It’s another beautiful day in Scotland’s summer and you would be a fool not to take advantage of it. An absolute fool! But what can you do? Many flock to the beaches, and many break out the BBQs but what about me? I put on my hiking boots.
The decision is made the day before. The weather looks like it is going to hold. It could be my last chance for a while. So, I decide that the next day, I will follow the dismantled railway line from Kelso to St Boswells.
Rails to Roxburgh
Starting off in the old market town of Kelso, a Borders town where the rivers Tweed and Teviot have their confluence, a sense of nostalgia washes over me. This was the town where I went to high school and the town where my political activism was birthed. Lasting friendships were made here and a path was started upon which I have not diverted from. But time to talk about the actual paths I will be taking. I start at the edge of the town, just outside the Wallaceneuk area. Here begins the section of the path from Kelso to Roxburgh.
Lush, green trees lead me down a path bypassing glorious, golden fields. The sun comes out to say hello and bestow its warmth down upon me. But mostly I walk in shade, as the trees form almost a tunnel, protecting me from the heat and keeping me cool as I keep on walking. Along the walk, I see beautiful flowers complimenting the trees and plenty of thistles. The flower of Scotland stands tall and proud in its green and purple. The fauna revels in the flora as I hear birds singing and see rabbits and hares leaping and bounding. My heart was captured by one little bunny in particular, so small and so young with its whole life ahead of it. I emerge onto the Teviot Viaduct, sandwiched between Roxburgh and Sunlaws Village. It is a thing of beauty, a majestic masterpiece. From the ground you see it standing tall in all its glory and from the top, you look over Roxburgh itself, a quaint little village blessed by wholesome green trees and the river Teviot flowing through.
Moving on to Maxton
I leave the line and enter Roxburgh as, sadly, the dismantled railway becomes impassible. I had planned to follow the railway line the whole way but the map never showed this happening so my route plan has now gone off the rails – if you’ll pardon the pun. But this was always a possibility and on walks like these, you need to be prepared for these sorts of eventualities. So, I dug out the map and worked out a route to the village of Maxton, following old country roads with a plan to rejoin the old railway line there.
The roads lasted an eternity but not for one second were things bad, except for occasional sore feet. I saw green fields of wheat, swaying in the breeze and although the clouds occasionally gathered, it was still always warm and the tiny showers that lasted only seconds served to refresh me. I saw rolling hills and welcoming woodlands; I saw friendly cyclists and men in range rovers who stared at me as if to say: “who are you and what business do you have here?”. I saw farms and little hamlets consisting of no more than a row of three houses, hidden away from the rest of the world, never to be disturbed. From a distance, I saw the Sir Walter Scott monument and even passed the railway line I intended to rejoin. It was wide and passable but decided to go to Maxton and head to my destination a different way.
Maxton itself, such a small and pretty village with a fascinating history. In 1948, the old Tweedmouth to St Boswells line, which I’m following, saw the Flying Scotsman on the single-track line going 25mph due to the East Coast Mainline being closed for flooding. The village has a lovely hall, redecorated to celebrate the Millennium in 2000. So much more history but I must keep going, along the St Cuthbert’s Way which runs through the western part of the parish. This enticing little village will have to spill the rest of its secrets another day.
The St Cuthbert’s Way
Ah, the St Cuthbert’s Way. What a history we share. I am no stranger to it and it is no stranger to me, my old friend winding through the land. But I am a stranger to this part, and I am to discover great things. Tall trees and gushing streams; I’m separated from the outside world by walls and ceilings of foliage, with just enough gaps to let the sunlight in.
But I don’t stay for long as the end of the walk is nearing. I leave the path and walk along to St Boswells; a lovely, little, bustling village one mile south of Newtown St. Boswells, the home of the region’s local decision making in the form of Scottish Borders Council. From fabulous looking cafes to a rather interesting bookshop, chippies and a few small shops to a hotel and various sports clubs, it seems there is a lot on offer here. Walking past a group of horses and caravans, I soon learn I’ve also come during the annual gypsy fair, originally a focus for the trade of horses.
But all good walks must come to an end and here, in St. Boswells, I end this one. Eight hours of walking from Kelso to St. Boswells has taught me some interesting history and allowed me to see hidden beauty I had yet to discover. I am left wanting more and more I shall have. For this walk, is one of many going deep into the Scottish Borders.
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