The devil, we’re told, comes in many guises. Gordon Green doesn’t look like
one of them. He’s 69, rather smart, silver-haired, a charming, quiet,
self-effacing man. Nobody I meet in this tiny town has anything but good
things to say about him. But don’t be deceived.
He sits in the Neuadd Arms in Llanwrtyd Wells, Powys. He is sipping a pint of
Director’s. “Yes, it was my idea,” he says with a modest smile. “They were
all my idea. The man versus horse run. The bog- snorkelling. The
mountain-bike bog-snorkelling. All of them ...” His open expression dares
you to dislike him.
I hate him. Maybe that seems unreasonable, but you don’t know what he’s put me
through.
I CAN’T see anything. I am freezing. I have gunk in my ears. I have a rucksack
full of lead strapped to my back. I am trying to ride a bicycle. I am
hyperventilating. I am in a bog.
I am competing in the World Mountain Bike Bog Snorkelling Championships. You
might have heard of bog-standard bog-snorkelling — the world championships
take place on August 30, bank-holiday Monday — but there’s also a
two-wheeled version. It takes all the unpleasantness and futility of the
original and, by the simple expedient of making you do it on a bicycle,
multiplies them by a factor of 10.
This is how it works. In a field just outside Llanwrtyd Wells, a hole has been
dug. It’s about 80ft long, 15ft wide and 6ft deep. This being a boggy field,
it has, naturally, filled up with bog water, which is brown at the best of
times, and is now a thick, soupy, stinking mess. At one end the hole has
been dug on the slant, to act as a ramp. A specially modified mountain bike,
weighted with lead for neutral buoyancy, is placed at that end. An idiot
gets on it. The idiot starts pedalling. The idiot goes in, and is expected
to cycle two lengths of the trench, against the clock.
I am the 13th idiot today. Through muck-filled ears, I can hear vague echoes
of the people up above. I can’t see them — the water is completely opaque —
but I know they are clustered around this filthy trench, watching the top of
my snorkel bob along, an inch or so clear of the surface of the brown ooze.
I also know they are having a good time. I certainly did when I was watching
the other idiots in action. The atmosphere is much as I imagine it was at
public hangings in the 17th century: a small crowd, a jovial mood, the
pleasure of watching someone else’s suffering. If you’re part of the
audience, it’s the perfect afternoon’s entertainment. If, on the other hand,
you’re part of the action, it’s not quite so much fun.
Of course, it’s stupid. But don’t knock it for that. Llanwrtyd Wells is a town
that has been saved by stupidity. Specifically, by the very canny stupidity
of one man: Gordon Green, the messiah of mid-Wales.
THESE DAYS, Llanwrtyd Wells is marketed by the Welsh tourist board as “The
Wackiest Town in Britain”. I’m not sure this is wise, myself. Genuine
eccentricity is endearing, but wackiness is just embarrassing. As you enter
on the A483, you almost expect to see a sign saying “Llanwrtyd Wells — you
don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps.”
A century or so ago, the town didn’t have any truck with such indignities. It
didn’t have to. This was a thriving health resort: the Reverend Theophilus
Evans had discovered some foul-smelling springs here, and the Victorians,
staunchly convinced that anything unpleasant must be good for you, flocked
to take the waters.
But fashions changed, and health resorts fell from favour. A long, slow
decline began, and the town gently rotted away. By the time Gordon Green
first took over the licence of the Neuadd Arms in 1979, it was on its last
legs. Cottages were derelict, vandalism was rife and anyone who could afford
to was shipping out.
He tried to attract custom by singing the praises of the landscape, but nobody
was listening. So he got creative. What the town needed, Green realised, was
publicity, and landscape is not news. People jumping into bogs, on the other
hand, is, and so bog-snorkelling was born. Realising he was on to a good
thing, Green added other events with a wacky twist: the Man v Horse
marathon, the Mari Llwyd torchlit walk (where the whole town follows a horse
skull on a pole from house to house), a Saturnalia festival (which involved
much toga-clad drinking) — and, of course, the mountain-bike bog event.
Headlines were made. And slowly, surely, the fortunes of Llanwrtyd Wells
began to turn around.
Their interest piqued by the headlines, people started to come — and returned
telling tales, not just of peculiar events and ritual humiliation, but of
superb walking and mountain-biking, wildlife (hares, polecats, badgers,
buzzards and the red kite are all common), friendly people, cosy B&Bs
and surprisingly good food (the Carlton House was awarded a Michelin star
three years ago).
And it’s all in such an astoundingly beautiful place. To kill a few hours, I
drove into the hills around town, and came across more jaw-dropping,
pinch-me-I’m-here views than I’ve seen since I first went to New Zealand.
The countryside has the drama of the Lakes but the soul-soothing domesticity
of Dorset: Abergwesyn and Rhandirmwyn, in particular, must be two of the
most perfectly set hamlets in Britain.
Llanwrtyd Wells itself is tidy and attractive rather than beautiful, but it
supports eight hotels, a clutch of B&Bs and a riding school. Green’s
Machiavellian talent for media manipulation had achieved a lot. It was all
innately ridiculous, but that was part of the point. But then came the
ultimate irony, something even Green himself was not prepared for: people
started taking it seriously.
BACK AT the bog, there are two types of competitors. Stewart Hunter, Ken
Roberts and Peter Butler are type one. They’re here as the consequence of a
drunken bet. They’re jovially appalled at what they’ve got themselves into.
Sam Johnson is type one, too. He’s wearing black tie — though, being
Australian, he’s gone for the relaxed informality of trainers rather than
patent- leather shoes. “My flatmate was throwing it out,” he says of the
dinner suit. “You never know, it might keep me warm.”
But there is another sort of competitor. Grim-faced men are checking out the
mud conditions and water consistency, puffing, stretching and running on the
spot. In a huddle off to one side, a sly-looking pair whisper about tactics.
Yes, these events have created a new breed of Olympians. In a triumph of blind
competitive instinct over any sense of irony, these guys really, really want
to win. From their set jaws and thousand-yard stares, you’d think they were
in Athens. But they’re not.
They’re in a bog. Haven’t they noticed? They’re a tight-lipped bunch, but
seeing that I’m not exactly a threat, defending champion and local boy Mark
Parker agrees to give me a few tips. “The key to it all is breathing,” he
says, sotto voce. “That, and keeping your momentum. If you’re not at the
pole” — the halfway marker at one end of the trench — “within 30 seconds,
you’re toast.”
And at his words, a flicker of defiance stirs in my heart. I don’t want to
make myself any more ridiculous than is absolutely necessary, and there’s
something terribly silly about caring how you do in an event like this...but
I’ve got the pride of The Sunday Times to uphold. I start limbering up.
AT LAST, after seeing 12 fellow fools give it a go — poor Stewart dropped the
bike and bailed out with a panic attack after 20 seconds, but Ken, Peter and
Sam all made it round — there I am, shivering in the chill breeze, mask on,
snorkel raised, astride a bike on the lip of the trench.
“Representing The Sunday Times...Stephen Bleach!” proclaims Gordon Green,
before giving me a gentle shove. And, more quietly as I start to gather
speed: “Watch out for the newts!”
Newts? What newts? Freezing bog water was around my middle, then my chest, and
in three seconds it had risen over my mask, completely shutting out the
light.
It was horrible. I’m not a complete scaredy-cat — I’ve done caving, and
climbing, and diving — but I have never felt such a sense of panic,
claustrophobia and isolation as I did in that bog. It’s hard to say why it
was so awful, exactly — maybe it’s the unique combination of freezing cold,
pitch black, difficulty in breathing, lurking amphibians, and the fact that
you are trying to cycle through glop. These things all add up to much, much
more than the sum of their unpleasant parts. I could see why Stewart had
given up. This was the invention of an evil genius.
For the record, I finished in 2min 41sec. I came 14th. Out of 18. When I got
out, I went for a shower. Then I went looking for Gordon Green.
I WAS trembling with delayed shock when I found him in the Bell bar of the
Neuadd Arms. He had a pint of Director’s in his hand and a smile on his
face.
“Good day?” I ask.
“Oh yes, very good. Nice to see the local boy win.” Mark Parker had triumphed
again.
Enough niceties. “Look, Gordon, have you ever done mountain-bike
bog-snorkelling yourself?” I demanded.
“Oh no,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “You’d have to be mad, wouldn’t
you?” And he raised his pint to me.
Maybe he is the devil, but you can’t help liking him. Now excuse me, I’m going
to try to get the mud out of my ears. Again.
Travel brief
The 17th World Bog Snorkelling Championships (www.green-events.co.uk) will
take place outside Llanwrtyd Wells on August 30: entry fee £10pp. For
details on walking, pony-trekking, mountain-biking, fishing and
bird-spotting, contact the tourist centre (01591 610666,
llanwrtyd-wells.powys.org.uk).
Where to stay and eat: Carlton House (01591 610248,
www.carltonrestaurant.co.uk) has comfortable doubles from £65 B&B,
and chef/owner Mary Anne Gilchrist’s way with local produce has earned her a
Michelin star — weekday evening menus from £20. The friendly Neuadd Arms
(01591 610236) does good beer and decent pub grub, though the rooms are
rough and ready; ensuite doubles from £50, B&B.
Sillier and sillier
ORANGE-ROLLING
Totnes, Devon
Sir Francis Drake is best known for rolling bowls along a hoe, but on a
memorable visit to Totnes, he accidentally sent an orange skidding down the
very steep high street. The incident is remembered every August, when
townsfolk chase their own citrus fruit down the hill for prizes. All-comers
are welcome, doublet and hose is optional, and there are contests for
everyone from babies (age 4-6) to bobbies (policemen only).
August 24, from 11am; entry free; 01803 863168
BECA MOUNTAIN RACE
Crosswell, Pembrokeshire
Some may argue that dashing five miles across a 1,000ft fell in high summer is
madness enough. But at Crosswell they go the extra mile by insisting that
the winning runner become a cross-dressing axe fiend at the finish. The race
takes its inspiration from the Rebecca Riots of 1843, when fed-up farmers
disguised themselves as women and attacked toll gates erected by the hated
Turnpike Trust. To pay homage, the first runner back has to drag-up in a
traditional Welsh frock and smash down a gate with a chopper.
August 28, 1.30pm; entry £5; call 01239 891669
LAWNMOWER CROSS-COUNTRY
Horsham, West Sussex
Like many of the best things in Britain, this started in a pub: the Cricketers
Arms in Wisborough Green, where locals were discussing ways to pep up their
Sunday gardening. Thus was born the British Lawn Mower Racing Association
(motto “Per Herbam ad Astra” — Through Grass to the Stars), and its
cross-country event is a singular spectacle: a mile of humps, bumps and
jumps set in 30 acres of pasture at Brooks Green, near Horsham. The
customised cutters can reach 50mph, though rules require that blades be
removed, which makes crashes far less interesting.
August 28-29, from 1pm; go to www.racemower.co.uk
SEDAN-CHAIR RACING
Tunbridge Wells, Kent
The annual bank-holiday shindig in terribly nice Tunbridge is anything but
refined, as teams of vicars, firemen and chefs screech through the scenic
Pantiles area with their souped-up sedans. It’s a sort of Georgian It’s a
Knockout, and challenges along the course include apple-bobbing, cake-eating
and ale-quaffing.
August 30, noon. Entry free (over-18s, teams must include one woman);
01892 554022
Vincent Crump
