That’s me that is. The fool on the hill. My eyes see the sun going down and the world spinning round. 

I soon connected with the GR7 this morning and got underway. The first section to Culla rose up a hill straight away and Ares del Maestrat was on the far horizon looking back.

I’m not sure that I’m going to get anything but clear, hot sun this trip but although it sucks my strength and burns my body I wouldn’t swap it for snow. And mercifully it seems like I’ve left the free roaming cattle behind. And looking forward to the route, only 16 miles today but tough climbing and rough walking. The route is on this map.

Looking forward, Culla was another of these hilltop villages.

Unfortunately a lot of the route was ankle breaking stuff a lot of the day.

It’s a pain because it makes things so slow. And even if your ankles are ok your feet soles are sore as hell at the end of the day. Moan, moan, buckin moan Smithy. Count your blessings. ‘The Blades are going up?’

All of them, asshole. ‘Well I can’t write them all down on here.’

Exactly. 

After a quick water stop in Culla the main event looking forward was a 12 mile down dale and up hill trek to Vistabella, already appearing on the horizon.

Dropping down the valley to the right the track was just as rough and to my astonishment two guys came running past me like ibex.

I talked to them later in Vistabella and they’re training for a one-day 115km organised run on this stretch of the GR7. Over 75 miles. Running in this heat. Without me rucksack I’d take them on. 

The valley drops down and much further down, following a Pilgrimage route to the shrine of St John of Penygalosa, below the 6,000 foot Penygalosa mountain. There are huge wells sunk along the way for pilgrims. 

I reached the bottom of the valley and the heat from the river of pebbles was astonishing – in April.

The next three hours were a draining, sweaty climb up to the ridge leading along to Vistabella. 

I like this stuff you know. I like to struggle and have the heat buzz in my head and stretch every last muscle to carry my burden. To be born again, in another time, in another place – Van the Man. 

Greatest groups of the sixties?

Beatles, obvious as the day is long. Cream. Beach Boys. Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band. The Troggs were so good. The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Stones are a fair way down the list for me. The Who are in there. Incredible String Band were brilliant but not hugely influential. Just floated my inflatable. Velvet Underground’s fuse was lit then but their display was after they’d folded in the seventies. Hollies were a good group. Individual artists were Van, Dylan, Cohen. Nothing new in this list. 

I climbed up and the track eventually levelled out, with a view back across the valley that I’d crossed, to Culla. Byrds were good. But never fulfilled their potential. 

The rest was a haul. Up and down along the ridge. A little group of ibex brightened the scenery even more.

I made it to the first bar in Vistabella (out of 3) and asked if they had rooms. Her name was Lola, but she was the owner, not a showgirl. She had a house with rooms round the corner. For £36 I’d get evening meal (including wine), room and breakfast. 

While I was finishing my beer a bloke turned up who was a walker and spoke Spanish a bit better than me but with an accent. It turned out that he was from Huddersfield and was walking the GR7 down from Tivissa and finishing at the same place as me. A retired psychiatrist called Duncan Waddington. He asked me how often I did it. Walking.

We had dinner together and swapped experiences of long distance walking. Nice bloke. And what a coincidence. Nobody for 6 days then two runners and a bloke from Udders. 

This was the view from my room, with the Mediterranean in the distance about forty miles away. Amazing.

Night night.

Slept well me. Only had two slices of cheese cake for dinner and didn’t feel too hungry. Slept well though me. I was talking to an insider from the Cider industry last night. He said I should invest. He said Her Majesty the Queen was partial to a drop from Charlie’s Cornwall estate, to the extent that she was going to advertise it on telly. 

Her Majesty nightly, the Cider insider said has Cider inside her. Boom boom! 

Ridiculous what crap goes through your head when you haven’t seen another walker for five days. 

I was away at eight o’clock after a cup of coffee and an orange juice at the hotel, but stopped en route for a breakfast and more coffee and orange juice. Stoked up I set off up the first hillside, and it’s always tough going first thing. The bronchial tubes are a bit tight and clogged and need the choke pulling out to get them started. (Those were the days).

Looking back Morella was looking good.

The red and white route markings were noticeably sporadic and I went astray quite early. Even the GPX was a bit iffy. But I made reasonable time. What really plagued me all day was the cattle. They’ve got calves at the moment and you have to avoid getting between a mother and her calf or things can get quite messy. I spooked these early on and they stampeded in a bit of a panic.

These just wanted a bit of aggro. I hit myself every time (with a silent s).

Every time I passed them, and it was many times, I weighed up where I would run or what I would climb if one of them charged. But they didn’t. 

The route today was 22 miles, climbing around 3000 feet. A long one. This was high plain country and now covered in sheep and cattle in the open spaces between the trees. Lots of fences and many farmers tried their best to discourage people from using the GR7. Seems to be working apart from one Yorkie. This farmer had electrified the fence blocking the path.

Cheers mate! I threw my gear over and climbed along the wall. Sheep scrambled away as I approached. They wear the same bells as cattle, or at least two in a herd do, so it’s difficult to tell if you’re approaching cattle or sheep from a distance. 

The heat developed quickly and the track was up and down hills but I kept a fair pace. I needed to average two miles an hour, which is easy on road unladen, but not so here.

The track was very poorly marked in places there were no signs of previous walkers, particularly in rocky areas.

Fascinating little features, like this shepherd’s stone hut with stone flags laid igloo style as a roof. Same as the Celtic burial chambers in The British Isles.

In mid-afternoon I made it to Ares del Maestrat. 17 miles done 8 to go. 

Another mountain range, with quite a few groups of wild ibex, and deserted tiny hamlets. Very high up now. Over 4000 feet. The track was clear and open and then would narrow with trees and gorse. I caught my arms and legs quite often. Dunt bother me. I’m hard me. Please don’t hit me, please. Mother don’t go; Daddy come home. 

Back up into the mountains and great views. This has been by far the best Spanish section. By far. Beautiful. 

 The terraces were broad on the top of the mesa and there was a circular stone floor. I’d seen these before in Andalusia, at this height in mountains where cereal crops were grown in Roman times. The corn was flailed on this ‘threshing floor’ to separate the wheat from the chaff. 

So much history, legacy, beauty and grace in these mountains. And I’ve seen no bugger interested in it for six days. Spain, stop chucking beer cans out of your car windows and connect with your world. Climb up here and enjoy it.

More abandoned hamlets. Did Franco have them all shot?

Working my way down with the falling sun I eventually made it to Benasal. 

Only to find that google maps had my hotel pinpointed in the wrong location and it was two miles uphill from where I was, at 7.30 at night. I got a taxi and thought I’d walk down to reconnect with the GR7 in the morning.

I ate well. This half a rabbit put up no struggle. I could even spoon out its brain but it was mushy and tasteless. The rest of it was great. 

My room view just after sunset.

I know. I’m lucky. But I’m grateful too. May You build a ladder to the stars, climb on every rung and may you stay…… forever young.

Night night.

I had breakfast at the bar/restaurant round the corner at 8.30. It had been a sub-zero night as we are at a high altitude and it was clear. The landlord was making a fire and the landlady made me breakfast. Great as usual, for four quid. 

Nuri, who owned the house that I’d slept in said she’d meet me there to collect the keys, which she did. I paid her €20 and offered her another fiver, but she wouldn’t accept it. She said her mate Therese had a hostal in Vallibona, the next but one village on the GR7. She said save the fiver and spend it there! I’d seen it on the net and had coincidentally rung it that morning but there’d been no answer. It was too cold to want to pitch my tent. Pansy. And it was far enough for a fair day’s walk. I said my goodbyes to the locals and Nuri. Brilliant, brilliant people. Jesus Blade look over you.

There were still the remains of a frost in the shadows.

Looking back Fredes, my favourite so far I think, was warming in the morning sun. 

I struck south west and quickly climbed over a hill to lose sight of the village. The mountains became hills and the valleys were noticeably shallower and less steep. But stunning all the same. Just different. The path dropped down through shadowed forest. Great for keeping the rapidly increasing heat at bay. For the last couple of days you could have navigated by the red and white painted strips that crop up every couple of hundred yards, but not consistently. They mark out the GR7 but are noticeably absent when you need to make a choice of route at a junction. The GPS is most useful then.There’s a red and white marker on the rock to the right just before the woods, and they appear on trees and walls intermittently.

The morning was beautiful. 

I was heading for El Boixar, the first village on the route and about a couple of hours walk. Dropping down quite a lot and rising up a bit was the order of the day as the track loses altitude. And walking past free roaming cattle was also a regular and bedwetting feature. I just don’t trust them.

The bulls and the galls all have horns. That ain’t normal. El Boixar showed up on time.

It’s a small village and at the far side the path had been blocked. Hillbilly pillocks.

I threw my rucksack, walking poles and shoulder bag over and pushed under the fence. Reloading on the other side.

The path wound up away from El Boixar up a dry valley (they mostly are) and at the top it crossed a road and levelled out.

I love the silence that’s only cut through by songbirds, woodpeckers blasting away and the odd cuckoo. And occasionally by cattle with bells round their necks. My sense of smell has largely buggered off somewhere over the years but walking across the open grassland I love the aroma of wild thyme and rosemary crushed under my boots. 

I clenched my buttocks and walked past more cattle a couple of times before the path dropped down into a canyon. 

Usually valleys get wider but in limestone territory anything can happen. This got narrower.

It opened, narrowed, opened and narrowed for miles, a real treat. But scorching in the enclosed space with the sun heating up the rocks. I was glad that I had too much water!

The darkness in my thoughts from the night before had stayed around. I was walking through some of the best countryside in Europe and it wasn’t completely dispelling the effect of the photo. It preyed on my mind for a while. Maggie pointed out later that it was four years ago almost to the day that my mum slipped into the terminal stage of her life, which dragged out for a painful fortnight. But was it just a trick of the eye? And who was the lad? I saw what I saw. I’m glad I deleted it. It served no purpose and into the afternoon my darkness lifted.

And then Villabona appeared.

And as I dropped down to it the limestone cliffs I was winding round were exposed in their magnificence. Hello boys.

A spring started to feed the canyon, filling a deep turquoise pool.

Into the village one of the first buildings was Hostal La Carbonera. I walked in and asked the woman behind the busy bar if she was Therese. “Hello David, Nuri called me to say you were coming. We have a bedroom for you”. What a star that woman is! I ordered a beer and sat on the terrace in the sun.

I followed the scores on my iPad and the Blades were finally promoted from this crap division. A great day. I had a bath and came down for dinner at eight, with my flag. I got Therese and her partner holding the flag and chanting “we are, going up, we are going up”. The locals were intrigued. We’re up. Thank you Jesus Blade.

The dinner was great. Villabona stew and grilled rabbit. Does it get any better?

Night night.

I slept well. Breakfast was lovely and I was sorry to leave (again). The room and breakfast was 25 quid. We could sell the house and live here and let Therese do the washing, cooking and stuff. And we’d be relaxed for three weeks before we wanted more. There is more. A lot more and it’s just over that next hill. Ultreia.

With the Blades success my inverted cross had turned into a sword. I’m so happy. 

Today was a simple up valley and down dale 13 mile hike to Morella. This is my route for the next few days. Tomorrow is a long slog of a stretch from Moralla to Benasal. I’ll enjoy the rest today and sweat it out tomorrow.

I’m a day behind on my original mind’s eye schedule. It’s Santa Semana week in Spain and places are filling up whilst services reduce for Easter. Bejis, where I’m heading, is a long way from Alicante, where I’m flying back from next Sunday morning. To get from Bejis to the airport last time, in January, took a hike, a thumbed lift, a bus, a train and a bus. I just need to find out what’s working or not on Easter Saturday and Sunday. I’d thought of roadwalking from here to Bejis as I could hammer it in 4 days, rather than the GR7. But the GR7 footpath is so beautiful I don’t care if I fall short and have to come back again to finish it off. 

Looking back was looking good.

Not far out of the village, on the footpath, was a shrine to a Madonna (being an obsolete term for an Italian lady), Santa Agueda. I love this devotion by people. It’s peaceful, graceful and uplifting. I just can’t share in the organised bit.

The route rose up and I was beginning to get quite hot in this narrowing valley.

My modus operandus is that I put sun tan oil on my head first and then later on when it’s deadly sun I put on a cap with a flap round the back, like the French Foreign Legion. Nutters they were. BBC would do em though.

As the path wound up towards the top of the valley it dropped down to the floor. With running water!

Climbing up the side again a sign said I couldn’t pick Cepes there or any other fungi without permission. I love Cepes. Maggie isn’t as keen but I love em. Cook in olive oil, butter, garlic and parsley. If I found some I’d pick em. If the signwriter was so bothered how come he’s not here? Idiot.

Up and away the view back down the valley was great.

And eventually I got to a point where I could see over the top of the valley to the right, to the northeast where there was a plateau in the hills.

Finally the track climbed over the top of the pass and the view back down the valley I’d walked up was lush.

Looking forward Morella stood out a mile.

It was a long route down, but a pretty one. It was striking that Morella seemed to be in the last mountainous area before the huge Spanish plain just a bit further inland. Anyway I was cutting south tomorrow to stay in the highlands, in ma kilt! 

Suddenly Morella was there in front of me and it is impressive. 

Walking round my impressions are that it’s a bit too touristy, a bit too international and oversure of itself. Beautiful place but give me small and Spanish. Beautiful though.

The views from my hotel room were lovely.

And Morella is Blades country.

Night night.

I slept well and breakfast was typical with the dried meats, tostadas and cheese. Just perfect, and I ate enough to carry me through the day. My mate Peter said today would be no easier than yesterday. Bring it on. I’m hard as anything I am, me. Well as long as it’s not too difficult. The distance was 15 miles today and I was aiming to camp around Fredes. I set off at 10am. The first climb was hard but the views speak for themselves.

The route slipped over another very long, high ridge and worked its way up and down along it, wherever a path could go to avoid cliff drops. Knackering but stunning.

And looking out to the east, when the opportunity arose, the Ebro delta was still visible through the haze. 

I can’t describe how much I’m loving this. It’s silent but for the birdsong and the occasional animal hearing me coming and scrambling across scree or crashing through trees. This route really clings to the mountainside and any slip would be painful, with vertigo inducing drops on occasions. Just take care and drink lots of water so as not to lose balance. I’m sweating lots. I must stink but I don’t really give a duck.

Eventually the track twisted over the ridge inland looking west. 

And the path itself had more of a woodland feel to it than exposed rocky mountainside.

It began to drop down a bit more than it hiked up, although it was still a bit of a rollercoaster. And it wove through an area where horses were free roaming and then cattle were about. I held my bottle walking past long horned cows, ostensibly ignoring them but cacking myself. Waiting for any sound of a movement to jump up a rock or climb a tree or scream. Or summat. There were a few pastures about now.

But dropping down meant climbing up again. As I reached the top of the next ridge I slumped down on a rock and drank a bottle of water which I’d earlier swallowed and then filled up at a rare spring. Limestone don’t lend itself to mountain streams. I heard the distinctive chirp of an ibex but had to put my iPad on maximum expand to catch the two of them in this photo, plus a baby behind a bush between the two.

The path took a drop and final climb, through undergrowth. 

As I cleared the woodland I caught the first sight of Fredes; it was 6pm and it had taken me 8 hours to get here. I kept my eyes open for camping spots, although it’s technically illegal in the Natural Parks. 

Walking into the tiny village I found a bar/restaurant which I’d seen on Booking.com offering apartments at €60 a night. There was a group of folk outside and I chatted to them in extremely limited Spanish. Inside I ordered a beer and asked the guy behind the bar if there was a single room available anywhere. He directed me to one of the women outside, Nuri, who rented out rooms. €20 and I was the only person in the house. It was great.

The bar closed at 6.30 but they made me a sandwich to eat in the house. I watched telly and went to bed. Tired but happy.

Then it got a bit odd.  I was blogging yesterday’s blog and came across a photo that I didn’t know I’d taken. It was an unfocused close range shot of vegetation. I was going to delete it but then a woman’s face appeared bottom left, immediately followed by a young man’s face top right. The woman looked like my mum but I didn’t recognise the young man. Neither of them looked happy. I shut it down and opened it again. For a second all was blurred but then they both jumped out again. This made me uncomfortable. I moved my legs off the bed and saw a scratch in the shape of an inverted cross. 

It was getting a bit silly now but I had to delete the photo. And then I deleted it from the ‘deleted items’ folder. I slept ok but my dreams were unusual. It doesn’t help sometimes to spend long days alone. The mind can take over. But mostly it’s ok. 

Night night.

I was staying at the Alberg dels Ports in Pauls in a six bunk bed room on my own. Paid the dormitory rate unall but nobody else there. I set up a washing line across the room from a top bunk into the bathroom (I usually carry a fair length of parachute cord). Some of my gear was stinking so I washed it in the shower, hung it on my line. Dry by morning. Two cereal bars, lots of water and away at 8am. The walk today was marked as ‘severe’on a GR7 website. The overall climb was 5200 feet over only 14 miles so it was going to be tough. I was heading for a Refugio, like a Youth Hostel type thing, in Caro, a tiny hamlet high in the Dels Ports National Park. Me being young and that.

I promised myself that I’d follow the GPS route and not get distracted and lost. I’d got enough batteries for my GPS to last two weeks non-stop. It was a cool morning and the first rise continued for four miles up to over 4000 feet. Higher and higher the views, as usual, got greater. Looking back Pauls glowed in the morning sun.

I missed a turnoff the main path, which I hadn’t spotted on the GPS. However by the time I realised I was going wrong I had reached a new rough road climbing up the mountain which was signposted as the GR7. I followed it and thought it must cross the track that I’d missed at some stage. There could only be one pass over these cliffs.

This route led me up to a farm, which like all buildings in the mountains, was uninhabited. But the crops were recently maintained so it wasn’t deserted. At this altitude the almonds weren’t developing, they were still in bloom. A good couple of months behind the valley. 

Outside the farmhouse was an amazing dining table and seating made out of tons of slabs of limestone. Fantastic. 

That was where the charm ended. The road in was open but the whole of the estate was surrounded by metal fencing. Even the tracks that were identified as public rights of way were blocked by the fence, although folk had climbed over and bent it in frustration. I headed along a high terrace in the farm towards my GPS track. To get there I had to get under a hole in the fence and drag my gear through, and drop down to a dry stream bed. I climbed up the far side which was steep and covered in gorse which tore my legs, but I couldn’t use my machete to cut the gorse as I needed both hands to climb the steep bank. By this time I’d  passed the path marked on the GPS. Bugger it. The GPS was wrong!

I climbed carefully back down the bank and up to the fence, which was too high to climb at this location but proved bendable enough to force forward and crawl over. Serves the get right for blocking legitimate rights of way. I walked past my illegitimate one over to the far side of the estate to try to find a way up the mountain. Long story short – it took me an hour and a half to fight through pine, gorse, fencing and brambles to get up to a path over the mountain. Pissed off? The views chilled my ill humour. Looking back and looking forward. 

The route after the pass was down and up a number of high ridges and when I thought I was not far off Caro I bumped into the only person I was to see all day. Another walker coming in the opposite direction. He told me I’d only done 5 of my 14 miles. It had taken four and a half hours. Cheers mate. Climbing up in the heat with a rucksack was draining. And this route climbed a thousand feet more than Ben Nevis. There he is again, the old comparator mate Ben. 

The route was a killer. But an inspiration.

And way down below over to the right in the distance was the Ebro delta. Glorious Espana.

The Iberian Ibex do a funny kind of whistle cum chirp to warn each other of unwelcome company, and I can recognise it now. These beauties adorned the skyline.

The route became an exposed tiny path along a mountainside which was funnelling up strong winds from below. I took my time along the next 3 miles, determined to keep my footing. But these views were my reward.

Me and nobody else. Here in this high and windy but stunning landscape. I drew every long straw in the book. 

I was sinking. I can do the Yorkshire three peaks in ten and a half hours, it rises the same height and is ten miles longer. But here in the heat with a rucksack every step up drains the sweat out of you and pumps the heart like Ginger Baker. 

As the sun was dropping, after 10 hours trekking, the path dropped down to the Refugio, which was shut. I called the number and a lady said the manager was on his way. I was the only person staying there, so my six bunk bed room was all mine – again. 

This is my mate Peter. He’s Catalan and probably the best cook in these mountains. We communicated in a lot of French, bit of English, bit of Spanish and not much Catalan. As long as you understand each other it’s ok.

I’m a bit of a sucker for Spanish black pudding.

I slept well and bed, dinner and breakfast (beautifully prepared) cost 28 quid. What have I done to deserve this?

Night night.

I’m camping for one or two nights so unlikely to blog for a few days. Don’t worry about radio silence I’m very well. X

I slept all through the night bar one pee. Only a little one because the sun is drying me up. But it was luminous yellow/green so what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. I didn’t flush it so I could check the colour in daylight. Just as good, even diluted in the lav water.

Breakfast was fab. Cheese, local meats, bread and olive oil. Lovely. With bottled water, coffee and orange juice it was a fiver. He asked me if I wanted red or white wine. I declined. They’re different on their alcohol consumption patterns down here. More like Russia than Spain. 

My route today was less taxing but my legs were feeling strong anyway. Getting better with exercise. Can you see it yet? Beatles. 

Only ten miles today, a decent dap. 

I was going to follow the old rail track from the station to meet up again with the GR7 by the river, turning west over some hills and ending in Pauls. A good, even walk to start the day, passing through three tunnels. Bye bye Estacion and hello tunnels.

After a couple of miles the GR7 joined the rail track and then peeled off away from the river up into the mountains. I bade goodbye to the Ebro.

It was another breezy morning but the sun was out and the world is a great place to live. Better than Uranus, boom boom!

Turning south away from the river and over the hills towards Pauls was a bit hard. It sounds pansyish but when I think about it I’m nearly 63 (ston), and with the litres of water I’m now carrying as I learnt a harsh lesson, plus my rucksack; I’m carrying about 16kgs at the moment, maybe a bit less. Anyway I’m not a SAGA apologist, just a bit tired. The view back across the valley.

I was walking southward through mixed orchard areas. How old must this olive tree be? And it’s still going like a good un. 

I’d passed lots of orange trees and couldn’t resist nipping over the gates and nobbling one or two. Sweet and delicious. Getting juice all over my hands and walking pole handles. I’ll lick them later.

And in the sheltered valley leading down to Pauls the fruit and veg were months ahead of the UK, and it looked like there might be some bumper crops. Almonds.

And figs.

The orange trees further down were even more advanced with blossom.

But what I struggled to understand was why, with the only pomegranate tree I’ve seen this far north, did folk leave the fruit on the tree to rot? 

Pauls wasn’t too far away and I got there at 3.15, perfect Spanish lunchtime. It reminded me of Competa, a town/village in the Sierra Tejedas where me, Maggie and Antonia had stayed 18 months ago, doing a recce of my southern Spain walk.

A restaurant close to my Alberg was open and I ate like a king. Lentil stew followed by meatballs. Brilliant. 

The Alberg wasn’t open until 7pm and I had two and a half hours. I walked up to the local grocers and topped up with water and grub. There was an open room next to the shop and in conversation the lady said I could stay there plugged in to recharge my iPad and wait whilst she and her mum watched soaps. Brilliant folk. 

Night night.

Yesterday’s route was 22 miles. I ended up doing 26. Today’s route was Tivissa to Rasquera over more mountains and across a broad plain. The track then dropped down to the Ebro River, one of the biggest in Spain and renowned amongst U.K. Anglers for its catfish and carp fishing. The track crosses the road bridge and then on to a hostel converted from an old railway station across the river from Benifallet. A more leisurely 18 miles.

Breakfast at the Braseria Tivissa was really good. Tortilla, chips and bread (with olive oil and mashed tomatoes), olives, orange juice and coffee. Four quid. In fact the room, the beers, bottled water, great tapas for dinner and breakfast was £37. You wunt get the room for that in most of the UK.

On the tables around me local people were enjoying morning banter and breakfast; which seemed to consist of coffee, beer, red wine and brandy. They were all getting pissed at 9am.

I left at 10 (sober) and the steep gradient up the first mountain range began to hurt. 

This country is just brilliant. I keep expecting to see Frodo and the Company of the Ring wandering over the hills towards me. In fact I feel like Frodo. Since I first read the Lord of the Rings it’s branded on my soul. A ridiculously long walk, but, unlike Frodo, without mates. I won’t leave you Mr Frodo. Bugger off Sam. I must be more of a Bilbo. It’s the later ones that you get into that feed you back to the earlier ones that open up the doors of pleasure.

Lord of the Rings back to The Hobbit

Lou Reed back to Velvet Underground

Good Vibrations back to Pet Sounds

Given to the Wild back to Wall of Arms

Hot Rats to Captain Beefheart

Looking back Tivissa was nestling in the sun like a cat. I resisted the urge to throw a stone at it and tell it not to poo in my garden or kill birds ever again.

The track cut up a ravine and a notch in the spine of a steep ridge, through which a waterfall fell in wetter periods. The valley above then opened out a bit to the left of the ridge (below).

A spring gave me the opportunity to drink plenty and refill my bottles.

Higher up the valley the track led to a Chapel which had been designated to the people who walk the GR7. What a great gesture. And particularly for this Pilgrim as the sundial on the front was dated 1889. May your blades remain sharp, and our Sharp remain a Blade. 

Climbing higher the view down to the chapel gave me faith. 

The track led up to a pass between two peaks and gave a vista north and south, with Rasquera, my first rest stop, in the distance in the second photo down.

Rasquera didn’t look that far. It took another three and a half hours! Downhill mostly but draining in the heat with a rucksack. The GR7 veered eastwards, almost away from Rasquera, and I was getting more frustrated. It then appeared to be heading due south towards the mountains, rather than westward. And I had nearly another ten miles to do after Rasquera. 

The amazing terracing unknotted my knickers for a while. How much effort and muscle went into this older day miracle?

And then with head down and teeth gritted, under a scorching sun – only April for Jesus Blade’s sake – I crunched the track to Rasquera and stopped in a cool bar for a drink. 3pm and 10 miles to go. Only 10 miles done in the last 5 hours. Gordon Bennett. I had read blogs that Mosquitos swarmed in their billions in the bottom of the Ebro valley. Bowland Climber, on his blog, had warned about it, even in relatively cool weather. I decided to follow old and new roads that mirrored and hovered above the GR7, which dropped right down to the river banks. My first viewpoint of the Ebro scanned both the downstream and upstream views. Quite magnificent. How lucky am I? Some of my friends and family can’t do this or join me for work or health reasons or whatever. To think that I can look at a map of anywhere and decide to walk it, and then do it, is beyond my ken to be honest. 

Ebro baby!!!

I was making good time now, very good time. The route dropped down past spectacular rock structures and on to the valley floor. No mosquitos but I’m glad I stayed higher on the hills and got the views.

The road rejoined the GR7 and crossed the bridge over the river upstream from Benifallet.

After another hour of graft I made it in the twilight to the old Benifallet rail station. A hostel for cyclists who pedal along the old railway track. 

The only guest (again), a couple of beers on arrival, on the house, a great shower, a three course meal of local beautiful products with unlimited local wine for 5 quid. I thought the room rate was high; it was the only place realistically on the route and proved to be the bargain of bargains. 

I went to bed at 9.30pm. So should you. Night night.

The most beautiful walk that I’ve done in Spain. The most frustrating and knackering walk I’ve done in Spain. What a day! A cereal bar and bottle of water for breakfast and set off at 9am up the road to Colldejou. The sky was clear, all day as it turned out, but there was a cold wind blowing off the mountains.

It took two hours to cover the 8kms to Colldejou and I pulled into a bar restaurant for a second breakfast. Freshly made tortilla, bread and coffee. Four quid. Fantastic – and the view was great.

It’s a nice village, and here goes that flag again! 

The views are amazing, but I didn’t realise at that stage that I would have to go up those hills to the top. 

By noon I’d linked up with the GR7, and was feeling pretty fantastic. The footpath here was a wide country lane, with a view back down to the Mediterranean.

However over the back of the first mountain ridge the track shrank to an ancient footpath. It was difficult to imagine that this little path travels across Spain uninterrupted for 1200 miles (1900 kms) !! The signposts aren’t great on the GR7 so a GPS is essential, and sometimes not enough, as I found out. 

The footpath wound its way up the mountains shown three photos ago, for what seemed like a really long time. Beautiful and painful with me rucksack beginning to cut into me shoulders. It was fascinating, the hairpin bending footpath, supported by rock walls from a thousand years ago. Or summat like that. Maybe 300. Last year? I finally got to the top, in a sweat.

Looking back and inland the view was stunning.

Looking forward as I passed over the top was beckoning.

The wind had dropped and I realised I was running lower on water than I’d reckoned. The village of Llaberia arrived and I thought maybe I’d top up. The church bell struck two o’clock so I was happy life was there. It wasn’t. The village is completely weekend homes, renovated and well preserved but empty. Even the church had a mechanical bell and no-one ringing it.

I set off back along the track. Into a very warm sun. The way climbed again over another mountain ridge and dropped steeply down. 

Part way down I heard the shriek of a wild cat coming up the track. Closer and closer and then round the corner…. It was a German couple with their baby daughter in a back harness, screaming like a cat. Not out of anger or pain but just to hear the echos. We had a good chat, probably the only other walkers I’ll see this week, and bade each other well.

It was right hot now, on a south facing zig zag path, and the flying ants started to be interested in my arms and head. And I was running worryingly low on water. For three miles I stumbled forward as fast as I could, getting hotter, sweatier and a bit dizzy. Right at the valley bottom I heard running water. I left the track and cut westwards, coming across a mountain stream issuing from the bottom of the cliffs. I drank for England. 

It was getting later and I followed the signposts, finally emerging into a vineyard looking over Tivissa. I was happy.

However a mile later I was gutted when a signpost identified this village as Capcanes, with Tivissa signed as 3 hours walk up another mountain. I really struggled. Even the views weren’t floating my boat.

I reached the top, didn’t have to stop…. so I carried on, dropping down yet another long mountain face and valley. And after what seemed like a lifetime I saw Tivissa down the valley. It wasn’t signposted but it was right there below me. I finished my remaining water and made good speed towards it.

Oh sh** oh sh** oh sh****** hell. It wasn’t Tivissa. And checking my GPS I’d left the GR7 a while ago. Like too long ago to go back. I looked at where I needed to be and it involved climbing another mountain. Jesus H Blade. It took me two hours, without water. I hauled meself on top of the ridge and twenty yards below me in a ledge was a mountain hut. I shouted ‘Senor’, and to my utter astonishment and relief a bloke answered ‘Si’. He filled up my water bottles with collected rainwater. I was one lucky barstard. He said I should be in Tivissa in an hour and showed me the way. It was dark when I saw it.

Maggie rang the hotel to say I’d be late and, after 12 hours walking I finally arrived. 

I sank a few beers with fantastic tapas, and the family who ran it were really nice. Brilliant grub, a lovely room and, after a shower, a short but deep sleep.

Night night.