Fed up with the same old, same old of trail centres? Sanny reckons he has found the perfect antidote just a few miles down the valley from Glentress and Innerleithen.
Words & Photography Sanny
Ask what ‘Tweed Valley’ means to most riders and you are almost certain to have them waxing lyrical about the veritable cornucopia of riding delights to be found in the steamy fleshpots of Glentress and Innerleithen. A casual perusal of riding publications such as this esteemed journal (other magazines are available, or so I have been led to believe) and the internet would have you convinced that they are the alpha and omega of all that is great and good when it comes to mountain biking in the Borders. However, to do so would be folly in this writer’s humble opinion, as just a few miles down the valley, there is a riding scene that is easily a match for anything its more celebrated neighbours can offer. Think the Scottish equivalent of Squamish or Pemberton to Whistler. Not as big or as showy, but absolutely brilliant in their own right. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Selkirk.
My introduction to riding in the area came more years ago than I care to remember with my now sadly departed friend Kevin Christie. ‘Mental Kev’ as he was affectionately known on account of his uncompromising riding style (he once took a rotten wooden gate off its hinges when his momentum exceeded his braking capacity) was raised in the town and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the trails. He would often rave about the riding and when the chance arose to spend a summer weekend there being shown round the trails, I jumped at the opportunity. Starting with a picture-perfect section of riverside singletrack, the sunlight dappling through the trees and glistening on the water, I was immediately hooked. A fast blast down ‘Sheep Encounter’, a fabled trail named after a Kev/unsuspecting sheep interface, sealed the deal. Selkirk is, quite simply, special. Repeated visits saw the bonds of friendship build with Kev and those at the very heart of the riding and building scene such as Ian Sharpe, Kev Murray, Colin Shearer and Pete Laing – the latter being instrumental in designing and building many of the trails at Glentress that we still ride today. I can almost hear him saying “Sanny, dinnae be saying that!” as I now describe him as something of a guru and trail building legend but if the hat fits… (cough) GURU-LEGEND!
Are you sure this is Scotland in November?
A crisp and clear November day forecast, I attempted to round up some of the old gang, but with Pete stricken with the flu and Shearer racing the Scottish cyclocross champs the next day, I drew a blank. However, ever adventure-ready, Dave the Bastard was keen to join me having never ridden there before. Opting for a pre-dawn start, we found ourselves sticking a metaphorical two fingers up to Glentress and Innerleithen as we made our way down the A-road that snakes its way along the valley. Today was going to be the polar opposite of them – forget the pervading oppressive monoculture of commercial forest plantations, our ride would be all about variety and vivid autumnal colours.
Leaving our car in a free public car park, we headed through the bustling market town. The death of the high street has long been proclaimed but in the case of Selkirk, the trend has been well and truly bucked. The shops were teeming with life – clearly, the ‘shop local’ necessity of the pandemic has caused the population to do just that. In the spirit of this, Dave and I stopped at Cameron’s Bakery for an almost obligatory pre-ride bacon roll. And a tuna and cheese roll. And another bacon roll. Oh and an apple turnover with chocolate muffin chaser. What is it they say about not buying food when you are hungry? Fighting back the inevitable meat sweats, we dropped down to the River Tweed at the foot of town and found ourselves immediately treated to a serving of finest riverbank singletrack.
Weaving through the tree-lined trails, the low sun painting a beguiling picture of light and shade on a green and russet canvas, we both knew we were onto a winner. At the height of summer, these trails can be a case study in nettle/bare leg interfaces but jump forward to autumn and the only dangers lurking are the hidden roots and polished rocks from where the river has inevitably burst its banks. Feeling my front end slide on a concealed root that was slippier than Boris at PMQs, I shouted back a warning to Dave that coincided perfectly with him hitting it square on. Turning round to see Dave and his bike in a tangled heap in a hollow off the trail, I helpfully stated the bleedin’ obvious. “You found it then?” No harm done save for a skew-whiff bell, we pressed on. Despite recent rains, the trails were remarkably dry with the sandy soil making for a reasonably weatherproof surface. Crossing through a small stream and over a North Shore-style plank, I was heartened to discover that the trails had weathered many winter storms and were easily as good as I remembered them.
Human popsicles
Leaving the water behind, we darted off up a minor road that would lead us steeply upwards to the picturesque shoreline trails beside Cauldshiels Loch. Or “Bloody freezin’ cauld-shiels loch!” as the two open water swimmers we met turning a gentle shade of blue from their morning constitutional dip called it. Who knew that lochs in November could be baltic, eh…? The thermometer was hovering around six degrees yet for Dave and me, it was T-shirt and shorts weather as the steep hill lookout was doing a sterling job of setting our core temperatures to golden toasty. Bidding farewell to our two new human popsicle friends, we found ourselves riding through a grassy field on waymarked tracks. Cresting a small rise, our first objective of the day loomed large on the horizon: the Eildon Hills.
Steeped in folklore or to give it the technical term, mumbo-jumbo fairy bollox, the Eildons dominate the surrounding area despite their relatively diminutive stature. Criss-crossed by a network of well-trodden paths, they have seen much action over the years, including as a bronze age hill fort and a Roman lookout tower. Before that, we had a fast, sweeping descent down an almost unrecognisable Rhymers Glen. Previous visits delivered a Speeder bike-esque blast down a dank and oppressive forest trail. Now felled, it felt like an entirely new trail. Crossing still familiar fields, we climbed up through mature woodland on what could be described as ‘essence of trail’. Tree fall and a lack of use were seeing it slowly turn back to nature, but it was still just about clear enough for us to make our way through to the road beyond.
Skirting round a fishing loch at the road’s high point, we hit the open hillside and made our way up through a cleft between the southern and higher middle summit on a perfectly shorn grassy path. “This is like riding on a bowling green,” Dave exclaimed. It was hard not to agree although the steep slope would make for an interesting game of Crown Green as the Jack speeds off into the distance, never to be seen again. Never having ridden anything but the most northerly peak, we headed south. A gentle rise up saw us gain the summit quickly. Our reward was one of expansive views that practically begged us to plan future riding adventures. In the far distance, we could see the Cheviot while to the north east, Dave reckoned he could make out the distinctive shape of the hills above Glasgow, some 60 miles away as the crow flies or, indeed, any other bird for that matter. Except an ostrich. To be blunt, we had cracked it. Within only a couple of hours of leaving Selkirk, we were atop an iconic hill soaking in the beautiful surroundings. So far, so good.
Or it was until Dave came to a sudden, crunching stop on the second ascent. Replying that he was fine to my “Are you OK?” enquiry, said in the spirit of ‘I’m only stopping if your leg is hanging off otherwise you are on your own’, I followed the line that traced St Cuthbert’s Way up to the saddle. And then I waited. Then waited some more. Heck, I was so concerned that I even put on a windproof and contemplated riding back down to help. But obviously didn’t – the views were just too nice. Sorry Dave. Eventually catching up, it transpired that the bolts on his granny ring had popped out and he was relegated to middle ring duties for the rest of the ride. “Is there much more climbing on the ride?” he asked. I pondered this for a while then asked myself, what would Jesus do? I then carefully ignored that and lied, omitting to mention quite how steep and long the afternoon climb to the 1,500 foot summit of the Three Brethren would be.
Locals to the rescue
The middle summit came and went in a haze of steep hikeabike and veritable plummet back down to the saddle, a particularly steep and rocky section being walked down after Dave helpfully remarked on just how sharp and slippery the rocks were and how long it would take to get to hospital.
Knocking out the final summit, we headed down a well-built trail that skirted around the hillside. Being a beautiful day, we yielded the trail for a small but steady stream of walkers as we made our way down to Melrose far below. At the bottom, a series of wooden steps demanded to be ridden. Never one to be sensible, I ignored my common sense and went for it. As it transpires, wooden steps covered in leaves which are in shade all day can be astonishingly terrifying to ride down. Coming to a sphincter-puckering stop, even walking down proved to be a tad fraught. Next time, I will probably listen to that little voice in my head.
Like Selkirk, Melrose is a prosperous and thriving small town and, as luck would have it, is home to Hardies Bikes. Although they were just closing up and about to head out for a ride, the guys in there were happy to help Dave reinstall his granny ring. As they did so, we chatted about the thriving local riding scene and how it compares to further up the valley. Fair to say they weren’t backward about singing its praises and on this showing, it was hard to disagree. Ring issue resolved, we managed to ride all of ten yards before having to stop at the confidently named ‘Simply Delicious’ ice cream parlour. Now I don’t know about you, but when I see such names my instantly lowered expectations are rarely met. Why not just call them ‘Pret-a-bit-mangey’ or ‘Not so bright a star-bucks?’ Thankfully, this case was the exception. A single nugget of strawberry and biscoff ice cream hit the spot while Dave followed it up by proffering a curiously named, but utterly delicious Jammy Joey. Sporting the kind of food colouring that is probably banned in several European states and which would give Jay Rayner conniptions, it made for the perfect mid-ride comestible.
Breaking the law
High as a kite from the sudden intake of refined sugar, we made our way to the Gattonside Suspension Bridge. Sporting castellated masonry pillars and extending some 300 feet, it is a remarkable feat of Victorian engineering. Reading the now defunct bylaws sign which must date back the best part of a century, we decided that we would risk the threatened fine or imprisonment and ride across it. Crazy, I know. It’s bizarre to think that at one time users of the bridge faced censure for improper use of it. Our reward for our nefarious act of public rebellion was several kilometres of riverbank singletrack that hugged the edge of the Tweed. Riding upstream, we were treated to all manner of trail – sandy, rooty, rocky, grassy, tree-lined, leaf-strewn, open, enclosed – not to mention a multiplicity and variety of rich autumn colours that provided a visual soundtrack to our ride… all manner of trail life was there. Aside from a few fishermen and the odd friendly walker or cyclist, the trails were quiet, which lent them an unhurried quality while abundant wildlife was there for us to spot in a game of Attenborough-esque Top Trumps.
With the sun slowly falling towards the horizon, the shadows lengthened and the air grew chill as we made our way along a fishing beat towards Yair Forest. Home to all manner of ride lines, trail treasure is there for those who look for it. I could tell you where it is, but that would be to deny you the pleasure and satisfaction of finding it for yourself. Just be assured that you will be amply rewarded if you choose to take up the gauntlet. Stopping in a roadside car park, we would have to wait just a little longer to do so as Dave realised that he had forgotten to install a spacer when fiddling with his granny, so to speak. Undaunted by the lack of proper tools, we managed to bodge a fix to remove the crank preload collar using a simple combination of brute strength, a mini tool and pig-headedness. As Dave fettled, I chatted with a friendly local who had just finished his ride and was loading up his car. Asking him about the trails, he confirmed my suspicions that Glentress and Innerleithen are not the be-all and end-all of riding in the valley. Quite the opposite in fact. As he rhymed off a series of spots to ride, I marvelled at the opportunities on offer that I was still to discover despite having ridden the area many times previously.
Not far now, he lied
Ring remedied, we bid farewell and headed up the long and at times steep climb through the forest that would take us to the summit of the Three Brethren high above us and out of sight. Being on singletrack and footpath as opposed to fire road, the climb has much to commend it. You feel like you are making good progress even if you aren’t racing up it. Breaking through the treeline, we stopped to blether with yet another friendly local and his collie Meg, who like several others we had met during the day, had been impressed by our route choice (the walker, not the dog). Distance-wise, we would only cover about 42 kilometres and some 1,000 meters of climbing but when asked, it always met with nods of a mixture of approval and slight disbelief. Compared to the ‘Get orf my laaaaand!’ attitude of some of our southern neighbours, the locals here are genuinely warm and welcoming. I guess if you call the area home it’s hard not to be, such are its charms.
A short final effort for the summit rewarded us with the view of the day. With the sun dipping below the horizon to the west and the moon rising, we were there at the perfect golden hour moment. In the distance, we could see the Eildon Hills which, despite their proximity according to our map, seemed many more miles away than we knew them to be. We had pressed on for most of the day with little in the way of breaks as we were always conscious that our daylight was limited. Our reward was these few minutes of panoramic perfection. For me, sunrise and sunset are the best times of the day. The promise of adventure and the satisfaction of a day well and truly embraced are hard to beat.
The perfect end to a perfect ride
We still had the final fast descent to Selkirk to enjoy in the gloaming. Tyres pumped to avoid pinch flats, the open nature of the track’s expansive views ahead would let us race down it without fear of happening across an unsuspecting walker or errant sheep. Known locally as the Corby Linn, it is neither technical nor particularly challenging, but boy, is it fun. As we descended, I would make the mistake of telling Dave that I had a Shania Twain earworm playing in my head. His somewhat fruity alternative version of the song that he made up on the spot would have me nearly falling off from laughing so hard. Kev would have approved.
Before that last descending dash of silliness, I had paused at the summit to think about Kev and the many trails we had ridden together down the years… him on his steel S-Works and me on my Orange. Had it not been for him, I might never have discovered the multifaceted delights the area has to offer and made so many great friends. He passed early last year and I was unable to get to his funeral as I was in Spain at the time and never got to properly say goodbye. However, atop the summit, I raised a metaphorical glass to him and the good times we spent together.
Thanks Kev.
