Day minus 1 - The End
I'm a fairly ordinary chap. Middle-aged, average height, average weight (more or less)… in fact, I doubt I’d stand out in a crowd of other middle-aged blokes with slightly thinning hair (I didn’t mention the hair did I… I don’t talk about it).
I’m not without my slight eccentricities, though. I’m inordinately fond of rabbits, for example. But generally speaking I'm not someone who casually drops a quote from an ancient Chinese philosopher into everyday conversation.
Not today, though. Oh, yes. Today I feel I can, with some justification, quote the ancient Chinese philosopher Confucius who pithily observed that ‘a journey of a thousand miles starts with but a single step’. Yes, it might be a statement of the bleedin' obvious, but you can’t deny it’s got a certain class.
My own journey of a thousand miles, give or take, starts with but a single car ride from home to the Metro station, with my wife negotiating the early morning traffic to ensure that I at least start my journey in one piece. Within minutes, we are pulling up outside the station.
“Well… goodbye then,” she says brightly. Surprisingly brightly, in fact.
“Well, goodbye,” I reply, now a little unsettled. “Take care. You’re going to be alright, aren’t you? I mean, on your own. You’ve... you've got everything you need..?”
She looks puzzled. “Er... shouldn’t it be me saying that?”
We part, she for the morning crush of traffic and me for my Metro service to Newcastle Airport for the first stage of my long journey to the start line, at Land's End on the furthestmost tip of Cornwall.
The choice of Land's End as a starting point was a fairly obvious one. It and John O'Groats are the two most distant points on the British mainland and of course Land’s End to John O’Groats has a sort of ring to it that Budleigh Salterton to Ecclefechan patently doesn't.
So, after extensive research, I decided I would start at Land’s End then travel through Cornwall and Devon right along the south coast of England as far as the New Forest. A swift hop across the Solent to the Isle of Wight, then it would be back onto the mainland and along the coast to Brighton before heading northwards to London.
From there, I’d shadow the A5 all the way to the Welsh borders before pressing on to the Mersey. Then it's east to the Peak District before turning vaguely northwards and eventually dropping in at home on Tyneside for a welcome change of socks.
Rested and re-socked, I’d then travel across country to Stranraer before turning north for Glasgow, then upwards into the Perthshire hills, a run up the coast of Lochaber to the Isle of Skye, back onto the mainland and then on to Inverness before embarking on the final leg of the journey to John O’Groats.
It was hardly a direct route, but there were good reasons for this – I was exploring, both countryside and local transport. All told, I reckoned that it would take some 28 days to travel. That's a month. A whole month. On a bus.
Oh...
I had decided to start my travels in May when the weather would be warm enough for me not to need duffle coats, wellies and thick naval sweaters. I’d also be popping home or meeting family members en route which meant that the furthest I would ever be away from a clean pair of underpants was about 10 days (manageable).
However, when I tumbled 10 days of clothing onto the bed to see what it looked like, the pile was so large it took me thirty minutes to find the bedroom door again. How on earth was I going to carry all this?
If I had been making the journey by car, of course, then it wouldn’t much matter but going everywhere by bus implied frequent walks to and from bus stops and long walks in search of accommodation at night, with my spine taking the strain rather than the car. Reducing weight therefore seemed like a good idea.
After a long search, I finally discovered a shoulder bag which became, with a few deft flicks, a rucksack I could carry on my back. A trial packing confirmed that it was adequate for 8 or 10 days of T-shirts and socks, and a few bits and pieces like my mini laptop, toilet bag and the like. It still looked a lot bulkier than I expected, but so long as I made it clear to everyone that despite appearances to the contrary I was not carrying the body of a dead rugby play on my back, I'd probably be left alone.
It also featured an additional mini-rucksack which could be unzipped from the front and carried separately, so I could keep all the important stuff on my lap like a notebook and camera whilst my main bag was consigned to the luggage rack where it wouldn’t keep tripping up pensioners and mothers with pushchairs.
So bag packed, route planned, I was in most respects ready for the off. Yet I still didn’t feel quite ready.
I was preparing to embark on a mildly-epic adventure (in the very loosest sense) yet I was without any clear idea of what exactly I was facing. This, I felt, was not the behaviour of the true explorer. After all, before the famous ex-Python Michael Palin set off on his seminal trip around the world in 80 days, he was careful to seek the advice of experienced travellers, including the distinguished TV journalist Alan Whicker. So perhaps I should be doing the same.
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| My Alan Whicker, aka Gavin Booth |
Alan Whicker was obviously out when I called, so instead I cast about for another Alan Whicker to call my own and found him in the mild and distinguished frame of Gavin Booth.
Gavin is a transport writer of considerable repute. After many years working in the public transport industry, he embarked on a career as a journalist, editing magazines such as ‘Buses Focus’ and ‘Classic Bus’, and writing more than 60 books on transport-related subjects. He was also heavily involved in the creation of the Scottish Vintage Bus Museum and he is currently chairman of the bus passenger’s representative group, Bus Users UK. Frankly, he’s so well qualified it should probably be him doing this trip instead of me.
“I suspect one of the problems you might face is the difficulty of getting hold of information about bus services,” he explained when I phoned him, with remarkable good grace given that I had just disturbed his tea. “It can be very, very patchy around the country and in some areas it’s dire, virtually non-existent.”
“In the deeply rural parts of Britain you’ll also find that some bus services have been reduced to just market days only.”
I felt my enthusiasm waning. I hadn’t expected this trip to be easy but I didn’t expect to find myself waiting at a bus stop for a whole week. Images of camping out in bleak, wind-blasted bus shelters filled with tumbleweed and belligerent sheep began to spring to mind until Gavin helpfully changed tack.
“That’s just in the countryside, though. In some of the big urban areas, increasing traffic congestion and parking charges have forced a lot of people to look again at going by bus, and I think a lot of bus companies have been more pro-active in terms of marketing their services, providing better vehicles and so on. As a result, the picture in urban areas tends to be quite buoyant. The long decline that started more than 50 years ago has bottomed-out and in a lot of places it’s turning back up again.”
“There’s also a much greater understanding that passengers have to be treated well to attract them out of their cars,” he said. “Bus companies have recognised that the way a bus looks, its interior fittings and furnishings and the like, are all part of the experience. In fact, a lot of buses now have leather seats.”
“It’s all part of giving passengers an environment in which they feel safe and comfortable – and making sure they don’t feel inclined to rush back to their cars!”
This was sounding more promising. I was particularly looking forward to the leather seats. But upholstery aside, Gavin admitted that my journey might be arduous and difficult at times, but he didn’t seem to think it was impossible. Implausible perhaps, uncomfortable certainly, but not impossible. He seemed to think this mad endeavour of mine was actually feasible, though clearly nobody was about to guarantee the state of either my mind or my buttocks after sitting on a bus for a month.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Two Metro rides later I arrived at Newcastle's modest airport where I prepared to undergo the customary forensic examination before being allowed anywhere near an aeroplane.
I confess to finding airports chilling, soul-less places – all that waiting around, the constant anxiety about security, the sterile shiny floors and bright lights, they feel a bit like a shopping mall crossed with an operating theatre.
Cheer up, though. Today happens to be an auspicious day for travel. On this very day in 1995, Alison Hargreaves became the first women to conquer Everest, a journey no doubt every bit as challenging as my own and, in some respects, possibly moreso – I’m not anticipating frostbite, for example. Mind you, she wasn’t going by bus.
It’s an auspicious day for flying, too. Today happens to be the 98th anniversary of the formation of the Royal Flying Corps, the 97th anniversary of the first flight of a four-engined aeroplane, piloted by Igor Sikorsky who would one day design the world’s first viable helicopter. It also happens to be the 68th anniversary of the first cross country flight in a helicopter (that man Sikorsky again) and the 61st anniversary of the maiden flight of Britain’s first jet-engined bomber, the Canberra.
It's also the start of National Doughnut Week and, frankly, that is cause for celebration.
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| My plane to Exeter... or is it to an armaments factory on the Ruhr? |
I’m heading for Exeter on what is called, I’m sure euphemistically, a ‘budget’ airline. By ‘budget’ they can’t possibly be referring to the price of the ticket which still seems a jolly lot of money, though substantially less than the pint and a half of blood the train companies seemed intent on extracting in exchange for a single rail ticket from Newcastle to Penzance. I therefore assume that the term ‘budget’ relates principally to the aircraft which, as I cross the concrete apron, I find resembles a freshly-repainted Second World War bomber complete with dangerous-looking propellers and things. Inside, it looks reassuringly like a modern jet, so I end up with the unsettling impression of having passed through a time portal where inside it is always the present day but stepping outside immediately transports me back to the 1940’s.
We are soon aloft, and once I'm over my initial fear that one of the propellers will loosen itself and come hurtling through the side of the fuselage, I settle back for the short flight to Exeter. It’s lovely. We skirt the Lake District then fly down the West Coast of Britain, starting our decent over a sunlit Bristol Channel. As we gradually lose height, the features of the Devon countryside slowly begin to resolve - green fields and heather-topped moors, farm buildings and scattered hamlets, green valleys and the occasional glint of water. No airport, though. Still, it can’t be far now and besides I can make out quaint thatched cottages dotted picturesquely along flower-strewn lanes, ancient stone bridges over babbling brooks, a farmer ambling across his field…
Where’s the ruddy airport? We're still losing height but there are no main roads, no acres of car park, no sprawling business parks, just endless grass. I look down anxiously at the ground and find my gaze returned by a puzzled, gently-chewing cow who appears for all the world to be thinking ‘Oh look, thaht be one of them thar airplanes, but I b’aint never recall ‘aving seen one that low before...’
And still there's no sign of an airport.
By now, I'm convinced that the pilot has passed out over the fumes of last night’s fish curry or has forgotten to take his anti-psychotic medication this morning and is intent on spearing the plane into a haystack. We skim lightly over a hedge and I can almost hear the birdsong, but still there's no sign of an airport.
By now I'm whimpering quietly and bracing myself against the seat in front. And then suddenly... we're making a smooth landing on the runway of Exeter Airport, what is perhaps the most well-hidden airport in Britain and which only now begins to appear from amongst the tall hedges and trees.
The pilot informs us that we are to be held up on the runway due to ‘congestion on the stands’, though the cause is a bit of a mystery. There’s certainly no queue of waiting aircraft and besides most of the planes appear to be light aircraft. Perhaps a line of ducks have wandered onto the airfield. Anyway, the delay is a short one and having retrieved my luggage from what appeared to be a Portacabin (it was actually the airport terminal) I wait for my bus into Exeter. Actually, I can see now that this is a lovely little airport laid out across sunny fields on the outskirts of the city with the chatter of sparrows almost drowning out the sound of the occasional aircraft lifting into the thinly-populated Devon skies.
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| Exeter Airport bus station... er, bus stop |
A short bus ride into Exeter drops me at Exeter’s Brunel-designed St. David’s railway station, whose grand facade exudes pride and confidence – they didn’t call it the Great Western Railway for nothing - even though its stonework now has the appearance of stale crumbly shortbread.
My train to Penzance arrives and I'm introduced to one of the finest rail journeys in Britain, along a line perched inches above the sea and with expansive views across sandy bays and down tree-lined creeks. Eventually, after what seems to be a very, very long time, we pull slowly into Penzance, the most southerly point of the British railway network. I'm already feeling like I'm a very long way from everything but I still have another nine miles or so to Land’s End before I can put my bag down, turn around and look for the first time back up the route that lies ahead of me.
The final part of today's long journey - from Penzance harbour to my hotel at Land’s End - proves to be one of the best. It’s by open-top bus and the sea air blowing straight off the Atlantic provides the perfect tonic for the slight mental grubbiness you tend to pick up on long air-conditioned journeys. I arrive around tea-time at the now-empty resort of Land’s End, excited and refreshed.
After a shower, a bottle of excellent local beer and a decent meal in a restaurant drenched in a spectacular ocean sunset, I decide to turn in early and prepare for my first day on the road. But before I do, I take a stroll along the cliff tops. It’s a beautiful place, quiet, cool with just the sounds of the seabirds and the ever-present crash of the Atlantic on the granite cliffs breaking the stillness. I’m standing alone, on the very tip of the British mainland, and it feels like I’m a million miles from home.
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| Land's End Hotel... amazing views from the restaurant |
It’s then that it suddenly hits me - I'm a huge distance from home and I have no obvious or immediate means at my disposal of getting back. No car, no return train ticket, no bicycle, no e-ticket for an aircraft, there are no buses running now and I’m miles from the nearest coach station. I can’t suddenly decide to cut short my trip and return home at short notice, or pop into the next town for a pizza in the evening. For the first time, the enormity of the task I have set myself becomes clear. I’m no longer an independent traveller, free to make last-minute decisions about where I go and where I stay. I’m totally reliant on other people and I can now only go to places I can catch a bus to, and only then at certain times not of my choosing. And all I have is what I can carry on my back.
Blimey. Was this really such a good idea?
On impulse, I check my phone and discover I’ve got a signal, just. I find the desire for reassuring human contact overwhelming so I decide to ring my wife for a few words of encouragement, to share both my joy at the scenery around me and my concerns for the long journey ahead.
There’s no answer. She’s taken the family credit card out for some much-needed exercise and is even now sharing a large pizza with the family.
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