The hotel was ok. My first hotel was ok. The food was ok. I slept ok. 

I’ve decided to aim for Xerica today to try to get back to Alicante a day early just to be sure with Easter services on road and rail. In January the snow started up on the hills above there and I got a lift at Sacanyet to Bejis, where I got stuck. So to complete the 800 mile route from Tarifa to Reus I’ll need to walk at some stage the twelve miles from Sacanyet down to Xerica. I think I’ll do that next year, when I’m 64 – boom boom. I’ve got harsh sores and a blister on my feet from yesterday’s road walking and from the pebble footpaths and I don’t think I could do that extra 12 miles in the next two days. If I’m here with Maggie next year she could rest in a hostal whilst I finish the walk. It’ll take a morning and I’ll be back for lunch.

Good. Decided. Anyway I’ve got another 2,500 miles to do to complete Tarifa to John O’Groats so this 12 miles is the least of my concerns. 

Montant to Xerica was calling. My bedroom window view showed a sunny but slightly cloudy day. 12 miles to do up the valley from Montant to a pass on the top and then an even length drop to Xerica.

Still great views and the road up was a struggle. Bank Holiday and the dickheads on motorbikes and sports cars were blasting this relatively main road.

I made the top, and had to stop, and that’s what’s bothering me. Goodbye you brilliant northern mountains. By a long way my favourite walk in Spain. Beautiful country, beautiful folk and great peace. Thanks. 

Looking south from the top of the pass I could see Bejis, where I’d done time in a blacked out Hostal in the snow.

And two hours later I was marching in to Xerica on Good Friday. 

The streets were packed for a small country town.

My bus arrived, the same one I got last time, and I eventually made it to Valencia station and on to Alicante. I’ve had a rest day in Alicante. My flight is tomorrow and I’m looking forward to coming home. However this has been the dog’s. 

I’ve been lucky with finding cheap but fantastic accommodation, great people and solitary country walking. Pauls to Vallibona particularly should be on everybody’s bucket list. 

Thanks for reading this. May you build a ladder to the stars, and climb on every rung.

Love Dave.

We are going up. And today we’re confirmed as champions. XXX

If this walk were longer I’d have built in a rest day by now. I’m not old, I’m past middle-aged I think. Hold on, I’ll google it. Get in you beauty!!!! Yes, yes, yes! I’m middle-aged me. Kiss my sweet tomatoes Christian, I’m a middle-aged maggot farmer. Booom!

Morning has broken, like the first morning, blackbird has spoken, like the first bird…..

I am middle-aged, I am middle-aged. To the rhythm of ‘We are going up, we are going up’ as sung in Hostal Carbonera last Saturday evening by me, the landlady (who didn’t speak English) and her partner. I let them hold my Blades flag. 

Any road. I’m a bit tired but I’ve only got two walking days left before I travel to Alicante. Walking in Spain is the dog’s doodahs . It really is a lovely, lovely experience. I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain…ooohoh!

Another late-ish breakfast but today was a 21 mile slog. I’d lost a bit of time on the way down over the last two weeks by preferring the beauty of the GR7 to road walking. However today unusually the GR7 criss-crossed the road and instead of 27 miles on the GR7 (which was too big an ask) I could do 21 miles on the road (which was do-able). Tough on the feet but faster. You can see the meandering of the red GR7 below and the relatively straight yellow road.

The roads here aren’t really roads as such, in that not many people drive on them. I set off and the first 5 miles were completely uphill. I sweatily and breathlessly pushed on. I need an hour in the morning to clear the cack from the top of my lungs. I have asthma and I take the steroid puffer morning and evenings but try to avoid the blue reliever. Long term it makes things worse. 

Looking back from part-way up the hill was stunning. My Hostal was the building at the bottom just right of middle, which stares into the evening sun but not in the early morning. 

Rising up I was making good time despite the steepness of the slope, with hairpin bends helping level things a bit. The broader view back, including Penyagolosa, is………

Awesome!!!!! I am middle-aged, I am middle-aged!

Helpfully the road had kilometre markers and it doesn’t half make you push faster. A few runners and cyclists as well. San Vicente was 14 kms – just under 9 miles. Most of it up that steep hill. But once on the top the breeze blew slightly and dried some of the sweat. On the top the Hermitage of Saint Bartolome brought some architectural relief. Lovely little place out of nowhere. 

More sixties artists. Not that I was that big into soul then but Marvin Gaye was the Prince of soul in the sixties and Smokey Robinson was the King. 
After a refreshment stop in San Vicente it was a long way down the valley to Montanejos, and the road was taking its toll on my sole(s). But the country keeps your spirits high.

And Montanejos was the last stop before Montan. The sweat had played havoc, dropping into my left eye with the sun tan lotion from ma baldy heed, making it very sore. I stopped at a farmacia for some eye drops and the girl said €11 for this packet of applicators, or €20 for antibiotic ones. I said ‘no thanks’ and asked if she had individual bottles. She said ‘no’ so I walked towards the door. Miraculously a bottle appeared from behind the counter, €3. Robbing gets.
Montanejos has warm springs and folk were frolicking in the water.

I’ll frolic in it with my old – sorry – middle-aged dear next year. I’m recceing a trip for the two of us for 2018. She’s a mountain girl. This year we’ve got a fortnight in Calpe in July and a fortnight in October driving round Granada, Cadiz and Seville. We love Spain. 

The last stretch was hard road uphill from the valley bottom and after 3 miles I came into Montant. From Montanejos it took one and a half plays of The Maccabees’ album ‘Given to the Wild’ and it kept me going. Looking up to Montant it felt mountainous, and looking back Montanejos felt cosy.

In between there were some pretty impressive rock faces even though we were out of the high peaks.

I got a room in the Hostal Pilar and fell asleep before dinner. The road had damaged my feet with an open sore on my left foot and a nasty little blister on my right one. But it makes you go fast on that surface. 

Thanks for reading this. It gives me more of a sense of purpose, even though I’m doing what I really enjoy.

Night night.

A nine o’clock breakfast was lazy but it was a short dap today, just 13 miles. What I didn’t realise was that just because most of it was downhill doesn’t mean it was going to be easier. So much depends on the surface, those boulder paths knacker your feet even through heavy mountain boots. Eric and Ernie. They’ve had some hammer this trip. Done well though. I got them second hand on eBay, exactly the same make, model and size as Chas and Dave, who became more superglue than leather.

The skyline today is dominated by Penyagalosa, half the size again of the highest in the UK. Even from the first drop down out of the village and across a mountain plain the beasty boy was there. Towering but not threatening. Glad I wasn’t on the top of that when it started snowing in January. 

The GR7 passed through thick woodland and many trees had been brought down across the path by some catastrophic combination of wind and rain, making progress slow. Cat Stevens… late sixties early seventies. He was good. 

I met a couple of walkers coming in the opposite direction. That’s me! Always do the opposite to the others and always have a weird and whacky slant on life. Hey hey! Prat. The most impressive was a young woman, could only have been twenty at most, called Mar from Amsterdam. Very nice kid. If she was my daughter I’d be having kittens. She was travelling along the GR7 from Alicante to her grandmother’s place in Barcelona, wild camping every night. A star but please kid, just go to the beach and have fun. You can do this stuff when you’re old.

The air was clear but getting hot, even in forest under the tree canopy. Beautiful during open areas though.

The track takes a detour round Penyagolosa to the west and then drops steeply and curves round eventually to Vilafermosa del Riu. There are two spellings for most places, Valencian dialect (like Catalan) and Castilian Spanish. Vilafermosa del Riu is Villahermosa del Rio, both meaning beautiful river town. I missed the turnoff where the path dropped and that cost me an extra mile down and back. Going down the right path the going was large pebble strewn but beautiful views.

I have to hand wash my walking gear in the Hostal sinks. I’ve got two kits, light and short football shorts and t shirts, and another kit for best in the evenings my Blades shirt and camo shorts. I put my camo shorts straight in my rucksack when I take them off because it’s very difficult to find them. I only wash my gear where there is a working radiator or other heater to dry them out. It’s still a bit chilly at night at this altitude and it wouldn’t dry otherwise.

The track, to the bottom left of this photo, wound down and round. Straining on the knees but the walking poles my SIG chums bought me as a leaving present do help a lot. I wouldn’t want to do more than a day’s walk without them. Thanks friends.

There was a track off to my right which was signposted Cascade, and the sound of running water, most unusual in this barren limestone terrain. I resisted the urge to trap down to the waterfall but the river caught up with the GR7 further down the valley.

And in the deeper pools I saw some small trout. The river doesn’t dry up in summer! After an hour following the riverside a tiny hamlet turned up, with a hostal. A well earned beer here, dear.

The view back up the valley from the Hostal’s covered terrace was impressive.

And setting off again going down the valley Vilafermosa was half an hour walk.

I checked in and fell asleep on the Hostal room balcony in the late afternoon sun. Hostal Ruta de Aragon. Cop this for a room with a view.

£36 bed, breakfast, evening meal and drinks (ice cold beer). Kiss my toms.

On that thought I’ll bid you……….

Night night.

That’s me that is. The fool on the hill. My eyes see the sun going down and the world spinning round. 

I soon connected with the GR7 this morning and got underway. The first section to Culla rose up a hill straight away and Ares del Maestrat was on the far horizon looking back.

I’m not sure that I’m going to get anything but clear, hot sun this trip but although it sucks my strength and burns my body I wouldn’t swap it for snow. And mercifully it seems like I’ve left the free roaming cattle behind. And looking forward to the route, only 16 miles today but tough climbing and rough walking. The route is on this map.

Looking forward, Culla was another of these hilltop villages.

Unfortunately a lot of the route was ankle breaking stuff a lot of the day.

It’s a pain because it makes things so slow. And even if your ankles are ok your feet soles are sore as hell at the end of the day. Moan, moan, buckin moan Smithy. Count your blessings. ‘The Blades are going up?’

All of them, asshole. ‘Well I can’t write them all down on here.’

Exactly. 

After a quick water stop in Culla the main event looking forward was a 12 mile down dale and up hill trek to Vistabella, already appearing on the horizon.

Dropping down the valley to the right the track was just as rough and to my astonishment two guys came running past me like ibex.

I talked to them later in Vistabella and they’re training for a one-day 115km organised run on this stretch of the GR7. Over 75 miles. Running in this heat. Without me rucksack I’d take them on. 

The valley drops down and much further down, following a Pilgrimage route to the shrine of St John of Penygalosa, below the 6,000 foot Penygalosa mountain. There are huge wells sunk along the way for pilgrims. 

I reached the bottom of the valley and the heat from the river of pebbles was astonishing – in April.

The next three hours were a draining, sweaty climb up to the ridge leading along to Vistabella. 

I like this stuff you know. I like to struggle and have the heat buzz in my head and stretch every last muscle to carry my burden. To be born again, in another time, in another place – Van the Man. 

Greatest groups of the sixties?

Beatles, obvious as the day is long. Cream. Beach Boys. Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band. The Troggs were so good. The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Stones are a fair way down the list for me. The Who are in there. Incredible String Band were brilliant but not hugely influential. Just floated my inflatable. Velvet Underground’s fuse was lit then but their display was after they’d folded in the seventies. Hollies were a good group. Individual artists were Van, Dylan, Cohen. Nothing new in this list. 

I climbed up and the track eventually levelled out, with a view back across the valley that I’d crossed, to Culla. Byrds were good. But never fulfilled their potential. 

The rest was a haul. Up and down along the ridge. A little group of ibex brightened the scenery even more.

I made it to the first bar in Vistabella (out of 3) and asked if they had rooms. Her name was Lola, but she was the owner, not a showgirl. She had a house with rooms round the corner. For £36 I’d get evening meal (including wine), room and breakfast. 

While I was finishing my beer a bloke turned up who was a walker and spoke Spanish a bit better than me but with an accent. It turned out that he was from Huddersfield and was walking the GR7 down from Tivissa and finishing at the same place as me. A retired psychiatrist called Duncan Waddington. He asked me how often I did it. Walking.

We had dinner together and swapped experiences of long distance walking. Nice bloke. And what a coincidence. Nobody for 6 days then two runners and a bloke from Udders. 

This was the view from my room, with the Mediterranean in the distance about forty miles away. Amazing.

Night night.

Slept well me. Only had two slices of cheese cake for dinner and didn’t feel too hungry. Slept well though me. I was talking to an insider from the Cider industry last night. He said I should invest. He said Her Majesty the Queen was partial to a drop from Charlie’s Cornwall estate, to the extent that she was going to advertise it on telly. 

Her Majesty nightly, the Cider insider said has Cider inside her. Boom boom! 

Ridiculous what crap goes through your head when you haven’t seen another walker for five days. 

I was away at eight o’clock after a cup of coffee and an orange juice at the hotel, but stopped en route for a breakfast and more coffee and orange juice. Stoked up I set off up the first hillside, and it’s always tough going first thing. The bronchial tubes are a bit tight and clogged and need the choke pulling out to get them started. (Those were the days).

Looking back Morella was looking good.

The red and white route markings were noticeably sporadic and I went astray quite early. Even the GPX was a bit iffy. But I made reasonable time. What really plagued me all day was the cattle. They’ve got calves at the moment and you have to avoid getting between a mother and her calf or things can get quite messy. I spooked these early on and they stampeded in a bit of a panic.

These just wanted a bit of aggro. I hit myself every time (with a silent s).

Every time I passed them, and it was many times, I weighed up where I would run or what I would climb if one of them charged. But they didn’t. 

The route today was 22 miles, climbing around 3000 feet. A long one. This was high plain country and now covered in sheep and cattle in the open spaces between the trees. Lots of fences and many farmers tried their best to discourage people from using the GR7. Seems to be working apart from one Yorkie. This farmer had electrified the fence blocking the path.

Cheers mate! I threw my gear over and climbed along the wall. Sheep scrambled away as I approached. They wear the same bells as cattle, or at least two in a herd do, so it’s difficult to tell if you’re approaching cattle or sheep from a distance. 

The heat developed quickly and the track was up and down hills but I kept a fair pace. I needed to average two miles an hour, which is easy on road unladen, but not so here.

The track was very poorly marked in places there were no signs of previous walkers, particularly in rocky areas.

Fascinating little features, like this shepherd’s stone hut with stone flags laid igloo style as a roof. Same as the Celtic burial chambers in The British Isles.

In mid-afternoon I made it to Ares del Maestrat. 17 miles done 8 to go. 

Another mountain range, with quite a few groups of wild ibex, and deserted tiny hamlets. Very high up now. Over 4000 feet. The track was clear and open and then would narrow with trees and gorse. I caught my arms and legs quite often. Dunt bother me. I’m hard me. Please don’t hit me, please. Mother don’t go; Daddy come home. 

Back up into the mountains and great views. This has been by far the best Spanish section. By far. Beautiful. 

 The terraces were broad on the top of the mesa and there was a circular stone floor. I’d seen these before in Andalusia, at this height in mountains where cereal crops were grown in Roman times. The corn was flailed on this ‘threshing floor’ to separate the wheat from the chaff. 

So much history, legacy, beauty and grace in these mountains. And I’ve seen no bugger interested in it for six days. Spain, stop chucking beer cans out of your car windows and connect with your world. Climb up here and enjoy it.

More abandoned hamlets. Did Franco have them all shot?

Working my way down with the falling sun I eventually made it to Benasal. 

Only to find that google maps had my hotel pinpointed in the wrong location and it was two miles uphill from where I was, at 7.30 at night. I got a taxi and thought I’d walk down to reconnect with the GR7 in the morning.

I ate well. This half a rabbit put up no struggle. I could even spoon out its brain but it was mushy and tasteless. The rest of it was great. 

My room view just after sunset.

I know. I’m lucky. But I’m grateful too. May You build a ladder to the stars, climb on every rung and may you stay…… forever young.

Night night.

I had breakfast at the bar/restaurant round the corner at 8.30. It had been a sub-zero night as we are at a high altitude and it was clear. The landlord was making a fire and the landlady made me breakfast. Great as usual, for four quid. 

Nuri, who owned the house that I’d slept in said she’d meet me there to collect the keys, which she did. I paid her €20 and offered her another fiver, but she wouldn’t accept it. She said her mate Therese had a hostal in Vallibona, the next but one village on the GR7. She said save the fiver and spend it there! I’d seen it on the net and had coincidentally rung it that morning but there’d been no answer. It was too cold to want to pitch my tent. Pansy. And it was far enough for a fair day’s walk. I said my goodbyes to the locals and Nuri. Brilliant, brilliant people. Jesus Blade look over you.

There were still the remains of a frost in the shadows.

Looking back Fredes, my favourite so far I think, was warming in the morning sun. 

I struck south west and quickly climbed over a hill to lose sight of the village. The mountains became hills and the valleys were noticeably shallower and less steep. But stunning all the same. Just different. The path dropped down through shadowed forest. Great for keeping the rapidly increasing heat at bay. For the last couple of days you could have navigated by the red and white painted strips that crop up every couple of hundred yards, but not consistently. They mark out the GR7 but are noticeably absent when you need to make a choice of route at a junction. The GPS is most useful then.There’s a red and white marker on the rock to the right just before the woods, and they appear on trees and walls intermittently.

The morning was beautiful. 

I was heading for El Boixar, the first village on the route and about a couple of hours walk. Dropping down quite a lot and rising up a bit was the order of the day as the track loses altitude. And walking past free roaming cattle was also a regular and bedwetting feature. I just don’t trust them.

The bulls and the galls all have horns. That ain’t normal. El Boixar showed up on time.

It’s a small village and at the far side the path had been blocked. Hillbilly pillocks.

I threw my rucksack, walking poles and shoulder bag over and pushed under the fence. Reloading on the other side.

The path wound up away from El Boixar up a dry valley (they mostly are) and at the top it crossed a road and levelled out.

I love the silence that’s only cut through by songbirds, woodpeckers blasting away and the odd cuckoo. And occasionally by cattle with bells round their necks. My sense of smell has largely buggered off somewhere over the years but walking across the open grassland I love the aroma of wild thyme and rosemary crushed under my boots. 

I clenched my buttocks and walked past more cattle a couple of times before the path dropped down into a canyon. 

Usually valleys get wider but in limestone territory anything can happen. This got narrower.

It opened, narrowed, opened and narrowed for miles, a real treat. But scorching in the enclosed space with the sun heating up the rocks. I was glad that I had too much water!

The darkness in my thoughts from the night before had stayed around. I was walking through some of the best countryside in Europe and it wasn’t completely dispelling the effect of the photo. It preyed on my mind for a while. Maggie pointed out later that it was four years ago almost to the day that my mum slipped into the terminal stage of her life, which dragged out for a painful fortnight. But was it just a trick of the eye? And who was the lad? I saw what I saw. I’m glad I deleted it. It served no purpose and into the afternoon my darkness lifted.

And then Villabona appeared.

And as I dropped down to it the limestone cliffs I was winding round were exposed in their magnificence. Hello boys.

A spring started to feed the canyon, filling a deep turquoise pool.

Into the village one of the first buildings was Hostal La Carbonera. I walked in and asked the woman behind the busy bar if she was Therese. “Hello David, Nuri called me to say you were coming. We have a bedroom for you”. What a star that woman is! I ordered a beer and sat on the terrace in the sun.

I followed the scores on my iPad and the Blades were finally promoted from this crap division. A great day. I had a bath and came down for dinner at eight, with my flag. I got Therese and her partner holding the flag and chanting “we are, going up, we are going up”. The locals were intrigued. We’re up. Thank you Jesus Blade.

The dinner was great. Villabona stew and grilled rabbit. Does it get any better?

Night night.

I slept well. Breakfast was lovely and I was sorry to leave (again). The room and breakfast was 25 quid. We could sell the house and live here and let Therese do the washing, cooking and stuff. And we’d be relaxed for three weeks before we wanted more. There is more. A lot more and it’s just over that next hill. Ultreia.

With the Blades success my inverted cross had turned into a sword. I’m so happy. 

Today was a simple up valley and down dale 13 mile hike to Morella. This is my route for the next few days. Tomorrow is a long slog of a stretch from Moralla to Benasal. I’ll enjoy the rest today and sweat it out tomorrow.

I’m a day behind on my original mind’s eye schedule. It’s Santa Semana week in Spain and places are filling up whilst services reduce for Easter. Bejis, where I’m heading, is a long way from Alicante, where I’m flying back from next Sunday morning. To get from Bejis to the airport last time, in January, took a hike, a thumbed lift, a bus, a train and a bus. I just need to find out what’s working or not on Easter Saturday and Sunday. I’d thought of roadwalking from here to Bejis as I could hammer it in 4 days, rather than the GR7. But the GR7 footpath is so beautiful I don’t care if I fall short and have to come back again to finish it off. 

Looking back was looking good.

Not far out of the village, on the footpath, was a shrine to a Madonna (being an obsolete term for an Italian lady), Santa Agueda. I love this devotion by people. It’s peaceful, graceful and uplifting. I just can’t share in the organised bit.

The route rose up and I was beginning to get quite hot in this narrowing valley.

My modus operandus is that I put sun tan oil on my head first and then later on when it’s deadly sun I put on a cap with a flap round the back, like the French Foreign Legion. Nutters they were. BBC would do em though.

As the path wound up towards the top of the valley it dropped down to the floor. With running water!

Climbing up the side again a sign said I couldn’t pick Cepes there or any other fungi without permission. I love Cepes. Maggie isn’t as keen but I love em. Cook in olive oil, butter, garlic and parsley. If I found some I’d pick em. If the signwriter was so bothered how come he’s not here? Idiot.

Up and away the view back down the valley was great.

And eventually I got to a point where I could see over the top of the valley to the right, to the northeast where there was a plateau in the hills.

Finally the track climbed over the top of the pass and the view back down the valley I’d walked up was lush.

Looking forward Morella stood out a mile.

It was a long route down, but a pretty one. It was striking that Morella seemed to be in the last mountainous area before the huge Spanish plain just a bit further inland. Anyway I was cutting south tomorrow to stay in the highlands, in ma kilt! 

Suddenly Morella was there in front of me and it is impressive. 

Walking round my impressions are that it’s a bit too touristy, a bit too international and oversure of itself. Beautiful place but give me small and Spanish. Beautiful though.

The views from my hotel room were lovely.

And Morella is Blades country.

Night night.

I slept well and breakfast was typical with the dried meats, tostadas and cheese. Just perfect, and I ate enough to carry me through the day. My mate Peter said today would be no easier than yesterday. Bring it on. I’m hard as anything I am, me. Well as long as it’s not too difficult. The distance was 15 miles today and I was aiming to camp around Fredes. I set off at 10am. The first climb was hard but the views speak for themselves.

The route slipped over another very long, high ridge and worked its way up and down along it, wherever a path could go to avoid cliff drops. Knackering but stunning.

And looking out to the east, when the opportunity arose, the Ebro delta was still visible through the haze. 

I can’t describe how much I’m loving this. It’s silent but for the birdsong and the occasional animal hearing me coming and scrambling across scree or crashing through trees. This route really clings to the mountainside and any slip would be painful, with vertigo inducing drops on occasions. Just take care and drink lots of water so as not to lose balance. I’m sweating lots. I must stink but I don’t really give a duck.

Eventually the track twisted over the ridge inland looking west. 

And the path itself had more of a woodland feel to it than exposed rocky mountainside.

It began to drop down a bit more than it hiked up, although it was still a bit of a rollercoaster. And it wove through an area where horses were free roaming and then cattle were about. I held my bottle walking past long horned cows, ostensibly ignoring them but cacking myself. Waiting for any sound of a movement to jump up a rock or climb a tree or scream. Or summat. There were a few pastures about now.

But dropping down meant climbing up again. As I reached the top of the next ridge I slumped down on a rock and drank a bottle of water which I’d earlier swallowed and then filled up at a rare spring. Limestone don’t lend itself to mountain streams. I heard the distinctive chirp of an ibex but had to put my iPad on maximum expand to catch the two of them in this photo, plus a baby behind a bush between the two.

The path took a drop and final climb, through undergrowth. 

As I cleared the woodland I caught the first sight of Fredes; it was 6pm and it had taken me 8 hours to get here. I kept my eyes open for camping spots, although it’s technically illegal in the Natural Parks. 

Walking into the tiny village I found a bar/restaurant which I’d seen on Booking.com offering apartments at €60 a night. There was a group of folk outside and I chatted to them in extremely limited Spanish. Inside I ordered a beer and asked the guy behind the bar if there was a single room available anywhere. He directed me to one of the women outside, Nuri, who rented out rooms. €20 and I was the only person in the house. It was great.

The bar closed at 6.30 but they made me a sandwich to eat in the house. I watched telly and went to bed. Tired but happy.

Then it got a bit odd.  I was blogging yesterday’s blog and came across a photo that I didn’t know I’d taken. It was an unfocused close range shot of vegetation. I was going to delete it but then a woman’s face appeared bottom left, immediately followed by a young man’s face top right. The woman looked like my mum but I didn’t recognise the young man. Neither of them looked happy. I shut it down and opened it again. For a second all was blurred but then they both jumped out again. This made me uncomfortable. I moved my legs off the bed and saw a scratch in the shape of an inverted cross. 

It was getting a bit silly now but I had to delete the photo. And then I deleted it from the ‘deleted items’ folder. I slept ok but my dreams were unusual. It doesn’t help sometimes to spend long days alone. The mind can take over. But mostly it’s ok. 

Night night.

I was staying at the Alberg dels Ports in Pauls in a six bunk bed room on my own. Paid the dormitory rate unall but nobody else there. I set up a washing line across the room from a top bunk into the bathroom (I usually carry a fair length of parachute cord). Some of my gear was stinking so I washed it in the shower, hung it on my line. Dry by morning. Two cereal bars, lots of water and away at 8am. The walk today was marked as ‘severe’on a GR7 website. The overall climb was 5200 feet over only 14 miles so it was going to be tough. I was heading for a Refugio, like a Youth Hostel type thing, in Caro, a tiny hamlet high in the Dels Ports National Park. Me being young and that.

I promised myself that I’d follow the GPS route and not get distracted and lost. I’d got enough batteries for my GPS to last two weeks non-stop. It was a cool morning and the first rise continued for four miles up to over 4000 feet. Higher and higher the views, as usual, got greater. Looking back Pauls glowed in the morning sun.

I missed a turnoff the main path, which I hadn’t spotted on the GPS. However by the time I realised I was going wrong I had reached a new rough road climbing up the mountain which was signposted as the GR7. I followed it and thought it must cross the track that I’d missed at some stage. There could only be one pass over these cliffs.

This route led me up to a farm, which like all buildings in the mountains, was uninhabited. But the crops were recently maintained so it wasn’t deserted. At this altitude the almonds weren’t developing, they were still in bloom. A good couple of months behind the valley. 

Outside the farmhouse was an amazing dining table and seating made out of tons of slabs of limestone. Fantastic. 

That was where the charm ended. The road in was open but the whole of the estate was surrounded by metal fencing. Even the tracks that were identified as public rights of way were blocked by the fence, although folk had climbed over and bent it in frustration. I headed along a high terrace in the farm towards my GPS track. To get there I had to get under a hole in the fence and drag my gear through, and drop down to a dry stream bed. I climbed up the far side which was steep and covered in gorse which tore my legs, but I couldn’t use my machete to cut the gorse as I needed both hands to climb the steep bank. By this time I’d  passed the path marked on the GPS. Bugger it. The GPS was wrong!

I climbed carefully back down the bank and up to the fence, which was too high to climb at this location but proved bendable enough to force forward and crawl over. Serves the get right for blocking legitimate rights of way. I walked past my illegitimate one over to the far side of the estate to try to find a way up the mountain. Long story short – it took me an hour and a half to fight through pine, gorse, fencing and brambles to get up to a path over the mountain. Pissed off? The views chilled my ill humour. Looking back and looking forward. 

The route after the pass was down and up a number of high ridges and when I thought I was not far off Caro I bumped into the only person I was to see all day. Another walker coming in the opposite direction. He told me I’d only done 5 of my 14 miles. It had taken four and a half hours. Cheers mate. Climbing up in the heat with a rucksack was draining. And this route climbed a thousand feet more than Ben Nevis. There he is again, the old comparator mate Ben. 

The route was a killer. But an inspiration.

And way down below over to the right in the distance was the Ebro delta. Glorious Espana.

The Iberian Ibex do a funny kind of whistle cum chirp to warn each other of unwelcome company, and I can recognise it now. These beauties adorned the skyline.

The route became an exposed tiny path along a mountainside which was funnelling up strong winds from below. I took my time along the next 3 miles, determined to keep my footing. But these views were my reward.

Me and nobody else. Here in this high and windy but stunning landscape. I drew every long straw in the book. 

I was sinking. I can do the Yorkshire three peaks in ten and a half hours, it rises the same height and is ten miles longer. But here in the heat with a rucksack every step up drains the sweat out of you and pumps the heart like Ginger Baker. 

As the sun was dropping, after 10 hours trekking, the path dropped down to the Refugio, which was shut. I called the number and a lady said the manager was on his way. I was the only person staying there, so my six bunk bed room was all mine – again. 

This is my mate Peter. He’s Catalan and probably the best cook in these mountains. We communicated in a lot of French, bit of English, bit of Spanish and not much Catalan. As long as you understand each other it’s ok.

I’m a bit of a sucker for Spanish black pudding.

I slept well and bed, dinner and breakfast (beautifully prepared) cost 28 quid. What have I done to deserve this?

Night night.

I’m camping for one or two nights so unlikely to blog for a few days. Don’t worry about radio silence I’m very well. X