Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

‘We might as well, I suppose. At least it will be dry in there.’

  ‘I was thinking more that it would be good to learn a bit more about Robert Burns and where he lived.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. That too. But mostly because it will be dry in there.’

  Robert Burns House is a small sandstone house just outside Dumfries city centre. It is where he wrote many of his most famous poems, such as that one about the thingy, and that other one about that place.

  The man who worked there – the only other person in the building – was very nice and did his best to generate enthusiasm, but in truth, we were both much more interested in the electric heater that sat in the corner of the gift shop. We lurked beside it for a few minutes, pretending to read leaflets and look at postcards, until we had regained feeling in our lower legs and feet.

  ‘Please, feel free to have a wander around the rest of the house. There are lots of interesting things to look at,’ he said.

  We did. There wasn’t.

  Don’t get me wrong, I understand that Robert Burns was a remarkable man and that his work gives happiness and inspiration to many people, but that doesn’t make the house that he grew up in any more interesting.

  Robert Burns didn’t live a particularly showbiz life. His house looked like any person’s house from the 1700s. It had bedrooms, with beds in. A kitchen with a table in it, and a desk where he wrote. There were also windows that you could see through, and doors that both opened and closed.

  I can see the appeal in looking around a house such as Graceland, with all its extravagance, or even Michael Jackson’s Neverland, but Robert Burn’s house just looked like a house. And a fairly unremarkable house at that.

  I think my distain for unnecessary ‘places of interest’ stems from my visit to the Henry Ford Museum, just outside Detroit, Michigan. Henry Ford was… how can I put this politely?… a complete freak. He created, during his lifetime, a model village of significant buildings and things that had influenced his life. This sounds fair enough, but then you discover he had a favourite text book when he was at school, so he located the birthplace of the author of that particular book, and had her entire house shipped to his model village. That’s not a normal thing to do. Still, at least Robert Burns House was dry and warm.

  ‘If that was one of the best things to do in Dumfries, then I don’t think there’s much hope for this place,’ said Ben, once we were outside. ‘I would rather go to the Northampton Shoe Museum.’

  A little further down the road we came across a shopping centre. There was nowhere suitable for us to leave our bikes, so we wheeled them into the shopping centre. Within seconds we were apprehended by a security guard.

  ‘Ye cannae brin' those bikes in here,’ he said.

  ‘I know, sorry. It’s just that we don’t have any way of locking them up. We’ve just come in to get something to eat.’

  ‘Whaur ur ye gonnae eat?’ he asked.

  ‘Wimpy!’ I said, spotting a Wimpy close by.

  ‘Awe rite. Weel jist prop yer bikes up by th' dyke thaur ootwith. an' dornt gang ridin' them aroond in haur.’

  ‘Did you get that? What are we supposed to do?’ I asked Ben.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think he told us to leave our bikes by this wall and not to ride them inside.’

  ‘Dammit! I’ve always wanted to ride my bike around a shopping centre. Why did you tell him we were going to Wimpy?’

  ‘I just saw it here and thought he might let us bring our bikes in if we weren’t going far. Also, I was genuinely excited about seeing a Wimpy. I thought Wimpy became extinct in the 1980s.’

  ‘Me too. But how are we going to get free food here?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Same way we have for the last thirteen days, I guess.’

  Pam, the manager, was a large, jovial lady in her late thirties. She had a huge mane of black hair and an even bigger smile. We tried to win her over by telling her about the appalling weather and how kind and generous all Scottish people that we had met had been.

  ‘Are ye takin the pish? Ye want free burgers?’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Errr, yeah, I guess so. I know it sounds cheeky, but we’re decent blokes, I promise,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Alrecht. Tak' a seat an' I'll brin' them ower tae ye,’ she laughed.

  Not only did she bring us a burger each, but fries, milkshakes and a couple of bags of crisps. She stood chatting to us for a while as we ate.

  ‘Ae ye boys got any sort ay raincoat?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of bin-liners that we got in Carlisle this morning,’ said Ben.

  ‘Hang oan thaur. I'll gie ye some e'en bigger ones,’ she said, and disappeared back behind the counter. Ben and I smirked at each other convinced that there was no way she could trump the bin-liners we already had. We were wrong.

  ‘Hoo abit these bad jimmies?’ she said, holding up the most ridiculously big bin bags we had ever seen.

  ‘Oh my god. What do you use bags that big for?’ I asked.

  ‘I've got nae idea. They sent us them frae heed office, but they're far tay big e'en fur th' wheelie bins 'at we use. Ah hink they might be body bags.’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ said Ben. ‘Thanks, Pam. These are amazing.’

  We sat and drank our milkshakes as slowly as possible, to delay our return to the cold, wet world outside.

  It was 3.30pm by the time I suggested that we leave.

  ‘Do we really have to do more cycling today?’ asked Ben.

  ‘We’ve only done about 35 miles today. We were hoping to do at least 70.’

  ‘But it’s been pissing it down all day. It’s no fun cycling when the weather’s like this.’

  ‘I know, but it would be good to do a few more miles today, because then that’s less we have to do for the rest of the trip.’

  ‘How many miles are you thinking?’ asked Ben dejectedly.

  ‘20-25?.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell. You’re such a masochist. Where will another 20 miles take us?’

  I looked at the route book, and it was clear that there was very little in the way of civilisation until Kilmarnock, which was almost 70 miles away.

  ‘I’m not sure. There looks like there are plenty of places we pass through,’ I lied. ‘How about we aim for the town of Moniaive, which is less than 20 miles away?’

  ‘Give me that!’ said Ben, snatching the book from me.

  ‘There’s bugger all on the route for bloody miles. We’ll end up getting stranded in the middle of nowhere in this pissing weather,’ said Ben, becoming increasingly frustrated with my stubbornness.

  ‘Let’s at least get to Moniaive. Tomorrow you’ll be glad you did it.’

  ‘I don’t care about tomorrow. I care about today, and I don’t think we should go any further. Look what it says here about Moniaive in the guide book: ‘Moniaive has a marker post in the main street dating from 1638.’ That’s all it says. What makes you think we’d even find somewhere to stay there?’

  ‘I just think we’re better off trying to get as many miles done today as possible.’

  ‘But why? It’s not like we’re in a race, as you keep reminding me. We’ve done 35 miles today. Let’s just consider the rest of the day a write-off.’

  I knew Ben was right, but the idea of calling it a day at 3.30pm when we had planned on a big day’s cycling just seemed wrong.

  ‘How about another ten miles then as a compromise?’ I suggested.

  ‘How about NO? Seriously, what’s the point? We can just do those extra ten miles tomorrow. If you want to do more cycling today then fine, but I’m staying in Dumfries tonight. You go on and stay in that stupid place with the stupid wooden post.’

  I reluctantly agreed to call it a day and stay where we were for the night. Dumfries, that is, not Wimpy.

  We sat in silence for another ten minutes before thanking Pam, retrieving our bikes, and venturing back outside into the rain.

  ‘Are you going to sulk all day?’ asked Ben.

 
‘I’m not sulking,’ I said sulking.

  ‘Yes you are. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.’

  We found a bar further up the road and decided to ask inside whether there were any hostels or B&Bs around.

  The building was very odd. It wasn’t a pub, as such, but it wasn’t a bar or a working men’s club either. It was more like a community room that happened to have a bar in it. It was 4.15pm on a Thursday and there were at least a dozen men in there. The strange thing was that nobody was talking and every single one of them was sat facing a small TV screen in the corner that was showing Deal or No Deal.

  The tension in the room was unbearable. At the time, I didn’t really understand the program – I’ve since become hooked, too – and it was baffling to watch a group of men with such focus and concentration in their faces. Even the barman didn’t take his eyes off the screen as we walked to the bar. We asked him about accommodation – in whispered voices, so as not to spoil the moment – but he still kept his attention on the television.

  ‘There's a few hotels doon 'at way ye coods try,’ he said, pointing his arm to his right, but not adjusting his gaze.

  ‘Ok, thank you,’ I said, and we slunk from the bar.

  ‘DEAL, YOU IDIOT! DEAL! TAKE THE BLOODY MONEY!’ one of them shouted at the TV on our way out.

  We tried a B&B and then a hotel. The first was full, and the second was unable to help. We then stumbled upon the Aberdour Hotel.

  ‘How can I help you, lads?’ said the man at reception. We explained our situation and he gave us the look of a headmaster issuing a detention. ‘Is this some sort of thing for charity, because I’ve been scammed before?’

  ‘No, it’s not. I mean, some people have sponsored us, but that’s not what it’s about,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been scammed before by people saying they’re doing something for charity and then they just take advantage.’

  ‘We completely understand. Well, the point of this trip is that we’re trying not to exploit people’s generosity by using charity.’

  ‘So you’re not doing it for charity?’

  ‘No. We’re doing it as an experiment to see how kind and generous the people of Britain are,’ said Ben.

  ‘But you said that people have sponsored you?’

  ‘Yes, some people have, but only because they insisted on it.’

  ‘So you are doing it for charity then? Cos I’ve been stung before by people claiming they were doing something for charity.’

  We were getting nowhere. He thought for a moment

  ‘Wait there for a second, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  He returned a few minutes later with a key in his hand.

  ‘I’m going to take a chance, because you seem like a couple of decent guys. Sorry to sound so suspicious, but I’ve been stung before by people claiming to be doing something for charity.’

  ‘Of course, we completely understand,’ I said, not really understanding. I was unsure whether he wanted us to be raising money for charity or not, but I knew that we had been honest with him, so left it at that.

  The sight of two clean hotel beds was a welcome change to Ronnie’s living room floor. We took off our soggy shoes, shorts and socks and hung them on the radiator. We then lay on our beds drifting in and out of sleep. After a few minutes there was a tentative knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Ben instinctively, forgetting that we were both lying on our beds, in matching pairs of Union Jack boxer shorts and nothing else. It was Colin – the manager. He did a double take and then looked very embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘We were just drying some of our clothes on the radiator. We don’t really have any spares, which is why we’re in our pants.’

  ‘Right. Ok,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve had a word with the chef downstairs, and you can have whatever you like off the menu for dinner. I’ve also left £10 behind the bar so make sure you have a couple of beers each, too.’

  Scotland was bloody brilliant.

  Colin said goodbye, but then reappeared a few minutes later to give us a pair of tracksuit bottoms that he had salvaged from lost property.

  ‘I think I better have these as you’ve got your suit trousers and a pair of shorts,’ said Ben, staking his claim on the tracksuit bottoms immediately.

  ‘Ok. But you did have a pair of tracksuit bottoms before. Remember? And you decided to just cut the legs off them.’

  ‘Yeah, well I won’t be cutting the legs off these babies,’ he said as he pulled on a pair of dry, cosy tracksuit bottoms. I sat on the bed in my damp pants looking on enviously.

  After dinner and a couple of beers we returned to our room. It was only 7.30pm and we had accommodation and were showered, fed and watered. Most nights we would still have been on the road at this time.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. We could just have an early night?’

  ‘Let’s have a wander around Dumfries. This is our first night in Scotland after all.’

  Dumfries didn’t have a lot going for it during the day. There was even less happening at night. To be fair to Dumfries, it was a wet Thursday in September. I’m not quite sure what we expected.

  We then spotted an old cinema down one of the back streets.

  ‘Fancy the cinema?’ suggested Ben.

  ‘I can think of nothing better. Let’s try.’

  We checked the listings board outside. There was just the one screen and it was showing a film called John Tucker Must Die.

  ‘I think I’ve heard of that,’ said Ben. ‘It’s supposed to be shit.’

  ‘Well it doesn’t look like we’ve got much choice.’

  The foyer was empty, and the girl behind the counter didn’t look old enough to see a PG on her own, let alone work in a cinema. She was texting on her phone and finished writing her message before looking up to acknowledge us.

  We gave her our sob story about how it was our first night in Scotland, and how we wanted to relax etc. She just shrugged her shoulders and said: ‘Whatever. Doesn’t make any difference to me. Just go on in.’

  I can’t remember a single thing about John Tucker Must Die. I’ve seen trailers of it on YouTube since, and nothing about it looks familiar. I didn’t fall asleep, but I just completely zoned off and my mind shut down completely. It was two of the most relaxing hours of my life.

  That’s not an endorsement for the film, by the way. It was just the first time in two weeks that I was able to just completely switch off and not have to talk to anyone, or ask anyone for anything, or worry about where we were going to eat or sleep.

  There was also something soothing about being at the cinema. It was something that ‘normal’ people did. People with money. People who had fun. Not that we hadn’t been having fun, but every moment of the day was occupied with some sort of physical exertion or mental and emotional test. John Tucker Must Die required none of this.

  I could tell Ben felt the same way.

  As we walked out of the cinema behind an elderly couple who had been the only other two people at the showing, Ben did a little skip along the road.

  ‘That was just what I needed. I feel great now,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ I said, and skipped alongside him, arm-in-arm, past the old couple back to our quaint little guest house.

  Day 14 - A place of our own

  Dumfries to Neilston - 83 miles

  ‘Make sure you have some breakfast before you go,’ said the lady in the office, who we presumed to be Colin’s wife. ‘Colin has had to go out this morning, but he said to pass on his best wishes and to make sure you both had something to eat before heading off.’

  It was a bright, sunny day and we both felt so much better than we had the day before.

  ‘Good call getting us to stop when we did yesterday,’ I said to Ben, during breakfast.

  ‘I told you. I’m always right,’ he said. ‘Scotland doesn’t look too bad in the sunshine does it?’ He was rig
ht, for once. It didn’t look too bad at all.

  The road climbed gradually for twenty miles after Dumfries along the picturesque B729. We passed through the villages of Dunscore and Moniaive and in 20 miles we saw no more than a dozen cars. Moniaive, it turned out, had little more than the wooden post and it would have been a real struggle to find somewhere to stay.

  We had been told that the Scottish highlands were beautiful, but the scenery north of Dumfries took us completely by surprise. It all looked a lot greener than anything we had passed through, and the rolling landscape was scattered with small copses of pine trees and the occasional ancient ruin. In any other country these would be made into tourist attractions. Scotland has so many of these, that most of them go unnoticed.

  There was very little in the way of civilisation between Dumfries and the town of Dalmellington where we stopped for lunch. Dalmellington was a peaceful, but sad looking town. Iron and coal were discovered in the nearby hills in the 1800s, and for over a hundred years it was a thriving mining town. Iron production ended in the 1920s and the coal mine closed in the 1980s, and now the town feels slightly neglected.

  We called into a café on the main street. I say ‘main street’, but I think there was only the one street. We were particularly conscious of asking for free food in a place that was clearly struggling, so we insisted that we do some work in exchange for something to eat. The lady behind the counter insisted that we didn’t need to do anything to help, and provided us with a sausage bap and a cup of tea.

  As an example to illustrate just how quiet and peaceful Dalmellington was, I was nearly run over by a man in a wheelchair.

  I was cycling down the main street, when he pulled out in front of me to cross the road without looking. I managed to swerve out of the way at the last moment but my foot caught the floor as I tried to regain balance and the pedal spun and smacked against my shin, shortly before grazing the back of my leg quite badly on the main cog. I turned around to see the man in the wheelchair continue to the other side of the road without even an acknowledgement.