Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  I was dressed in my suit trousers, which I had to roll up around the waist to keep them from falling down to my ankles. I was also wearing two t-shirts, a blue cardigan, a Manchester United baseball cap (on backwards, because I’m hip), one trainer and one sock. Ben was wearing two t-shirts, a black cardigan, an England cap (on sideways, because he’s rad) and no trousers. He was wearing the other sock and trainer. It was still raining, but the wind had died down once we had moved away from the exposed cliffs. It was cold but bearable.

  The road climbed gradually away from the coast and the Land’s End complex became a distant blemish on the landscape behind us. We had been warned that John O’Groats was just a rubbish version of Land’s End, so we were in no hurry to get there.

  The ground was painful underfoot. The idea of wearing one shoe each was supposed to minimise the pain for each person, but in reality, it made things worse, as we constantly had a reminder of what a luxury shoes are. We soon established that walking along the thick white line on the edge of the road minimised the discomfort.

  Most travelogues such as this have a long preamble about the build up to the journey. This would include extensive details about the preparations and the arrangements involved; sourcing and buying suitable equipment, planning a route and researching the trip in meticulous detail. The training regime would also be discussed to show how a peak level of fitness was attained before undertaking such a physical challenge. You will have noticed that this book contains no such introduction. The truth was, there was no real preparation. As soon as the idea of the trip had taken shape in my mind, I suggested it to Ben who agreed straight away to join me. It then didn’t prove too difficult to find three weeks that we both had free, as neither of us had much on in the way of work, or anything else for that matter. We didn’t need to source or buy any equipment either, as we weren’t taking anything. We didn’t need to plan a route as we wanted to allow for spontaneity, and as this was the first time an End to End trip had been attempted in this manner – as far as we were aware - there was nothing productive that we could do in the way of research.

  As for our training regime, that was non-existent. Be under no illusion, Ben and I were not experienced cyclists. I did ride my bike several times a week, but this was to cover the 400 metres to the local shop. Ben used his bike even less frequently. We had taken part in the London to Brighton bike ride earlier in the year, which is a distance of 54 miles, and was the furthest that either of us had ever cycled by some way. It took us most of the day and made us both realise that we were not cut out for long-distance cycling. It did however plant the seed in my mind about attempting this journey of more epic proportions.

  Originally I had suggested to Ben that we try to acquire our bikes and clothes for free BEFORE heading to Cornwall and then just attempt to cycle to John O’Groats without spending any money.

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ asked Ben. ‘If we’re going to do it properly then we need to start with nothing at all. No clothes, no money, no shoes and no bikes.’

  ‘What? You want to start from Land’s End completely naked? We would get arrested.’

  ‘Maybe just a pair of boxer shorts then, if you’re embarrassed about people seeing your tiny penis. But definitely no other clothes, no shoes and certainly no bikes. That would be cheating.’

  ‘Do you really think we’ll be able to get clothes and bikes for free?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  We were given a lift down to Cornwall the day before by a willing friend and we spent the night in a nearby B&B and enjoyed a ‘last supper’ at the local pub. Early the following morning we handed our clothes, wallets, shoes and phones to our willing friend, who then waved us goodbye and left us stranded on the cliff tops in our pants.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Ben about a mile up the road from Land’s End. I wasn’t sure how to respond. We had not really thought the whole thing through and it suddenly dawned on us that we didn’t really know what to do next. Our aim had been to get clothes, and that had been easier than expected, but we hadn’t thought past that. We continued walking and hoped for inspiration.

  The first bit of civilisation we came across was a farmhouse. It was set back from the road, but we could see movement through one of the windows. We decided it was worth enquiring about another pair of shoes. We approached the door with nervous caution. Ben was still without trousers and it was highly likely that any elderly occupants of the house would have had a seizure at the sight of him cavorting down their driveway in his underwear. We knocked on the door and a man answered. He was fairly old, but fit enough to withstand the shock of seeing us on his doorstep. He thought we were after money and was relieved to hear we only wanted shoes. He invited us in and we stood awkwardly in his living room while he went off to find an old pair of wellies that he thought he had lying around in a barn. It is very difficult to stand partially clothed in a stranger’s house and not feel conspicuous.

  He returned a few minutes later with a pair of wellies in hand, and a look of relief on his face that we hadn’t run off with his telly. We thanked him and made our way back out into the driveway. The wellies were a size 6. We were both a size 10. They were overflowing with straw and cobwebs and I gave them a good shake to remove as many spiders as possible. I offered to wear them first and with a bit of effort and manipulation of my toes I was able to squeeze into them. There was no room left for any remaining insects to breathe, let alone wriggle.

  A further half-mile up the road we reached a road junction and we were forced to make our first directional decision. We determined, with our basic understanding of British geography, that if we kept the sea on our left we would be going in the direction of Scotland. We knew that the road we were on was the A30 and would become busier the closer it got to Penzance. It didn’t sound suitable for badly clothed walkers, so we turned left and hobbled along the quieter road towards St Ives and the sea.

  The fog had closed in and we could only see about 20 metres in either direction. There was very little sign of life anywhere. I managed about a mile in the wellies before getting a blister. I know it sounds pathetic, but seriously, you should try walking in wellies that are four sizes too small with just one wet sock for protection. Ben offered to share the pain with me and so we wore a welly and a trainer each. This look is now quite the rage.

  The morning had disappeared like smoke in the wind, but we were only three miles from Land’s End. We were getting hungry and decided to seek food at the first opportunity. It was no longer as cold or wet, and we were almost beginning to enjoy the experience. Ben seemed completely at ease in his boxer shorts and displayed no shame. The occasional car passed us and either hooted their horn in a ‘ha ha, look at those freaks’ kind of way or just stared at us with confusion.

  The smell of food wafted through the air from an unidentifiable source. Suddenly, a big white building emerged from the fog; it was about the size of a small airport. Extraordinarily, it turned out to be a small airport.

  We approached the building and noticed a small handwritten notice on the door:

  ‘Due to adverse weather conditions, all flights to the Scilly Isles have been cancelled. Please leave your luggage in the car before entering’.

  We didn’t have any luggage, or a car, so we entered.

  The building was heaving with people, yet there was an eerie silence in the room. Elderly tourists, idly waiting to see if the fog would clear, occupied row upon row of seats. We had come to seek out the origin of the smell and we shambled our way clumsily through the crowds towards what looked like a café. This was to be our first request for food and we both became increasingly nervous. If we failed, we knew it would be a struggle from then on.

  There were two elderly ladies at the counter ordering their cream teas, so we hung back until they had finished. If we were going to crash and burn, we didn’t want an audience.

  ‘Hi,’ said Ben with a awkward smile. ‘My friend George and I are on our way to John
O’Groats. We started this morning at Land’s End in a pair of boxer shorts and we have to get the entire way without spending a single penny.’

  ‘Ok?’ replied the man behind the counter.

  ‘And we were wondering... ’ continued Ben, ‘if you had any food that you were about to throw out that we could perhaps have?’ There was an uneasy pause as he looked around to see if he had any senior staff to check with. The kitchen was empty.

  ‘How does a coffee and a bacon sandwich sound?’ he asked.

  It was as simple as that. We had got our first free meal. We were expecting some half-chewed bread at best, or maybe an old lettuce, but we were soon presented with a huge steaming bacon bap and a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

  It transpired that John - the man behind the counter - was a pilot and had been forced to help out in the kitchen because of the flight cancellations.

  Ben and I sat in silence as we ate. John’s food had filled us both with a feeling of contentment and there was no need to talk. He offered to top up our coffees, and, as a way of delaying going back outside, we gladly accepted.

  As we sat, satisfied, we were approached by one of the passengers from the waiting room. She had been checking out Ben’s legs whilst we ate. She was about 70 and asked why we were dressed like we were.

  ‘We’re cycling to John O’Groats,’ replied Ben.

  ‘Oh, do you want some grapes?’ she asked, and pulled a bunch from her bag. Remarkably, at this point, other people in the waiting room started coming towards us with offerings; chocolate bars, crisps, flapjack, apples, fruit juice and more grapes. Nobody really understood why we were dressed like we were, or where we were heading, but it was obviously clear that we were needy. Their kindness, which was completely unprovoked, gave us a renewed sense of enthusiasm for our adventure.

  ‘You’ll get there, no problem,’ said one of them.

  ‘A couple of nice guys like you. Just keep smiling and you’ll be fine,’ said another.

  ‘Aww, they were smashing? I would like them as my sons,’ we heard one of the ladies say as we left the building.

  John, the pilot-come-dinner-lady, chased after us and gave us a bottle of water each.

  ‘You’ll need this, lads,’ he puffed.

  The whole trip was suddenly real. There was now every chance we could make it. To Devon, at least.

  You are no doubt wondering how it was possible to take the photos in this book if we started with nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. The truth is, we also carried a camera, a notebook and pen and a wad of postcards printed with the words: ‘I am OFFICIALLY a very nice person’. The notebook and pen were for me to keep a diary during the trip. I wanted to keep a record of our experiences and of the people that we met, to help compensate for my deteriorating memory.

  Being a photographer, I also thought it would be a nice idea to photograph the different people who helped us along the way, creating a montage of Britain’s unsung heroes.

  The postcards were Ben’s idea. He mentioned it a couple of days before we set off and I initially dismissed the idea as corny and pointless. In my defence, he had originally suggested that the postcards be printed with the phrase: ‘I am a FUCKING good person.’ The thought of presenting a card like this to an old lady, who had just given us an apple, seemed slightly wrong.

  ‘Hello, little old lady. Thank you for the apple. Here is a postcard that says what a FUCKING good person you are.’

  In the end, we agreed on: ‘I am OFFICIALLY a very nice person.’ It was simple, inoffensive and genuine.

  I should make it very clear that neither the camera, nor the postcards, were ever used to help us gain favours in any way. They were only ever introduced after a good deed had been done.

  The sun had not yet emerged through the fog, and Ben’s legs were beginning to feel the cold. We knocked on the door of the next house that we came across, to try and find him some trousers. A large, round-faced man answered the door. He was in his thirties and had a face that looked like it was made from mashed potato. He was stocky and over six feet tall, but his overbearing frame was counteracted by a huge smile and softly spoken voice.

  We explained that we were hoping to get a pair of trousers and he invited us in while he went to have a look. He returned with a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘Are these ok?’ he asked.

  ‘They look absolutely perfect,’ said Ben. ‘Thank you so much. What’s your name?’

  ‘Les,’ said Les.

  Les worked for the coastguard and had bought his house a few years previously; it was an old chapel, which he had converted himself. The place was really striking with a low hung ceiling and clever lighting giving it a cosy feel. The kitchen units were decorated with paintings and drawings done by a small child. Either that, or Les was just really rubbish at art.

  Les also offered us a rucksack after noticing our arms laden with food, water and an umbrella. We thanked him and continued walking in the fog towards the village of St Just.

  The road between Land’s End and St Ives is dotted with the remains of tin mines. Mining had taken place in Cornwall since stone-age times, but the discovery of cheaper ore in other parts of Europe, America and Australia practically destroyed the industry. Many mines continued to fight off international competition well into the 20th Century, but on March 6th, 1998, the pumps were finally switched off for good at South Crofty, just up the road – both Cornwall and the UK’s last surviving tin mine.

  We reached the town of St Just with its proud status as the most westerly town in England. The town is little more than a big village. At its centre is a pleasant little market square, which is flanked by several pubs. It had been a tough morning, and we felt like we deserved a beer so called into the first pub to try our luck. Asking for clothes and food was one thing, but asking for free beer was something completely different. Unlike food and clothes, beer was hardly a necessity, but after an exhausting morning’s walking and blagging we felt like it was as essential as oxygen.

  I picked the youngest and better looking of the two barmaids and decided to try the honest and direct approach.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said in a cool and slightly flirtatious manner. ‘We are travelling the length of the country without spending a single penny, and we were wondering if there was any chance we could possibly have a free beer?’

  ‘Errr, ok,’ she said with a nervous giggle. ‘Are two half lagers ok?’

  I decided that this was not the time to ask about trying one of the local ales.

  ‘Two half lagers would be unbelievable. Thank you very much indeed.’

  Seven hours earlier we had been standing in our boxer shorts in the wind and rain. We were now fully clothed and drinking free beer in a picturesque Cornish village. Life was pretty good.

  We started chatting to a guy at the bar called Steve. He was not as inebriated as some of the other locals, but his words were still slurred. We asked him if he knew anywhere or anyone that could help us out with a bike.

  ‘If you give me an hour, I’ll get someone to sort you out with a bike,’ he said.

  ‘Would it be stolen?’ asked Ben suspiciously.

  ‘Yeah, probably, but you won’t get caught,’ said Steve.

  ‘Thanks, but we were hoping to get some bikes lawfully and legitimately, but we appreciate the offer,’ said Ben.

  Steve suggested we try another pub in St Just - the Miners Arms. It was also an excuse for another beer.

  The Miners Arms was fairly grim. The walls were painted black and there was almost no light, other than the daylight that poked its way through the closed shutters. We fumbled our way to the bar, bumping from empty table to empty table and treading on the occasional sleeping dog. It was Ben’s round.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, looking at all four of the guys sitting at the bar, assuming that one of them worked there.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asked the youngest and least likely looking barman of the lot of them.

  ‘We’re cycling 100
0 miles to John O’Groats, but we don’t have any bikes,’ said Ben. The place erupted with laughter. Sniggers could be heard through the darkness from a table in the far corner. ‘We were wondering…’ continued Ben unfazed, ‘if you knew anyone that had a couple of bikes that they were trying to get rid of.’

  The laughter went up a notch. It continued for a minute or so.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ said Ben. ‘Any chance of a free beer then?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the barman. ‘You guys sound like you’ll need it.’

  We sat down in the darkness and drank our second beer of the day. We had only walked four miles, and at that rate, it was going to take over five months to get to John O’Groats. We had allowed ourselves three weeks.

  By this point, it felt like my welly had rubbed through to the bone. I removed it in the hope of showing Ben some horrific battle wound, but was disappointed to discover a small red splodge on my heel. Still, we decided that suitable shoes were more necessary than bikes. The trip would have been over before it had properly begun if we had continued in the wellies.

  I decided to speak to the guys at the bar again. Despite laughing at us before, they were very friendly and approachable.

  ‘Do you know anywhere we could get a pair of old shoes?’ I asked, ‘We’ve got one pair of trainers and a pair of wellies that are much too small.’ The laughter reached new heights and I returned to our table in the corner.

  We were about to leave when one of the guys who had been at the bar approached us. He was in his late twenties, with a missing front tooth and slicked hair. He had not said a word before and had been the only person not to laugh.

  ‘I think what you are doing is inspirational,’ he said quietly, so that his friends at the bar didn’t hear. ‘I want you to have this.’ He then glanced around to check that his friends weren’t looking before removing a small crystal ear stud from his ear. He then took my arm and placed the crystal gently in the palm of my hand. ‘It will bring you good luck.’