Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (22 page)

On the way into town, I did what many people do now when they are out walking, I took out my mobile phone and made a call. I am fully aware of how these ingenious miniature communication portals have begun to be the objects we reach for when nothing particularly stimulating is happening in our lives. Recently, on a train, I had noted that every other passenger around me was either talking, texting or playing a game on their phone. On another occasion, a while back, I’d been in a restaurant in Pittsburgh adjacent to a table where four girls had gone out for a meal together.
All
of them were busy looking at their mobile phones, and were tapping away at them. I wondered if this had now become preferable to talking, and that they were sending messages to each other instead.

The soup looks gr8. Are we having starters? :)

In the days of my youth, I would have had to queue outside a phone box for twenty minutes, listening to someone have a row with their boyfriend, before I could have told Fran that I was OK, and that Titch was safely sound asleep in a lovely, cosy room. No such inconvenience now. Like most of the rest of us, I could now combine travel with communication, meaning that time wasn’t wasted.

Wasted time.

As I walked down to Ilfracombe’s picture-book pretty harbour, I gave a moment’s thought to this notion. In our culture, we have created language that illustrates how we view time, like nearly everything else, as a
commodity.
Time is just something else that we consume. We
judge
it too. Some time we see as ‘well-used’, other time we view as ‘wasted’. Time can also be bought and sold. We have created hourly rates for our time. Cheeky lawyers may even bill you for chatting to you about the weather or how your holiday was. Time is money.

I cut down a path, aiming to get to the harbour that I could see glistening in the distance, and I ended up by a little cove where the water gently lapped onto the shore, reflecting the moonlight. To my right, I could faintly make out the silhouette of a sleeping elephant jutting into the sea. To my left, a tourist notice informed me of Ilfracombe’s less reputable past. Smuggling.

Even though the north coast of Devon was not favourable for landings, with its heavy surf and exposed coves, these shores had the advantage of rarely being patrolled by the revenue vessels, who were busy keeping an eagle eye on the south coast. Place names in the Ilfracombe area bear witness to the town’s connections with the smuggling trade. On the east side of the town there’s an inlet called Brandy Cove, and to the west, Samson’s Cove, named after an infamous local smuggler. As I walked the coastal path towards the bright lights of the quayside, I imagined the tough lives that these smugglers must have had, and I wondered how long I would have lasted if I’d been born into those cruel and harsh times.

‘Aha, Master Hawks, and what can ye offer our crew of smugglers?’ chief smuggler Samson might have asked of me.

‘Well, I don’t have a huge amount of smuggling experience, but I do have a nice, gentle wit, and as we near shore with our cargo of illegal contraband, I could keep morale up with a host of wry observations.’

‘I see. Wicked John, run the cutlass up ’is arse. Let’s see how wry ’e is about that.’

Happily, I was able to enjoy the delightful old fishing port completely free of what sustains it these days – tourists. In fact, had every night been like this one, then everyone would have had to shut up shop and leave. I peered in the windows of the pubs and restaurants by the quay – no doubt heaving in the summer – to see waiters sitting dolefully on chairs reading magazines, and barmen listening to solitary drinkers perched on stools, as they passed ever more incoherent opinions on politicians and football managers with each melancholic pint.

I walked to the end of the pier, where a huge statue was silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a pregnant woman holding a sword aloft, standing on a pile of law books and carrying some scales. You know, as pregnant women do. As I walked around her, I noticed that one half of her belly was open to the elements, so that we could see her unborn baby. I began to worry for her. In spite of two visits to the midwife with Fran, I was still no expert on pregnancy, but I did know that this would be something that would cause Maureen, our bright and breezy midwife, to tut and offer a little shake of the head:

‘Now that’s something that we’ll need to take a little look at. Not ideal, tum-tum being open to the elements, but ho-hum.’

Only the following morning, at the same time as I learned that this was a Damien Hirst sculpture, did I discover why the pregnant lady’s foetus was visible for all to see. Obviously, as Damien himself makes clear, it is an allegory of truth and justice (I was a fool not to see this myself).

You’ll have to excuse my cynical tone, but I’m afraid that with most art, I’m completely unable to ‘get’ what I’m supposed to ‘get’, and as each artwork is ‘explained’ to me, I become further distanced from it. I simply don’t understand the language of art criticism. Once, walking round the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao and listening to the audio commentary on some of the experimental modern art, I wanted to tear off the headphones and stamp on them. All that stopped me was the fact that in so doing I might have created a more impressive piece of art than most of what I was observing, and I didn’t want to upset the museum’s curator.

Verity
, as this sculpture is called, is very striking. There. Let me leave it at that, before I embarrass myself. What is impressive about it is that Mr Hirst, a resident of Ilfracombe and the world’s richest living artist, has magnanimously
lent
the statue to the town for twenty years. An allegory of precaution and parsimony.

When I got back to Varley House, I could hear Titch snorting and grunting as I approached the door of Room 6. Clearly my massage had been merely a temporary anaesthetic. I could only guess at quite what the other hotel guests had made of these noises, but I imagined that a few of them would try to avert eye contact with me in the morning.

Titch was wide awake and patrolling the room confidently, as if she’d always lived here. With great respect to Rod’s carpets, like a good girl, she’d had a poo and wee on the tiled floor of the bathroom.

‘Hello, Titch,’ I said, ‘did you have a nice evening?’

All pet owners talk to their pets. It’s comforting for them, if pointless. The worst pet owners, though, are the ones who think they can understand what their pet is saying to
them
. For example, their dog comes bounding up to them barking, and they declare, ‘Oh look, he wants to go for a walk.’ Well, I’m sorry, but he might not be saying that at all. He might be saying, ‘I preferred it when the sofa was up against the window.’ It seems to me a great shame that all over the country dogs are being dragged on walks against their will, when all they really want is the furniture rearranged.

‘Goodnight, Titch,’ I said twenty minutes later, after another massage behind the ears had rendered us both ready for slumber.

‘Tomorrow’s a big day,’ I continued, even though it appeared that Titch was ignoring me. ‘We need to be on good form. First day of the challenge.’

***

Being three months old, in pig terms this probably made Titch the equivalent of a human teenager, which is why she slept on soundly as I went to breakfast.

I was the first into the dining room, eager to make a start before the forecasted driving rain and heavy winds kicked in. However, a glance out at the weather suggested that I might have missed my window of opportunity. That had probably been the day before. Or August.

It was the kind of rain that is noisy as well as damp. It positively rattled against the windows, each cascading drop bringing with it a clear message.

Stay inside and read a book today. I don’t want to see you. At all.

Rod took my order – a cooked breakfast without bacon (come on, I have a heart) – and I was left to sit and suffer. The torment was only in small part down to the sounds of the weather, most of it was actually being caused by those emanating from the radio. Seemingly, a gathering of overly jovial adults had gathered around a studio microphone to discuss banalities and laugh thunderously at each other’s facile quips. These excruciating exchanges were relieved by music – tolerable at most times of the year, but not right now, as I was forced to suffer Christmas song after sodding Christmas song.

Paul McCartney delivered his anthem to the inexorable decline in the quality of his oeuvre, assuring me that he was ‘simply having a wonderful Christmas time’. Jona Lewie had apparently left the kitchen (presumably the party had finished) and was doing his best to ‘stop the cavalry’. Boney M assured me that ‘man would live for evermore because of Christmas Day’. Given the rapidly growing world population and its insatiable appetite for plundering the earth’s finite resources, this seemed to be an over-simplification. I made a note to myself not to seek guidance from the words of Boney M.

After a hearty breakfast, I was ready to begin my quest. Whilst teenage Titch slept on, I got the bike ready for departure, successfully fitting the recharged battery. Despite consulting the short video that I’d shot on my smartphone, with Ken showing me how to tighten and loosen the ratchet on the back of the bike, I tried and failed repeatedly. With each attempt, I felt a deep sense of failure. This kind of practical inadequacy on my part was excusable when I was engaged in my normal career (actually, it’s not so normal, I suppose), but I was now an adventurer, and as such I ought to be able to look after myself. An adventurer needs to be able to solve problems. When you’re at sea, up mountains, in deserts, or even cycling in the wilds of Devon in god-awful weather, there’s no Ken the neighbour on hand to sort you out.

I secretly felt a little better when Rod couldn’t do it either. It took the help of another guest, who volunteered when he saw the two of us struggling.

‘Have you got a pig in that room?’ he asked, upon concluding some annoyingly logical ratchet strap work; the question like a payoff for the completed labour.

‘Yes, I’m cycling from coast to coast with a small pig, raising money for charity.’

‘In
this
?’ said the man, pointing outside.

‘I’m afraid so.’

The eponymous host of the
Judi Spiers Show
was equally sympathetic.

‘This is probably the worst day for starting such an expedition,’ she said, not just to me, but to anyone who happened to be listening to Radio Devon.

Judi wasn’t wrong, but the odds had always made this likely. I had figured that probably 30 per cent of December days are quite unpleasant, so it wasn’t as if this was unexpected.

‘I have my waterproofs, Judi,’ I said, from the phone in the hotel’s hallway, ‘and Titch will be snuggled up nice and warm within my coat.’

‘I know you were struggling to find accommodation in Great Torrington, but stay on the line after we go off air, and we’ll give you the details of a nice lady who has offered to put you up. And folks, don’t forget to give generously to Tony if you see him along the way.’

Hmm. I glanced out of the hotel window one final time. As if anyone would be out walking their dogs in this weather.

‘That’s right, Judi. All donations welcome. I have my very own piggy-bank with me, although probably best not to insert the money directly, as animal welfare may be after us.’

Five minutes later, myself, Titch, the bike, and Rod’s family were posing for photos on the hotel’s front steps. We winced, rather than smiled, as the wind and rain lashed us. Hands were shaken, thanks duly given, pleasantries exchanged, and then Rod and his clan were lucky enough to dash back inside, leaving me and Titch to begin our quest in earnest.

‘OK, Titch, here we go!’ I said, with more than a hint of trepidation, and I began cycling.

Almost on cue, as if blessed with a divine intervention, the rain eased when we began to move. It took only a few minutes to be back at the harbour, where I dismounted the bike, eased it down the slipway, and dipped the rear wheel in the sea.
3
This, Rod had explained, is the tradition for coast-to-coast cyclists.

A car pulled up, and a young woman rushed over to me and thrust a fiver into my hand.

‘Heard you on the radio. Love what you’re doing. Go for it!’ she said, before dashing back to the car and driving off.

‘Thanks!’ I called after her, and I slid the money into Titch’s carrier.

‘There, Titch. Aren’t people nice?’ I said.

I remounted the bike, thinking that I should now cycle for at least two hours, exploiting what was probably only a temporary lull in the foul weather. So it was disappointing when I had to stop only ten minutes later to question one of the few pedestrians braving the conditions.

‘Excuse me, but am I going the right way for the Tarka Trail?’

Rod had given me clear directions to this cycle route and I’d made damn sure that I’d paid good attention. It had all made good sense, and I’d been confident of finding it without any problem at all.

‘You’ve come too far,’ said the shopping-bag-laden lady. ‘You need to turn yourself around, then turn left at the end of this row of houses, go up some steps and you’ll see the trail. It’s on the old railway line.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, repressing the need for a loud curse.