As we climb the Eas Mor waterfall on the south side of the Isle of Arran, I stop to read the words carved into a fallen tree on our way: “Bend your head, for you are entering sacred and magical lands.” There is much that is sacred and magical on Arran. Growing up in Glasgow, I visited the island several times as a child, playing mini-golf in Brodick and spending hours scouring the beaches for perfectly smooth, multicoloured stones. My husband’s family also moved from London for long summer holidays: stories of three-year-olds climbing the 874m Goatfell, the island’s highest peak, are the stuff of family tales.
We now have two children – Henry, eight, and Isobel, five – and we brought them back to this beautiful Firth of Clyde island for the May half-term. Arran is often called “Scotland in miniature”, but that’s especially true for families. It’s about two hours from Glasgow, and the island’s main road is a 55-mile loop along the coastline, taking in wild beaches, misty castles, whisky distilleries and towering granite mountains.
The Eas Mor is an ideal family walk to give little legs a break: it’s steep enough to keep you feeling energetic through the wooded valley, but short enough to prevent the groans from starting, and you can end your stroll at the Forest of the Falls Cafe, where you can get a bribe of homemade cake.
While a long waterfall cascading down a valley may look impressive, the real magic is created by Albert Holmes of the Eas Mor Ecology project, who transforms felled trees into intricate wooden works of art, including kelpies and fairies hidden among the vines and wild, throne-like benches.
In one clearing is a grass-roofed log house, now called the Library, where we find Albert replenishing the paper and crayons inside. On every inch of the walls and ceiling, visitors have pinned their drawings and words: sketches of the view over Ailsa Craig’s dome-like island and poems for peace.
Later, we head down to the beach below at Kildonan to seek out more secrets. Arran is in the process of becoming a Unesco global geopark: the Highland boundary fault runs through the centre of the island, and in 1787 a point near Lochranza in the north was the site of one of geologist James Hutton’s first “unconformities”, proving the Earth’s immense age.
Here at Kildonan, hidden among the rocks, is a footprint left by a giant reptile some 240m years ago. At low tide, we study the outline of the shore, poking at the mussels with our wading boots until we are almost stepping on them, five toes prominent among the other waves on the rock (the creature’s name is chirotherium, meaning ‘hand monster’).
The next day we board the Lady May from the jetty at Lamlash and sail around the bay, past families paddleboarding close to shore, and out past the Holy Isle. “Look, that gannet’s about to go for lunch,” says Tim Harvey, a guide with Lamlash Cruises, pointing out the diving bird as Henry and Isobel take turns looking through huge binoculars. “They can hit the water at 60mph.”
There is a gannet colony on the island, Ailsa Craig tells us as we see the enormous rock in the distance, and the deserted island’s extremely dense granite is still quarried (outside the seabird breeding season) to produce most of the world’s curling stones.
Arran is not short of remarkable stones. Last year, a rare complete Neolithic cursus (ceremonial enclosure) measuring around 1,100 metres wide was discovered at Drumadoon in the south-west. We are staying in an old farmhouse close by. From our front door, it’s a short walk across fields where lambs bleat to the stone circles at Machrie Moor. There are the remains of six circles, thought to have been built around 2,000 BC, and all sorts of legendary stories to tell the children – of how the giant Fingal used the perforated stone to tie his dogs while he ate; of how fairies once sat on top of Durra-na-each, spinning in the light drizzle beneath megaliths that rise up to five metres, throwing pebbles down into the bog, which turned into stones.
My children’s transformation from city boys to mountain goats is completed with a serious walk up and down the saddle at Glen Sannox. They gallop as the path passes through a carpet of ferns, and then – holding on in fear as the wind blows in gusts – the two of them clamber up the rocky sections and laugh. At the top, we hide behind a rock, eat crisps and recover before the long, gentle walk down Glen Rosa. They hop over giant stepping stones in the stream, dodging fat, furry caterpillars on the path, in this deep, green valley carved by a glacier hundreds of metres thick.
We walked eight miles to satisfy our appetites, but from there it’s not far to the coastal village of Corrie, where the picnic tables outside Mara Fish Bar & Deli are packed: walkers and other hungry holidaymakers tucking into spicy haddock tacos and hand-dipped scallop gratin (main courses start at £9.50). Then we stop at Cladach Beach House, a beach bar on the edge of Brodick, where my husband and I order a raspberry Tom Collins made with Arran gin (cocktails start at £7.50) and the kids sip apple juice and play football on the sand with their new friends. A little further up the road, French Fox serves croque-monsieurs and Chicken Breton (with cream and cider) from a turquoise vintage Peugeot van. Opposite Brodick beach, Parlour makes sourdough pizzas and Arran Dairy ice cream.
On our last morning the sun is shining brighter and we buy provisions for a beach picnic at the Blackwater Bakehouse, in a small alley behind the Kinloch Hotel. Henry, a plump bread with chocolate or the gloriously sticky cinnamon knot from the honesty “bread barn”, I chat to its owner, George Grassie, who, it turns out, lives a few roads away from where we now live in south London. He grew up on Arran and returned so his children could have the kind of free-ranging childhood they had on the island. On the wide, sandy Blackwater beach, I can see what he means. A group of youngsters trot along the shore on horseback (nearby Cairnhouse Stables runs pony rides) and my children are diving in and out of the small waves, giddy and screaming. They strip down to their trousers and leap from rocks into the cold water, searching for tiny creatures in shallow pools and skipping stones in the sea. It is truly sacred and magical.
CalMac sets sail Ardrossan to Arran (55 minutes) and Troon (1 hour 20 minutes) £9.20 return as a foot passenger; trains from Glasgow Central connect to ferry timesThe author and his family stayed at Balnagore Farm, near Machrie (from £650 per week, sleeps 11))