Five Hundred Mile Walkies by Mark Wallington

Author:Mark Wallington [Mark Wallington]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2014-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

6. South Cornwall: the slow bit

FALMOUTH LOOKED LIKE the largest town we’d come to, and to celebrate our arrival I decided to have a wash.

The extent of my bathroom activities had been largely governed by the facilities available in the public conveniences en route. Although, on the whole, Cornish Gentlemen’s were a credit to the county. A far cry for example from the comforts on offer in the hut marked Men under the railway bridge outside Finsbury Park station.

The little number which I chose for my early morning ablutions in Falmouth was an unpretentious pebble-dashed affair with a well-trimmed box hedge and standard council issue railings bordering a crazy paving path to the entrance. Inside, the paintwork was a tropical blue; the floor, a tropical concrete with a seashell grain. Along the north wall stood a row of six vitreous china urinals, well sluiced and bearing the Twyford crest. Opposite them, four coin-operated doors in varnished plywood, each leading to a fully-fitted cubicle with sumptuous wooden seating and equipped with a spare packet of Bronco. The feature of the west wall was a functional but lovingly cared-for hand basin with water supplied at the temperature of the bather’s choice by a trusty Ascot. A towel dispenser hung nearby, and, above, a single frosted window, which cast distorted shafts of seven a.m. sunlight on an Erotica machine bearing the slogan: Plymouth three Rotherham nil, all right!

I stripped off and stuck my feet into a basin of hot water, then refilled it and did my other end. As I cleaned my teeth in the mirror, a faintly furry face stared back. My beard would surely pullulate soon. The Chris Bonington look was the one I was aiming for. When I reached Dorset I wanted blackbirds to be nesting in the thing.

The rest of my appearance grew more bizarre daily. The Penzance launderette had made my T-shirt run and now all my clothes were stained a blotchy red. My shorts were fraying, my hair slicked back vampire style, and my socks of different colours, one green, one white, not I should add out of any respect for fashion, but simply because my feet had decided that that was the most comfortable combination. I looked like a rambling punk from Transylvania and emerging from the Gents I wondered if Falmouth was quite ready for me. In the car park opposite, Boogie had made friends with a well-groomed labrador at the end of which was a well-groomed woman in tight skirt and high heels. She took a step back as I approached, but I breathed Signal all over her and she relaxed a little and directed me into town.

It was Falmouth’s rush hour. Traffic clogged the streets. A lollypop lady saw us across the road with a gang of school girls. They giggled when they saw me. ‘Nice legs shame about the face,’ said one. Bitch.

What I wanted in Falmouth was an ironmonger. I needed some device to fix my flagging rucksack. In one place I was told spring clips would do the job and was sold a bagful.

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