When the power went out for an hour, it stayed out. And still is as far as I know. Three days later. Power and hour eh? There was a young lady from Kent. Enough!

The snow settled and fell for 24 hours. Power cables came down and this region was plunged in darkness. Luckily the hostal’s heating was oil fired so my room was warm but the public rooms were cold. 

My iPad was running out of juice but it had no wifi or 3 signal anyway. My phone was topped up but the aerials were down so no signal. I had my head lamp so at least I had some light. The landlady cooked on a Primus stove. Nice food too but they ran out of milk and were down to the last three candles when I left. It was a Dunkirk spirit for the locals having breakfast in the hostal bar. No milk? Open the wine! All happy except the miserable looking old dear on the right. It’s only milk love. 

Two days full board, with great meals, £40 a day, room and board. I’ve put that weight back on. Can’t walk in the snow and nowt to do but sleep. 15 hours yesterday. Two days and I’m already stir crazy.

Saturday and I am going to go for it, probably back home. The landlady and landlord were sorry to see me go. The only resident guest. They asked me to be careful. There were two snowploughs clearing a track to the village and dropping salted grit. Just what the walker ordered.

I covered 4kms in an hour, reaching the next village, looking back at Bejis, momentarily lit for me by a shaft of sunlight. Still no electricity though. And Toras, this next village, was out too.

Another 8kms and I reach a village with a bus stop. A 4 wheel drive came down the hill and I stuck out my thumb. Result. A lift to Viver. The young woman passenger spoke English and said the next section of my walk was totally blocked. No pasar. The GR7 was out of bounds probably for the entire trip. The roads I intended to use as a substitute were blocked and I would have to wait for them to be cleared. However going north the power was also out. I needed to get through the mountains to reach the coast. The only routes open were trains and the main road from Valencia to Madrid which runs through the valley. I’d like to see the rest of the GR7. I’ll go home and come back to where I left off at some time in the future. Maybe later this year. 

The village of Viver celebrated my decision with a parade.

No snow on the valley floor. The buses were running so I got one to Valencia and a train to Alicante. Antonia booked me a flight to Leeds on Sunday afternoon and a hotel in Alicante. It’s been a good walk. 230 miles. Halfway there. Another time.

As my cousin Mick says. It’ll still be there. And with views like this it’s worth another shot or two!

Adios amigos. 

When I woke up this morning I wasn’t fantastic. I knew that at breakfast yesterday the black pudding was ok but I had a spicy sausage too and that tasted a bit off. I left it but it caught up with my exit procedure. In fact it expedited an emergency evacuation, luckily on the tarmac and not in mid-flight. I had fresh orange juice, coffee and toasted bread with crushed tomatoes, olive oil and salt for brecky. Old favourite. 

I hit the road at 8.30 with 33kms to my next stop in Bejis. Freezing wind. The landlord warned me about snow before I left. Be careful.

I got wrapped up. Who you looking at? Do you want some? 

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Sorry. Whilst I’m blogging I’m listening to the Maccabees album ‘Given to the Wild’. They’re playing ‘Forever I’ve Known’. Bloody, bloody brilliant and beyond. 

It was a long hard slog across 12 kms of plain to Alcublas. Stopping en route to evacuate stowaways. Feeling better afterwards. The route was unlovable.

A couple of farmers stopped to make sure I was ok and to tell me to be careful about the snow. It came on a bit, those small icy flakes that hit one of your eyeballs and make it sting and shut down vision for a few minutes. But it soon cleared. In Alcublas I went into the only bar open and had two more coffees. I don’t care for this Skinny Latte with a vanilla shot, extra whip of caramel and a keech composium slipped up the spoon. Southern muck. Four. But Spanish cafe con leche does something for a man. St Bruno does something more. 

I soon thrust myself out into the brutally cold wind. The landlord told me to be careful of the snow. He showed me a forecast for snow here at 3pm. It was noon. You’re talking to a northerner matey. Nae worries.

The pools of water from the recent downpours were frozen solid.

Fair play to this pilot, he landed his Piper on the smallest runway I’ve ever seen!

Taking a short cut over the shoulder of a mountain that the main road rolls around saved me a couple of kilometres. And the next town, Sacanyet, was the only interim stop between here and Bejis. And it was a long uphill walk to it. Another bloke stopped in his car and warned me about the snow. I’m northern me. I got to Sacanyet and was almost at the summit, before the road drops 8kms down to Bejis, when the snow came. Luckily a couple of lads turned up in an old VW Combi and offered me a lift. An Italian bloke from Venice (merchant he was) and a local Valencian. I was on the edge. Only 8kms to go, but the snow might be proper snow at this height. I jumped in and we were down in Bejis in 10 minutes. I was booked in Hostal El Tren Pita and I was there in time for lunch. No snow at this lower altitude. And the store room, where I left my kit whilst I ate lunch, was full of goodies.

And the view from the restaurant was great.

And then the real snow started. Thank goodness I accepted that lift and got down from the higher altitude. This is proper stuff. 

It’s still going after 5 hours and blizzards are forecast for tomorrow. I’ve booked to stay here tomorrow night. Bizarrely the snow storm is electrical so we’ve had lightning that’s knocked the electricity out for the last hour. The room is getting a little colder with no heating. Oh well. I’ve got my sleeping bag. 

I can plan a new route tomorrow and it’ll be fine. But at the moment it’s a lock-down. Just like Ghost Adventurers. And,as I wrote that, the lightning sparked through the dark room and the thunder roared. Spooky timing. Given to the Wild.

Night night. 

34 kms to be precise. I had a good night’s sleep even though temperatures plunged. The wind, which was making all sorts of strange noises in my Albergue, dropped in the night. That really cooled things down. A quick mini breakfast with black pudding and coffee and away. Up, up and away. Ah but it’s reight hard to remember that on a day like today. Arctic temperatures. 

The day was very clear and I had my long trousers on and three layers on top. I left the breakfast bar at 8am and the first spring had lovely icicles.

The sun began to rise over the mountains ahead, lighting up the mountains behind, with Chera disappearing into the distance. 

Wild artichokes and sheets of ice in the olive groves. 

It’s a strange season this time of year. Some of the trees and shrubs observe winter’s hibernation and others continue to produce, despite the cold. This grove of oranges thrives up here in the mountains.


My route took me east up and over to Sot de Chera, then north up and over to Chulilla and further north to Villar del Orzobispo. The first run over to Sot de Chera was quite beautiful.

The village was picturesque and I stopped for a couple of cups of coffee. That’s four this morning! Climbing up and away the village was spectacular in the sun and the setting.

Towards the top of the next range I looked back at the mountains I was leaving behind.

And just round the brow of the hill looking forward to my final destination way up the plain.

Winding down to the foot of the plain the mountains to the right of the photo above were bulky, dry and worthy of a Western movie.

Whilst the valley floor was the place to grow the winter greens. 

As the sun took over, and the wind remained slight, the air warmed and I stripped back to my shorts and shirt. Further up the valley there was a small hydroelectricity plant fed from storage in a rock face. If you look closely to the right just above the cables are two rock climbers, with another one dressed in red further up the climb. Proper climbers. When I say I climb I mean walk or scramble up a hill. These folk climb.

The road approached Chulilla, looking good in the sun with ancient castle walls above it.

And the really amazing surprise was the depth and severity of the gorge that cut through behind the town. Spectacular.

It was getting later in the afternoon now. Cloud had developed and a cold wind returned. I redressed the balance. Well, the old bloke really, not the balance. A paraglider flung him or herself off the cliffs to my left and I only managed a poorly defined outline. He or she must have been f..f..freezing. 

​
Eventually Villar arrived at my feet. Eventually I made it to my room and showered in warm water. Eventually dinner was served, they don’t half eat late. Eventually I’ve had my fill and I’m going to bed. Good scran though.

Night night.

Everybody knows, that baby’s got new clothes, but lately I’ve seen her ribbons and her bows, have fallen, from her curls. Worth a Nobel Prize in its own right, never mind the rest of Dylan’s enormous and beautiful body of work. Don’t go yet Bob. It was bad enough with Bowie and Prince leaving us, never mind the shock and finality of losing Leonard. I was working in Paris when Lou Reed died. I think I’ve told you this before. I walked into the recruitment consultant near the Champs Elysees (see, I can do posh as well as Sheffield scum) and a telly in reception had a photo of Lou on the news. I asked the consultant if he was playing in Paris and he said ‘No he’s dead’. I just burst into tears.  Fat bloke in his late 50’s weeping like a baby in reception. Bet they dined out on that.

Will and Cheggers. Do you remember the day we loaded my old Morris Minor, Tank, and flitted from that Leinster Square hostel (craphole) in Paddington to the civilised Passfield Hall of Residence in Bloomsbury in January 1973? The last thing to be loaded was my record player and we played Ziggy Stardust from beginning to end, singing and dancing each track with elation. That dump should have been gutted, disinfected and rebuilt. We thought it was ok though. Three northern lads in the smoke at 18 years old. Love you guys.
Back to Spain. Before I get ridiculously emotional in this warm and noisy bar up in the hill town of Chera, full of folk my age or older, shouting and bawling. 

Set off late this morning at 10.15 and headed north-east out of town towards the mountains. I passed a bar full of working guys in their reflective work gear, irresistible. The bar not the guys. Jesus I’m not staying at the YMCA. Not homophobic either. Any road it was great. Two coffees, scrambled eggs with chunks of cured ham, tortilla with onions, fried slices of fresh cod and bread. Breakfast like a king. Passed a bread shop that had breakfast on garlic bread in the window.

The road today was all uphill for 19kms and it was clear, windy and very cold. The cold weather from Greece and Italy is making its way across Spain and we’re one of the first areas to cop it. Minus 10 forecast tonight. Forget footpaths and tents. This is mountain roads, hostels and warmth. And beauty… it’s Spain after all!

The authorities don’t just stand around and boast…. ok Bob that’s enough thanks. They are springing into action with signs and salt spreading.

It’s snowing in Mallorca but I think I’ve got at least a couple of days walking before it snows here. Then get down to the coast for warmth and safety I think. Becoming a soft southern bedwetter in my old age. Second anti-southern reference in two days. Becoming a bit regionalist for Hampstead tastes. Third.

The GR7 crossed the road I was on. There’s a bit of a mess here with it being diverted for miles.

Sure enough I crossed another version 10kms later. 

The mountain scenery then just took over and made me remember why I’m doing this route and not a flat and homogenous Pilgrimage westwards.

It was very windy, nearly blowing me over at one stage, and the wind was really freezing. Sorry to keep on about it but the photos make it look warm. Tint warm. Scold.

This bloke loves it though. The last time I saw you, you looked so much older. Thanks Len.

My gear was heavy on my left shoulder, different parts of a more mature body take strains at different times. Mine urts allovver mostet time. This is my gear, with the Scallop shell so folk don’t think I’m a vagrant. 

And this is what folk come here for. Poorer definition as I had to zoom in but that’s a ruined castle with a waterfall bottom right. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian. It’s lovely round here.

Coming up to Chera the town isn’t lovely. Not in the grip of winter anyway. But it grows on you with every step nearer the Albergue. 

And someone has class. I’ve never meant to be unkind. 

That is Elvis, for the benefit of the only person not to recognise him. Own up you young devil. And this is tinsel town.

Eventually got to my Albergue and rang the reception woman to gain entry. To the Albergue you filthy minded beast. I’m there on my own tonight. The only occupant. My room is fine, I’ve left the little heater on, and there is hot water. Ten quid! It’s potty. Might sleep in my sleeping bag on the bed in my boots and walking gear to make it easier to get up in the morning. 

Cheers me dears. I’m out here for summat to eat and to get an early night. Up to Villar del Arbozispo, weather permitting, tomorrow. 30kms.

Night night my lovely dears.

 And thank you for the days, gentlemen. Those endless days those sacred days you gave me. I bless the light, I bless the light that shines on you believe me.

Now I’m not frightened of this world believe me. Or the next. 

Woke up early and thought I couldn’t get back to sleep so I watched Drunk Russians and Fails on YouTube. Daft but it makes me laugh. The Rooskies are basic but tough and seem like half decent folk. I think Trump is right to want closer relationships. Why generate conflict? However his regard for Russia and the UK seems unique in his repertoire. Hates everyone else! He’s the President. The elected President. People like Merryl Streep make me puke. Democracy, democracy, democracy. Until I don’t like the outcome. Wazzock. We had to put up with Thatcher. Didn’t grin but bared it. The people have spoken Streep and if you don’t like what they have said then push off somewhere else. Saudi. 

And while we’re on that. What a gas that we voted Brexit. The outcome will not be pleasant but just to let Londoners and the City know that there is one thing that they cannot buy makes it worth every penny (that they couldn’t buy the outcome with). The will of the people. And in the eyes of the polling booth, my fine feathered, silver spooned chums – all animals are equal. And none are more equal than others. 

Went back to sleep and then stayed in bed when I woke up, planning routes. Eventually got up and wandered around a bit.

Not a remarkable town by any means but ok. 

Had a great meal in quite a posh restaurant where the owner spoke English. First time I’ve spoken English for a week, except on the phone to She who must be adored. And she is. Local wine, chickpea stew, lamb chops and flan. All perfect. Less than ten quid! 

The wine heritage of Requena is a long one, there’s even a Wine Pilgrimage from here to Santiago de Compostela, the reputed burial place of the remains of Saint James the Great, one of the 12 apostles. That reputation brings hundreds of thousands of pilgrims across the plains of Spain every year. But not on the wine route.

I’ve been thinking. The weather on the telly is not great up north. It’s getting colder and Friday it’s due for heavy rain in this region. That means that at the height I’m walking at it will be snow. The forecast reckons snow over 500 metres. I’ll be well over that. New plan. 

1. Forget wild camping unless circumstances are forced. Hurray.

2. Stick to the mountain route but take mountain roads and not footpaths unless essential. 

3. Stay where there are hostels and be prepared to walk short or long days to move from hostel to hostel.

4. Where I take footpaths it has to be the GR7 which is known and recognised by the local authorities.

5. What were the rules again? Sorry. Can you repeat that?

Tonight I’m a Madrileno. 

Good. I’ve got a plan. 

19 kms tomorrow to Chera. A hostel costing £10 for the night up in the mountains above here. Wednesday 30 kms to Villar de Arzobispo to a really homely hostel with great mountain food costing £25for the night. Thursday 33 kms to Bejis to another homely hostel for £23 for the night. From then on the GR7 gives a hostel each night for a while, so I can go back on path if I want, dependent on the weather. All is better now my mind and plan are clear.

Night night.

I was sorry to leave Cortes. I’d enjoyed my mini-break there and I’ll remember the town fondly. I had breakfast in the hostel and shook hands with the landlord. He gave me a bottle of locally grown and pressed olive oil and said to take it home to the family. I’d showed him the photos last night. The wind is stronger and colder today, needing three layers plus Auntie Vera’s hat plus Liddy’s scarf. Still got me shorts on though. No surrender on the lower body front. And back. The road dips down towards the lake and runs round the hydroelectricity plant and onto the bridge through a tunnel. No lights.

Crossing the lake it was bitterly cold on the exposed bridge.

Looking the other way Cortes and its river hung over the lakeside.

Looking down from the opposite hillside the road reminds me of when the kids were little. The bridge shunts the motorcyclists along (it’s Sunday and they’re even in the mountains) like a long spoon into the tunnel’s mouth. I fed my dad like that recently when he was in hospital. Out of duty rather than devotion.

I was going to do just 15kms today and stay up in the mountains, trapping down to Requena tomorrow. The road turns to the right of the mountain range to work it’s way up to Venta de Gaeta, a little village with a well known restaurant and a hostel, which wasn’t answering the phone. I turned left. Another road in the opposite direction runs parallel to the lake and then winds up into the mountain range and over. It joins a main road after 30kms and that runs for 19kms into Requena. I’m going to walk 49 kms today and sleep in a cheap hotel in Requena, a fair sized town. I felt fit. The pack was comfortable on my back and my muscles were feeling good. And the hills were cold but looked good.

I made good time, after leaving at 9.30. I reckoned I’d be there by midnight. There were no cars on the mountain roads. None. On the middle slopes were vineyards for the first time in a hundred miles. And higher up almond groves that had been given recent attention. 

I just kept going. I’d bought a big block of chocolate and kept eating bits off it throughout the day and sipping water. On the top of the mountains there was an abandoned village. It looked sad and lonely but there are many like it across Spain I’m sure.

Sunset came and I just kept going. I felt like a machine. A young machine. Makes a change. The day’s R&R had done me good.

As it turned dark I was on the main road but turned on to a lesser used side road that would save me a kilometre. It was now pitch black and nothing but fields and forests and the occasional farm, where dogs would hear the click click of my walking poles and go berserk in the distance. I strapped on my head torch but kept marching. It was now beginning to hurt. The lights of Requena poked through in the distance.

At 8.30 I finally made it to the hotel Maggie had booked earlier. Knackered but happy to see a bed out of the wind. I put my long trousers on – it’s Sunday – went round the corner to a local cafe bar and had local wine with oxtail and chips. The old git did it. 49 kms. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian!

Night night. 

Cortes is an energy town. Hydroelectricity and nuclear generation just down the road. But it’s Sheffield in miniature, character, class (working), talent, history and culture. What a great day. I’ve rested, eaten well, blogged and watched some footy. More than owt I’ve planned some options going forward as it’s getting very cold and windy and fewer days wild camping the better. Not that I’m a pansy. 

I dint do no drugs or owt. Just steady exercising in my local gymnasium.

Today has been lovely. I had breakfast in the hostel at 9.30.  This is the early morning freezing view from my bedroom window.

I went back to bed to plan going forward. 

There was a bit of a Saturday market and I stocked up on water, food and batteries for Gav. My mate.

Then I went to Emilio’s restaurant and had a great meal and  a pitcher of really nice wine. I stayed there watching Spanish footy and doing me blogs for four hours. Loved it. And they charged me £11.00 for the lot. The scran was delightful. Black pudding soup.

I offloaded my stuff at the hostel and it’s San Anton’s day. The patron saint of animals. They build huge bonfires in the streets here, which horses jump over. It’s magical and very warming in the sharp icy air. The clear day and night makes it more magical.

They’re all over the place. Brilliant. Everyone has been nice to me and my Spanish has improved today. The owner of my hostel is the same age as me and Maggie. He’s one of my bezzies. 

When the fires go down a bit they all put their scran in the hot ashes to cook. Brilliant. With Coldplay blasting through the main plaza.

All is good. Until tomorrow but that’s just another time.

Night night. 

So David Smith, (you know you’re in trouble now) what have you done so far? Speak up lad, speak up. 

Beni to Relleu 24 kms                           

Relleu to Benifallim 30

Benifallim to Alcoy 23

Alcoy to Bocairent 30

Bocairent to Vallada 24 

Vallada to Benali 29

Benali to Collado Carroche 29

189 kilometres Sir. About 118 miles Sir. 

Well done boy. What a son, what a son, what a bum, what a son, you’re just a – boom boom boom- lick spittle. Lick spittle. 7 ‘o’ levels. Thank you Lord for giving me such a son such a bum, such a son, such a bum. Good boy. Good boy. Good lad. 

Thank you Sir. Please don’t hurt me.

The alarm went at 6am. Charge running down on my phone, iPad and Gav. Found some batteries for Gav, thank God. Don’t do this walk without a gps device with a GPX track on it that keeps you on route. It’s essential unless you want to get lost for months.

31 kilometres to do today and I’m determined to make it to Cortes de Pallas. I rang a hostel when I got a signal yesterday on top of a hill and I’m booked in. I need a good meal and a warm bed. I would have crumbled if I were Shackleton. I strapped on my headlamp, dismantled the tent, had a bounty bar, salted peanuts, two dates and water for breakfast and set out into the cold wind. Wrapped up in my Auntie Vera knitted hat, cashmere scarf gifted by Liddy Lin, waterproof jacket gifted by Tesco for £18, thermal jumper, Blades shirt, shorts and knickers. No commando capers today. 

I set off at 6.30 in the dark and marched with grim purpose. My duty as a trekker and my necessary purpose as a man. It was a very cold wind which made me wince. My chest was bad last night but a decent length of broken sleep had gently waved it away. Only to return I think like an unwanted neighbour who keeps running out of sugar. The sun eventually crept between the horizon and the cloud cover, lighting up the vapours in the valleys. 

Apart from a couple of four wheel drives who have passed and stopped out of morbid interest to assess my preparedness for these conditions, I haven’t seen a soul in the last two days. I’m going to make that warm bath and soft bed tonight if I have to drag myself there. In the half light I spotted some headlights slowly snaking up the hill towards me. Must be hunters at this time of day. As they eventually arrived I spotted rifles in the back of the cab and gave them a friendly wave. Thought it might extend my life expectancy longer than a V sign. 
The track dropped down and came to a real, if poorly maintained, road which according to Gav I should follow. 

Don’t want you to think that I’ve just relied on Gav for prep for navigation on this trip. I did weeks of prep, including downloading over 100 small maps, big scale, and read several blogs in detail of people who had walked this track. I’ve done a spreadsheet of where I should be when and whether I’m camping or hosteling that night. I’ve photocopied smaller scale maps so that if it snows badly or is otherwise horrible I know which direction to escape in. The scallop shell on my pack indicates that I’m a pilgrim not a vagrant and the document far right is my Pilgrim Credentials. It’s to get folk to treat me courteously as I treat them. I have a list of every hostel and spring on the route. Don’t do this if you’re not prepared. It can turn nasty even when you are prepared so improve your chances. And truthfully Harris is for overgrown paths, to cut a way through, but for wild dogs too. They can be nasty in one in a million cases. So can Harris.

So down to the bottom of the mountain road. And the valley floor opens out into a tight, but not insignificant, agricultural plain. Strewn with boulders.

How do they farm this land? By clearing it. Back breaking, by hand, diligent rock clearance. So that folk like this can plough the land. The second contact with humanity today. 

The road became a track through wilder land and heads north for 12kms before turning east along the side of a mountain range overlooking a man-made lake and snaking along for another 12kms to Cortes de Pallas. 

This is looking at the buttress I have to go around to the left,  8kms before turning to the right and heading east.

Halfway to the easterly turn a waterfall, possibly unheard for a few years, pours down from the buttress. Beautiful. Fill your flasks.

Hitting the T junction I turned right, climbed halfway up the hill and headed east. The views, with an ancient Moorish fort on the other side of the lake, looked amazing.

Even the clouds looked great.

And the lake cartainly does.

This is a long path that works it’s way up and down for a long way. It doesn’t take bikes, too many boulders, and it isn’t really a direct route from anywhere to anywhere. It’s a route that the GR7 made. So no-one walks on it. So lots of wildlife uses it. I saw deer, rare in this huntin’ shootin’ country, and wild oryx. As well as lots of mud baths along the path used by wild boar. Although they had dried up since the rains.

The views of the lake, castle and mountains to the side became more lovely and imposing, in proportion to my fatigue.

Late on in the afternoon, after sweltering in the sun and shivering in the shadows, I made it over the last hill and saw Cortes de Pallas below.

And it was still Christmas.

I had the longest bath in history, washed my clobber in the bath (which was a jacuzzi bath) and hung it up in front of the hot air fan. Limping down for dinner I had menu del dia which was mountain soup, with lots of veg and meat,  a whole squid with chips and chocolate custard. Kismet Hardy. (Again). 

Night night my loves. 

I did 29 kilometres yesterday from Vallada and it’s 88 kms in total from Vallada to Cortes de Pallas. The night was cold but not unfriendly. Bizarrely a car came up the track early in the night but it didn’t stop and there were no animal noises. There were two rocks under the tent and I had to make a letter S shape round them to sleep. It takes a while to get used to this.

It was just coming light when I had breakfast, dates, cheese and half a bounty bar with water. 

I hit the track at 8.50 am and made good speed downhill as the sun came out to play (with his hat on) hip, hip, hip hooray. 

The road passed a dry river bed in the bottom and cut up yet another hillside. I took three wrong turns that Gav spotted before I’d gone too far wrong. I hope Gav dunt brek. It was early afternoon before I got to the top and dropped down over the back of the hill. This is great exercise for a twenty year old. Yesterday a sign came up pointing to Casas de Benali saying 2hrs 15mins. It took me three and a half hours. Who does it in 2.15? Superman – without a rucksack? 

Another valley bottom, with some wild deer who had avoided being shot in this deep countryside leaping away from me over the tussocks and fallen trees. There was a good flow of clean water so I topped up my bottles. Had to get my feet a bit damp again crossing the stream.

This next climb was a megathon, finishing up at Pico de Carroche looking back south east.

I missed another turn. Apparently this is the E4 European super track from Spain to Greece. Jesus.

Another 4kms and I’d be at Collado Carroche. Nothing there but a spring but that would be gratefully received. I got there in half darkness, sorry no photo, climbed up the next hillside and pitched me tent up a bank at the side of the road under some pine trees. The flattest part was a worn animal track through the grass tussocks so I put broken branches across the path before the tent to warn the wildies that Dave woz ere. Another 29kms under my belt. 

The wind had got up. I lay underneath my sleeping bag fully clothed including my socks and boots to get an early start in the dark. I hadn’t eaten much in two days and wolfed down a tin of cold beans and a flask of spring water. I was fatigued and heard people talking. I’m sure it’s the funny little squeaks I was making due to a bad chest and a bit of a sniffly cold. It sometimes sounds like folk talking quietly against the whoosh of the wind in the treetops.  Or it could have been the spirits. 

I didn’t care too much. The spirits need love too and they’re only what we might have been and what we will be. Night night.

You know when some words don’t look right. Do you get that? Being just looks wrong today. Like Boeing without it’s O. Bering without it’s R or Beijing without it’s etc.etc. Anyway I’m glad that God made such beauty around me. My walking environment, the Blades and my family in reverse order. I’ll sing hymns while I’m walking. 

My paternal grandfather owned a forge in Sheffield. Not as grand as it sounds, he was Little Mester rather than Master, and one of my many uncles (Grandad was prolific on the reproduction front) wrote an article in the Guardian about him when he died in the 1960’s. My Uncle worked in the forge  as a child and remembers him singing hymns as he hammered industrial scissor blades white hot from the forge. Or summat like that, memory in shotgun rather than rifle territory. When I reread that a couple of years ago, after discovering a cut out copy lurking in the loft, I was touched. But the article was entitled Double-Edged and there was a selfish and uncaring side to him too. He wasn’t a family man. 

He chewed and smoked tobacco in a pipe. When I was about five years old he gave me a wad of tobacco to take a bite out of. I pewked and had a headache for hours. I was about to say what an old bastard trick that was but I’ve just remembered feeding Juliet a spoonful of chili oil at the same age, saying it was tomato ketchup. I wet myself laughing at her distress. Some of the genetic chain is unbroken. I hope I care more and that my epitaph is more like At Least He Tried. The maternal grandfather? Words cannot be written or spoken that would adequately describe the beauty of his soul.

I was in the Hotel Makasa four days ago and a taxi took me back in the morning to where I had left off my walk the night before in Vallada. A Spanish breakfast in a busy bar and a walk past a local mini-chapel.

There must have been an air of hopelessness about my gait as the vultures circled in the sky. Big buggers they were too. But not from this distance.

It took me a while to cross the valley floor and make my way to the start of the canyon leading up into the mountains, and some of the way was a struggle round flooded patches from the recent deluge. Eventually I had to wade through a pool, getting my socks and boots wet for the rest of the day. The jungle was too thick either side for me to work through, even with my chopper ‘Harris’. 

My feet might have been wet but my eyes were delighted. The track drifted up, down and across both sides of the canyon and was mostly rough rocks building up to a strewn boulder path. 

Nobody. Nowt. Even the vultures had pushed off. Disappointed at my survival. The track up the canyon wound for at least 10 kms, twisting and turning and revealing fantastic aspects and features.

After a sweaty lifetime, my pack was peak full with food, water and what I’d brung, and the sun was out, the valley opened out with olive trees and a ruined farmhouse and the track kicked up to my right by the side of this grand arch. Duke. Ferdinand.

I struggled to climb up and escape the confines of the canyon. But it was great looking down to where I’d been and where I would have gone.

The path led further up a reasonably flat back of a long escarpment, with long distance sideways and backwards views, and then dropped steeply down the scarp.

Working down, across and up valley sides became the norm. Until a farm blocked my way. Thank God for my gps, Gav. You can’t rely on signposts. This is one of the primary walking routes across Spain, GR7, and it forms part of a pan-European route that arches through France, Switzerland, Austria etc to the southern tip of Greece. And it’s not properly signed, locals don’t know it exists and nobody walks on it. They’re too busy walking in groups of hundreds of people on pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela like I was going to before I realised how crap it is. Flat, featureless Caminos. I’d crossed the one I was planning to take earlier in the day. Earlier in the day I’d crossed the one I was planning to take. Back to the blocked way.

I climbed over the farm fence and crossed it’s land. A pack of dogs suddenly let loose and I reached for Harris in my shoulder bag. Luckily they were penned behind an inner fence. If I’d got pepper spray I could have blasted the lot. An angry young man stormed towards me but relaxed a bit when I was ok with him. He explained in Spanish that he ran an animal sanctuary and they had to fence off land to keep a wide variety of animals. The GR7 maintenance crew had come out a year before trying to cut a swathe through the woodland and scrub around the farm and he’d seen them off. He smelt. My sense of smell is poor but he stank of sweat and unwashed body parts. Dirty get. He helped me through the scrub on the outer fence and got me some water from their well. The water level here had dropped to 300 metres below the surface so I was topping up with deep supplies. Tasted great. A woman who spoke a bit of English said hello. Bet she stank too.

Just two hundred metres away the track rose up a very steep climb. It was a killer. I pulled myself up with the pack pulling me back. At one point I slipped and grabbed hold of a cactus. Kiss my tomatoes Christian! That hurt. I still can’t get all the spikes out three days later. One poor little bugger had given up half way up.

Finally I emerged out on the top ledge. A feeling of relief.

I belted it down the last three kilometres as it was going dark and found Casas de Benali to be a tiny row of terraced cottages less then 50 metres long. Two people were taking the evening air and neither knew of of any rooms locally. I traipsed up the trail and plunged thirty feet into a wood, hidden by the trees from the track, pitched my tent, had a can of cold beans and slept fitfully from 7pm to 8am. 

A long, long day and a cold, cold night. Night night.