Soon after leaving Newent our route crossed the M50 and into Herefordshire. My knowledge of English counties was, and still is, awful, but the bike ride did fill in few gaps for me. For example, the realisation that Herefordshire is not just a misspelling of Hertfordshire. Ask me to name all 50 US states and I could give it a good go, but ask me anything about English counties, or any British geography for that matter, and I am completely clueless.
We reached the town of Bromyard at about 2pm and stopped by a pub on the edge of town. The large beer garden was packed full of people and there were Morris Dancers performing.
As they were prancing around and hitting their sticks, Ben invented his own Morris Dancers’ song which he sang along in perfect time to the music and the click of their sticks: ‘I’ll bash yours, you bash mine. Let’s play willy games.’
It was such a childish comment, and one that had come completely out of the blue, but it was several minutes before I stopped laughing.
‘It’s just not right is it? Grown men dressed like that, frolicking around with their bells, sticks and stupid clothes. They give me the creeps,’ he said.
‘I agree. It should be made illegal.’
It turned out that Bromyard was hosting its annual Folk Festival, and the different Morris dancing groups were having some sort of ‘dance-off’ to see who the best was. In our eyes, there were no winners, only losers.
A pig roast was being served, and we decided to try our luck at getting some lunch. We joined the long queue of people and Morris Dancers (yes I know, Morris Dancers are human beings, too) and waited our turn.
‘What can I get you?’ said the agitated lady who was serving.
‘Hi, we’re cycling from Land’s End to John O’Groats, and we... ’ began Ben before being interrupted.
‘Oh, not this, I haven’t got time for this,’ she said angrily. ‘Do you want any food or not?’
‘Well, yes, but we don’t have any money. Is there any work we can do in exchange for a bread roll or something?’ said Ben, trying to win her over.
‘No, there are all sorts of health and safety issues. I can’t have you helping back here. You’ll have to try elsewhere.’
We were forced to do the walk of shame past all of the smug-looking Morris Dancers.
We had a very similar response from four other places that we tried in the town centre, including a butcher, a newsagent, a baker and a café. It was not just that we were being refused food - as this was to be expected on our challenge - it was that we were being looked at with genuine disdain.
On previous days, the responses had always been jovial and enthusiastic, even when they had been unable to help us. In Bromyard, however, there was a definite feeling of suspicion and distrust.
‘I think our luck has expired,’ sighed Ben after our fourth consecutive rejection – a new record.
‘I wonder whether it’s us, or if it’s Bromyard?’ I asked.
‘Definitely Bromyard. This place is full of miserable people.’
‘Maybe. Although, we’re both looking particularly rough today. Neither of us have shaved in over a week, we didn’t get much sleep last night, and our clothes smell really bad.’
‘But we’ve still got our charm and wit, haven’t we?’
‘Maybe that’s flagging, too,’ I suggested.
Our indictment of Bromyard was spared by the kindness of one lady. Just when we were about to write-off an entire town, the lady behind the counter in Loafers Patisserie was a ray of sunshine, in an otherwise overcast town. This is a metaphor, by the way; the whole town was actually very sunny when were there. She giggled away self-consciously as we told her of our challenge and then gave us each a French-bread pizza and a pasty.
We sat on the pavement outside Loafers and ate our lunch. Just as we were beginning to warm to Bromyard, and regret being so critical of it, we witnessed one of the most shocking and horrible sights that it is possible to see in this world; a giant procession of all of the different Morris Dancing groups, joined together in one long terrifying Morris Dancing snake. And they were dancing towards us.
We scoffed down our pasties, jumped on our bikes, and left Bromyard as quickly as we could.
A lady from nearby Bishop’s Frome, named Violet Eveson – the granddaughter of a local hop grower – died in 1993 leaving £47million in a trust fund for local improvements. At the time, this was considered the largest ever single donation to a charity in the UK. This is not particularly relevant. I just wanted to highlight that there are (or at least were) other nice people in the Bromyard area, other than the lady from Loafers Patisserie.
We were soon out of Bromyard, and then out of Herefordshire and into Shropshire. We cycled through the village of Collington and the market town of Tenbury Wells without stopping and reached Ludlow at about 5pm.
Our visit coincided with yet another festival. The streets were packed with revellers for the Ludlow Food Festival - our third festival in 12 hours. There was obviously a buzz of excitement associated with each of these festivals, which was great to experience, but the downside was that accommodation became so much harder to find.
We asked at nearly a dozen hotels, pubs and B&Bs in town, but were told by each of them that they were full. Our offers of help were also unwanted as each establishment had ensured they were fully staffed to cope with the influx of people to the town.
Ludlow is a quaint little town, dominated by the impressive Ludlow Castle. The town has almost 500 listed buildings, and boasts some unique medieval and Tudor architecture. Its links to gastronomy do not end with the Food Festival either; until recently, it had more Michelin-starred restaurants than any other town in the UK.
We passed a house on one of the cobbled backstreets with a sign in the window which said: ‘ACCOMMODATION’. I knocked on the door.
A lady in her late sixties answered the door. She had bright white hair and a big smile. We explained that we had seen the sign in her window, and that we were looking for somewhere to sleep.
‘Well, I do have a spare room. But I very rarely have anyone staying. I don’t advertise, and nobody tends to walk this way,’ she said.
We made it clear from the outset that we had no money, and that we did not want her to feel under any obligation to let two strange men into her house.
‘Well, it’s always nice to have company, so if you’re really desperate then I’d be very happy for you both to stay,’ she said. Ben and I looked at each other. There was a short pause before we turned back to the lady, and said, in perfect unison:
‘We’re desperate!’
The lady’s name was Monica, and she had lived in Ludlow for nearly 30 years. We wheeled our bikes around to the back garden, which was a storey lower than the front of her house, as it was built onto the steep Ludlow hillside. She showed us to our room and then asked if she could get us anything for dinner.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Ben, ‘but we’re intruding enough as it is. We’ll be able to get some food in town, hopefully. We’ve become pretty good at getting stuff for free.’
‘I bet you have, if you’ve survived this far.’
‘Is there anything we can get you?’ asked Ben, realising that it was a bit of a stupid question considering that we had no money.
‘Actually, yes, it would be great if you could pick up some milk for breakfast.’
‘Ok… of course… no problem,’ said Ben.
Monica gave us a key to the front door and we set off to hit the town.
‘How are we going to get milk? Are we going to have to shoplift, or find a cow to milk?’ I asked.
‘We’ll sort something out. I was only being polite. I didn’t expect her to actually ask us to get anything. Ludlow, baby!’ said Ben.
We walked back up to the castle where the food festival was taking place. Admission was £5, but there was nobody manning the gate so we nipped inside to have a look, just as the last few stalls were packing up their things.
We had arranged to meet o
ur mums and girlfriends for lunch in Shrewsbury the following day, and although I had successfully sent my mum a birthday card, I did not have any sort of present to give her.
Being a keen foodie, I knew she would love anything sold at a food festival. In a frantic ten minute begging spree I pitched my plight to the remaining stall holders in the hope of some freebies. Ben lurked outside in the shadows, embarrassed by my tenacity. I was rewarded with the following:
Two bottles of cider
A bottle of elderflower cordial
Dried cranberries
Pate
Pickled walnuts
Dried mixed herbs
Sweet chilli dipping sauce
In all my life, even at my most generous, I don’t think I had bought my mum a better present.
‘Holy shit! That’s incredible,’ said Ben outside. ‘You’re getting a bit too good at this blagging. How the hell did you get all that?’
‘This is what happens when you’re not there. I’m thinking of going solo.’
‘You wouldn’t last half a day without me. Anyway, your mum won’t need all of that. Let’s have some of it now for dinner.’
‘Sod off! This is my mum’s birthday present. How would you like it if I ate your mum’s birthday present?’
‘Well, it depends what it was. I bought her a CD this year, so if you ate that I would find it a little strange, to be honest.’
‘Well I would find it weird if you ate my mum’s dried herbs.’
‘What about the cider then?’
‘I thought you were hungry?’
‘I am, but your mum doesn’t need two bottles, does she? And if we drink one it means you’ve got less to carry tomorrow.’
‘How about we give a bottle to Monica as a present?’
‘Ok, fine. Shall we just eat the pate then?’
‘No.’
Two hours later, we found ourselves sitting in a pub just off the main square eating a plate of Paella and drinking our fourth beer of the evening.
We had got talking to a couple in the street named Andy and Alison and they had insisted on buying us both a beer after hearing about our journey.
Andy and Alison were a couple in their mid-thirties, having a romantic weekend away from their busy working lives in Bristol. Often when we recounted to people some of the experiences we had had along the way, their eyes would glaze over and they would wish they had never asked.
With Andy, however, he wanted to know absolutely every single detail of our trip.
‘I think what you’re doing is really life-affirming,’ he said.
‘Really? Thank you,’ I said, not fully understanding what the phrase meant.
‘Seriously, guys, I think it’s just brilliant what you’re doing. There must be some other way I can help you with your trip? What do you still need?’
‘Thanks, Andy, I think we’re pretty much fully kitted out,’ said Ben. ‘Besides, you’ve just bought us a beer. That’s all we need.’
Andy wasn’t going to give up that easily.
‘I assume you both have helmets?’
‘Well… yeah, we’ve kinda got one helmet that we take it in turns to wear,’ I said.
‘Ha ha…’ said Andy, assuming we were joking and then realising that we weren’t. ‘My word, you’re serious? You share a helmet? Well I do a bit of kite-surfing and I’ve got a spare helmet back at the hotel if one of you doesn’t mind looking like a prat.’
‘I don’t mind looking like a prat,’ said Ben.
Andy gave us directions, and we made an arrangement to cycle over to their hotel the following morning. He then bought us both another beer and managed to persuade the man behind the bar to sort us out with a plate of paella each.
Whilst we were eating, Andy and Alison were talking to other people in the pub about us, and after we had finished eating we were bought another two pints. We finally said goodbye and stumbled out of the pub at 11.15pm at the end of yet another memorable evening.
‘DAMN!’ shouted Ben as we staggered across the square. ‘I nearly forgot. We haven’t got Monica any milk yet.’
Getting free milk in Ludlow at 11.15pm is not an easy task. All the shops and restaurants had closed, and it was too late to knock on random people’s doors. There were no cows about, either. We tried one of pubs on the main square but were told that the kitchen was closed. We then tried another pub, and we were met at the door by the landlady.
‘Sorry boys. We’re closing. Last orders have been served,’ she said.
‘Actually, we’re trying to get hold of some milk. I don’t suppose you’ve got any here that we can have?’
‘Milk? How come you need milk? How much do you need?’ she asked.
‘It’s a long story. Basically, we promised we’d get an old lady some milk, but we don’t have any money and all the shops are closed. We don’t need much. Only half a pint or so,’ said Ben.
‘Ok then,’ said the lady, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She returned a few minutes later.
‘The chef said they used up the last of their milk a few hours ago because it’s been so busy. They’ve only got these, which they’ve been using for the teas and coffees.’ She handed over a carrier bag containing mini UHT milk portions and a yoghurt pot. ‘I thought you could maybe empty them into this plastic pot to make it look like real milk.’
‘Perfect. Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,’ said Ben.
In Monica’s kitchen, which was down a flight of stairs on the same level as the back garden, we emptied all of the milk portions into the pot. There were 25 little 12ml pots, which equalled 300ml – just over half a pint.
Day 9 - Family reunion
Ludlow to Ellesmere - 45 miles
For the second consecutive morning, we awoke in a comfy spare bedroom with awful hangovers. It wasn’t how we imagined our penniless voyage to John O’Groats would take shape, but we were more than happy with how it was unfolding.
Monica was already in the kitchen when we went downstairs.
‘Thank you very much again for letting us stay,’ said Ben.
‘It was my pleasure. I hope you were alright with just a double bed. I don’t want to presume you’re gay,’ she said, completely out of the blue.
‘No, we’re not a couple. Ben keeps trying to seduce me but I’m not going to give in to him,’ I replied.
‘Well, whether you’re gay or not, it doesn’t matter to me. Help yourself to breakfast.’
We sat at the table in Monica’s kitchen for nearly two hours.
She had been a little wary of telling us too much about herself to begin with – and rightly so – but after she realised our good intentions, she relaxed completely.
She told us all about her life, and how she had been a nurse during the war, and had had a baby with a Canadian soldier at a very young age. She had regrettably given the baby up for adoption, as she felt she was too young to look after it. She then later came to Ludlow on horseback to visit friends who lived in the town, and had stayed there ever since.
In 2005 she received a letter from her daughter – then in her fifties – who had managed to track her down. The daughter lived in Canada but flew to Ludlow straight away as soon as Monica suggested it. The two have been extremely close ever since, and Monica has visited her daughter in Canada several times.
‘That’s incredible,’ I said. ‘And how does your daughter feel about being adopted? Is there any sort of resentment?’
‘None at all. She completely understands how hard it was for me. Things were very different back then. And besides, she was looked after by an amazing family and as far as she’s concerned, they are her parents, but she has definitely found a new friend in me and we are both enjoying getting to know each other.’
‘That’s really lovely. What about you? Do you have any regrets?’ asked Ben tentatively.
‘Yes, of course. Never a day went by when I didn’t think about her, and how I had given her away. It changed my whole life. That’s
why I never married. I didn’t ever feel anyone would ever be able to understand me properly. As I say, things were very different back then - it’s what I had to do. We’re making up for it now, though. She’s coming over again next week with her family. She’s got two children of her own. They think it is great having three grannies, as it means they get an extra present on their birthdays and at Christmas.’ Her face was filled with happiness as she looked out of the window, her eyes welling up as she spoke.
‘And what about her father? Has she managed to track him down? Are you still in contact with him?’ I asked, eager to find out more.
‘No, no. She did try, but I don’t even remember his name. In fact, I don’t even remember which soldier it was that got me pregnant. There was more than one Canadian soldier during that time,’ she said with a smile. Neither of us quite knew how to respond to this.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. We got some cider for you from the food festival last night,’ I said, fishing it from my rucksack.
Monica was delighted with her cider and pleased that she had gone with her instincts and allowed us both to stay.
‘I’m the one that should be thanking you. I feel like I’ve made two new friends,’ she said.
After a lengthy search we found Andy and Alison’s hotel – the glamorous-looking Dinham Hall Hotel.
‘They’ve checked out already, but they left this helmet and this box of energy powder with me and said you would be calling past to pick it up,’ said the man at reception. He handed over the kite-surfing helmet, which was basically a full crash helmet, but without the visor part, and half a box of powdered Lucozade (other energy drinks are available). If Ben was going to look like a prat in a crash helmet, at least he would be a prat full of energy.
‘Mr and Mrs Jacobs told me about your challenge,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a great idea. The hotel would be happy to offer you both breakfast.’
‘Thank you, if only we’d known. We’ve just filled up on cereal and toast at the place we stayed,’ said Ben. ‘Thanks very much for the offer, though. We really appreciate it.’
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 16