The first thing I had to do was follow my tracks into Evesham from the evening before. I decided not to bother to stop and look for shoes – I just wanted to get on. I was aiming for breakfast in Stratford, some sixteen miles away. The idea was to follow a similar pattern to the day before when I had brunched in Ledbury. No faffing around with breakfast in the tent for me. Apart from the hassle of having to go and buy all the stuff the day before, and finding somewhere to carry it on the bike, there was the time to cook it, the burden of fetching water, and the grand washing ceremony, or should I say, scratching ritual, of the soiled dishes. Sixteen miles was a good distance to get under your belt before the day, and more importantly the stomach, realised it had started.
The weather was already heating up and I thought about the phone call I had made to my mother the night before. By some magic, I had missed all of the stormy rain that had been around. South Wales and the South West had seen heavy, and strangely lengthy, thunderstorms and there had been a lot of flooding as a result.
I made Stratford in good time and picked up two post cards, one for Hafina, my youngest step-daughter, and one for Dennis and Margaret, good friends of mine. I asked a passer-by if there was a local supermarket that had a café. There would be, of course, in a place the size of Stratford on Avon, but the question was how far away? Luckily, the hypermarket was just a few hundred yards away, and I gratefully set off through heavy traffic, glancing over my shoulder before dangerously wobbling into the middle lane to turn right into the retailing compound.
On the one hand, it is good to see that the designers of these grocery temples are making an effort. ASDA for instance, have moved away from the architecture of the huge brick and incorporated some curves, at least into the exterior appearance of their stores. On the other hand, are they trying too hard? These new designs often feature little triangular roof adornments, and freewheeling down the Safeway access road into an ocean of cars the building at least, was reminiscent of Stalag 19. And talking of security and escape, I was not confident about the security of my gear if it was left on the bike. I thought about finding the store café by doing a reccy around the outside first, then propping the bike up against the window so I could keep an eye on it. Cherie and I used to do a similar thing with the motorbike but I was never really convinced then, as now, that it was the answer to the security problem, and logic dictated to me:
'What if the bike's pinched in the time it takes me to get around to the café, get a tray, queue up for food, get the condiments, cutlery, coffee, and pay. Or, what if a villain starts to break the lock and ride off as I look on helplessly from the other side of the window- maybe thumping the glass in a desperate but futile act of saving my trip. The simple fact was I would never have been able to give chase. By the time I'd legged it past the battery of checkouts, and dodged scores of loaded trolleys with their ambling pestilent pushers, the trail would have gone stone cold.'
So, logic now determined that I unload the bike. Logic did not however, suggest to me that any thief would probably be seriously thwacked by high-tension bungees if he had the strength to release the hooks holding my rucksack in place. And in any case, if the deviant was a spotty baseball capped adolescent, he probably wouldn't have the strength to pick the unwieldy rucksack up off the floor, let alone make off with it. And if the same youth tried to cycle off with the load still packed, he'd discover the laws of physics had changed beyond comprehension and he'd be on his backside as soon as his feet left the ground. But none of this occurred to me as I confronted the menace of the bungees.
'Sounds like a good title for a Hammer horror film,' I thought. 'The Menace of the Bungees.’ At the risk of putting my back out, I heaved and humped the rucksack and its attachments into a shopping trolley. The bike was locked – safe, with even the pump removed - and I could easily wheel the load into the store. I must have been the only one of scores of people milling about that went into the store fully loaded.
I ordered the traditional full English breakfast off the menu and sat down to enjoy it, my hunger by now nicely primed through the effort of the ride to Stratford and the passage of elapsed time since my last meal. I took time to read some of the complimentary newspaper and wrote my post cards so I could send them straight away. I took my post card promise very seriously, and I didn't want to get to the end of the day and discover there was no post box, no stamp, no time or simply no remembering after a few jars down the pub. It was a pleasant break that took the best part of an hour, but the time came to make a move, so I unparked the trolley and wheeled it back to my bike, filtering, rush hour style, with all the other trolleys now themselves piled high, but with very different payloads to mine.
I had to retrace my steps the short distance back to Stratford's town centre and I pulled up at a curb, a freestanding letter-box frustratingly just out of reach. An obliging passer-by helped me out leaving me to pedal off north eastwards along the A439 towards Leamington Spa and Coventry.
I didn't take too much notice of the scenery as I thought about Cherie's illness. It must have been about three weeks before she died, that she really started to lose it. The drugs she was taking at increasingly higher dosages were causing a lot of tiredness; and, Cherie felt frustrated that she was sleeping so much. It was ironic in a way: Cherie had always been very fond of sleep. On weekends, I regularly used to wake her at the crack of noon and serve up her ritual wake-up cup of weak tea with a single sweetener.
'Just wave the tea bag at it,' she would tell friends that didn't know her well enough to get it just right – she was very particular about the strength of her tea. On a workday, she was one of those people, like my brother Nick, who leaves the house at the last possible minute. Personally, I just don't see the point in all that frantic activity, first thing in the morning. I like to take my time, make a bit of breakfast, sip half a pint of strong black coffee, watch breakfast news and see to my ablutions before packing my brief case with a clean shirt and sandwiches and donning my waterproofs ready for the cycle to work. I would argue that half an hour's less sleep doesn’t make any difference at all to the biological functioning of the human body. Of course, Cherie and Nick would disagree with a passion, and they used to join forces on the subject with camaraderie akin to the mutual bond between smokers or drunkards when the sanctity of their habit is challenged. But now that Cherie knew her time was limited, she had had enough of sleeping and wanted to be in the world of the living.
It came to the point where she had to be admitted into the cancer hospital at Velindre in Cardiff, so the doctors could get on top of the drug situation. She was assigned to the critical ward because there were no beds elsewhere. It really was a 'waiting for God' place – most of the patients were old and everyone was seriously dying, except for Cherie. Neither of us knew then she would be dead herself within a month. But Cherie, ever the pragmatic, said she preferred it to the ward she'd been on before. It was quieter and the atmosphere was more peaceful. A nurse gave her the option of promotion to a non-critical ward when a bed became available the next day, but she politely refused, content to be where she was. She was in for five days and every evening I visited and sat with her for a few hours. She found it hard to stay awake for the whole time; but, we had plenty of time to talk, either in the ward or just outside on the grass when the sun came out. When she dropped off to sleep, I took the opportunity to get a nap myself. If she was out for longer, I would open my briefcase and get on with some school work.
When the time came for Cherie to come home and the doctor was satisfied with her amended cocktail of drugs, the consultant, Dr Crosby, said he wanted a word with us. If we could just bear with him for a few moments he would try to find a room we could use. This was ominous. Every time this had happened before it was to give us bad news. So it was again. We sat in a small room with an old two-seater settee and several hard-back chairs. There was no natural light and a few chipped mugs scattered around told us that this was a sanctuary for the nurses on their breaks.
'Good news and bad,' said Dr Crosby. He really was a nice guy and we both picked up the transparent empathy he had for his patients. We wondered how a job so closely connected with suffering, trauma and death could hold any attractions for such a sensitive man. We could only surmise that he gained his satisfaction from helping people in their most dire of moments. He also took part in a lot of experimental research into how to alleviate pain, and prolong life for his patients. Ultimately, his work might lead to a cure for the black scourge.
'The good news: it doesn't look as if it’s the stent causing any problems.' The stent had been inserted during an endoscopic operation where all the surgical instruments were fed down Cherie's throat guided by a tiny camera. Cherie's bile duct had become blocked due to the growth of a secondary cancer. She had exhibited all the signs of a failing liver, in particular, shocking yellow eyes, but she was fine once again as soon as the stent had been inserted. This time though, I knew the fact that the stent was working probably meant that something more serious was wrong. Dr Crosby was just trying to be diplomatic but I waited for crunch. Cherie doesn't have my hypochondriac tendencies and I don't think she saw it coming until Dr Crosby stated that this time, it probably was the liver itself causing the problems. Cherie's liver had been growing steadily over the previous month and now she looked well in to the term of a pregnancy. She was finding it increasingly difficult to get around and there weren't many clothes she could wear with any degree of comfort or decorum. It was so sad to see a once trim and fit lady transformed to a handicapped hobbler. Cherie was always proud, self-critical of her figure, and she would dither forever over what to wear. She loved shopping for clothes, her acquisitions a steady trickle of purchases over any given month.
Cherie now pressed Dr Crosby, 'How long have I got left?'
'It's hard to say.' This was the line that was usually taken – understandably. Dying of cancer is an uncertain business, so it not that the medics are avoiding the issues … necessarily.
'Have I got six months, a year? Give me a rough idea.'
'Oh, it's not that long, I'm afraid.'
'What, not a year?'
'No, sorry - not six months.'
Cherie didn't quiz any further. I can only remember two, maybe three times, that she totally broke down and cried helplessly like a lost child. And this was one of them. All I could do was hold her as the doctor and the nurse respectfully left us in that pokey little room on the threadbare two-seater settee. Cherie cried for a few minutes, and then she was alright again. How she did it, I don't know. She amazed me then and she still does.
She counted six months forward, 'So we're looking at Christmas. We can get a few holidays in before then.' As usual, her optimism came naturally; but, of course, she was wrong.
Lost, in my thoughts, the miles slowly disappeared behind me. The temperature was way up, the sky was blue, and it was now mid-afternoon as I looked down at my trip meter to see I had nearly completed the target forty miles. I could start looking for a place to stay. More pressing though was the immediate need to get a drink. I think people can be split into two broad groups: those that get thirsty and those that don't. Normally, I fall into the latter category, and people who constantly go on about needing a drink often bemuse me. How many litres of water are you supposed to drink a day? – is it five? That seems to me like a huge amount. The largest volumes I ever consume are through the medium of beer, lager, stout or cider, and I have found that nine or ten pints is a giant amount. So, I confine my soft drinking to half mugs of black coffee. I probably consume six to eight of these a day, nothing like the required five litres of fluid, but that still keeps me peeing at irritatingly frequent intervals.
On the bike though, I suddenly realised I had a desperate thirst. I didn't want any amount of water though – I wanted something long, cool and alcoholic – on this occasion, it was Strongbow that I pictured in my mind’s eye. I stopped to ask a local man if there were any pubs around. The time was about quarter to four. I was given directions for several; and, I set off down quiet B roads flanked at times by small linear villages. I was just a few miles east of Coventry by this time so these were probably commuter settlements.
I found the first pub – closed. The second, third and fourth were all shut too. Of course, it was Wednesday, more or less mid-week. What did I expect? This wasn't Greece or Spain, and it certainly wasn't UK holiday territory. I felt myself wilt at every bolted door - each disappointment a body blow. Just looking at each pub, I couldn't be sure if it was closed. The Gay Dog Inn back the other side of Pershore had appeared closed, but had pleasantly surprised me and in my hour of need had yielded two pints of Strongbow. So, I had to go through the rigmarole of awkwardly dismounting and finding somewhere to prop up the bike, before trying another closed door, drudging back disappointedly to the bike and clambering back on to push off once more.
I couldn't imagine there being any campsites in a place like this and I mused, 'What am I going to do - not touristy enough. It might have to be B & B or a cheap pub or hotel. Strewth - do I need a drink.'
I creaked another mile and a half that seemed more like five, and reached a crossroads. Again, I asked if there were any pubs around. There was, just a hundred yards up the road. Would it be open though? As I cycled up a slight incline along a straight section of road, I made a mental note of a chip shop on my right. Then, The Raven came into view. I embraced the mirage like a ship owner gazing at his galleon, sails billowing on the horizon with a hold full of bounty after years away at sea. But The Raven was a pub and it was patently open. People were seated on a small veranda overlooking the road with full pints in front of them, talking, laughing and joking. I took the trouble to lock the bike to a drainpipe but didn’t have the physical or mental strength to take on the rucksack in unarmed combat, so I risked leaving it attached. I walked into the pub and felt instantly like a welcome guest amidst the hubbub clientele that filled the room. I ordered the fantasy pint of Strongbow and sat at a free table in the centre of the room. One of the cricket test matches between England and Australia was showing and I settled my weary body on the chair and started to watch.
The cider only lasted minutes; I was soon back at the bar. I exchanged a few pleasantries with the barmaid and as I walked back to my seat, a tall, oldish guy in a checked shirt started talking to me. I didn't really want to talk back though. I was interested in the cricket and I didn't feel like making the effort. What's more, he was on my deaf side, so I couldn't really just drop in and out of conversation. If I was in, I had to concentrate. The trouble was, if I wanted out, I would probably appear rude. He was likely to ask questions and I would stone-wall him, not through ignorance, but through deafness. Still, I tried the middle ground but it was impossible. I had to engage in conversation and hang the cricket. He quickly picked up my foreign accent and before long, I had acceded to his probing and he knew I was from Wales, on a pushbike and headed for the Shetland Isles.
He told everyone else in the pub, and I was given a definite psychological and physical boost by their responses. My second pint lasted longer than the first but not by much. I went to go to the bar for another but the check shirt man beat me to it and he insisted on buying me my third. He looked a fit guy, carrying very little weight. He had a longish face with a weathered outdoor complexion and shortish hair that looked as if it was coming to the part in the growing cycle when it would soon be cut. He was drinking Strongbow too, and this may have strengthened the blood brother affinity that often develops between afternoon drinkers, and explained his generosity.
More likely though, he thought, 'Come all that way on a bike - the poor sod deserves another drink.'
He came back and introduced himself as Chainy. He had a friendly and extroverted personality. I had noticed him holding court with the other afternoon drinkers before he'd got speaking to me. He was clearly a local character. His name came from his profession – he was a woodcutter of the old fashioned ilk, fifty-eight years old and proud of it. He chatted with me as he traded insults with some others in the corner. I slipped back to the bar and ordered two pints of Strongbow.
'I didn't buy you a pint so you could buy me one back.' The old drinkers’ double think. Of course, he didn't buy for me with any expectation of a drink bought back; but, it is always nice to receive one just the same and it cemented the growing bond between us.
Travelling around in the mid-afternoon, mid-week and in un-touristed locations, you would expect to meet some strange characters - maybe on the dole, perhaps the sick or else too daft or lazy to hold down a job. But Chainy was none of these and before long it seemed as if we were the only two in the pub. This would have been partly explained by the fact that he was still on my deaf side so I was concentrating hard – unconsciously lip reading to compensate for words and syllables missed. But, as the fourth pint of cider slipped more slowly into me, the effects of dehydration, lack of food and expenditure of effort, must also have been combining to give me this 'world blanked out' sensation.
Chainy wasn't joking any more either, and the conversation turned to holidays. I don't know if he had ever been abroad, but I got the impression that he hadn't. He said he had worked all his life chopping down trees. He said that his holiday, if he could have one, would be to go to a big city. He cited London or Liverpool. His reasoning was that he spent all day in the countryside, chopping down trees, usually working on his own with no company for hours on end. Often in the middle of a wood or forest, largely isolated from the outside world, he often fancied himself wandering crowded streets and seeing the sites. It's hard to imagine he couldn't take off any time he liked and just do it – he was fifty-eight years old and only four miles from the edge of Coventry for goodness sake!
Whether he was having me on or not, I don't know. I was inebriated by now. I asked Chainy whether there were any B & Bs around. There was a place down the road and, on Chainy's command, the landlady phoned up for me but there was no answer. Chainy offered to put me up at his place. He lived a few miles down the road but he said I could chuck the bike into the back of his pick-up. I turned him down though. For a start, he had drunk at least four pints of Strongbow, and I suspected that it was probably quite a few more. I didn't fancy a ride with a drunken driver. Secondly, this guy was really still a stranger and I didn't relish the prospect of fighting off a raging homosexual attack, even though I seemed to remember Chainy assuring me he was straight. Also, the landlady had offered me the pub beer garden as a home for my tent and this seemed a less complicated option. And finally, from somewhere in the depths of my reasoning, I still had the notion that this was a trip I wanted to make under my own steam. Chainy had told me that his place was, '…. on the way'. That meant I would be cheating, just a bit, and in the end, that was the main thing that made me refuse his kind offer.
I left the pub, unlocked my bike from the drainpipe and manhandled the heavy rucksack up some stone steps to the garden. I put the tent up on the flattest piece of ground I could find, unfortunately still in full sight of the road. Having organised the tent's interior, it was time to sort out some food. I remembered the chippy a hundred yards down the road and walked still feeling half cut, to get my order in. The two fellas serving there looked as if they were from somewhere like Turkey. The cod in batter plus a portion of chips was ready in seconds. It was served so fast, I wasn't very confident that it would be any good. I was wrong though – this was the best fish and chips I had ever tasted. The cod was in a batter, not too crisp and slightly chewy and the chips were deep-fried to perfection. Of course, I hadn't eaten for hours, and I had used up a lot of calories travelling. Add to this the sharp edge that had been honed on to my appetite by four pints of Strongbow, and it might explain my perception of this meal as pure heaven.
Back at the tent, I had a short sleep, and then woke myself up with a black coffee. It was eight o'clock by now and still a beautiful evening. I sat just inside the entrance to the tent and started writing my journal. Chainy's talk of towns made me think of Cherie's views on the subject. She loved cities, not least because they contained so many shops. She quite liked visiting the countryside but she could never understand how anyone would want to live there. Apart from the lack of shops to go 'shopping', as in 'fun' shopping, you had to jump in the car if you wanted anything. If you fancied a beer, or a bar of chocolate, if you ran out of bread or eggs, or just felt like reading the paper, it was a trip in the car, or do without. Cherie was never one for the monster grocery shop either, so she was always running out of things.
A city girl at heart, she once classically commented, 'The countryside is OK - for keeping the towns apart.'
After about half an hour, I zipped up the tent and walked about twelve paces back into the ale house. This must have been a pub big on Irish music because it was playing through the sound system continuously. It did get me going and if I could have laid my hands on a guitar I would have enjoyed bashing out a few of the old classics – The Irish Rover, The Black Velvet Band, The Green Fields of France. But I had to settle for a pleasant chat with the landlord and landlady who had finished for the night and were enjoying a few drinks at a table. I can't remember if I was there until the end, but I must have drunk another three pints at least before I decided it was time to turn in. I took a short walk up to the local church and was surprised to see how magnificent it looked. It took me a while to realise that the light in the sky was moonlight. The church was artificially illuminated too and I went back to the tent to get my camera. The result was probably the best picture I took on the whole trip.
Back in bed, my mind wandered. On my bike earlier, I had really thought that I might have to spend the night camped out in a wood somewhere. But the landlady had been very kind in letting me stay in the garden. She even offered to make me breakfast the next day but I had politely declined. It felt good to be getting my accommodation totally free, even though I would have to go without a shower or shave in the morning.
'I'll just have to be smelly on the road tomorrow,' I thought.
'In fact, with the weather as hot as it's been I'm pretty sweaty after half an hour in any case.' I remembered my breakfast at the Safeway superstore that morning and was taken back once again, to Cherie and myself on our motorbike trips, tucking into cheap hypermarket breakfasts.
I cried for a while, but it passed and it occurred to me that I was feeling a bit fitter today. I was still getting a sore bum, more or less constantly, but my leg was holding out and seemed to be fine on the lower saddle setting. I thought about my current level of security. Anyone could see me from the road and jump me. I had thought the same earlier and been tempted not to go back into the pub for my second session.
Then I had reconsidered, 'To hell with it – I'm not sitting around here for hours, just to mind the tent. If I get done, I get done.' Any concern I might have had for my nocturnal safety did not keep me awake.
The Ride:
Evesham to Brinklow (3 miles east of Coventry city
boundary)
Distance: 43 miles
Serialisation of Hill’s Ups and Downs by Tony Hill with permission. The book is published by Cambria Books and is available to buy HERE.
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