Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (27 page)

The race against time was on.

Titch insisted on a wee break just outside Hatherleigh, which didn’t help matters, but I did my disinfecting duty with due diligence.
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Both the bike and my legs performed well, as we negotiated the hilly country lanes outside Hatherleigh. An hour later, the trail then painstakingly criss-crossed us through the town of Okehampton, before we found ourselves close by the station and at the beginning of the Granite Way – an eleven-mile cycle path that runs along the north-west edge of the granite massif of Dartmoor.

‘Good,’ I said to myself, ‘now we can nail it.’

Titch had other ideas. Just as I got up to my optimum speed, she began her wriggling escape act, and managed to free herself from the sling and into my coat. She’d recently had a wee. Could she now need a poo? I stopped and allowed her to wander about, but she showed no such inclination. However, when I went to pick her up so that we could continue on our way, she squeaked in protest. What was wrong? This was an extremely untimely moment for Titch to discover a rebellious quality. Then it came to me.

‘Ah, you must be hungry!’ I said.

Titch looked at me with a look – as close as a pig can get to saying: ‘Of course I’m hungry, you idiot. What else do you expect me to be, if you don’t feed me?’

Titch fairly demolished the carrot that I produced for her. And then another one after that. Poor thing had been hungry and had sat politely through me devouring a soup, roll and piece of cake, but she hadn’t wanted to make a scene in the cafe.

‘You really are a nice little pig,’ I said, as I looked down on her, munching away.

Serious cycling then began in earnest. I tried to imagine that I was in the Tour de France – sleek, super-fit, and pumped full of performance-enhancing drugs (rather than cake). I imagined an enthusiastic crowd cheering us on.

Allez, Tony! Allez, Titch!

It worked. My thighs and calves combined in perfect harmony, as we crunched away the miles. We now had spectacular views over Dartmoor, up towards its highest point at 2,037 feet. The sun obliged by bursting through the clouds, combining with the rain to create a spectacular rainbow. We crossed the Meldon Viaduct, an impressive wrought-iron and cast-iron structure built by the Victorians, standing 150 feet above the wooded valley below. In other circumstances, I might have stopped to take in the breathtaking view. But not this afternoon. Every second of daylight was invaluable.

At the first opportunity, I left the trail and joined up with the road. It was getting harder to see, and with no front light, the possibility of riding into a bush or ditch was an alarmingly distinct one.

When we made it to Lydford, I was still harbouring some hope of being able to press on to Tavistock. A spotty youth, who was loitering unproductively at the village crossroads, comprehensively dampened those expectations.

‘Is there a hotel in the village?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, I work there. The Castle Inn. Just down there on the right.’

‘Thanks. By the way, how far is it to Tavistock?’

The lad dropped his head and shook it, as if I had just posed the hardest question he’d ever been asked.

‘I don’t know by miles. But it’s forty-five minutes by car.’

My head dropped now, as if I’d just received the worst answer I’d ever been given to the hardest question that had ever been asked. I’d been sure that it was closer than I was now being told. From what this lad was saying, there was still a further two hours to cycle – at least.

A plaque in the entrance to the Castle Inn announced that it was built in 1550, which, by the 24-hour clock, was only fifteen minutes earlier than I was making my arrival. It was a cosy and charming bar. The kind that makes brash American tourists say, ‘We just luurve your English pubs. They’re so cute.’

The landlady was talking to four drinkers who were sitting on bar stools. The rest of the pub was empty, and yet it had the feel of being half-full. I was hoping that ‘Titch magic’ would work its spell. I would reveal Titch, a huge fuss would be made of us, and accommodation and a lovely evening meal would be immediately forthcoming.

It didn’t happen that way. The revelation of Titch brought smiles, one vaguely humorous remark, and a £1 donation. Even when I explained about the fading light and my need for accommodation, there was no proposal of a bed for the night, not even as a guest paying the full rates. Perhaps the hotel part of the pub was closed at this time of the year. Even if it were open, stopping this early in a village of this size would make for a very long evening ahead. Either I could sit in my small hotel room – or drink in the pub. There didn’t seem to be any other options. Six hours drinking in a bar would no doubt result in some stories, but would make arrival in Plymouth at noon the next day most improbable.

‘How far is it to Tavistock?’ I enquired.

‘It’s about nine miles,’ said the landlady.

Nine miles? Surely nine miles wouldn’t take forty-five minutes in a car? The boy at the crossroads was clearly an apprentice village idiot, placed there as part of his training. Nine miles was doable.

‘I can take the roads all the way? Not cycle tracks?’ I checked.

‘Roads all the way. Bloody hilly roads, mind.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, making a hasty exit for the door.

Provided that my back light worked, Tavistock, and the prospect of a quality hotel, now seemed back on the cards.

‘Yes!’ I shouted. ‘At last something is going right!’

The rear light illuminated on demand and I could now be seen by any cars behind me. Better still, the clouds had lifted and the evening sky was clear – the twilight offering sufficient light for me to see the road ahead. All I had to do was continue doing what I’d been doing for the last two hours. Cycling my bloody heart out.

***

There may not have been a crowd to welcome me, but it still felt like a magnificent victory. I may not have been Bradley Wiggins or Chris Froome winning the Tour,
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but as I locked my bike outside the Bedford Hotel, I felt like a champion. I’d beaten nobody, but I’d won a hell of a prize. A comfortable night in what appeared to be Tavistock’s best hotel.

I reckon even without my current feelings of euphoria, I would have had a very high opinion of this hotel. Currently, I ranked it as the best hotel in the world. Built on the site of a Benedictine abbey that had been looted and dissolved by Henry VIII,
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it was designed by Jeffry Wyatt, the same architect responsible for Windsor Castle. This hotel is castle-like, too, built with battlements in an austere grey stone.

Right now though, it couldn’t have looked more welcoming.

At reception, I was met by a girl who had clearly had a hard day. She looked tired, and her manner was grumpy. She looked at me through dead eyes and made the phonetic sounds, ‘Yes, can I help you?’ but seemed to mean, ‘Oh no, not another, what do
you
want?’ Her manner changed when I gave my name.

‘Tony Hawks?’ she said, looking up at me. ‘It says here that someone of your name is arriving with a pig. Is that right?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said, with a smile.

Now it was party-trick time. It had worked before, but surely this was going to be its most severe test. Slowly, I unzipped my coat and revealed Titch to this poor exhausted girl. In an instant the look on her face transformed. A huge ear-to-ear grin wiped away the grimace, and she let out a loud ‘Aaah’ sound that caused her colleague to appear from the adjacent room, to see what the cause could be. She was then instantly struck in the same way and the sound was doubled. They both called out a name, barely able to contain their excitement.

‘Simon! Simon! Come see! It’s amazing.’

Simon turned out to be the hotel manager who had made the kind gesture of offering me and Titch a complimentary night at this fine establishment. He was far less excited than his junior staff members, but that wasn’t difficult. Instead, he managed to explain some practicalities about the hotel, including where breakfast was served and most important of all, where the room was. The room! I simply couldn’t wait to get to that room. I had been dreaming of a hot bath in a nice, comfortable room for most of the day, it had been what had driven me on through the exhaustion of the last hour.

I could still hear the receptionist’s howls of delight as I headed up the corridor to my bedroom. The route to the room took me through a luxurious area where guests were having early-evening drinks. Titch’s head was still visible, and one or two seemed to do a double take.

‘Did that bloke have a pig in his jacket?’

‘He can’t have done. This is the Bedford Hotel.’

I threw open the door to our bedroom. The room was gorgeous.

‘Yes!’

We had made it.

13

Mayflower Steps

Titch and I were so happy in this lap of luxury. I set her down, and she began her immediate faux-foraging as I checked out the bathroom. Perfect. A big corner bath. Better than I’d dared hope for.

Whilst the bath was running, I fed Titch, punched the air a few times, and set up my smartphone by the bath to play classical music. There was even some ‘tranquillity’ bath foam, which I tipped in for good measure. This was going to be pure relaxation.

And it was. As Titch snorted and sniffed around the main bedroom, I slid into the lovely, hot bath whilst the sounds of Beethoven’s piano concerto in C minor filled the room, in a manner totally disproportionate to the size of the device that was emitting them. Five minutes later, I was as close to heaven as a man can be on earth. I was currently experiencing a feeling that is rare and special in life. I was getting absolutely everything I wanted. There was nothing I could add to this moment that could have improved it. I allowed my mind to drift off, soothed by the genius of Ludwig van B. Until disaster struck.

I was shaken by a sudden, deafening sound, and the water began convulsing and overwhelming me. The ground shook. It seemed impossible, and yet it was clear enough – we were experiencing an earthquake. In a state of panic, I reached for the side of the bath and attempted to haul myself out, but I slipped and fell, my head hitting the side of the bath. The sound continued, and everything was shaking.

I was still conscious. I opened my eyes and saw, through the steam-filled room, a red light was flashing in front of me. I looked up and noticed that the ceiling was still intact. The floor around the bath had also not collapsed. The sound and shaking carried on, but whatever had happened, I had escaped the worst of it. The epicentre, wherever that was, must have taken the brunt. I looked again at the mysterious red light, and I waved away the steam that was obscuring it. Three letters started to become visible. An S. Then I made out a P. A final letter – yes, A. What did that spell? It spelt SPA.

Ah. I felt a little silly. It hadn’t been an earthquake. Of course not. Dartmoor is not known for them, after all. No, I was sitting in a spa bath which, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to be equipped with some kind of timer – meaning that it could erupt and frighten the living daylights out of a bather at any given moment. In this case, me. Perhaps a poorly paid maid exacted a kind of abstract and indiscriminate revenge on wealthy guests, by setting the timer after each clean of the room. Perhaps she was sitting at home now, smiling quietly to herself.

Maybe she also knew that the controls on this spa bath were utterly unfathomable. Whichever sequence of buttons I hit, and in whatever order, I was unable to turn this earthquake off. It raged on, in spite of my desperate button-pushing and howls of frustration.

‘WHY DON’T THEY MAKE THINGS WITH SODDING ON-OFF BUTTONS ANYMORE?!!’ I screamed.

Titch appeared at the door, displaying a kind of inquisitive look. She didn’t have an eyebrow to raise, but had she been blessed with one, that’s what she would have done with it.

‘It’s OK, Titch,’ I said. ‘It’s the spa, not an earthquake.’

It had been a long day and clearly I was losing my grip on it. Not only had I imagined a cataclysmic event, but now I was needlessly reassuring a quite clearly undisturbed pig.

I didn’t get out of the bath. No, my heart had been set on a half-hour bath, and a half-hour bath was what I was going to have. Yes, I had to suffer the ignominy of being shaken to my very core by the fierceness of the spa (the maverick maid had clearly put it on its highest setting), but I was not leaving. Yes, it was difficult to relax, such was the force of the aquatic assault that I was now undergoing, but I would not let the evil maid win. Instead, I would sit there, being shaken, pushed, bashed, battered and buffeted by this man-made mayhem. The perfect storm in a tub. Incredible to think that people pay extra for such a thing.