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'You must be mad?' he shouts, the long goatee and curly hair resting on his broad shoulders unmistakable, even from a distance. Brian 'Killer' Kilcline is waiting for me on the platform.
It is lunchtime in the Cornish town of St Austell. Come bedtime, we would have drunk tea in his 'hobbit hole' house, drank beer at a wake, played with his bow and arrow and discussed his plans for a garden zip-wire. And he thinks my eight-hour train journey is mad?
Coventry City's 1987 FA Cup-winning captain is new around here. We are trying to find a way from the station to the land he has bought, bouncing down cobbled one-way streets in his pickup truck, rattling back up them in the wrong direction 30 seconds later.
He never did conform. The goth broach woven into his beard suggests little has changed.
So, what's the new house like? 'Wait and see,' he says, dust and dirt on his hulking hands and unlaced boots. His wife, Lynn, texts to ask if I'm good at digging. No. Shovel in hand, she waves as we squeeze down the country lane to their latest 'project'.
Former Newcastle defender Brian 'Killer' Kilcline invited Mail Sport's Craig Hope into his 'hobbit hole' in St Austell, Cornwall
Coventry City's 1987 FA Cup-winning captain and wife Lynn (right) laid bare their unique lifstyle in the south-west of England
The Kilclines live in the West Yorkshire village where Last of the Summer Wine was set, own and maintain several rental properties and recently sold the holiday home they had renovated in Portugal, complete with drawbridge that Lynn would begin to crank when it was time for Brian to leave the nearby bar. This here is the replacement.
'Welcome to the outdoor spa area,' says Lynn, atop a muddy bank, nothing more than a small pond and statue of a naked mermaid in front of her.
'This is now the swimming pool. There were 20 newts in it yesterday and one very bad-tempered frog. We had to serve them an eviction notice!'
Then, there it is, guarded by the lush forestry of the hills that rise behind it, the world's least likely dwelling for a tree giant of a centre-half. 'Our hobbit hole!' announces Kilcline, now 61, with youthful wonder. But this isn't unlikely at all, really, this is Kilcline.
We duck through a wood-panelled door, met by a bed big enough only for Bilbo Baggins. Kilcline, more like the wizard Gandalf, is 6ft 3ins tall.
'Before you state the obvious, it extends so Brian can sleep,' says Lynn. 'Either that or I put him in the little shed outside, if he misbehaves.'
Come midnight, Kilcline may well be looking for the keys to that shed. Lynn once put washing-up liquid in his dinner. 'Bit frothy,' he says. 'But I didn't complain, because I'd cooked it!'
The site's main house is 20 yards away and in need of a complete makeover. 'Ah, that can wait,' says Kilcline. 'This is the fun part. The journey is better than the destination. We're in no hurry to leave this.'
A keen archer, Sherwood-born former Notts County player Kilcline enjoys channelling his inner Robin Hood with his bow
Built only eight weeks ago, he fitted the hobbit hole interior - wonderful, wacky and with a cushion that declares: 'Bonkers'. On the wall hangs some feathered arrows. Near them, a long bow. Outside, a target.
'We saw a French guy on a horse in Portugal,' says Lynn. 'He was mental. Dressed in full Mongolian clothing. He had his bow and arrow and we asked for a go. Brian was missing and missing. He then moves back. The guy said, 'Brian, you can't hit it from here, why you move back?' Brian says, 'I will hit it!' The Frenchman says, 'God… what a cock!'.'
So, did you hit the target? 'Oh God yes!' says Kilcline, 'eventually. I was born in Sherwood in Nottingham, Robin Hood country, I should be bloody good at it!'
He has since joined an archery club in Yorkshire. 'I used to go to the pub and talk about girls and nightclubs. Now, we sit in a shed, drink tea and I listen to the old boys talk about their hip replacements! They know I played football, but we rarely mention it. I never introduce myself as a footballer, either. People either like me or not for who I am.'
Football can wait for now, too. We're off on a tour of the plot. 'The Cornish Alps,' he says, approaching the enormous, hillside Pines. 'Lynn wants me to put a zip-wire and tree-house here.' Why?
'To take the p***. If it makes us laugh, we'll do it. We're like two kids. It was scary coming down here, because you don't know anyone. We came down for my birthday to Tintagel Castle, I was running around like King Arthur, I love all that. Then we found this, it felt meant to be. And why not? When I finished the concrete work yesterday, my arms were f***ing killing me. But I loved it. You've got to keep your mind and body active.'
His frame is as strapping now as it was when battering, and bettering, the likes of Billy Whitehurst, John Fashanu and even Eric Cantona - 'I nearly ripped his f***ing head off, he did my team-mate John Moncur with a stamp, that was naughty.'
Kilcline worked as a builder's labourer when he finished playing at 35, earning £60 per week for 18 months. 'It wasn't about money, I was learning the trade. When you stop learning in life, you might as well give up.'
He and Lynn have climbed into the dry pond. Why not? He mimics the front crawl. Given you're never