In The Border Lands
For peace and quiet, it’s hard to beat riding in the Cheviots – with some great views to be had, too
IT had been staring straight at me for the last 16km (10 miles) at least. Windy Gyle, in the Cheviot Hills, stands visible for a long stretch of the southbound approach. With a few wee patches of snow across its top like spots on the back of a cow, it forced an early route choice.
Aiming for its summit seemed likely to involve sinking into drifts on a long push across the exposed top. It seemed poor payback for over two hours of driving. Nope – it had to be the lower option.
These hills were new to me, having often overlooked them in favour of loftier Highland summits or local woodland trails. Rounder and often featureless compared to the peaks of the north, I’d chosen against them for years, even though they have a decent path network in some areas.
Parking in Town Yetholm, there wasn’t another biker or walker around. It seems a shame so few make it past Glentress to good stuff like this. I’ve nothing against our wonderful trail centres – but they’re just one side of the coin. It’d be great to see more people with overloaded rucksacks embracing the adventure and self-reliance that were once all mountain biking had.
Down through the valley, houses were scarce, and only one horseman sharing a bit of chat broke the silence. His accent was more northern English than Scots to my ear, hardly a surprise given we were only a valley or two from Northumberland.
When I bought my coil shock, I must have weighed a lot less than I do now. I’d calculated my weight in riding gear and with a pack before choosing a spring, but here I was with nothing unusual on my person, sagging almost halfway through my travel and bouncing with each stroke. It was enough to make me seasick.
I love the coil but miss the adjustability of air shocks sometimes, especially as my weight goes through some… er… seasonal fluctuations. It was the early days of building up my winter padding.
Getting lost at a farm at the end of the road, a woman washing up in her kitchen came out to point me in the right direction. Leaving the last houses behind, the hills closed in around the way ahead, casting long shadows across the valley.
The scar of the upward trail was clear
“Trail centres are just one side coin” of the