Prior to booking the Garden Room, our latest guests made an enquiry as to whether we had any bicycles on site that they could borrow or hire and if not whether we could send them details of the nearest bike hire shop. They were flying into Birmingham from Germany and our correspondence was being translated by abb’s translation service.
When we first moved here both Susie and I had bicycles but abandoned them almost immediately because our house, located 1350 feet up hill, is actually one of the highest houses in England – everywhere is downhill from our place and our place is uphill from everywhere else.
It was exhilarating and breezy speeding downhill for twenty minutes to the nearest town but quite frankly it was absolutely exhausting pushing our cycles uphill for an hour and three quarters to get back home. And so fourteen years ago we knocked cycling on the head and, with judgement being the better part of valour, became committed car enthusiasts.
I sold my bike in 2020 and Susie’s is still languishing in the barn, covered in straw dust and swallow guano with perished tyres and a flakey saddle. Not a good prospect for loan or hire.
Anyhow, I messaged our guests with a brief explanatory of our bicycle status and dutifully looked up and found a local cycle hire shop (thirteen miles away) and sent them the details.
I didn’t get a reply but they did book with us and with exemplary Teutonic punctuality turned up bang on 3 o’clock for check-in last Friday.
And this is where I realized that something must have gone wrong with the translation service. Marta and Viktor were in their late 50’s and must have weighed at least 250 pounds each.
Marta was more spritely than Viktor and managed to get out of the passenger seat using a rocking/rolling motion, gradually building up momentum until she broke through the inertia and eased herself onto her two snooker-table-type legs. Viktor’s was an altogether less agile exit, heralded by a wheezing, hacking smoker’s cough, two pudgy hands white-knuckling the door frame, with one leg out of the car and the other held for what seemed an agonizing eternity by some unseen force inside the footwell. Struggle is real.
Handshakes and broken English all round, I showed them to their accommodation as they waddled and wheezed behind me. Honestly, there was no way they were going to be swinging their legs over a cross bar let alone actually riding a bike.
They never mentioned bicycles or commented on our earlier exchange and as for myself, bewildered as I was, I chose not to pursue any enquiry in that vein. But it’s left me wondering what it was that they were actually enquiring about and what on earth they made of my bikey reply.