Thanks Leonard. He took music to a spiritual level that lad. Me and Maggs saw him in Leeds at the arena when he was 79. He captivated the entire arena for two and a half hours. Everybody came out smiling. Pure joy by a master at the peak of his powers, but close to the end. So glad we saw him again. I wept at his passing. Still miss him, but I can play his music without bursting into tears now.

Don’t know what state I’ll be in when Dylan goes. I’m still suffering from John Lennon’s murder. I hope Chapman rots in jail. Please David, bury your hatchet after all these years. I will, in his head if ever I was introduced to him.

Breakfast in the hotel was good and we got a taxi back to Vilassar. The sun had returned and we walked in our tee shirts along the coast path. I’ve got quite a debilitating chest infection and as soon as we hit a slight incline I’m knackered. I can’t get enough oxygen. It’s like a fist squeezing my lungs. I’m nearly 70 you know.

Is my head on upside down?

I’m proud to be British. We have to be generous and kind to the people we meet on our treks so that they realise that:

A) Wearing a Union Jack shirt doesn’t mean you’re a racist

B) Brits may not wholly support unelected European political structures but we are still European and love European countries

C) We appreciate consideration and kindness

Catalonia was the core for the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War, nearly ninety years ago. They built these machine gun nests in case the Nationalists came in by sea. It’s sad that the graffiti idiots don’t respect their memory.

The Fascists won the war and Franco ruled with an iron fist for over 30 years. Unelected and disgracefully malevolent.

I’ve got strong views today. Hooray!

Then Barcelona appeared over the beautiful horizon. Thanks Freddie.

It was deceptively distant. But we grafted, despite Gary having hip pain and me wheezing like a steam train we made it to Badalona, just this side of Barca. See what I did there? I called it Barca, like a local. Anyway I prefer Madrid. Barcelona is a bit up itself. Madrid is relaxed about what anyone thinks about it.

This photo is my favourite view of the sea. From inside a fish restaurant!

Here we go again.

Finding somewhere to stay is problematic. But we manage. We now have only five days of walking to cover the remaining 65 miles. It should be ok but we’ll see. Dearest readers, thanks for accommodating my dated opinions.

Night night.

Thanks Ian. We have resurrected this trip from the depths of stupidity. Sleeping in and missing a day’s walking. Idiots. But we’re going to make it up over the next few days. The weather has been very much in our favour, but today is overcast, cold and wet. In Zaragoza, where me and Gary walked to 6 years ago, the temperature is minus 13c. There is two foot of snow. We’re lucky here on the coast that it’s just cold and wet!

It is a flat walk along the coastal path with the sea on one side of us and the rail track on the other. Nothing of any note to photo. We ended up in Vilassa de Mar and couldn’t find anywhere to stay. So we took a taxi back to Mataró, which we’d walked through earlier in the day, and got a decent hotel at a decent price. The rain lessened and we set out on the town looking for dindins. The place comes alive at night.

A really nice town. And we had a goat cheese flan each in a small cafe. The owners were lovely, and highly amused that we raved about their pies and hugged the local punters.

We were directed by them to a fish restaurant, but we were a bit too early. So we wandered a bit more and found an Arroceria (Rice restaurant) that was opening in 15 minutes. The waiter bunged us to a table and brought out a bottle of the best Cava in Spain, according to google. Then we ordered seafood paella blackened with squids’ ink. Heaven. And it was ridiculously cheap. We ate like kings for less than forty quid.

Back to the hotel and totally immune to Gary’s cataclysmic snoring skills.

Night night.

Thanks Morrissey.

We woke early and had breakfast in the hotel at 8.30 (am. if you were wondering). The taxi driver from last night wasn’t free until 10am so we walked in to town and looked for a bank to exchange some sterling for euros. No chance.

We rang the taxi to tell him where we were. He said he was in Barcelona and not available, and then switched his phone off. A bit concerned, in view of the fact we needed to get back to Vallgorguina and walk 20 miles to the nearest hotel, we went to the local station and checked the bus timetable. It said the next bus was at 11am. Holy poo poo.

We started ringing taxis and nobody answered. In the end we waited at the station for the 11am bus until 11.45. And it still hadn’t showed up. Oh no! We legged it to the nearest cafe and asked them to ring for a taxi. The landlady looked gone out and none of the customers came up with anything helpful. One bloke gave us a phone number. It was the number for the taxi that had let us down earlier!

There was a hospital up a hill and we made our way up there, hoping that we’d get a taxi. Bugger all. Walking back down towards the station it was now approaching 1pm and we spotted a parked taxi. Whilst we were walking around it another turned up and we flagged it down.

Surely now, after hours wasted and thinking we were never going to escape from this place, we’d get away. He said he was busy but he would call a friend. The friend wasn’t free. In the end he phoned another friend who turned up reasonably quickly and drove us to Vallgorguina. At last!

We were far too late to make it through the mountains. There was a hotel which was expensive but not too far away, from which we could make an early start. We rang and it was fully booked! Jesus H Christ!

We went to the bar that we’d been in the previous night, sat down and looked at the map. Our only chance of progressing today was to cut down across the mountains to the coast. Only about 7 miles but it had a hotel where we could stay. We would have to make up the distance towards Reus, our final destination, over the next few days. So we strapped on our rucksacks and set off finally at 2.30pm hundred hours.

Up, up and up into the mountains.

Finally free.

How lovely the hills.

And then over the top and down to the coast.

We found a nice hotel at a reasonable price and I fell asleep instantly. Waking up at 7.30pm Gaz had gone for refreshment and I headed down to the port in the dark. This place took the day’s catch straight into the kitchen.

Oh my God. The seafood was so fresh. Amazing.

Then I contacted Gaz, joined him in the bar he was frequenting and we chewed the fat of the day before retiring.

It started so badly, but ended as well as we could make it. Life’s a gas. Thanks Marc.

Night night.

We woke late again, forgetting to set an alarm. Rushing round the place, stuffing our worldly goods into rucksacks and legging it to the train station. At the Tordera end we chose the first bar and rattled down bread and omelettes with two large cups of coffee.

Then we struck up for the mountains, not realising how tough this section was going to be. As soon as we hit a slope we began to suffer. Two days of gallivanting and a lack of underlying fitness, despite gym sessions and dietary propriety, sunk us into a painful depth. And it only got deeper as we climbed higher.

The weather was warm, the sweat was wet and the path hurt us.

OK you theatrical old fart – stop the melodramatic nonsense. The sweat was feckin wet! Who do you think you are?

Well, I think I’m a really great bloke. Most of my friend do as well.

Most of my friend?

Yep. I’ve only got one and it’s Gary.

God help you. He’s a prat!

He might be a prat but he’s my prat.

You’re right. He’s a prat.

But! If Gary hadn’t bought a bottle of water last night we would have been seriously damaged. It was warm, it was still and we were getting more and more dehydrated. How could I be so foolish not to bring water?

These are cork trees. Evergreen Cork Oak trees which have their bark cut off for corks, and the interior of cricket balls. Corks sounds like the favourite for me!

We were becoming less and less hydrated and were solely focused on when we could next have a small swig of water. And it was a long, long route. Over 20 miles as it turned out, and a lot of it uphill.

When the path turned uphill we were seriously struggling. When it went down we were ok. And there was nothing for 20 miles. No shops, no nothing.

If Gaz hadn’t got that water, as I previously stated, we wouldn’t have made it. Then, in the distance, we saw houses.

And when we really started to struggle on an uphill mountain path, with just a drop left in our water bottle and 10 miles from the nearest building, we miraculously came upon a spring. A mountain spring that Gary managed to get some water in our bottle from. And I was so gone that I didn’t take a photo! Fresh mountain water, dribbling into our bottle. Get in! It tasted so sweet, but it took ages to get a mouthful out of the spring. However, from being knackered we became half human again.

We hadn’t seen anyone for hours. This is a remote place. Then bizarrely I saw a person ahead of us on the path. When you’re exhausted, and half aware of the world, it is weird to see a bloke in a long black gown. He disappeared round a corner of the hillside, but both Gary and I had seen him. We lost sight of him and then began to wonder if he was a spirit. He heard us and stood still, speaking in a strange, soft voice. We didn’t understand him. But we passed him and he disappeared. Into the forest. The track is carved out of the mountain. You can’t walk above it or below it. But he disappeared.

It was warm and dry, and the sky was blue, but out of the blue we got rain. Strangely raining with the sun shining through. No clouds. Where is it coming from?

It might be remote but despite a very hard and difficult trek the views are stunning.

We were concerned that it was going to get dark before we arrived at Vallgorguina, our next stop (or so we thought). The sun sank, and we were seriously sinking too. It’s difficult to explain it, but this was the worst we have ever felt on a trek. When every muscle in your body is buggered and your lungs are dysfunctional.

We could have spent the night in here, with the rest of the Hobbits, but it was a bit too scary. Nobody was around if we were attacked by the Orcs.

After what seemed like a million years the path started to drop down. That doesn’t make it too easy on your legs but it’s easier on your breathing when you’re completely and utterly buggered.

After another two hours of descent we hit Vallgorguina. There was a local bar open where the locals confirmed that there was no accommodation open in the village. The landlady ordered a taxi to the nearest town with a hotel. We waited outside in the cold wind and it didn’t arrive.

Going back in to the bar a young lad took up our cause and got a taxi for us to Sant Celloni; the nearest town. And arriving on spec we got a room, at about 8pm, at a small hotel. Thank Christ!

Today was tough, really tough. We had a good meal locally but I couldn’t sleep. The exertion had really done for me. But the worst was yet to come.

Night night.

Well, wounded shoulder actually, and this walk puts that whole painful episode to bed.

We woke late, a suitable hour for two old farts – 8.30. We took a bus to Lloret and had a decent breakfast. Hooray!

I found an abandoned rucksack and held it up to the staff. Then a bloke came out of the toilet and said it was his and what was I doing with it.

His attitude reflected his hat.

From the cafe we took a northwards route up to a turn off in the mountains. Cutting across country the paths were remote, silent and peaceful. We both felt so much at ease with the environment, and the weather was very favourable. Cool enough for a decent pace and warm enough to be comfortable. It was liberating and we were back home in a way.

There are strange buildings up here in the middle of nowhere. A monastery which is over a thousand years old. With an old bastard bottom left.

We both felt great. But you do when you’re trekkin! We came across a palm tree farm.

We made it over the mountains, and our chosen path – the GR92 – is just brilliantly way-marked in this area. It wasn’t so good last year further north and we got a bit lost a couple of times, but here you don’t need maps that much. We dropped down to the plain leading up to Tordera and had a glimpse of the mountains that we were aiming for in subsequent days.

Just 12 miles today, a modest stroll. Then we headed to the train station in Tordera and went back to Blanes. And then it all went a little strange.

Needless to say we drank too much and didn’t wake up until it was far too late to walk from Tordera to Vallgorguina. So we spent an extra day in Blanes. And lovely it was too. This is Gary. A living, breathing humanoid under blankets and sheets.

And this is Gary enjoying snails. He loves em that boy!

Quite an elegant place old Blanes. We liked it.

This bloke is singing the Blades’ Greasy Chip Butty song. We all hold our arms up like that when we sing it.

And then the earliest of nights. I got to bed at 7pm. Ready for a twenty odd mile yomp the next morning.

Night night dear Reader.

Thanks Paul. But it’s been a long time been a long time been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time. Thanks LZ.

Gary and I, sounds pretty formal so you can expect something intellectually stimulating coming up. Gary and I ….. we’ve been looking forward to this reprise for ages. Gary and I… well it’s technically not a reprise because a reprise is a repeat of something and this is a new walk. OK smartarse. Gary and I are setting off today to head to the town where I fell and smashed my stupid shoulder on a stupid disability ramp last year when we were feckin trekkin. Lloret de Mar. In view of the title of this blog maybe it should be Loretta de Mar, in her high heel shoes and her low necked sweater. Thanks Paul.

Our flight was from Leeds to Amsterdam to Barcelona, on a cold Sunday morning in January.

We loved the flights and the crew loved us.

Well, they loved me. Gary is a rude pig. 😂

We landed and took three trains to Blanes. Tired but not too emotional.

The hotel is cheap and decent and the manager is a student in Business Studies at Falmouth University. Young, incredibly fluent in English and ridiculously good looking. Bastard!

Time for a late dinner and an early night.

Night night.

I kept waking, but kept falling back to sleep too. In the morning I showered, washed some clothes and took them to a local launderette. It was cold and it rained, so I felt like an actor. The middle of August in the middle of the day in the middle of France. It’s 15C.

The market was quite an extensive one.

I’d done some research on restaurants and made it to the Brasserie Madeleine before it started to fill up, with a queue down the street throughout lunch time. I got the right place!

I took my time and managed a crème brûlée to finish. All washed down by a jug of water and a carafe of white wine. What a treat. My flight is tomorrow morning and I’m looking forward to seeing The Wife. And getting a new pair of reading glasses. These broke and will only stay on with my sunglasses holding them.

A good walk, taking me closer to Spain, my end point in this John O’Groats to Tarifa trek. I’ve covered 205 miles in 13 days, averaging nearly 16 miles a day. I’m happy with that. I’ll be blogging sometime in January I hope, when I’ll be walking from Blanes to Reus, down the Catalonian coast. Probably with Gazza again. Stay safe.

Night night.

To prepare for my longest slog in over 6 years I had a bad night’s sleep, worrying about things I can’t control. Things that normal people shouldn’t lose sleep over. I’m in the oldest 14% of the UK population and should be concentrating on dignity, peace with oneself and reconciliation with the past. Looking forward to a long and lovely sunset. Not whittling about absurd, self-destructive ………things. Is that the limit of your vocabulary after 69 years of accumulation? Things?

Anyway!! Let’s get back to some semblance of normality. Whatever that is.

Because of my broken sleep, when the alarm went I conked out, so my long day was just made two hours longer. Breakfast woke me up a bit. I can’t say that I hit the road running, but I was grimly determined. Walking through delightful countryside in one of the best countries in the world and all I can manage is grim determination. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

It was 27 miles to do today fool, not 26. After a couple of miles I crossed the Loir, not to be confused with the Loire, which remained 25 miles away.

The main road to Tours was very busy, with lots of lorries blowing me about. At the earliest opportunity I struck out into rural tranquility. And saw more troglodytes.

As well as long abandoned train stations and platforms.

The road became a lane, became a path. A well-trodden path, this walk. But to add some deviation from pathed practice, the path became a stream.

Luckily this story was an abridged version.

From self-destructive to self-congratulatory in one easy move. This looks like the cave is dugout rather than naturally made.

Great houses were spread along the route and little to no traffic. Any rain seemed confined to periods where I was walking under trees, and a cool breeze provided the perfect temperature for a laden walk.

The forests provided rain cover and, when the sun was out, sunlight protection.

Even the smallest villages had clothes washing facilities for yesterday’s people. Providing cover to get my underpants off and apply anti-chafing cream to my sore thighs.

You have to get your head down and try not to think of the distance left to walk. When you’ve been walking for 5 hours and not got halfway, and your chafing is making you walk like John Wayne, you need to focus on the next 100 metres or you’ve lost your head to defeat.

Only check how far you’ve covered and which way you need to go as infrequently as possible. That way you keep your charge on your iPad or iPhone as long as you can, and you see a noticeable distance in the ground you’re covering between checks.

Break out the gin, it’s sloe time!

Walnut time too in a month or so. Break out the whip?

It was turning cold and, as the sun began to sink, I thought I should get a bus or a taxi for the last 5 miles and come back tomorrow to finish it off. I wasn’t feeling strong enough and I’d been walking non-stop for 9 hours. I pulled into a village PMU and asked for a Perrier (great for hydration), a beer and a taxi. I got the first two but neither the landlord nor his customers knew of any taxi company. They pointed me towards the bus stop, where the shelter had been smashed, the timetable ripped off the wall and it stank of stale piss. No it wasn’t Rotherham. Maggie rang the hotel for me and told them I would be later than expected, and reluctantly I set off on foot again. Getting slower with each passing mile. After more than 11 hours walking I crossed the Loire into central Tours, but it took me another half an hour to walk the last half mile. I was too tired to take photos – this is a tourism stock photo.

I sat on somebody’s doorsteps for a rest and I had to ask a young couple to pull me up! Rucksack and all. But I made it to the hotel. 27 miles in just under 12 hours. I bought some cooked chicken and a melon at a corner shop and the night porter gave me a bottle of his own wine. He carried my rucksack up to my room. Good lad.

I’d done it and ate my scran and drank my wine with my eyes closed, but feeling pretty good.

Night night.

I partially quoted the closing lines of Brecht’s brilliant ‘Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui’ on the last blog. It was a parody of the third reich and American gangsterism of the 1920s/30s. It would be a shame not to set it out in full.

If we could learn to look instead of gawking,
We’d see the horror in the heart of farce,
If only we could act instead of talking,
We wouldn’t always end up on our arse.
This was the thing that nearly had us mastered;
Don’t yet rejoice in his defeat, you men!
Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard,
The bitch that bore him is in heat again.

Stunning.

And so to the bus.

In 1968 some blokes from Liphook in Hampshire bought a London double decker and took it down to the Med on holiday. A year later the landlord of their local bet nine of them a pint each that they couldn’t drive it around the world. They set off in 1969 and drove through Europe, across snow covered mountains in Turkey, desert in Iran, through Afghanistan, Pakistan and India.

They ran out of money in Iran and formed a folk group, the Philanderers, playing a gig for the Shah of Iran and his missus.

In India they were playing regularly and had enough money to get the bus to Australia, where they became famous. Touring round there they eventually shipped the bus to America. Sponsored by the British Tourist Board and BOAC, as it was then, they toured for 3 months, promoting the UK.

They appeared on every major US TV programme and were granted the keys to the city of New York.

When they got back to the UK in 1972, after two and a half years, there was an enormous party at their local, where they got their free pints!

Only three of the nine are alive, and they were on the bus with three of their mates. I met them and marvelled at their story. They were touring Normandy on an annual adventure.

But to be honest, they were flat as a pancake. No spark between them any more. Going through the motions. But maybe they haven’t got any other motions to go through.

A couple of coffees and a quiche, and I’m off.

Notice anything about the photo above? Correct! We’ve moved from Limestone country into sandstone.

These folk really know how to stock up firewood.

The French don’t have a word for entrepreneur – George Bush. And they can’t spell matey – Dave Smith

It’s a region that must get hot in summer normally. Everyone seems to be a troglodyte. Hundreds of these outhouses and quite a few houses underground.

I’m off the beaten track again and back in hunting territory. More hides waiting for the unwary wildebeest sweeping majestically across this forest.

They are iconic aren’t they. It’s difficult to see them without thinking of Van Morrison. In his Arles period, Summertime in France and all that.

A fake dolphin, two miniature elephants and an unnecessary bridge are just what you need in a country garden. Aren’t they?

I passed a cider producing estate of huge proportions.

It was slog. I didn’t help myself by having lunch, against my usual strategy, and it felt weighty for the rest of the afternoon. I paid for it by not having any dinner, but it was still a foolish ploy.

No dinner, an early night and getting ready for tomorrow.

I’ve decided to go for it tomorrow and do two days walking in one so that I’ll have a rest day on Saturday before flying home on Sunday. I need to cover 44 kms on the route I’ve chosen; country lanes. 27 and a bit miles. Let’s hope I get a good sleep. You too.

Night night.

Nearly 16 miles on offer today. Any takers? Urban, then flat, agricultural, featureless land. I’m not expecting anything special. It had rained substantially in the night and would douse my fire on and off through the day. The biggest issue was the wind that was developing up to storm force later on. But firstly I walked down to the city centre.

I had to wait for this bloke, and his son. The first and last. Nothing to be done. Let’s go!

An appropriately grim looking cafe showed up along the way, with a frying pan, eggs and hot plate clearly on view from outside. I entered the establishment, in the wind and the rain and the backstreets. Thanks Ivan. I got a coffee but the bone idle bloke behind’t bar said he couldn’t fry me two eggs. In fact no food at all available for an hour and a half, pronounced ‘haff’ when one is moving into a possible grump situation.

If you want a proper ‘half’ pronunciation my disobliging friend, then you can stick this one up your ‘harse’. Along with the two eggs you won’t fry me. The sky is clearing a bit. Time to walk.

This is probably the best war related memorial, in terms of sculpture, that I have ever seen. It’s stunning. Sadly the shot from behind is out of focus. Still amazing.

It doesn’t relate to WW1 or WW2, but to a previous invasion 34 years before the start of the Great War. By the Germans, obviously, in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. They were the only ones with the hatred to invade France three times. Four if you count the Franco-German war in the 10th century. Well, we did too, in fairness. Many times. But the French started it in 1066.

I think, because 1870 – 71 was such a resounding victory, the Germans thought it was ok to do it again later. After losing this next one they clearly couldn’t believe that this should happen. A bit like 1966 and the present women’s World Cup exit. So they tried it again a short time later, going for the best of three. Lost and lost overall 2-1.

Don’t yet rejoice in his defeat, you men! Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard, The bitch that bore him is in heat again. Thanks Eugen.

Anyway Le Mans ended well with a Big Mac brunch. For me, not the French defenders. They got shot, surrendered or deserted. Poor lads. Really poorly led.

There are some gems in this town.

And a lot of the outer roads are converted into racetrack for the famous 24 hours race. This is a bit of track brought into play only for the 24 hours, to join two sections of road,

Talking about daft displays.

But these are refreshingly real!

The rain became more persistent, and the wind got stronger. By the time I made it to Ecommoy campsite fairly hefty branches were becoming dislodged. The site manager suggested that I put my tent under the strong wooden roof of his games area to protect it. And me. Top man!

I spotted an ancient London bus parked up overnight with 6 blokes kipping in it. I’ll tell you its fascinating story tomorrow.

Night night.