Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  I looked up to see that Ben was over on the far side of the barn, tentatively stroking a very small racing bike.

  ‘Ben!’ I called over, ‘Roger is going to kindly give us this pink mountain bike. Isn’t that great?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s wicked. Thanks so much,’ said Ben not taking his eyes off the racer.

  ‘I guess we had better head off now, and try and find somewhere to stay,’ I said.

  ‘Yep, I guess we should,’ said Ben, who had now straddled the racer and was leaning forward pretending to be on a downhill.

  Roger walked over to the bike and started fiddling around with the brake cables. It was a 1970s junior Sirocco Falcon. It had 5 gears and the handlebars were covered up with multi-coloured tape. It was basically a racing bike for a child, but it had a certain retro charm.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ he said. ‘You can take that one, too.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, you caught me in a good mood, and I’ve had both of these bikes sitting around for a while now,’ he said.

  ‘Well I hope you can put ours to some use, so that we can at least go some way to repay the favour,’ I said.

  Roger chuckled to himself.

  ‘I might be able to pass the scooter on to someone,’ he said, ‘and I’ll probably be able to get some useful screws and bearings off the other one, but that’s about it. Good luck to you both. I’ll put some air in the tyres for you and they should be good to go.’

  We had travelled about 14 miles on the scooter and BMX. This may not sound like a lot, but I had never felt more drained in my life. The energy it takes to propel a scooter with foam wheels up a Cornish hill, or pedal a miniature BMX over a long distance, is immeasurable.

  Our thigh muscles were burning, our knees were bruised from catching the handlebars on the BMX, our heels were completely blistered from wearing the rigger boots and our backs were aching from being in such unnatural positions. With hindsight, it would have been far less painful and probably quicker if we had walked from Land’s End.

  After just a few seconds on our new bikes we felt like we had been born again. We decided to alternate the bikes regularly, as they were both very different but each had their advantages. The pink girls’ mountain bike – or ‘Pinky’ as we imaginatively called it – had a comfy seat, 12 gears and decent brakes. It was rather small, though, and the fat tyres meant it was quite slow. The racer – or ‘The Falcon’, as it became known – only had five gears, a seat made of the hardest material known to man and handlebars that were about a foot lower than the saddle. It had nice slick road tyres, though, and seemed faster than Pinky.

  I did the first shift on Pinky and Ben started on The Falcon. We decided to attempt another 10 miles or so, to try and make up for the time we had spent in St Ives playing in boats and chasing deaf kids.

  For the first time since setting off, we suddenly felt like we were making progress towards John O’Groats. The road had opened up in front of us and we could feel ourselves eating away at the 1000-mile route that lay ahead.

  We had yet to establish a route for the trip. Seeing as we had to get everything for free, we weren’t able to bring a route book or map. We knew at some stage we would have to ascertain how to get to John O’Groats, but in the meantime, we knew that if we roughly followed the A30, we would be heading in the right direction.

  We had made it our aim to avoid A-roads as much as possible. They might be quicker and more direct, but they are no fun to cycle along and you don’t get to see the country in the same way that you do via the back roads. We made an exception on this occasion, however, as we wanted to have covered a respectable distance. We joined the A30 just after the village of Lelant, and aimed to get to Camborne before dark. It was 7.30pm on a Sunday, and we had the entire A30 to ourselves. Not that you need both lanes of a dual carriageway when you are on a bike.

  We reached the town of Camborne in good time. It was still light and there was plenty of activity in the town centre. By activity, I mean there were groups of people hanging around outside shops and loitering on street corners. Camborne was once the centre of the Cornish mining industry and one of the richest mining areas in the world. It has recently been the target of a huge regeneration project to breathe new life into the town.

  We decided to try and find somewhere to stay first, and received two rejections in quick succession from a hotel and then a pub.

  ‘I suppose we had better start looking for a barn,’ said Ben dejectedly.

  ‘We’ve only been trying for ten minutes,’ I said. ‘We knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I’m sure we can find somewhere to sleep. Besides, I don’t think they tend to have barns in town centres.’

  ‘That’s true. I guess it doesn’t matter too much where we end up. At least I’ve got a sleeping bag now.’

  ‘YOU’VE got a sleeping bag?’ I asked angrily. ‘I thought it was both of ours.’

  ‘Well we can’t really both use it and I have been carrying it all day.’

  ‘Fine, whatever. You have it, Mr Selfish.’

  A man swigging a can of Special Brew started laughing at our pink bike. He swayed and dribbled as he spoke.

  ‘Noice boike,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Do you know anywhere we could stay tonight for free?’

  ‘There’s a pub up there called the Veeeeervan Aaaarms,’ he said, pointing in three different directions. ‘They have cheap rooo… ooo… ooms.’

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t spend ANY money at all. We’re on a challenge to get to John O’Groats without spending anything.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That sounds stupid. Well, you could ask at the Veeeeervan Aaaarms anyway. Tell them Big… ig… ig… Mick sent you.’

  The Vyvyan Arms was a big corner building on a junction at the top end of town, and we wheeled our newly acquired bikes around to the car park at the back. This was the first time we would have to leave them unattended, and we suddenly realised that security was a slight concern. The BMX and scooter that we’d had before weren’t worth stealing, yet they had been stolen. Now we had bikes that were worth stealing.

  Pinky had a bike lock wrapped around underneath the saddle, but we didn’t know the combination. Ben guessed 4856. I guessed 1234. Neither worked.

  We tried again.

  Ben guessed 1111 and I guessed 2199. Again, neither worked. This continued for sometime, until we realised it was futile. With a bit of effort, we managed to untangle some of the bike lock from around Pinky and then loop it over the Falcon’s saddle, too. To the casual passer-by it appeared that the bikes were locked together.

  The resident DJ was just setting up his kit when we entered the Vyvyan Arms, and there was a table of men huddled in the far corner. The lady behind the bar was in her forties, quite short and had the biggest breasts we had ever seen. We didn’t technically see them, but we got a pretty good idea of their size by the fact that she seemed to be resting them on the bar to stop herself falling over.

  ‘Hi there, are you the landlady?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ she said, as if she had only just realised it.

  ‘We were wondering if there is any work we can do here in exchange for somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘We’re good at cleaning, washing-up, decorating, and we don’t need a bed. All we need is a roof,’ I added.

  ‘Errrr... errrr…hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to check with my husband.’

  Scotty, the landlord, was an intimidating looking guy. He was built like a prop forward. He had long blond hair that was tied back in a ponytail and he had tattoos down the length of both arms. To contradict his menacing biker image, he wore a t-shirt with a huge picture of Taz, the Tazmanian Devil cartoon character, adorned across the front.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for somewhere to stay tonight for free,’ he said. ‘We’re fairly quiet tonight and I doubt we’ll have any more guests arriving, so I’m sure we can sort you out with a room.’

 
‘Are you sure? There must be some work we can do in return?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Scotty. ‘As I said, we’re very quiet so there’s not much needs doing. I’ll go and check that your room is ready. What can I get you both to drink in the meantime?’

  ‘Let me get those, Scotty,’ said one of the locals who had been eavesdropping. ‘Sounds like you two need it.’

  ‘Right you are, Colin,’ said Scotty. ‘The next round’s on me, though.’ Colin, like most of the other men, had been in the Vyvyan Arms for most of the day. They insisted that we join them, and we told them the story of why we were in Camborne.

  Scotty and Billy – his wife – showed us to the room, where we were given a choice of beds. The room had two single beds and a huge four-poster bed. Ben and I were not quite ready to share a double bed just yet, so we opted for the singles

  We both sank back onto the beds and lay there in silence for a few blissful moments, letting the feelings of relief and comfort pass through us. We still had our beers downstairs to finish, so we washed our faces in the sink and returned to the bar.

  After our beer, Scotty offered us some food, but we decided that we didn’t want to abuse his hospitality and so walked into town to try and find some food elsewhere.

  ‘I fancy a Chinese,’ said Ben.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said.

  We soon reached Tse House, a Chinese restaurant on the high street. We could see through the window that the place was quiet. For a normal person, this is usually considered a bad sign, but for us it was ideal. We had grown more confident about asking for things, but we still preferred to have as small an audience as possible.

  We entered through the beaded curtain and approached the teenager behind the counter who then told us to speak to the manager.

  Becky Tse, the manager, was frantically stacking glasses behind the bar. We apologised for bothering her and explained what we were doing, and asked if we could do any work in exchange for some food. She nodded throughout, but didn’t look remotely interested.

  ‘Ok. Eat in or takeaway?’ she asked when we had finished.

  ‘But we don’t have any money,’ I repeated in case she had not understood us.

  ‘It’s ok. Eat in or takeaway?’ she said.

  ‘Oh… thank you… eat in then please,’ I said.

  ‘Two chicken chow meins?’ she asked, and pointed to a table over in the far corner.

  ‘Whatever is easiest and cheapest for you,’ said Ben.

  ‘TWO CHICKEN CHOW MEINS,’ she shouted through the curtain into the kitchen. ‘Five minutes,’ she said to us, ‘I bring it over to table.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Ben, ‘Is there any cleaning or washing up we can do in return?’

  She smiled for the first time.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Five minutes. I bring it over to table.’

  And so she did. Two huge plates of steaming Chicken Chow Mein were soon sitting in front of us and we gratefully devoured every last noodle.

  We returned back to the Vyvyan Arms where the disco was in full swing. By that I mean that the lights had been dimmed, and the DJ had started his set. The dance floor was empty, though, and the lone table of regulars were still the only people in the pub.

  We spent a few hours chatting to the locals, playing pool and being bought drinks. At about 11pm, we went to bed, stuffed full of Chinese, a little drunk and completely knackered.

  Day 3 - The lawnmower man

  Camborne to Nanstallon - 48 miles

  We ate our way through a huge pile of toast that Billy had made for us, drank a teapot full of tea, and ate several bowls of cereal each. The local paper had an article about a couple of horrific road accidents, and it made me think about how potentially dangerous our trip could be. We had dodgy bikes, no helmets, and little experience of cycling. I mentioned this to Ben and we both agreed to try and shake off the carefree attitude we’d had for the first two days. We also agreed to try and find helmets.

  We said our goodbyes to Scotty, Billy and the resident DJ who was still in the pub, dressed in the same clothes that he had been wearing the night before. Ben gave them a frisbee that we had found by the side of the road near Lelant. It was all we had in the way of a gift, but they seemed really touched.

  ‘We’ll leave it here behind the bar to remind us of your visit. It’s been so lovely to have met you both,’ said Billy. She then gave us a couple of green t-shirts that they had been given from a brewery. They became our new Sunday Best, which we decided to save for the evenings, and not to wear whilst cycling.

  We followed the old road to Redruth, which ran directly parallel to the A30, and we then cut back towards the coast.

  We were on a steep descent into the village of Porthtowan when I saw a crane over to the right.

  ‘Look at that crane!’ I shouted to Ben who was in front of me. I have no idea why I decided to point out the crane to Ben, as it was not in the slightest bit remarkable, and I wasn’t aware that Ben had a particular fascination with cranes.

  ‘What?’ called Ben, who was unable to hear properly because of the speed we were going. He slammed on Pinky’s brakes and she skidded to a stop. The Falcon, however, had yet to be tested on a downhill.

  I applied the brakes. They squeaked. Nothing happened. There was no time to avoid Ben and I crashed into the back of him catching my leg on his rear wheel cog. I was then thrown forwards and landed with my balls on the crossbar.

  My leg was bleeding slightly, but it was nothing serious, and after a slight readjustment, I decided my balls would recover, too.

  ‘There was a big crane just back there,’ I said to Ben.

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks for that. Are you alright?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine thanks. I think we need to get The Falcon’s brakes looked at.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  Porthtowan is a pleasant village that is home to one of Britain’s most popular surfing beaches. It apparently has some ‘sick breaks’ and ‘phat tubes’, whatever that means. Again, the village was once an important mining spot, but it now relies heavily on tourism. In case you were wondering, the name Porthtowan is derived from the Cornish words 'porth' and 'tewynn' meaning ‘Cove of Sand Dunes’. You will sleep tight now.

  Just on the outskirts of the village we passed Porthtowan Garage. Now, I’m no bike expert, but we figured if we borrowed a spanner and tightened a few nuts here and there The Falcon would be cured.

  ‘Wheel it in and I’ll take a look at it,’ said John the mechanic when we asked to borrow a spanner.

  ‘The brakes are gone,’ he said. ‘I’ll do my best to tighten them up, but they’re pretty much finished.’

  He tightened some nuts, lengthened some cables and shortened some others. He then dribbled oil from one of those old-fashioned oilcans with the ridiculously long nozzle, over various bits of The Falcon’s anatomy. I could almost hear it purring. The Falcon, that is, not the mechanic.

  The road out of Porthtowan was stupidly steep. For the first time since getting our ‘real bikes’ we got off and walked. We didn’t feel guilty about it. When it gets to the stage that you are cycling uphill at the same speed that you would walk, there is simply no point in busting yourself.

  Once we had made it to the top of the hill, the terrain levelled out and the cycling became easier. The sun was out so we took off our t-shirts. We still had limited clothing and we decided that the less we sweated onto our clothes, the better.

  I was still commando at this point, as I had attempted to wash the salty sea water from my boxer shorts in the sink at the Vyvyan Arms and have them dry by the morning. I had succeeded in the washing part, but failed miserably in getting them dry. I’d hung them out of the window at night, naively expecting them to dry by the light of the moon. I then tied them to my rucksack so that they could dry during the day.

  Going topless with my suit trousers left my lower half rather exposed. The bailer twine had not really helped, and in order to s
top the trousers falling down completely, I had to roll the waistband over several times. This caused them to hang extremely low, revealing a view of pubic hair. Now I’m sure that this is a mental image that you didn’t want formed, but I feel that it is my duty to paint as accurate a picture as possible.

  The road between Porthtowan and St Agnes was banked with high hedges, so despite cycling along the coast, we only had occasional glimpses of the sea.

  We had planned to have lunch in St Agnes, but we reached the village by mid-morning so stopped for a short rest instead. The tracksuit bottoms that Ben had been given by Les-the-coastguard were unnecessarily bulky, and they constantly billowed out behind him like a wind sock. He decided to take evasive action and went to borrow a pair of scissors from the chemist on the high street. He emerged soon after in a pair of big baggy shorts and a tracksuit bottom leg on each arm for no other reason than he thought it was funny. It was a little, so I had a go at wearing them, too.

  I was very envious of Ben’s shorts, but didn’t feel that I could do the same to the suit trousers. What if I had another wedding to go to on route, or a job interview? I would need to look my best, so I decided to roll the legs up to make them feel like shorts. Albeit, thick heavy woollen ones.

  Ben had ‘misplaced’ his water bottle somewhere since Camborne. We were still using the bottles that John from the airport had given us, and we were filling them up at every opportunity.

  ‘I’ll go and get a bottle of water from the shop,’ he said as he strode off.

  ‘Can’t you just find an old bottle and fill it up from somewhere?’ I called after him.

  ‘Nah, I’ll just get a new one from the shop up here.’

  He returned empty-handed.

  ‘What a complete and utter idiot,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I went in there, right, and explained what we were doing and asked for a bottle of water and he said, ‘Bring money like the rest of us. You’re expecting people to pay for your ‘oliday.’ What a tosser.’