Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  Max’s two housemates – Sonnie and Mark – were still up when we got back. They were playing some computer game on a massive widescreen TV with gigantic speakers either side.

  ‘Bloody hell, Max. I thought you didn’t have anything worth stealing,’ I said

  ‘Ha, yeah, well I didn’t think you’d get very far with the TV on your bikes. Speaking of bikes, do you want to wheel them through the kitchen and stick them in the garden?’

  Like all other students, Max, Sonnie and Mark were completely incapable of washing up. Every single utensil in the kitchen was dirty and had either been piled in the sink or on the cabinets. It was exactly the same as my kitchen had looked when I was at University, but in the eyes of a mature man, well trained by a cleanliness obsessed wife, the whole place was deeply distressing.

  Ben and I made them all a cup of tea as we started work on the kitchen. We worked our way through the carnage, piece by piece. We washed up everything, we emptied the bins - which had erupted all over the floor - and put out the recycling. Well, we assumed it was the recycling. Either that, or Max was hoarding for a massive papier-mâché session.

  Back in the sitting room, the students were watching television. It was the first time since we started the trip that we sat and watched television. The familiar glow of the TV was enthralling and we felt a sense of excitement as though we had been released from solitary confinement. Two minutes of channel hopping later, we realised we had not been missing anything. Even the students were defeated, and switched the TV off with a frustrated sigh.

  ‘I’ll show you where you can sleep,’ whispered Max.

  Max’s room was on the ground floor, adjacent to the living room. Its floor was piled deep with clothes, CDs, books and unopened gas bills.

  ‘You can sleep on the floor. Just push some of that shit to one side. I’ve got a spare sleeping bag somewhere.’

  We scraped at the floor with our hands until we had cleared enough room for two bodies. For some reason Max chose to sleep in a sleeping bag, too. There was no sheet on his mattress, nor pillowcase on his pillow.

  ‘How come you’re in a sleeping bag?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve just never got round to buying any bedding. And I quite like sleeping in this. It makes me feel like I’m on holiday.’

  ‘You’re on a permanent holiday, mate. You’re a student.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he coughed, ‘that’s true. Night, guys.’

  I hardly slept at all.

  The sleeping bag Max had let me borrow was a 5-season one. If I had slept out in the snow in Antarctica in it, I would still have been too hot. In a small, double-glazed, centrally heated room in Bath, it was like sleeping in a kiln. I unzipped it most of the way down and let half of my leg lie in the comparatively cool air. Had I not been wearing my tight Union Jack boxer shorts, and been in a stranger’s room, I would have just lay uncovered, but I felt it best for the wellbeing of Max that I covered up as much as possible.

  I had to venture to the toilet in the early hours of the night, and Max nearly shat himself when he opened his eyes to see a half-naked man wearing novelty underwear tip-toeing across his room. After a few seconds he registered who I was, and he gave a little wave before covering his head with his sleeping bag.

  Day 7 - The Severn Bore

  Bath to Newent - 50 miles

  Max had early lectures to get to, so we were out of the house by 8am. It was another sunny day and we planned to make up some miles following the easy time we’d had the previous day. Max’s voice was still absent but he waved us goodbye and whispered that he felt he had made a couple of new friends, and that he hoped one day he could do something like we were doing.

  That was part of the thrill of our challenge. If I had been Max and had met us, I would have been incredibly envious, and it was this sort of reaction that we got from countless people along the way. We were the lucky ones and we had nobody to be envious of.

  Bath town centre was a flurry of people on their way to work. We called into a bakery where a girl named Suzie gave us two freshly-baked sausage rolls, in exchange for two smiles. We stood outside on the pavement and devoured them in seconds, despite them being the temperature of molten lava.

  A very tall man approached us. He had a huge, white, bushy beard, and was smartly dressed in suit trousers, polished shoes, a shirt, cardigan and a panama hat. He was very unstable on his feet and stank of alcohol despite it being before 9am.

  ‘Hold these, will you?’ he slurred, handing me the leather bag he was carrying and placing his panama on my head.

  ‘You’re not going to undress are you?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he spluttered, resting his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. He pulled a penny whistle from the bag and started to play. Despite not being able to string a sentence together, his fingers glided over the whistle like a magician. With the whistle in his mouth he came to life. He jigged on the spot like Michael Flatley, having been unable to even stand upright only moments before. It was quite extraordinary.

  ‘I’m... an... Attt... Atttten... Attenborough, you know, as in... one of the Attenborough family,’ he said, when he’d finished playing. ‘Peter Attenborough, but people call me Peter... Peter... The... Potter. I’m a busker... and a potter. I make pots.’

  ‘It’s really good to meet you, Peter the Potter,’ I said. ‘If we had any money, we’d give you some, but I’m afraid we’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Nooooo, that was a gift. A musical gift… for you. I could tell you needed it. Good luck… on your travels, wherever you are going.’ And with that he swaggered off down the street into the morning bustle.

  I looked up Peter a few weeks later, to try and discover a bit more about him. Despite our brief meeting, he’d had a big impact on both of us and he seemed a remarkable character. I was saddened to learn that he had died just a week after we had met him. He had fallen down some steps whilst visiting a friend in their basement flat.

  He was, as he had said, a relative of Richard and David Attenborough, and had been one of Bath’s best-loved buskers. His funeral took place at Bath Abbey and was attended by over 1000 people.

  Ben reminded me that I had promised him that we could call into the police station to see if they had any bikes. Despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise, we made our way towards the main police station in the town centre.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ben to the clerk behind the glass in the reception area, ‘Do you happen to have any lost or stolen bikes that you are trying to get rid of?’

  I lurked in the background, cringing at Ben’s audacity.

  ‘Yes, we do have bikes, but any that are unclaimed are shipped off to Africa. If you can hold on a minute I will get the Lost-Property Officer to come and speak to you.’

  I stood there open-mouthed. Not just because I had been proven wrong, but because there was such thing as a Lost-Property Officer. It was a job that had all the glamour of being a policeman, but without the hassle and danger of real criminals; just a collection of other people’s possessions to keep an eye on. If I was a policeman, I would want to be a Lost Property Officer. I’m not sure there is much scope for promotion, though. Lost Property Inspector? Lost Property Commander? Chief of Lost Property?

  The Lost Property Officer’s name was Kevin. He was a lovely, smiling man, who would not have looked out of place in a cartoon. He explained that, yes, they did have bikes, but that they were all shipped off by a charity to Africa if they were unclaimed.

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t just give bikes away to the general public as the charity will lose out,’ he added.

  ‘Of course, we completely understand,’ said Ben, and I turned to leave assuming that Ben would follow. He had other ideas however.

  ‘But what about if we were to give you our bikes instead, and that way the people in Africa would still get their bikes, and everyone would be happy.’

  Kevin looked confused.

  ‘If you already have bikes, then why do you want
different bikes?’ he asked.

  ‘Good question,’ I said.

  ‘We’re cycling to John O’Groats and we only have a pink girl’s mountain bike and a child’s racer. We were hoping to upgrade them to something more substantial.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that could work. I can’t see it being a problem. Have you got your bikes here? Wheel them in and we’ll go and see what we can find.’

  We had been impressed by the expanse of Roger Badcock’s bicycle grotto, but this was on a completely different scale. Roger’s barn had been filled mostly with bicycle parts, and those bicycles that were intact were fairly basic looking; as both Pinky and The Falcon were testaments to.

  Bath Police Station, however, had a row of about 30 bright, shiny bicycles lined up ready to go to Africa. Some of them looked almost brand new, as I assume many stolen bikes are.

  ‘Your bikes look decent enough,’ said Kevin. ‘We might have to do some basic repairs to ensure they meet the safety standards before we ship them, but if you see something you like the look of here then I’ll do you a swap.’

  ‘Are you serious? Any of these bikes?’ gushed Ben like an excited school boy.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Kevin.

  Ben patrolled up and down the length of the shelter where the bikes were lined up, checking each one in turn. After a while he paused next to a gigantic silver touring bike. It was surely the biggest bike that had ever been built, dwarfing everything else in the row.

  ‘What do you think about this one, George?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I think it looks, well, it looks very big. Are you sure you can reach the pedals?’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ he said, although I had not been joking. ‘Yeah, I love this one, Kevin, if that’s ok.’

  ‘No problem, let me just take these charity labels off. What about you? Which one do you want?’ he asked me.

  ‘Actually, I think I’m going to keep the one I’ve got,’ I replied, almost apologetically.

  ‘What? Oh come on, George,’ said Ben, dumbfounded. ‘This is our chance to finally get decent bikes that will get us all the way to John O’Groats. This is what we’ve been looking for.’

  ‘No, it’s what YOU have been looking for. I’m happy with The Falcon.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Is this some sort of childish sulk because you didn’t want to come to the police station? Because if so then that’s pretty pathetic.’

  Kevin looked away to avoid getting involved in our argument.

  ‘No, not at all. I’ve always been happy with The Falcon and I’ve always wanted to take it as far as I can, and I don’t feel that I have yet.’

  ‘But its stupid chain falls off every few hundred metres!’ he barked.

  ‘Hopefully it’ll sort itself out and it hasn’t slowed us down too much. Besides, it doesn’t feel right sending a small racing bike to Africa. It wouldn’t stand a chance on the roads out there. At least Pinky is a mountain bike and would be suited to the place. The Falcon would be destroyed in no time. Also, I doubt that it stands any chance of passing the safety tests, considering that the chain falls off, the brakes don’t work and the back wheel is wobbly.’

  ‘Alright, fine,’ conceded Ben. ‘But you’d better not start whinging that my bike is much better than yours from now on.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  We thanked Kevin, and said our goodbyes to Pinky - which was neither emotional nor sentimental for Ben - and headed on our way.

  ‘I can’t reach the pedals properly when I’m sitting on the seat,’ panted Ben about 30 seconds after leaving the police station. ‘I have to stand up to be able to pedal.’

  I tried my hardest not to sound smug but I couldn’t resist.

  ‘And you told me not to whinge. What did I ask you back in the station about the pedals? That bike looks ridiculous. It is the size of a horse.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it could beat the shit out of your crappy little bike no problem,’ said Ben, trying not to laugh. ‘Ok, so it’s big, and difficult to pedal, but it’s a proper bike. I shall christen it The Horse.’

  Cycling behind Ben was very amusing. The saddle was so high that when he stood up to pedal it was positioned in the middle of his back.

  There was a Halfords (other car and bike shops are available) that we passed on our way out of Bath, so we called in to see if they could help us out with some basic bike repairs.

  ‘What sort of things do you need doing?’ asked Jason, the sales assistant and bike mechanic.

  ‘You know, just a few minor things like the brakes not working, and the chain falling off. That sort of thing.’

  After a few minutes tightening screws, and prodding cogs he gave his diagnosis.

  ‘The chain is basically buggered. I’ve put some oil on it, but the rear derailleur has had it. It needs replacing.’

  ‘Is there anything that you can do?’ I asked, sounding like someone who had just been told that their beloved pet was going to be put to sleep.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Derailleurs for bikes this old are really hard to get hold of these days. It might last a bit longer before it goes completely.’

  ‘Ok, thanks, what about the brakes?’

  ‘Well, they’re basically buggered, too. The pads are so worn down that for you to be able to use them to stop they will have to be tightened so that they restrict the wheels from going round.’

  I could hear Ben sighing behind me, but I was determined not to be defeated.

  ‘Is it possible to tighten them enough so that I can at least slow down?’

  ‘Yep, can do, but you won’t be able to stop quickly.’

  ‘Ok, that’s fine.’

  After Jason had finished with The Falcon, Ben asked if he could lower The Horse’s saddle. It turned out that it was already at its lowest setting, which amused me greatly.

  ‘Do you guys have helmets?’ asked Jason as we were heading out of the shop.

  ‘No, but we wish we did,’ said Ben.

  ‘Wait there a minute. I think I can probably sort you out with a helmet.’

  When he had said ‘a helmet,’ we assumed he had meant ‘a helmet each,’ but it turned out he meant just the one helmet. Still, we decided to take it in turns to wear it, therefore making us significantly safer 50% of the time.

  We headed out of Bath via Pulteney Bridge. Pulteney Bridge is one of only four bridges in the world to be lined by shops on both sides. In fact, it feels so much like a normal street that we suffered the embarrassment of asking someone which direction the bridge was, only to be given the reply, ‘you’re on the bridge, m’duck.’

  Having successfully crossed the Avon, we then continued with renewed enthusiasm in what we thought was the direction of Scotland. 45 minutes later we were forced to retrace our steps to the Pulteney Bridge and try again. In the excitement of getting a new bike and a helmet we had headed west towards Bristol instead of continuing north.

  We then took a wrong turn and ended up having to take a lengthy detour around Colerne Airport and then through the sinister sounding villages of Slaughterford and Thickwood before joining the busy A420 for a few miles to correct our mistake.

  We arrived in the village of Nettleton with high expectations of a long leisurely pub lunch, but were greatly disappointed to discover that the village didn’t have a pub.

  It did, however, have a well stocked Post Office.

  Di, the lady who ran the Post Office, seemed overly excited by the arrival of two strangely dressed ‘out-of-towners’ to her shop. When we explained our mission she got even more excited and seemed to find the whole thing very amusing. We offered to help out in the shop in exchange for some food but she just laughed.

  ‘Does it look like I need help in here?’ she chuckled. ‘You two just help yourself to any sandwiches or cakes that you want.’

  ‘We don’t want to take away your stock like that. Do you have anything that you were throwing out?’ asked Ben.

  ‘There’s a couple of prawn sandwiches out
the back that expired yesterday. I had one for lunch and I’m still alive,’ she said.

  ‘That would be perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘At least take a cake and a chocolate bar each,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, go on then. If you insist.’

  We sat at the picnic table outside and ate our gone-off prawn sandwiches, Eccles cakes and Snickers (other peanut, nougat and caramel chocolate bars are available). We were enjoying the peace and quiet of the Wiltshire countryside when I felt a sudden rush of panic through my body.

  ‘OH SHIT! It’s my mum’s birthday tomorrow. I haven’t got her a present. I haven’t even sent her a card.’

  ‘She’ll understand, won’t she?’ said Ben. ‘You can get her something when we’ve finished the trip. She knows you’re not allowed to spend any money.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a bit lame of me, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve managed to get accommodation every night, food, most meals, bikes, clothes and plenty of beer. I should have got a card, at least.’

  ‘Well, we’re at a Post Office. What better place? Why don’t you go and ask Di?’

  I went back inside and casually explained my predicament to Di without actually asking her for a birthday card.

  ‘I can give you a card and a stamp,’ she said before I had even finished speaking. ‘Go and help yourself from the rack over there.’

  Di was one of those rare gems of humanity that you occasionally come across. I could imagine that she was the pride of the village and knew everything about everyone. Not in a gossipy way, but simply because of her warmth and generosity. I researched Nettleton whilst writing this book, to try and establish what county it was in (it turns out it’s in Wiltshire. To be honest, I didn’t even realise we had passed through Wiltshire. I don’t think I even knew where Wiltshire was). My search unearthed another interesting fact. I discovered that Di was awarded the accolade of Best Village Shop/ Post Office in Britain 2007. This was a pretty strange coincidence, considering it was the only Post Office that we visited on the entire trip, and also that Di’s generosity and award-winning potential was so evident. I quote one of the judges, who sums it up far better than I could: