It's a rollercoaster of a ride in and down on the A714 with Girvan and its beach glistening in the distance below.

Not just any old beach, though, this is part of the Galloway and Southern Ayrshire UNESCO™ Biosphere and, as should be known by now, they don't hand them awards out willy-nilly.

The beach is the reason they started coming with the railway in the 1850s but this is slightly too far south to be considered the "Costa Clyde". Ayr did and still gets most of Scotland's south-west coast's attention, not that there's an awful lot left to write home about.

Not since you lot went jetting off to Torremolinos with Thomson™s in the '70s and it was either rampant opportunism or an entirely different climate when some Victorian bloke woke one morning and thought "I've got a good idea."

Some people still do come as evidenced by the handful of RVs parked up near the beach and the Tourist Information soldiers on by flogging knick-knacks.

Hiking types can haul themselves up into the surrounding hills and with the sun out, this could be worthy of an 'overnighter'?

Just like Ayr, Girvan's beach is guarded by a big ol' grassy expanse, which is still overseen by the odd guest house. No Vacancies? Really?

A word of caution, though, there'll be no practising your pitchy-putt putt on here and it looks like a different type of driving was possibly responsible for the wonky warning?

If you do fancy a round, the area is pretty well served for windy links and Turnberry is less than five miles up the road. If you can afford to stump up for tee time with President, again, Trumper, then it's highly unlikely that you'll have stopped here in Girvan.

Water features heavily behind the beach in the forms of a non-functioning fountain and a boating pond complete with treasure island.

The fountain was erected in 1927 in memory of family members, demise unknown, by a grieving individual who perhaps just wanted to share her sadness?

These features are often 'gifted' to a town and while the good people of Girvan were sympathetic, no doubt, they might have preferred some flushing lavs back then?

The town's leading landmark is an old clock tower, technically a steeple, that's not quite what it seems.

'Stumpy' Tower is all that's left of a larger layout that dominated proceedings, proceedings of a judicial nature. 'Auld Stumpy' was the town's jail, you see, three floors there and the naughtier you were the higher up you were held.

The tower marks the start of the high street, or Dalrymple Street if you'd rather, which is largely serviceable but still has room for some knick-knacks. That and the classic Scottish Baronial, it says here, style of the eye-catching McKechnie Institute, which is a particular stand out.

It's home to all things artsy and historical and this building was gifted to the town only this time to quench the everyman's, everyday thirst for knowledge and not no frivolous fountain.

The grand, whitewashed building at the end is the local tandoori but that 'overnighter' will have to wait because it looks to have closed.

It can only now be confirmed that it is open for business so that 'overnighter' is back on, they just need to sort out the shabby signage.

That shouldn't be an issue, just head up to see Jamie MacDonald, a traditional sign writer and decorative artist who operates out of a premises that has the front to be called 'Girvan a Damn'.

Now, we're big fans of all things artisan although we have no immediate need for a hand-painted facade. 'Girvan a Damn' though? Sounds like a classic case of somebody coming up with the name first, right Jamie?

Places like the McKechnie Institute were often provided to keep idle fisherfolk off the sauce and that's idle, by the way, as in not working and not work-shy since, even back then, the herring shoals and weather were erratic.

A small fleet still operates from the harbour but it's largely given over to the leisurely, these days. There's no longer a ferry, neither, but boats still set sail to see Ailsa Craig. Ailsa what?

It looks like this from the beach but more like this when you get up close - thanks Mary and Angus .

Yes, a hardened lump of magma nearly ten miles offshore that guards the start of the Firth of Clyde and Girvan claims to be the gateway to it. Not, as there usually are, one of several gateways depending on your direction, they've hogged this one themselves so some fine work there from the Girvan tourist board.

It's unlikely that you've ever been curling but when you eventually do, this is the source of the granite for every modern, curling stone ever created. A retreat for religious types over the ages, it's now uninhabited, which is just as well when the dynamite goes off as they 'harvest' the rock.

Uninhabited, that is, unless you count the gannets, which they frequently do and somebody claims to have got to 70,000. They will fly 15 miles up to the Isle of Arran to dive and feed in the shallower shores, a spectacular sight but just not here and just not today.

If you do take a trip to Ailsa Craig, you can look back at the land to see if you can see Sawney Bean's old house. Sawney Bean?

Born in Edinburgh at an unspecified time, Alexander Bean declared himself at an early age to be unsuited to manual labour and eloped to the south-west coast with a lady who may have been a witch, they say.

Robbing unsuspecting travellers became their sole source of income but to avoid the authorities, they'd take the corpses back to their cave and... eat them!

Yes, they lived in a cave and their 14 children and over 30 grandchildren all developed a taste for the flesh. They were more closely related than most families might like and, for a quarter of a century, they accounted for more than 1,000 victims, they also say.

Only when one intended target who was handy with a pistol escaped were the Beans eventually captured, the cave strewn with bones, hanging human body parts and pickled bits in barrels.

'Sawney' is a clue in that it was a disparaging name for a Scotsman and these events are said to have happened anytime between the 15th and 17th centuries. The portrayal of Scots as savages became fashionable after the Jacobite rebellions so this sounds like a straightforward case of some early fake news from the English.

Or was it?

Having just digested those facts, it's time for some sustenance so, back at the harbour, how about Only Food and Sauces?

Only Food and Sauces! Come on! There's no discernable connection with South London but what's that you ask?

Dae yi'll waant pickled onions wi' that?

Pickled onions? Erm, no thanks.