We packed our rucksacks and wandered up to the village. Gary couldn’t walk the trail today. The pain had not reduced overnight and any pressure on his knee could result in lasting damage. We just don’t know, but the decision was taken and this was the end of the trek. Beautiful, very different and exhausting, and over. We had two long days walking ahead of us and it was not possible. Next time, it will still be there and if we’re not then we won’t be bothered about it.

We had two hotels booked and paid for ahead on the trail but Vistabella only has one road through it, the CV-170, and that runs west to east. Our trek would have taken us south, and to get to the next location by road would be over 50 miles. So we had to let the bookings go. Unfortunate but unavoidable.

So we will head to Benidorm and get longer rest and relaxation than we anticipated. However Vistabella is isolated. There is only one bus a day out of the village and that had left at 06.00. The Restaurant El Dau was open and we asked whether they could book us a taxi from somewhere to take us to the nearest train station. The taxi would be with us in four hours, the journey would take two hours, the cost would be £150.

Initially we asked them to order the taxi. We had to get out of Vistabella. Then we sat down and reconsidered the situation. We discussed the pros and cons. Come on and let me know. Should I stay or should I go? Thanks Mick. Stay!

Dolores flitted in and out of the Restaurant and we grabbed hold of her. Yes we could stay another night, although we would be sharing the house with four other trekkers. We offloaded our rucksacks back at the apartment then plotted our escape.

The first section in red would be tomorrow’s bus to Castellon de la Plana. The blue line was to be a train ride to Valencia where we would transfer by taxi to the bus station and take a second bus ride down to Benidorm.

In the meantime we bought a rabbit from the butchers, which was chopped for us into sections.

Then at the grocers we bought a leek, huge tomato, a quarter kilo of mountain fungi, mashing potatoes, butter, wine, carrots and chicken stock. The entire meal, including the wine and rabbit, had cost €22. Back at the apartment we prepared a rabbit stew and let it simmer in the wine and chicken stock for three hours, whilst we sat outside in the street looking at the view and talking about life.

Then the moment of truth.

A rabbit rarely died a more worthwhile death. Meat is murder and we plead guilty. The meal was a brilliant success. We patted ourselves on the back and ate the lot!

Early night and the next day we were up at 05.00 and on the deserted bus at six. Two hours later we decanted at Castellon at the train station and were on a train heading south within 15 minutes. A taxi in Valencia to the bus station and we just had time for a coffee before the bus to Beni bore us away. We arrived seven hours after we left Dolores’ des res. We did a good deal at our hotel for the extra night and set off on an eating spree.

The weight we lost in the mountains was regained by the sea.

Farewell Benidorm. We will return to Spain in 2027, fill the gap from Vallibona to Morella and complete the lost two days, before pressing on further south. Like Icarus.

Night night.

Where has it all gone? You can’t get it back. Best to avoid madeleine cake dipped in tea if you don’t want to cry over it all. Jumpers for goal posts, bread and dripping for tea. Vulcan broken but not beaten. Rubble resting years on from the bombs that reduced it but didn’t kill it. It took the 22 to do that. Suck the soul southwards, along with fortunes made from blood, sweat and tears. Siphon off anything that sparkles. Let it loaf in Lombard Street.

Breakfast was simple and tasty. Fried eggs on toast and pastries. The elderly hotel owner insisted that we should pay in cash and we told her we hadn’t got enough. She said the card machine was broken. After a ten second standoff she sparked up the machine and we paid by card.

The day was fresh, with some rain overnight continuing as we walked, and we headed over the hills to Culla, another one of these hilltop castle towns nestled in the distance. It was a brisk walk, with the usual twenty minute mandatory detour around an active bull blocking the path and acting as bodyguard for five young bullocks.

The saga of the knee continued and this time the pain was significant even before we had set off. We’re just mindful that this could be causing Gary some longer term damage, and that the next three days to the finish line were very hard trekking days. Apart from the first day down the Ebro valley every day had been tough but massively rewarding. No intervening villages and pure countryside every inch of the way.

We stocked up on water and sugar drinks in Culla, as the temperature raised again and the rain cleared. In the far distance we could see Vistabella but the route would wind four miles down a ravine, followed by a longer climb up the other side. The route arced round to the north and on to the west before finishing with a six mile southwards section.

We started our descent into the ravine, which opened out further down into a canyon. I’m not sure what comes after canyon.

The route we’re following forms part of the pilgrimage of Sant Joan of Penyagalosa, being a six thousand foot high mountain blocking our path. Let’s just imagine it’s a bull and climb round it.

Finally we reached the bottom. Another boulder strewn river bed.

The climb up the far bank and mountainside was punishing. Gary was now in fierce pain, having to stop every few minutes. It detracted from our appreciation of the countryside.

The old lad was struggling and we suspected, from a WhatsApp voice message in Spanish, that there may be a problem with our accommodation, which would be unfortunate as it was the only place to stay in Vistabella and the rain was coming back with thunder and lightning accessories.

The pain was again apparent from Gary’s face.

The last 200 metres up a track into Vistabella were agony for him. It took him half an hour. We went to the only bar in town and found Dolores, the owner of the apartment which we were staying at. There was no problem with the reservation and she would take us via the butchers and the grocers to the apartment. We bought three types of sausages, wine, bread, butter beans and tomatoes and made a fabada bean dish. Just what the doctor ordered.

Let’s see what the doctor might order tomorrow for Gary’s knee.

Gary is upset to say the least. Bury my knee at Wounded Heart.

Night night.

What did we decide to do? Climb, climb, climb. Like a Nepalese commercial aeroplane which has just burst out of the clouds to see a wall of Himalayan rock coming towards it at 197mph. But not necessarily with that sense of urgency. And we kept our waste in our colons, unlike the pilot in the example above. But we needed to climb.

Please girls and boys. Can someone please stop this idiot talking such……. waste? Maggie, Georgie, Toni, Jetty, Che, Susie, anybody who has the remotest influence over David Graham Smith. Tell him to stop using rude analogies. Now!

We were walking away from this barren plain and our priorities were to gain altitude relentlessly and find water.

We were only halfway to Benessal. Because of all the diversions and terrain issues we were way behind target time. Come on boys, raise your game. In fairness Gary completely ignored the pain in his knee by dosing on a combination of cocodamol and paracetamol, which made it easier but didn’t make it go away.

We made really good time up the mountainside, covering three miles in just over two hours. It’s the track surface that slows you down. As well as the heat and ….. etc etc.

But our water was low and at this farmhouse, which was here out of the blue, we were chased by a noisy dog. It retreated as we stood our ground, and we leaned over the farmhouse wall shouting for the farmer to appear. She appeared with a smile and I introduced ourselves with an explanation that we were stupid Englishmen who had walked a long way and nearly run out of water. Adding that it wasn’t this hot in England.

She took our empty bottles and brought them back full of cool, clear water. Water I tell you! We made a show of drinking her gift and groaning our enjoyment.

Then we headed off to find the next track, and it was purely guesswork. We guessed right. Down another valley and eventually up the next mountain range. Looking for these minuscule mural markings.

The sun was lowering by the time we reached Ares del Maestrat, with still a way to go. This is a punishing day, particularly with …. etc etc.

The route from here was simple but not easy. Climb up the next mountain and then follow the sun for several miles downhill. Easy. But by the time we got to Benessal it was nearly sunset and we discovered that our hotel was another two kilometres up another hill, even though it had been billed as Benessal centro. Gary was in serious knee difficulty by this time, having toughed it out on painkillers that were losing effect.

I flagged down the next car and it happened to be two lads, one who could speak English well and wanted to use it. Over the course of 2 kms we became mates. And they dropped us off right outside the hotel. Thanks lads.

We’d covered 24 miles in the most difficult and unseasonal of conditions, with Gary striding through injury. Amazing. I’m not a fan but for a big idiot he had performed magnificently.

The sun was going down over the horizon.

The hotel was deserted apart from the owner in her 80s. She was reluctant to serve us beer, but we’d earned it. She was happy to serve us a bottle of Rioja and a grilled rabbit with artichokes.

And we were happy to eat it!

Night night.

You must leave now, take what you need you think will last. Thanks Bob, but it’s not quite all over yet Baby Blue. We left the hotel at 07.00 on another sunny day, but as the sun bore down on the hilltops a harsh frost hung around in the hollows.

At 07.45 we pulled into a restaurant where the owner derided us for our paltry Spanish speaking skills. Then the next minute he was all over us like a rash. Iffy bugger.

However his food was world class. Sausages, black pudding, artichokes, stewed peppers, coffee and back for second helpings. The black pudding melted on your tongue and the mild herby finish to it was worth fighting for. Not that we fought. We’re men of peace and we’re scaredy cats. Taking massive detours round bulls and running from dogs.

Setting off from Iffy’s we mounted the nearest mountain and looked back at where we used to live, Morella.

Heading over the back it soon became apparent that we were in for a random signage day. Now you see it, now you don’t. My Garmin had broken and the only way I could start it was sticking a knife in the hole where the ‘on’ switch used to be. Even that outback engineering was hit and miss. So we struggled to find Frank frankly. The printed maps I had taken off some tacky website were inaccurate and got us even more lost. There were no signals for my iPad or both of our iPhones. Buggered, buggered I tell you!

Then another major detour around a bunch of cows, bulls and bullocks blocking the path and showing an interest in us. An unhealthy interest some might say. A deadly interest I thought and Gary wasn’t waiting to test my theory. We legged it over walls and fences, culminating in me falling six feet backwards over a fence into a briar bush. Gary threaded himself ineffectually through a multi-stranded barbed wire fence. It’s amazing how well he bleeds. And as the miles wore on he was struggling more and more with his painful knee problem.

After half an hour roaming around we eventually found a way mark. Half hidden in the shadow on the back of this wall. But it was enough to get us back on route. Unfortunately the route was along the other side of the wall along an old stream bed which had been taken over by thick reeds, weeds, briars and bushes. Coupled with unseen drops underfoot which threatened to trip us into deep holes. This lasted around a quarter of a mile and was exhausting.

We finally climbed out of this ridiculously badly managed public right of way by straddling a farmer’s wall and landing in a field of sheep. Not a bull to be seen. But there was a huge Pyrenean mountain sheepdog that spotted us from two hundred yards away and came running at us. The loudest bark ever and I climbed back up the wall but Gary was stuck behind me. He turned to face the dog and it stopped a couple of yards away from him. He froze and the dog didn’t know what to do, other than continue to bark at us. I descended the wall and we moved in slow motion away from the dog, who ran towards us and then backed off again. Eventually we climbed a gate and legged it. Our heart rates were off the scale. That dog could have eaten us. He was bleedin huge.

The temperature was pushing into the thirties and we were gunning through our water bottles just to keep our temperatures at a reasonable level.

We lost the track several more times and came to a difficult decision point. We were heading up into the mountains and far away from the nearest road. This was not a continuous track, as we had to switch from one track to a footpath to a track to a path to a track. Should I have used commas?

Once again, despite our best efforts our circuitous progress, the absence of a breeze, the heatwave hitting us hard and the rucksacks on our backs were all conspiring like Brutus to stab us in the back. We were leaking our own body weight in perspiration. We needed water and would we find it up in the mountains? And we were lost. The way marks had taken us away from a track and left us on a hillside, desolate. Will nature make a man of us yet? Thanks Smithy.

We had to decide now. Do we climb or find a road and flag down an old flag?

Find out later!

We woke up to a rest day in Morella. Yesterday’s walk had taken it out of us, although Gary’s knee was much improved to the extent that we roam around town. And what a town it is.

In the town hall were giant figures which are brought out into the streets on feast days. The Moors of North Africa captured the town thirteen hundred years ago and held it for nearly 500 years, until the Spanish Christians returned to claim it back. The Moors handed over rule of the town without any battle, leading to centuries of peaceful coexistence which has lasted until the present day.

In 1672 the town was ravaged by a terrible plague that killed much of the population of the town. The locals brought out the Virgin of Vallivana, a wooden likeness of the Virgin Mary, and carried it around the streets. Wherever this statue was taken those stricken with the plague were cured. A year later the town vowed to the Virgin that it would honour her with a celebration every six years, the Sexenni of Morella. This starts with a solemn pilgrimage carrying the image from Vallivana to Morella, followed by 10 days of festivities.

Any native of Morella who has left the town must return to fulfil the oath to the Virgin.

Stirring stuff.

Gary was caught in the light cast by the Lady.

We continued our pilgrimage to the nearest place which would fry eggs and dispense coffee. Then back to the hotel to rest in the sun whilst the Virgin of Roundhay carried beer to the devotee and uttered oaths.

We ended the day with another dose of spag bol in the nearest restaurant and got an early night to get prepared for a 24 mile slog tomorrow.

Night night.