‘Sounds like a wicked thing to do, man. The whole length of the country? Jeez. Still, at least you’re nearly there.’
‘Actually, we started at Land’s End.’
‘Oh, shit. That’s tough,’ laughed Matthew.
We were given a brief instruction on how to use the steriliser. It was basically a machine that steamed off any remaining germs after washing. Ben decided it would probably double up as a dishwasher too and so piled it high with pots and pans. The thing ground to a halt after a few seconds, and we had to ask Ryan to help unblock the filter that had become clogged with rice and peas.
Each time we started to make inroads into the mountain of washing up, Matthew and Ryan were on hand to replenish the pile. They were somehow using up pans and plates quicker than we could wash them.
We were hungry when we arrived in Thorverton, and after over an hour in the kitchen, we were ravenous. We started to pick at the leftovers on plates that were being returned from the dining room; cold chips, salad leaves, half-eaten pieces of bread. Ryan and Matthew looked on in disgust.
The lunchtime rush eventually ended. It was 2pm on a Tuesday in September in the middle of nowhere. Where the hell had all these people come from, and shouldn’t they have been at work?
We sat on one of the picnic tables outside the front of the pub and Garth brought us a big glass of Coke each (other colas are available). He also brought with him two t-shirts. One was a green polo-shirt with the logo of a local brewery on it, and the other was a black polo shirt with Thorverton Arms written on the back, and TITS written on the front.
‘It stands for Thorverton Impotent Tossers Society,’ he said. ‘That’s the name of the pub’s darts team.’
I’d had first dibs of the last t-shirts we were given, and so Ben had first choice this time. He picked the TITS one, unsurprisingly, and I was left with the slightly inferior green one.
The food was well worth every last grubby plate that we had cleaned and there was enough to feed the whole of Thorverton. We each had a huge sizzling lasagne, a giant bowl of chips, a garlic baguette and a side salad. Food tastes so much better when you’ve earned it, and we had certainly earned it. However, as far as it being a suitable meal to have midway through a long day’s cycling goes, I wouldn’t recommend it.
We ate absolutely everything. Even Ben, who usually has the appetite of a daddy long-legs, demolished the lot. We were so stuffed that we could hardly speak, let alone cycle.
A big, hairy black cat walked towards us from across the road, right opposite where we were sitting. At the same time a coach was tearing downwards through the village and there was the rumble of something big coming the other way. The cat was completely unfazed and paused in the middle of the road to clean its paws. The coach screeched to a halt, and so did the enormous combine harvester that emerged from the other direction. Both vehicles waited patiently until the cat had cleared the road, before continuing with their respective journeys. The cat then hopped up on to the picnic table where we were eating, discovered there were no leftovers, licked the plates then jumped down and went through the front door of the pub. When we took our plates through to the kitchen, it was asleep on one of the bar stools.
‘He’s one of our regulars,’ said Garth. ‘He comes in most days about this time.’
Spurred on by our titanic lunch, we decided to aim for a record-breaking day on the bikes. We hoped to do another 40 miles but it was 3pm by the time we set off, and our lasagne sat heavily in our stomachs.
After leaving Thorverton the road crossed the River Exe by a weir and then climbed gradually for a few miles. We passed through the town of Bradninch and the tree-lined streets of Cullompton without even stopping.
We were ripping up the miles. We were whooping Devon’s ass.
We reached the town of Wellington by about 5pm, having covered 43 miles, which included a 10am start and a 2 ½ hour lunch. Taunton was only a few miles up the road so we continued onwards. All I knew of Taunton was the M5 service station Taunton Deane - one of my favourites on the M5. I knew that if Taunton was half as good as that service station, I’d be a happy man.
We followed the busy A38 between Wellington and Taunton. It was the first stretch of A-road we had been on since Camborne, and it made an exciting change. It was rush hour and the traffic was streaming in both directions, but we could feel the progress that we were making. The directions we followed took us on the A361 bypass around Taunton centre without us even realising.
Taunton Deane service station is still all I know about Taunton.
The sun was sitting low in the sky and we decided to try to find accommodation at the next possible opportunity. The A361, however, had other ideas. The road soon straightened out into a never-ending passage across the Somerset moors. The rush hour traffic had dispersed and we were left alone in an eerie calm.
Ben had not spoken for about an hour and this was a clear indication that he was in a foul mood.
‘You ok back there, Ben?’
No response.
‘Ben?’
‘Yeah, I’m ok. Just getting a bit pissed off with this cycling.’
‘Yeah, me too. I’m sure we’ll pass somewhere soon.’
‘That’s if we are still alive and not thrown into the moor by some sodding axe-murderer. This place scares the hell out of me.’
‘I know. I thought it was just me.’
The light was fading, there was no sign of any nearby houses, and the boggy marshes on either side looked like the perfect dumping ground for a couple of dismembered cyclists.
‘It’s moments like this I wish you had your Disco Bike to lighten the mood,’ I said.
Ben and I had cycled together just once before, but it was an experience that made me realise that he would be the ideal person to join me on the trip. Earlier in the year we had taken part in the British Heart Foundation’s popular London to Brighton Bike Ride. Ben, for some reason, decided to convert his mountain bike into a ‘Disco Bike’ for the day. He cleverly mounted his iPod (other mp3 players are available) onto the handlebars as well as a large pair of speakers. To power this setup, he then strapped a car battery to the back of the bike, which was then wired, via a transducer, to the iPod. After testing his sound system the day before, he wasn’t happy with the sound quality, so acquired a football-sized bass sub-woofer, which he also mounted to the back of the bike.
The resulting ‘Disco Bike’ was absolutely astonishing. From the comfort of his bike seat, Ben was able to blast whatever music he desired, across the surrounding countryside. Many of the other 20,000 cyclists were in awe of his construction, and we were surrounded for the entire 50 mile trip by swarms of Ben’s groupies.
What Ben hadn’t taken into account was the immense weight of his sound system. His bicycle was the same weight as a motorbike. Cornering became very difficult, and on a couple of occasions, he came very close to having a major accident.
‘I would do anything for my Disco Bike right now,’ he said.
We survived the moors and then crossed the Greylake Bridge at the King’s Sedgemoor Drain, which, in case you were wondering, is a 14th century ditch that is used to drain the surrounding moorland.
We spoke briefly with two Scottish men who were fishing by the bridge. They had driven all the way from the north of Scotland to fish in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. Finally, we’d met two people more stupid than us.
‘Aye, you could try the wee pub just there. That’s where we’re stayin’. They might be able to help if you ken whit ah mean,’ said one of the men.
The pub was surprisingly busy considering we had not passed a house in hours and there seemed to be no other buildings beyond it.
‘Brilliant, it’s quiz night, too. Maybe if they’ve got somewhere for us to sleep, we can come and do the quiz later,’ I said, rather optimistically.
It turned out that the pub only had two rooms and that pair of ditch-fishing Scottish idiots were occupying both of them. As tempted as we were to bun
dle the pair of them into the King’s Sedgemoor Drain and take their rooms, we decided to leave them to their fishing and continue onwards to find somewhere to stay.
It was dark and we were completely unlit. We pulled over to the side of the road each time a car passed, which meant that progress was ridiculously slow. We eventually reached the village of Walton at about 9pm.
Just on the edge of the village was the sign for a campsite and we followed the lane up for half a mile until we reached Bramble Hill Camping Park. It was a lovely, peaceful looking campsite adjacent to a farmhouse. Surely a place with such a storybook name could not refuse two desperate young men.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ asked a very well-spoken lady. She appeared in her doorway with a look of terror on her face as though 70-odd years of life were about to come to an abrupt end at the hands of two strangely dressed, sweaty young scallywags. She had a big, styled, silvery white bouffant, a black dress and a white apron on. She looked like she had walked straight out of Jane Eyre.
‘I hope so,’ said Ben. ‘Do you, by any chance, have an old tent that we could use or anywhere for us to sleep tonight, for free. We are travelling without any money.’
‘I am sorry, I am afraid I don’t. We are just a small site, and people bring their own tents. We don’t have any spares for people to use. What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere this late anyway?’
‘We’re on a challenge to cycle to John O’Groats without spending any money. All of our food, accommodation, clothes and bikes have been given to us. We were hoping to find somewhere to stay, but we’ve not passed anywhere until now.’
‘No, I am awfully sorry, there is very little around here. I would imagine that there are some campsites in Glastonbury, but you have left it a bit late to get there tonight. I am sorry I can’t be more help.’
‘Ok, thank you anyway. I’m sure we’ll find somewhere,’ I said as we turned to walk out of the door. We bowed our heads in disappointment and pulled the most pathetic, sorry, needy faces imaginable.
As an experiment of human kindness, this bike ride had to be undertaken by complete nobodies like us. Any form of celebrity brings with it recognition, which changes everything. I watched Ewan McGregor’s documentary – Long Way Round – with great admiration. Ewan McGregor – of Star Wars, Trainspotting and The Da Vinci Code fame – goes the whole way round the world on his motorcycle, with his friend Charley Boorman. It was an extremely impressive feat, and I’m not comparing our own journey to his heroic adventure in any way, but the fact is that he is Ewan McGregor. Even people in Kazakhstan and Mongolia recognised him; I often don’t get recognised by my own family. What I am trying to say is that when asking for favours from random strangers, you are at a distinct advantage if you are Obi-Wan Kenobi.
We might not have had the power to conduct any Jedi mind tricks, but these pitiable faces of ours were our secret weapon.
‘Well... just a minute,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Is it just some shelter you are after?’
‘Yes, anything,’ I said.
‘Well I might be able to help you out in that case. Follow me.’
She led us through to a dusty old outhouse, which had walls on just two sides.
‘You can prop your bikes up against the wall there,’ she said, and we then expected her to tell us we could sleep on the floor next to them. It was a lovely evening and we would have been more than happy to sleep there.
But she wasn’t finished yet.
‘And you can sleep in here,’ she said, unlocking the door to a self-contained annexe. ‘There’s a bedroom upstairs and you can use the campsite toilet block, which is just across the yard.’
It was unbelievable. We had been seconds away from walking back out into the night with nowhere to go, and then suddenly we had been offered our own little flat. Downstairs was a kitchen, and upstairs was a large bedroom with a double bed and a mattress on the floor.
‘I can’t offer you any food, I’m afraid, but there’s a pub about half a mile down the road where you might be able to get something.’
‘Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mrs Rogers.’
Mrs Rogers said goodbye, and we promised we would clean the campsite toilets for her in the morning.
‘Check this out. We’ve got our own flat!’ said Ben before diving onto the double bed. ‘Bagsie having the bed.’
‘I suppose you’re having the sleeping bag, too?’
‘Too right I am. I did carry it all day.’
‘You are such a dick. Looks like I’m sleeping on the floor then. Can I borrow your towel, please?’
‘Yes. Let’s go and try and get something to eat,’ said Ben. ‘The pub will stop serving food soon.’
‘Yeah. We might as well go straight there now. England are playing another European qualifier tonight. We’ll hopefully catch the end of the game.’
‘Yeah, wow, that’ll be fun,’ said Ben sarcastically, as he has no interest in football whatsoever.
‘Good old Mrs Rogers,’ I said as I followed Ben across the room towards the stairs.
‘Yeah, I’m going to roger her in the morning,’ said Ben, for no apparent reason.
And then he froze.
He turned and looked up at me as if he had seen a ghost. I’ve never seen anyone look more petrified in my life.
Mrs Rogers was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Ben was halfway down the stairs and continued to stare back up at me with a look as if to say: ‘Help me, George. Say something to get me out of this terrible situation.’
I said nothing. Mrs Rogers finally spoke.
‘I just wanted to show you where the light switch is for the downstairs kitchen. It is just here at the bottom of the stairs. Could you make sure you turn it off when you go out and before you go to sleep.’
‘Yes. Of course. Err. Will do. Thank you, Mrs Rogers,’ said Ben, still motionless on the stairs. She turned and left the outhouse, and closed the door behind her.
‘Oh. My. God. What have I done?’ said Ben, cupping his face in his hands.
‘What the hell did you say that for? What possessed you to say you were going to roger Mrs Rogers?’
‘Oh god, I don’t know. I think I must have Tourettes or something. If I hear a name like that I have to make a stupid joke about it. Do you think she heard me?’
‘She must’ve done. She was standing about ten feet from you. You idiot!’
‘I know. Bollocks. Oh fucking bollocksy, bollocksy, bollocks.’
‘I don’t know why she didn’t say anything. Or even chuck us back out into the street.’
‘Maybe she didn’t hear me. Or maybe she didn’t understand what it meant? She’s probably in her house now flicking through a dictionary. Why am I such a twat?’
‘I’ve no idea, but you are. It was very funny, though.’
‘There’s nothing funny about it at all. That kind old lady has given us a place to stay tonight and then I said I was going to roger her. Shit, that was the most embarrassing moment of my life. How did she come in without us hearing her? She was like a ghost. She must’ve melted through the wall or something. Let’s get out of here.’
We followed the pitch-black country lane back down to the main road, and then saw the pub a little further down the road. We hardly spoke the entire way. Ben was still cringing about what he’d said, and I was being smug that it hadn’t been me.
The Pike and Musket was fairly busy for a Wednesday. It was full of young people playing pool and shouting excessively loudly at each other over the noise of the jukebox. Several of them were wearing England shirts but there was no TV and therefore no football.
‘Any idea what the score is?’ I asked one of lads, who had just sent the white ball flying across the room.
‘Nah, mate. They’re showing it at the pub at the other end of the village.’
The girl behind the bar looked very young. She laughed at us before we had even spoke
n to her. She was clearly in awe of the fine specimens of masculinity that had just entered the pub. Either that, or baggy rolled up suit trousers, sweaty t-shirts and cut off tracksuit bottoms are not the latest trend in Walton, Somerset.
Had I mentioned we had reached Somerset by this point? Perhaps not. Well, we had conquered Devon and had reached our third county in as many days.
‘Hello,’ said Ben to the still grinning barmaid. ‘We’ve cycled over 80 miles today on children’s bikes, and we don’t have any money to buy food. Do you have any leftovers whatsoever that you could spare?’
‘How come you’ve got no money? Is it some sort of challenge?’
‘Yes. We’re cycling to the top of Scotland without spending any money. We started in just pants. All these clothes have been scrounged, too. That’s why we’re dressed like this.’
‘I was wondering why you both looked so daft. I think they’ve just closed the kitchen but I’ll go and speak to the chef and see if he’s got anything. Grab a seat over there and I’ll see what I can do.’
There were a couple of other people finishing up their meals but other than that, the restaurant part of the pub was empty. If only we’d been there the night before; Tuesday night is ‘Curry and a pint night’ at The Pike and Musket, if ever you are passing.
She walked over to us a few minutes later.
‘The chef is going to cook you up something. I’ll bring it out to you in a bit. Do you guys want a beer in the meantime?’ asked the barmaid, who clearly fancied us. Looking around the room, we were definitely the best of a bad bunch.
‘To Mrs Rogers,’ I said, toasting my pint to Ben.
‘Don’t. I don’t want to think about that. I still can’t believe it happened. I won’t be able to look at her in the morning.’
‘She might be looking forward to it. You never know, she’s probably getting herself ready as we speak. Putting a skimpy little number aside to wear in the morning.’
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 10