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wewouldmissoutonwhatthefayrehadtooffer,but,ifwestayedput,wemightspendthe
night on the street.
'We'll get something sorted here, I think. We haven't failed so far on the trip,' said Ben.
'I think that's the first bit of genuine optimism I have heard from you.'
'I know. It's the prospect of the Newent Onion Fayre. I can barely contain my excite-
ment.'
We wheeled our bikes down the main street as we tried to establish a plan of action.
When we reached the main square there were people unloading a giant trailer load of
onions and stacking them under an old Tudor-looking building.
'So this is where it all happens,' said Ben.
'I guess so. That's a LOT of onions'
'We could see if they need any help setting up all the stuff and then maybe one of the
workers will be able to offer us somewhere to stay,' suggested Ben.
'Sounds good. It's definitely worth a try.'
There were blank stares from the onion stackers as Ben pitched his proposition. They
continued heaving sacks of onions to one another in a line from the trailer to the stack.
There was still no response after Ben had finished talking. I tapped Ben's arm to suggest
that we leave them to it, when one of the men at the end of the line spoke.
'So you set off from Land's End and you're cycling to Scotland without spending any
money?' he asked as he continued to haul onions.
'Yeah, basically,' said Ben.
'Sounds very enterprising,' he said, smiling for the first time. 'You can sleep at mine if
you want. I could do with a hand setting up in the morning.'
Itreally wasassimple asthat. Wehadbeenmilliseconds fromwalking awayandgiving
up on Newent and its onions, and suddenly we had been offered somewhere to stay.
Wespentthenexthourhelpingtheguysunloadtherestofthetrailerofonions.Theman
who offered us a room was named Rob - a local farmer and the main supplier of onions to
the festival. Rob was in his early forties, slim, good-looking and un-weathered - compared
to some other farmers.
After we had finished stacking the onions he offered to buy us a beer at the pub across
the square. Most of the other men looked like local farmhands, but one of them was dis-
tinctly different. He was in his early twenties and he had a continuous full-faced grin like a
clown.Hisdresssenselooked,well,howcanIputthispolitely?Eastern-European.Hewas
wearing a pair of those baggy coloured patterned trousers that were in fashion for about
a week in 1988. He then complimented this with a shiny red bomber jacket and a yellow
baseballcap.Noneoftheothermenhadsaidawordtohimallevening.Hehadbeenoneof
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