by Tony Hawks
The trail skirted us around Barnstaple and then on to Bideford, which sits on the estuary of the River Torridge – a river that briefly joins up with the River Taw to create a two-river estuary before spilling into the sea.2
Bideford has had a colourful history. Although it’s now only a small town with a population of about 17,000, in the sixteenth century it was Britain’s third-largest port. Sir Walter Raleigh landed his first shipment of tobacco here, affording people the opportunity to take up smoking and pay extra tax to the government, whilst at the same time damaging their own health. It was a terrific deal and many took advantage.
One of Bideford’s other claims to fame is that it hosted Britain’s last hangings for witchcraft. Following a trial in 1682, three women were found guilty and were then ceremoniously strung up by the neck until they were dead, so that people could stand around and cheer. (There was no Sky coverage of the Premiership back then, so you had to get your entertainment somehow.) These Bideford witches had it easy. Previous witches had been burnt, or tried by the system of ‘swimming a witch’, which involved binding them and throwing them into water, to see if they floated. Their accusers had come up with the cunning ploy of declaring them innocent if they sank. Dead innocent. Even if there had been legal aid back then, all your lawyer could have suggested by way of a defence was running away – very, very fast. Things have improved now, and we let witches into the government and become judges on TV talent shows.
Shortly after pressing on from Bideford, the southerly wind became so strong, and the rain so constant, that two songs from my past kept buzzing around my head – ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ and ‘The Only Way Is Up’. By singing them, I assumed that they would become self-fulfilling prophecies. However, reality had other ideas and ten minutes later, disaster struck when the battery on my bike ran out of juice. Suddenly the full weight of this bike and its cargo had to be propelled by the dwindling power that remained in my legs. The songs had given me false succour, and had turned out to be flawed. The writer of ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ had omitted to reveal something else that things could actually get – which was a bit worse. The writer of ‘The Only Way Is Up’ chose to turn a blind eye to one of the other ‘ways’ that was also a possibility – a bit further down.
After the statutory whinge and curse, I did what I always do in these situations, and I tried to look for the positive. This extra-hard cycling, I told myself, would be good for my fitness. I estimated that Great Torrington was about five miles away. A trifling distance for the cyclist with a light bike and no baggage, but for a cyclist with an already heavy bike, laden still further with a dead battery and baggage for both man and pig, five miles represented an hour’s hard cycle. Make that more, if you’re cycling into a wind that has warranted a ‘severe weather warning’.
After ten minutes of this new and far more ‘honest’ approach to cycling (let’s face it, there was an element of cheating in having the electric bike), my thighs were burning. Another cyclist came flying past me – the first I’d seen today (well, this was hardly cycling weather) – as if to mock me and to emphasise the gradual nature of my progress. At the entrance to one of the many old railway tunnels that peppered the trail, a sign for the train drivers still remained in place.
SLOW.
Hmm. Like I had any choice.
And still the wind began to blow harder and harder.
‘Why does it have to be against us, Titch?’ I called out.
A wind of this strength behind us would have simply whisked us along. A perfect use of a renewable energy. Wind power without the unsightly turbines.
Doing earnest ‘let’s look for the positives in this’ work, I identified that the rain had eased slightly, and that this new speed – snail’s pace – was giving me the opportunity to take in the beautiful countryside that now surrounded me. I was cycling along the riverbank close to the spot that Henry Williamson described as Tarka the Otter’s birthplace. Rolling green hills, with sparkling streams dashing down into the waiting river below, were dotted with pretty hamlets where stone, thatch, and church spires combined to create a feeling of timelessness. Devon at its best. One day I would come back here, so that I could enjoy the feeling of beauty and peace. Currently the gale-force wind in the face was just taking the edge off it.
The scarce December light was fading by the time my tired body hauled the bike alongside the remnants of Torrington’s former railway station. It was now a pub, called the Puffing Billy, but it appeared to be out of puff today and was distinctly closed. So, too, was Torrington Cycle Hire, the only adjacent building. If this was Torrington, it was far from Great.
A hardy man, walking his dog, approached me. I decided to engage in my first human contact since lunch.
‘Excuse me,’ I asked him, as he drew within range, ‘but where is Great Torrington?’
He turned and pointed behind us.
‘At the top of that bloody great hill,’ he said, unceremoniously.
He looked at me, then down at the bike.
‘Rather you than me.’
And with those rather unhelpful words, he continued on his way. His dog glanced back at me with an apologetic look in its eye, almost as if it was wanting to say:
‘He does this. He’s lovely really, but he has this unfortunate direct manner that comes across as unsympathetic. I’m sorry.’
Nice dog.
Unfortunately for me, Great Torrington had originally been built by the Saxons on a steep ridge overlooking the valley of the River Torridge, so that potential conquerors would be knackered by the time they arrived. Years on, regardless of whether conquering was on the mind or not, the same applied for a traveller with a heavy bike and a pig.
Pushing a bike up a hill is not good for the dignity. It says to those around you that you lack both fitness and determination. Admittedly, on a day like this, the only people who were around me were speeding past in cars. I was saved the humiliation of being overtaken by pedestrians. Five minutes into the gruelling climb, I passed a sign welcoming motorists.
GREAT TORRINGTON – A Cavalier Town.
This, I assumed, was a reference to the town’s civil war connections, rather than to its general attitude. Town and city administrators are keen to find adjectives that they believe will set them apart from the others. They are always too complimentary. Names have varied from the modest, ‘THE FRIENDLY CITY’, right the way through to the downright arrogant, ‘THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD’. For my own part, I don’t want to visit somewhere that is bigheaded enough to describe itself thus. I’d have more respect for somewhere that had the honesty to admit that it’s overpopulated, heavily polluted, and generally lacking in any attractive qualities. Here’s a suggestion that simply rolls off the tongue.
SHANGHAI – The Shitty City.3
Great Torrington likes to boast about its connection to the English Civil War and in 1646 the parliamentarians defeated the royalists in the aptly titled Battle of Torrington. This marked the end of royalist resistance in the West Country, and was a significant milestone on the road to the British being bold enough to get rid of the iniquitous and undemocratic system of monarchy, for a full eleven years. You’ve got to hand it to us Brits – when we do something, we do it half-heartedly.
Finally, tired and sodden, I made it into the town’s long main street, and went straight into the first pub I reached, The Torrington Arms. I was hugely relieved to have made it to somewhere warm, dry, and un-blustery. The pub was simple and unpretentious and reminded me of many of the Irish pubs that I’d come to know on previous travels. A scattering of mature gentlemen were slowly wiling away their afternoon, supping on pints and putting the world to rights. In a dimly lit adjoining room, another bunch of mature gentlemen were in the last throes of a Christmas lunch. They were engaged in what appeared to be measured and even-tempered discourse, even though all views set forth were being completely undermined by the fact that they were all wearing silly Christmas party hats.
My heart sank. This was calamitous. Extreme measures were called for. I had to come up with something to get my way. How could I persuade this barmaid to relax her grip on her responsibilities and let me plug a battery in for half an hour? Then I had an idea.
I stood back, cleared my throat volubly, waited till I’d got everybody’s attention as if I was going to make an important announcement, and then I began. A slow unzipping of my anorak. I did it in an alluring way, much like a glamour model might unzip clothing in a TV advertisement. The men looked on, but with far less interest than if I had actually been a babe disrobing. The barmaid just looked confused. I continued unzipping. Finally, I reached the point where Titch’s head was popping out of the top of the sling.
‘Oh my God! It’s a pig!’ exclaimed the barmaid. ‘It’s gorgeous!’
Five minutes later, the battery was on charge, and I found myself surrounded by all the pub’s drinkers and several of the gentlemen from the Christmas party. All wanted to know the story, and to stroke and fuss Titch. One of the low-key seasonal revellers introduced himself as Derek and immediately thrust a twenty pound note into my hand.
‘Take this for your cause,’ he said. ‘You have a delightful pig.’
Derek told me that his luncheon party was a group of former teachers and headmasters, who got together every year to catch up on each other’s lives and to moan about the incumbent education secretary, whoever that happened to be.
‘I’m afraid we’re currently stuck with Mr Gove,’ Derek said, rolling his eyes. ‘By the way, where are you staying tonight?’
‘A kind Radio Devon listener has offered me a bed for the night. It’s about six miles up the road.’
‘You can stay with me and my wife, if you like. We live just around the corner.’
Boy, was it tempting. I really couldn’t face another session of cycling, even if the battery was sufficiently charged. The passage of time meant that the hostile weather was now unhelpfully supplemented by darkness.
‘That’s so kind. The trouble is, I’ve promised this lady, and she’s cooking a meal especially.’
Derek then applied his analytical educator’s brain to the dilemma and came up with an excellent solution. On my bike, I was to follow him and his wife in their car – she was picking him up shortly – to their house. There we would deposit my bike in their garage and put it on overnight charge. Then his wife would give me a lift up the road to where I was staying. Either my host could give me a lift back to pick the bike up in the morning, or they would come and collect me.
‘That would be amazing – but will your wife mind?’
‘She’ll be fine. Especially when I explain about the pig.’
As it turned out, not for the first time in a pub, a man was being a little overoptimistic about the goodwill of his wife. After I’d unplugged my battery, thanked the barmaid and said my goodbyes to the remaining drinkers, I emerged onto the dark street to find Derek involved in a very uncomfortable conversation with a woman in a car, whom I assumed was his wife.
‘A what?’ the woman said.
‘A pig,’ replied Derek.
‘How much have you drunk?’
‘Not very much at all. It’s a pig. A small pig.’
‘You want me to take a small pig in the car?’
‘Not in the car. It’ll follow on a bike.’
‘You’re pissed.’
‘I’m not. It’s very straightforward—’
At this point, I did the decent thing and walked up to the car, unzipped my anorak and revealed Titch to the distressed driver.
Immediately her countenance was transformed. Irritation to adoration in 0.1 of a second. Words were replaced by the joyful sounds usually heard only around cute babies.
‘Aaaaah . . .’ she said, reaching out to stroke Titch.
My little friend had done it again. In a moment, Titch had instilled serenity into a tense situation. Perhaps I was onto something here. Maybe after this trip, Titch and I could lend our services to the negotiators in the Middle East peace process. Just as things reached a very heated point, I could produce Titch and restore a sense of equilibrium.4
I’ll set up the website shortly:
www.porkpeace.com.
***
‘Enjoy your stay, and see you in the morning.’
People are nice. For a long time I’ve held the belief that human beings are inherently good. In spite of all the bad things that are done in the world – and these are usually the ones that make the news bulletins – millions of daily acts of kindness go unreported, sometimes even unnoticed.
Take this situation, for example. Derek’s wife had disrupted her afternoon and driven me fifteen minutes up the road to deliver me to another lady, who in turn was offering an evening meal and accommodation to a stranger and a pig. What the world needs is for ladies like this to be in charge. I’d like to see them running countries like Syria and Iran. More tea, less war.
As the car pulled up outside at a nice rural, thatched cottage and I was passed from one kind middle-aged lady to another, I couldn’t help wonder why they were doing it. There was absolutely nothing in it for these people. They weren’t giving for reward, or out of guilt, shame or a sense of duty. It seemed to be natural giving. What a nice thing, and yet such a rare commodity. How did we get off-target from natural giving? It probably started thousands of years ago, when we began to adopt the wild thinking that human beings are innately evil. Penitence was required, and people were taught to hate themselves for what they were doing. Violent thinking ensued and then, naturally enough, violence itself. Domination cultures flourished, resulting in an extraordinary statistic about American TV from just a few years back. Between 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. in the evening, at the times when most families were watching TV together, in 75 per cent of programmes, someone either kills somebody or beats them up – usually at the climax of the programme. To use the vernacular of the Americans who produced this stuff: ‘Go figure’.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ said benign Nicky, as she welcomed me at her door.
One can’t always go by appearance, but it would be hard to imagine a woman less likely to kill or beat someone up. Certainly the latter. If murder did happen to be her thing, then she had the build of a poisoner, rather than one who favoured bludgeoning.
‘Yes, please,’ I replied, ‘and thank you so much for doing this.’
‘It’s nothing. I don’t normally phone in to radio stations, but I just felt the urge to do it this time.’
‘It’s very brave of you to take a strange man into your house.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’re so strange. I’ve heard you on the radio and you don’t sound like a murderer.’
As someone who still enjoys his broadcasting forays on the radio, it was a great comfort to know that I didn’t sound like a murderer. Presumably this is why the bookings had flooded in over the years.
Over tea, we established that Nicky lived alone in this cute and homely cottage. Her children had flown the nest and had begun families of their own. Nicky had tried living with her current partner, but things seemed to work out better if they lived apart and spent weekends together.
‘Whatever works for you,’ I said.
This happened to be exactly what I believed, although I probably would have said it, even if it hadn’t been.
Nicky and I were still in the social territory where convention has it that we agree with everything the other says. Only after a few hours, and usually a glass of wine or two, can we lock horns with someone and actually dare to challenge their views. Until then, this is the kind of exchange one might indulge in:
‘I’ve put five sugars in your tea, because I think sugar – like corporal punishment for the dropping of litter – should be compulsory.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. I don’t suppose I could have another teaspoon, could I? I love it.’
Nicky liked Titch, although she wasn’t as bowled over as many before her had been, and I sensed that she wasn’t a natural animal lover. All the more power to her elbow for inviting a pig into her house. I still wasn’t entirely sure of her motive. Was she a fan? Had I walked into a Devonian version of the plot of Stephen King’s Misery? Or did she just want to help me, in my effort to help some people who had a pretty tough time of things in a far-off European country? I hoped it was the latter.
As if to spite Nicky for her generosity of spirit, Titch let me down socially. Whilst Nicky cooked our fish dinner, Titch had a poo in the corner of her kitchen, and a wee on her living-room carpet.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ Nicky said, suddenly aware of the less-attractive implications of having a pig round for a sleepover.
Feeling almost as guilty as if I’d been the culprit, I swept up Titch’s poo (easy, nice dry pellets) and scrubbed away at the carpet with government endorsed disinfectant.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Nicky.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said, slightly conscious of the fact that the government disinfectant might be about to cause more staining than Titch had done.
‘Dinner is served,’ said my charming hostess.
A delicious plate of home-cooked food was served up, and a pleasant evening was spent gently probing for information about each other’s lives, whilst Titch nibbled on carrots and did mock foraging around the kitchen. The exhausting day was taking its toll and by 9.30 p.m. I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Unfortunately for me, Titch looked wide awake. This left me in a situation that I had never been in before. As a guest in someone’s house whom I had never met before, I wanted to go to bed earlier than the host, and the small pig that I had brought with me. There seemed to be no precedent for the social etiquette that was required at such a juncture.