On the way out of the hotel we bumped into Andy and Alison in the street. Not literally. That would have been very clumsy.
‘Ahhh, there you are,’ said Andy. ‘We thought we might not see you before we left. We were just having a last look around town.’
We thanked them both for the helmet and Lucozade, and Andy once again reiterated that he thought what we were doing was ‘life-affirming.’ The more we heard it, the more we liked it. He was pretty much saying that we were like modern day Mother Theresas.
It was 10.30am by the time we left Ludlow. Shrewsbury was 25 miles away, and we were due there for lunch.
We covered those 25 miles in about two hours, which was one of our fastest sections of the entire trip.The route climbed gradually for the first eight miles along beautiful little country lanes, and we cruised through the villages of Culmington and Pedlar’s Rest.
‘Look, Pedlar’s rest. We’re pedlars. I think that means we should stop for a rest,’ panted Ben.
‘No, we’re pedallers, not pedlars. Keep pedalling.’
The road eventually reached its peak a mile or so before the town of Church Stretton before joining an old Roman road, which traced alongside the busy A49. It was brilliant to cycle along; a deserted road stretching into the distance as straight as a runway. The A-road had stolen all the traffic and we were completely alone.
I cycled for nearly four miles no-handed. I know what you’re thinking; ‘my god, this guy is cool’, and you would be right. On that short stretch of Roman road in Shropshire, I was the coolest god-damn mofo on the planet. That was, until my wheel caught a pothole and I nearly ended up in hospital.
I managed to grab the handlebars, but the bike had already been thrown off course and the front wheel had caught the grass verge. My right foot then slipped from the pedal and the bike skidded from underneath me and clattered down the street. I had somehow managed to remain upright and was completely unhurt.
Ben, who had been following just behind me, managed to skid to avoid hitting me and came to a stop alongside, where he proceeded to ridicule me for cycling no-handed.
Thankfully, The Falcon was also unhurt and we were able to complete the last few miles into Shrewsbury without incident. I kept my hands firmly on the handlebars the entire way.
We were not prepared for the cheers of six excited women as we cycled up Shrewsbury’s main street. For a split second, we thought we had some groupies, until we recognised the embarrassingly loud whoops as being those of our families. Both of our mums, sisters, my wife and Ben’s girlfriend had made the trip from Northampton to have lunch with us. We had only been on the road for nine days, but it was really uplifting to see their familiar faces again. They were astounded by our possessions, and took great pleasure in mocking The Falcon, Ben’s helmet and my suit trousers.
We walked with them to a pub that they had spotted by the river.
‘I bet you boys will enjoy having a proper meal bought for you,’ said Ben’s mum.
‘Actually, I don’t think we’re allowed to let you to buy us lunch, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘We decided that it would be against the rules to accept anything from friends and family.’
‘Crikey, that’s cruel. Who made these rules?’ she asked.
‘George did!’ said Ben bluntly.
‘The point was to rely on the generosity of members of the public, rather than friends and family,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but this is just one meal,’ said Ben.
‘It is, but I would still feel like we cheated if we get bought a meal. If you want, you can let them buy you a meal and I’ll try and get food for free, like we have been doing.’
‘It would be nice if we could all eat together, though,’ said my sister.
‘We’ll try and work our charm in the pub,’ I said.
After nine successful days of acquiring bikes, clothes, accommodation and countless meals for free, we were looking forward to impressing our loved-ones with our skills.
‘So your family will all be paying for their Sunday roasts, but you want yours for free?’ said the lady behind the bar.
‘Yes, I know it sounds very cheeky. We don’t have to eat the same as them. Any food that you can spare, and we’re happy to wash dishes or clean tables in return,’ I said.
‘We’ve got staff to do that,’ she said angrily. There was an awkward shuffle of feet from our family behind us. Things weren’t going quite to plan.
‘Ok, I can probably sort you out with some bread and butter,’ she said.
We sat and ate our bread and butter while the others all tucked into their Sunday roasts. It was cruel, but the sun was shining and we were both sitting in a pub garden by the river with our three favourite women. Things could have been worse.
‘Here, I’m not going to be able to eat all of this. You boys have some,’ said Ben’s mum, pushing a plate of roast beef in front of us. Ben looked at me as though he was seeking approval.
‘You eat it if you want, mate. I’m not going to have any, because it’s still accepting help from friends and family,’ I said.
‘But these are just leftovers that will go to waste.’
‘Yes, but they are only leftovers because they are here having lunch because of us,’ I said, trying to downplay how much of a stickler for ‘the rules’ I was being.
‘My god, you’re hard work,’ said Ben. ‘So it would be ok for me to eat leftovers from anyone else’s plate in this pub, as long as they are not our friends or family?’
‘Exactly.’
‘He’s a strict one, isn’t he?’ said Ben’s mum.
‘Tell me about it. It would be more relaxing going on a bike ride with Hitler. The other day he was struggling up this big hill on his stupid little five-speed racer, panting away because it’s such a crap little bike, and when he got to the top I suggested he consider looking to upgrade his bike to something better to make the cycling easier. He just cycled past and panted ‘THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE EASY’. It’s like he wants to suffer as much as possible.’
The entire table burst into laughter. I could do nothing but join in. I tried desperately to think of a reason to justify my behaviour, but I knew Ben was right. I think a part of me did want to suffer, in the sense that the harder the challenge that we faced, the more of an achievement it would be to complete it.
Cycling from Land’s End to John O’Groats is a great achievement in itself. Doing the journey unsupported is even more of an accomplishment. Completing the trip without spending a single penny is an impressive feat, and riding a completely inadequate bike the entire way took it to the next level.
Perhaps I was being slightly masochistic, but then isn’t anyone who undertakes a physical challenge? That’s the whole point of it being a challenge; pushing yourself mentally and physically beyond your comfort zone.
I think Ben also felt slightly threatened by The Falcon. He didn’t just want me to get a better bike to speed things up; he wanted me to get a better bike to put us back on level terms. He saw The Falcon as something that would upstage his achievement.
I didn’t see it that way at all. It was simply a personal challenge of mine to keep The Falcon for as long as I could. I had wanted Pinky to make it all the way to the top of Scotland too, but Ben traded her in at the first opportunity.
Ben was not particularly fit or athletic. The closest he got to physical exercise was walking to the pub at the end of his road. For him to even attempt to cycle 1000 miles was remarkable in itself. He didn’t need an inadequate bike to make it even more impressive.
We said goodbye in the car park, which was surprisingly emotional. Not because of the car park, you understand. Being reunited, albeit briefly, with our family had given us both a sense of security and familiarity. The thought of going back into the unknown was suddenly quite daunting.
After they had left, a lady in a long, floaty dress came running across the car-park towards us, as we were climbing onto our bikes. She was in her early twenties, slightly hip
pyish and very giggly. She was clutching a huge sandwich bag full of chocolate bars and sweets.
‘Hello, sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I overheard your conversation in the pub and I gather you are cycling to John O’Groats, but you’re not allowed to spend any money?’
‘Hi. Yes that’s right,’ I said, a little shocked as it appeared we had our first ever stalker.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. My car was parked in this car park too, and I wanted to give you this bag of sweets. I thought it might come in handy.’
‘Thank you. That’s amazing.’ I said, as she ran back across the car park. The bag was stuffed full of fun-size chocolate bars, flapjacks and sweets. Ben and I gawped at it like a couple of children at a tuck shop.
‘You’re welcome. Good luck!’ she shouted back.
We ate several bars there and then to make up for our measly lunch and then agreed to ration the rest over the next few days.
I hope what I am about to tell you fills you with as much anger and disappointment as it did me.
Let me set the scene for you. It is Christmas Eve, almost three months after we completed the trip (Dammit! I hope I haven’t spoilt the ending for you). Ben and his family have been invited to my parents’ house for dinner. We all had a great evening and drank way too much when the conversation turned to our bike ride. Someone mentioned the day that we all met in Shrewsbury and then Ben and I reminisced about the hippy girl and the bag of sweets. At this point, my mum burst out laughing and then quickly put her hand over her mouth.
‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Just laughing about what fun we had that day,’ she said.
‘Why did you laugh when I mentioned the hippy girl?’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. You did.’
‘Oh, no reason.’
She laughed again and then bit down on her fist as though she had just put her foot in something. Metaphorically, of course; my mum’s carpet is very clean.
‘Well, about that bag of sweets. I kind of gave it to the girl to give to you,’ she said.
‘You did what?’ I said, not believing what I was hearing.
‘I brought all of those chocolates with me to give to you, but when I heard how seriously you were taking ‘the rules’ I thought I would give it to somebody else to give to you.’
‘When? How? I still don’t understand.’ I could feel an anger bubbling up inside of me.
‘I saw her in the car park before we left and recognised her from the pub, so while you were all chatting I told her what you were doing and asked if she could give you the sweets when we had left. Sorry, I thought you would appreciate it.’
‘Of course we appreciated it, but that’s because we thought it was from a random, good-natured stranger, not my own mum,’ I said, angrier than I had spoken to my mum since being a teenager.
‘I thought you would recognise the chocolates as being the same ones I normally buy?’
‘What? Snickers? Yeah, mum, because you’re the only person in the world who would buy them?’
‘They weren’t Snickers. They were Racers – Aldi’s own-brand Snickers.’
‘Well you’re not the only person in the world who shops at bloody Aldi, either.’
There was an uncomfortable silence around the room and some awkward noises from Ben, who was caught between wanting to agree with me and not wanting to criticise my mum.
I know her intentions were good, but I did feel that she had undermined everything we were trying to achieve. She just laughed and said I was being dramatic, but if I had slipped her some carbs during one of her freaky diets, or sneaked some sugar into her tea during lent then I would be officially disowned within minutes. Mums don’t always know best.
So there you have it. We failed. The whole challenge completely corrupted by an innocent bag of sweets provided by my own mum. I can assure you that until that moment on Christmas Eve, neither Ben nor I had a single clue that our challenge had been tampered with. If you can forgive us this one mistake, I can promise you that it was the first and last of such instances on the trip.
The novelty value of cycling in thick woollen suit trousers had worn off soon after leaving Land’s End, and nine days later I had grown to hate them with a passion.
I had rolled each leg up as far as my knee, which did help aerate my lower leg, but the disadvantage was that it created a tight, thick band of fabric that rubbed and chafed, and completely sealed in the top half my leg. In a sense, my leg was cooking in an enclosed bag of hot sweat. I appreciate that this is not the nicest of descriptions, but it’s the only way I can convey the discomfort.
To make matters worse, as the trousers were about eight sizes too big for me and had to be tied with bailer twine and rolled over at the waist band several times, they cut into my flesh like the string on a joint of pork. In the blistering sun, my exposed love handles had become pork scratchings.
Despite the discomfort, we had an easy afternoon’s cycling with the terrain rarely altering from its even plateau. The mood was sombre, though. We both agreed that meeting our families had been a bad idea, in hindsight. It was great to spend time with them, but it had broken our focus. After nine days without such contact, we had become used to not knowing who we would meet each day, where our next meal would come from and what sort of experiences we would have. Having that brief experience back in normality made us both feel far more isolated and lonely than we had before.
‘I tell you what,’ said Ben, ‘it’s made me more determined than ever to get to John O’Groats as soon as possible.’
‘Me too. It’s depressing to think that they will all be back home now, sitting on the sofa, drinking tea, making whatever they like for dinner. Here we are, sitting on a grass verge by the side of the road in the middle of fuck-knows-where not having a clue where we’re going to sleep tonight.’
‘The weird thing is that from what they were all saying at lunchtime, it sounds like they are all very envious of what we’re doing and would prefer to be here than at home on the sofa.’
Fortunately, this moment of despondency only lasted about two hours. As we started to devour the miles through the charming Shropshire countryside, things suddenly felt much better.
It was clear that accommodation would be hard to find as civilisation was almost non-existent. The village of Little Ness was, as you would expect, very little, and Stanwardine-in-the-Fields should be renamed One-house-in-a-Field.
About 20 miles beyond Shrewsbury we reached the small town of Ellesmere. It was 7.30pm and just on the outskirts of town we passed a narrow-boat marina.
‘Why don’t we try to blag a boat for the night?’ suggested Ben, coming to a stop by the gate.
‘Surely the boats in the marina will be full of people? Let’s just head into the town and try and find somewhere there,’ I said.
‘Oh go on, it’s worth a try. There might be some empty boats.’
‘Alright,’ I sighed.
There were several boats tied up in the marina but no sign of life either on land or water. Ben knocked on the door of a house that seemed to double as the marina’s office.
‘There’s nobody in. Let’s go,’ I said.
‘Hang on. Give them a chance. Look, someone’s coming.’
A small man with a trimmed silver beard and cropped grey hair answered the door. He looked identical to Mr Hankey - my GCSE Media Studies teacher. What? You mean you don’t know what Mr Hankey looks like? That’s a shame, because this man could have been his twin brother.
‘Hello?’ he said questioningly.
‘Hello. Sorry to bother you, but are you in charge of the marina here?’ asked Ben.
‘Uh huh,’ he nodded.
‘Great. We’re cycling the length of the country without spending any money at all, and we were wondering if there is any chance of us sleeping in a boat tonight.’
‘Why do you want to sleep in a boat?’
‘Th
at’s what I asked him,’ I said.
‘Well we’ve been going for nine days now and we’ve slept in B&Bs, people’s houses, barns, all kind of places. When we saw this place we thought it might be fun to sleep on a boat.’
The man screwed up his face and pressed his palms against his forehead.
‘Lads, lads, lads. It’s nearly 8pm. I’m just having dinner and settling down in front of the telly and then you two scruffy buggers turn up on my doorstep.’
‘I know, we’re really sorry. We’ll try our luck in town. Sorry for bothering you,’ I said.
‘No, no, no, it’s ok. I do want to help you guys out,’ he said, looking slightly less miserable. ‘I’m just working out how I can.’
He paused for a moment.
‘Alright. I think I can sort you out with a boat for the night.’
The sun was setting as Neil – the marina manager – walked us along the bank of the marina. It was a really beautiful moment. The perfectly still water reflecting a perfect orange sky, and we were being given our own boat for the night. Ben had raised the bar yet again.
‘Climb aboard!’ said Neil. ‘I’m going to have to drive her back to the other end so I can hook you up to the mains.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Neil. We don’t mind not having power. We just wanted somewhere to sleep,’ said Ben.
‘Nah, don’t be silly. You won’t be able to fully appreciate life in a narrow boat without electricity.’
As well as being a marina for privately owned boats, Blackwater Meadow Marina also had a fleet of hire boats, one of which Neil had let us have for the night. He kept apologising profusely that it had not been thoroughly cleaned.
I had never been on a canal boat and I was utterly shocked when I climbed down through the hatch. I am not exaggerating when I say it was more luxurious than my own house. It had a lounge area with a flat screen TV, DVD player and hi-fi; a dining area with seating for several people; a fully-fitted kitchen that included a dishwasher; a bathroom with an actual bath, and two bedrooms – one of which had an en-suite. It was arguably the most lavish accommodation of the trip.
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 17
