Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

‘Happy now?’ whispered Ben as we climbed into the trailer with our bikes.

  ‘Yes, very.’

  After dumping the bikes in Mike’s back garden, Rob drove us the ten or so miles to his farm on the outskirts of Gloucester.

  He led us through the large farm kitchen, up the stairs and into a giant guest bedroom. A giant bedroom, I mean, not a room for giant guests.

  ‘Rob, we were expecting a barn or something to sleep in tonight. Not one of your bedrooms. Honestly, we would be perfectly happy with the onions,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m more than happy for you both to stay here.’

  As soon as he had disappeared, I dived for the bed.

  ‘I’m having the bed this time,’ I shouted.

  ‘You bastard,’ said Ben.

  After a quick wash and change from one smelly t-shirt to another, we went downstairs to meet Rob.

  ‘So have you guys really never heard of the Severn Bore?’ he asked, when we were in the kitchen.

  ‘After you mentioned it I realised I had heard of it before,’ I said, trying to disguise my ignorance.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Ben, without trying to hide his.

  ‘Basically it’s a wave that goes up the river against the current. It happens a couple of times a year maybe, but the one tonight is going to be the biggest in 25 years they say,’ said Rob.

  ‘Cool. How do they happen?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Basically it’s when there’s a high tide and the level of the sea becomes higher than the natural level of the estuary. The water has to go somewhere so it sends a wave of water several miles up the estuary. People surf it sometimes. In fact this one guy earlier this year surfed over seven miles down the river. Anyway, we’d better get a crack on. If you grab as many of those bags of barbeque stuff as you can on the way out that would be great.’

  After about ten minutes, we pulled into a field in the middle of nowhere. We could hear the distant chatter of voices and could make out the faint glow of a fire. We followed the light of Rob’s torch across the boggy and uneven field to where a group of about 30 people were gathered around a barbeque the size of a pool table. It was the biggest barbeque I had ever seen, constructed from three oil drums, and giving off an immense heat.

  Rob introduced us to his parents who were both in their seventies and extremely nice. They, in turn, introduced us to their friends, who then introduced us to theirs and within half an hour we knew almost everyone.

  After a while, some of the men began to put meat onto the barbeque.

  ‘Can we help at all?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, yes, you can both be in charge of the barbeque, if you don’t mind,’ said the old guy as he coughed on the smoke. ‘There are a couple of pairs of tongs over there. Be careful because it’s very hot.’ This was the understatement of the century. I could feel myself carbonising as I stood there.

  ‘Nice one, George,’ said Ben sarcastically, when the old man had turned away, ‘You’ve got us a job cooking in a volcano. Just think, two hours ago we were roaming the streets of Newtown, or whatever that place was called, looking for somewhere to stay, and now we’re running a barbeque in a field for a big group of old people while we wait for a wave to come the wrong way down the river. How mad is that?’

  ‘It’s crazy. It’s weird to think that if we had done anything differently today, like take an extra ten minutes for a break, or if we had been offered a room at that George Hotel, or if you hadn’t suggested we speak to the onion stackers, then we would never have got to experience this.’

  ‘Yeah, or we might still be roaming the streets of Newtown.’

  ‘Newent,’ I corrected.

  ‘You knew what?’

  ‘No, Newent. The town is called Newent. Not Newtown.’

  ‘Well, whatever, I wouldn’t want to spend the night roaming its streets.’

  ‘Here you go, boys,’ said the old guy, who had returned with two cool-boxes. ‘We’ve got burgers, sausages, ribs, chops, steaks and chicken legs. You might as well cook it all. We don’t really want to take any of it home.’

  There was enough food to feed Gloucestershire.

  We set about our task of cooking the biggest quantity of meat that had ever been seen in one place. I dread to think of how many animals must have died to create the mountain of bits that we were faced with.

  There was no light other than the coals themselves, so it was virtually impossible to tell if the meat was cooked properly. We managed to borrow a miniature LED keyring from one of the old ladies (yeah, she was down with the kids). This worked well, but only if we held it about 4cm from the piece of meat that we were inspecting. This had to be done at lightning speed to stop the skin on our arms blistering. In reality, we didn’t really need to check if the meat was cooked. The barbeque was so ridiculously hot that the meat was charcoaled within seconds.

  We piled the blackened food onto huge plates in batches as we cooked it, and they were taken to a table where people began queuing to fill their plates.

  ‘You’re doing a great job,’ said one lady as she passed us with a full plate of carbon. ‘It tastes like a proper barbeque,’ which was a polite way of saying that it was completely burnt.

  After everyone had helped themselves, Rob came over and took the tongs from us.

  ‘Great job, guys. You go and fill your plates and I’ll keep an eye on the last few bits,’ he said.

  ‘IT’S COMING!’ shouted one of the group members, soon after 10pm.

  Everyone rushed towards the river that was now eerily lit by the moon. The river was completely still and the prospect of a ‘wall of water’ as we had been promised seemed incomprehensible. We were several miles inland and it seemed impossible that a wave could make it up that far, and I did start to wonder if it was all an elaborate joke. Rob had also said that we would hear it long before we would see it. But, apart from the building excitement and chatter of the old people, I could hear nothing. Even a ripple would have made this lot gasp. My expectations were set very low.

  Just then I heard something.

  It’s hard to describe the sound it made. Imagine the sound that a big wave makes when it breaks near the shore, but instead of this being followed by the lull as the water recedes, the noise just continues. Like one big, continuous wave. This, as you’ve probably gathered by now, is exactly what the Severn Bore is.

  The river was fairly narrow at the point where we were standing, and we were only a few metres away from the water’s edge. When the bore finally came into sight it exceeded all of my expectations. I couldn’t help but gasp in amazement like the rest of the group. It was, literally, a wall of water almost two metres high travelling up the river. It was slower than I expected but far, far more impressive. For some reason, I had naively imagined that the wave would be on its own and once it had passed the river would be back to normal. What I neglected to realise was that this wave was being pushed by a continuous flood of water behind it. It carried with it huge tree trunks and branches that it had salvaged from the river bank on its journey. No surfers had managed to ride the wave this far, and to be honest I was slightly relieved. On this occasion it seemed that nature had won.

  As the bore passed us, the water rushed up the river bank and flooded the field around us. I’ve never seen old people move so fast, as they all jumped for higher ground. Ben and I, who were too transfixed by the whole thing, failed to get out of the way and the fringes of the wave lapped over our feet.

  The bore continued out of sight and the river quietened down, but still in its engorged form. The rest of the group headed back towards the barbeque deep in chatter, but we remained awestruck on the river bank. I can honestly say it was one of the most memorable moments of my life. I’m not sure how much of an influence the bizarreness of our evening had on the experience, but even on its own, the Severn Bore really is one of nature’s great spectacles.

  Our fortune was reinforced when the chairman of the Severn Bore Society told us that it wa
s the best he had witnessed in over 30 years. I tried to think of something profound and meaningful to say to convey my emotions to the equally awestruck Ben.

  ‘Awesome,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and get some more meat.’

  The group showed no sign of flagging as more and more wine was drank, and more and more meat was eaten. They added to their generosity when the chairman made a short speech about our challenge, and presented us with a cheque for £50 from the society, for us to give to the charity of our choice.

  I don’t remember leaving the barbeque. I just remember waking up later with Ben tugging at my shirt.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘You can’t sleep on Rob’s dining table. It’s time to go to bed.’

  Day 8 - Newent Onion Fayre

  Newent to Ludlow - 46 miles

  I woke up with my head pounding and my brain trying to piece together which bits of the previous night were real, which were drunken imaginations and which were dreams.

  We conducted our daily routine of choosing the least rank of our t-shirts to wear for the day. On this occasion, though, it was 6am and ridiculously cold so we ended up putting on everything we owned. Rob was already busy in the kitchen when we went downstairs.

  ‘Help yourself to cereal. The kettle’s on.’

  ‘Oh my God, look at this. Weetabix GOLD!’ said Ben excitedly diving at a cereal packet.

  ‘What the hell is Weetabix GOLD? Have you had it before?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I didn’t even know it existed. I bet it’s amazing,’ he said as he lined three of them up in a bowl.

  ‘They look like normal Weetabix.’

  ‘Yeah, but I bet it’s all in the taste.’ There was a brief pause while Ben poured milk over his Weetabix GOLD, and most of the tablecloth.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s the best cereal, ever. If you thought Weetabix was good, then you wait until you’ve tried Weetabix GOLD.’

  I had to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘It tastes just like normal Weetabix, but with really nice milk,’ I said.

  ‘That’s fresh out the dairy this morning,’ said Rob as he joined us at the table with a teapot.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben, ‘I think you’re right. I’ve just added some Corn Flakes too and they taste like the best Corn Flakes ever. And these aren’t even Corn Flakes GOLD. Just normal ones.’

  ‘Do Corn Flakes GOLD even exist?’ I asked.

  ‘I doubt it, but they should bring them out, if they’re anywhere near as good as Weetabix GOLD.’

  ‘Hang on, but you just said… oh never mind.’

  I later discovered that Weetabix GOLD was discontinued.

  It was still dark when Rob drove us down the lane to his farm shop. This was not just a tiny stall selling onions; it was a vast food emporium, complete with bakery, butchery, cheese counter, gift shop and any vegetable you could ever want.

  ‘I thought you just grew onions?’ I asked.

  ‘No, we grow all sorts here. Not everything in here is from this farm but most of it is.’

  Rob was not content with just running a farm and a farm shop, he was also a local entrepreneur; always on the lookout for a new venture to keep him busy. I don’t think it was even financially motivated, as many of his projects seemed to be charity schemes.

  He ran Halloween trailer rides each year called ‘Frightmare’, which included a visit to the pumpkin patch, a haunted hayride and a trip to a ghostly cottage. He also organised train rides, Easter egg hunts, birthday parties, Santa’s grotto and farm tours. My personal favourite was the Living Pizza Field. Rob had created a huge round field, and then divided it up into 12 pizza-like slices. Each slice of the field grew ingredients used to make a pizza, including wheat, onions (of course), garlic, tomatoes, sweet corn, olives, herbs and even cows, chickens and pigs. The idea was that children could go and learn more about where food came from, and how it is created. Having the field set out in the shape of a pizza made it easier for them to relate to. Children then got to cook a homemade pizza in Rob’s specially created pizza kitchen with a traditional wood-fired pizza oven. It was the work of a genius.

  We piled the pickup and trailer high with crates of vegetables, fruit and eggs. We then had to balance ourselves and the produce whilst standing up in the back of the pickup.

  As we continued back up the track, the sun was rising and had cast its morning glow over the fields. At this point, an ostrich began running alongside the pickup truck. It was like being in Africa. Sort of.

  Newent town centre was bustling when we arrived; stallholders were frantically getting their stuff ready, fairground rides were being assembled, gazebos erected, stages built, PA systems tested.

  Rob left us in charge of transforming a pickup and trailer load of vegetables into an attractive and presentable market stall. Ben honoured himself with the title of Director of Vegetable Aesthetics and gave me the title of Chief Vegetable Arranger.

  I soon established that this involved Ben pointing to where each pile of vegetables should go, and instructing me to do all of the actual lifting. I’m pretty sure Ben didn’t make physical contact with a single vegetable during the entire operation.

  Without wishing to boast, I soon discovered that I had a natural talent for vegetable arranging. It’s a skill that I had never had the opportunity to fully realise. Sweet corn husks were stacked like a brick wall, carrots and leeks were laid out in majestic fan shapes, and bags of onions were elegantly suspended from hooks under the archway. Ben nodded approvingly and barked orders about more onions here, and fewer parsnips there.

  When our work was done, we set off to see what else the Newent Onion Fayre had to offer. We were interrupted by the sound of a town crier’s bell.

  ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Good people of Newent, you are gathered here today for the Newent Onion Fayre. Shortly, our guest of honour Würzel – from the rock group Motörhead – will be performing on the main stage.’

  What was that? Würzel, from the heavy metal group Motörhead, was going to be performing at the Newent Onion Fayre? It was all very surreal.

  What I also liked was the way the town crier had referred to the ‘main stage,’ as if there were many different stages. There was in fact just the one, and the word ‘stage’ was a little generous. It was a trailer with a gazebo on it.

  When the town crier had finished his address we went and had a chat with him because he looked lonely.

  Willium Chapman was well into his eighties but a lively character who had fully embraced the role of Town Crier, which he had held for many years. During the ten minutes that we spoke to him, we learnt about his time in the Royal Army Medical Corps and his career as a paramedic. He told us that he was one of the oldest Town Criers in the country and, get this, the oldest Town Crier IN THE WORLD to have a Blue Peter badge. Yes, you read that correctly. He was the oldest Town Crier in the world to have a Blue Peter badge. He even showed us the badge, which was pinned to his costume.

  This seemed a bit weird to me at the time. Blue Peter has been going for 50 years, but even if Willium had got his badge during Blue Peter’s first year he would have been well into his thirties. What sort of grown man sends drawings into Blue Peter?

  ‘I think guests who appear on the show also get badges,’ said Ben, when I voiced my concerns to him later. ‘They’re not just for kids who send in drawings.’

  ‘Ok, good. That’s a relief,’ I said.

  I discovered later, that, like Peter the Potter in Bath, Willium had died peacefully in hospital, aged 87, a few weeks after we had met him. It was very sad to think that two such vibrant and colourful characters had passed away so soon after our journey. It was a real privilege to have met both of them, and each made their mark on our trip in their own unique way.

  I would like to make it clear that we had nothing to do with the death of either of them.

  ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Good people of Newent, please welcome to the stage… ’ said Willium, pausing to look at his script, ‘…Würz
el.’

  Suddenly, Newent was transformed. One minute it was full of grannies filling their shopping bags with onions, crocheted toys and unwanted tombola prizes. The next, all the dad-rockers, and emos had come out of the cracks and completely packed the town square in front of the stage.

  Würzel emerged sheepishly through the flap at the back of the gazebo and picked up his guitar. He was a wispy little man wearing blue jeans and a Motörhead t-shirt, despite leaving the band in 1995. His hair was grey and scraggly and gave credence to the story that he was given his nickname after his resemblance to the scarecrow Worzel Gummidge.

  He was joined on stage by a drummer and bass-player and he muttered a brief ‘Hi,’ before launching into a very entertaining ten minute rock ‘n’ roll instrumental. He then left the stage with an awkward wave and the masses began to disperse. Then a voice came over the PA system that gave one of the most surreal announcements I have ever heard:

  ‘Würzel will be signing autographs at the Swan Rescue stand in about half an hour.’

  It was time to leave Newent.

  We gave our thanks to Rob for our unbelievable time in Newent, and he thanked us for our hard work, and gave us both a cup of his wife’s ‘world famous’ onion soup and some bread.

  On the way out of town, we called into a greengrocer and asked the lady if she had a couple of old bananas that she could spare. We both felt the need for some fruit or vegetables (other than onions), to help our bodies recover from the shock of the meat feast we had eaten the night before. After she had heard about our challenge, she got so excited that she filled a carrier bag with grapes, apples, pears, peaches, plums and bananas.

  ‘This should keep you going,’ she said. ‘Good luck, guys.’ We ate as much of the fruit as we could, and then hung the rest of the bag from The Horse’s handlebars. Ludlow was 50 miles away, and we set our sights on getting there by the end of the day.