‘But I don’t understand how you could miss out such a crucial direction on the route,’ said Ben.
‘Well you can do the navigating from now on if you like. Do you think I enjoy spending bloody ages copying out the route onto a stupid bit of paper each morning?’
Ben paused.
‘There must be a better way. Can’t we just get someone to photocopy the page of the route book for us each day, so that we’ve got the exact directions and you still don’t need to carry the whole book whilst cycling,’ he said.
It was worrying that it had taken eleven days for two seemingly intelligent men to think of this simple idea. It was so ingenious, yet such a glaringly obvious solution, that until now we had both failed to think of it. It was a revelation. It was the answer to all of our problems. I felt like a new man.
‘I suppose we could give it a go, if you want,’ I said to Ben, not wanting to show him any gratification.
We reached the town of Garstang and Ben successfully got a photocopy of the next few pages from a local estate agent.
‘Sorry for being in such a foul mood this morning,’ I said. ‘I was just getting really frustrated with the navigating.’
‘No worries. I know that you’ve been really good at doing it all. I do appreciate it. I’m happy to give it a go if you want.’
‘Sure. Lead the way.’
Five minutes later...
‘Oh, bollocks to this! I bloody hate navigating. I preferred it when you were in charge,’ he said, handing me the directions back.
We had covered the length of Garstang high street three times, and Ben still couldn’t decide which direction we should leave by.
The local Co-op gave us a huge bunch of semi-bruised bananas and we set off again with me navigating, a reformed friendship, and a potassium overload. We joined the busy A588 and followed it all the way into Lancaster town centre with the aim of doing a spot of sightseeing.
The tourist information was surprisingly busy for a weekday in September. It seemed to me that Lancaster was not an ideal place for a tourist to visit, but I was prepared to be persuaded otherwise.
‘Well there’s the castle,’ said the helpful lady in the Tourist Information, ‘that’s well worth a visit, but it’s closed today. There’s something going on in the Crown Court, I think.’
‘The castle has a Crown Court?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. It’s still a fully functioning prison, too. Or you could... let me think... you could go to the Maritime Museum. I’ve never been but I’m sure it’s wonderful. Or there’s the theatre, although there won’t be anything on at this time of day. What else is there? There’s the cathedral, that’s nice. Or the Priory Church. There’s so much you could see. Oh, I nearly forgot, there’s the Lancaster Leisure Park.’
‘The Leisure Park sounds good,’ said Ben, having started to drift off to sleep during her other suggestions.
‘Yes, it is. It’s a shopping village with a big antiques centre. I think there’s a children’s play area there, too.’
‘Oh, perhaps the Leisure Park doesn’t sound so great after all.’
Lancaster Castle is fairly impressive to look at, but because of the fact that parts of it are still used as both a prison and a court, access to visitors is very restricted and it is not possible to visit the towers, keep, battlements and dungeons. It seems a shame that it is only criminals and suspected criminals that get to enjoy Lancaster’s best tourist attraction.
‘Shall we give the Maritime Museum a go?’ asked Ben once we were outside.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m not. I can’t think of anything I would rather do less. Lancaster’s rubbish isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it is a bit, although if someone came to Northampton Tourist Information, the best advice they would get is to go to the Shoe Museum.’
‘I know. Northampton’s even worse. That’s why I moved to London.’
‘The shoe museum’s actually quite good, though. Have you ever been?’
‘No. I’d rather visit Lancaster’s Maritime Museum.’
We wheeled our bikes down into the city centre. On the way we passed a busker who was playing a badly tuned guitar accompanied by a badly tuned voice.
‘Even the buskers in Lancaster are crap. We could sing better than that,’ said Ben.
‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea. We could do some busking for our lunch.’
‘Yeah, very funny.’
‘I’m serious. Why not? We don’t need instruments; we could just sing and get people to give us food instead of money.’
‘You’re serious aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ I said, becoming increasingly excited by the idea. ‘What about Christmas carols? We both know the words.’
‘It’s September.’
‘I know. We would be being proactive.’
‘You’re mad. Sounds fun to me, though. Let’s do it.’
We found an empty cardboard box next to a dustbin and opened it out to form one large piece of card. Ben then managed to borrow a marker pen from a confused shop assistant and we set to work designing our sign.
We needed to make sure people understood that we didn’t want money. As tempting as it was to busk for money and then spend it on whatever we wanted, we had made it clear from the outset that we wouldn’t use money at all, even if it was given to us. We settled on the following:
WE DON’T NEED MONEY
WE JUST NEED FOOD
We scrawled our message onto the cardboard in big capital letters and propped our bikes by a fountain in a quaint cobbled square just off the main street. There were lots of people sat around on the edge of the fountain and the steps of an adjacent building. What was more important about the location of our ‘patch’ was that it was outside a branch of Greggs.
It had seemed like a fun idea when I suggested it, but when we were actually standing in the middle of Lancaster town centre about to launch into an a cappella version of O Little Town of Bethlehem, I realised I was incredibly nervous. I used to sing in a band and was quite happy to stand in front of hundreds (tens) of people and sing rock songs, but the thought of busking suddenly filled me with fear.
Ben didn’t hold back. He launched into the first verse like a seasoned pro. I was astonished by his voice. His speaking voice is slightly squeaky and irritating, and I expected his singing to be a melodic version of this. I could not have been more wrong. He sounded like a posh old man, with years of experience singing with a church choir. He sang with an affected baritone voice that took me completely by surprise. The tone and volume were phenomenal. I did my best to compete, but I was no match for him.
Neither of us knew what followed the line, ‘the silent stars go by,’ so we just repeated the first bit again. Everyone just stared at us in bemusement.
‘Why are you singing Christmas carols in September?’ asked a lady who approached us.
‘We are helping people get into the Christmas spirit early,’ said Ben.
‘Well I’m a devout Christian and I find it very offensive that you are singing carols so early. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. It’s considered very bad luck.’ And with that she put her nose in the air, turned and strode off up the street.
‘She wasn’t very Christian for a Christian, was she?’ I said.
‘Miserable cow. How can this be causing offence?’ asked Ben.
‘Who cares? If there is a god then I doubt he would be offended about us singing some of his hits too early in the year.’
‘His hits?’
‘You know what I mean. Christmas carols are HIS songs aren’t they?’
‘Well, no, he didn’t write them. Do you think he gets royalties every time people sing them?’
‘No, but he should. He needs a better lawyer.’
One little girl, aged about four, started dancing right in front of us before her mum grabbed her by the arm and led her away muttering ‘silly boys.’
Our persistence eventua
lly paid off.
‘Do you not have anything to eat?’ asked a smiling middle-aged lady.
‘No,’ said Ben.
‘Are you homeless?’ she asked.
‘Not exactly, no. I mean, we are for a few weeks. We’re cycling to Scotland without spending any money.’
‘Oh. Ok. What sort of sandwiches do you like?’
‘That’s very kind of you, but we’re not expecting people to buy us sandwiches. We thought people might have food that they don’t want or are going to throw away,’ I said, secretly delighted by the prospect of a sandwich.
‘Well I’m going into Greggs to get my lunch, and I’m happy to get you both a sandwich. What do you like?’
‘Aww, thank you,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll eat absolutely anything. Whatever’s cheapest.’
She returned with two packs of sandwiches (one ham and one cheese, in case you were wondering) and a loaf of bread.
‘There you go. They said you could have this loaf of bread, too, as they were going to throw it out.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that’s really kind. What’s your name?’
‘Susan,’ she said. ‘Well you both seem like a couple of really nice boys, and I definitely believe that niceness brings about niceness. Good luck with the rest of your journey.’
Before eating the sandwiches we tried a rendition of Silent Night in German that I could still remember from primary school. A guy on a bmx, in his mid thirties, approached with a small paper bag from Greggs.
‘Hi guys. You can have these two donuts if you promise to stop singing.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal. Thanks, mate,’ I said.
Toby, the BMX man, was a really interesting guy. He was on a half-hour break between his two different jobs. He worked in a factory in the morning, and a restaurant all afternoon and evening. He was trying to save money to convert a room in his house into a recording studio. Ben, being a musician with a home-studio, stood and talked for ages about mixers and 8-tracks, condenser mics and digital samplers. I stood nodding enthusiastically for as long as I could, before leaving them to it and skulking off to sit on the steps of the museum that lines one edge of the market square. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Maritime Museum, otherwise I would have been in like a shot.
Ben joined me after a while and we tucked into the sandwiches. We were soon approached by a strange looking teenager with a mess of bright blonde hair, school blazer, untucked shirt and a half-undone tie. He was about 17 and was flanked by a couple of giggling teenage girls. He stood there with a huge grin across his face and a carrier bag in his right hand.
‘We were eavesdropping on your conversation a few minutes ago,’ said the boy, with a slightly camp, posh northern accent. ‘We’ve bought you a bag full of food and stuff, but there’s a condition.’
‘Errr… ok,’ I said.
‘You both have to sing Take on Me, by A-ha.’
‘Are you serious? You want us to sing that here? Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I only know the chorus,’ said Ben.
‘Me too. Nobody knows the words to the rest of the song. We’ll just do the chorus. Is that ok? What’s your name?’
‘Bob. Think of the sweets,’ he said, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and pointing the camera towards us. ‘I’m gonna stick this on YouTube.’
‘Evil bastard,’ muttered Ben.
The end of the chorus climaxed in an ear-piercing wail as though a large Alsatian had grabbed our balls in its teeth. A group of pigeons that had been scavenging on the ground nearby all took flight on hearing our pain. Passers-by winced as they hurried past. Bob however still grinned and pointed the phone at us.
‘That was perfect. I think you’ve earned this,’ he said, putting the phone back in his pocket and handing us the carrier bag. It was stuffed full of cookies, peanuts, chocolate bars, fizzy drinks, jelly sweets, crisps and extra-strong mints. This was one of the biggest single acts of generosity on our whole trip, and it had come from a scruffy teenager. Our challenge never failed to throw up surprises.
‘I think you’d better give me those donuts back,’ said Toby - the BMX bandit - who had reappeared as if by magic.
‘Huh? Ok. Why’s that?’ asked Ben, handing him the bag of donuts.
‘The deal was that you got the donuts if you stopped singing, and I just heard you singing.’
‘Oh shit, sorry mate. We totally forgot. This guy came and bribed us with a big bag of sweets if we sang to him. I thought you just wanted us to stop singing Christmas carols?’
‘I’m just fucking kidding, guys,’ he laughed, handing back the donuts. ‘I’m not going to take your donuts away. Anyway, I don’t think what you were doing counted as singing. It was painful.’
‘Are you guys homeless as well, then?’ said a voice from further up the museum steps to our left.
We turned to see a man in his early twenties, wearing a pair of old tracksuit bottoms, and large grimy puffer jacket. His eyes were red and tired-looking and a patchy beard covered his weathered face. His chapped lips clung tightly to a small rolled up cigarette.
‘No. We’re not homeless,’ I said, sheepishly, realising the significance of the use of ‘as well’ in his question. ‘Well, we don’t have anywhere to stay today, but we do have homes to go to. Are you guys homeless?’
His name was Paul and he had been living rough for three years, on and off. We explained all about our trip and why we were busking for food. He seemed genuinely amused by it all.
‘You must think we’re real idiots doing this trip when we’ve got homes to go to. I hope you’re not offended by it?’ I said.
‘Offended? Nah, not at all mate. I think what you’re doing sounds wicked, man. It sounds much more fun that a week in Butlins or summit. Anyway, if you have to sleep in barns and stuff like you have, then it will make you appreciate how lucky you are when you get back to your houses.’
‘That is so true. And just meeting you makes us realise how lucky we are. We worry when we miss a meal or if it starts getting dark and we’ve got nowhere to stay. You have to go through that every single day.’
‘Yep. We sure do.’
‘What is Lancaster like for homeless people?’ asked Ben.
‘It’s pretty good. That’s why there’s so many of us. These lot are all homeless, too,’ he said, pointing to a group of about eight people towards the other side of the steps. ‘I come from Manchester originally, but I needed to get out of there. A mate told me Lancaster had good hostels and shit, so I came here about a year and a half ago and I’ve been here since. There are a few different shelters and places to get food. In fact, you guys could stay tonight, I’m sure. There are usually a couple of spare beds.’
‘That’s really kind of you, but I think we’d feel like frauds if we took up a bed in a homeless shelter,’ said Ben.
‘Alright, suit yourselves,’ he laughed.
‘It’s been really good to meet you and I hope things get sorted out for you soon. You seem like a really decent bloke,’ said Ben.
‘Yeah, you both are, too. Not many people sit and chat to us lot like you do. Fair play to you both. Good luck getting to Scotland.’
‘We’re never going to get all this food into our bags,’ said Ben as we walked back to our bikes. ‘Why don’t we give some of it to those guys?’
‘Good idea. They deserve it much more than we do. We can get food whenever we want just by singing Take On Me.’
We squashed a packet of cookies, dry-roasted peanuts, extra strong mints and the drinks into our rucksacks and took the carrier bag with the remaining crisps, cookies and sweets to Paul.
‘Here you go, mate. We’ve not got room for all of this in our bags. We thought you all might be able to help us out,’ I said.
His face lit up.
‘Thanks, guys. Much obliged,’ he said.
On our way out of Lancaster we passed a bike shop.
‘Why don’t you see if they can do anything to fix The Falco
n here? It’s getting ridiculous. The chain is falling off every few hundred metres,’ said Ben.
‘Fine. If it shuts you up for a bit longer.’
We wheeled it into the shop and the man agreed to take a quick look at The Falcon’s chain.
‘Nah, I can’t fix that. You’re going to need a new rear derailleur,’ he said.
‘Here we go again,’ muttered Ben.
‘Do you have any of those?’
‘Nope, not for a bike like this. I could try to order one, but they’re tough to get hold of and it would take several days to arrive.’
‘Is there anything that can be done to it, to make it last a bit longer?’
‘Nope. It’s properly broken.’
‘I think it’s time to start looking for a new bike, George,’ said Ben smugly.
‘I don’t think we’ve really got time to start hunting for a new bike today. Why don’t we just keep going and if we see somewhere that looks like a possibility along the way we can stop,’ I suggested, with no intention of stopping whatsoever.
‘But we’re in a big town now. Surely this is the best place to try?’
‘Yeah, but I’d rather get going. The chain’s not that bad.’
‘IT FALLS OFF EVERY FUCKING MINUTE!’ he shouted.
‘But I’m the one that has to put it on. It only takes a few seconds. I’m not slowing you down so why does it bother you?’
‘It bothers me that you’re continuing to ride such a piece of shit when we could get a decent bike,’ said Ben as he cycled off.
‘It was hard enough to get these bikes. The Falcon has made it from Cornwall to Lancaster so it can’t be doing too badly.’
I climbed onto The Falcon and pedalled after him. The chain fell off straight away.
‘Keep going!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll catch you up!’
The route followed the busy A6 for half a mile before turning onto minor roads through the pretty villages of Nether Kellet and Over Kellet. We reached the small market town of Milnthorpe at about 6pm. I was confused as to why some towns are described as ‘market towns’ when others don’t boast about the fact that they have a market. I did some extensive research (Wikipedia) and it seems that the phrase is a legal term originating in medieval times, which gives a particular settlement the right to hold a market. It doesn’t mean they have to. But they can if they want.
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 20
