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.

We woke up this morning to a brand new day which promised rain, and it delivered, but not in abundance. An early start in the Refugi, breakfast at 06.30 and on the hills by 07.00. We’re having a great trek and we are good mates, which makes it even more enjoyable. Gary is great to walk with. We don’t talk or eat between breakfast and evening meal unless it’s necessary. It takes away energy and focus on the next step. We’re like minded on what is great and good, food wise, country wise, culture wise and people wise. It’s like walking with a brother that you like.

On a wet day I’m afraid I don’t take many photos. Stopping to get inside my rucksack’s rain cover to whip out my iPad to take a photo of something obscured by clouds, thanks Pink Floyd, is too much effort when we need to be heads down crashing on.

It took us the best part of two hours to get to Fredes, a tiny village way up in the mountains where we came across the Portell de L’Infern. The gate to Hell. In fairness it felt like it. Barbed wire blocking the footpath and dogs howling behind fences.

The place is deserted, apart from mushroom hunters who are flocking up the country roads past the village, with nothing to attract them to stop here.

We hiked down the road to a restaurant in nomansland which seemed to be a commune for hunters and mushroom gatherers sheltering from the rain. After hanging around for ten minutes to get served we buggered off and headed down the road towards El Boixar, our next waypoint.

Unfortunately we took a wrong turn down a mountain and we were over a mile down before I realised we’d missed a turning. When you’re in the rain, looking down at your iPad and it takes a photo of your feet, you need to put it on your blog. Rude not to.

We tried to cut up the mountainside directly through the forest but we went four yards and slid back down the sodden soil. So back to the road and as a car came past I flagged him down. The driver was an old hunter who was going to have refreshments with his mates and then go home because it was raining. I explained where we had gone wrong and he started to direct me to it. I managed to summon up enough Spanish to say ‘No you silly old flag we want a lift’ and he invited us in and took us back to the junction we had missed.

We picked up where we left off, but by this time Gary’s knee was giving him trouble again. The problem seems to kick in after five or six miles with the rucksack, and particularly when we’re going steeply downhill.

Poor dear. The pain is etched in his face sometimes.

We cut across hilltops towards Villabona, a village en route to our destination of Morella. By this time we had been on the go for four hours and the rain was beginning to ease. A footpath sign said that Villabona was less than two hours away. We’d be there by 13.00.

Rounding an old ruined farmhouse we stumbled across a huge bull laid down next to his harem of cows. He was stretched across the path and was clearly spooked by our arrival in brightly coloured waterproofs. Jumping up he shook his head and snorted aggressively, stamping a warning on the ground.

We froze and slowly eased back behind the farmhouse. Once out of sight we quickly slipped downhill away from the top of the field and made our way around the rocky hillside. Nervous, breathless and gutless we took off our bright tops and weaved through spiky gorse bushes hanging over a significant drop. We could see the roof of the old farm and could hear the bull walking around his territory. He had a bell around his neck and the noise as it came towards us was scary and spooky. We caught a view of the top of a big beast and backed down to the edge of the cliff drop.

After around thirty minutes we completed a circuit of the hilltop and rejoined the path, setting a faster pace to get away. Our relief was palpable.

The sky cleared and suddenly it was a hot summer’s day again. The rocky surface of the path made it slow going and certainly didn’t help Gary’s knee. At 13.00, when we were supposed to be in Vallibona, according to the earlier signpost, we were beginning to drop down a dry river gorge.

The air was still, hot and seemed to lack oxygen. The sounds of our clambering were dull. For two hours we made our way over bedrock and boulders.

At long last, at around 15.30, the gorge began to broaden.

And climbing the side of the valley we finally saw Vallibona in the distance.

By the time we got to the village we were done in. The sun was slipping down over the horizon. I know Teresa, the owner of La Carbonera, the hotel restaurant in the village, as I’ve stayed there before when I’ve been trekking and with Maggie when we toured northern Spain. She didn’t have any rooms, which is why we were booked in to a hotel ten miles away in Morella.

A path sign said Morella was a six hour walk. Four of those hours would be in the dark across rough country. We’d blown it. Nine hours continuous walking and scrambling and that’s it. Too dangerous to continue. Let’s be sensible here.

Teresa’s kitchen was closed but her bar was open. And she knew a bloke thirty miles away who would drive over, pick us up and take us to Morella. We look forward to the opportunity in the future to visit Vallibona, stay at this wonderful woman’s hotel, arrive when her kitchen is still open and bridge the gap by walking to Morella.

Thanks Teresa. We were dropped off at our hotel in Morella at around 19.30. Wow! I never fails to disappoint.

Spag Bol and we slept well.

Night night.

We had a dormitory to ourselves last night, and Maria Jose had stoked up the log burners before we hit the sack, which kept us warm throughout the night. We are usually the only customers, which suits us as I snore and Gary roars.

For breakfast she cooked us a great dose of scrambled eggs on toast. Lovely it wa! She warned us that it had been rainy in the night, in fairness Gary heard it, and that there would be lots of mushroom and fungi hunters on the trail. There are many types of edible fungi which burst out overnight in October in the rain. And she wasn’t wrong!

Today was to be a spectacularly difficult, and in parts, fairly dangerous, trek cum climb. Our walks don’t require technical climbing equipment, and in any event we’re not trained and qualified to use it. But on occasions a bit of climbing rope would be a welcome addition.

We bade farewell and strode off down the local road, which was quite busy with a car every five minutes. Then the GR7 turned a sharp left up a steep and high mountainside, with a few pairs of fungi hunters roaming around the lower levels.

It was a decent slog in the shade of the mountains, and putting our heads over the parapet we were rewarded with a magnificent view of the Ebro delta.

The path wove around the cliff face for mile after mile. This is looking back at a section where we had to climb down a crack in the rock.

It was exhausting work and the temperature climbed steadily. It’s a good job that we are real men. Well, oldish but in a George Clooney type of way. Well ok then, Danny Bloody De Vito.

The views just kept on getting better, and we sweated a lot, getting wetter and wetter.

After three hours of cliff clambering the path steadied and developed into a track, with a group of folk collecting mushrooms. What a haul!

When me and Maggie had our house in France and before the kids were born we went in search of walnuts and mushrooms in the countryside. We found loads of walnuts and, as it was a damp October, we found loads of fungi. Our dear elderly neighbour Marthe reviewed our haul and threw most of it away as inedible or poisonous. However she was very impressed with a large number of the type that I’ve arrowed below. Nez du Chat in French, the Cat’s Nose. And very tasty they were too cooked in butter and olive oil with garlic and parsley. Very happy memories. I love her more than I can explain, thirty five years later. Marthe, not Maggie.

The track rose higher into the mountains and we found a spring where we could sit, rest and take the local waters. Oh, oh the water, get it myself from a mountain stream. Thanks Van. Beautifully refreshing.

After another two hours of climbing we were over the top.

Then it was head down on difficult ground aiming for the Refugi Font Ferrera. This one was in the forest, six miles from the nearest proper road and we hadn’t heard from them. Our concern was that we had no signals up here and couldn’t phone them to see if they were there. And if we could phone them we wouldn’t understand what they were saying because no-one speaks English and everything’s broken. Thanks Tom. Absolute epic.

The sun was starting to sink.

Our pace quickened but Gary had discomfort in his left knee. He rode it out as we were getting a bit anxious about spending the night in our sleeping bags in the open.

Gaz was looking for a signal but we struggled.

Ten hours after we set off we spotted the Refugi, without any lights on. There was a link chain gate locked but a car inside. As we got closer we saw that there was a fire going and as we pushed the door it opened.

Quite a relief. The beds were basic bunks but there were three other walkers there and the manager with his young son.

Dinner was fantastic. Soup, carbonara pasta and bread. Local red wine and a warm fire. In the middle of a forest miles from the nearest road. Heaven.

Night night.

During the night the sickness came back over me, and as the day arrived I had slept fitfully. Couple pain with Gary’s snoring then one doesn’t sleep overmuch. It’s like Gary is fighting a bear. He roars and rolls strange vowels.

After Gary fighting many bears, and considerable pain to myself, I gave up on sleep. We slipped up to a cafe cum mini supermarket that made unlovable sandwiches and we ate half of what they produced for us.

Then we took off, inadequately fuelled.

It took us a while to find the way into the mountains. It wasn’t easy and it was the steepest and longest climb we had done on all our trips.

The horizons multiplied as we climbed and we climbed, oh how we climbed, we climbed and we climbed, to take Tiger Mountain. Thanks Brian.

It took us three hours to climb to the top. The paths were poor and the signage was rubbish. I downloaded my GPX track from a website set up by a Yankee boy called Frank Revelo, who has walked extensively in Spain. We sometimes check that we’re keeping en route with Frank. He walked the whole of the GR7. I messaged him on his website to thank him for inspiring me to walk the full length of Spain. Never answered me. American. Not like my mate Will Lovell. He’s a good lad.

On this occasion, as yesterday, Frank didn’t follow the GR7. Can’t blame him. It’s not easy to follow. But that knackered the Garmin. No signal for the iPad and the paper maps were not great. Gary didn’t have a clue either. Jesus! I may as well have come walking with a chimp. At least chimps are bright enough not to support Leeds sodding United.

However, Gary is a gracious lad who fetches beers when I’m blogging, whereas chimps only fetch Typhoo tea. He’s a trekking keeper.

We asked an old man in an olive grove the best route but I couldn’t understand what he said, albeit enthusiastically, and then his teeth fell out.

At the end of the climb there is usually a good view lighting the way forward. This one didn’t disappoint.

We were gasping when we got there, but the sense of elation on reaching the summit was well earned.

Then we dropped down over the far side, buzzing because we’d broken its back. And then we bumped into a weirdo and his dog. You don’t see anyone up here on these tracks. Unless they’re weird. Like me and Gazebo.

Told us that we had covered five miles, and that we had a further eleven miles to go to Caro, which he estimated would take us five to six hours. We treated this information with the contempt that it didn’t deserve. What does he know, silly old flag? Lots.

This was long and hard, up and down and in my mountains’ chambers.

It was clear after four hours of slog that we were behind again on this one. How come I can’t estimate completion times on walks like this?

Underfoot the path was full of pebbles and, on occasions, boulders. It hurts the soles of your feet after a while. However, Gary and I are from Yorkshire. Leaving aside Scotland, we are the hardiest folk in the British Isles, which puts us among the hardiest folk in the Western world, so we stepped forward bravely and strongly.

And finally found our Refugi just before darkness fell.

Maria Jose, the excellent manager, cooked us great food and looked after us well.

Night night.

It was a difficult day today. The two Yorkie twits didn’t sleep well and didn’t love the breakfast in the hotel. We are now cutting inland quite a few miles towards a spectacular limestone formation that runs north east to south west parallel to the sea. It involved walking back up to the bridge what we crossed last night on the way down.

Then walking down the other side of the river until we were two hundred yards from where we started.

On a bigger scale this area of operations is contained within the wobbly square below.

Today was ‘nothing’ day. Nothing but track between where we started and finished. Nothing but pain and, more alarmingly, nothing to drink. We’d forgotten to buy water before setting off, and the weather was going to make us pay. Time big!

We reached the point by the riverside where we had to turn westwards and trek up into the mountains.

Leaving a lazy, but beautiful Rio Ebro behind us. Full of massive catfish, like this one caught by Jonathan Avery from Winscombe in Somerset.

And huge carp too.

Bye bye fishies.

And here we started to feel the heat from the sun and the land. We dehydrated quite quickly, sweating massively from our heavy rucksacks. Oh silly billy boys. But we’re not singing as we’re marching. And 12th July over here would only be walking time for even sillier billies.

Looking back the river looked lovely. We could drink it.

But it’s much further than it looks.

The situation was becoming quite serious. No buildings, no roads and the nearest spring was miles away. Our spirits would have been very low if our heart rates and temperatures weren’t so high. Then a miracle of the rose arose when a klaxon sounded around two hundred metres up a hill to our right. Thanks Jean. We moved slowly but determinedly, as we climbed through the briar and bramble. Thanks Johnny. We got a bit torn but in a couple of minutes we were in a deserted industrial area, based on a quarry, very much like the environment where Jean Genet was captive.

Not completely deserted however, there was a man there, and we found him and asked him for water. He disappeared into a building and came back with a chilled litre and a half bottle of sin gas. We whacked it down our thirsty throats and felt a surge of life. Silly old buggers. We won’t do that again. Silly old flags, as my grandson Harry would say.

We were in a condition where we could move on, but the signage on the GR7 route that we were walking was appalling. I’d printed maps off a trekking website, had a signal for Google maps on my iPad and had a GPX track on my Garmin eTrex 20 that works off many satellite signals. Despite all this when you face a wilderness it all falls down.

The GPX track disappeared over the hills. We lost the iPad signal and we had no clue where we were on the paper maps. The GR7, as with other National Footpaths, is marked by a horizontal nine inch white paint stripe on top of a red one. But for some reason in this region they only put these markers where you don’t need them. Never at a junction so it’s guessing time.

There was an ancient red and white, barely discernible marker on a tree next to a tiny path running off the track we were on which disappeared up these mountains. We decided to follow it, even when it turned like a hairpin bend and shot off north eastwards, away from the direction we knew we needed to go. This is one of the greatest Spanish national trails!

The heat was grim without a whisper of air movement under the pine canopy. Thank goodness we had saved a couple of swigs of water in the bottle the lad gave us.

Eventually, when we had almost given up hope and turned back, the path emerged out of the jungle on top of a mountain. And red and white markers became a little more frequent, but not at junctions. Then we saw buildings on occasions.

And then we climbed another incline and we were at the top of the top, on a proper track going downhill. Hooray!

But it was so hot that even the snakes gave up the ghost.

To add insult to our largely self induced plight we started to be followed by a feral dog. When we turned and walked it sneaked up closer behind us. We pulled out walking poles that we hadn’t used so far, to fend the bugger off.

Then he shot up into the woods to our right and occasionally we’d spot him slinking across an opening, still stalking us, like Gollum.

As the afternoon wore on we dropped down to the floor of the lowest valley and had to climb up over a kilometre to Paüls. I struggled more than Gary, but we were both buggered. Just before we entered the village the feral dog came running at us out of the trees. I yelped loudly, something like ‘effing hell’ and it scampered around us and away as we brandished our poles. It had caught us well unawares!

I had felt really ill all day, even before the dehydration situation. I had two glasses of milk in a local bar before going to our guest house and falling asleep. I woke up two hours later just before 7pm and my sickness had subsided. A tough, tough day. The toughest me and Gary have had on our different treks. A sandwich and back to bed.

Night night.

At the moment I’m not getting time to blog. I’ll aim for it tomorrow when we should get to our Refugi at around 17.00.

Cheers.

The Ebro (in Spanish), Ebre (in Catalan), is the biggest river in northern Spain. Fed by the Pyrenees from the north and the Cantabrian mountains to the west. We walked up this river nearly eight years ago to Zaragoza. This time we’re walking downstream.

Breakfast was super douper, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, chips and spicy sausage in a cafe by the river. Then we set off on a bright and warm autumn day.

Through fruit orchards and fields of ripe veg. We sampled figs, oranges, pomegranates, apples, chilli peppers (ouch) and summat else but we can’t remember what. It was like a lime but different.

We were in good spirits and enjoying the walk, irrespective of 29C and heavy rucksacks.

The first village was bizarre. We stopped for lemonade in a cafe. Then as we were walking out of town the loudspeakers sprang into action as a group of German bikers rode through. Martial music. Potty!

We cracked on through fields, over roads and down riverbanks. I’m sorry not to be a great Catalunya fan, the people have mostly been harsh to me and Gaz over the years. However, the county is stunning.

I’m proud of this photo. The gentleman gave me permission.

We were walking for five hours and didn’t seem to make progress. It was hot.

And then, as our spirits and strength were starting to wane, we rounded a corner and there was Benifallet! Still a long way to walk but we could see the endgame. And the day was coming to an end.

We checked into our hotel and went round the corner for some scran. The chef was a powerlifter and competed successfully in some championships in Sheffield earlier this year at the City Hall.

Then we went back to the hotel and Gary turned into a Parisian lothario.

Night night.

Carolyne, Gary’s darling wife, picked me up at 4.30 this morning to take me and her daft husband to Leeds Bradford airport. We’re flying to Reus, where we finished our last walk. We’ve trekked south to the river Ebro before, seven years ago so we can take a bus down to Móra d’Ebre as we’ve already walked it. Our rules.

Our flight was busy,

The flight was late taking off and we had a connecting bus to make in Reus. We missed it by the time we landed so we walked from the airport up to the town centre.

We had a six hour wait for the next bus so we had a fabulous fabada soup in a backstreet bar, and a few glasses of beer.

By the time the bus arrived we were more than ready for it. Six hours in Reus is 24 hours in Barnsley.

An hour later we were in Móra d’Ebre.

Gazza found the hostel. He’s good in a difficult situation.

Tomorrow the trek begins.

I’ve overestimated our journey. The redline will finish north of Valencia but I can’t alter it. This blog has taken me three hours!

Night night.

This morning we drove to South Haven Point where the ferry comes over from Sandbanks, which Farmer John was taking at 8.20 to come over to meet us.

Together we drove back to Swanage, ready and primed like coiled springs, for the final day’s walk. Gregg’s bacon rolls and hot drinks were the order of the day, before setting off for our 7 mile hike. No Flo you don’t have to come with us. Don’t look so unhappy!

John at 80 and me, a mere stripling at 70, cut a dash. Along the beach and up the cliffs towards Old Harry Rocks.

We did this together 11 years ago and we have promised to do it again in 10 years time when we are 90 and 80 respectively. Although this may be all that is left of me by then.

Two comrades in arms who have both lost good friends to Prostate Cancer.

Old Harry joined us round the next corner.

John was great company, talking to me about the history of the Tuckers in East Prawle, the Spanish Armada and how it failed, rescue of shipwrecked sailors at Prawle Point, Cauliflower growing and all manner of interesting things.

I loved this dance through John’s memory, swirling around subjects and drifting into the distant past. Summers gone by as a lad. The value of friendships that grew and went separate ways.

He had brought us a carrier bag on the ferry. Inside were four cauliflowers. John’s own.

All dances must end. The last beach was for naturists. Hundreds of them. We strode respectfully along the shoreline. Surprisingly I’m not going to write anything at which people from younger generations may find offence. Although they find offence at the most innocent things. Needless to say this is the place where the big knobs hang out together.

Childish. Ridiculously childish.

The day was moving on. This is looking back at the last beach. Walking along it John and I talked of the friends we have lost to Prostate Cancer, and some who have survived. The emotion we felt thinking about them.

Then we were there. At the end of a long trail from Minehead.

Che met us at the final point.

I get the feeling that we will meet again in 2035!

Thanks for reading this blog. I hope it has entertained you. Thank you for your kind donations. Until the next time. And I’ll end, fittingly, with a photograph of my mate Chip when we were climbing in Spain and he was happy and excited. We might meet again if there is something after this. If there isn’t then thank you for the fun we had. A privilege and a pleasure my love.

To give to Prostate Cancer UK please click on the link.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/blade-goes-west-again-60145

Night night.