Thanks John, but nights can be even stranger. I checked out the nearest lav, which was surrounded by dozens of kids in tents, and of the only two working toilets one had got a kid’s vanity case down it and the other had a kid’s electric toothbrush. I decided not to release my doo dah.

Back in the tent it began to go dark and I tried to get comfortable for a good night’s kip. Suddenly something landed on my head – it was a frog! It must have got in whilst I was FaceTiming Maggie outside the tent, and waited until I was least expecting it to land on my baldy bonce. It made me jump I can tell you. I turfed him out.

Then through the night it rained quite heavily. In casinos there are mirrors which people stand behind and can look through to spot any rotters who might be cheating. My tent works in a similar way. When it rains heavily it let’s water in but then it becomes waterproof inside and doesn’t let it out.

When I took the tent down I found I had pitched partly on a pile of pooch poo and partly on a slab of concrete. I’d been too anxious to get it up before any rain might come. I should have taken my time, the sun shone for another hour.

I was tired and set off in a huff. It was overcast and I only had a swig of water for breakfast. Silly old ninny. Walking round the lake things got a little more psychedelic. A couple were stood at the top of a boat launching ramp and they clearly hadn’t understood the basic premise that you reverse your vehicle, with the boat on a trailer, and keep the van dry and the boat afloat. They had somehow gone in van first, and it had sunk, dragging the boat with it! Fair play to the van, its top brake light was still working!

The couple were a bit damp, clearly in shock and laying out some retrieved valuables to dry out.

Then, as I slunk away without offering to try pulling the van out, two fire engines, two police cars full of coppers and two unnamed security vehicles with impressive flashing lights arrived on scene. I was tired and didn’t want to forget events so I videoed myself.

The route was direct, straight up the valley by the side of the River Auge. Quite busy initially but then easing off. These road walks are a mixed blessing. You can get places fast on a flat surface, but it’s not always picturesque, like country footpaths always are. A chalk cliff, but it was quite hard, almost limestoney. There’s a Neanderthal cave lurking in that greenery somewhere, I’ll be bound. A lot of me being bound on this trip. We don’t have that kind of thing in Yorkshire.

This was a fabulous house, with a lake to the left just out of view which was boiling with carp. Just by the tree to the left, near the house, is a remote lawn mower. It just roamed about until it hit something and then changed direction.

Then breakfast. Most blackberries are green and dry but I came on a few that were fully ripe. Fantastico!

This is a memorial to a family, but I couldn’t work out what was originally inscribed on it. There is a sad story here.

And now the benevolent side of water. Adding beauty and purpose!

I had set off well before 9am and although I was knackered I was making good time. By 12.30 I was on the outskirts of Lisieux. I think I’ve underestimated the distances I can cover in a day; particularly here where oxygen is 100% that at sea level, there are no crippling climbs, no avalanches and the weather at the moment is mercifully cool. And no leeches. They were creepy. You couldn’t even feel them because they inject you with anaesthetic.

There was a Super U supermarket on the edge of town with a cafe in the corner and I had lunch there, feeling very full of myself. Just over 4 hours and I’d covered 11 miles. Just two and a half to go. Lunch was great, and cheap. Three courses, including veal, for £12. Then I reset off and came upon a bike race in the centre. The French are big on this kind of thing. Don’t get it personally.

At 3pm I checked in to my Airbnb place, showered, washed my clothes, hung the sleeping bag and tent up with my dripping clobber and phoned our lass.

Lisieux is ok, but it’s crumbling, the roads are shocking, some buildings are bricked up and the young population cover their faces with scarves and stagger about. Drugs at the centre of it I think. But every generation throws a hero up the pop charts. The boy in the bubble and the baby with a baboon heart. There’s much more to La belle France than this. Let’s find it!

Night night.

Not every day can be exceptional, and today was no exception. I had a great sleep, over 10 hours with only one pee break, so that was good. Collecting my stuff together and stuffing it in the rucksack takes time, but it was a short walk today, just 13 miles this time so I have time.

I like to chuff about with words. I got exceptional and exception in the first sentence together, stuff and stuffing in the third, together with three times time. Simple things please me.

I spend a long time working out trekking routes and daily distances, largely based around the availability of campsites or reasonably priced hotels. Then I look for the smallest lanes or tracks on Google, to be able to walk in peace and quiet, and print out little maps for each day. I store them in small freezer bags. These are yesterday’s maps, stained by rain, and maps for the next ten days.

Today started with a breakfast at Maccy Dee’s. It was next to the hotel and I love their egg and bacon McMuffins. I had two, and two Capuccinos. I don’t eat lunch very often when I’m walking so I need some fuel first thing.

The road south ran past McD’s and up a long hill, which was busy with traffic. My rucksack is up to about 14 kilos with bottles of water so I felt the climb. I’m not as young as I was. I need to keep going and to keep fit. It can be worrying because there are so many walks that I want to do and I’ll be disappointed if infirmity gets me first. But not defeated.

There were no great views today. It’s a main road, no footpaths and no hanging gardens of Babylon nor herds of Wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain. Just twee little rest places.

This road to the left is a GR route (long distance walk), always marked by a red and white horizontal stripe. I’m not going that way – southwards I’ll be bound.

The forecast rain was very heavy for half an hour and I rested under a tree, up against the trunk to keep me completely dry. Then it dried out and it rained no more.

At school we had French pen pals from Alencon and mine was Patrick (Paddy). His mum and dad were Pierre and Therese. This sign for Lisieux showed how significant those names are locally. They looked after me when I was young on trips to France and I loved being in their family. I’ll see Paddy this trip and visit the graves of Pierre and Therese. Wonderful people.

Well, I’m here in Pont L’Eveque in less than five hours. With a rucksack that’s not bad.

Maggie and I were here ten days ago, doing a bit of a gastronomic tour of Normandy on our way to and from Maggie’s godson’s wedding. Simon Carrere. He is a great lad, married to Marie-Anne and with a beautiful young daughter Lison. A great occasion and wonderful to see old friends again.

We did major damage to the local mussel population through conspicuous consumption. And it was great.

Pont L’Eveque is a nice place, with ancient buildings and decent cheese!

It also has mainland Europe’s finest sea trout river running through it.

My camp site was a mile out of town, up a footpath along the river bank.

Next to a beautiful lake.

Here’s my good old tent again. Faithful friend! I chose it over Wilson, my tarpaulin, as it affords greater protection from ants and snails.

And I’m now blogging from a lakeside deck. How pleasant it is.

Well my dears, I’m on my way to my trusty tent and I’ll be blogging tomorrow night from just down the road in the religiously significant town of Lisieux.

Night night.

It was a shorter walk today, just 14 miles, although it felt a tad longer. I set off from Hotel Premiere Classe in the dock district of Le Havre just after 10am. Breakfasted and not too damaged from the previous day’s yomp, I was heading down towards the River Seine. As I walked through this cargo port area on a Sunday it felt post-apocalyptic in its quietness, with a sense of foreboding and threat. It’s a great location for a frightening movie. Mummy, can I come home now please?

My aim was to head south for a few miles, the road then turns eastwards, up the river, to the relatively new Pont de Normandie. It’s a mile long suspension bridge joining Northern Europe and the south, without the need to spend hours in a queue around Paris to cross the river there. But for now I had to grit my teeth and get through wasteland!

The sky was grim and rain was forecasted. This added to the sense of unease. Nobody for miles, no cars, no people on the street. Nothing.

There were areas where fires had burnt on the street, and then this turned up.

I felt a little bit uncomfortable but I had my dark glasses and sleeveless black top on so I knew I was quite intimidating. Daddy come home, mummy don’t go…….thanks John.

Strangely I felt at home. I loved working in Bristol docks. Me and Maggie had some of our happiest times down there, and this heaviest of industries lies gently in my memory. Avonmouth. It’s like Avalon to me. Halcyon days.

And from the tiny Halcyon to the beautiful Swan. Cop these beauties.

As the road turned to the east, and followed the Seine upstream, I began to feel more relaxed. There were cars every ten minutes and it was more of a natural feel. Eventually the wetlands opened up to my right and suddenly emptiness was friendly rather than threatening. With my first view of Honfleur across the estuary.

And then the bridge appeared in the distance.

I had been very lucky so far. The rain storms had belted up the south bank of the river and avoided me on the north so I had only felt light spray, which had evaporated in the warm and windy conditions. Long may it last. Although my lightening mood was tempered a bit by the sauvages animals sign. What the bleeding hell is so substantial that it requires a warning sign? I’m the only potential lunch within 5 miles, should I be worried?

Suddenly the bridge, intermittently hidden by rain, became close and clear. Hello bridge.

I made it there before the heavy forecast rain, and set out on the footpath over this engineering marvel.

But then the storms came. I legged it across the rest of the bridge and off to a side path leading to a backroad. It was relentless and I had to take shelter under a big beech tree. The rain intensified so much that it came through the leaves, dripping on to me, and began to stream down the road. I covered up my rucksack, got my wet weather gear on and took off, but it got through the slightest of gaps in my armour, and pierced my goretex walking shoes. I made it to the main road in to Honfleur, and all the cars were stood waiting for the rain to ease. Eventually it did, I managed to get my iPad out and booked a cheap hotel. Tents aren’t good in these conditions! And after a great duck Parmentier in a local PMU I’m back in my hotel. I didn’t think I’d get out of the PMU!

All’s well that ends well and here I am in a warm room with dry sheets and a good night’s sleep to look forward to.

Nice to talk to you and hopefully I’ll be able to blog a day ending under canvas tomorrow. Mes amis, je vous aime.

Night night.

Although I was on the fifth floor and the day had tired me out I could still hear Parisian Vendredi carousing well into the daylight hours. My 6.15 alarm must have found some kind of glitch in the matrix because it sounded out before I went to sleep. Even so I reported a score of 9.7 out of 10 to my missus so that she was proud of my hypnagogic transition and hypnopompic emergence. It’s amazing what nonsense you can find on the net.

I packed my rucksack and belted it round to Parmentier metro. It was as dead as a doornail.

With a statue of Parmentier giving spuds to a poor person.

He was the world’s greatest exponent of mashed spuds, and if you see Summat Parmentier in a French restaurant then it’s like a posh Shepherd’s Pie. Our Froggy mate, Annie Carrere, does the best Duck Parmentier in the world.

The train journey started from St Lazare and the metro took me there before 7.30, where I enjoyed myself drinking coffee and eating a small Quiche Lorraine for breakfast. Wonderful.

At 8.15, and that’s the time that it’s always been, thanks Andy, the train took off for Normandy. A little station called Breaute Beuzeville, where I switched to a local bus and landed in Etretat at 11.30. I was so focused on the walk that I didn’t even go down to the seafront. After six months with a broken shoulder and no trekking I just wanted to walk. And it was great. It hurts a bit putting the rucksack on but after that it’s all fine.

The track I was aiming for was far steeper than I thought, and it gave me a good workout, with a brief view of the Channel over the roofs of Etretat.

I expected this to be a country lane walk. I had to get some speed on as it was nearly 18 miles to my overnight hotel in Le Havre. And I did! But the best surprise was that the route I had chosen, over days spent on Google maps and Google earth, was more country paths than lanes. It was lovely.

One farmer had tried to block the path with electric fences but it was easy to get under it. Sadly people had given up and the path beyond was heavily overgrown, but it was manageable.

The path passed posh places (lovely alliteration), with great ironmongery.

I was really enjoying this. And the forecast rain held off and a decent breeze kept me coolish.

I’ve no idea what this is. But it’s great.

I think this is barley.

I didn’t meet anyone else walking. And where the paths moved on to country lanes I didn’t encounter any cars. Just peace. How good are these churches in the middle of nowhere?

In the middle of the afternoon things were beginning to hurt a bit. I’m 69 years old and a bit of a fat bastard, so carrying 12kgs in my rucksack at a fast pace over 18 miles (27 kms), up and down country paths is a challenge.

I’ve enjoyed today. The rain started in Etretat but then held off. The paths were far better than I thought. And the piece de resistance was Le Havre. I was skirting the centre, coming down from the north to the east side of the docks area. It’s not attractive and me and Maggie have been in and out of the Le Havre ferry over the years and haven’t spent time in the city. Cop this! It’s west coast USA!

And this.

Well, the walk was really nice and Le Havre outskirts are lovely. Maybe not Richmond, but I got carried away. 18 miles was good today, after a late start from Etretat, so I’m happy with my progress. The weather is forecast for quite heavy thunder storms tomorrow and I’m putting up my tent tomorrow night. Oh dear. Never mind.

Sleep well my loves. Night night.

Thanks Winston. I’m off, I’m off, I’m off in a motor aeroplane. I’m not averse to fundamental change but I’m dreading the day when a BBC news reporter calls it an airplane. Anyway it’s set off from Leeds and it’s landing at Paris, courtesy of Ryanair.

Well it’s not really Paris. In fact it took an hour and a half for the bus to get to Paris. In fact it really should be renamed Oslo, Beauvais. In fact I really get peed off by people who say ‘in fact’.

It’s great to be a moaner. Nobody expects light or loveliness to emanate from you. They just expect moans. That’s how stupid most people are. They wallow in their own stupidity. Moan bloody moan!

The bus finished at Port Maillot in Oslo (Paris) and I was staying in a relatively cheap hotel quite a way eastwards near Parmentier metro station. I might be an old git but I worked out how to get there. Are you proud of me?

It’s obvious! You get the RER C from Neuilly-Port Maillot one stop to Pereire-Levallois, walk underground to Pereire and then take the 3 line eastwards 15 stops to Parmentier. Less that two quid. Kismet Hardy! It was as scary as it can be at Pereire-Levallois. A huge underground station that was completely empty. It was a 5 minute walk down the empty platform to the exit. With lots of hiding places for scary people. Oh mummy, I should have bought those disposable underpants that Maggie talked about.

Anyway, my hotel is nice and I’m on the 5th floor. Hotel Luna Park. No lift but I haven’t had much exercise today.

Why the end of the beginning Dave?

I have walked, in stages, from John O’Groats to Lands End to Dover and from Calais to Etretat, a beautiful town on the Normandy coast.

Tomorrow I’m getting a train and a bus to Etretat and then walking 230 miles southwards to Tours. Then the beginning of the end starts, with a further Trek onwards from Tours at some stage, down to Spain. Maybe next year.

I’m free, and I’m waiting for you to follow me. Thanks Roger.

This sign supported what I had always thought. (sorry mes amis Francais. Je vous aime).

Thanking you for your attention. Much obliged.

Night, night.

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.