The Fool on the Hill between Benassal and Vistabella del Maestrat

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.