Feeling the heavy winds drag all thoughts away as the bright sun shines through me, looking out to the Isle of Arran with touches of passing ships and local wildlife in the distance on a clear day.
Suddenly, the feeling of discomfort slapped me in the face as the sand did. Gritty eyes and a salty taste was all I left Ayr beach with, not to forget, suddenly shaking with a new cold. Both aspects are true, but which version do you wish to take away?
It’s known without hesitation that the past events of Ayr have shaped its identity, bringing out its rare beauty.
Set on the historic grounds of Ayr Racecourse, the Western House Hotel was built in 1920. Some rooms are still in use, while others remain wonderingly empty with a dark and cold feel. On the contrary, a lively atmosphere with great chat from the true Scots employed here.
In my appointed room, 110, the Newbury Suite, Ayr beckoned beyond my window. A town layered with charm deserved my full attention and willingness to explore, and to that I did. The breeze on the racecourse’s grounds sent a chill down my spine and salt-filled air became more noticeable as I neared the coast, passing the proud structure of Ayr’s old town.
With no destination in mind, I wandered the streets. Ayr High Street, what a sight. Composed with the variation of the main shopping centre and central location, it offers more than expected. While a portion shows a clear decline, it still consists of many shops, cafes and transport links throughout, making it a place of both convenience and contrast. Reflecting its heritage and future potential, this mix becomes even more striking. The interesting historical buildings show a thousand stories. The question arises why locals seem thrilled and excited about their town, so why such sorrow within it?
Passing the Auld Brig, Robert Burns Museum and Monument, the cobblestones beneath me rattled, the only sound in the still morning. I paused at the monument, pondering, just how many times Robert Burns looked out at this same river. It took me by surprise, every stone and corner seemed untouched from the town. Quiet and empty streets awakened me to want to know more, know everything.
Locals seemed happy to help with recommendations that made me feel at home. One kind old man seemed knowledgeable, pointed me in the direction of a café tucked away called The Secret Garden, to have a hot drink. Their calmness was something I wasn’t searching for, but it felt recognisable. For a proper meal, he seemed fond of a particular restaurant, but it wasn’t what I was looking for.
As my eagerness to learn more quickly awakened me in tandem with the rest of my coffee, I chugged it down. Pleasantly directed from the café worker’s recommendation, just a few steps away, I headed to Belleisle Golf Course, designed in 1927 by James Braid. The gentle slopes and natural features gave it a fairytale sense. Highlighting the blooming trees directing the paths made the fresh smell of cold air tingle my nose as I couldn’t help the smirk forming from simply taking in the scenery. It made me appreciate the quietness of a Sunday evening.
I didn’t plan to stay long, but something about this small town made it hard to leave. Perhaps just my delayed train, who’s really surprised? The longing thought of the town scratched an itch. The beauty within every step made it unforgettable – the boring old town, no longer. I yearned to be back. I left both surprised and wistful.
