Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  ‘This is a hugely difficult category to judge because our village shop-keepers and sub-postmasters form the hearts of every rural community, but Di Bell is a very special lady who inspires real devotion from her customers. She received dozens of nominations from people of all ages, all praising her warm nature and the fact that she is a lifeline who always goes above and beyond the call of duty. With the threat of closure looming over many Post Offices in the region it is the perfect time to emphasise that our branches are about the soul of country life, not just about stamps and car tax. Many of Di’s customers said that the village would change for the worse without her, which is why I am delighted to honour her in this competition and raise the profile of our embattled Post Offices. Long may Di continue!’

  ‘Why have you signed the card ‘DW’, you weirdo?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Oh, no reason, it’s a long story,’ I said coyly.

  ‘Well we’ve got plenty of time. In fact, about 800 miles worth of time.’

  ‘It’s just something my mum calls me, that’s all,’ I said, casually hoping that would satisfy his curiosity. It didn’t.

  ‘I gathered that much, but what does it stand for?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Dordie Wardie.’

  Ben erupted with laughter and nearly choked on the Eccles cake that he was eating.

  ‘What the fuck? Ha ha. Dordie Wardie? My god, what is all that about?’ he spluttered.

  ‘When I was little, I used to call myself Dord because I couldn’t say George properly. My parents carried on calling me Dord, and then for some reason over the years it gradually got extended to Dordie Wardie. That’s what my mum, Dad and sister call me now.’

  ‘Ha ha, that’s ridiculous. Dordie Wardie! Your family are bloody weird.’

  ‘Your mum must have a name that she calls you? What does she call you? Benny Boodles? Benny Wenny? Benji Bunny?’ I probed.

  ‘Ben,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  My mum received the card the following day, and Dordie Wardie received some serious brownie points.

  We had been sitting on the bench by the Post Office for over an hour before we realised it was 2pm and we had only cycled ten miles. We continued through the quaint villages of Sopworth and Leighterton, before reaching the busy A46 which we followed to Stroud. We stopped briefly at a pub on the outskirts of Stroud because Ben was peckish for some peanuts.

  ‘Do you really have to go and get peanuts? Can’t you just wait until later when we can try and eat properly?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I really need something now and I think peanuts are the answer.’

  ‘They won’t give you any. This is a pub. Do you really think they’ll just give you peanuts if you walk in and ask?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t they? We’ve not had any problems so far.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s because we haven’t really been asking for specific things, and we’ve been asking out of necessity rather than just because we fancy a snack,’ I said, trying to justify my increasing frustration. ‘Remember that time you asked for a new bottle of water?’

  ‘That was because that bloke was an arsehole. Fine, well you won’t want any of my peanuts when I get them, I assume?’

  ‘No, I definitely won’t.’

  I waited outside the pub with the bikes, as I was too embarrassed to go in with him. Part of me hoped that he would come out empty-handed having suffered humiliation in front of a pub full of locals. The other part of me hoped he would emerge carrying peanuts, as I too was hungry. I promised myself that I would decline them anyway, just to make the point that I didn’t need them.

  He appeared a few minutes later with four bags of peanuts; two packets of salted and two packets of dry roasted.

  ‘See, easy. The guy didn’t even question it. He just handed me these,’ said Ben with a smug grin. ‘Do you want a couple of bags?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Thank you.’

  Following a long slog up Scottsquar Hill we were then rewarded with a long downhill into the Severn Valley. We stopped for a rest on the M5 flyover. We had crossed over the M5 a couple of times previously – either side of Taunton – but hadn’t yet stopped to watch the traffic. I understand that this may not seem like a pleasurable pastime, but there was something surreal about watching other people’s lives continue at high speed. We had already become accustomed to living life at an incredibly slow rate, and we had forgotten what it was like to be able to get in a car and be at your destination a few minutes later. It was strangely satisfying to climb back on our bikes and continue onwards at our own leisurely pace.

  It was almost dark by the time we reached the town of Newent. There seemed to be a selection of pubs and B&Bs in the town centre, so we both were optimistic about the prospect of finding some decent accommodation.

  ‘I’m sorry, boys, but I’m completely full, what with the Onion Fayre and all,’ said the landlady at The George Hotel.

  ‘Onion Fayre? What’s the Onion Fayre?’ asked Ben, looking at me as though I would know.

  ‘Why, it’s the Newent Onion Fayre tomorrow!’ she said. ‘Why, it’s the biggest day in the town’s calendar. I thought that’s why you were visiting.’

  ‘Nope, we’re just passing through. We didn’t know about the Onion Fayre,’ I said. ‘It sounds fun. We’re happy to sleep in an outhouse or garage if you have one?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. Every inch of space is full of supplies and onions for tomorrow. There’ll be about 20,000 people visiting the town tomorrow and 50,000 onions.’

  ‘20 THOUSAND PEOPLE? FIFTY THOUSAND ONIONS?’ I repeated back to her, assuming she had got her figures wrong. ‘I had no idea that onions were so popular.’

  ‘Neither did I before I moved here five years ago. It’s the only one of its kind in the world and it’s been going – in one form or another – for 800 years.’

  ‘Blimey, it sounds like quite a party,’ said Ben, trying his best not to sound sarcastic. ‘Can you recommend any other places in town that might be able to help us?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll get the same response at all the other places in town. Everywhere books up months in advance for this weekend. Sorry, boys, best of luck.’

  Once outside, Ben and I looked at each other with a mixture of excitement and dejection. We felt privileged to have arrived in the town on the most eventful night of the year, but we were also faced with the dilemma of not having anywhere to stay. If we continued onwards we would miss out on what the fayre had to offer, but, if we stayed put, we might spend the night on the street.

  ‘We’ll get something sorted here, I think. We haven’t failed so far on the trip,’ said Ben.

  ‘I think that’s the first bit of genuine optimism I have heard from you.’

  ‘I know. It’s the prospect of the Newent Onion Fayre. I can barely contain my excitement.’

  We wheeled our bikes down the main street as we tried to establish a plan of action. When we reached the main square there were people unloading a giant trailer load of onions and stacking them under an old Tudor-looking building.

  ‘So this is where it all happens,’ said Ben.

  ‘I guess so. That’s a LOT of onions’

  ‘We could see if they need any help setting up all the stuff and then maybe one of the workers will be able to offer us somewhere to stay,’ suggested Ben.

  ‘Sounds good. It’s definitely worth a try.’

  There were blank stares from the onion stackers as Ben pitched his proposition. They continued heaving sacks of onions to one another in a line from the trailer to the stack. There was still no response after Ben had finished talking. I tapped Ben’s arm to suggest that we leave them to it, when one of the men at the end of the line spoke.

  ‘So you set off from Land’s End and you’re cycling to Scotland without spending any money?’ he asked as he continued to haul onions.

  ‘Yeah, basically,’ said Ben.

  ‘Sounds very enterprising,�
�� he said, smiling for the first time. ‘You can sleep at mine if you want. I could do with a hand setting up in the morning.’

  It really was as simple as that. We had been milliseconds from walking away and giving up on Newent and its onions, and suddenly we had been offered somewhere to stay.

  We spent the next hour helping the guys unload the rest of the trailer of onions. The man who offered us a room was named Rob - a local farmer and the main supplier of onions to the festival. Rob was in his early forties, slim, good-looking and un-weathered - compared to some other farmers.

  After we had finished stacking the onions he offered to buy us a beer at the pub across the square. Most of the other men looked like local farmhands, but one of them was distinctly different. He was in his early twenties and he had a continuous full-faced grin like a clown. His dress sense looked, well, how can I put this politely? Eastern-European. He was wearing a pair of those baggy coloured patterned trousers that were in fashion for about a week in 1988. He then complimented this with a shiny red bomber jacket and a yellow baseball cap. None of the other men had said a word to him all evening. He had been one of the links in the onion line, but was so ineffective that the other men tended to bypass him and give the sack directly to the person on the other side.

  I smiled at him when he made eye contact and he took this as an invitation to come over and speak to us.

  ‘Helllo-a. My name-a iz Rooballs,’ he said.

  ‘Rooooballs? Hi I’m George.’

  ‘Rooooooballs,’ he repeated, changing the emphasis slightly.

  ‘Hi Rooooballs, I’m Ben.’

  ‘I from Slovakia,’ he said, shaking us both by the hand. ‘You England?’

  ‘Yes, we live in England,’ I said.

  At this point he got out a Slovakian to English phrase book from his pocket and started flicking through it. After a while he found what he was looking for.

  ‘Girlder-feend!’ he shouted excitedly.

  ‘Girlder-feend? Sorry, I don’t understand,’ I said. Ben took a look at the word Rooballs was now enthusiastically pointing at.

  ‘Ahhh, girlfriend,’ said Ben. ‘Yes, we both have girlfriends. Actually, George has a wife.’

  ‘No, no, no. Rooballs. Girlder-feend,’ he said, becoming even more animated. ‘Girlder-feend England.’

  ‘Oh, you have a girlfriend here in England?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. Girlder-feend England. London.’

  ‘Very nice. So how come you’re here in Newent?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Bus.’

  ‘Yes, but why are you here when your girlfriend is in London?’

  ‘Bus.’

  ‘Ok.’ Rooballs started flicking through his phrase book again.

  ‘Telephoner,’ he said, and started pointing at me erratically.

  ‘You want to give her a call?’

  ‘Telephoner,’ he repeated, prodding me repeatedly in the chest with his finger.

  ‘You want ME to telephone your girlfriend in London?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Telephoner girlder-feend London.’

  ‘Errr, okay. Do you have a phone? What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I show book. Telephoner,’ he said, waving his trusty book and showing me he had 50p for the phone box which he was frantically pointing at through the pub window.

  ‘Ok, ok. Let’s do it,’ I said. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Jenny,’ said Rooballs. Ben shrugged his shoulders at me, and followed me outside giggling away to himself. I was too nervous about what I might have to say to Jenny to find the situation amusing.

  The three of us squashed into the phonebox outside the pub and he put the 50p in the coin slot and dialled a number that he had scribbled on a piece of paper. After a few rings an English girl answered. It was very noisy and she sounded like she was in a bar.

  ‘Hello, is that Jenny?’ I said.

  ‘It’s Jenna. Who’s that? Sorry it’s very noisy here. I can hardly hear you.’

  ‘I’m with a friend of yours called Rooballs. He has a message for you, that he wants me to give you.’

  ‘What’s that? A message from who?’

  ‘Rooballs. From Slovakia. He said you and he know each other?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I remember Rooballs,’ she said somewhat hesitantly. I was beginning to sense that perhaps she didn’t regard their relationship in the same way that Rooballs did.

  ‘Good, well he’s got a message that he wants me to translate for you,’ I said, whilst Rooballs hurriedly flicked through his phrasebook.

  Rooballs pointed enthusiastically at a word that he had found. It said, ‘potrestať, pokutovať, preťažiť’. Translation: ‘to punish’.

  I gave Rooballs a quizzical look, but he nodded his head excitedly as if to confirm he definitely had the right word.

  ‘Err, Jenna, he says ‘to punish’. Does that mean anything to you?’ By this point, Ben had turned away and had his forehead squashed up against the glass of the phone box. I could hear the muffled sobs of his laughter as he bit onto his fist.

  ‘To punish? Punish what? I don’t understand,’ said Jenna.

  Rooballs was busy searching the phrasebook for the next word, which would no doubt make everything clear.

  ‘Oh hang on, he’s going to give me another word,’ I said. Rooballs fumbled with the book, but as he did the phone line went dead as Jenna hung up.

  ‘I’m really sorry, mate. We ran out of credit,’ I lied.

  ‘We could call back?’ I said, genuinely sad and confused that the only message he had managed to pass on to his alleged girlfriend was ‘to punish’. Rooballs shook his head and pushed the door of the phonebox open.

  ‘No more money,’ he said dejectedly.

  Back inside the pub I tried asking Rooballs what the remainder of his message was, but he didn’t seem to understand. His sadness was soon comforted when I taught him how to flick a beer mat over with the back of his hand and catch it. He howled like a maniac.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said Rob, who had broken away from the other farmers and had come over to speak to us. ‘My folks are having a barbeque down by the river tonight. I’m sure they’d be happy for you to come along.’

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you, Rob. But we don’t want to intrude at all,’ said Ben.

  ‘I insist. You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Thank you. That sounds great. But these are the only clothes we’ve got,’ I said, tugging at my dirty suit trousers that I had been wearing continuously for seven days.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that. It’s just a bunch of old people having a barbeque in a field. It will be too dark for them to even see what you look like anyway. It’s the annual get-together of The Severn Bore Society. It’s going to be the biggest bore for 25 years tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Cool. What’s the Severn Bore?’ I asked.

  ‘A pig isn’t it?’ said Ben, realising straight away that he had said something stupid as Rob was choking on a mouthful of beer.

  ‘Ha, no, it’s not a pig. You must have heard of The Severn Bore, no?’ We both looked at him blankly. ‘It’s a wave that comes down the river,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it in a bit. We need to get going if we’re going to make it in time. Sling your bikes in the trailer outside and I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Ok, brilliant, is Rooballs coming, too?’ I asked.

  ‘Errr, no, I’ve no idea where he’s staying. He looks happy enough here,’ said Rob.

  We waved goodbye to Rooballs who was still flicking beer mats at the table in the corner. He grinned and waved back.

  Rob’s trailer was parked just outside the pub and we retrieved our bikes that we had pretend-locked to a nearby pillar. We were just about to put them into the trailer when I was suddenly hit by a dilemma.

  ‘Hang on, Ben, isn’t this cheating getting a lift somewhere with our bikes?’

  ‘What do you mean? Do you seriously think we should cycle miles to Rob’s farm, in the middle of no
where in the pitch black?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean that we said that we wouldn’t use any other form of transport for our bikes, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, but we also said we could do different things that were not on the route, as long as we rejoined the route where we left it. Like when we hired that speed boat in St Ives.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that Rob will probably have loads of other stuff to put in the trailer in the morning and we might have to leave the bikes at his while we come and help him, and then when we get them back and head off it means we won’t have cycled the bit between here and Rob’s house, wherever Rob’s house is.’ I was even confusing myself. Just at this moment, Rob and a couple of the other guys emerged from the pub.

  ‘OK guys?’ he asked, noticing that I was holding my bike in mid air.

  ‘Yeah, everything’s fine, it’s just that, and this will probably sound really stupid to you but…’ and I repeated my pedantic concerns about the authenticity of our challenge to Rob.

  ‘That’s no problem. I guess if you’re going to do something as crazy as this bike ride, you might as well do it properly,’ he said. ‘Here’s an idea. We put your bikes in the trailer, just for a few minutes and drop them up at Mike’s house at the top of the street. You can then leave them at his. That’s alright with you Mike isn’t it?’ Mike nodded. ‘Then, in the morning, you can come and help me load up the trailer and come back into town to set up the rest of the stall. Then when you want to leave, you can wander up the road to Mike’s house and pick up your bikes. Because his house is at the top of the street, you will have cycled past it already so you won’t have cheated at all. How does that sound?’

  Rob had become my new hero.

  ‘Amazing. Thank you,’ I said.