I didn’t really know what to say. It was the first time I had been given jewellery from anyone, and I didn’t imagine that I would lose my jewellery virginity to a young man in a pub in deepest Cornwall. There was something very poignant about it, which I liked - in a non-gay way.
‘You should go with them, Eric,’ one of the other men shouted. ‘Go on, what’s stopping you? You haven’t got a job or any other commitments. You should do it.’
A look of enlightenment passed over Eric’s face and we half expected him to follow us out of the door. He paused.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got ‘alf a pint left.’
We were secretly relieved. As much as we liked Eric, we didn’t want the trip to turn into a Pied Piper style affair, picking up stragglers at every village. We told him to catch us up, and I fastened the earring to my t-shirt as I had never got around to having my ears pierced.
Outside the pub we met a guy clutching a huge pair of rigger boots.
‘Here you go, lads,’ said the man, who we then recognised as being one of the other men at the bar. He was about 50, bald, with a big smile. ‘I got these for you.’
He handed us the gigantic boots, that were caked in concrete and each weighed the same as a wet towel. They were, however, far more appealing than the wellies.
‘They’re from Boomer, a friend of Steve’s,’ he said. ‘He said he had met you in The Wellington an hour ago. He doesn’t wear these anymore and says you can have them if you want.’
The Wellington was the appropriately named pub we had been to first.
‘Brilliant, thank you so much,’ I said. ‘Please pass on our thanks to Boomer and Steve.’
‘Certainly. Good luck, guys,’ he said.
We had acquired our third item of footwear in less than 12 hours. The generosity and enthusiasm of the people that we had met was completely overwhelming.
I took off my welly and trainer and uncurled my toes for the first time in hours. The wellies had been a size 6; the rigger boots were about size 14. I dropped my feet into them effortlessly. Despite their size and weight, they felt luxurious. They were lined with fur and my toes were free to roam wherever they chose. If I could have only found another eight pairs of socks from somewhere, they would have almost fitted me. I agreed to do the first shift in the boots and Ben wore both trainers, which were more than adequate to get us all the way to John O’Groats
After a two hour pub break we decided to try and get a few more miles under our metaphorical belts. We originally had St Ives in mind as a destination for the night, but this was now looking completely unrealistic. St Ives was 13 miles away and it would be dark within a few hours.
There was no room in the rucksack for the wellies, so Ben hung them over his shoulder with the plan to pass them onto someone with small feet and a need for wellies. A pixie farmer, perhaps.
Cornwall was stunning. We couldn’t see much of it because of the fog, but what we could see was spectacular. There was no distant hum of a motorway that disturbs the calm of many other parts of the British countryside. Even the villages had a ghostly silence. The fog caked the surrounding landscape and enclosed us in a cocoon of cloud. The fields contoured unpredictably and large clumps of rock dotted them like gravestones. The view would have changed very little in a thousand years. Apart from the road we were walking along, and the hedgerows, there was no sign of modern civilisation whatsoever. It was simply beautiful.
Just after 6pm we reached the village of Pendeen, which, by Cornish standards, was bustling. The North Star was an attractive looking pub from the outside and it didn’t disappoint on the inside. England were playing a European qualifier and everyone in the bar was watching the game intently on the TV. We had to scurry across the floor so as not to block the view of those at the bar. I wanted to stay in that pub forever. There was beer, football and a big log fire. I came close to asking the landlord if we could stay, but instead reeled off the spiel about bikes.
‘Sorry guys, I can’t help,’ he said.
Disappointed, we loitered at the bar for as long as we could. We saw Steven Gerrard score before retreating outside to the cold road.
We were warned that once we left Pendeen there was nothing in the way of civilisation until Zennor, which was eight miles away. For the first time, we had started to think about where we might spend the night. We knew that even if we miraculously managed to get bikes, it would be dark by the time we reached Zennor. Despite the possibility of not being able to find anywhere to stay, Ben and I were still full of adrenaline from the challenge that we had set ourselves, and so it was of little concern.
‘What happens if we can’t find anywhere to stay?’ asked Ben.
‘We’ll just find a pub, stay there until they throw us out and then hang around outside until morning,’ I replied.
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Ok.’
Just on the outskirts of the village we knocked on the door of a house with a collection of weird bits and pieces strewn across the front yard; drift wood, buoys, lobster pots and fishing nets. It was as though a high tide had spewed a shipwreck in the garden. We were several miles inland, so this was extremely unlikely.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the wire-haired hippy who answered the door, before even asking who we were, or what we wanted.
We had been standing in her front room for several minutes chatting about the weather and her being a psychologist and other random stuff, before she even asked why we were in her house.
‘We’re looking for a couple of old bikes to help us get to John O’Groats,’ I said.
‘Oh, I haven’t got any bikes, but I have got a picnic set you can have,’ she replied instantaneously, as though she had been trying for sometime to get rid of it.
‘Err, ok then,’ I said, ‘thanks,’ assuming that she would have been offended if we had declined her offer.
The lady’s name was Liz and she was a psychologist, as I have already mentioned. I explained that I was trying to take a photo of all of the ‘nice people’ that helped us along the way, and I asked to take a picture of her.
‘I’m not sure if I can trust you,’ she said. ‘I work with mentally ill people all day long and it makes me suspicious.’
Now, I’m no psychologist, but maybe she should have thought of that before she let two complete strangers into her house. Perhaps that’s what they teach on day one of Psychology School; invite any number of random people into your home, but do not, under any circumstances, let them take a photograph of you.
She fetched the picnic set for us, which came in a handy rucksack. I had visions of trying to carry a large wicker hamper all the way to Scotland, and so was relieved to see it was a manageable size. I had been carrying the rucksack that Les had given us, so Ben took the picnic set. We thanked Liz and she thanked us for brightening up her day. She told us that we were ‘wacky and zany,’ which we had never been described as before, and will probably never again. She also suggested, not for the first time, that we were mentally ill.
We continued onwards towards Zennor. Cornwall became more and more hilly. The land around us undulated at random like a motocross track. It must be a real bastard for farmers. The fog closed in even further and it became dangerous for us to walk on the road, so we walked on the grass verge as much as possible and kept our ears alert for approaching cars.
After another hour’s walking we reached the village of Morvah. Morvah is a tiny hamlet with an alleged population of 79. When we passed through, they were all in hiding. The few houses that we could see all had their lights off and there were no cars in the driveway. We started to wonder whether cars and electricity had been discovered in Cornwall yet.
The last house that we came across did show signs of life. There were lights on and a car in the driveway. We knocked on the door and a lady answered. She was in her mid-forties with a warm, welcoming face, frizzy hair and a baggy t-shirt.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said before even asking what we wanted, ‘I have just
finished milking the cows and I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
‘We’re really sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but we were wondering if you had any old bikes lying around that you were trying to get rid of.’
‘I don’t think we have,’ she said, completely unfazed by our question. ‘We got rid of ours last month. We might have an old scooter in the garden.’
‘Seriously?’ we both responded, perhaps overenthusiastically as it appeared to startle her. ‘A scooter would be amazing.’
‘Ok, what do you need it for?’
‘We’re cycling to John O’Groats,’ said Ben, who then described our challenge to her.
‘What an adventure!’ said the lady, whose name was Sue. ‘Just give me a sec, and I’ll see if our neighbours have anything they can give you.’
‘Helen, it’s Sue,’ she said on the phone. ‘I have got two boys with me who are heading to John O’Groats and they’re after a couple of bikes. Do you have anything at your place?’ There was a long pause. ‘It doesn’t have to be a bike,’ she added, ‘anything with wheels.’ There was another pause. ‘Yes, they both look barking,’ she said laughing and looking at us both. Another long pause followed, but Sue’s expression changed to suggest she was having some success. ‘Brilliant,’ she then said, ‘any chance Ross could run it over the field with the quad? Thanks, Helen. Talk to you later.’
Our mouths had both dropped open as we stood there expectantly on Sue’s doorstep, waiting to hear what Helen had said.
‘Ross is our neighbour’s son who lives across the field. He’s going to bring over his old bike for you,’ she said. ‘It’s very small and rusty and he doesn’t know if the tyres have punctures, but it might be of use to you.’
We both grinned like lottery winners.
‘He’ll be over in a few minutes,’ said Sue. ‘I’ll just go and see if I can find that scooter.’
Sue reappeared a few minutes later wheeling a scooter and a tricycle. The tricycle was pink with a little basket on the front and was clearly intended for a two-year-old.
‘I don’t think you’ll get to John O’Groats on either of these, but this one will get you as far as Zennor or St Ives,’ she said, lifting up a black WWF scooter. The former World Wrestling Federation, that is, rather than the World Wildlife Fund. I don’t think the latter make scooters.
‘Woweeeee,’ I said. Yes, I know people don’t say ‘Woweeeee’ anymore, but I did. It just slipped out in the moment. I’m not proud of it.
Ben was already testing out the tricycle and it was clear that under the weight of an adult, it would be crushed within minutes. The other one, however, was a beast of a scooter. It had a wide skateboard-sized platform, Harley Davidson sized handlebars, big foam wheels and was emblazoned with pictures of greased-up wrestlers. It would have been the Rolls Royce of scooters ‘back in the day’. It also had functioning brakes and a drinking bottle holder.
We could hear the distant rumble of an engine.
‘That sounds like Ross,’ said Sue as she made her way through the yard towards the field.
The noise grew louder, but we still couldn’t see past the thick blanket of mist. After a while, a shape emerged from the haze and we could make out a quad bike coming towards us. Ross weaved his way through the field, avoiding cow troughs and ditches. He pulled up in front of us and turned off the engine. He was about 13 and was dressed in a boiler suit
‘Ross, you are an absolute legend, thank you so much,’ said Ben, shaking him firmly by the hand.
‘That’s ok,’ said Ross with the voice of a 60 year-old farmer.
He lifted the bike out of the trailer and wheeled it to Ben. It was a miniature BMX, completely rusted over and it squealed as Ross pushed it. There was an ominous looking brake cable hanging from the handlebars and there was something very wrong with one of the wheels; it wasn’t round. The seat wasn’t attached properly, and the handlebars were at a very odd angle. We didn’t care. At that moment, it was the greatest thing we had ever seen in our lives.
‘The back wheel isn’t screwed on properly and it’s buckled but I have put some air in the tyres for you. They should hopefully stay up,’ he said as Ben climbed on.
Despite its obvious crapness, it was a wonderful piece of machinery. The basic mechanics of a bicycle – which we had always taken for granted – were now vividly apparent. It really is a magnificent invention. The fact that moving your feet around in circles could propel a crappy piece of rust along at a decent speed was quite astonishing.
‘Oh, and the brakes don’t work,’ shouted Ross, just as Ben crashed into a huge metal barn door.
‘Brakes are overrated anyway,’ I said. ‘Stopping is not going to get us anywhere.’
We asked Sue and Ross if they had any ideas of places that we could spend the night.
‘There’s nothing between here and Zennor,’ said Sue, ‘but I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to stay there. It even has a youth hostel.’
‘But there’s a wedding on tonight,’ said Ross, ‘so it might be completely full. You should speak to a farmer called Harry Mann. He’ll let you stay somewhere. Tell him I sent you. He lives in a farm at the top of the hill, just outside of Zennor.’
We thanked Sue and Ross for their incredible generosity and gave Ross the wellies that Ben had been carrying. Ross was as close to a pixie farmer as we were ever likely to meet.
It was almost dark, and we were still four miles from Zennor.
I did the first shift on the scooter and Ben pedalled the BMX. The difference they made was unbelievable. The countryside wasn’t whizzing by like it would on a racing bike, or in a car, but we could feel the progress that we were making with every revolution of our bikes’ tiny wheels.
After about half a mile of steady uphill we were faced with our first downhill. Safety was not a concern on the scooter. The tyres were made of foam and it was so slow that we had to push when going downhill. In the event that it did reach an out of control speed – which it didn’t – it had a functioning back brake to bring it to a gradual stop. To make it more exhilarating on the scooter, you could stand sideways to make it feel like you were snowboarding, albeit very slowly, and on tarmac.
The BMX, however, had no such luxury. Descending a Cornish hill on that bike was like a skier attempting an icy black run on the first morning of ski school. The only way to maintain control was to dig each foot into the tarmac to try and preserve balance and keep the speed under control. We felt a rush of adrenaline after every corner that passed without a nasty accident. It continued like this all the way to Zennor; a long, slow, uphill slog, followed by a thrilling downhill. We swapped bikes regularly to even things out.
It became so dark that we could no longer see the contours of the road but we knew we were getting closer to Zennor, as we could hear the distant purr of a cheesy wedding disco.
We reached the village of Zennor at about 9.30pm. I had been to Zennor once previously, but it was so dark on this visit that I didn’t recognise it. All that I remembered was a story about a mermaid, and a pub with good beer. We cared nothing about the mermaid, at this point, so headed towards the pub.
On the way, we enquired at the youth hostel, but it was fully booked with wedding guests, as Ross had predicted.
The wedding was in full swing in a marquee adjacent to the pub. There were people everywhere, and You Can't Hurry Love by Phil Collins wailed out from the tent.
The pub - The Tinners Arms - was rammed. A combination of wedding guests and villagers spilled out onto the street. There was a small service window by the door, which opened through to the area behind the bar. Ben poked his head through and asked if he could speak to the manager. The manager, a Brian Blessed lookalike, appeared a few minutes later.
‘What do you want, guys? I’m very busy here,’ he asked whilst loading the glass washer.
‘We’re here to offer to help you collect glasses, clear plates, pour pints, whatever needs doing,’ said Ben, trying a new approach.
‘What’s the catch?’ asked Brian Blessed.
‘We need somewhere to stay tonight,’ conceded Ben. ‘Anywhere, just some floor space or a cupboard. Anything.’
‘Sorry lads, I can’t help I’m afraid. I’m fully booked with guests and I haven’t got any space at all. Plus, I’m fully staffed so you couldn’t help anyway.’
We noticed a man in a chef jacket leaning against the pub wall and smoking.
‘How come you guys need somewhere to stay?’ he said in that weird Godfather type voice that smokers use when they still have a lung full of smoke. He dropped his cigarette butt into the gravel and crushed it with his foot whilst tilting his head back and blowing out a cloud of smoke as he listened to our reply.
‘We’re cycling to John O’Groats without spending any money,’ said Ben.
‘Cool, man. Suppose you could do with some food then. Go and wait over there,’ he said, pointing into the darkness. ‘I’ll get sacked if my boss catches me.’ He swaggered off like a Cornish John Wayne towards the catering tent. We scurried off into the darkness like a pair of dirty scavengers.
‘Here you go, lads,’ he said a few minutes later, handing us a large ice-cream container full of unknown food. ‘Better get back to work. If anyone asks, I didn’t give you that, right?’
We only just got a chance to utter a brief ‘thank you’ as he disappeared back into the night. We decided to keep the food until after we had found somewhere to sleep.
We remembered the farmer that Ross had mentioned, so, as our luck was out at the pub, decided to give him a try. We wheeled our trusty steeds back up the hill that we had just descended, until the light of the village had faded behind us. We found what we presumed to be Harry Mann’s house and knocked on the door.
‘Hi there, are you Harry Mann?’ I asked.
‘I am,’ said Harry Mann. He looked just how we had imagined he would look.
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 3
