Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (23 page)

Fifteen minutes later, I was no longer repressing the curses.

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’ I shouted.

As soon as I’d got to the foot of the steps that would lead me onto the Tarka Trail, it had started raining again. Hard. Very hard. Torrentially, even. I’d struggled up the steps carrying a ridiculously heavy bike, whilst Titch had decided that it was time for her to have one of her little breaks. After a struggle to keep her in my coat, I’d set her down at the top of the steps and she wandered around aimlessly, contemplating whatever piglets contemplate when they’re freed from their baby slings. A gust of wind then blew the bike over and the animal carrier fell off the back.

After righting the bike, I was now struggling with the ratchet strap.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!’ I now exclaimed. ‘How does this sodding thing work?’

Then I began to laugh. It seemed a better alternative to crying. The rain was now so heavy that it was like standing in a shower. Titch seemed to indicate, by standing still and staring at me, that she was ready to return to the warmth of sling and coat, her little eyes almost appearing apologetic.
OK. Stopping was a bad idea. Sorry. You carry on as you were.

I then got on my hands and knees and sprayed the area where she’d walked with the Defra approved disinfectant (as pointless an exercise as shouting shit and bugger at volume in the rain). The torrential rain washed the pink liquid away, the moment it hit the ground. But Devon had once again been saved from another foot-and-mouth outbreak.

As I stood up, Titch fell out of the sling.

‘Shit! Bugger!’

Then the bike blew over again.

‘Arse! Shitting bugger shit!’

At this moment I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood behind me was a sweet-faced old man under an umbrella. He shoved a tenner towards me.

‘Heard you on Radio Devon. Have this for your cause.’

He then turned and headed off, before I could successfully switch from obscene to obsequious.

‘Sounds like it could be going better,’ he added, with a hint of a chuckle as he walked away from me, silhouetted against the grey, threatening sky.

Now I really didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I felt numb, my emotions either drowned or drowning. However, the man’s generous and kind gesture rekindled my spirits enough to give me the energy to sort the bike out, repack my pig, and set off on the Tarka Trail.

11

A Cavalier Town

It’s named after a book I haven’t read,
Tarka the Otter
by Henry Williamson. It must be a good book, because it was first published in 1927 and has not been out of print since. It’s the story of an otter’s life as he splashes about in the water in and around Torrington. A bit like I was going to do today.

The Tarka Trail, in this part anyway, is excellent for cycling. I was grateful to the hardworking, practical men who’d originally laid the former railway track (I’m sure all of them could have easily operated a ratchet strap), as they’d carved out a route that was relatively flat, with minimal gradients.

Appreciating the views and surrounding countryside is not easy when your eyes are squinting, as mine were doing. Horizontal heavy rain is never easy to tolerate when stationary, but forward momentum provides a kind of effect not dissimilar to someone directing the jet from a powerful shower head directly into your face. However, I could just about nod in approval as I made out two picturesque lakes to my right, before we entered one of the many short, former railway tunnels that would be dotted along this route. They would come as a relief, offering momentary respite from the prevailing precipitation.

A couple of miles further on, I was presented with a choice. I’d come to the point where I could take the trail on a more direct route to Barnstaple, or take a seven-mile diversion looping me around the beautiful scenic coastline. On a summer’s day, the choice would have been an obvious one. Come to think of it, it was an obvious one today, too. Were I to take the coastal route, I wouldn’t see anything, and there’d be a good chance of being blown off my bike.

Thinking only of Titch’s welfare, and not my own need to survive, I took the more direct route. I was quite possibly missing out on the most beautiful part of this cycle, so this was disappointing. I would have to return another time to enjoy it. Just like I would with Hillsborough. I hoped this wasn’t going to be the trend for the entire journey – identify pleasurable experiences, but completely fail to enjoy any of them first-hand.

Braunton was my first small town. Or should I say large village? That’s a poser that needn’t concern us, unless this particular copy of the book is now resting in the hands of the North Devon representative of the Organisation That Decides Whether A Place Is A Town Or A Village Or Not.
1

What matters is that I cycled through Braunton without noticing anything of great note, other than its surf shops. Being the gateway to three of the South West’s most renowned surf beaches – Saunton, Croyde and Woolacombe – Braunton has become a surfing hub. It made me think of my heroic saviour from the Exeter to Barnstaple train. I imagined him battling past waves to rescue a poor surfer (perhaps without pig?), who had underestimated the power of the wind and waves and got into trouble.

The trail led us in and out of Braunton quicker than one can say O.T.D.W.A.P.I.A.T.O.A.V.O.N. The rain had eased but the wind seemed to be getting up. Titch warmed my chest as she slept soundly, happily oblivious to the onslaught of the elements. To my right, I admired the sandy estuary of the River Taw. I knew very little about estuaries, and if no one other than me had bothered to contribute to Wikipedia on this subject, then the entry would read:

Estuary: Wide bit of water where a river reaches the sea that birdwatchers are awfully keen on.

There weren’t many birds around today. They’d obviously gone to wherever birds go when the weather is lousy. Actually, where
is
that? Most of them build their nests al fresco up in trees, which is excellent for views, but shit for shelter. I suppose, like me, they just ignored the weather and got on with things, although quite where they were today was anybody’s guess.

Barbed-wire fencing interrupted the view of the sand and dunes for a while. A sign revealed that this was a military base, RAF Chivenor, a training camp for marines. No one out and about there either. Bunch of wimps.

I hadn’t planned on stopping for lunch before Barnstaple, but I was only a few miles away when I passed a delightful-looking cafe on my left. After I’d gone several yards past it, I applied the brakes and had a think. It wasn’t a great time to stop, as the rain had eased off and it was a good opportunity to take advantage of this respite. Furthermore, the fact that Titch was sound asleep ought also to be exploited. First rule in the as-yet-unpublished book,
Cycling with Pigs
, would say –
cover as much ground as possible while the pig sleeps.
So in spite of the alluring cafe, everything said ‘press on’.

Except me. I was hungry and the cafe looked nice.

The world’s great explorers had it easy. They were out battling in the wilds of Antarctica or the depths of the Amazonian rainforests. They never had to cycle past nice cafes. They didn’t have to undertake the agonising battles of will like the one I had just briefly fought and lost. Lucky bastards.

I parked up my bike in front of the cafe – a converted railway station called Fremington Quay – and decided to indulge in some creative interpretation of the rules.

I’d been told by the government’s farming and animal welfare authorities that I was not to take Titch anywhere where food was being prepared. However, I figured that if I sat at the back of the cafe and kept her zipped up in my coat, then I couldn’t possibly be the cause of a major outbreak of foot-and-mouth. And anyway, they weren’t preparing food in that part of the cafe, only serving it.

I ordered a soup and roll and took up an inconspicuous position on a comfy sofa at the rear of the cafe. From here I could view the ten or so customers happily chatting and dining. The cafe had been tastefully converted, and to my left there was a museum that charted the history of the place. Pictures on the walls explained what had happened here, before it had become a dispensary for cappuccinos and soups.

The area outside this cafe had once been a bustling port. Coal, limestone, gravel, granite, lead and seed potatoes were all imported, and ball clay was exported. Like so many places in the UK, a once-thriving hub of manual labour was now a place for people to sit on their arses, drink coffee, nibble on cake, and look at pictures reminding them of how this used to be a thriving hub of manual labour.

It took only a matter of minutes for my cover to be blown.

‘Is that your bike outside?’ asked a lady, clutching a tray supporting an appetising lunch.

‘It is.’

‘You must have a pig then.’

I can only imagine that this had been the first time she’d followed a line of enquiry that had enabled her to utter those two sentences consecutively.

‘How did you know that?’ I asked.

‘We saw the bike with the pet carrier on it. Then we saw that the pet carrier has Pennywell Farm written on it, and we know that they breed miniature pigs. Plus we heard you on the radio a few hours ago. Here, have this – you deserve it.’

The lady thrust a twenty pound note into my hand, and then asked if she could see the pig. I could hardly refuse her, even though this meant my attempt at remaining incognito might be sabotaged. It was. The lady made such a fuss of Titch that in a matter of minutes every diner in the cafe was paying homage. Some made generous donations, too, once they knew what it was all about.

The disappointment at having been a spectacular failure in ‘keeping a low profile’ was easily offset by the joy in the faces of the Titch-loving congregation who were now gathered before us. Offers of help and accommodation were forthcoming, and the cafe’s owners, Paul and Charlotte, made up a packed lunch of grapes and carrots for Titch, and wrapped up a huge wedge of delicious coffee cake for me.

Paul’s accent was far from Devonian.

‘I’m Scottish,’ he explained, ‘I came down here to surf quite a few years back, and I never left.’

Devon appeared to be a great receiver of people. Naturally enough, people move about in their lives, but as far as I could fathom from the people I’d met so far, Devonians seem to stay put and others, like Fran and myself, tend to move in. Locals call us ‘incomers’, but they don’t seem to display any hostility towards us. Paul certainly seemed happy enough. I guess he just needed to look out of the window to know that he’d made the right decision, even in spite of the drawbacks on this particularly wet day.

As we left the cafe, Titch and I were waved off like heroes. Exactly as it should be.

***

The warm glow in my heart sustained me as the cycling became more difficult. One of the diners in the cafe had informed me that severe weather warnings had been issued on the radio, and that a gale-force wind would soon be gusting up to 70 mph from the south. The worst was clearly still to come, and yet I was already in great need of the extra power from the bike’s battery to sustain a moderate speed. I switched it onto the high setting, gaining a vital bit of extra power and preserving some strength in my legs.

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.