Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [33]
That was the final straw for me. I had had it with grey, northern European cities, and sleeping on train station platforms.
I reckoned it was time to hit the beach.
I asked around for where the best beach-resort in Europe was, accessible by train, and the name St Tropez kept coming up.
Perfect.
St Tropez is a small French town, renowned as the beach hangout for the rich and famous, on the southern coast of France. At this stage I was definitely not rich (in fact I was getting poorer by the day now), and was definitely not famous; but undeterred, I headed south – and instantly felt better.
As I pulled into town, the grey of Berlin felt a million miles away. My funds, though, were by now running severely low, and I soon discovered that St Tropez was not the place to find cheap lodgings. But I was determined that this was the place to hang out for the last week, until I headed home again.
I found a quiet back street, running behind the town’s church bell tower.
I glanced up.
A solid-looking drainpipe ran up to the first level of roofing, and from there a lightning conductor ran straight up the vertical wall to the bell tower itself.
How I love lightning conductors.
I checked that no one was watching, then steadily shimmied up the drainpipe and the lightning conductor, before wriggling over into the bell tower itself, some hundred feet up – high above the town.
It was the perfect campsite. I had a spectacular view over the coastline, and could watch and listen to the hustle and bustle of the seaside restaurants below. There was just about enough room to lie down and I carefully unpacked and made the eight foot by eight foot concrete space my new home.
The two flaws in my plan were, first of all, the many pigeons that had also made the bell tower their dwelling, and, secondly, the bell that rang every hour, two inches from my head. The former I just had to live with (in fact, I thought at least I could find dinner easily, in the form of a pigeon, if my money completely ran out), but the latter, the tolling of the bells, became unbearable.
At 3 a.m. on the first night, with the help of my torch, I found the fuse-box for the automatic bell, and put a temporary end to the town’s clock, and from then on slept like a baby.
By day, I swam for hours around the beautiful bays and along the beaches, and I then wandered aimlessly through the small streets and drank tea in cafés.
It was heaven.
But soon my funds really did run out, and I kind of knew that it was time to head back to the UK.
I had promised I would first join my good friend Stan on a road trip to Romania to help a small church build an orphanage there. Romania was a firmly Eastern European country at that stage, and poverty was both widespread and visible.
The mission was life-changing for me in many ways, and was such an eye-opener to how fortunate we are in the UK.
We were welcomed as brothers into the homes of members of the church and by day we helped physically build the orphanage. We laid bricks and shifted sand, and in the evenings we helped with local outreach events to support the small church. This was mainly geared at helping and welcoming in the local gypsies, who were treated as outcasts by most of the resident population.
I learnt during this trip that I had no right ever to grumble at my own circumstances and that I should always try to be grateful and hospitable wherever I can. Above all, I will always remember the kindness and warmth I was shown from those who had so little.
I have since witnessed so much of this generosity and kindness from people all over the world, and it never fails to bring me up short.
It tends to shine a light on my own, all too often, self-inflated ego.
Guilty as charged.
CHAPTER 30
One of my closest friends in my life is someone I met aged sixteen, and we just kind of always got on.
Charlie Mackesy is a good few years older than me but you would never have known it from the antics we got up to.
During this first year after school, when I rented