Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (19 page)

The bike, on the other hand, had other ideas. In the process of packing the bike with clothes and provisions, I managed to break both of the plastic zips in the panniers. Using the stretchy bungee straps, I botched a way of keeping them closed, which by my standards was surprisingly effective. Worse news than two faulty zips awaited, though. I hadn’t bothered to charge the bike up overnight, as I’d done less than a mile on it, but I’d made the mistake of leaving the key in the ‘on’ position. This seemed to have run the battery dry, because the ‘pedal assist’ system was not kicking in.

This was a worry, because I had a long cycle ahead of me, quite possibly with some very steep climbs. This was an extremely heavy bike, weighed down by a big battery and three days of stuff for one human and one small pig. The schedule today was to put the bike in the van and get a lift from Fran to Exeter station. Unfortunately, there was no through train to Ilfracombe, so I was going to have to take the train as far as Barnstaple and then cycle the fifteen miles to Ilfracombe. I’d allowed myself a leisurely morning and booked myself on the 13.25 train. This, I figured, would give me plenty of time to cycle to Ilfracombe before darkness fell. That was before the battery packed up.

I called Peter from AXcess Bikes and he kindly agreed to meet me at Exeter station and replace the battery, but his schedule meant that he couldn’t get there before 2 p.m. This meant I’d now be on the 14.25 – with the result that I’d have only half an hour or so of daylight to reach Ilfracombe, and the unlit cycle paths wouldn’t be an option. Titch and I would have to begin our cycle by sharing the roads with cars and lorries.

Things were further complicated after I did the Radio Devon interview. Once they found out about my revised challenge, the
Judi Spiers Show
had thought it would be fun if I spoke to them every morning at 9.45 a.m., and gave an update of how my journey was going. In homage to a previous trip I’d made in my life, they’d had a little jingle made specially – called ‘Round Devon with a Pig’. I hoped that having these daily chats would raise awareness of what I was up to, and help me and Titch to raise money. I couldn’t have guessed that there would be a potentially significant downside. A downside that might throw the whole expedition into jeopardy.

‘Hi, Tony, it’s Chris from Pennywell,’ said the voice from down the phone line. ‘You were excellent on the
Judi Spiers Show
. It has created a problem, though. Someone was listening from Trading Standards’ animal health team. They’ve called me to say that I’ve got the wrong licence. Sorry about this, but can you call them straight away?’

‘Ah. OK. Will do.’

I took the number and put the phone down. How could things have gone wrong so quickly? The high point of Titch’s al fresco poo, though only half an hour ago, seemed a distant memory.

Soon I was speaking to a very helpful lady at Trading Standards. The good news was that she didn’t seem to be a bureaucrat who took pleasure in blocking, preventing, or refusing, but instead she had an attitude whereby she genuinely seemed to want to help. The bad news was that Chris and I had filled out forms one week later than we should have done, which currently meant that Titch had to stay at my house for twenty-one days.

Charming though Titch was, this was going to slow things considerably, and make for a new start date of 11 January in the following year.

‘There is a possible solution, though,’ said the lady.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, trying to keep a note of desperation out of my voice.

‘You could apply for an Annual Exhibition licence. This would mean you and your pig could make multiple movements. However, you’ll have to keep her in her pet carrier and she must not leave that carrier until you reach your destination.’

‘What if she needs a wee or a poo?’

‘That’s not possible. It’s illegal. Unless you spray any ground that your pig touches with Defra approved disinfectant. Also, you’d need to notify us of the exact location, so we could amend our records.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, adopting a timid, supplicatory tone that I’ve found to be helpful in dealing with bureaucrats in the past. ‘Thank you so much for helping with this.’

‘Right. I’ll go back to Chris to arrange the correct licence. We do want to help you with this, as we are aware that you’re doing this for charity.’

‘Thank you so much.’

OK. Suddenly I needed ‘Defra approved’ disinfectant. And fast. The clock was ticking and I was due to leave in just over an hour.

‘What will you do?’ asked Fran.

‘I’ll call Ken,’ I replied.

Somehow this had become my default position when there was any kind of practical problem. Call Ken.

The best thing about adopting this policy was that it nearly always worked.

‘No problem, Tony,’ he said, not at all put out by the sudden and random nature of my phone call, ‘I’ll jump in the van and go over to Terry at Drummonds Farm. They’re bound to have some.’

Forty-five minutes later, he was standing at our front door, handing me two spray bottles containing a pink liquid.

‘There,’ he said, ‘Defra approved disinfectant. Don’t drink it all at once.’

‘Thanks, Ken, you’re a hero.’

‘No problem.’

Titch looked on, oblivious to the problems that being classified as ‘livestock’ was causing. Why couldn’t she just be classed a simple pet? I certainly had no intention of eating her. Not unless she was insubordinate. So this livestock tag was unfair.

‘Anything else I can do to help?’ said Ken.

‘Well, you couldn’t just help me fix the pet carrier to the back of the bike? I’m struggling with that ratchet strap thingy.’

‘No problem.’

Half an hour later the phone rang.

‘Tony, it’s Chris from Pennywell. Good news from Trading Standards. They’ve successfully unravelled all that needs to done for compliance regarding Animal Health and the associated Animal Disease Control Welfare measures.’

‘Have I got the certificate I need?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Titch and I can leave?’

‘Yes.’

Phew.

***

I was a little jealous as we said goodbye. Fran seemed to linger longer in the hug with Titch than in the one with me. When she said ‘Take care, darling’ I had to double-check that I was the intended recipient of the good wishes. I kissed her, promised not to sleep with the pig, and then crossed the road to the station.

The bike was all fixed up now. Peter had revealed that there’d actually been no problem with the battery. I simply hadn’t put it back onto the bike properly. I now realised there was a little button at the top that needed to fit through a little hole. A little bit of jiggling was required to ensure that this happened, but now that was all done, I could leave, safe in the knowledge that my bike would ‘help’ me as I pedalled my way up hills.

Getting myself and Titch onto the train was the next challenge. I wheeled the bike with my entire ‘world’ for the next three days fixed either in the basket on the front, or to the panniers and rack on the back. I kept Titch secreted in the sling beneath my coat, as I didn’t know whether First Great Western trains operated a ‘no pigs’ policy or not. I’d had enough last-minute hitches without the station master reaching for a thick rule book and thumbing through the index under ‘pigs’.

Thankfully, the guard opened the barrier with no questions and without noticing the lump under my coat. I wheeled the bike through onto Platform 1 with a full five minutes to go. Plenty of time to get to Platform 4 for the Barnstaple train.

It soon became apparent that I’d not followed Kate’s instructions to the letter when I’d tied the sling earlier. It was now drooping very low under my coat, and Titch was attempting to wriggle free. Titch, it seemed, had ideas not consistent with the smooth catching of a train. Perhaps she was hungry. Perhaps she wanted to go to the toilet again. Maybe she wanted to get a clear view of what was going on all around her. Whatever it was, sitting still and going to sleep didn’t appear to be in her plans.

I struggled to the lift that would take us up to the bridge across the platforms. A middle-aged, swarthy, Spanish-looking couple were waiting, surrounded by suitcases, and they looked at my heavily laden bike and then at me, clearly puzzled that I should be considering this form of transport at such a time of year. Titch wriggled. I held her tight with my one free arm. The couple now knew that there was either something alive inside my coat, or that I was wearing a motorised jumper that gave me a body massage as I moved about. Their eyes fixed on my blue anorak as we arrived at the bridge level. As I moved off, Titch let out a mighty wriggle.

‘Titch!’ I said, unable to contain myself.

The couple looked on, more confused than ever. I smiled, and hoped that they weren’t getting a train from Platform 4. Should that be the case, I’d have to share another short, but uncomfortable, lift journey with them. Their presence meant that opening up my coat and attending to whatever was troubling Titch wasn’t really an option, without running the possibility of allowing my secret cargo to become public knowledge on this station.

I couldn’t really say what I wanted to tell them: ‘Look, relax my Spanish friends – it’s a pig. Get on with your journey and stop eyeballing me like you’ve never seen a pig in a coat before.’

Or better still:
Es un cerdo. Relájese mis amigos espanoles. Continuar con su viaje y dejar de mirarme a la manera de alguien que nunca ha visto un cerdo dentro de un abrigo antes.

Surprising people by guessing their nationality, and bursting into their native tongue, is something I like to do wherever possible. It mostly backfires, as people have a habit of not resembling their stereotypes. Had I been able to offer up the valid Spanish – the above is offered courtesy of Google Translate – quite possibly this couple would have turned out to be Norwegian. And even Google doesn’t know the Norwegian word for ‘eyeballing’.

I allowed them to walk ahead of me, whilst I had another surreptitious attempt at reorganising Titch in the sling. I had only one hand available for the task – a task that clearly needed three pairs of hands for it to be done properly. I was deeply disappointed when the couple ahead now stopped at the lift that descended to Platform 4. Oh dear. We were going to share another lift together.

I smiled nervously when I caught up with them. They looked at me with suspicion. Perhaps their few private moments on the short walk across the footbridge had afforded them some time to formulate some theories.

He’s a white snake charmer and he has a snake in there. It may kill us if we share another lift with him. Please don’t let him be travelling from Platform 4.

His motorised jumper massage equipment has a computer fault. It will probably break through his clothes soon and harm innocent bystanders, should they be contained in a small space with him. Please don’t let him be travelling from Platform 4.

The lift doors opened and the three of us got in. Or rather the four of us got in. Titch was now making little grunting noises, so no point in trying to pretend that she wasn’t there. I simply couldn’t think of what to say, so I smiled again.

I guess the smile is nature’s way of trying to set people’s minds at ease. I suppose that’s why we use it in these situations. We’re trying to say to people: ‘OK, I know you’re nervous of me but I can smile, so I must be all right. Look.’

And then we display our smile. The most sickly, disingenuous smile we’ve ever managed. It produces the exact opposite reaction to the one intended, giving the impression that we kill for pleasure and are eager subscribers to the magazine
Cannibalism Today
.

We entered the lift and my Argentinian couple (I was attempting to close in geographically) looked away. They were now more comfortable with their noses pressed against the grubby side of a lift than making eye contact with their strange, and possibly dangerous, travelling companion.

When we reached the platform, they fled the lift, almost breaking into a trot. Certainly as much of a trot as their accompanying bags permitted them. By rights, I should have let them ‘escape’. However, waiting for the two lifts had meant that I was now running late and the train, exasperatingly up the other end of the platform from the lift, was about to close its doors and pull away. So I began to run, too. This clearly alarmed the couple, who became flustered and attempted to increase their speed, whilst babbling to each other in a foreign tongue.

I was attempting to stay focused on my task, which was to support a wriggling pig inside my coat with one hand, whilst steering a heavy and overladen bike with the other. Oddly, I still retained the capacity to be mildly irritated by the fact that the language I was hearing a few feet ahead of me was not Spanish. I’d been wrong with my instant racial diagnosis and, in spite of the urgency of my situation, this left me feeling disappointed. And curious still. Was it Bulgarian they were speaking? Turkish perhaps?

‘Focus, Tony,’ I said to myself.

I was making very slow progress up the platform, because inside my coat, Titch was slipping ever lower down my body. There wasn’t time to check, but it really felt as if she’d freed herself completely from the sling now, and the only thing that was preventing her from falling onto the platform beneath us was the arm that I had placed beneath her body to support her. Up ahead the train driver revved the engines, nudging my anxiety towards panic. I could see my Balkan couple boarding the train, not even permitting a glance back in my direction to see where I was. Still a few more yards to go.