It was another beautiful day in Wales. We packed Monty with sandwiches, bananas and Blu-Tack and headed in a northerly direction, aiming for Welshpoo (no L. That's how it's written on the sign in Machynlleth, so it must be right.)
Of course, we're Coyote and Roadrunner. That means that it's impossible for us to just go straight to a destination. We'd much rather go in the general direction of somewhere and see what we can find on the way. It's much more interesting, you see...because in doing so, we came across a rather tasty urbex location:
We parked up and hopped across the silent road. A few seconds later and we were over a wall and gate and standing amidst the ruined buildings. It appeared to be a dilapidated farm; although the buildings were rather grand. The house (in the photo) was ravaged by time and the elements; most of the windows were smashed and the front room on the ground floor was full of detritus. The ceiling was on the verge of collapse and the entire area was shrouded in a deep air of melancholy. It was so eerily quiet...
...until we both stopped in our tracks. We were behind the house and could clearly hear an engine ticking over on the road. Someone was waiting for us to come back to the road.
Coyote took the lead and strode towards the car (a Corsa. The irony!) with an open smile on his face. The lady behind the wheel of the Corsa was less than happy to see us and rambled on about having had lots of things stolen from the property. Judging by the amount of make up she was wearing, her Avon catalogue wasn't among the items pilfered.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask her. What, exactly, had been stolen from a crap hole like that? How come she appeared so quickly? How could she even move her face with so much foundation on? Sadly, I didn't get the chance to put these burning queries to her as Coyote charmed her socks off and she soon buggered off in a haze of cheap perfume and Corsa fumes.
But, dear reader, this was but a mild inconvenience compared to the sheer panic we were soon to face. The narrow escape I elude to in the title came later as we were heading back to the warmth of mid Wales.
I had my head buried in my rucksack - probably hunting for Smints or lip balm - and I suddenly felt Coyote tense in the driving seat. Snapping my head out of the depths of my rucksack and pulling the Blu-Tack off my nose, I peered at him. His shoulders were rigid and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead like something fixed that's really fixed on something. 'Are you ok?' I asked. A low growl emitted from his throat and with a barely discernible twitch he gestured behind us. I turned to look out of Monty's rear window and my blood turned to ice.
**BOFMOBILE AT 6 O'CLOCK!**
We both descended into complete, concentrated silence as my eyes fell on the nearside wing mirror; watching like a hawk. One with binoculars. Coyote maintained a healthy distance between us and the BOFmobile, but we knew we would have to take action sooner or later. A slight whiff of expensive aftershave crept through the air vents and the first strains of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3 began to waft through the windows. Our heart rates rose and beads of sweat prickled our troubled foreheads. Evasive action was required. SHARPISH.
'Don't turn round. Don't throw any hand grenades,' he put his hand on my arm, 'Put the Panzerschrek down for now, Roadrunner. We'll be fine.' Coyote reassured me. 'I'll get us out of this. Somehow...'
I trusted him. It wasn't the first skirmish we'd had with a BOFmobile...and we had the upper hand because we were in northern territory; not in Boferston (where BOFmobiles are born). I did as I was bade and slid the antitank weapon back under the seat; but I still held a grenade in my hand. One swift pull of the pin and a lob out of the window would see us right if we couldn't find another route of escape. BOOMBOF. I smirked at the thought and Coyote shook his head. 'You like blowing things up, don't you?' he asked.
'Only BOFmobiles!' I answered; the innocent expression on my face not quite washing with Coyote. 'And small, red brick buildings,' I conceded. Coyote raised an eyebrow. I sighed. 'Ok, ok. And MGBs. Happy now?'
Coyote's retort was nipped in the bud faster than you can say 'sprouts'. The BOFmobile overtook us. We dropped down in our seats; knowing that we mustn't make eye contact with the driver at all. Coyote eased off the gas; we were both fully aware that this manoeuvre might be part of a cunning plan by the BOF behind the wheel to run us off the road so he could bore us to death with his opinion on current affairs and yachts. (Not that BOFs are cunning, you understand. They're not really capable of cunning plans unless they've been created for them by a room full of lackeys. Or unless they stole the cunning plan from someone else.)
But it suddenly all became clear. The BOFmobile screeched across the road and disappeared up a road towards a large field. A sign brandished by a senior BOF at the entrance of the event explained everything:
We had been saved. There was relief, there was celebration and then there were tears. Once again, we'd been spared the nightmare.
Someone up there's looking after us.
We think it's Elvis.