There’s enough here in Calais to remind you of the history attached to this place, right through to the pointless and brutal German invasion in the last world war. Executing men, women and children. Sorry, I’m not a big fan. But we’re all friends now, or we will be when they apologise for bombing the John Street stand at Sheffield United.

Rant over. I can’t help it, love’s always been my game.

Calais to Audresselles reminded me of the lovely German actress Marlene Dietrich, who opposed the Nazis, and it scans so beautifully with her song, Falling in Love Again, if you say it at the right speed and pitch. Evocative of many people and things, lost and passed.

The hotel in Calais was nice and the staff delightful, even giving me bacon and eggs for breakfast. Then I set off for the coast, through a park with an incredible framework and statues. These are big statues of Churchill and de Gaulle walking forward together through frames representing a small part of France, building up to it’s re-completion. Fantastic symbolism. And de Gaulle has bird shit down his back.

And bird shit down his front.

Winnie remained unsullied.

I like Calais. It’s more than ok, but not quite Hastings. But its history is fascinating. This is Tom Souville, a privateer (pirate) born in Calais and educated in Dover, who filled the French coffers during the Napoleonic years. The flag is a white cross on light blue background, the flag of Calais.

It’s a fun town as well.

But its source of cash is the sea.

Across the sea the white cliffs of England were just visible, to the right of centre on the horizon.

This lad can see it.

I set off at a pace behind the dunes. I felt fit and ready to cover distance. This gull is stalking a German fortification. Too late mate, we won. Again.

After 3 miles behind the dunes I crossed to the seafront and kept up a good pace on the sea wall for several miles.

It was windy, which masked the heat of the sun. In no time I was in Sangatte. Isn’t it weird that this is what we relate to? We have our place in the world and rarely reflect on the magnitude of the Universe. It takes 1.3 seconds for light to reach earth from the moon. It takes 12.9 billion years for light from the star Earendel to reach earth. Our brains can’t fully absorb this. Mine can’t. Best to concentrate on the next step.

Which saw me looking in a window at my reflection. Dint take long for my reflection to come back.

The sea wall ended in Sangatte and I had to cross a difficult pile of boulders to continue walking on the shore. A bit hairy after my fall, particularly with my rucksack, but it was ok. Then I cut up through town and out into the hillside away from the coast.

Up and over the top of the hill by Cap Blanc Nez and a great coastal view the other side, right along to Cap Gris Nez.

There is a continuous line of German gun positions. But some have fallen from the cliffs and are subject to battering by the sea and claiming by the sand. The ones still in the cliffs provide refuge for refugees, although I stopped and talked to three coppers who were trying to keep them away from the Junkers bunkers.

The dunes were becoming impressive and looking back Cap Blanc Nez was beautiful. Although the bloke in the wet suit seemed to be trying to fly somewhere.

Eventually my fast pace took me to the small coastal town of Wissant, and a friterie (chippy) where I ate chips and burger in the sun. Lovely. I then headed inland again across the base of the cape towards Audresselles, where I hoped to get a campsite for the night. I passed Fartz. Not bottom burps but a lake called Fartz. Right up my street. Anything for a cheap laugh.

Looking back towards the coast I’d made progress.

In no time at all I’d covered another ten miles and put my tent up. Two tins of mackerel from the local shop and an early night. Aw, don’t it look forlorn.

Night night.

It was a long day today, although I arrived at the campsite at 17 hundred hours pm. But I am very tired. I kept up a good pace for 7 hours (plus a break for burger luncheon). Over 20 miles and it was warm and very windy and up and down. I’m getting older but I can still move like Jagger. Like he did 2 hours after his cardio surgery. But I matched him for one brief moment in the infinite life of the Cosmos. That makes me something doesn’t it God?

Yes David. It makes you an aspirational prick and a grotesque underachiever who will, inevitably, be consigned to the fiery depths, which are administered by my fallen angel, for eternity upon your demise.

Not read the bible God but I think your prognosis sounds rather favourable. Am I right?

Am I right my Lord?

Lord?

I’ll update you on today tomorrow and tomorrow tomorrow. God willing. Love and stuff.

Night night.

It starts off ok with ‘the rover is over ‘ but then it just kind of falls apart after Dover. Anyway I’m not over from Dover today, I’m over from Leeds, Seeds, Deeds, Weeds, Feeds, Heeds, Needs, Reeds. Or, as their football fans would have it, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.

I’m midway through my John O’Groats to Tangiers trek and my next phase is to walk from Calais to the Pyrenees in the south of France. This is the first leg from Calais to Le Havre, down the northern coast.

I came over on a flight to Paris, at around the same time that Juliet (youngest daughter) and her fiancé George were flying to Ibiza, so we spent a couple of quality hours together in the airport.

You go your way I’ll go mine. Thanks Bob.

My way was to get a flight to Paris and a train from Paris to Calais, although it took 3 trains to get here. The views were fleeting, from the TGV.

I got here despite the shambolic signage and misinformation from SNCF attendants, and because of the efficiency of the trains.

Calais appeared. Timeless and still with a British feel. It was ours for centuries.

I’m in a hotel tonight; I expect to be in my tent for 12 of the next 15 nights so a hotel tonight is great. Tomorrow is the start of my Gallic trek!

Night night.

I sat on a bench yesterday and a man’s voice came from underneath the seat reading out a letter to his wife, written in 1914 on his way to death in Flanders. Folkestone was the big departure point for millions of soldiers pulled out of their fields and factories and thrown into hell. This was a very effective art project, the recorded voice triggered by me sitting down. It was moving.

And this is a tribute to those who fought in WWI. Poor buggers. Just lads, that’s all they were.

Anyway, how much would you now give to be transported back to January 1968 on to the beach at Cannes when Captain Beefheart played the mesmeric ‘Electricity’ and the thunderous ‘Sure n’uff n yes I do’ to cameras from a bewildered French tv station. Priceless.

If you can see this photo clearly then you weren’t really there!

The morning was cool, to the extent that I needed to wear my jacket as I strolled down to the harbour.

It’s an appealing town with some history and a touch of class, in addition to a darker underbelly of Class A and homelessness. Lovely surroundings however.

Dover is my last stop before the long stretch through France, and it was a decent route along the shore and then up a very steep ascent over the top of the cliffs.

There are some nice little coves which you wouldn’t imagine down here in the busy southeast.

Then the climb, which took a long time, inadvertent rhyme but that’s just fine. Although technically fine doesn’t rhyme with time. Working part time in a five and dime. Thanks Prince.

And away….over the top and along the coast. Then looking back from the top. How impressive.

Coming down inside the cliffs I had a first view of Dover harbour. After more than 2,000 miles of walking across the UK I was close to the end. Which is more than these wagons were.

Dover looks great from here.

And I was down and past these yachts moorings before one could say hoorah!

I’ve finished John O’Groats to Dover via Lands End (and Eastbourne). Now back home for a week and then on to Calais. Le grand depart.

Night night.

I made the mistake of having a pint in the hotel bar last night after a long boozy session by the locals. One bloke was holding forth about the merits of ‘the white man’ and the demerits of ‘the black man’. His wife supported him by shouting that ‘they even call it the ca-rib-Ian. It’s not it’s the carry- bee-Ann.’ Another old bag was studying her iPad and showing her mates a real-time radar screen on which she was tracking a migrant boat. She announced that she was off to the beach to shout abuse at them on their arrival. Have I entered a time warp somewhere between Camber Sands and Lydd? Or have I been transported to 1850 in Mississippi? They should rename it Lykkk. Okkk Scotty, beam me up.

I slept long and late, getting up at 9.45 this morning and setting straight off after a rapid rampage with the toothbrush and a swig of water. It was cloudier and much cooler than yesterday.

Lydd All Saints church looked sombre with the sudden chill. How old do you reckon the oldest part of this church is? 1675? 1275? 875? Answer below.

Around 475AD! More than 1,500 years old. Incredible. If my ancestors reproduced at age 33 then my great (44 times) grandparents could have worshipped here.

Just down the road was Lydd airport. It is actually named London Ashford Airport, obvious really being closer to France than London!

From here I cut across the marshes again, heading for New Romney.

And the path of righteousness opened up before me, carrying my soul forward towards the church of St Nicholas (a paltry 800 years old).

I can strongly recommend the fantastic breakfast at the Coach House cafe, which was followed by a quick dash to the coast. From here it was going to be mostly tarmac and concrete all the way to Folkestone.

It was high tide and this old lad was pulling in dogfish on sand eels on a rounded Japanese hook. He was delightful to talk to.

Just before Hythe the coast path was blocked by an MOD shooting range, around which the road was diverted inland. The racket from coppers shooting handguns, and some other blokes hidden in the dunes firing machine guns, was dreadful for locals. Particularly for any poor buggers on night shifts.

There is a 30 mile canal and raised embankment running from Rye to Folkestone. It was dug out during the Napoleonic wars to protect the southeast from attack if the Froggies tried to do a 1066 again. ‘Froggies’ is ok still int it? If anybody feels upset they should spend a weekend in Lykkk.

It’s called the Royal Military Canal and it is pretty impressive.

The weather was brightening up by the time the road returned to the sea.

With the end in my sights I rattled on at a pace. And when it arrived, Folkestone was a pleasant surprise.

17 miles today and only 7 miles to go to Dover. Then next week I invade France, if they haven’t dug a canal to keep me out.

Night night,

I will reiterate that Hastings charmed me last night. I’d previously wandered around the town between trains and thought it was really ropey, like Eastbourne. And it is, but it has an injection of new folk. Fun folk who might have gone to Brighton but either can’t afford it or don’t like the posey people there (or both). So that is my (relatively uninformed) view of the Sussex coast scene. When has fact ever shaped my opinions?

Day dawned, somewhere above the cloud, and I took a photo from my room and went back to sleep.

I was reawakened by some prat roaring down the front on a motorbike. And then he (on the balance of probability) did it again and again. But the noises were different, so I cleverly concluded that it was different bikes. Lots of em.

I woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head – Christ knows why because I haven’t got any hair there but thanks anyway Paul. And cruised down to a local greasy spoon. This is what made Britain great. Not cheese or croissants or muesli but a full on big bloody English/Irish/Welsh/Scottish. This full Monty created the greatest Empire the world has ever seen!

Not that we’re proud of imperialism or the way we achieved it, but I’m proud of my country. It means a lot. Even these stupid, noisy pillocks who woke me up!

You’ve got to admire eccentricity.

And then Hastings sprung another one on me. Jack in the Green. This is relatively new, it only goes back to the 1700s, but it is a celebration of the coming of summer. There were hundreds of Jacks!

Eventually I dragged myself away from this town of two halves. I’d decided to scramble down the coast rather than walk over the cliffs, but a bloke warned me it was a very high tide today and it was coming up. When have warnings …..etc. It looked like I had a good concrete walkway so away I went.

But the walkway ended and I was stumbling across boulder fields like an old b’stard. I couldn’t get inland because the cliffs were crumbling and where they were lower the vegetation was spiky and too dense for a normal bloke, or even me to try.

After two hours of the tide coming up and me stumbling over boulders I saw a fisherman. Salt of the earth. He must have got down a different way because the tide was high and I’m moving on. Thanks Debbie.

He pointed me in the right direction for a way through the thorns.

Freeeedom! As well as a beautiful, but very steep climb up to the top of the cliffs. Thank Christ (again) that I didn’t have a tent and all the etc to carry. And thank him for a reyt good path through the wild garlic and bluebells.

It was an hour’s climb to the top. These cliffs are steep and initially difficult. It was then reminiscent of the Southwest Coastal Path, getting to the top and then dropping back down again and down and up and down.

After too many hours of negotiating this stretch I reached a proper coastal path. This is looking back at it, for your orientation.

And eventually dropping down to sea level again. I was well behind what I thought my time would be. Pretty pathetic But don’t worry Dave. You’re not as crap as you think you are. Hoooray!

It was a long schlep (thank you Ziva) along the beach, enlightened by the RNLI speeding along the shoreline. Hooray!

And then it was head down and crack on to Rye. But what delights in between! Commissioned by Henry the eighth this was a castle originally on the shore. Now half a mile from from the sea.

Eventually Rye appeared on the horizon, originally one of the Cinque Ports but now landlocked. The sea level dropped. Reyt weird.

Rye city gates were impressive!

And there were still fishing boats moored in it’s estuary.

Then I began the last stage of my 22 mile walk to Lydd. And did it hurt! Yes it did actually. The route passed between the estuary to the right and the lake to the left in this photo.

I cut across a golf course for a mile and a half and this was a remnant of the WW2 machine gun post overlooking the14th fairway. Whatever happened we had to defend our golfing. Ffs!

Then it was just a slog across the Romney Marshes to Lydd. Miles of walking through flatlands with nobody there, and a strange atmosphere for someone from the hills like me.

But I made it. The hotel is nice and cheap and all is well with the world. Nine hours of walking and I feel quite ok. Love to you all.

Night night.

I haven’t walked any of my JO’G to Africa trek for three years. It seemed to disappear in the fog of covid and my illness. I couldn’t imagine last year being able to walk more than a mile even without a rucksack. I was gone, physically and mentally. And as it turned out the mental was the monster.

A month ago I met this bloke in the snow. Because he must be f**king freezing, Scantily clad beneath the clear night sky. Thanks Alex. I thought ‘If he can stand there throughout the winter without moving then I can at least restart my Magnus Opus’. And then I thought, you pretentious pillock. Magnus frickin Opus my arse.

I’d done John O’Groats to Lands End and on to Eastbourne but I needed to get up to Dover. So here I am, on my Jack Jones and this morning on my way to Eastbourne on the train. I sat next to a personable young bloke with: 3 kids – snap, living in Roundhay – snap, from Sheffield – snap, brought up in Charnock – snap, went to Charnock primary school – snap, supported Sheffield Wednesday……. He’s a scumbag don’t you know! Thanks again Alex. Nice lad though all the same.

I was due to arrive in Eastbourne at 1.30 and walk 17 miles to Hastings. I am travelling very light and staying at cheapish hotels to avoid the weight of a tent and all that goes with it.

What do you mean ‘all that goes with it’? A tent’s a tent.

I mean sleeping bag, mattress, towel, toiletries, etc.

What do you mean etc?

One of my trains was cancelled so I didn’t get to Eastbourne until Nearly 3pm. This is the best picture of Eastbourne.that I could find.

I set off at a good pace and soon came upon the sea.

It was overcast but warm and I kept at it, getting a reyt sweat on. The pebbles were knackering to walk on so I switched back to the coast road. These scenes are really atmospheric.

I ran out of water but an old dear with a hosepipe watering her garden filled up my bottle. Decent cove.

I was starting to like this coast. It’s not bad you know. It’s not posh like Rustington on Sea. Oreyt Chip? But it’s got character.

The small stone rectangle by the sea contains the perfectly preserved remains of the Amsterdam; a Dutch East India ship which grounded and sank in 1749. It is surrounded by petrified trees dating back millions of years and fossilised dinosaurs. How rich is our heritage? I love this country.

The ebb has turned to flow, and this young lady is trapped. Should I help? Nah.

Coming in to Hastings there was a lovely vibe. It was going dark and there was a long half open tunnel along the seafront, with deeper tunnels leading off it. Some of these dark side tunnels were throbbing with music and pulsating people. Smashed and mashed but thoroughly loving life. I entered this long straight section.

The booming unmistakable bass line of New Order’s Blue Monday got louder and louder as I walked down to a group of a dozen folk gyrating in the tunnel. They were loving it, and so was I. Where did they get the leccy to power the music system? Best not ask.

This theatre reminded me of the Art Deco facades in St Kilda near where Georgie and Ads lived in Melbourne.

And then I was there. I will sleep well tonight.

Night night.