Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'Aww, they were smashing? I would like them as my sons,' we heard one of the ladies
say as we left the building.
John, the pilot-come-dinner-lady, chased after us and gave us a bottle of water each.
'You'll need this, lads,' he puffed.
The whole trip was suddenly real. There was now every chance we could make it. To
Devon, at least.
You are no doubt wondering how it was possible to take the photos in this topic if we
started with nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. The truth is, we also carried a camera, a
notebook and pen and a wad of postcards printed with the words: 'I am OFFICIALLY a
very nice person'. The notebook and pen were for me to keep a diary during the trip. I
wanted to keep a record of our experiences and of the people that we met, to help com-
pensate for my deteriorating memory.
Being a photographer, I also thought it would be a nice idea to photograph the different
people who helped us along the way, creating a montage of Britain's unsung heroes.
The postcards were Ben's idea. He mentioned it a couple of days before we set off and
I initially dismissed the idea as corny and pointless. In my defence, he had originally sug-
gested that the postcards be printed with the phrase: 'I am a FUCKING good person.' The
thoughtofpresentingacardlikethistoanoldlady,whohadjustgivenusanapple,seemed
slightly wrong.
'Hello, little old lady. Thank you for the apple. Here is a postcard that says what a
FUCKING good person you are.'
In the end, we agreed on: 'I am OFFICIALLY a very nice person.' It was simple, inof-
fensive and genuine.
I should make it very clear that neither the camera, nor the postcards, were ever used
to help us gain favours in any way. They were only ever introduced after a good deed had
been done.
The sun had not yet emerged through the fog, and Ben's legs were beginning to feel the
cold. We knocked on the door of the next house that we came across, to try and find him
some trousers. A large, round-faced man answered the door. He was in his thirties and had
a face that looked like it was made from mashed potato. He was stocky and over six feet
tall, but his overbearing frame was counteracted by a huge smile and softly spoken voice.
We explained that we were hoping to get a pair of trousers and he invited us in while he
went to have a look. He returned with a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms.
'Are these ok?' he asked.
'They look absolutely perfect,' said Ben. 'Thank you so much. What's your name?'
'Les,' said Les.
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