The path was beautiful. It merged mountains, forests and spectacular coastal scenery in a great 100 and summat mile walk.

The weather was fantastic, the food was brilliant and our respect for Estrella deepened into the equivalent of a bromance. Alemance? Estrellamance!

The people are a little grim we found. If you break the ice with some then they are as good as gold, but most are too big a challenge. And like our previous Spanish walks every rural property is fiercely defended by (mostly) captive dogs.

The most poignant part of the trek was the hotel in Tossa de Mar where the woman behind the bar turned out to be Ukrainian. She was there with her two daughters and her husband was back in the Ukraine serving in the army. By the end of her story Gary, me and the lass were all in tears.

However, ten minutes later we had the funniest part of the trip. An old French hag and her husband started telling us how awful England was. Our food is disgusting, our towns, countryside and people are naff and she’ll never come back. Her and her husband were from Perpignan on the Mediterranean coast of France. They did a house swap – with a family from Grimsby! Apart from a short trip to London this was her only exposure to the UK. Grimsby! Me and Gary started laughing and couldn’t stop. She said the family from Grimsby wanted to stay permanently at her house in Perpignan. Another 15 minutes of uncontrollable giggles from G and D. Chuffing Grimsby.

The view below isn’t Grimsby!

I’m still hurting quite badly sometimes when the painkillers wear off. I’ve broken my arm where it fits into the shoulder socket, but it’s reasonably secure as long as I don’t arse about. I’ve got 5 more weeks of hospital attention through reviews, physiotherapy, a further x-ray, then take it from there. I gave it quite a bang. This is the back of my arm from below the elbow to the shoulder. But it could have been a lot worse.

Don’t try this at home!

I’d just like to thank my mate Gary. He looked after me, got me to hospital in Spain, carried both rucksacks, like a Nepalese Sherpa, and helped keep me going until I got home. Love you mate. Thanks!

I’ll be in my boots before summer for another yomp but I’ve no firm plans yet. It will be somewhere great. Planet Earth!

Night, night.

The path wound up into the hills, again. The GR92 is way marked by a Polish flag emblem on trees and rocks along the route. But you have to keep alert, like this one on the rock.

We lost alertness and both missed a turnoff, which cost us an additional kilometre. The route was fascinating, with ancient Menhirs dotting the way, and many cork oaks which had been stripped of their bark for bottle corks like this one next to the Menhir. Booo! But it grows back. Hooray!

Some of this was real Lord of the Rings stuff

With most of the views, when not covered by trees, being inland to the mountains.

With an occasional seaward glimpse back towards Sant Feliu. Or forwards to Tossa de Mar.

We were knackered when we arrived, our feet have taken some stick on the rock and tarmac surfaces. So we decided to shorten the last day to finish in Lloret del Mar. Another sunny day. And this route was following one of the Camino de Santiago pathways.

By midday we were not too far away.

And Lloret was quite attractive.

We had a fabulous black rice seafood paella on the front.

And then on the way to the hotel I tripped on a raised disability ramp on the pavement. The weight of my rucksack threw me forward and I thrust out my left arm to cushion my fall. It broke up by the shoulder. The last few metres of a ten-day trek and I was in agony. The local hospital were great and I’ve got strong painkillers and a sling but it may need surgery. They were touch and go as to whether they would accept me on the flight home this morning. In any event it’ll take 3 months to mend. Silly old bastard!

I’ll be walking again. Blog you then.

Night night.

We’ve broken this walk’s back today. And thoroughly enjoyed most of it, with the exception of the last 5kms. Decent breakfast, our signature two fried eggs, bread, coffee with milk and freshly squeezed orange juice. Can’t beat it! Well, I suppose you can beat two eggs. But not the rest.

Another beautiful day, clear and crisp, with Christmas decorations resistant to being dismantled.

We were soon out in the country with a good pace into the mountains. There is an enormous sense of freedom when you’re trekking. You’re tied to a rucksack with all your worldly goods in it, you’re usually tied to the route as well but the freedom is in your face. In your lungs. In the aching muscles in your legs. In the magnificent views.

The pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago in north west Spain greet each other with the word Ultreia! It is the perfect Latin summary of the spirit of trekking, even though I don’t feel particularly drawn to the Camino. It means Let’s keep going! Let’s go beyond! There is always another horizon! And there is, whether you look at it in Spain, Scotland, England, France or Nepal, there always is, until you are too old to reach the next one. Then you die. Brilliant!

We made it finally to the top of the mountains through forest and up to the highest point of the journey so far. Just under 2,000 feet, the same height as Kinder Scout. Taking a detour to the absolute summit we were treated to a magnificent Dolmen. This burial structure was erected by local lads over 5,000 years ago. Incredible.

Then we came across the view of the trip, a 360 degree panorama from the top of a wooden viewing platform by the side of an unmanned meteorological tower. Just wow! We rarely see people throughout the day, and this was no exception.

By the side of the viewing platform was a weird shrine, with almost pagan clay images of people and children. We had seen similar memorials on the way up. Very odd.

The track dropped down and back up but mostly down. Our feet are wrapped in three layers of blister plaster but we bravely strutted on! Well, with a whimper and some old mens’ noises every now and then.

One of these photos is an intelligent being and one is an ass. Answers on a postcard to……….

And this is a carved representation of Gary first thing in a morning.

The poor lad’s taking a bit of stick but that’s what Leeds fans are for.

Some graffiti is good, but it is very much the exception!

And as daylight faded the boys beat a retreat to Sant Feliu de Guixolls. To a decent hotel owned by a Uruguayan female ocean rower and a tubby spouse born in Italy, brought up in Croydon and rooted in Catalonia.

Round the corner was a tapas bar with the most amazing selection of scran. A perfect end to a perfect day.

Night night.

Woke up feeling ropey, aimed for McDonalds and it was shut, aimed for a cafe 5 miles away and it was vegan and full of cyclists so we ate bottled vegetables from the supermarket and felt sorry for ourselves. Gary climbed through nettles and I clambered through brambles. Life hurts sometimes.

There were no redeeming features on this walk. We had to cross a river and there was only one bridge, which banned pedestrians from crossing. Luckily we were able to dismantle the barricades at both ends.

The towns and villages round here are shut. Empty as a pocket. Thanks Paul.

Today was a long walk, mostly on dirt tracks, across an inland plain, followed by a climb across a mountain range tomorrow to get back to the sea. This route would save us two days walking compared to following the coast. It was a variant of the coast path, the GR92-1, rejoining the GR92 at Sant Feliu de Guíxols. Here’s Gary, drinking water and eating tortilla in a supermarket. Bet this is a first! Blinking mad Leeds fan.

What is happening in Catalan supermarkets? This one is selling Bonka and Bestial Mix!

Then off again. We are crazy cookies. Just can’t stay still in one place for five minutes. Absolutely bonkas. Thanks Rik. Rest in peace lad.

The rain in Spain stays away mainly from the plain. And where’s that soggy plain? In Spain, in Spain! Thanks Audrey and Rex. Memories of childhood shall appear within this room. Thanks Roger.

As the sun went down we waltzed into La Bisbal, to find the hotel we had booked earlier was closed, didn’t answer the phone and ignored emails. Worse still, the booking terms said that if we no-showed they would charge anyway, and they had my credit card details! We wandered over the bridge on the (seasonal) river Daro.

Which looks like this after rain in Spain on the plain. Thank you I stock.

The night ended well. We had one of the best burgers in the history of cows’ rumps and found a Hostal that would accept English vagrants. Bring on tomorrow!

Night night.

Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Thanks Paul. But totally unnecessary with my follicle challenge. We ate breakfast in the hotel and pushed off with great purpose. The longest day today, all on flat land but nearly twenty miles of it.

These two looked like those blokes who stand still to make you think they are statues, and then move to startle you. But they were statues. Unusual shorts.

The route was around the Gulf of Roses today to L’Escala; a town where me and Deborah (my sis) went to twice in the late sixties on family holidays. Bitter sweet memories. In the distance the snow topped Pyrenees stole the show.

It was flat all the way, with sea-lake type developments.

Just an extremely long slog. Sunny but cooler.

Anyone walking away from this did well.

Stopping after five hours walking Gary loved these mussels and I tried the local specialist dish of fried artichokes with eggs. A brilliant combination.

Setting off on the last leg the route wove through mile after mile of orchards and on down to the sea.

Walking across the sand was draining. The track passed Empurias, a complete Roman town, well, complete apart from no roofs. And no walls. Or windows. But mainly complete.

Then a quick dap down the beach to L’Escala, as it started to rain. More great tapas and an early night.

Night night.

The sun was out again this morning and we made our way down to the harbour and into a cafe for fried eggs and bacon. Fantastic.

On the way out of town we bought a couple of sea bass, big spuds, butter, aluminium foil and some asparagus. It might come in handy later. Goodbye beautiful Cadaques. It was a blast.

The GR92 winds back up into the mountains and crosses over them to the south coast of the Cap de Creus and on to Roses. The uphill hike was tough going, but with magnificent views. The route dropped down and crossed the beaches in small, remote bays, before climbing up again. A treat for determined trekkers!

And the heat of the sun was both testing and revitalising. This was becoming one of the great days of walking.

Then the cliffs kicked in, and we were warned of what happens to barmy old blokes who aren’t careful where cliffs are involved.

There were a few rich folk having fun on their boats in the quieter bays.

At two thirty we finally happened on a deserted beach that had a steady supply of driftwood. So we whipped out the cigarette lighter and our supermarket scran. What a delight.

The sea bass was beautiful.

It is illegal to light wild fires in Catalonia under the regional bye laws, so we made sure to fully extinguish this one when we finished. And then set off on our last stage of the walk to Roses, as the sun was slowly sinking.

A decent hotel and some more great food for dinner, burgers with roasted green peppers. With the sun setting on another perfect day.

Hope the kids at Plump It are enjoying the blog! Gary the Blade says hello!

Night night.

A good night’s sleep and we got up before the hotel staff, slipped across the road to a bar and had fried eggs with coffee and fresh orange juice. After paying the hotel we were on our way back to the north coast of the Cap de Creus, and turning eastward we meandered into bays and out to headlands.

There were snorkel divers working the sea bottom and anglers taking their chances in the crisp morning sun.

It’s great up north here. Really nice but a bit warm in the sun. Before too long we were sweating like sweaty boys in a sauna. It’s the rucksacks that make the difference.

We walked over to Puerto de Selva, with some great views on the way.

On reaching Puerto de Selva the view back towards France was wonderful.

But we were less than halfway to Cadaques and the mountains were yet to come. And impressive they were. Again looking back from part way up the first hillside was impressive.

The sad part was that we met some Wednesday fans on the way.

Life is a gas. Do you know what I mean? Me and Gary are here in the sun in the mountains of north Spain with nobody else around and no noise. Silence, beautiful silence, peace and beauty. And the building in the distance on the side of the hill is the monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes.

It was a long, long climb to the top, through herds of scary cattle and difficult terrain. We’re up to it!

This was the second time that farmers have set electric fences across the way and we have had to shimmy under. Nasty deckers!

Then, over the last brow, came a spectacular view of Cadaques. Oh wow!

It was a long and difficult path down, strewn with boulders that threatened to twist our ankles at any stage. But we, heroically, survived the two hour descent! Checking in at the flat we were staying at and drinking beers on the front with the hippies was good fun. And Robin Weaver is alive and well and still smoking strange substances.

We ended up at a punk rock tapas bar, with the most amazingly cheap food. The punk music was great and the hosts were fantastico. And they liked us too.

Our apartment was in a quiet part of the town, up this path, and it was just right for us.

And it wouldn’t be Cadaques without Salvador Dali. Hail fellow, well met!

My conclusion, my dear friends, is that Cadaques is a lovely place.

Night night.

It’s a laugh to wake your mate up in the middle of the night and put a Blades sticker on his chest and then he goes into a catatonic state because he’s a Leeds fan. And when he does he looks like this! I don’t think he was happy.

The sky was blue and we set off shortly after a decent breakfast in the hotel. We were climbing up over the last little arm of the eastern Pyrenees, which stretches its forefinger into the Mediterranean Sea. Goodbye hotel.

And hello to a path from Spain to France that saw 100,000 defeated Republicans escaping Franco’s evil revenge. Seeking new lives in France and the UK, like Michael Portillo’s dad. Lucky they didn’t try to escape certain death nowadays. Suella Braverman KC would have sent the lot to Rwanda.

But we were travelling in the opposite direction, from France to Spain, the route that escapees from Nazi Germany took a year later in 1940. Terrible times with desperate folk treading the same route as me and Gary.

Up and over, past the redundant border post.

It was getting warm and we both were sweating buckets under the weight of our rucksacks. But dropping down to Portbou eased things.

This was the main through route for supplies to the Republican army, and Franco had it bombed to smithereens. By the Germans, Italians and his own evil animals. But amor vincit omnia and today people can rest in this land in peace.

We’re walking down as far as we can in the next 9 days towards Barcelona. It’s part of my John O’Groats to Africa trek, which I may never finish, but which keeps me off the streets. Well….on some streets sometimes. And Gary is here because he loves walking in Spain too.

It’s a shortish day today – 17 kms – but it has its ups and downs so it is a good starter. We’re not terribly fit so this is fine. Our route follows the GR92, which is a footpath covering the full length of the Costa Brava; and it’s great.

For January the weather is ridiculous. Sunny, warm and not too much wind. We are loving it.

We arrived in Llanca at two thirty. And it was shut. However with the help of some builders we were able to find refreshments and after a couple of phone calls we got decent digs. With a tapas bar around the corner. Heavenly. And an early night – asleep by 8.30!

The real walk starts tomorrow.

Night night.

Hello my dear, dear family and friends. Straight to the most important news of the year………this is our first grandchild. Harry George Long. A beautiful gift from two flowers to a garden. Thanks Donovan.

I love him.

Anyway, I’ve taken to walking with friends and this time I’m off with Gary, who you will find on this blog in January 2018. We’ve tried to walk together every January since then and this time it’s clicked. So at 3.45am this morning the wonderful Carolyne, Gary’s missus, in her pyjamas and dressing gown, amazingly took us to Leeds Bradford and then returned home to bed. What a star!

The early start seemed to be telling on my mate Gary!

KLM early flight to Amsterdam, transferring to Barcelona El Prat (unfortunate name), tube to Barcelona Sants and train up to Cerbere in France, which is riddled with tunnels and plagued by graffiti.

Weird place. It’s post-apocalyptic! A 15 hour journey, followed by a trip to the supermarket and a meal in the room of our Hostal. French bread, tomatoes and country pate. It’s difficult to find the acute accent over the ‘e’ on iPads so please accept it as being there in spirit. (Pretentious moi?).

Tomorrow we are starting our trek down towards Barcelona. Covering around 140 miles of up hill, down dale and stunning seaside. Q. How wonderful is life when you’re elderly? A. As wonderful as you make it!

Night night.