I gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming that he had some form of mental impairment, as well as physical, but then watched as he engaged in a loud conversation with a friend once he reached the other side.
We followed the busy (by Scotland’s standards) A713 to Patna, which was another strange looking town. Patna is basically a big housing estate plonked right in the middle of some beautiful Scottish countryside. The town was built in 1802 to provide houses for the workers of the nearby coal-fields.
Patna did attract tourists for a while when a nearby manor turned its grounds into a caravan park. This eventually closed in the late 1990s, and the caravan park became vandalised, eventually resulting in the manor house being burnt down and left as a ruin.
We called into Costcutter to try and get something else to eat. The girl behind the counter was in her teens, and she smiled when we told her our story, as though it was the most exciting thing that she had ever heard. She had lived in Patna all of her life, so the chances are it probably was.
‘Aight, that’s bloody wicked, guys,’ she said. ‘I’ll get yers some food. I should probably check with ma manager first but a cannae be bothered and she’ll never notice anyway. Yous wait there.’ She picked up a shopping basket from the doorway and began scouring the shelves, aisle by aisle, looking for things to donate to us. She filled the basket with bread rolls, a packet of ham, a block of cheese, tomatoes, a tin of baked beans, some digestive biscuits, two steak pies, apples, pears and two drinks.
‘Will this keep you going?’ she asked, handing the basket over. We stood open-mouthed.
‘Un-be-lieve-able,’ said Ben. ‘Thank you so much. Are you sure you’re able to give us all of that?’
‘Yeah, sod it. It’s probably all past its best-before date anyways,’ she said, knowing full well that it wasn’t.
We always seemed to stumble upon generosity in the most unlikely of places. It was moments such as this that our faith in human kindness was given its biggest boost. Patna, as it turned out, was a damn fine place.
We ate the steak pies and an apple each, and stuffed the rest into our bags to have for dinner.
The road climbed after leaving Patna, and then descended for about eight glorious miles through lush farmland. We reached the town of Drongan and stopped for a quick break. I took a moment to check our progress in the route book. There was a little bit of information about Drongan. It said:
‘…another mining community whose fortunes suffered when the local pit closed in 1986. The town’s youth reportedly have a strong local rivalry with neighbouring Coylton.’
We didn’t hang around very long. For the next twenty miles we didn’t stop. Not because of the Drongan gangs, of course. That would have been silly. Simply because we were keen to cycle as many miles as we could to make up for our paltry distance of the previous day.
We passed through the town of Tarbolton, which has some association with Robert Burns, but decided not to stop to find out what. After our experience with Robert Burns in Dumfries, we knew we would not be missing out.
The weather was great, we had a surplus of food, the gradient of the road was in our favour, and Scotland was stunningly beautiful. But, there was still just one small problem: the Falcon could not manage more than a quarter of a mile without the chain falling off.
I had become a seasoned-pro at reattaching it, but it was still incredibly frustrating. I could sense Ben’s anger increasing each time, and he would always mutter an ‘oh for fuck’s sake’ or a ‘here we go again’ under his breath. If it happened when I was behind him, I would try to reattach it secretly and then catch him up without him noticing. I was successful on a couple of occasions, but most of the time he would glance back and see me fumbling with the bike. He would then make a point of stopping to let me catch up, just so he could mutter something like: ‘I told you we should have replaced that piece of shit back in Bath.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ I said, stroking The Falcon’s handlebars.
‘You’re as messed up as your bike,’ said Ben.
‘Well, you’re big... and... errr... big and stupid like your bike,’ I said. It wasn’t one of my best comebacks.
We arrived in the village of Kilmaurs just before 6pm. The Falcon’s chain had fallen off yet again, and Ben was close to detaching it completely and wrapping it around my neck.
‘Oh my god,’ said Ben, ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I know, I know. I get the message,’ I said as I tried to reattach it.
‘No, I’m not talking about the bike. Look over there.’
Just across the road from us was a bike shop called Walkers Cycling.
‘Would you believe it? It’s a bloody bike shop. It’s fate,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got to go and see if they can do anything about that bike. I can’t go on like this.’
‘Ok,’ I said, ‘but it’s 5.55pm. I reckon it’ll be closed.’
It was open. We were greeted inside by a bearded man, who looked more like a friendly maths teacher than someone who should work in a bike shop. I explained what we were up to, and that we were having a few bike problems, and asked if they had any tips or advice on how we could prolong the life of The Falcon.
‘No problem. I’ll get one of my guys to come and take a look at it,’ he said.
We were joined outside by two young mechanics who spent at least ten minutes oiling and tweaking the rear-derailleur and chain.
‘We’ve stopped at a couple of bike shops along the way already and both of them told us that it was completely broken and that there was no hope,’ I said.
‘That’s not in the spirit of your adventure,’ said John, the bearded man, who owned and ran the shop with his wife Susan.
‘So you’ve really come all this way without spending any money at all?’ asked Susan.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve managed to get somewhere to sleep every night, and plenty of food?’
‘We’ve gone hungry a few times and we have had to slept in a few odd places, but we’re doing ok.’
‘We get a lot of End to Enders calling in because Kilmaurs seems to be on many of the popular routes,’ said John. ‘But I think in all the years I’ve been working here that you two are the craziest.’
‘Definitely,’ laughed one of the guys, who was still seeing to The Falcon. ‘These tyres are pretty flat, too. You should probably put some more air in them if I were you.’
‘We don’t have a pump unfortunately,’ I said.
‘You’re joking? You are cycling a thousand miles and you don’t even have a pump. What about a puncture repair kit?’ asked John.
‘No,’ I said, feeling like I was being told off.
‘What happens if you get a puncture in the middle of nowhere?’
‘We did get one. In Wales. We had to walk to the nearest house.’
‘You guys are absolutely bonkers. Susan, go and grab these boys a pump, puncture repair kit and anything else that you think they might need. And what the hell were you doing in Wales, anyway?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I said.
Susan returned a few minutes later with a pump, puncture repair kit, a ‘Walkers Cycling’ drinking bottle and holder, and a handful of energy bars.
‘There you go,’ said the man who had been attending to The Falcon. ‘You should be able to get a few more miles out of it now.’
‘You mean The Falcon isn’t broken?’ I asked excitedly.
‘No, The Falcon is far from broken. It just needed a bit of love and affection.’
I wanted to hug him but I managed to contain myself.
‘Doesn’t your back hurt riding something so small?’ asked John.
‘Yes. Quite a lot,’ I said.
‘He LOVES pain,’ said Ben.
‘Thank you all so much for your generosity and enthusiasm,’ I said as we climbed back on our bikes.
‘Not at all,’ said John. ‘We should be thanking you. You’ve made our day.’
All four of th
em stood on the tarmac in front of the shop and waved us off. If you are ever in East Ayrshire – or further afield – and have bike problems, then I would wholeheartedly recommend Walkers Cycling. Although, I think most people have to pay for their supplies and repairs.
Interestingly, John Dunlop – the inventor of the pneumatic bicycle tyre – was born just a couple of miles west of here. Actually, on re-reading that, it is not very interesting at all.
I would like to add that, after leaving Kilmaurs, The Falcon’s chain never fell off again.
We were in such good spirits that we failed to notice that we had been cycling uphill for ten miles.
‘Will this fuckin’ hill ever end?’ said Ben.
‘I hope so,’ I panted.
‘Shall we look for somewhere to stay in the next town that we get to?’
‘Yeah. There’s a place called Neilston in another ten miles.’
‘Ten miles? Are you kidding me?’ asked Ben.
‘Err, no. It doesn’t look like there’s anything else before there anyway. We’ve done really well today. I reckon we’ll have done over 90 miles.’
‘WHAT? My god, you are such a slave driver. If I’d known we had done anything near that much, I would have stopped for the day ages ago.’
‘I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’
The road continued to climb for several miles and then descended steeply for another three miles into the village of Neilston. Our first impressions of the town were not too favourable. It was 8pm and a girl in her early teens was being sick outside the Chinese takeaway on the main street.
Ben suggested that we try and spend the night in the church, but the church door was locked. We knocked but there was no response.
‘That looks like the vicar,’ I said, spotting a man walking down the road away from the church. We chased after him.
‘Excuse me,’ panted Ben. ‘Are you the vicar for that church up the road?’
‘Yes, I am. Is there a problem?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No, no problem. We were…’ Ben paused, trying to catch his breath, ‘we were wondering whether there was any possibility of us sleeping in the church tonight.’
‘Sleeping in the church? Whatever for?’
‘We’re cycling the length of the country without spending any money and we need somewhere to sleep tonight.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’
‘We don’t need beds or anything like that. All we need is some form of shelter,’ I pleaded.
‘No. I can’t help, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you know anyone that might be able to help us?’ asked Ben.
‘No, I don’t think so. Good night,’ he said, and walked away.
A little bit further down the road we saw him walk into his house - a huge mansion.
‘I never thought I would say this,’ said Ben, ‘but that vicar was a complete cock.’
‘I know. Look at the size of his house. It must have at least five bedrooms.’
‘They’re probably all full of bound and gagged choir-boys.’
I would like to point out that this vicar may no longer work in Neilston. The current vicar is probably a very nice person, and I’m sure they would have welcomed us into their church with open arms.
Towards the bottom end of the village we spotted a pub called The Traveller’s Rest. We hid our bikes around the back by the bins and went inside. It was a warm, cosy bar that would not have looked out of place on a snowy mountainside in Germany; lots of wood panelling, moodily lit, a lively atmosphere, and lots of people wearing lederhosen. I lied about the lederhosen.
There were about a dozen people in the bar, and most of them surrounded the pool table where a man wearing decorator’s overalls was taking on some young challenger. The decorator swaggered around the table like Paul Newman, and proceeded to pot four reds in a row before following in the white off the black. The rest of the group howled with laughter and the young challenger raised his cue above his head in victory.
There was one lone man sitting at the bar, and we stood there for a few minutes until the barman appeared.
‘Sorry lads. I don’t think I can help you, I’m afraid,’ said the landlord after we had asked him about the possibility of somewhere to sleep. ‘We do have a few bedrooms available for rent, but I can’t really give you one of those.’
‘We wouldn’t need one of your proper rooms. Would we be allowed to sleep here in the bar?’ asked Ben. ‘We would be no trouble.’
‘Sorry, no, I can’t let you stay in the bar, I’m afraid. It would contravene our insurance policy.’
‘Are you really going all that way without spending any money?’ asked the man at the bar, who had been listening to our request.
‘Yes. We’ve been on the road for two weeks.’
‘Fair play to you,’ he laughed. ‘Let me buy you both a beer.’
Alec lived south of the border and was just up in Neilston overnight for business. He was quite vague about the type of business that he did, so we didn’t pry. He asked us all sorts of questions about our trip, and then insisted on buying us another beer. It was 10pm by the time we remembered that we had nowhere to sleep.
The pool-playing decorator’s name was Jim, and he was a joiner, rather than a decorator. Although, I’m not sure how someone who fits wood together can get so much paint on their clothes. Jim The Joiner – as his friends called him – was in his forties and extremely chatty. He was obviously ‘the man’ of the Traveller’s Rest, and possibly the whole of Neilston. Within minutes of talking with him he had ordered the barman to get us both a beer on him.
‘I wish ah coods help ye wi' somewhere tae stay,’ he said mid pool shot, ‘but our hoose jist isn’t big enaw, aam afraid.’
‘Sleep is overrated anyway,’ said Ben. ‘The beer is better.’
‘Yoo’ve got a spare hoose, haven’t ye, Les,’ called Jim to one of the other men in the group.
‘Very funny, Jim,’ laughed Les. We didn’t understand the joke, but laughed along anyway.
We spent the next hour drinking more free beer, playing pool and eating soup and bread that another of the men had ordered for us. We were sitting in a warm pub on comfy chairs, drinking free beer and eating broccoli and stilton soup with crunchy bread. We didn’t have a care in the world. That was, until we remembered that the likelihood was that we would be spending the night on the streets.
‘Oh well,’ said Ben, ‘our luck was due to run out sometime. At least we are full and drunk.’
‘I still think we’ll find somewhere to stay. We could walk down towards Paisley. It’s only a few miles. It’s much bigger and there’s bound to be plenty of places to stay,’ I suggested.
‘There’s no way I am going any further tonight. I’d rather sleep in the pub car park than walk any more. I’m knackered.’
Midway through our fifth pint - as we stood watching Jim The Joiner get beaten at pool yet again - Les approached us holding a bunch of keys. He was a fairly small man in his forties, with a friendly face and an English accent. He had lived in Neilston for several years and considered Scotland ‘home’.
‘I’m going to take a big risk here, lads,’ said Les. ‘These are the keys to my house. It’s almost empty at the moment as I’m in the process of selling it, but you can both go and sleep there tonight, if you like.’
‘Are you serious? So you really do have a spare house?’ I said, unable to wipe the smirk from my face.
‘Well, yes, I guess that technically I do. It still has all of my office equipment there and computer stuff, which is why I’m taking a bit of a gamble. I like you both, though, and I think you are genuine. Please don’t let me down.’
He gave us directions to the house which was about a quarter of a mile back up through the village. We said our thanks to everyone, and then wheeled our bikes drunkenly to Les’s.
We had slept in a canal boat, a posh hotel, and a self-contained flat, but we had just been given our very own modern, three-b
ed semi-detached house in a quiet cul-de-sac for the night. We had raised the bar yet again.
Before going to bed, we made cheese, ham and tomato rolls from the supplies we were given in Patna. I lay on the carpet covered in a towel. Ben, predictably, was using his sleeping bag.
Day 15 - Another food festival
Neilston to Crianlarich - 42 miles
We awoke to the sound of something falling through the letterbox. We had only been in our new house for one night, and already people were sending us post. I staggered downstairs in my pants and discovered a scattering of five disposable razors and a gel bike seat lying on the doormat.
‘Ben?’ I shouted upstairs. ‘Why has somebody posted razors and a gel seat through the door?’
‘Huh? Oh, that will be that guy from last night. Dave, I think his name was – the bloke who bought us soup.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Cos he said we were looking scruffy and he was going to give us some razors so we could shave.’
‘Oh. What about the gel seat?’
‘That’s for you. He went to have a look at our bikes by the bins last night, and then said he couldn’t believe you’d been riding such an uncomfortable looking bike.’
We got our things together and managed to tidy up the mess that we had created in the kitchen just as Les arrived to check on his house. We thanked him for his immense generosity and asked him to pass on our thanks to all the others at The Traveller’s Rest.
We were on the road at a respectable 9am. It was a cold but clear morning. The first three miles were downhill all the way, and we freewheeled into Paisley on the lookout for breakfast. Paisley is a town in itself, but it has gradually been swallowed up by nearby Glasgow.
At the time, we were both extremely disappointed with Paisley town centre. We cycled around for 15 minutes looking for any sign of life, but couldn’t find a single shop or café that was open. It was as though it was the end of the world, but someone had forgotten to tell us.
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 25