Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country

by Tony Hawks

  In the evening ahead, Fran and I took turns at picking up Titch and cuddling her, as this is what she seemed to like. She was a baby, after all, and our soothing embraces definitely comforted her. It was Saturday night, and I wasn’t going to set off for my cycle ride until Tuesday. This time had been set aside for Titch to settle in, and for some experiments to find how she’d be comfortable travelling.

  When bedtime came around, I popped Titch into her carrier with the lid removed – this was to be her sleeping quarters – and covered her with blankets. We decided to enclose her at one end of the kitchen, so that she didn’t go on a foraging expedition around the shelves that were open at the foot of our kitchen island. We lifted down bags full of duvets and pillows and piled them up as a makeshift barrier.

  ‘Goodnight, Titch,’ I said, ‘sleep well.’

  She’d beaten me to it. She was already away with the fairies.

  We awoke to something of a mess in the kitchen. It seemed we had been naive to think that our makeshift blockade would limit Titch to our designated area. She had simply bulldozed through our defences, spreading duvets and pillows around the floor. Piglets, it seemed, were strong little creatures. She’d had a little poo in the corner – this was made up of hard pellets like sheep dung, I was pleased to note – and there was a puddle of pee by the cooker. Titch, though, was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t returned to her pet carrier or ‘bedroom’. I had a mini irrational panic that she had escaped. Then I spotted my rucksack by the radiator. That was odd – I hadn’t left it there. I went over and looked inside, and there was Titch, fast asleep. She must have nosed the rucksack into that nice, comforting position by the warmth of the radiator, and crawled inside for a snug, cosy bed.

  During the coming day, Titch seemed to settle in well. Perhaps her unrest during the night had been down to a strange environment and it had all been overwhelming for her. She had been used to snuggling up to other pigs at night, and now she had a new house and two strangers with which to familiarise herself. However, by teatime she’d been cuddled senseless by both me and Fran, and she seemed to be a happy little pig.

  ‘I think I should try her in the bike now,’ I declared with confidence.

  ‘You may as well,’ said Fran. ‘The rain has stopped and she seems ready.’

  I tried to lead Titch outside on the little harness that Chris had given me. Titch clearly didn’t like the harness, nor did she like the idea of going in any direction that she hadn’t decided on herself. After several minutes of grunts and squeaks, I gave up and carried her out to the bike. It made me realise just how impossible the initial bet – to walk round Devon with a full-sized pig called Dave – would have been.

  To be fair, Chris hadn’t given me the harness for walking, but to secure Titch to the basket on the bike, so that she couldn’t make a leap for freedom whenever the fancy took her. I plumped up the basket’s pillow and blankets and clipped her in. Then I mounted the bike and cautiously began cycling. At first, no problem. Titch seemed happy enough. It was only when we went around the first corner in the village that Titch started to become agitated. As the front wheel turned, the basket turned, too, and it tipped up. Titch didn’t like it. It clearly felt like she was being tipped out. She began squeaking.

  When a pig squeaks, it seems to activate the same nerves in a human as a baby’s cries. Something in the pitch, the sharpness of the sound and the frequency at which it’s delivered, combined with the urgency and the volume, can make one begin to believe that the world is going to end if something isn’t done, and isn’t done quickly. Thankfully, the village was quiet and no one was around to witness what sounded like me slaughtering a pig on the street, but I quickly lent forward, unclipped Titch, and lifted her to my chest.

  ‘There, there,’ I said, stroking her, ‘you’ll be fine. You’re just getting used to the bike, that’s all.’

  Fifteen minutes later, it was clear that my forecast – of Titch being ‘fine’ – had been as accurate as most of those emanating from the Met Office. Titch was not fine, and she clearly would not have listed ‘being in a basket at the front of a bike while it goes round a corner’ as one of her favourite pastimes. Her noisy protests prompted a young woman to come into her front garden to investigate. I recognised her as Kate, with whom we’d once exchanged brief pleasantries when she’d walked past our house with her dog and two-year-old daughter.

  After she’d got over the shock and sheer enchantment of seeing a baby pig in a basket, I explained what I was about to undertake. Kate smiled, and her eyes lit up with what could have been delight, or disbelief. Or both.

  ‘The trouble is that the basket isn’t going to work,’ I said, disconsolately. ‘It moves too much when the bike corners.’

  ‘Have you tried a baby sling?’

  ‘I thought of that. But would it work?’

  ‘Come on in, let’s try.’

  Life, as well as sometimes chucking shite at you, does deliver its fair share of serendipitous moments. Kate, it turned out, had up until very recently been running a business where she sold baby slings, and she still had plenty of samples in her house. She recommended the Asian design of the Moby, assuring me that it would cope ably with a pig. I paid Kate for it there and then – she was delighted to have made a sale simply on the strength of having gone into her front garden – and Titch and I cycled off in complete harmony.

  Titch adored the sling. She loved being cuddled and feeling the warmth of another body next to hers.

  As we continued on our test cycle, the village seemed to come to life and soon I was showing off Titch to everyone I passed. I was flagged down by fellow committee members, familiar faces whose names escaped me, and people I had never met before. All paid homage to Tony and Titch. Before I got home, I stopped at Ken’s workshop, where he was tinkering with his Massey Ferguson (if you’ll pardon the expression).

  He emerged from beneath his tractor, grinning broadly as I unzipped my jacket to reveal Titch.

  ‘You’d better not wear bicycle clips,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, if she has a wee, it’ll need to trickle out somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, good point, Ken. Hadn’t thought of that. By the way, can you show me how this works.’

  I pointed to the strap that Peter from the bike shop had given me to keep the pet carrier on the back of the bike. Before the successful introduction of the baby sling, the idea had been for Titch to travel in the front basket in good weather, and to switch to the pet carrier on the back should the rain start to fall, as it surely would in mid- to late December. The trouble was, this strap was confusing to me.

  ‘It’s a ratchet strap,’ said Ken, ‘I’ll show you how it works.’

  Peter had already given me a full and thorough demonstration of how it worked, but I had retained none of the information. Knowing that I wouldn’t remember what Ken now told me either, I took out my smartphone and filmed his explanation. I watched it back, and felt rather chuffed that I’d had the foresight to do something quite so sensible.

  ‘How does Titch like travelling like that?’ said Ken, pointing to the sling.

  I lifted the edge of it that was covering her eyes, and discovered that she was now fast asleep.

  ‘Clearly she loves it,’ I said triumphantly. ‘Titch and I are ready.’

  ‘She certainly is,’ said Ken. ‘By the way, are you going to smile on your trip?’

  ‘I don’t know. I should hope so. Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve noticed that cyclists never smile.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, have you ever seen one smile?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’ve never really looked that closely.’

  ‘You have a look next time you’re out in the car. You’ll see, cyclists never smile.’

  ‘Well, when I’m cycling I’ll try.’

  ‘You do that.’

  I just hoped I’d have something to smile about.

  9

  Too Yo
ung to Die

  The first day couldn’t have got off to a better start. After an excellent night’s rest, I came downstairs to find Titch fast asleep in her pet carrier, no evidence of any accidents anywhere. I lifted her into the garden and watched with pride as she had a wee and a poo.

  ‘Well done!’ I announced, punching the air.

  I could have sworn that Titch threw me a look as if to say, ‘Leave it now, Tony. This is me crapping. It’s not an Olympic event. I haven’t just scored a winning goal in a cup final, I’ve had a poo, that’s all. No need to remove your shirt, swing it round and around, and blow kisses to the heavens.’

  Maybe I was reading too much into a quick glance from a small pig, but I resolved to change my ways. No more faeces festivity. Titch came into the house, ate the food I offered her, and drank the water. We seemed to be an excellent team now – ready to hit the road.

  The bike, on the other hand, had other ideas. In the process of packing the bike with clothes and provisions, I managed to break both of the plastic zips in the panniers. Using the stretchy bungee straps, I botched a way of keeping them closed, which by my standards was surprisingly effective. Worse news than two faulty zips awaited, though. I hadn’t bothered to charge the bike up overnight, as I’d done less than a mile on it, but I’d made the mistake of leaving the key in the ‘on’ position. This seemed to have run the battery dry, because the ‘pedal assist’ system was not kicking in.

  This was a worry, because I had a long cycle ahead of me, quite possibly with some very steep climbs. This was an extremely heavy bike, weighed down by a big battery and three days of stuff for one human and one small pig. The schedule today was to put the bike in the van and get a lift from Fran to Exeter station. Unfortunately, there was no through train to Ilfracombe, so I was going to have to take the train as far as Barnstaple and then cycle the fifteen miles to Ilfracombe. I’d allowed myself a leisurely morning and booked myself on the 13.25 train. This, I figured, would give me plenty of time to cycle to Ilfracombe before darkness fell. That was before the battery packed up.

  I called Peter from AXcess Bikes and he kindly agreed to meet me at Exeter station and replace the battery, but his schedule meant that he couldn’t get there before 2 p.m. This meant I’d now be on the 14.25 – with the result that I’d have only half an hour or so of daylight to reach Ilfracombe, and the unlit cycle paths wouldn’t be an option. Titch and I would have to begin our cycle by sharing the roads with cars and lorries.

  Things were further complicated after I did the Radio Devon interview. Once they found out about my revised challenge, the Judi Spiers Show had thought it would be fun if I spoke to them every morning at 9.45 a.m., and gave an update of how my journey was going. In homage to a previous trip I’d made in my life, they’d had a little jingle made specially – called ‘Round Devon with a Pig’. I hoped that having these daily chats would raise awareness of what I was up to, and help me and Titch to raise money. I couldn’t have guessed that there would be a potentially significant downside. A downside that might throw the whole expedition into jeopardy.

  ‘Hi, Tony, it’s Chris from Pennywell,’ said the voice from down the phone line. ‘You were excellent on the Judi Spiers Show. It has created a problem, though. Someone was listening from Trading Standards’ animal health team. They’ve called me to say that I’ve got the wrong licence. Sorry about this, but can you call them straight away?’

  ‘Ah. OK. Will do.’

  I took the number and put the phone down. How could things have gone wrong so quickly? The high point of Titch’s al fresco poo, though only half an hour ago, seemed a distant memory.

  Soon I was speaking to a very helpful lady at Trading Standards. The good news was that she didn’t seem to be a bureaucrat who took pleasure in blocking, preventing, or refusing, but instead she had an attitude whereby she genuinely seemed to want to help. The bad news was that Chris and I had filled out forms one week later than we should have done, which currently meant that Titch had to stay at my house for twenty-one days.

  Charming though Titch was, this was going to slow things considerably, and make for a new start date of 11 January in the following year.

  ‘There is a possible solution, though,’ said the lady.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, trying to keep a note of desperation out of my voice.

  ‘You could apply for an Annual Exhibition licence. This would mean you and your pig could make multiple movements. However, you’ll have to keep her in her pet carrier and she must not leave that carrier until you reach your destination.’

  ‘What if she needs a wee or a poo?’

  ‘That’s not possible. It’s illegal. Unless you spray any ground that your pig touches with Defra approved disinfectant. Also, you’d need to notify us of the exact location, so we could amend our records.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, adopting a timid, supplicatory tone that I’ve found to be helpful in dealing with bureaucrats in the past. ‘Thank you so much for helping with this.’

  ‘Right. I’ll go back to Chris to arrange the correct licence. We do want to help you with this, as we are aware that you’re doing this for charity.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  OK. Suddenly I needed ‘Defra approved’ disinfectant. And fast. The clock was ticking and I was due to leave in just over an hour.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I’ll call Ken,’ I replied.

  Somehow this had become my default position when there was any kind of practical problem. Call Ken.

  The best thing about adopting this policy was that it nearly always worked.

  ‘No problem, Tony,’ he said, not at all put out by the sudden and random nature of my phone call, ‘I’ll jump in the van and go over to Terry at Drummonds Farm. They’re bound to have some.’

  Forty-five minutes later, he was standing at our front door, handing me two spray bottles containing a pink liquid.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘Defra approved disinfectant. Don’t drink it all at once.’

  ‘Thanks, Ken, you’re a hero.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Titch looked on, oblivious to the problems that being classified as ‘livestock’ was causing. Why couldn’t she just be classed a simple pet? I certainly had no intention of eating her. Not unless she was insubordinate. So this livestock tag was unfair.

  ‘Anything else I can do to help?’ said Ken.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t just help me fix the pet carrier to the back of the bike? I’m struggling with that ratchet strap thingy.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Half an hour later the phone rang.

  ‘Tony, it’s Chris from Pennywell. Good news from Trading Standards. They’ve successfully unravelled all that needs to done for compliance regarding Animal Health and the associated Animal Disease Control Welfare measures.’

  ‘Have I got the certificate I need?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So Titch and I can leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Phew.

  ***

  I was a little jealous as we said goodbye. Fran seemed to linger longer in the hug with Titch than in the one with me. When she said ‘Take care, darling’ I had to double-check that I was the intended recipient of the good wishes. I kissed her, promised not to sleep with the pig, and then crossed the road to the station.

  The bike was all fixed up now. Peter had revealed that there’d actually been no problem with the battery. I simply hadn’t put it back onto the bike properly. I now realised there was a little button at the top that needed to fit through a little hole. A little bit of jiggling was required to ensure that this happened, but now that was all done, I could leave, safe in the knowledge that my bike would ‘help’ me as I pedalled my way up hills.

  Getting myself and Titch onto the train was the next challenge. I wheeled the bike with my entire ‘world’ for the next three days fixed either in the basket on the front, or to the panniers and rack on the back. I ke
pt Titch secreted in the sling beneath my coat, as I didn’t know whether First Great Western trains operated a ‘no pigs’ policy or not. I’d had enough last-minute hitches without the station master reaching for a thick rule book and thumbing through the index under ‘pigs’.

  Thankfully, the guard opened the barrier with no questions and without noticing the lump under my coat. I wheeled the bike through onto Platform 1 with a full five minutes to go. Plenty of time to get to Platform 4 for the Barnstaple train.

  It soon became apparent that I’d not followed Kate’s instructions to the letter when I’d tied the sling earlier. It was now drooping very low under my coat, and Titch was attempting to wriggle free. Titch, it seemed, had ideas not consistent with the smooth catching of a train. Perhaps she was hungry. Perhaps she wanted to go to the toilet again. Maybe she wanted to get a clear view of what was going on all around her. Whatever it was, sitting still and going to sleep didn’t appear to be in her plans.

  I struggled to the lift that would take us up to the bridge across the platforms. A middle-aged, swarthy, Spanish-looking couple were waiting, surrounded by suitcases, and they looked at my heavily laden bike and then at me, clearly puzzled that I should be considering this form of transport at such a time of year. Titch wriggled. I held her tight with my one free arm. The couple now knew that there was either something alive inside my coat, or that I was wearing a motorised jumper that gave me a body massage as I moved about. Their eyes fixed on my blue anorak as we arrived at the bridge level. As I moved off, Titch let out a mighty wriggle.

  ‘Titch!’ I said, unable to contain myself.

  The couple looked on, more confused than ever. I smiled, and hoped that they weren’t getting a train from Platform 4. Should that be the case, I’d have to share another short, but uncomfortable, lift journey with them. Their presence meant that opening up my coat and attending to whatever was troubling Titch wasn’t really an option, without running the possibility of allowing my secret cargo to become public knowledge on this station.

  I couldn’t really say what I wanted to tell them: ‘Look, relax my Spanish friends – it’s a pig. Get on with your journey and stop eyeballing me like you’ve never seen a pig in a coat before.’