Hare Hill and the Lime Kiln

I set off into the hazy morning sunshine, heading south-east between the fields at West Rigg, and I’m immediately rewarded by the sight of geese and whooper swans grazing in the field to my left. The whoopers’ necks loop elegantly as they stoop to pluck grass with smooth yellow and black bills - my destination, Hare Hill, their distant backdrop.

To start this walk, I parked in a small layby at the end of Cockburnhill Road where it meets Rigg Road above Balerno. An easier start is from Threipmuir car park, but I’ve chosen this slightly wilder route today. The lane crosses over the Bavelaw Burn and where it bends right towards Bavelaw Mill Farm I leave the track. I pass through a couple of gates, reaching a line of wizened beech trees, beyond which sheep graze on heathland. I tread carefully over a covered drainage channel, avoiding a few holes through to the water below.

There is no path to speak of here, but I can see the steading of Wester Bavelaw uphill and to the left, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies by a stance of Scots pine. Instead of taking the more waterlogged direct route, I plot a course ahead - aiming between the peak of West Kip and the notched summit of Hare Hill. I stride through thick clumps of rushes, picking up sheep tracks where I can, and soon reach a lone, windswept hawthorn at the fringes of the heather. Now I turn left towards the steading, a red grouse and skylark rising from the heather ahead of me.

On reaching Wester Bavelaw, I skirt the pines and pass through a gate before turning right towards a small plantation, searching for my next destination; I’m looking for a disused lime kiln I’ve seen on the map. The track traces the wood’s western perimeter, where I watch a kestrel flying fast and low like a fighter plane over the heath.

Just as I’m beginning to think I’ve overshot the lime kiln, the faint, fluid song of a mistle thrush, heard through the whooshing of the wind in the treetops, beckons me towards the trees. Could the lime kiln lie within the wood? I make my way through the trees towards higher ground and happen upon a sun-kissed clearing. It has an enchanted feel to it. Moss is growing on rounded hummocks, curious shapes accentuated by the low sun, looking as though they might animate as forest trolls at any moment. There is, however, no sign of the kiln.

Exiting the wood at its southern end, I finally see what I’ve been looking for. A high grassy mound by a stream marks the site of the kiln. On closer inspection only a few fragments of collapsed stonework remain - possibly the access point to the underground fires. Lime kilns were used to heat limestone, producing quicklime for mortars and agriculture, right back to the earliest civilisations. However, 19^th century industrialisation saw use of small kilns like these gradually die out. Eastward along the stream more grassy undulations mark the site of quarrying where the limestone was sourced.

Remains of lime kilns at Wester Bavelaw

I retrace my steps back through the wood to its northern edge then strike east about 150 metres to join the gravelled track of the Red Road, which traverses the hills to Nine Mile Burn. The wind has picked up and I lean into it, breathing harder now as the path climbs the flank of Hare Hill. Eventually, I reach a signpost by a bench and a fine vista of the Pentland plateau extends before me – from Scald Law and the Kips to Green Law and Cock Rig. The route to the top of Hare Hill cuts back up to my left on the other side of a drystone wall. The summit itself is a collection of cairns around the edge of a curious depression - the site of another old quarry, now enjoyed as a sheltered patch of grazing by a handful of sheep.

From the summit I take a bearing towards Threipmuir Reservoir’s Redford Bridge in the distance and descend the northern slopes part-way, crossing a patch of scorched muirburn. After about 200 metres, a small wooden post comes into view. Around its base is a small cairn-like heap of crumpled metal and rubber. The post bears a small plaque with four names and a date: 25-3-43. It was at this spot, almost exactly eighty-two years ago, just after midnight on a cloudy March night, that a Junkers 88 A-14 aircraft, in an unsuccessful raid on Leith Docks, overshot the city and, flying low, crashed into the hillside, killing all four crew. I just stand there for a while, the wind whistling in my ears, gazing out across the city, wondering what it must have been like that night.

Site of the WWII Junkers 88 crash

Turning back around, I’m relieved when the summit cairns loom back into view. From there I follow a track leading eastward in the direction of Black Hill, eventually wending its way down to Green Cleuch. I look down at the pretty little valley below, with its path winding alongside the Logan Burn. A raven’s croak echoes between the slopes. In comparison to the solitude of Hare Hill it’s a scene of relative bustle, with numerous walkers and cyclists passing by. I turn northward up the valley, where the sight of thousands of young trees now peppering the previously barren lower slopes turns my thoughts from the past to the future. What will the next 200 years hold in store for these hills?

The calls of stonechats, chit-chit, chit-chit, accompany me in the valley as I make my way towards Bavelaw Castle, then Wester Bavelaw … and then home.

Walk time approximately 3.5 hours. Rough ground without marked paths in places.

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Published in Konect April 2025

Author: William Weir

All photos by William Weir