Long Way Down Page 4

  Charley had been on the phone to Ollie and she was feeling considerably better. We would never have left if she’d still been really ill. It was great to know she was doing so well now.

  The trucks were packed, the bikes ready, and we were all set to go. I pulled up alongside Charley. ‘OK, Charley,’ I said. ‘Good luck, mate. Love you.’ Then we were off, Charley leading, his panniers glinting as a brief glimmer from the sun bounced off them.

  The sign read ‘John O’Groats, a welcome at the end of the road’ but for us it was only the beginning. Quite a few people had gathered to see us off. Many of the well-wishers were English, and one couple we spoke to told us that English people came up to escape the rat race while Scots went the other way in search of jobs. I guess I had to count myself among the latter.

  Charley was alongside me and I told him I really had to speak to my wife. ‘I haven’t told her I’m leaving yet,’ I said.

  He was laughing. ‘You mean you’ve not told her we’re doing the trip?’

  ‘No, I just said I was going out to get some milk.’

  I spoke to Eve, the whole gathering yelling out ‘hello’. And then we were off, five of us in convoy – myself, Charley, my dad, my brother, and Claudio filming. Over the next couple of days the five would become four and the four three – on our way to Cape Town.

  I love riding motorcycles. It can be raining, fucking snowing, I don’t care. There’s no feeling quite like it in the world. I’ve said it before: the beauty of the trip is the bike, sweeping into bends, banking the thing knowing it’s planted, no matter the road conditions. Riding along there’s so much time to reflect, which is a rare thing in these days of modern living. I realised that though John O’Groats might have been a throwaway comment initially, it was in fact the perfect place to start. A couple of days in beautiful, barren Scotland – I haven’t lived here for years and I don’t get to ride these roads very often – was good for the soul. I was relaxed; the Belstaff rally suit was light, comfortable and, most important, waterproof. I was in my element.

  Ten miles into the journey, however, I realised I’d forgotten to recalibrate the GPS, which, when you think about it, is a ‘page one’ thing to do. Stupid – I wanted to know exactly how many miles I’d covered when we rode into Cape Town and here I was with my GPS not reading the distance correctly.

  CHARLEY: You may recall that Ewan likes to leave the navigating to me, so I’m not surprised he forgot to reset the GPS. We were heading down the A9 towards Loch Ness before riding through Glencoe and on to Crieff where we would stay the night with his parents. Ewan told me that he’d wondered what it would be like riding into Cape Town on the last day, and if he’d remember that he’d wondered about it way back at the beginning. Cape Town was months away and I had no idea what I’d be thinking when we got there, but I suppose that’s the difference between the two of us.

  We had a hell of a lot of miles to cover first; there’d been a kidnapping in Ethiopia, plane crashes in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and the situation in Darfur was no better. A couple of weeks previously there’d been a rally in London to protest about the four years of slaughter and we weren’t sure what kind of impact that would have on the Sudanese government. I guessed we’d find out.

  I was glad to be off at last after all the last-minute stresses and everything that had happened with Ollie. I was pleased we were stopping for a night in London, though, so I could see her again before I left for the long haul. This morning she’d sent me a lovely text, congratulating us on the first day of Long Way Down. That’s typical Ollie, always thinking about me. It brought home just how much I was going to miss her and the kids.

  I’d needed her yesterday because as Ewan said, it hadn’t just been a case of rocking up at the airport and flying north: looking back now it was mad, totally crazy; a really dumb thing to happen.

  We’d been in the business lounge waiting for our flight when it kicked off. Before we even got inside a woman, a representative of the airline, was having a go at a passenger who appeared to be in the wrong place. I made some crack and the woman started telling us that this was a business class place and we ought to behave like business people. The reality was there weren’t any so-called ‘business people’ around, just three other guys dressed in jeans like us. It was petty, stupid; but she was really irritated now and with hindsight perhaps she was looking for an excuse to have a go.

  Paying customers or not we couldn’t do anything right. I had a bag behind my chair and up against the wall; it was no distance from me. I could literally reach over and grab it. She told me to move it.

  For Christ’s sake, I thought; ridiculous. And then I opened my mouth: ‘It’s not as if there’s a bomb in it,’ I said.

  Oh God. Charley, Charley; that’s not what you say in an airport when you’re waiting to board a plane. I knew it as soon as I said it. But it was too late, the words were out and the woman went ballistic.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That’s it; I’m off to get the police.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. I just thought she’d gone outside to cool down for a moment.

  A couple of minutes later she was back, however, with four police officers and the head of airport security in tow. I was gobsmacked; I mean for Christ’s sake all this already and I’d not even left England. They marched me outside and started grilling me.

  Rightly so: I’d made a stupid comment, letting my temper get the better of me when only a few weeks earlier on our training course I’d been talking about how daft that was. I know from my own experiences on the last trip that ranting and raving about something gets you precisely nowhere, except into more trouble. Not that I’d been ranting and raving, but I had lost the plot and now I was paying the price.

  Anyway the four cops and the head of security asked me all sorts of questions and I told them what had happened and that I was sorry, and it had been foolish in the extreme to make such a remark. But I also told them about the woman’s attitude, that she’d been in everyone’s faces and in my opinion she’d been looking for a reason to get even. While this was going on the flight was called and the three other passengers who witnessed what had happened in the lounge each came out to tell the police that the woman had been totally unreasonable. All I’d really done was make a silly crack.

  The thing was, however, no one from the airline was there to hear it so although the police and the head of security accepted my apology, the airline wasn’t able to. If they’d sent someone through I might have made that plane. As it was I didn’t. They told me there was no way they were letting me on. I wasn’t flying and that was the end of it.

  Jesus, it was a mess. Immediately Russ said he’d stay behind with me and we’d try and get on another flight. Typical Russ, I can’t count the times he’s been there to bail me out.

  Anyway Russ stayed and the others took off for Inverness as planned. The head of security ushered us out to arrivals. I kept apologising, as did Russ on my behalf, and between us we suggested that she might go and see the airline people for us. She agreed to do that, deposited us in a cafe and told us to wait.

  Wait we did and what a nightmare. We spoke to Asia, the Long Way Down project manager, at the office and she told us that the airline were going to put the word out to other airlines and make sure no one would fly me anywhere. Not just then, but anytime and anywhere in the world. I was cacking myself.

  We sat there and sat there, going over every possible scenario, every outcome; ruing the fact that I’d opened my big mouth. And then the head of security came back. She brought with her the manager of the airline and once again I apologised, grovelled even, and she agreed it had all been a misunderstanding and that we could get on the next flight.

  Anyway, we made it; and spent the night in the Castle of Mey with the others. It was all behind me now thankfully. I felt great, relaxed even, if a little emotional. I hoped everything would be all right.

  It started well; the roads were sound, the tarma
c good and the countryside spectacular. This morning had been weird though; I’d woken up with a black eye. It had been fine when I went to sleep, but now I looked like I’d been in a fight and I began to wonder whose bedroom mine had been historically – the fifth earl maybe; he who’d locked his daughter in the attic?

  It was beginning to rain; the clouds that had unloaded the night before had regrouped and were swamping us again. We headed south, a loch on our left and the mountains sombre and grey. Ewan was right, Scotland had been a good idea; the roads were empty, the bike felt like it was on rails and to be riding with my best mate again was fantastic.

  I was over the irritations now, all the bullshit at the airport and I’d had last night to fully unwind. As if in warning, however, ahead of me Ewan tried to overtake a car. There was another car coming but the driver he was overtaking wouldn’t let Ewan in. He had to back off the throttle and pull behind him again. A boy racer with a big aerial, the twat, he could’ve killed him.

  Beyond the pitch black waters of Loch Ness we headed east through Glencoe. Here the mountains shouldered us on either side and Ewan described the history as ‘bleeding off them’.

  It had stopped raining but the tarmac was greasy, the road twisty but not technical, shortish sweeping bends, grippy Michelin tyres; the bike pitched into them without missing a beat.

  EWAN: The scenery was stunning: mountains banked with heather and massive stands of fir trees, lines of which had been cut back. The way they smelled in the rain was terrific. For the first time in ages I had a little head space. I had no great sense of the journey yet, no overbearing worries about the miles; it felt like a Sunday, I was bimbling along behind my dad just out for a ride on my bike. At breakfast I’d had a sense of scale but right now it was banished. I was travelling in the direction of London though, and that meant towards my family. I knew it would be different when we left again; then I would be going ever further away from them and no doubt the reality of the venture would dawn.

  My leg was aching a bit: this morning was the first time I’d been running since I’d broken it. On the set of Incendiary I’d had to do a little jog now and then, and during the first week of filming I was definitely still hobbling, but this morning I’d been running and now my leg was complaining about it.

  It was getting near lunchtime but we wanted to be south of Inverness before we stopped. It’s weird but we’d only been going half a day and already there was the temptation to rush on. Why? What for? We weren’t slaves to any clock and I was determined we weren’t going to pressurise ourselves. I wanted to relax and enjoy it, not be cowed by some schedule as we’d sometimes found ourselves on Long Way Round.

  I was getting hungry and coming into another town I spied a cafe by the roadside where a couple of rozzers were squatting in their panda car. It was too early to eat. I was thinking about food, though; scampi and chips in particular. What is it about road trips through Scotland that make you think about eating scampi and chips?

  Still it rained; the roads slick, puddles opaque as sheep crossed, and a lonely camper van struggled on ahead. Day one and already we’d had as much rain as we’d had during the entire time it took to ride round the world. I remember being in the jungles of Honduras with an archaeologist and he told me about rain. He said you’re all right if you can stop it raining in your head. Let it rain inside your head and you’re in trouble: you can easily become depressed. So it could rain all it wanted on my helmet, I wasn’t going to let it rain in my head. Besides, later we’d be in fifty degrees of heat in places and we’d probably be begging for a downpour.

  We spent the night with my mum in Crieff and in the morning we headed for Stirling and then Robin House. Only the second children’s hospice to be built in Scotland, it’s a place where parents can take their terminally ill youngsters for a certain number of days a year and get a little respite themselves. It’s run by the Children’s Hospice Association of Scotland, a charity I’m involved with that was founded in 1992 by a small group of committed parents and medical professionals. I’d not been to Robin House since it was completed, but I had been to its sister Rachel House in Kinross. The best way to describe the children is as wonderfully brave little people who aren’t going to make it into adulthood. They’re feisty, full of life; they’re very much alive. How do you deal with it though…if you’re a parent, I mean? I think unless you’re actually in it, it’s unimaginable.

  Robin House had been finished a couple of years ago and is set within the boundaries of Loch Lomond National Park. We pulled up and were met by the staff: inside one of the kids was hovering. I gave him a big hug. ‘Hi, wee man,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  CHARLEY: For years Ewan had been telling me about CHAS and what fantastic work they did, how incredible the families involved were. But until today I’d never seen for myself. I have to admit I was feeling quite emotional. I spoke to Ewan in the spacious reception area. I said that as well as it being so hard on the children and parents, it must be really tough for the staff.

  Ewan nodded. ‘What you find being here though…it’s a really positive experience because it’s a place full of colour and life. I’ve always found it at Rachel House. That’s what it’s for, for these kids to have a really good time. And so you come away feeling really good. It’s only a day or so later maybe, when you’ve had time to reflect, that it hits you.’

  It was an incredible building, wood-panelled with a sloping roof, a tiled courtyard and windows everywhere. The views were magnificent, across the gardens to low and distant hills. The children’s bedrooms had little portholes, circular windows at bed level so they could be lying down and still gaze across the gardens. The staff took us into the sitting room where families were gathered and they’d put a big sign on the wall welcoming us. There was the usual hubbub, music in the background, loud and crashy, not sombre or even vaguely melancholy. We met a great lad called William who’d come all the way from Rachel House especially because his greatest ambition had been to meet Ewan. There was a lad called Sean from Stirling, a young lady called Ashleigh, there was Cameron, Keiron, Lee; and a little girl called Rebecca who was running around taking everyone’s picture. Outside a wheelchair-bound boy named Paul was flying a kite with one of the carers, while someone’s younger brother dressed as Superman dived about all over the place.

  The parents had bedrooms downstairs – a sort of escape zone so they could get away from it all for a while. I spoke to a couple who explained that having cared for their little one 24/7 all his life, it was actually quite hard the first time they went to the hospice. It took a while to get used to other people being around to look after him. The families, brothers and sisters particularly, take advantage of the hydro-pool because with one child needing constant care they rarely go to a normal swimming pool. The kids have a main play area complete with a soft play room, where those who can’t stand up are able to roll around without getting hurt. They have a fantastic art room where the music is normally so loud you can barely hear yourselves speak.

  A lot of the kids they deal with are teenagers – many teenage lads in fact – whose minds are sound but their bodies let them down. They have their own den, where no adult or young child can go; a chill-out zone like every teenager needs. There they can surf the net, watch DVDs or play the drums if they want to. The hospice has what they call the snoozlin: a multi-sensory area with coloured bubble lights, a water bed, a carpet that changes colour and a ceiling made of stars. Children who can’t communicate can lie there and perhaps some image or colour will bring a light to their eyes or even the hint of a smile.

  Most of the time I was fighting back tears. We met a girl called Jenna whose dad was a biker, another girl called Jenny, there was Leona and John; I’d never come across such brave children or such incredible parents. The whole thing was humbling and left Ewan and me feeling very emotional, particularly after they showed us the rainbow room. The hospice is there to create memories for families who are losing their children. That’s what the
y told us, and it was a terribly sad and yet kind of hopeful way of putting it. For me it was personified in the rainbow room: it looked like any other bedroom but this was where a child was laid out after he or she had died. It was private and separate and could be made very cool very quickly so a grieving family could have as long as they wanted with their loved one. They could play music or read a story, or they could just sit with them until they could face moving on. If they woke in the night in floods of tears they could go to the rainbow room and just be with them.

  The carers told us that ironically the room comes to life when a child is lying there; they have hidden projectors and can play images across the walls, photos would be spread, memories. If the child was just a baby, perhaps only a few days old, ceramic imprints of their hands and feet can be made. They told us about a teenage weekend they had, when one of the kids died and all the others went to the rainbow room to say goodbye. Talk about tough, talk about brave; they knew this was what faced every one of them.

  It made me think about my sister Telsche, who I lost to cancer some years ago. I missed her. I loved her. I could feel her with me on the bike, almost as if when I slung my leg over the seat she climbed right on the back. She was there on Long Way Round; she was there on the Dakar. I knew she’d be with me all the way to Cape Town.

  EWAN: Robin House was very emotional. I’ve visited Rachel House many times and it puts everything into the sharpest focus. It’s a strange truth, but as parents go to a hospital when it’s time for their child to be born, so some parents take their children to Robin House when it’s time for them to die. I was really touched by Cameron’s parents. They were a young couple with two kids who were well and one who wasn’t – Cameron – who was such a sweetheart. I was full of respect for his father, a young guy who worked on farms and had such a lot on his plate looking after his family. He seemed a really a decent man, but then all the families are like that. You just have to thank God that places like Robin House are there, because for the families that use them they’re an absolute necessity, and the carers, the people that work there, can’t be praised enough.