If you want your senses overloaded then this is the town. The roads are narrow, the traffic is rampant with motor bikes, no pavements so as a pedestrian you weave in and out of motor bikes, cycle driven rickshaws and taxis as they struggle to avoid each other. The road surfaces are mostly very difficult, the noise is intense and the heat and humidity are high. Everybody hoots their horns, even the rickshaws, and wild dogs sleep during the day and roam around after night. One hospital here treats 150 dog bites a day. And the dogs are protected by the Hindu religion, which covers 80% of the population. Bite me or Jet and I’ll kick you to death you rabid bastards. 

But it’s manic and marvellous. The dust drifts and tourists like us are constantly harassed by taxi drivers, shopkeepers and buskers playing Jews’ harps and single string violins. It’s just exhausting that’s all. 

We slept well, breakfasted and a ‘fixer’ turned up at 11am, pre-arranged by our trekking company, and we were accompanied to a money change shop, which doubled as a trekking equipment emporium. We brought dollars, paid the trekking company in cash and exchanged most of the rest into rupees. We then bought some water bottles from the emporium and took a photo of the shop assistant, money changer and fixer, in that sequence from left to right.

The money changer has a smug little smile as we discovered that he ripped us off for 6 quid. More fool us.

Lunch was outstanding. Vegetable stir fry for Jetty and Dal Bhat for me, with Local beer. For £12. Brilliant.

Then back through the mental, historical and spiritual streets to the hotel where we got our gear ready and packed it for tomorrow.

The shops here are full of wonderful stuff, but largely mass produced. 

We met again with the trekking company manager this evening and talked through the next three weeks. We’ll trek in very warm and very cold weather, stay a couple of days in Pokhara to relax in a nice, and very cheap, hotel and then come back for some time in mental and manic Kathmandu. Excellent. Don’t beam me up Scotty, I’m loving it. I’ll reflect on this photo for a while.

I know. You want a photo of Jet. Not on her life without make up. Well, maybe.

Night night.

The flight with Oman Air was about 80% empty so we could spread out and try to sleep. I got a couple of hours and we landed in Muscat at 7.30am with a 7 hour wait for our connecting flight. The airport has really changed from a small terminal 8 years ago, when I went with SIG, to an international player.

The country’s been ruled by the Sultan, Qaboos bin Said al Said, since 1970. What a nice old chap. He overthrew his dad in an armed coup 

Me and a Jet got visas and left the airport terminal for a while for a short stroll, but it was too hot. At 9am it was not far off 40c in the shade and the sun was a killer. The breeze was like a fan oven, blasting in your face and the mountains a few miles inland were screened by dust and heat.

Eventually came the time to get the plane to Nepal but there was a technical problem. By this time me and Jet were knackered. The plane was full and the gate was jammed with Nepali blokes going back home from working in Saudi and Oman. After an hour an official stood up and said that the problem was electrical but it was only a section of the plane and it only affected the entertainment system and the screens. He said we could all vote to depart without waiting any longer for it to be fixed but all two hundred of us had to be unanimous! 

In the event nobody objected and we took off just over an hour late, landing in the dark in Kathmandu airport, which was a bit run down and aged. We got picked up by our trip organiser’s brother and we’re getting to sleep now at midnight. Tired and heat drained but here.

Night night. 

Well, finally after months of anticipation, me and my youngest, Juliet, are off to Kathmandu to start an adventure. It’s a good one too. The real deal as we’re trekking a couple of hundred miles in the Himalayas around the Annapurna range, and climbing up to the highest pass in the world, Thorong La, at nearly 18,000 feet. 

We’re at Manc airport at the moment, setting off soon to Oman, getting 6 hours there in the sun and then setting off for Kathmandu. 

We’re leaving the suitcases in Kathmandu and putting on our cold weather gear and rucksacks for the trek, no roads on much of it, just mountains and tiny villages. Can’t wait. We are on our own with a guide and a porter. It doesn’t get much better. 

And it looks like this. Oh my giddy aunt!

And here’s our old lass who makes it all possible and worthwhile. What a babe. 

I hope to blog in Oman tomorrow. 

Night night.




I’m happy. I made it to the start of the southwest coastal path in Minehead yesterday, along the beach and the esplanade.

The place where I started out my trekking four years ago when I retired from SIG. 

1,450 miles. From …….

To ………

Through……..

And ………

Loved it, loved it, loved it. 

What I love as much is that in four years walking in the UK and Spain, over 2,700 miles, you have donated £7,000 for charity, including my trek with Gary earlier this year. A big thank you. 

And in true Incredible String Band style you can ‘Be glad, for the song has no ending’. I’ll blog in September from Kathmandu. 

Night night.

.

Still got these tedious wordplays going – laugh so much I wet myself. Up, packed and off by 9am on the cliff path to Blue Anchor, and then the beach to Minehead. The tide was out so the beach was a good option. Another spookily perfect day.

The path climbed up the side of a hill, with a cliff face to the right dropping down to the sea. I like trees me. This one is reaching out in great curves, to catch something.

The hill peaked and gave a great view towards Minehead in the distance.

The cliff path had a diversion with a sign saying it was due to cliff collapse. That is always health and safety bulldroppings and it turned out to be the same today. I ignored it and there was nowt wrong. Breakfast on the front in Blue Anchor, to the left of this photo, then back on the path. 

The route passed Dunster, with the castle up on the side of the hill.

Then it was down to the beach for the last leg, with hundreds of beach huts, fully kitted out as accommodation. I liked this one best. Bijou 28.

Then the beach opened up.

What happened next Dave? I’ll tell you tomorrow my dear darlings.

Night night. 

I might stop these tedious wordplays. But not yet my dears, not yet. I packed my tent and was originally aiming to walk the 20 miles to Minehead. As a reminder – I’ve walked from John O’Groats to Fiddington, and four years ago from Minehead to Land’s End as part of the Southwest Coastal Path. Therefore …..Tadaaaaaa!!!!!!! I just need to walk 20 miles from Fiddington to Minehead to have completed a continuous walk from John O’Groats to Land’s End. Got it? No? How simply do you want me to explain it? Oh. You were kidding me. Ha ha!

The route today wound westwards near the coast on the north side of the Quantock Hills and on the south side of the Bristol Channel. The first few miles were country lanes and I caught a view of the Quantocks across a sweet corn field. Well, a sweetcorn field anyway.

A small village had a shop open and I got a scotch egg and cheese sandwich breakfast. Does it get any better than this? Eventually, I hit the main A39 road to Minehead, which continued as a death trap with no pavement, narrow lanes and steep sides which I couldn’t climb up to escape. I had previously taken a wrong turn on the little country lanes and continued in an erroneous direction for a mile, which needed to be rewound thus incurring a further mile. Oh erroneous me! My desire to make it to Minehead was rapidly diminishing. I made it to West Quantoxhead (nice little place with lovely church) and cut down towards the coast. 

The lane hit the sea at Watchet. Watch what? And went west into the town. Great views. Great day. 

A pint and a pizza in late afternoon and I got info on a local campsite. Early night? Fantastic. I hoiked it up to Warren Farm and got a pitch for a fiver, to the left of this caravan.

The view from behind the hedge was lovely, looking up the Severn estuary. 

I hunkered down in my little tent, put the Maccabees on the iPad and nodded off before the end of Given to the Wild. The price of an early night is a couple of hours awake in the middle of the night but it’s a fair swap. 

14 miles today, including the erroneous misdirection, which would have made a televisual feast. Eight miles to finish this brilliant, four year trek. 

Night night.

Hello chums, wife, family, random internet trawlers and anyone else who doesn’t know me. Emotional day – waaaah! I’m leaving the Bavs’ house – waaaah! They dropped me off in Street and went away. Left me on my own. Waaaah! Thanks matey boy and girl. It’s been great. This is them, Linda cooking and Martin opening lager cans. Perfect hosts.

I had a Maccydee breakfast, double sausage and egg McMuffin in Street, and then set off west along the A39. This is Somerset levels country and was underwater 1500 years ago, so it’s flat. But I was aiming for a ridge that ran 8 miles towards Bridgwater. Glad I was too, as the A39 was deadly with no pedestrian walkway and steep banks, funnelling me into a rural death trap. I split off, heading south towards Taunton, and then cut up towards the ridge. 

This is the Spleen of rural England. Well… it’s not the heart, liver or owt like that. Kidney? Anyway it’s great country. And there’s a feeling that something is laying under this ridge, waiting to be reborn. For England and St George.

I came up to the Sedgemoor drain, and impressive it is too.

And further down the road the village of Chedzoy, with a thousand year old church and a great bus stop celebrating Her Majesty’s Coronation.

I’m not sure when Her Majesty occurred to me as someone who’s existence we should celebrate but, I’ll be a nice man and say no more.

The lane up and over to Bridgwater was a bit of a slog. So hot. Anyway, it wasn’t worth it. It is an awful town, filled with gangs from elsewhere, speaking in tongues and dumping tyres, wheels and Supermarket trolleys in the river Parrett. The Council, with no respect for the place whatsoever, doesn’t seem to salvage the river junk.

It’s centre is grim…

And its people are scum, dumping stuff like this.

 Another three hours and I reached a campsite at Fiddington. Tired and hot but cool enough to have a coupla beers, fish and chips and set up my tent. Exhausted!

19 miles today, 20 miles to go.

Night night. 

I’ve been sleeping well this trip but the heat still drains one. See what I said there? One. I’m posh meee!! Sorry, One!!! So it’s a nice day with the Baverstock’s today. Martin and Linda have been so good, picking me up, dropping me off, feeding and watering me. So good that they should do it again. Hooray!!!

Anyway we’re going to Glasto today. If you don’t know that Glasto is Glastonbury then you’re not cool. Glasto, Glasto, Glasto. We had a light breakfast, drove over the Mendips and parked in Glasto town. It was another scorchio day. 

We walked around the land to the north of the Tor – Glasto Tor – and then headed up.

Can we climb this mountain, I don’t know,

Higher now than ever before.

It was busy and full of posers, rings of women meditating and poncy individuals pretending to be mystical. Nice view though.

We made our way down to Glasto town, and even low down the views were great.

Sunday lunch, Sunday roast. A good one too in the Rifleman’s Arms. Then we went to a local Rural Life museum and had some great ice cream with a brilliant view of the Tor and an Iron Horse.

Martin and Linda dropped me off at Street, the next town, and I walked the 8 miles back to Wells to give me a head start tomorrow. They picked me up and Linda cooked a great dinner of Salmon, cherry tomatoes, chorizo and broad beans. Simple and super. 

I was tired then. We had a good natter and then bed time. Another great day.

Night night. 

Today was going to be a road walk as far as I could go in the sticky heat in Somerset. No wind to cool me down and I needed to do my best to make sure I get to Minehead by Wednesday. Every mile today would be one less for subsequent days. Again Martin dropped me off where I’d finished the previous afternoon in Pensford, and I hit the road. The sun was punishing the dried fields  again.

For a Saturday morning the traffic was heavy with the end of school terms in most areas and people going on holiday. Still I kept watchful on the roadside and pressed on, coming into Somerset proper, twinned with Atlantis! 

Global warming has brought about a shift in crops with vineyards quite common down southwest and sweet corn being an established crop.

The road kicked upwards to climb to the top of the Mendip Hills, with this unusual statue of Romulus and Remus being suckled by a wolf. It was made by an Italian prisoner of war in thanks to the local community for accepting the prisoners and treating them well. In stark contrast to the execution of 50 out of 76 allied prisoners of war escaping from Stalag Luft III. Only following orders. 

The road reached the brow of the Mendips and dipped down towards Wells, with Glastonbury Tor as a pimple on the horizon. Great country.

And Wells never fails to disappoint. Look at this cathedral. Wow!

The Main Street was full of character and action.

I carried on from Wells for a mile or so and was picked up by Martin and Linda. I’d had enough in this heat and was dripping in sweat. We visited Linda’s mum in Wells and saw her brother and sister in law there. Gathering of the clan. Then we went home and Martin cooked a great dinner. Another lovely day, and 16 miles done.

Night night. 

My mate Martin ‘Bear’ Bavs came down to Avonmouth on the train from Bristol and we met up at 8.45 at the station. I promised him breakfast and we had a good one in a local caff. We were going south on the M5 over the River Avon Bridge on the walkway, turning left and walking up the river to Bristol. The tide was out but coming in, the weather was great again. Perfick.

My mate Mart was on good form and ready for a walk.

The river cuts through a gorge on its way to the sea and it is stunning.

The tide was coming in and small boats were beginning to move upriver to take advantage of a high water level run to the lock for Bristol City docks.

The gorge winds 4 miles up to the lower end of Bristol and a 19th century suspension bridge crosses the top from east to west bank in a spectacular display of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s genius. Looking back the bridge was magnificent with a small fleet of boats waiting for access to the City Docks.

Bristol was a great place to live. We had 7 happy years there but I had to move back to Yorkshire to follow work opportunities. The docks showed me what we’d missed.

Me and Mart called in unexpectedly on an old friend at work, Foxy, who I hadn’t seen for 30 years, and then called in on Claire, Martin’s step-daughter. A great day. I was able to leave my rucksack in Mart’s car and walk further south to put more miles on the clock. Climbing up this street to Totterdown and ultimately down the road out to Pensford, 6 miles outside Bristol.

Pensford was historic looking.

Mart picked me up and took me back to their place where his missus, Linda, was cooking dinner. Great food, great company, great day. 18 miles done. 

Night night.