Caledonian Railway (rival to the NBR), which would alleviate funding issues but require a new Act of Parliament – was killed stone dead in the House of Lords. The unfinished harbour was then left to moulder and decay.
In 1896, with a deep and bitter irony, the railway line from Seafield to Auchtertool was actually built by the NBR to relieve pressure on other lines. It was closed in 1963 and dismantled and has since been partly built over.
Seafield Tower
A short distance on from the remnants of Seafield Dock, I came upon a ruin that I had been expecting, namely that of Seafield Tower. This was built circa 1542 by John Multrare (d.1579) on land granted to his 3×-great-grandfather, Richard Multrare (d. 1469) by James II in 1443. It was L-shaped and five storeys high with ancillary buildings (e.g., stables) in a nearby enclosure to its west.
The tower was not the Multrares’ main seat, which was located in what is now part of Edinburgh. They had good cause to want a stronghold though, as they had taken a strongly Catholic stance amid the turbulent Reformation unfolding about them.
Also, they were actively engaged in a feud with Seafield’s neighbours, the Melvilles of Raith. This began in 1491, when John’s great grandfather, Thomas Multrare, was slain at Seafield House by John Melville. This was itself a serious escalation of a quarrel that arose when Melville collected a debt from Multrare on behalf of a third party. The Melvilles’ Raith Estate was immediately west of Kirkcaldy.
Also shown on the map are Pitteadie Castle, a similar 15th-century tower with various owners down the centuries, and the site of Eglise Marie, a mediaeval chapel of which the gable was still visible in 1845 but of which nothing now remains.
The arms of Moultray of Seafield displayed a black boar’s head and red mullets upon a silver chevron, between three silver scallops on a blue field. Scallops were often, though not always, a symbol of someone – the armiger or their ancestor – having gone on a pilgrimage. The Moultrays’ Melville of Raith foes quartered the crescents and roses of the main Melville line with the red fess on silver of their own branch, Melville of Raith.
Subsequent Owners
In 1631, John’s descendant, Robert Moultrie – or Moultray, Multray or Moultrie etc., spellings were fluid back in the day – sold the tower to James Law, Archbishop of Glasgow (1560-1632) for the sum of 19,700 merks. A merk was a coin worth 13s 4d or two thirds of a pound Scots, meaning that it sold for just over £13,133 Scots. In English sterling, this was equivalent to around £1,094 at the time, or about £188,500 in today’s terms.
The Archbishop didn’t get to enjoy it for long, popping his clogs the following year. The tower subsequently passed through several owners. By 1710, when The History, Ancient and Modern, of the Sheriffdoms of Fife was published by Sir Robert Sibbald (1641-1722), he had this to say of it:
A little to the East of Kinghorn upon the coast, is Vicar's Grange, where some marble is found; & eastward of that is the ruined Tower of Seafield, the ancient seat of the Moutrays, washed by the sea, represented by the Laird of Roscobie; it is now the Earl of Melvil’s.’
The Earl of Melville was a descendant of the Melvilles of Raith with whom the Moultrays had feuded; history does love its little jokes. Roscobie, also mentioned above, was the seat of the Moultrays after 1631. It is near Loch Leven.
The Methven family were the last known owners of the tower. They abandoned it in 1733, leaving it to it fall into ruin. Which it did.
Firth of Forth
Inchkeith
After Seafield Tower there followed about a mile of glorious coast path rambling with views both eastward and southward:
Looking past Inchkeith (Innis Cheith) is darkly appropriate given its history of use as a dumping ground for people with whom society would rather not deal. Largely ignored – or at least not written about – until the end of the mediaeval period, the island was chosen in 1497 as a site for some very focussed ignoring, when it became a quarantined place of ‘compulsory retirement’ for sufferers of grandgore, as the Scots called syphilis. This was a one-way trip for those concerned, although their committal to the island was technically ‘till God provide for their health.’
Shipping these deformed unfortunates off to their island isolation obviously worked a treat for everyone not suffering from syphilis and this medical marooning was remembered in 1589 when a plague-ridden ship arrived from France, those aboard were forced to disembark onto Inchkeith and stay there. A new batch of plague victims were sent from the mainland in 1609.
Iona
In 1799, when Great Britain and Russia were allies against Revolutionary France during the War of the Second Coalition (1798-1802), the Russian 66-gun man-of-war Iona arrived off Edinburgh with an ailing crew following a failed Anglo-Russian invasion of the Batavian Republic (a French client state version of the Netherlands). While her living sick sailors were transferred to the Royal Infirmary for treatment, the dead ones were buried on Inchkeith.
Part of a Russian Baltic Fleet squadron commanded by Admiral Pyotr Ivanovich Khanykov (1743-1813), Iona was launched at Arkhangelsk in 1790. She was broken up in 1803, so she wasn’t in service for long and her short span seems to have been miserable.
Inchkeith Fort
The arrival of Iona was by no means Inchkeith’s first taste of war, it having been garrisoned by English forces under Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset (1500-1552) during the war known as the Rough Wooing (1543-1551).
It was recaptured by André de Montalembert, Seigneur d’Essé (1483–1553) in 1549 and remained garrisoned by Scotland’s French allies until 1560. It was then held by the Scots themselves under Captain Robert Anstruther until 1567, when it was abandoned after Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1587) was deposed.
The island was refortified in 1881 and received multiple upgrades over the next several decades, protecting the Firth of Forth through two world wars until being finally demilitarised in 1957, whereupon it was turned over to the Northern Lighthouse Board (NLB).
The arms of the Duke of Somerset quartered the arms of augmentation granted by Henry VIII when he married Jane Seymour, with the conjoined wings of Seymour. The arms of Montalambert were a great deal simpler, being simply a black cross moline on a silver field. This was coincidentally the same as the arms of Colville, but arms only have to be unique within their own heraldic jurisdiction.
Inchkeith Lighthouse
By 1957, Inchkeith had already long had its lighthouse, as that had been constructed back in 1803 (at about the same time as Iona was being taken apart). The 67 m high lighthouse gets some of its height from sitting on top of the old French fort building. It was built by Thomas Smith (1752-1815) and Robert Stevenson (1772-1850), because what kind of Scottish lighthouse would it be, if it didn’t involve one of the Stevensons? Except, it turns out that both engineers were part of that extended family. In fact, Thomas was simultaneously both Robert’s stepfather and his father-in-law because, in 1799 – in a situation that sounds like a premise for pornography – Robert had married his stepsister, Thomas’s eldest daughter, Jean.
The 1803 lighthouse was actually the second one built on Inchkeith, Thomas having built an earlier one in 1796, which he used to trial a new design of oil lamp incorporating a reflector. Its remains are still visible.
The 1803 lighthouse was automated in 1986. In 2013, its operation was transferred from the NLB to Forth Ports plc, making it a privately-operated lighthouse. But I guess it makes sense that navigation lights in the Firth of Forth are all operated in concert.
Kinghorn
Abden Shipyard
The clifftop coastal path ended amid the caravans of Kinghorn Harbour Holiday Park, which led me, as the name suggests, towards Kinghorn Harbour.
The holiday park occupies the former site of Abden Shipyard, which operated between 1864 and 1921 and was the brainchild of engineer named John Key (1820-1876). Key made a name for efficient maritime steam engines, which he manufactured in Kirkcaldy and transported to Kinghorn by rail. That he had built a decent reputation for quality and reliability is attested by the inclusion of shipping giant Peninsular and Oriental (1837-2006) amongst his customers.
The shipyard closed due to competition from a new shipyard in Burntisland and its buildings are now long gone, but its slipways are still visible, crossing the rocks, if you know to look for them. Which I didn’t.
Kinghorn Parish Church
Directly outside the holiday park, overlooking the harbour, was Kinghorn Parish Church. This was another mix of parts from different periods but, while the temporal distance between its 1774 nave and 1895 tower was comparable to that between the two parts of Kirkcaldy Sheriff Court, these didn’t look anywhere near so jarringly different.
The church dates in part back to 1609, which was when the southern transept, known as the Sailors’ Aisle, was built, though that implies there was already a church, since piecemeal replaced, to build it onto. And that would have been the third parish church built in Kinghorn, coming long after the first, which existed circa 1100, or its 1243 replacement. A ruined fragment of the latter can still be found, standing at the churchyard’s eastern end.
Kinghorn Viaduct
Directly north of the church and somewhat looming over it, was the Kinghorn Viaduct, a 4-arch railway viaduct erected in 1847 by the E&NR. This crossed the northbound street of Nethergate, causing its arches to artistically frame the harbour area from the vantage of anyone walking south towards the harbour.
I wasn’t walking south towards the harbour on account of having already arrived there from a different direction. And then, I suddenly was – I just couldn’t resist diverting partway up the hill, just to see what it looked like.
You couldn’t really see the harbour itself, as seafront-facing buildings were standing in the way. An upstanding tree, no doubt shocked at my irreverence, attempted to likewise block my view of the church and prevent an ungodly conflation of railway and religion. It didn’t quite succeed:
Lifeboat Station
The Fife Coastal Path signage directed me along a short promenade overlooking Kinghorn’s small but sandy beach, which was hemmed in on two sides by rocky headlands. I soon passed the town’s lifeboat station, the shutters of which were open revealing the lifeboat, RNLB Tommy Niven (B-836).
Kinghorn lifeboat station was established in 1965 to improve the RNLI’s of the Forth of Forth in response to an increase in leisure craft traffic. It has always operated a small, inshore boat and the current one is the aforementioned Tommy Niven, an 8.4 m rigid inflatable boat, launched in 2009 and named for an RNLI benefactor.
Her specific model is the Atlantic 85, a remarkably nippy design introduced in 2005. This can achieve a top speed of 35 kts (40 mph), which is pretty damn fast for a boat. For comparison, a typical cargo ship does about 15 kts, a naval destroyer 30 kts and a sailing yacht between 7 and 9 kts. Obviously, if you’re trying to rescue someone in peril, speed is of the essence.
Quarrel Brae
A set of steps beside the lifeboat station led me to a small park atop Quarrel Brae. This was described by the OS Name Book (compiled in the 1850s to help label the OS 1st edition map), as follows:
‘A steep bank, situated between the railway station at Kinghorn and the sea. The authorities quoted say the name has its origin in a quarrel having occurred here. Human bones have also been dug out of the bank by Robert Downie, labourer, Kinghorn.’
Pettycur Bay
From Quarrel Brae, I joined Pettycur Road, which led me onwards to the harbour at Pettycur Bay.
While old OS maps show a saltworks beside Pettycur Harbour, the harbour itself predates that by over a century. Its pier was constructed in 1760 and was used by a ferry that crossed the firth to Newhaven. The ferry ended circa 1848, its passengers lost to a new service between Burntisland and Granton. As such, it never made it onto an OS map.
Pettycur Saltworks
I sat for a while overlooking the bay and enjoyed a short rest, along with a drink and sandwich that I’d been carrying since Kirkcaldy. Fortunately, my sandwich was adequately salted, because if I’d wanted to get some more salt from the saltworks, I had missed the opportunity by 130 years.
The saltworks operated from 1870 until 1894 using coke ovens to heat and evaporate seawater in its pan houses. Although close to the harbour, this primarily relied on the railway, with its own industrial spur connecting it to the nearby E&NR line. Today, the former saltworks site is occupied by houses.
Onward Options
According to my OS map, which was admittedly a few years old, I had already diverted off the Fife Coastal path, because that ran on or near the A921 (I still wanted to avoid returning to the A-road if I could). According to the waymarks on the ground, I could also take a tidal route over Burntisland Beach.
The beach route had always been my intention, though slow going meant that I no longer had quite so long to do it as planned before the tide swept in. I figured that I’d keep a cautious eye on the tide but that I should make it to Burntisland so long as I didn’t dawdle too much.
Burntisland Beach
I initially followed a path as it clambered over and above some rocks below Sandhills Caravan Park, but once on the far side of those rocks, I decided to make the most of the beach. Off came my shoes and socks and I went for a refreshing paddle along the waters edge, which is where I cocked up. Had I simply made a bee-line for Burntisland, I would have almost certainly have made it. But the tide was not coming in evenly and by following the water’s edge, I described a meandering path that ate into my time. Soon enough, I found myself on a narrow strand of beach between a railway embankment and the sea.
Now, there are two ‘escape routes’ shown on a Fife Coastal Path sign at Pettycur. One of them was behind me and the other ahead. It was increasingly clear that I wasn’t going to reach the latter without getting properly wet and that I would have to turn back. Which was frustrating.
Reversing Course
I was slightly annoyed with myself for dawdling too long on Burntisland Beach, but only slightly because that dawdling had been lovely. By remarkable coincidence, my friend the Wanderer had also been on Burntisland Beach that morning, but because she’d had the sense to be there several hours earlier, she’d also had acres of exposed sand on which to do whatever she was doing. I’d had less, and getting lesser by the minute, but I had thoroughly enjoyed it nonetheless.
Eastern Escape Route
With the waves now lapping at my ankles even right by the embankment, I backed up as far as a low sandy promontory which the sign at Pettycur had indicated was the other escape route. This ran seaward of the railway line until a point where the Pettycur map became downright misleading because it dropped me back onto the beach, which I’d not expected.
At this point, a rather poorly-maintained set of steps seemed to offer sanctuary, but these proved to be an access route for Sandhills Caravan Park, festooned with signs warning ‘no access.’ I went partway up, in case the signs were bluffing, but the steps showed every sign of being disused and it looked like the top had been gated. This wasn’t the way.
Having looked again at the Pettycur sign, I think it was simply telling me to use that path over the rocks again. Not that I needed telling, as that was literally the only way I could go. I was merrily mid-clamber when a sudden noise behind me damn near gave me a heart attack – I had unexpected company!
Magically-appearing Matelot
As if by magic, a Royal Navy sailor had appeared, who explained that he had also been crossing the sands while out on a run and had followed me because I looked like I knew where I was going. Quite how I hadn’t noticed him before then, I don’t know; I am truly an unobservant animal.
As the magically-appearing matelot ran off to God-knows-where, I sat back down and reconsidered my plan, which I assumed was now in ragged tatters. Did I, I asked myself, want to quit now and head to Kinghorn Station? That was apparently a ‘no.’ And it didn’t really matter if I wanted to keep going all the way to North Queensferry, as I would now run out of daylight before I got anywhere close.
In fact, I realised with some surprise, my plan was actually the same as it had been – keep going for now and see how far I get. The only difference was that I would now have to take the high-tide road route, after all.
Kinghorn Cemetery
A narrow footpath cut behind the houses that now occupy the saltworks site. This dropped me onto a residential street – Inch View – and ran along two sides of Kinghorn Cemetery. This was opened in 1874 on land that had been drained when the E&NR constructed its railway. In 1898, having filled up, it was extended.
Lady Balconie’s Seat
Interestingly, even on the earliest OS map, before the cemetery was established, the same footpath ran up from the harbour to the Burntisland Road (the modern A921), although its exact path was later squared off to better accommodate the graveyard.
On that first map, the land now occupied by headstones was labelled Lady Balconie’s Seat. This was, according to the Name Book:
‘A small hill on the summit of which some lady of importance formerly rested, after her ascent from the “mineral spring” on the sea shore beneath: which seems to have been a noted place some 50 or 60 years ago. this spring has been drained for the last eight years. and there is no trace of it at present.’
Burntisland Road
I crossed the railway line by means of an unremarkable bridge. This was hardly eventful but was way more pleasant than, say, crawling through that culvert would have been. Immediately north of the railway line, Inch View came to an end and I stepped out onto Burntisland Road. Or rather, onto the pedestrian pavement that accompanied it for my westward wend past Sandhills Holiday Park and the Bay Hotel.
I was very glad of the pedestrian pavement because Burntisland Road was madly busy and any attempt to share the roadway with the traffic would have risked my sudden and unintended acceleration to 60 mph. And in the wrong direction, too! (Pedestrians should face into traffic when there’s no footway, as per the Highway Code). That it was so busy wasn’t particularly surprising given that it was also the A921. This, you may recall, is something I’d had no intention of seeing again on this walk.
Alexander III Monument
If I thought Burntisland Road was dangerous now, it was as nothing to how dangerous it had been 738 years previously. In those days, it would have been more of a track winding its way along the cliff top. This wouldn’t be too bad to travel if, say, you had a sensible and sure-footed horse and took it easy. But less so if you decided to ride it full tilt, in the dark, in a storm. Now, you might have good reason to try, such as trying to visit your wife, who was staying in Kinghorn, and whose birthday it would be in the morning. But, even then, you’d still be better advised to leave it till morning.
Despite receiving such better advice, Alexander III (1241-1286) did not leave it and, because he was the King, no one could stop him. About two thirds of the way between Burntisland and Kinghorn, his horse lost its footing – or the path collapsed, or something – and, instead of dropping in on the Queen, he dropped off the cliff instead. Except it’s never really been a cliff there, more of a steep, rocky embankment. The fall broke his neck and he died.
The Great Cause
Obviously, galloping off this mortal coil was hardly great news for him, but it would prove quite disastrous for his realm. All three of his children had predeceased him and his heir was his granddaughter Margaret, who was only three years old and in Norway (her father was Eric II (1268-1299) of that kingdom). Things might have still worked out if not well, then at least not terribly – a power struggle over who got to be regent would be inevitable – but Margaret scuppered this chance by dying on the journey to Scotland.
The succession crisis that followed, known as the Great Cause, featured no less than thirteen rival claimants and led to murder, war and an English invasion (the claimants asked Edward I to referee, which was a bit like asking a fox to judge a dispute between chickens).
Burntisland
Royal Burgh
Unlike Alexander III, I was doing the road in good weather, in daylight and I didn’t have a horse to accidentally kill me. My method of transport was Shanks’s pony and, as my fatigue now kicked back in in earnest, it felt as though that metaphorical beast was trying to murder me on purpose.
My feet hurt, is what I’m trying to say.
Technically, the royal burghs were all abolished in 1975, but I can’t blame Burntisland for hanging onto the title. It has also been granted the old burgh arms, but with a community council’s coronet as shown above; the burgh used a mural (i.e. brickwork) one.
The origin of the name Burntisland is uncertain, but it’s certainly more distinctive than Wester Kinghorn, which is what it was called before 1586. Made a burgh by James V in 1541, it grew to eclipse the neighbour after which it had once been named and became a bustling seaport and shipbuilding centre. Hence the ship in its arms.
Obviously, Burntisland’s arms are a ship sailing on the sea. Their blazon – the official legal description of the arms – specifies that the ship is a three-masted galiot, a type of small, flat-bottomed galley. Her sails are furled and her pennants are flying and two mariners are visible on deck. Like many Scottish civic arms, Burntisland’s are a version of its mediaeval official seal, the design of which has been formalised as a proper grant of arms.
Foot Fatigue
As should be quite clear by now, I find heraldry fascinating. This is because I’m generally interested in symbolism and design and appreciate many of its manifestations, such as flags, roundels and even corporate logos. But most of those are pretty lax and logos in particular will let you do almost anything, whereas heraldry has rules (more or less), creating a framework of constraints within which the design has to work. Thus, I find the choices made absolutely intriguing.
I explain that to you now, in order to underline that this is something that almost always piques my interest, so that you will better understand the enormity of what I say next: When I saw that sign, I barely even gave Burntisland’s arms a glance. I needed to sit down and rest; my feet were killing me!
Burntisland Cemetery
Burntisland Cemetery was laid out in 1885 to supplement the burgh’s two churchyards. I don’t think there’s anything unusual to note about it, but I will say that it provided a pleasantly tranquil place in which to rest and recuperate. Its southeast corner is also directly opposite the western escape route from the beach so, had I dawdled for maybe fifteen minutes less and beaten the tide, I’d have made it that far about an hour earlier than I did.
Eventually, like a horror film monster, I felt myself reanimate within the graveyard, recovering strength and energy like the undead subject of some necromantic sorcery. Also, I ate some chocolate, which might have helped. But it was dark chocolate, which makes it suitably spooky. At any rate, I’m sure it was tastier than brains.
Lochies Road
Lurching unsteadily on my revived legs, I found myself arriving at a junction which was also slightly staggered. Here, my route took a sinister turn, demanding new transgressions. Would stoop to I lower myself? Would I cross another line?
Emerging in the far side onto the brightly-sunlit seafront, the idea of continuing onwards became more capital than ever!
Burntisland Beach (Again)
By crossing back under the railway line, I had brought myself to the western end of Burntisland Beach, to where I had hoped to walk across the sands when first setting off from Pettycur. It had taken me two tries and an inland, on-road diversion to make it, during which time the tide just kept doing its thing:
Burntisland Harbour
From the end of the beach, the Fife Coastal Path diverted inland again, re-crossing the railway line by means of the Lammerlaws Road Bridge. This was necessary on account of Burntisland Harbour and docks blocking further progress along the shoreline. The harbour is still a working commercial port, being a smaller, satellite part of Forth Ports along with Kirkcaldy and Methil, as opposed to the main ports like Dundee, Leith and Rosyth.
Burntisland is, in Forth Ports’ own words, ‘the Forth’s most natural harbour and one of its oldest.’ Although it was said to have been used as a naval base by Gnaeus Julius Agricola (40-93) during his campaign against the Caledonians in 83, they probably don’t mean that. Rather, its first ‘modern’ harbour development dates back to 1540, when it formed a key component of James V’s design to convert the fishing village of Wester Kinghorn into the royal burgh of Burntisland.
The current harbour configuration was mostly developed between 1876 (when the West Dock was opened) and 1902 (the East Dock), with coal traffic largely in mind. The West Dock’s entrance was widened in 1962.
Granton Ferry
Burntisland was also one end of a ferry, that being the one to Granton that put the Pettycur-Newhaven ferry out of business. This service began in 1838, a year after a new harbour had been constructed at the Granton end and switched to using steamboats in 1846 (the Pettycur-Newhaven ferry ceased just two years after that).
A massive upgrade followed when the world’s first train ferry service began in 1850, enabling the E&NR to cross the Forth. This remained a vital railway shortcut until 1890, when the Forth Bridge was opened, making it largely redundant.
High Street
For much of its early existence, Burntisland was little more than the harbour and the High Street, which is how it still appears in William Roy’s military survey map circa 1750.
The tiny burgh expanded in concert with the harbour developments of the late 19th century, and this is clearly visible across successive editions of OS map. The High Street is still Burntisland’s heart though, and one of its many shops sold me an ice cream, which in turn gladdened mine.
Signposted Path
When I had finished my ice cream, I set about burning off some of the multi-bazillion calories that I’d just shoved down my gullet. To this end, I followed the Fife Coastal Path signs north to a crossroads from which Kirkton Road continued towards the old church. According to my OS map, I was then supposed to turn left, but the coast path waymarks were clear that I should go straight on.
Sometimes, this situation can be a minor conundrum, as vandals turning the signs is no less probable than the map simply being out of date. In this case though, the placement of the sign left no doubt whom to trust; I continued north.
Collinswell Estate
The next sign came about halfway to the old church. This one did point left, but along a far more inviting foot and cycle path through a park. This quickly plunged into a copse of trees and followed the course of a tiny stream that I now see is all that is left of the upper part of that reclaimed inlet near Seamills. When it emerged from the trees a few minutes later, it sandwiched itself between the railway line and the back of a 350-house residential estate that was built in 2005.
The housing estate occupied land that had previously hosted a chemical factory from 1917 to 2002. Initially opened by the British Aluminium Company Ltd (est. 1894), the works extracted alumina from bauxite ore.
It experienced a name change in 1982, when British Aluminium was purchased by Canadian rival Alcan (est. 1902) and again in 2000, when the American company Alcoa (est. 1888) bought that arm of the business, only to close the site in 2002.
Collinswell House
The developers that built the housing estate were called Collinswell Land and headquartered at nearby Collinswell House. This was built in 1831 by William Young of Grange (c. 1745-1831), local distiller and landowner.
After the 1913 purchase of the estate by British Aluminium, the house first served as accommodation for the factory’s managing director and then later as a staff clubhouse before sitting boarded-up and derelict for twenty years. It was bought and renovated in 1997 and the subsequent development of the actual factory site rather implies that its then owner – Zander Williamson – managed to reunite the two. The house was for sale in 2018 but it’s not clear if new owners bought it.
For all that the path passed within 100 m of the house, it might as well have been on the moon as far as I was concerned. Upon leaving the housing estate behind, the path had become constrained by stone walls on either side, with a screen of vegetation further blocking the view inland.
William Young & Company
The Youngs’ distillery – William Young & Company – was incorporated in 1888. In 1914, it joined four others to form Scottish Malt Distillers Ltd. as a subsidiary of the distillery behemoth Distillers Company Ltd (DCL), which had itself been formed by six Lowland distilleries in 1877. DCL remained in business until acquired by Guinness in 1986. Subsequent acquisitions and mergers mean that it’s now part of Diageo plc (est. 1997).
Newbigging Tramway
About a third of a mile further on, I realised that, at some point, one of the stone walls had given way to a wooden fence instead.
When I saw this big, rectangular block of stones my immediate thought was ‘railway bridge abutment,’ even though I was pretty sure no line had ever tried to cross the Forth at this point.
I think I can award myself one and a half out of two because, looking at old maps, I can see that an industrial tramway ran from a limestone quarry at Newbigging down to Carron Harbour. (I lose the half point because obviously, if you’re going to or from a harbour, you’re shipping goods over the Forth, which is partially crossing it).
Newbigging Quarry
Newbigging Quarry was already in operation by 1808, when it was purchased by the Carron Iron Company (1760-1982) who built the horse-drawn tramway in 1817.
When the mainline railway arrived in 1890 (courtesy of the NBR connecting the Forth Bridge to what had been the end of the E&NR line at Burntisland), they also constructed a goods siding allowing interchange with a new branch of the tramway. The quarry then enjoyed a short burst of expansion before becoming intermittently worked by the start of WW1.
The quarry officially closed in 1937 but was re-opened between 1979 and 1994 to provide sandstone – originally extracted as a by-product of limestone quarrying – for various specific building projects including Sweden’s Gothenburg Cathedral and the National Library of Scotland (NLS) in Edinburgh. It seems supremely appropriate, then, that the old maps I used to confirm the tramway’s existence are part of the NLS’s online maps collection.
Carron Harbour
Carron Harbour was constructed in 1808 by the Carron Iron Company, hence its name. It later had an alternate existence as Starleyburn Boatyard, carrying out repairs to small fishing and leisure boats. The latter name comes from the old farmstead of Starleyburn, which was obliterated in 1890 when the NBR ran its railway right through it.
Starley Burn
About 60 m further on, I encountered the Starley Burn for which the farmstead had been named. This had once flowed into a second, even smaller harbour, which is now buried beneath the railway line’s embankment.
Aberdour
The Heughs
For the next quarter of a mile, the path was delightfully wooded and some way up the steep coastal slope – ‘the Heughs’ – above the railway line. At the end of this quarter-mile, it descended to dive beneath the tracks via an underpass.
Aching Extremities
Actually, as I made my way along this delightfully sun-dappled waterside path, I was in mild torment on account of my legs deciding to let me know they’d had enough. I was pretty sure I now had my answer as to how far I would get, as I couldn’t see myself going any further than the very next station, which would be Aberdour.
Silversands Bay
Soon enough, I came to a junction in the path, where I had a decision to make. If I was truly ready to call it a day, I could continue straight on into Aberdour. Otherwise, I could follow the coastal path waymarks left to Silver Sands Beach and continue my way around Silversands Bay, taking the long way around.
Curiously, Silversands Bay was called Whitesands Bay until the early 1940s when its name became metallicised. I couldn’t judge for myself which was more correct as the tide was in, hiding the sand.
Diverting Decisions
I sat for a while, watching the waves (which were barely even ripples) and trying to decipher the way onwards. This shouldn’t really have been all that confusing but a missing footbridge had necessitated a diversion between 2020 and 2023 and not all the coast path waymarks seemed to know there was a new one.
While the original route had gone via Aberdour Harbour, the diversionary alternative had cut past both Aberdour Castle and the railway station. That being so, it wasn’t too much of a contest.
Aberdour Castle
Aberdour is one of the oldest castles in Scotland of which much of the structure is still standing. Parts of it are said to date back to the mid-12th century, which may well be true, and to have been built for a Sir Alan Mortimer, which probably isn’t – there are no records supporting that he ever actually existed.
Someone who was in the records, and who flourished in Scotland at about the same time, was William Mortimer. Evidence suggests that he was actually the Anglo-Norman lord William Mortimer of Attleborough (which is in Norfolk) and that the subsequent line of Scottish Mortimers who held the castle and went on to become the Mortimers of Fowlis Easter and Craigevar are likely his descendants. They descended via Roger Mortimer who, while not named amongst William’s English heirs, may well have been a younger son.
Even if Sir Alan Mortimer did exist, he was still a bit early for systematic heraldry. Later heralds took the arms used by his purported descendants and simply attributed them to him. Also shown are the arms used by the English descendants of William Mortimer of Attleborough.
Randolph & Douglas
In 1325, Robert the Bruce (1274-1329) gave Aberdour castle to his nephew, Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray (c.1285- 1332). Ten years after Thomas’s death, his younger son passed it on to Sir William Douglas, Lord of Liddesdale (c. 1300-1353), whose descendants became the Earls of Morton. The Douglases extended the castle several times over the next several centuries. Eventually, it was gutted by a fire in the early 18th century and abandoned to ruin in 1725.
Walled Garden
I would love to say that the time was coincidentally 17:25, when I rocked up outside the eastern garden gate, but sadly it was 18:19. Not that either time would have let me into the walled garden for a closer look, because it had closed its gate to the public at 16:30.
Aberdour Station
A footpath ran outside the castle’s north wall, sandwiched between it and the railway line. Immediately west of the castle, this deposited me into the station car park. My walk was done! (Or, at least, this is where I would abandon it).
I acquired a ticket and then gratefully collapsed onto a platform bench. But not before I’d paused to snap a photo of the station’s B-listed signal box. This was installed when the line opened in 1890 and closed in 1979, when Edinburgh took over the signals remotely. Now a private art studio, it was renovated in 2017.
Unfinished Business
Services to Edinburgh were pretty frequent, so I didn’t have long to wait. Once back in my hotel, I had a long soak in the bath, a laid-back, leisurely evening and an early night. I’m usually more of a night owl, burning the candle at both ends, but I clearly needed the rest. The following morning I’d be back in Aberdour, tacking the uncompleted part of this day’s planned walk onto that scheduled for the next…
This time: 12½ miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,527½ miles
