‘Alright, I’m sorry. You’re right. But at least we’ve got that big hill out of the way, and it’s not much further to John O’Groats.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t resolve the small problem of not having anywhere to stay tonight.’
‘Ok, well let’s keep going and see what happens.’
Cycling was not an option. We had no form of lighting whatsoever, and only a single Tony-the-tiger reflector on The Falcon’s front wheel to keep us safe. The busy, unlit A9 meant that even walking was dangerous. We walked along the edge of the road and moved onto the verge each time a car passed.
‘What happens if we don’t find anywhere?’ asked Ben as we lumbered around a steep uphill switchback on the way out of Berriedale.
‘Then we keep walking. It’s the last night. It doesn’t really matter if we don’t get any sleep. It just means that by the time it gets light we’ll be even closer to John O’Groats.’
‘And you’d be happy to walk all night?’
‘Yes, if it came to it,’ I lied, desperately hoping to find somewhere to sleep.
After a couple of miles, we reached a bungalow which was set away from the main road. There was a sign outside that said:
Kingspark Llama Farm
Bed and Breakfast
But then below that, another sign, with two words that made our hearts sink:
No Vacancy
‘I’m going to ask anyway,’ said Ben. ‘At least they’ll be able to tell us what there is ahead of us and how far away.’
The door was opened by a smiling, grey-haired man, with a grey moustache and a flat cap.
‘Good evening. How can I help you?’ he said, in a thick West Country accent, which was a little surprising considering that we were less than 50 miles from the top of Scotland.
‘Hello. We’re really sorry to disturb you this late, but we’re kind of stranded and we are looking for somewhere to stay tonight,’ said Ben.
‘We saw that you have no vacancies, but wondered if you have any shelter at all or if you knew of anywhere nearby that might be able to help?’ I added.
‘Well we’re actually closed at the moment for refurbishment. That’s why the sign says No Vacancy. How come you are stranded out here?’
His name was Brian, and we told him how we came to be stranded on his doorstep. He nodded along enthusiastically, and laughed at various points including our visit to Langwell House just down the road.
‘They are a strange bunch down at Langwell House. I’ll tell you what, you two wait there and I’ll go and have a word with my wife Mary. I won’t be a minute.’
‘Mary says that it would be too difficult to sort you out with a bed tonight, but you are welcome to sleep in the polytunnel,’ said Brian when he returned. ‘There’s lots of hay in there and I don’t think it will be too cold tonight.’
‘That sounds amazing. Thank you. We’re sorry again for disturbing you.’
‘Not at all. Come in and have a quick cup of tea before I show you to your lodgings.’
We were led through to the sitting room and Mary arrived a few minutes later with a tray of tea.
‘I’ve decided I can’t have you sleeping in the polytunnel when we have all these empty rooms,’ she said, sounding very flustered.
‘We’re more than happy to sleep out there,’ said Ben.
‘We’ll I’m not. It wouldn’t be right. I’m sorry, I’m just a bit stressed by all the renovations, and I’ve been a bit under the weather recently.’
‘Yes, of course. We completely understand. We feel really bad just turning up like this.’
‘I’ll go and make up a bed for you both,’ she said and disappeared out of the door, before we had a chance to protest further. We hated the idea of being a burden to people, and had tried to avoid it at every stage of the trip. It was late, they had a sign saying ‘no vacancy’, yet they were giving us a room because they felt a sense of guilt and it didn’t seem right.
‘Brian, we would honestly be much happier to sleep in your polytunnel. We feel really bad just turning up like this and we hate being a burden on people,’ I said.
‘No, no, it’s fine. Mary doesn’t mind,’ said Brian nonchalantly.
‘I know, but it’s clearly not a good time. This trip is all about adventure and to be honest a polytunnel would be more exciting for our last night.’
Brian thought for a moment.
‘Yep, I suppose I can appreciate that. I spent some time in the paratroopers and I can see what you’re saying.’
‘We would honestly be so much happier if we didn’t take up one of your rooms,’ said Ben.
Brian went to speak to Mary and after a lot of protesting, Mary finally accepted.
Brian led us out the polytunnel, which – in case you are wondering – is basically a greenhouse made with cling film instead of glass.
‘There are a few holes in the roof, but it’s not going to rain tonight,’ said Brian. ‘You’ll be fine. You can make a bed with the hay, and I’ve probably got a spare blanket somewhere that I can give you. What about dinner? Have you eaten at all?’
‘No, but could we ask you one more favour?’ said Ben.
‘Of course.’
‘We got this quiche,’ said Ben, retrieving the out-of-date quiche that we’d acquired from the shop in Beauly. ‘Could we possibly zap it in your microwave?’
‘No problem at all. I’ll go and sort that out for you.’
He returned a few minutes later with two plates of quiche, and a welcomed accompaniment of baked beans.
There was something very poetic about lying on the hay, beneath the polythene roof. This was how we had spent our first night, on the hay next to the bull in Harry Mann’s barn. During the 18 days in-between we had slept in a posh hotel, a canal boat, a student house, a pub, a tent in a car park, a hitman’s sitting room, an elderly lady’s spare bedroom, a hostel, a bunk house, a farm house, our own self-contained flat, our own house, and now we were back on the hay. We had gone full circle.
Out of all of the different types of accommodation, our two nights on the hay were undoubtedly our most comfortable. Next time you hear the nativity story, don’t feel sorry for Mary and Joseph; they had it very lucky indeed.
Day 19 - The finish line
Berriedale to John O'Groats - 43 miles
Brian had been wrong about the rain. It pissed it down all night, and the roof leaked like a sieve. But it wasn’t cold, and the sound of rain on a polytunnel is very hypnotic and we both slept like babies; waking up crying every hour with wet pants.
Barring any major problems, it was to be our last day’s cycling. Less than 50 miles lay between us and John O’Groats.
‘Mary is making you a fry-up,’ said Brian when we went to say goodbye, ‘and you’re not getting out of this one.’
‘Oh alright then. If you insist. It smells amazing,’ said Ben.
We chatted to Brian and Mary over breakfast, and asked them how two Bristolians had ended up in North-East Scotland running a B&B and a llama farm.
‘It just sort of happened,’ said Brian casually. ‘We liked the area here in Caithness and decided to move here a few years ago. We got the llamas because we heard they adapt well to the climate, and the rest is history.’
‘Can we have a look at your llamas before we go?’ I asked.
‘Of course. You’re going to help me feed them after this.’
We finished our breakfast then followed Brian into the field behind his house. We passed a set of aviaries housing several large parrots.
‘Those just sort of happened, too,’ said Brian.
We fed the five friendly and scruffy-looking llamas - or ‘natural looking’ as Brian preferred to describe them – and had a wander around the rest of the farm.
We then followed Brian over a fence and a few hundred metres across another field. We reached a snooker-table sized concrete platform, on which sat a round metal turret like you would find on a tank.
‘This came as a bit of
a surprise to me after we bought the place. I didn’t even know it existed,’ he said as he unscrewed the large metal lid of the turret.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s an old war bunker. Come and take a look.’
We climbed down the ladder into the darkness and Brian lit a lantern. The room was the size of a small single bedroom with benches lining each wall and shelves for supplies. There were many items scattered about from ‘back in the day’ such as tins, pots, cans and a half-finished bottle of whisky stashed on one of the shelves; although this was possibly Brian’s. Why the wilderness of Caithness was ever considered at risk during the war, I am not sure.
‘This is a fantastic place, Brian,’ said Ben.
‘Yes, isn’t it just? I often come down here for a few hours to escape from the wife,’ he said with a wink.
We returned to the house to collect our things and say goodbye to Mary. They had both been incredibly generous despite us turning up on their doorstep late at night during a particularly difficult time. Our last night was not the extravagant manor house that we had hoped for, but it was certainly one of our most enjoyable and memorable.
The route between Berriedale and John O’Groats was fairly uneventful. Brian had given us a list of places that we MUST see while we were in the area: Dunbeath Castle, Laidhay Croft Museum, Hill O’ Many Stanes, and an excavated Iron Age village. Despite our best intentions, once we were on the road we only had eyes for the finish line.
‘Wasn’t that the turn off for Hill O’ Many Stanes?’ I called to Ben half-heartedly.
‘Oh bollocks to that,’ replied Ben. ‘We’re nearly at John O’Groats. And anyway, the English for that translates as ‘hill of lots of stones’. I’ve seen plenty of those before, thank you very much.’
We stopped briefly in Wick to fill our water bottles at a petrol station - with water, not petrol – and then set off on the final 15 miles to John O’Groats. During these last few miles we passed many End to Enders heading in the opposite direction, all fresh-legged with happy smiles and no idea of what lay ahead of them. We gave each group a good-luck wave and exchanged brief cheers of support as we passed. It is only on these approach roads into John O’Groats and Land’s End that you are likely to bump into other End to Enders. The complex network of British roads is such that there is no particular favoured route, as cyclists, runners and walkers navigate their way from one end of Britain to the other.
We reached the outskirts of John O’Groats just after 1pm, having covered the 43 miles from Berriedale in three hours. We paused for a moment and looked down the road towards the harbour.
‘This is it, Ben,’ I said. ‘Just a few hundred metres to go.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Ben.
‘Do we cross the finish line holding hands or what?’
‘Hell no! Let’s just cycle across it like we have for the last thousand miles.’
As we freewheeled down the hill towards the famous sign, I felt a sudden swell of emotion that caught me completely by surprise. I had never doubted that we would complete the trip, but I was suddenly hit with the realisation of what we had achieved.
We had cycled between the two most distant points in Great Britain in 18.5 days. This was an achievement in itself, but we had started our journey at the foot of England in a pair of underpants, and nothing else. There we were, less than three weeks later, at the top of Scotland, fully clothed, with bikes, having found somewhere to stay every night and food for nearly all of our meals. I felt immensely proud.
The actual finish line lies, randomly, in the hotel’s car park, and we crossed it valiantly watched by a welcome party of none.
‘You’re not crying are you?’ said Ben accusingly, as we came to a stop.
‘No. As if! It must just be the wind,’ I said, and I looked up to see his eyes welling up, too. I gave him a big hug.
‘You big gaylord,’ he said.
We had been given an ‘official’ End to End card from Jemma at Land’s End that we had to get stamped in the John O’Groats hotel to prove that we had made it. Although, I’m not quite sure who we needed to prove this to.
The hotel bar was empty apart from the barman, who was leaning on the bar whilst watching a TV across the room.
‘Hello. Is this where we get the Land’s End to John O’Groats certificate thing stamped?’ I asked.
‘Can do,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the TV.
‘Great, thanks,’ I said, sliding the piece of paper along the bar to him. ‘We’ve just cycled the whole way from Land’s End without spending any money and we had to blag all of our clothes and food and accommodation and we stayed in a stable with a bull and with a hitman and in a posh hotel and in a polytunnel and in a canal boat and we had to work for lots of our meals and we didn’t even have a bike pump and then this one time we got a puncture and then we had to...’
‘There you go,’ he interrupted, stamping the card and passing it back to me, still without averting his gaze from the TV.
To us, we were the most courageous human beings to have ever stepped foot into the John O’Groats Hotel. To the barman, we were just the latest in the long line of people completing the trip, often, like us, with their own ‘wacky’ take on it. He had seen it all before, and he didn’t give a shit. He just wanted his shift to finish so that he could go home. I loved him for this, and it was almost preferable to a cheesy greeting from an over-enthusiastic welcome party. It certainly brought us right back down to earth.
My body was drained of all life, but my mind was alive and racing at thoughts of what we had achieved and of the things that we had experienced.
I had fallen deeply in love with Great Britain. I secretly always had been, but I was no longer afraid to admit it. As a nation, we don’t give ourselves enough credit. We are, according to public perception, a country full of ASBOs, underage drinkers, bitter, arrogant moaners and pregnant teenagers. Yes, we have our problems, but it truly is a wonderful place to live. Britain is far from broken; it just needs a bit of love and affection.
At every stage of our journey we were overwhelmed by the generosity and kindness of the people that we met. Complete strangers went out of their way to offer us food, accommodation, clothes, bikes, directions, beer or conversation. Britain is a melting pot of cultures, races and personalities, and this eclectic mix of characters should be embraced and celebrated.
And it’s not just the people; Great Britain is stunningly beautiful, too. We expected Cornwall to be pretty, and we knew the Scottish Highlands would be spectacular, but it was the bits in-between that surprised us. There was not an inch of the 1000 miles that didn’t have an appeal. Even Runcorn had a certain charm. Nowadays, with cheap flights and the channel tunnel, it is so easy to disappear to some faraway land, rather than explore all of the beauty right on your doorstep.
This journey was never about money. I don’t want to preach to you about consumerism or society’s obsession with money – I’m sure you have got your own opinions on that. Travelling without money was simply a way to put us at the mercy of those around us, and allow us the opportunity to meet people, see places, and have experiences that we would not otherwise have had.
It did, however, teach us about the endless opportunities that are open to us, even without money. It doesn’t cost anything to get out and explore your local town. It doesn’t cost anything to cycle or walk through the beautiful British countryside. It doesn’t cost anything to stop and talk to people. It doesn’t cost anything to swim in the sea or a lake, or to visit many of Britain’s most impressive sights. It doesn’t cost anything to ask for help. It doesn’t cost anything to make new friends, and it doesn’t cost anything to smile and have fun. It took this experience to help me realise that Great Britain is undoubtedly a Free Country.
It is amazing what adventures you can have when you step outside your front door. Get out there. Take a look for yourself. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.
It is claimed t
hat cycling can lead to impotence. This thought had been niggling away in my mind throughout the three weeks that I spent sat on The Falcon, with a saddle made from the hardest, most ball-destroying material known to man. However, exactly nine months after getting home, my wife gave birth to our baby daughter, and, with that, a whole new adventure began.
If you would like to see more of the photos from the trip, hear about future projects, or simply want to say ‘hi’ then please keep in touch via the links below.
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Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Day 1 - The adventure begins…
Day 2 - As I was going to St Ives…
Day 3 - The lawnmower man
Day 4 - A new hero
Day 5 - Mrs Rogers
Day 6 - Michael Eavis in a pair of hot pants
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 30
