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.

I’m in transit in Abu Dhabi reflecting on the last month, and thinking particularly about the last week. I really like Pokhara, it is a civilised place to rest. Kathmandu stinks, it’s a mess and the traffic is mental, but it fits like an old, stretched but unwashed sock.

These boats on Lake Fewa in Pokhara are hiding.

The view from the roof of my guest house is divine darling!

Which hotel would you choose? Hotel God Pigeon or Hotel Fire on the Mountain My Home? Would you want to sleep under the same roof as the bloke who thought up those names?

You could always nip down to the local Chinese for fied gralic chicken wings.

Or have a quiet word with the local deity!

And then retire to the sanctuary of the garden of my guest house, with a warm welcome from Suryanath.

Flying out from Kathmandu today the view was amazing. As if the city was baked on to the valley floor and the Himalayas were floating in the sky!

It will be next year before I blog again. Be good.

Night night my matey mates. X

We got up at 5.30am at Nir’s house to rock down the road to catch an early bus. It was a quick goodbye to the place where Hillary and Tenzing started it all.

And a final group hug to celebrate the passing of the Fellowship.

All things must pass.

Tolkien puts a lot of emphasis on the slow return from Minas Tirith to the Shire. It feels right to do so. And it feels right for me to do so.

Me, Dav and Nir took the bus to Kathmandu, which Nir said took 4 hours. It took 10 hours. bouncing Nepali music all the way.

And finally into Kathmandu at 5.00pm. We took a taxi to our previous hotel, where Dav would stay for the next few nights, seeing the sights of this most frenetic of places. Nir showed us to the door of our hotel and then left to stay with his brother here in the city.

Dav and I went out to the same restaurant we ate at nearly three weeks ago. And the burgers were great! We rode back to the hotel in a pedal taxi. A late night laugh.

Cheerio Dav. It’s been a gas but you can’t follow me. I’m going to the Grey Havens, before retiring to the Undying Lands. My advice to you is that you cannot be always torn in twofold . You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.

Here is the view of and from my bedroom in Pokhara.

And the view from the hotel roof,

I probably won’t blog anymore this trip, so I’ll take the opportunity now to thank you all, my wife, family, friends and visitors for the support you have given me and Killerby, Thank you and a la prochaine.

Night night.

Well, our journey is nearly over. We are a little behind schedule, which we knew was very optimistic, but we have the advantage of buses which can drive over boulder fields. We’ve done well over 250 kms, around 153 miles, which is 60 miles more than we set off to achieve.

We have been trekking for 18 days and have climbed Chukhung Ri, 18,200 feet, Kongma La, 18,209 feet and Everest Base Camp, 17,600 feet. We climbed Kala Patthar up to only 17,900 feet due to adverse effects of altitude. We then yomped through 60 miles of jungle, enduring leeches, mudslides, landslides, tigers, bears, humidity and schadenfreude.

Schadenfreude? What the feck has schaden-feckin-freude got to do with this list of adversities?

Well, it demonstrates inclusivity towards the German language and ergo the German people, who have never been referred to positively in any of your blogs over the last 8 years.

Ok, I kind of get it but just let me point out how positive I have been about the Germans, and their delightful language, over the last 8 years………………………… I didn’t glorify two world wars and one World Cup! Well that’s good innit?

The first light of dawn lit the poor road through the town.

We got up at 5.45am and grabbed breakfast before catching the bus to Khimti Khola. This is not a normal bus service. This is hell, especially when the bloke next to you is looking in two different directions and his wife starts throwing up before you’ve set off. The road is a bulldozed reminder of which direction it might be wise to go in, but not essential, and the penalty for a momentary lapse of driving concentration is a thousand foot tumble. Taking the passengers (like us) along with you.

The rolling and tumbling these buses take is ridiculous. How they keep going is a miracle of modern suspension, strength and schadenfreude.

If I see that word again I’m abandoning this blog. Why did you put it in again?

It made good alliteration with suspension and strength.

Well tickety feckin boo. Arse makes good alliteration with a lot of things but it doesn’t mean I have to put it in my blog.

Like what? What does arse alliterate with?

Farce?

That’s rhyming not alliterating,

Erm………….. lots of things alliterate with arse, anyway you’re barred. I think most people will feel mightily relieved by that.

I’m not relieved.

The road started with a marathon climb up a very steep hill, followed by a marathon drop. It lasted for three hours. Bouncing over boulders. Then we reached a turning in the road, signposted to Jiri. Hooray! We disembarked and walked a way down the Jiri road.

And a shop over the river showed signs of normality. Chickens and fish. Get them here!

Within 15 minutes the bus to Jiri had arrived. We’re off again! And through the window we could see Jiri nestled in the distance.

These buses play really loud Nepali pop, with a bouncing beat. It’s really easy to get wrapped up in it. We love it. Dav said it’s better than Joe Satriani! Well, I thought he did. But it was a noisy bus.

Then we came to the edge of Jiri. Me, Dav and Nir disembarked and walked down a short track. Here it was, the starting and finishing point for Hillary and Tenzing, which we had followed for many days. It was emotional.

Emotional enough to get the flags out in respect to our heroes.

Best regards gentlemen, may you rest in the peace of the mountains which allowed you to climb them. Our commitment to our sponsors and those who had supported us was now over. We had delivered more than I could have envisaged in effort,pain and schadenfreude! The Fellowship had served its purpose and had now passed into Smith and Kilby folklore.

We made our way up to Jiri.

Eating momos, local savoury dumplings, and having a shave and haircut.

Cop the Barnet on Killbilly junior.

And Smithy too!

We marched the last three kilometres to Nir’s house,where we had been invited to stay. And could look back from there at Jiri. And the newly shorn Nir!

Mrs Nir met us with marigold garlands.

The Trek was officially over. We had a lovely evening with a great chicken meal and drank several variations of local beer. Watched recorded football and went to bed for an early start and a very long bus ride.

I’ll continue the blog for family and friends but the trek is done.

Thank you for following us and may the road rise with you. It’s been a gas!

Thanks Shane. In fact it’s the last main drag, to get ourselves down the rest of the valley and well up the other side, to a place where we can get buses. Yes – roads. Well, not roads but buses all the same. Running on boulders and mud. It’ll be ok. Let’s focus on getting down in one piece, as Dav said on the route down. It’s difficult on steep, muddy drops and slippery rocky surfaces.

The day was looking good as we set off from this unlikely overnight stop. With cobs of sweetcorn dangling from the rafters. Cheers.

It was hotting up, and getting stickier the closer we got down to the valley floor. Another great panorama, but let’s get down.

I’d packed my walking poles and needed support so I found a local branch to help.

We’re aware of the slowly unfolding end of the Fellowship and sadness is tingeing our fatigue. You can get fitter from trekking day after day but don’t expect not to be knackered. And there was still a long way down.

Nir is a great bloke. Which usually preambles a reservation. However his main failing is a grotesque underestimation of the time it will take us to walk from A to B. He estimates for Usain Bolt, not some 68 year old, tubby turd. Sorry – I got carried away with the alliteration again.

We had to start dropping down perpendicular paths (allit.) to avoid the long sweeps of the road. Don’t get excited it’s not a real road.

Dav’s strength is climbing up, but he isn’t as strong at descent. It’s only practice. He’s a bloody good trekker. Strong lad.

Dropping down we began to take paths leading past small farms, which were more easily navigable. When there was grass or other vegetation on the path our grip was far better. And there below us, all of a sudden, was the bottom of the hill and a hydroelectric plant.

Dropping down through dense vegetation Nir told us that these were lychee plants. Pity they weren’t in season. I love em.

Then we crossed the bridge to the other side. We did it, don’t know why the chicken did it.

We stopped for lunch at one of the restaurants that catered for hydroelectric workers. No menu – Dal Bhat or Noodle Soup? Noodle soup – yes, yes, yes, yes!

To quote Spandau Ballet, ‘to cut a long story short’ (thanks Gary), we strained hard up the far side of the valley. Avoiding the road that isn’t a road and taking vertical steps. Well, not vertical, perpendicular I meant. Alright, I said vertical and I can’t take it back. How about this that I can’t take back? Kiss my arse!

This was another long slog. Nearly four hours of complete, steep uphill, then half an hour of a flatter route to Bhandar.

The tea house was most welcome. We were tired now. And the hot shower was the best of the entire trip.

Night night.

I was awake early and out for 6am, taking photos. The sky was blue and the sunlight was golden on the hillsides. Going up to the spirit in the sky. Thanks Norman.

It was blooming freezin though, and this long range photo shows the ranges, ridges and valleys between here and Bhutan.

This felt like a great day. The gods were with us. Nir had promised clear skies over Pikey Peak when we set off from Gorak Shep a long time ago. We had been lucky throughout with the clear conditions we had enjoyed at crucial moments.

We got ready, ate a great breakfast and set off at 6.30am. Just in time for Killerby to have a scrap. Trust him! Apparently he’s fighting over alleged jelly baby theft. I thought the circumstances justified photographing a Nepali without his permission.

And the tide begins to turn against our teamie bro.

Who shamefully surrendered at 6.35 in the morning. Mind you the kid was a nasty piece of work!

We set off. Well you would wouldn’t you? Oh Christ. Sometimes it’s hard to come up with decent, original stuff.

Climbing up Pikey Peak was somehow quite easy for me. I could see it was particularly hard for David. It’s like that though. One day is easier for one teamie and Vicky Verckie. The first turnaround to see what was behind us, rather than looking forward at the uphill steps, was quite astounding.

And the view down to our Tea House of last night was stunning, the path snaking up along the ridge which we walked down and Everest in the background just right of centre.

This is an extraordinary perspective. As we climbed higher the gargantuan proportions of the view were revealed. Sorry I couldn’t load it all on one.

It was a fabulous moment. The temperature had warmed up and being able to see Tibet, Bhutan and India as well as the southward faces of many Himalayan peaks was astonishing from such a small mountain – only 13,000 feet. Pah! I wouldn’t get out of bed for 13,000 feet. Oh, I did. Well, only once then.

This is embarrassing dad dancing, but the clip is evocative. All the world is a stage, and the stage will remain when the players have departed.

Another unfurling for SUFC!

The mountain man enjoys the sun.

The real mountain man enjoys everything.

Boy band? Maybe forty years ago for the one on the left. and fifty years ago for fat boy.

The time came for us to wrap. And with a long walk ahead of us we needed to make pace. We walked round Pikey Peak 2, the lower of the pair, and with our feet on the gas we made it to a great tea house for lunch, just three hundred metres below Pikey 2’s summit. Lunch would be 30 minutes and the tea house had a hot shower. Be rude not to!

And after lunch, with a brief discussion on whether to stay here tonight or crack on, we cracked on.

What music did Dave Smith listen to on the way down Pikey Peak, young fella me lad?

I’m not rightly sure sir. I don’t know the man or his musical tastes.

Hand out boy. Did that remind you!

It’s very much a guess sir but could it be Songs from a Room, by Leonard Cohen?

What kind of witchcraft is this boy? How can you know that without being guided by the Devil or his associates? Hand out.

And Songs from a Room, the most simple and plaintive of all Cohen’s albums, drifted along the breeze like the smoke from burning juniper in the Himalayan mornings. His absence makes me want to cry but he lives on in my memory and in his music. Thanks Leonard.

We approached a village and were diverted to the left of it by Nir.

Who had been rabbiting on for days about a yak cheese factory somewhere on the hillside, and here it was.

The man who appeared to be in charge had a little English and took half an hour to explain the process in detail. Then he took us to the store, where they wash dozens of cheeses each day in salt water. And we could buy some. In football terms Yak Cheese would be a journeyman. Solid and unremarkable. But the source, the location and the pre-industrial process added massive value. May you prosper. Me and Dav left a kilo heavier and several pounds lighter. All to a good cause.

We had spent so long here that the sun was starting to sink. Having no wish to spend the night dodging tigers and bears we cracked on at renewed pace.

All the way down was too big an ask but there was a village on a ledge part way up the valley side. We were aiming for that. Nir drifted ahead, thinking about time. We were running it close.

We followed a track for 4×4 vehicles and motor bikes that zigzagged down the mountain but the zigzags were too long and we needed to get down quick. We dropped down little paths which were muddy and very slippy and as it got darker this was only going to end one way. We won’t make the village and someone will fall. We’re all tired. Let’s do something different.

We passed a small house and Nir went up to it to talk to the owner. He eventually came back with relief on his face. The house owner had an uncle who had a tea house and we could stay there and it was only a short (10 minute) walk away.

The tea house had a barn, which accommodated all four of us together in one room for the first time. It was like the Boy Scouts. And the food was good in the house and they had some beer and local wine and we relaxed, knowing we weren’t going to be eaten by tigers.

Night night.

Junbeshi to Banjang is very simple. You climb this big mountain and go down the other side to a bridge of high land that connects your own mountain to another. Not top to top, more like connecting middle to middle. On that bridge is a tea house that is quite isolated. That’s our crash tonight.

The difficulty is that you climb forever until you’re in a good deal of pain. No change there then! Setting off at 7.00am the sky was clear and the sun was on the higher pastures. That’s where we’re heading.

Going up to high altitude frees the spirit but imprisons the body. You feel a huge explosion of awe, a sense of belonging and joy. But you also feel ill, fatigued and desperate for more oxygen in the lungs. It’s not fair. Why can’t you get good good for both. How brilliant would High trekking be then?

This morning the views drew away the blues.

We just keep walking, David and myself. We don’t get told the plan for the day unless we ask. We just get our heads down and walk slowly and deliberately uphill. The steeper the hill the shorter and slower the step. It becomes part of a spiritual journey, concentrating on the next step, breathing in and out according to the steps. Clearing your head of everything but the steps.

If you don’t clear your head the steps will reinforce any irritations and concerns. Just let them all go.

Now, water break and rest, lift up your head and look around.

And looking forward the route is lovely.

We’ve trekked over 200 kms so far, 125 miles in old money. Muscularly painless for me and not too bad for Killerby. He rattled his toe against a bed leg, and the whole shebang went black. His nail stayed on and it doesn’t seem broken. It is ok going uphill but going down the foot pushes against the front of the boot and causes him more pain. Old bastard.

Why oh why do you have to add the barbed, and usually vulgar comment at the end, boy?

I’m vulgar sir.

Hand, out. Further.

Ouch!

This country does get you mentally clean if you can avoid preoccupation with issues. It’s beautiful, the air is clean and nature is rampant, untamed, dangerous and graceful.

And you realise how insignificant we are against the elements.

And our tea house is waiting far down below. on the bridge between our mountain and Pikey Peak, rising 13,000 feet ahead of us.

We tend not to photograph local people or their families. If you ask them for permission they often say no, or don’t answer. That’s why I’ve tended against it on this blog. Just saying.

We made the tea house for late lunch and rested in the main dining/ communal room. This was a step back due to the isolated location. No running water, intermittent and low power electricity, no internet connection and no shower.

I fell asleep on the bench and started snoring, much to the amusement of the two young children of the family. Grandma occupied one end of a bench and mum ran between the kitchen and the communal room. Preparing food and drinks and checking on the kids, a lad aged 7 and a girl who looked about 3 but was in fact 5.

Dad swept in like a real mountain man, a Kukhuri sword in his belt and a huge bag of wild mushrooms over his shoulder. I had to try those.

As the afternoon wore on the man of the house filled the stove with chopped wood and started a fire. The light faded and we were there as family and guests, equals in this house. The boy and girl entertained us with traditional Sherpa dancing. This family are Sherpas, a distinct ethnic group and caste. I don’t quite understand the caste system so I can’t explain it. It’s a bit like me moving into Sloane Square and hanging my underpants with holes in on the washing line suspended between front windows. I just don’t fit. Thanks Bob.

David entertained the kids. I drifted in and out of sleep in the communal half light and warmth. if you can call this half light!

The family had locally distilled spirit, which would have been rude not to try, and they lived very much off the land. As do most Nepalis in this region. We had eaten a big Dhal Bat lunch, the national dish of rice, curried veg, dhal soup and sometimes pickle and popadoms. The lady of the house quoted us £25 to kill one of her chickens for dinner. This was expensive. It would have fed all four of us royally so really for £6 each it’s a British bargain and we had hunted it. But here it was reflective of the long term value of a chicken laying those golden eggs. No mass produced battery hens in Nepal.

We weren’t that hungry, and I settled for a mushroom omelette and then an early night. We are climbing Pikey Peak tomorrow. Please, please, please be clear. This is the best view of the entire Nepalese Himalayas.

Night night.