Scratchin’ in Scotland
If you ever end up north of Hadrian’s wall, here’s where you should head to...
You can’t beat chilling by the pool with a cold beer in hand after a hard day’s scratching. It’s one of my favourite pastimes… after croquet and crosswords. But it’s often an elusive proposition for a lot of us, because it typically means travelling to faraway lands where that great golden ball in the sky flourishes like syphilis during Freshers Week. And reaching such exotic destinations costs both time and money, which aren’t always there for the spending. So what are your alternates? Stay at home and do nothing? Or how about making the most of what you’ve got on tap?
Holiday at home
If you’re reading this, chances are you live in the UK. And if you live in the UK, chances are you’ve seen first-hand how brilliant we have it for biking. Okay, the weather’s not always scorchio but it does have its moments, and when that sun comes out you can pretty much get to any corner of this super sexy Ilse in under a day. While I’m all up for hitting the Continent, or trekking even further if my mother will let me, I’m also a huge fan of exploring Great Britain. The real question is where to go? In the 13 years I’ve been a journo I’d like to think I’ve covered a pretty good chunk of this country, but there’s still so many gems of places just waiting to be discovered.
I’ve generally found Scotland to be a jackpot destination. To get north of the border takes about four hours for me, and within five I can be up in Edinburgh and poised for a heavy night on the Irn-Bru. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve ridden up there and pulled the pin on the Highlands’ west coast. That’s a bread and butter destination for bikers, but it’s also way up into Scotland, which robs you of valuable scratching time if you’ve only got a long weekend to throw at your sliders. Thankfully there is an alternate, as my mate Neil explained to me, having recently returned from his jollies.
Bed, bike and breakfast
“You’ve got to come up to Moffatt,” he said. “It’s pure bonkers. We’ve just been riding flat out for three days and have barely seen a car, let alone a copper. Let’s get it in the diary,” which is exactly what we did. The other thing Neil explained was that he’d stopped with hotelier Dave Smith and his biking family at the Buccleuch Hotel, in the said town of Moffatt; a stone’s throw from Gretna, just over the border in Dumfries and Galloway. The hotel is like few others, being perfectly kitted out for motorcyclists, meaning on arrival we parked our bikes around the back behind a locked gate, and secured them in some free-to-use garages. With peace of mind guaranteed and a warm welcome from Dave and his sons Clint and Polly (think Jonny Cash and the song Sue), only a stripper could have made that introduction any better, but they must have forgotten to book one. What they had sorted, though, were some awesome riding routes for us. Without going into too much detail, that’s what Dave and his family do. As well running a hotel, they also run websites called www.motorcyclescotland.com and www.motogoloco.co.uk, both of which are totally free and 100% committed to maximising users’ stays up in Scotland. On both sites you’ll see hundreds of pre-planned routes listed, with some smart tech meaning you can download the plotted routes straight to your sat-nav quicker than it takes to get a prostitute’s pants down. Although there’s also the option to plot your own routes and, then there’s the advisable alternate of asking Dave, Clint or Polly for a guided tour of their local surroundings. We went with the latter.
Hitting the road
After destroying a breakfast so big it would have made Rick Waller feel full, we met Dave in the hotel’s map room for a look at the blast he had planned. So far so good, but I’ll admit to being horrified when Dave and Clint whipped out a pair of R1200GSs for our thrash. Having got dressed in some cowhide we left Moffatt and were soon on a derelict service road called the B7076 that straddled the M74. Dave was leading the way, and although he might have looked like some unassuming grandad with a pretentious looking tourer, but he was riding the shit out of his Beemer. The pace was unreal, and the lack of other road users was nothing short of eerie. We had this place to ourselves and we were making the most of it.
About ten miles in, we peeled off and joined a narrower link road that led us up into some mountains, towards a place called Leadhills. The surface was decent and the bends that came our way were next level, with views of ribbon-like tarmac meandering off into the distance. And then there were the jumps! Dave knew every inch of the road, meaning he was hitting corners like a pro and making me and Neil graft to keep up. It was awesome, made all the more enjoyable by the dramatic surface undulations that caused my bike to either get airborne over crests or hook up into unexpected wheelies. And the best thing was that this crazy stretch of road kept going and going. There were no turn-offs, no other vehicles and no relenting in our pace; this was the ultimate play zone, neatly wrapped in luscious green mountainsides that kept prying eyes from compromising our fun.
After an hour of going banzai, we arrived at a plateau called the Mennock Water, where semi-naked folk were out panning for gold in the surrounding river. “This place is off the radar,” said Dave. “It’s not got the best roads, the best views, or any particular hallmarks that make people want to travel here. That’s why it’s so empty and we love it that way. Because what people don’t realise is it’s got the second best views, the second best roads and all the qualities of an awesome biking area. It’s only just now that bikers are starting to realise that, but just check this place out – there’s no one around. You can do what you want.” It was true. This derelict paradise was ours for the taking, with the sensation of freedom being overwhelming. I don’t want to go all Braveheart on you, but when was the last time you truly felt you could pin your throttle without consequence? And trackdays don’t count!
Blissfully blitzing
Having ditched the gold panners and strategically parked cars, where you could guarantee fellatio was on the lunch menu, we hit the A76 en route to the Dalveen Pass. The lack of vehicles was still a theme, but the wider and faster carriageway helped us to reach another level of crazy. Sweeper after sweeper littered our path, with apexes being ticked off with an insatiable craving on a par with a heroin addict and their next fix. We just couldn’t get enough of the silky smooth surface that eventually terminated at Carronbridge as we began our climb up the A702 to Druisdeer. The road’s surface was a little more nadgery, and things got a whole lot more technical as we began blitzing our way higher and higher up the scenic path, where we pulled over once more to gawp at a waterfall and pinch ourselves with disbelief. From there, the road plateaued out, with wide open bends joining the party. Let’s just say the sliders took a bit of a kicking, but it was impossible not to indulge in the fantastic roads we were scratching.
We’d been riding for a good few hours by this point and no two stretches of road had been similar. The variety on tap was crazy, and there appeared to be no duds in the arsenal. The A702 was another awesome route that went on forever and was only sporadically interspersed by the odd property, with sheep being the only sign of life in most cases. Neil’s normally inclined to take advantage of them, but as time was pressing on we pried him from temptation. The vastness of the landscape was something else, with picture-perfect views in every direction, made all the sexier by the warmth of the summer sun, which was doing a good job of proving it doesn’t always rain up in Scotland.
The route eventually led us back to the B7076, which provoked another spirited ride to our base in Moffatt for a much need refuel (there are two fuel stations in town) and some grub at the Buccleuch Hotel. We were only just into the afternoon, but as we munched away it felt like we’d already lived out an epic adventure. Riding couldn’t get much better than this. Or so we thought.
Better by the mile
Moffatt’s a magical place. By that I don’t mean you’ll see Harry Potter hanging around the local, but it’s unbelievable howmany great roads commence at its doorstep. Heading out in the complete opposite direction from our
morning ride, our afternoon jaunt found us climbing the Greenhill Stairs, which has nothing to do with rug munching. The densely wooded A701 is well known as a favoured scenic route to Edinburgh, and that credential took no convincing. The fast paced road was immediately to my Honda’s liking, with its well-covered tarmac causing the Blade’s suspension no issues. Over lunch Neil and I had debated whether a naked bike was favourable over an out-and-out sportsbike, but the truth is neither was struggling on these mesmerising strips of tarmac; the only way to lose on roads this good would be by travelling in a car. And thankfully we didn’t possess that handicap. We were balls deep on our bikes and relishing every moment of the ride.
It was impossible not to be, especially after we found ourselves following Dave up a tiny trail that led us to the Talla reservoir. Once more, we were in newfound territory, with an unexpected 20% climb making the ride even more memorable. This part of the ride, which saw the road’s width reduced to not much more than a goat trail, wasn’t fast but it was enjoyably challenging. Tight hairpins meant my Honda got a bit of a workout and my arms knew all about it. The going was tougher, but rewarding at the same time; a bit like pulling a posh bird without letting on you’re broke.
The views from up top were something else, but there wasn’t much time to stop and dawdle. We still had miles of riding to do, which next saw us navigate the adjoining Meggett Reservoir. That’s where we found a stunning 180 º sweeper that cost Neil and I countless millimetres of knee slider, but it was all for a good cause.
Wrapping it up
The final part of our day was perhaps the very best, and that’s not just because we got to see Neil’s attempt at a wheelie ridiculed by a six-year-old schoolgirl, but because the roads once again reached next level status. Dave had already done us proud several times over, but a blast along the B7009 was something else. The views from up the top of the narrow mountainous road were intoxicating, with their winding disposition meaning the edges of our tyres were still getting a good seeing to.
We’d been riding for eight hours come this point and had worked up quite a thirst, which was quenched following a visit to a favourite biker stop on the shores of St Mary’s Loch; a place called Glen’s Café.
Refuelled and refocused, we soon learned the single best stretch of riding had been saved till last. If you picture a supercross arena, but cover the whoops with tarmac, that’s pretty much the nature of the A708 as it passes the Grey Mare’s Tail nature reserve. You’re teased into the area via a very jumpable humpback bridge, which permits you a bit of practice before the true nature of the oncoming ups and downs hit you in the face like mace. But there’s no amount of prep work that can get your head or bike into gear for what’s headed your way.
Blind crest follows blind crest, with mid-rise direction changes which will see you land wheelies on the wrong side of the road if you’re not prepared. It’s one of those places that has to be ridden several times before you feel you’ve got any grasp of it, with 60mph proving genuinely difficult to maintain the whole way through. Me and Neil we’re both laughing our nuts off as we turned around time and again to have a rerun over the two-mile long course, that kept us entertained for a good half hour.
By that point we were pretty knackered with headaches lurking because of the concentration levels needed to tackle that tarmac, which was up there with doing the weekly shop on behalf of the missus and not daring to forget an item on the list. It was time to head back to the Buccleuch, which we did with a sense of satisfaction knowing we’d just had one of the best days of riding imaginable. And there was more of the same for the next day.
Rain on our parade
Only a claw hammer to the ball sack can course you pain like peeling back the curtains and discovering it’s raining outside. The Buccleuch guys had planned us another awesome route for that following morning, but the thought of riding in the pissing rain on essentially cut slicks wasn’t all that enticing. Still, after a good talking to from Neil, I manned up and we headed out behind Polly for what transpired to be a stupendously entertaining soirée, darling.
With his expert knowledge to hand, he pretty much navigated us off the cuff on some crazy bits of road that were still so much fun to ride in the wet. And knowing the area and weather so intimately, he even managed to get us to dry land for a good few hours of throttle abuse, which set us up in high spirits ahead of our departure for home.
It was the perfect ending to an enlightening trip that had proven such a hoot. The Smiths had not only kept us off the streets but shown us this treasure trove of trails that would’ve otherwise been completely off my radar. And that’s a depressing thought. Almost as depressing as realising I’ve not got another weekend free to head back there in the forthcoming months… because I will be going back. And I know Neil won’t need any persuasion, either. But I guess the pertinent question is, did it beat a trip abroad? Well, that’s a subjective one. We didn’t return with tans, but it cost a fraction of the price and we made it home in time for chicken dinner, which by rights determines it was a winner. Unconvinced? Give it a go.