My bedroom used to have walls that were painted a bilious shade of orange. This was not a good thing. Along with the other walls, coated in a shade of green not normally seen in nature unless something has begun decomposing, it looked rather like a bag of carrots I once left for several months in the fridge. But now the walls are a funky shade of earthy red, Inca it said on the tin. I dunno what that means, it’s a sort of terracotta in my book, but I’m sure some interior designer with flouncy hair could tell me more precisely. Anyway, the reason for this rambling diversion into Dulux colour chart territory is to give you an idea of what shade of red Quantock mud is, think terracotta only with hints of brown. In DIY-land it would probably be called something like Dark Russet or Autumn Leaves but I digress, whatever name you want to attach to it I love coming back from a ride with the bike covered in red gloop or in the summer a thin coating of red powder. I’m not sure why, maybe the novelty of it or just because I like the colour. Granted it’s not the most compelling reason to visit the Quantock Hills down in deepest, darkest Somerset, but add to the mixture a superb network of singletrack bridleways sprinkle in a large portion of rocks (rocks? in the south?) and you’ve got some fantastic riding.
They aren’t the biggest range of hills in the world, maybe only 20 miles from tip to toe, but with trails dribbling down into each river valley and a good three hundred metres of climbing from valley bottom to hill top there’s scope for epic rides. But not today: today it’s the middle of winter and we’ve set off late (blame the pub and the whisky after the pub and the fact that between us we give chaos a bad name) so we don’t actually arrive at the car park in Holford until 12.00. Once we’ve done the regulation faffing, we head off up Hodders Combe and into the woods. The ride begins on a level trail that swoops in and out of a stream and skips and stumbles over wet winter roots and slime-covered rocks. After about ½ a mile or so at a major trail junction we turn back on ourselves and climb out of the combe up another rock-strewn trail. . The track levels out on the shoulder of the hill and we decide to stop and let our legs and lungs have a quiet moment of reflection. Of course, the view across the Bristol Channel with the snow sprinkled Welsh hills just visible in the distance is the real reason for the halt, not the hideously steep climb that rears up to our left.
Two minutes later and we’re putting ourselves through the usual torment associated with attempting to climb one in three gradients on loose surfaces. I’m sure you know the score – heaving chests, burning legs, a faint taste of sick and little dancing spots of colour in front of your eyes. Awful, evil, unpleasant and all part of that sado-masochistic streak that xc jeyboys (although given that one of our party is a girl we need a new phrase for her – xc lesbeen perhaps ;-) ) like ourselves seem to exhibit. I know everybody says that they hate climbs, but you can tell deep down that there’s a part of them that relishes it. Every drop of lactic acid and every bile-flavoured mouthful of air are pure pleasure as they strain against gravity and the dark defeatist parts of their soul to haul themselves to the top. And when you get there it’s the perfect excuse to eat cake whilst looking at attractive scenery without feeling pangs of repressed protestant guilt that you might be enjoying something that you haven’t properly earned.
After a few moments of quiet contemplation and snacking, the descent lures us with it siren call. Here we discover the great rule of Quantock winter riding – all the reddy-brown fist-sized rocks have chameleon-like properties when covered with fallen oak leaves. What at speed looks like a perfectly smooth trail from a little way off soon turns into a rim-wrecking river of rubble as you clatter through it saying silent prayers to the puncture god. Nevertheless we manage to keep ourselves on the bikes and the air in our tyres despite the odd moment of semi-controlled floundering and ominous rock-on-metal type noises. At the foot of the descent we cross a road and continue up a muddy track flanked by leg-whipping gorse bushes (you can always tell when you’ve been on a ride with gorse involved as you pick the spikes out of now infected parts of your body for the next week or so) and head back into the woods. At the edge of some National Front, sorry, Trust land we take a quick gander at the map and decide that a trail that heads straight down the fingerprint of close-packed contours is the one for us. Although as soon as we crest the lip of the hill and the trail disappears rapidly downwards we begin to think that we might have made a mistake. Nevertheless, we carry on regardless and as soon as I’m on the slope everything is blanked out other than the six feet in ahead of my front wheel. Which is why I fail to notice that no-one is following me, arse hanging off the back of the saddle, down the slope. Besides it’s fun desperately fighting to keep the bike upright and my speed down to something controllable without locking the back wheel up or planting myself into a tree. Eventually it all gets too tricky for me and I’m forced to collapse gracefully into some bracken. It’s only then that I see the others peering down at me from the top of the hill muttering about it being “too tricky for their bikes” or some such. Reluctantly I shoulder my bike and tippy-toe my way back up to others. This time we decide to pick a track that heads around the hill rather than straight across the practically solid bank of contours. We emerge at the bottom of the hill on a fire track heading for the relatively benign climb of Quantock Combe. We spin up this, through the presumably saintly mud caused by water trickling from the nearby St David’s Well, to finish on a short stabby uphill. Along another wide and muddy bridleway to join the road at Warm Corner which we skip up to reach Triscombe Stone.
The next section of bridleway has been chewed to pieces by the passage of 4x4s – there are deep, water-filled ruts everywhere and parts of the path are submerged under pools of iridescent red mud (particularly freaky when viewed through orange lenses). We churn our way through the filth and emerge at Crowcombe Park Gate on the main ridge of the Quantock massif, so to speak. Thankfully we’ve now left the quagmire behind and happily skim along the stony track into a freezing headwind. The top of the descent into Weacombe looks innocuous enough – a gentle grassy slope dropping into a valley with a few weather-beaten trees dotted around a blanket of ochre-coloured bracken. You can only see the trail as far as the first corner and quite frankly it looks duller than watching a plank warp. But as the old cliché goes, appearances can be deceptive; we zip down the first section, bikes juddering over a viscous set of stutters and into a bend. Round this and it all goes as excitable as a basketful of kittens – the trail narrows quickly and we’re confronted with a deep washed-out channel with the only feasible line to head up the bank on the right-hand side and through a tricky off-camber compression. After that it’s all beautiful flowing rocky singletrack with the proximity of a three-foot drop into a stream to concentrate the mind. It’s made all the more interesting today as the roost from my front wheel slowly begins to coat my glasses in a layer of slime. I end up peering through the tinniest of gaps, attempting to pick out rocks through the confusing pattern of mud blobs coating my lenses as well as trying to keep both wheels on the trail. I splash through the final stream crossing and stand at the bottom grinning as the others roll up.
Unfortunately now that we’re in the bottom of a valley on the wrong side of the hill from the car we have to haul our sorry asses back to the top once more. As we fight our way back onto the ridge we pause and gaze at the view unfolding in front of us. To one side the flat grey of the Bristol channel comes up to meet the sky, the Welsh coastline blurs into the dull December cloud and ships seem to hang suspended in mid-air. Behind, the sugar coated Brecon Beacons fade into the distance. On the other Minehead nestles underneath the first steep slopes of Exmoor with the nipple-tipped lump of Dunkery Beacon just visible behind it. Ever since I’ve been riding in the Quantocks, Smith’s Combe has been my favourite descent. It’s got just the right amount of twists, turns, rocks, roots and unexpected stream crossings to keep you interested and best of all it’s all singletrack. If it was a cake it would be a lump of homemade parkin, if it was a drink it would a glass of single malt and if it was a cup of tea it would be the first one after a ride. In other words, it’s a cracker, and we’re stood at the top of it waiting for the off. I go first as I know the trail and speed off across the grass. Off the first jump and into the section under trees, it’s really wet and I’m struggling to stop the bike flying out from under me and at the same time slow it down and avoid the large lump of fallen tree half-lying across the trail. Then its into a rocky section, slabs of sandstone rattling off each other as I clatter through and down to the first stream crossing. I think it’s the third or fourth crossing that always gives me problems, I can never remember which. As you come hacking down a straight you scream into a left-hand bend. Usually about halfway through it you realise that a)it tightens quite considerably and b)the line you thought was fine is now going to plunge a foot or so into the stream. So like as not you end up with one foot out, flapping your way through the water, or you lock the back wheel, head straight on and end up standing in the stream. However, this time I manage to remember that it exists and splash through the ford without trouble.
Another stream crossing later and the trail peters out, leaving me with just a big grin and the some tingling synapses to remember it by. Obviously there’s now another uphill to be done – a short section of granny gear fumbling on loose rocks, a little like trying to climb stairs covered in marbles. I think I’ve cleaned it once and inevitably it was the only time I was riding there alone, equally inevitably skinny whippet Jon rides straight up it as though it isn’t there. He r xc jeyboy and no mistake. Thankfully that’s that the last serious climb out of the way and now we can just enjoy the gentle roller coaster trail that wends its way back to the car. And the joys of that red, red mud.
Dom Perry
/images/riding_redrocks/becdom.jpg
