Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain

by George Mahood

  Having since done some Googling, I have discovered that Paisley does in fact have a town centre with a nice looking pedestrianised shopping street. This somehow managed to elude us.

  As we were leaving town we came across a café called Korner Kitchen. Inside, there was a queue of three workmen all waiting for their breakfast.

  The café was run by two loud, smiling ladies. We watched as they flipped bacon, fried eggs and poured tea with a genuine love and enthusiasm for their job. By the time it came to our turn to be served, they had already clocked us and had raised their eyebrows at our clothes. We did differ slightly to their usual clientele of boiler-suit clad workmen.

  ‘What can I get you two hunky lads?’ said the younger of the two ladies.

  We explained our challenge and asked if there was anything we could do in exchange for some free food.

  ‘Oooooh, what do you reckon, Jan? Should we give these two strapping young lads any food?’ she said to her colleague.

  ‘Yeah, why not. If that one with the skimpy shorts shows us a bit more leg,’ she laughed.

  ‘That’ll be you then, George,’ said Ben. This was a new low. I was being made to flaunt my body in exchange for food. I felt used. I felt cheap. I liked it. I lifted up the side of my skimpy blue shorts, and exposed my flabby white thighs.

  ‘Phwoooooaarr,’ said both ladies in unison, before erupting into laughter.

  ‘How about a sausage bap, a cup of tea and a custard donut each?’ she said.

  By the time we had finished our breakfast it was 10.45am, and our early start had vanished. We followed the A726 out of Paisley and crossed the Erskine Bridge. For bridge enthusiasts out there, the Erskine Bridge is a 524m, cable-stayed, box girder bridge, built in 1971 and designed by William Brown. It connects West Dunbartonshire with Renfrewshire. For those less interested, the Erskine Bridge is a big bridge that crosses a river.

  We stopped halfway across the bridge to admire the stunning views of the River Clyde. Public telephones and adverts for The Samaritans were installed at regular intervals along the bridge’s railings, and our mood took a sombre turn when we realised that we were standing at one of Scotland’s most notorious suicide spots.

  We had a decision to make when we reached the other end of the bridge. We could either follow the busy A82 to Loch Lomond, or take the longer route which followed a cycle path and minor roads described by the route book as: ‘badly surfaced’ and passing ‘behind urban areas not recommended for solo cyclists.’

  ‘We definitely take the A82,’ said Ben adamantly.

  ‘Why? We’re not solo cyclists,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but it sounds dodgy. Anyway, the A82 will be much quicker.’

  ‘It won’t be dodgy. I bet we’re much more likely to be injured on the main road than on a cycle path.’

  ‘If I’m going to get injured I would rather be hit by a car than stabbed or shot.’

  ‘You really are a weirdo,’ I said. ‘Let’s take the scenic route. I’ll protect you.’

  ‘Fine, well I’m not going to protect you and if you get stabbed then it’s your own fault.’

  The Clyde and Loch Lomond Cycleway, as it is officially called, is a cycle route that extends 20 miles from the centre of Glasgow to the shores of Loch Lomond. It was absolutely brilliant to cycle along. Although we had followed relatively quiet roads throughout the trip, we still had to be alert to the prospect of other cars. The cycleway was all ours and it was extremely liberating. I even pulled a wheelie.

  There were a few sections that deviated through slightly rundown housing estates, but there was never any threat of danger. Ben did have a slight confrontation with a fly that flew into his mouth, but they managed to resolve that between themselves.

  We arrived in the village of Balloch at about 2pm, during yet another food festival. The Loch Lomond Food & Drink Festival took place in the car park of the Loch Lomond Aquarium.

  Most of the stalls offered free tastings, which should have suited us perfectly. It was actually more hassle that it was worth, however, as we had to listen to a tedious sales pitch about the benefit of Scottish olives over Greek olives, and nod away enthusiastically for ten minutes in exchange for a single Scottish olive. We then had to endure the same for a morsel of Scottish cheese, and again for a Scottish chipolata. It was not the best return for 30 minutes effort.

  We decided to resort to our tried and tested honest approach. We still had a bit of cheese and some tomatoes from the previous day, so only needed a little more for lunch.

  Ben managed to get a small loaf of bread, and I was given some sun-dried tomato focaccia.

  ‘My god, you are such a middle class blagger. Foccacia? What the fuck?’ said Ben.

  ‘Look at you with your peasant bread,’ I said. ‘I’m embarrassed to even know you.’

  Cycling along the shores of Loch Lomond had promised to be one of the highlights of our journey; 25 miles without a single hill, the sparkling lake on one side and the ragged mountains on the other. The route book made us salivate at the prospect:

  ‘The A82 north from Balloch is a beautiful road.’

  It isn’t. In theory it should be, but it’s actually a fairly horrendous road. The A82 serves as the main route linking the lowlands and the western highlands, which means that almost every person travelling between Glasgow and the north passes along this road.

  We hugged the verge closely, as a constant stream of coaches, cars, caravans and motorbikes growled along the narrow road. As for the view, that probably would have been nice if we had been able to see it. During the occasional lull in traffic the view was obscured by a thick barrier of trees that grew along the shore.

  The most frustrating problem, however, was the actual road surface. It wasn’t a problem with potholes, as such. For some reason – possibly deliberate – the entire surface is textured like a cheese grater. It was absolutely exhausting to cycle along. We should have been able to cover the distance in no time, as there was no gradient, but it felt like a real effort just to keep going.

  In summary, the A82 should be a beautiful road. All it needs is complete resurfacing, to be closed of all other traffic, and to have some serious deforestation.

  We eventually reached the hamlet of Ardlui at the northern end of Loch Lomond. It was 7pm and we were ready to call it a night. Ardlui has a hotel and a campsite but we had no luck finding accommodation at either.

  ‘There’s a few places in Crianlarich - that’s the next village – that you could try,’ said the man at the campsite.

  ‘Ok, thanks. How far is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Ooooh, it’s only another 3-4 miles.’

  ‘Crianlarich, baby!’ said Ben.

  Crianlarich was closer to ten miles further up the road, and every inch of it was uphill. Both of my hands were raw from rubbing on the handlebars and my back felt as though I had been snapped in half. It was one of the most painful day’s cycling of the trip, and it was made worse by the belief that it was supposed to be our easiest.

  I know that it’s a cliché, but cycling – and all other physical activities, for that matter – is completely reliant on being in the correct mental zone. In order for your body to achieve its full potential, you need to be able to focus all of your mental energy into distancing yourself from any pain, discomfort, and the realisation of the challenge that you are facing. I’m not speaking from experience here, by the way; I’m quoting from a book that I read. I have never reached this mental zone and every form of physical exercise I have ever done has caused severe amounts of pain and discomfort.

  It was almost dark by the time we reached Crianlarich. We followed signposts to the Crianlarich Youth Hostel, which we felt confident would be able to help us out. Our hopes were dashed by a smiling, bearded man, who told us, politely, that there were no rooms available at all, and that no we couldn’t sleep on the floor, or sleep in his office, and no he didn’t have a tent that we could borrow. Instead, we got into a long conversation with him about CA
MRA (the campaign for real ale), but I’m not sure why, or what the relevance to our trip was. But if you are ever in the area and want to talk to someone about beer, then the guy at the Crianlarich Youth Hostel is your man.

  ‘We’re buggered,’ said Ben, once we were outside. ‘If a Youth Hostel won’t let us stay, then what chance have we got of finding somewhere?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We say this every night. That bloke at the campsite said there were loads of options here. We’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, but that bloke also said it was just a couple of miles up the road. And he forgot to mention that it was halfway up a bloody mountain.’

  We pushed our bikes back into the village and called into Londis to ask for some food. The man behind the counter said he was unable to help, but suggested that we try the Ben More Lodge for somewhere to stay, which was just on the road out of the village.

  Whilst we were outside, the man from Londis came out. He came out of the shop, I mean. He didn’t announce to us that he was gay. That would have been very random.

  ‘Here you go. I found these for you. Two tuna pasta bake ready meals, and two spag bol ready meals. They are all past their best-before date, but I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ he said.

  ‘Fantastic. You are a star. Thank you,’ I said.

  They were microwave meals. All we needed was a microwave.

  The Ben More Lodge is a single-storey long white building, surrounded by a few wooden chalets. The place had a lovely cosy feel to it, with a roaring log fire. One of the white walls of the bar area had been completely covered in graffiti. Not an act of mindless vandalism, but hundreds of tiny little messages written in pen from visitors to the Ben More Lodge. Most were from fellow cyclists or hikers who had passed through on their journeys. Phrases such as ‘Pain is just weakness leaving the body,’ ‘Scotland Rules,’ and ‘Ease the chaffing,’ were scrawled all over the wall and it was fascinating to think of all of the different groups of people who had undertaken challenges of their own and shared similar moments of pleasure reading the tales of others.

  We decided to add our own message. After spending several minutes trying to think of something witty or motivating to write, we settled for ‘LEJOG – with no money. George & Ben.’ Truly inspirational.

  The manager walked over to us after ten minutes. His name was Graham and he was in his early thirties, stocky with spiky black hair.

  ‘I understand you are looking for free accommodation tonight as part of some challenge,’ he said, in a barely noticeable Scottish accent.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well that’s not something I can authorise myself. I would need to check with the owner. Is that ok with you both?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  ‘She’s not working today so I will have to give her a call at home, but she may not be back for another hour or so. I’ll bring you over a free beer in the meantime.’

  ‘An hour?’ whispered Ben, when the manager had left, ‘We can’t wait for an hour.’

  ‘Why not? We’ve got nothing else to do, and he’s bringing us a beer. What could be better?’

  ‘What happens if he speaks to the manager and she says no. It’ll be gone 10pm by then and we’ll be in the middle of the Scottish mountains with nowhere to stay.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. I guess we’ll worry about that if it happens. Let’s hope she says yes.’

  It was an incredibly long and anxious hour. Forget A-level results day. Forget your country being 1-0 down in the World Cup Final with five minutes of injury-time added. Forget waiting to see if Jack Bauer will save the world yet again. This was real tension.

  Just before 10pm, Graham strode over to us. His face was completely emotionless.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to the owner,’ he said, ‘and she said that I can’t let you have one of our rooms or lodges, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, ok…’ I said.

  ‘BUT,’ he interrupted, ‘she said you are welcome to have one of the bunks in the staff bunkhouse. Is that ok with you?’

  Ben and I looked at each other and then laughed.

  ‘No. Actually, that’s not good enough, Graham. We want your best lodge or nothing at all. Of course that’s ok, you’re an absolute legend,’ said Ben, standing up and giving him a huge hug.

  I did the same, and we had an awkward group hug for a few seconds. Graham’s face remained completely emotionless. I imagine he would have probably looked the same if he won the lottery or when he was having sex. Not that I have imagined him having sex. That would be weird.

  ‘When you said ‘bunkhouse’, I thought you were going to show us to some rat-infested shed. This is amazing,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s not The Ritz, but hopefully it’s adequate for you both,’ said Graham.

  The bunkroom had six beds and an en-suite bathroom. We were the only tenants so had the pick of any of the beds.

  ‘It’s more than adequate, Graham,’ said Ben. ‘I think I’m the happiest man in the world right now. I thought we were going to be sleeping in a cold Scottish field tonight.’

  ‘Good, well I’m glad we could help. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Actually, there is something,’ I said. ‘We were given these microwave meals from Londis up the road. We don’t have a microwave, obviously. Is there any chance that you could heat these up for us, or let us use a microwave, please?’

  ‘That’s no problem. I’ll go and sort that out for you. Come back over to the bar area in ten minutes or so.’

  ‘We did it again, Georgie Boy. Look at this place, it’s awesome. Bagsie having this bed,’ said Ben, diving onto one of the bottom bunks.

  We both had a quick shower - not at the same time – and put on the least skanky of our t-shirts before returning to the bar.

  ‘I thought you could save those meals for another day,’ said Graham. He was carrying a tray with two big bowls of soup, two plates of chips and two buttered baguettes.

  ‘Dammit, I was really looking forward to my out-of-date Londis microwave meal,’ I said sarcastically.

  ‘Graham, you truly are my hero. I might have to give you another hug,’ said Ben.

  ‘No. That really won’t be necessary. I’ll bring you over another couple of beers. Oh, by the way, you can have breakfast in the morning. Just tell the person who is on duty that you cleared it with me.’

  Day 16 - The highlands

  Crianlarich to Fort William - 42 miles

  ‘Where are those razors that Dave gave us?’ asked Ben.

  ‘In the bottom of my bag, I think. Why?’

  ‘I’m going to shave. It’s time.’

  Whilst Ben was shaving, I went to check on our bikes which we had hidden around the back of the lodge. The Falcon’s back tyre was very flat. I had noticed it the day before but it was much worse. Thanks to our new pump and puncture repair kit this was of little concern at all. I borrowed a washing up bowl full of water from the restaurant kitchen and then set to work on The Falcon.

  Ben emerged from the bunkroom a few minutes later looking like a 12 year old boy. The beard had actually made him look more mature, albeit in a dirty, trampy way, and now he was back to his pre-pubescent self.

  ‘How do I look, eh?’ he asked.

  ‘Youthful,’ I said.

  ‘You should give it a go.’

  ‘No. I can’t really be bothered to be honest. Wasn’t it painful shaving that much beard off?’

  ‘Yes. I went through four of those razors. What’s going on with the washing up bowl and puncture kit?’

  ‘I was just checking The Falcon’s tyre for a hole.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was flat.’

  ‘Did you repair it?’

  ‘No, because there wasn’t a hole.’

  ‘So you’ve got a bike whose tyres go down without punctures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My god, that bike is such a pile of crap.’
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br />   We ate porridge and a fry-up for breakfast and set off shortly before 10am.

  The A82 climbed for a bit after leaving Crianlarich before descending to Bridge of Orchy; a hamlet consisting of a hotel, a railway station, and a couple of houses. Oh, and a bridge, of course.

  The route book mentioned that the Bridge of Orchy Hotel served a ‘great banoffee pie’, which we fantasised about as we cycled past. Incidentally, a very good friend of mine claims that his Grandma invented banoffee pie. I don’t believe him.

  Just after Bridge of Orchy we passed Loch Tulla - a mirror-like lake surrounded by windburned heather and a scattering of ancient pine trees. It was beginning to look like the Scottish highlands that I had envisaged.

  The weather was still dry, but the sky ahead of us was black and we knew that rain was inevitable. The road climbed steeply through a switchback that seemed to go on for miles. We were now in true Braveheart country. With the exception of the road, there was no sign of civilisation in any direction.

  Unfortunately, bank holidays and roads make a lethal combination. The traffic was relentless, and an uninterrupted torrent of motorbikes treated the road like Brands Hatch. Not only did it make cycling unpleasant, and potentially dangerous, but the noise was insufferable. It was like having a mosquito trapped inside your eardrum. It was not how we imagined the remote Scottish highlands would be.

  Just before the summit, we reached a lay-by where we stopped for a break. There was an ice-cream van and a souvenir stall selling bits of tartan crap. Crap souvenirs, I mean. Not tartan faeces. Although I’m sure there’s probably a gap in the market for that.

  There was also a bagpipe player who looked to be packing away because of the impending rain. We stopped next to him and pulled on our state-of-the-art waterproof cycling gear - the trusty bin liners. He offered to play us a tune, despite us telling him that we didn’t have any money to offer. His name was Sandy and he drove from Glasgow every day to play his bagpipes in that particular spot.