Strathclyde Country Park Caravan Club Site, Bothwell, Glasgow

Certainly the sunshine was a contributor to our excellent day, but there was so much more. Our Plan A had been to head out along the southern bank of the Clyde River toward its mouth, which we did do, but we incorporated a few other little adventures along the way.

It was also rather timely that I should address family issues given that just three days ago my mother’s older and only remaining brother died, all the grandchildren of James and Mary McNab of Glasgow. Their mother came to New Zealand as a World War I bride and as I have explored this region around Glasgow, I have been very aware that this is the land of my maternal Scottish ancestors. So today we went “house hunting” and had some success. 

We tracked down the house beside the Forth & Clyde Canal at Maryhill where my grandmother moved before the birth of her sister in 1887, when she herself was little more than two years old. Her father was the Chief Canals and Docks Overseer at the canal basin, having worked as a ship’s carpenter prior to settling down, following in the footsteps of his father. My great grandfather had had his share of adventure sailing to the Far East and Australia prior to 1880, so the years settled sedately in the Old Basin House here beside the canal must have been rather monotonous, even broken by the arrival of the arrival of his eleven children, not all surviving their childhood. 

Today we found the house they all lived in, a once rather grand home for people of such a humble position. The house was built in 1790 so was almost one hundred years old when great grandmother Mary moved her furnishings in. It must have seemed rather spacious in the first instance and she may have been more than happy to fill it with her offspring, although in those days, breeding was hardly a matter of choice and measure.

There is currently an application in with the city fathers for development of the corner, and while a little part of me thinks this is a sacrilege, the house has become a bit of an eye-sore with the boarded up windows and token graffitti. 

We walked about the basin, sorry to find the canal headquarters shut; I had thought it might be interesting to share my connections with someone here. Obviously these folk take the weekend off so we had to be satisfied with wandering about the canal and down toward the city. This section of the canal is an add on, presumably built to give access into the city centre. The canal proper follows a westerly direction and does not join the Clyde until near Bowling, near Dumbarton. 

The series of whitewashed canal buildings between the canal and the McNab’s house is the oldest remaining on any canal in Scotland. They were built as warehouses, later used as workshops for the canal company and no doubt the work place of great grandfather James up until he retired in 1925. Nowadays this is the home of Scottish Canals.

After absorbing as much history as the spot offered, we headed west along the M8, past the Erskine Bridge and to New Glasgow, stopping at Newark Castle. The land on which Newark Castle is built originally to the Denniston family and became part of the Maxwell estate when Elizabeth Denniston married Sir Robert Maxwell in 1402. No doubt this Maxwell was a descendant of the same Maxwell’s who had settled in Dumfries and subsequently built Pollok House.

Newark Castle was built by a descendant of this Robert, probably George Maxwell, in the later 15^th century. The first castle looked very different from the present one, being more of a defensive nature, with a gatehouse and substantial surrounding wall. This was the castle in which James IV stayed in 1495 on his way to put down the disturbances in the Western Isles.

Patrick Maxwell completely rebuilt the medieval castle in the 1590s and transformed it into the splendid Remaissance mansion that stands here today. Like many of his contemporaries, he was a cultured and enlightened rascal, on one hand a pillar of society, a Justice of the Peace, friend of James VI and a builder of a fine house, on the other he was a murderer and a wife-beater who managed to avoid punishment. 

His murder victims included several neighbours, two of the Montgomery of Slemorlie in one day as well as some of his own family. 

As regards his wife, Lady Margaret Crawford, he was so brutal that even Patrick’s own mother took pity on her, lodging a complaint about her son’s conduct with the Privy Council in 1595, hence we have documented evidence of his ill-doings. 

Lady Margaret tried to have her “unkind and unnatural husband” restrained, alleging that he had attacked her with a sword, and kept her locked in her chamber for six months, with only bread and water to live on. After forty four years of marriage and sixteen children together, she finally fled across the Clyde to Dumbarton, where she died. Her spouse was never called to account. It is these kind of stories that bring these old buildings to life, even when so hideous, or perhaps even more so then.

In 1668 George Maxwell sold some acres of land around his castle to the burgesses of Glasgow to allow them to erect a port for handling Glasgow’s trade. The harbour area was named “New-port Glasgow”, later changed to Port Glasgow.

The once extensive castle grounds were gradually developed for the growing port and associated industries, principally ship building. When Patrick Maxwell died in 1694, the castle and what remained of the grounds were sold off and the place ceased to be a residence of gentry. A succession of tenants lived in the castle and the grounds were rented out to market gardeners. In the early 19^th century John Orr, a rope spinner, lived and worked here. He also traded in wild animals which he bought from the ships coming into the harbour.

We climbed the towers, and wandered through the cold dark kitchen basement, admired the light living rooms and halls, and marvelled at the views from the windows; out across the estuary to the northern shores and closer, Ferguson Marine and their massive works in progress.

We lunched within view of the castle, beside the shore, inside the car, but with the windows wound down and without our jackets that have become habitual wear over the past few weeks. 

From here we could see groups of stakes along the shore and soon learned these to be the remants of timber ponds. 

Back in the 19^th century when Port Glasgow was the principal Scottish port handling timber for shipbuilding, logs were fastened together and floated to storage ponds where they were seasoned by the salt water until needed. The ponds were square or rectangular and were rented from landowners by shipwrights and timber merchants. Soon the advent of iron and steel hulled vessels meant that less wood was needed and the number of logs brought to the Clyde began to decrease. By 1914, few timber ponds were still in use, but at low tide many of these stakes are still visible as we had discovered.

Then we headed just a few hundred metres up the road in search of my grandmother’s place of birth in Newark Place. The houses are all gone now but nearby is a smart new Lidl Store where we shopped. I wondered what these ancestors of mine would have made of such places?

From here we resumed our original plan, to head out to the end of the Clyde, passing through Greenock and beyond, through Gourock following the coastline round to the lighthouse at Cloche Point, where we turned for home. We could have carried on and come back on the A78 but we had both been so delighted with the pretty scenes along the coastline, we chose to repeat the treat. We parked near the Royal Yacht Club at Gourock and walked for some distance along the esplanade, enjoying the sunshine, observing the many jellyfish and plastic bags in the Clyde and the car ferries running non-stop between Gourock and Dunoon, generally feeling very summery and satisfied with our day. One of the best things about this waterside settlement was that there was not a funfare is sight!  

Eventually we returned to the car and headed home, an hour long journey along the motorway system, arriving before the clouds started to loom with the promise of tomorrow’s bad weather.