The guest house near Birmingham airport, Gables bed & breakfast, was grim. The pits. The glass in the bathroom was filthy and streaked with dried blood. Avoid. I set off walking from there at 5.30 this morning to the airport. Invigorating in the cool morning. The previous night’s curry lay in an unfriendly manner on my stomach, working its fiery way down my old alimentary canal. No it’s not in Venice. Flight on time, landed early and I walked out of Reus Airport at 11am. Today and tomorrow’s routes are here. Anybody spotted the fab 4 references yet? Oh God. Sounded like Rolf Harris.

Today was a road walk of about 12 miles from Reus Airport to a hostel in Montroig. The black marked route is the GR7 part of tomorrow’s walk. Reus is lacking character but there are a few corners in the centre that are attractive.

The Catalan flag is 4 red stripes on a gold background. Same down in the Valencian region where me and Maggie hang around in the Bavs’ place in Calpe and the Terralta in Beni. It is the flag of the King of Aragon; historical stuff. The Catalan Marxist separatists added a Cuban-style blue triangle with a white star. Now it’s seen everywhere and displayed by all separatists, irrespective of political persuasion. Why do they want to pull out of a substantial country? Potty – like Krankie in Killecrankie. Would Barcelona play in a Catalan league? Would they duck.

The next town was Riudoms, associated with Gaudi, that designer bloke. The Gaudi ‘Hand of God’ is substantially better than Maradonna’s.

Stopped for proper patatas bravas and grilled meat in Montbrio del Camp, and took the leftovers in a bag for my dinner. Montbrio was unremarkable but ok.

Montroig is ok, the hostel was ok and I got an early night. A lot of oks floating about so far! Before I went to bed the sky clouded and at night it looked great.

Tomorrow another road walk from Montroig to Colldejou, to meet up with the GR7 footpath. Then following it southwards over the mountains to a town called Tivissa. I was going to camp but the Hotel Braseria Tivissa reduced its room rate to £27 so that’ll do me. It’s a nice gaff by the looks of it and I’m walking over 20 miles and climbing over several mountain ridges so I’ll need it.

Night night.

Right….. I’ve been doing a bit of training in Spain on holiday with Maggie, swimming and walking really. But two days I climbed/scrambled Puig Campana rising up behind Benidorm. Higher than Ben Nevis and with two main routes; landward and seaward. The landward, round the back, route is quite strenuous and the seaward route is called ‘the Vertical’ because it’s quite steep.

Parking near the freshwater springs at Moli at the foot of the mountain the first climb I went up with Javi, a right good lad who works at the hotel that we stay at, the Aparthotel Terralta. Puig Campana looms above you soon after setting off. And the scree canyon that provides the ‘scramble track’ cuts up its middle.

The views out towards the coast get better and better the higher you climb. I didn’t realise I was so unfit. I was knackered after two minutes and gasping at the top. But we did a great time – 90 minutes. Unbelievable but I was trying not to let Javi down and he’s only 32, a martial arts expert and in the gym a lot. He’s just become a dad so I was grateful that he took the time out on his day off.

We did an impressive 90 minutes coming down as well. Over the back way.

Last Wednesday I set off at 7am to do the Vertical up and back on my Tod. It was a beautiful clear morning just before dawn as I set off. 

I made it up the scree slope to the top just before the sun came over the side of the canyon. Surprising a herd of wild Iberian Ibex halfway up.

I cut up to the right of the mountain to reach the highest summit of 4600 feet and to drink in the amazing views.


Maggie was in the car park of the hotel and I used my iPad to reflect the sun as a signal to her over 10 miles away. She saw it flashing like a good un! She’s over to the left of the photo below. You must be able to see her can’t you?

I’m up for this walk. My hips have been giving me bad pain but I’ve got superstrong Codeine tablets and the highest strength non-prescription cream. I’ll be ok but it’s more pleasant if it’s painfree. My rucksack is 10kgs without water and food, including my tent and sleeping bag so I’m very pleased at that. I’m cutting down through the mountains like this.

Reus.             Colldejou.           Benifallet.      Pauls.      Fredes.      Moralla.       Ares del Maestrat.          Vilafermosa del Riu.      Montanejos.       Bejis – where I got snowed in. About 220 miles and I’ve got 14 days walking to do it in. Should be ok. The route is called the GR7, a long distance footpath that runs from Tarifa in the southern tip of Spain, where I started last year, to Andorra in the north, high in the Pyrenees. 

I’ll blog tomorrow.

Night night.

Booked flights to go back to Reus on 2 April and come back from Alicante on 16 April. Itching to finish that walk and be able to stay on footpaths this time. Two weeks, 250 miles. Walking north to south, finishing where I left off. Walking with the sun in my face. Reus to Bejis, through some quite remote and beautiful mountains. No snow in April surely referee!!!

When the power went out for an hour, it stayed out. And still is as far as I know. Three days later. Power and hour eh? There was a young lady from Kent. Enough!

The snow settled and fell for 24 hours. Power cables came down and this region was plunged in darkness. Luckily the hostal’s heating was oil fired so my room was warm but the public rooms were cold. 

My iPad was running out of juice but it had no wifi or 3 signal anyway. My phone was topped up but the aerials were down so no signal. I had my head lamp so at least I had some light. The landlady cooked on a Primus stove. Nice food too but they ran out of milk and were down to the last three candles when I left. It was a Dunkirk spirit for the locals having breakfast in the hostal bar. No milk? Open the wine! All happy except the miserable looking old dear on the right. It’s only milk love. 

Two days full board, with great meals, £40 a day, room and board. I’ve put that weight back on. Can’t walk in the snow and nowt to do but sleep. 15 hours yesterday. Two days and I’m already stir crazy.

Saturday and I am going to go for it, probably back home. The landlady and landlord were sorry to see me go. The only resident guest. They asked me to be careful. There were two snowploughs clearing a track to the village and dropping salted grit. Just what the walker ordered.

I covered 4kms in an hour, reaching the next village, looking back at Bejis, momentarily lit for me by a shaft of sunlight. Still no electricity though. And Toras, this next village, was out too.

Another 8kms and I reach a village with a bus stop. A 4 wheel drive came down the hill and I stuck out my thumb. Result. A lift to Viver. The young woman passenger spoke English and said the next section of my walk was totally blocked. No pasar. The GR7 was out of bounds probably for the entire trip. The roads I intended to use as a substitute were blocked and I would have to wait for them to be cleared. However going north the power was also out. I needed to get through the mountains to reach the coast. The only routes open were trains and the main road from Valencia to Madrid which runs through the valley. I’d like to see the rest of the GR7. I’ll go home and come back to where I left off at some time in the future. Maybe later this year. 

The village of Viver celebrated my decision with a parade.

No snow on the valley floor. The buses were running so I got one to Valencia and a train to Alicante. Antonia booked me a flight to Leeds on Sunday afternoon and a hotel in Alicante. It’s been a good walk. 230 miles. Halfway there. Another time.

As my cousin Mick says. It’ll still be there. And with views like this it’s worth another shot or two!

Adios amigos. 

When I woke up this morning I wasn’t fantastic. I knew that at breakfast yesterday the black pudding was ok but I had a spicy sausage too and that tasted a bit off. I left it but it caught up with my exit procedure. In fact it expedited an emergency evacuation, luckily on the tarmac and not in mid-flight. I had fresh orange juice, coffee and toasted bread with crushed tomatoes, olive oil and salt for brecky. Old favourite. 

I hit the road at 8.30 with 33kms to my next stop in Bejis. Freezing wind. The landlord warned me about snow before I left. Be careful.

I got wrapped up. Who you looking at? Do you want some? 

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Sorry. Whilst I’m blogging I’m listening to the Maccabees album ‘Given to the Wild’. They’re playing ‘Forever I’ve Known’. Bloody, bloody brilliant and beyond. 

It was a long hard slog across 12 kms of plain to Alcublas. Stopping en route to evacuate stowaways. Feeling better afterwards. The route was unlovable.

A couple of farmers stopped to make sure I was ok and to tell me to be careful about the snow. It came on a bit, those small icy flakes that hit one of your eyeballs and make it sting and shut down vision for a few minutes. But it soon cleared. In Alcublas I went into the only bar open and had two more coffees. I don’t care for this Skinny Latte with a vanilla shot, extra whip of caramel and a keech composium slipped up the spoon. Southern muck. Four. But Spanish cafe con leche does something for a man. St Bruno does something more. 

I soon thrust myself out into the brutally cold wind. The landlord told me to be careful of the snow. He showed me a forecast for snow here at 3pm. It was noon. You’re talking to a northerner matey. Nae worries.

The pools of water from the recent downpours were frozen solid.

Fair play to this pilot, he landed his Piper on the smallest runway I’ve ever seen!

Taking a short cut over the shoulder of a mountain that the main road rolls around saved me a couple of kilometres. And the next town, Sacanyet, was the only interim stop between here and Bejis. And it was a long uphill walk to it. Another bloke stopped in his car and warned me about the snow. I’m northern me. I got to Sacanyet and was almost at the summit, before the road drops 8kms down to Bejis, when the snow came. Luckily a couple of lads turned up in an old VW Combi and offered me a lift. An Italian bloke from Venice (merchant he was) and a local Valencian. I was on the edge. Only 8kms to go, but the snow might be proper snow at this height. I jumped in and we were down in Bejis in 10 minutes. I was booked in Hostal El Tren Pita and I was there in time for lunch. No snow at this lower altitude. And the store room, where I left my kit whilst I ate lunch, was full of goodies.

And the view from the restaurant was great.

And then the real snow started. Thank goodness I accepted that lift and got down from the higher altitude. This is proper stuff. 

It’s still going after 5 hours and blizzards are forecast for tomorrow. I’ve booked to stay here tomorrow night. Bizarrely the snow storm is electrical so we’ve had lightning that’s knocked the electricity out for the last hour. The room is getting a little colder with no heating. Oh well. I’ve got my sleeping bag. 

I can plan a new route tomorrow and it’ll be fine. But at the moment it’s a lock-down. Just like Ghost Adventurers. And,as I wrote that, the lightning sparked through the dark room and the thunder roared. Spooky timing. Given to the Wild.

Night night. 

34 kms to be precise. I had a good night’s sleep even though temperatures plunged. The wind, which was making all sorts of strange noises in my Albergue, dropped in the night. That really cooled things down. A quick mini breakfast with black pudding and coffee and away. Up, up and away. Ah but it’s reight hard to remember that on a day like today. Arctic temperatures. 

The day was very clear and I had my long trousers on and three layers on top. I left the breakfast bar at 8am and the first spring had lovely icicles.

The sun began to rise over the mountains ahead, lighting up the mountains behind, with Chera disappearing into the distance. 

Wild artichokes and sheets of ice in the olive groves. 

It’s a strange season this time of year. Some of the trees and shrubs observe winter’s hibernation and others continue to produce, despite the cold. This grove of oranges thrives up here in the mountains.


My route took me east up and over to Sot de Chera, then north up and over to Chulilla and further north to Villar del Orzobispo. The first run over to Sot de Chera was quite beautiful.

The village was picturesque and I stopped for a couple of cups of coffee. That’s four this morning! Climbing up and away the village was spectacular in the sun and the setting.

Towards the top of the next range I looked back at the mountains I was leaving behind.

And just round the brow of the hill looking forward to my final destination way up the plain.

Winding down to the foot of the plain the mountains to the right of the photo above were bulky, dry and worthy of a Western movie.

Whilst the valley floor was the place to grow the winter greens. 

As the sun took over, and the wind remained slight, the air warmed and I stripped back to my shorts and shirt. Further up the valley there was a small hydroelectricity plant fed from storage in a rock face. If you look closely to the right just above the cables are two rock climbers, with another one dressed in red further up the climb. Proper climbers. When I say I climb I mean walk or scramble up a hill. These folk climb.

The road approached Chulilla, looking good in the sun with ancient castle walls above it.

And the really amazing surprise was the depth and severity of the gorge that cut through behind the town. Spectacular.

It was getting later in the afternoon now. Cloud had developed and a cold wind returned. I redressed the balance. Well, the old bloke really, not the balance. A paraglider flung him or herself off the cliffs to my left and I only managed a poorly defined outline. He or she must have been f..f..freezing. 

​
Eventually Villar arrived at my feet. Eventually I made it to my room and showered in warm water. Eventually dinner was served, they don’t half eat late. Eventually I’ve had my fill and I’m going to bed. Good scran though.

Night night.

Everybody knows, that baby’s got new clothes, but lately I’ve seen her ribbons and her bows, have fallen, from her curls. Worth a Nobel Prize in its own right, never mind the rest of Dylan’s enormous and beautiful body of work. Don’t go yet Bob. It was bad enough with Bowie and Prince leaving us, never mind the shock and finality of losing Leonard. I was working in Paris when Lou Reed died. I think I’ve told you this before. I walked into the recruitment consultant near the Champs Elysees (see, I can do posh as well as Sheffield scum) and a telly in reception had a photo of Lou on the news. I asked the consultant if he was playing in Paris and he said ‘No he’s dead’. I just burst into tears.  Fat bloke in his late 50’s weeping like a baby in reception. Bet they dined out on that.

Will and Cheggers. Do you remember the day we loaded my old Morris Minor, Tank, and flitted from that Leinster Square hostel (craphole) in Paddington to the civilised Passfield Hall of Residence in Bloomsbury in January 1973? The last thing to be loaded was my record player and we played Ziggy Stardust from beginning to end, singing and dancing each track with elation. That dump should have been gutted, disinfected and rebuilt. We thought it was ok though. Three northern lads in the smoke at 18 years old. Love you guys.
Back to Spain. Before I get ridiculously emotional in this warm and noisy bar up in the hill town of Chera, full of folk my age or older, shouting and bawling. 

Set off late this morning at 10.15 and headed north-east out of town towards the mountains. I passed a bar full of working guys in their reflective work gear, irresistible. The bar not the guys. Jesus I’m not staying at the YMCA. Not homophobic either. Any road it was great. Two coffees, scrambled eggs with chunks of cured ham, tortilla with onions, fried slices of fresh cod and bread. Breakfast like a king. Passed a bread shop that had breakfast on garlic bread in the window.

The road today was all uphill for 19kms and it was clear, windy and very cold. The cold weather from Greece and Italy is making its way across Spain and we’re one of the first areas to cop it. Minus 10 forecast tonight. Forget footpaths and tents. This is mountain roads, hostels and warmth. And beauty… it’s Spain after all!

The authorities don’t just stand around and boast…. ok Bob that’s enough thanks. They are springing into action with signs and salt spreading.

It’s snowing in Mallorca but I think I’ve got at least a couple of days walking before it snows here. Then get down to the coast for warmth and safety I think. Becoming a soft southern bedwetter in my old age. Second anti-southern reference in two days. Becoming a bit regionalist for Hampstead tastes. Third.

The GR7 crossed the road I was on. There’s a bit of a mess here with it being diverted for miles.

Sure enough I crossed another version 10kms later. 

The mountain scenery then just took over and made me remember why I’m doing this route and not a flat and homogenous Pilgrimage westwards.

It was very windy, nearly blowing me over at one stage, and the wind was really freezing. Sorry to keep on about it but the photos make it look warm. Tint warm. Scold.

This bloke loves it though. The last time I saw you, you looked so much older. Thanks Len.

My gear was heavy on my left shoulder, different parts of a more mature body take strains at different times. Mine urts allovver mostet time. This is my gear, with the Scallop shell so folk don’t think I’m a vagrant. 

And this is what folk come here for. Poorer definition as I had to zoom in but that’s a ruined castle with a waterfall bottom right. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian. It’s lovely round here.

Coming up to Chera the town isn’t lovely. Not in the grip of winter anyway. But it grows on you with every step nearer the Albergue. 

And someone has class. I’ve never meant to be unkind. 

That is Elvis, for the benefit of the only person not to recognise him. Own up you young devil. And this is tinsel town.

Eventually got to my Albergue and rang the reception woman to gain entry. To the Albergue you filthy minded beast. I’m there on my own tonight. The only occupant. My room is fine, I’ve left the little heater on, and there is hot water. Ten quid! It’s potty. Might sleep in my sleeping bag on the bed in my boots and walking gear to make it easier to get up in the morning. 

Cheers me dears. I’m out here for summat to eat and to get an early night. Up to Villar del Arbozispo, weather permitting, tomorrow. 30kms.

Night night my lovely dears.

 And thank you for the days, gentlemen. Those endless days those sacred days you gave me. I bless the light, I bless the light that shines on you believe me.

Now I’m not frightened of this world believe me. Or the next. 

Woke up early and thought I couldn’t get back to sleep so I watched Drunk Russians and Fails on YouTube. Daft but it makes me laugh. The Rooskies are basic but tough and seem like half decent folk. I think Trump is right to want closer relationships. Why generate conflict? However his regard for Russia and the UK seems unique in his repertoire. Hates everyone else! He’s the President. The elected President. People like Merryl Streep make me puke. Democracy, democracy, democracy. Until I don’t like the outcome. Wazzock. We had to put up with Thatcher. Didn’t grin but bared it. The people have spoken Streep and if you don’t like what they have said then push off somewhere else. Saudi. 

And while we’re on that. What a gas that we voted Brexit. The outcome will not be pleasant but just to let Londoners and the City know that there is one thing that they cannot buy makes it worth every penny (that they couldn’t buy the outcome with). The will of the people. And in the eyes of the polling booth, my fine feathered, silver spooned chums – all animals are equal. And none are more equal than others. 

Went back to sleep and then stayed in bed when I woke up, planning routes. Eventually got up and wandered around a bit.

Not a remarkable town by any means but ok. 

Had a great meal in quite a posh restaurant where the owner spoke English. First time I’ve spoken English for a week, except on the phone to She who must be adored. And she is. Local wine, chickpea stew, lamb chops and flan. All perfect. Less than ten quid! 

The wine heritage of Requena is a long one, there’s even a Wine Pilgrimage from here to Santiago de Compostela, the reputed burial place of the remains of Saint James the Great, one of the 12 apostles. That reputation brings hundreds of thousands of pilgrims across the plains of Spain every year. But not on the wine route.

I’ve been thinking. The weather on the telly is not great up north. It’s getting colder and Friday it’s due for heavy rain in this region. That means that at the height I’m walking at it will be snow. The forecast reckons snow over 500 metres. I’ll be well over that. New plan. 

1. Forget wild camping unless circumstances are forced. Hurray.

2. Stick to the mountain route but take mountain roads and not footpaths unless essential. 

3. Stay where there are hostels and be prepared to walk short or long days to move from hostel to hostel.

4. Where I take footpaths it has to be the GR7 which is known and recognised by the local authorities.

5. What were the rules again? Sorry. Can you repeat that?

Tonight I’m a Madrileno. 

Good. I’ve got a plan. 

19 kms tomorrow to Chera. A hostel costing £10 for the night up in the mountains above here. Wednesday 30 kms to Villar de Arzobispo to a really homely hostel with great mountain food costing £25for the night. Thursday 33 kms to Bejis to another homely hostel for £23 for the night. From then on the GR7 gives a hostel each night for a while, so I can go back on path if I want, dependent on the weather. All is better now my mind and plan are clear.

Night night.

I was sorry to leave Cortes. I’d enjoyed my mini-break there and I’ll remember the town fondly. I had breakfast in the hostel and shook hands with the landlord. He gave me a bottle of locally grown and pressed olive oil and said to take it home to the family. I’d showed him the photos last night. The wind is stronger and colder today, needing three layers plus Auntie Vera’s hat plus Liddy’s scarf. Still got me shorts on though. No surrender on the lower body front. And back. The road dips down towards the lake and runs round the hydroelectricity plant and onto the bridge through a tunnel. No lights.

Crossing the lake it was bitterly cold on the exposed bridge.

Looking the other way Cortes and its river hung over the lakeside.

Looking down from the opposite hillside the road reminds me of when the kids were little. The bridge shunts the motorcyclists along (it’s Sunday and they’re even in the mountains) like a long spoon into the tunnel’s mouth. I fed my dad like that recently when he was in hospital. Out of duty rather than devotion.

I was going to do just 15kms today and stay up in the mountains, trapping down to Requena tomorrow. The road turns to the right of the mountain range to work it’s way up to Venta de Gaeta, a little village with a well known restaurant and a hostel, which wasn’t answering the phone. I turned left. Another road in the opposite direction runs parallel to the lake and then winds up into the mountain range and over. It joins a main road after 30kms and that runs for 19kms into Requena. I’m going to walk 49 kms today and sleep in a cheap hotel in Requena, a fair sized town. I felt fit. The pack was comfortable on my back and my muscles were feeling good. And the hills were cold but looked good.

I made good time, after leaving at 9.30. I reckoned I’d be there by midnight. There were no cars on the mountain roads. None. On the middle slopes were vineyards for the first time in a hundred miles. And higher up almond groves that had been given recent attention. 

I just kept going. I’d bought a big block of chocolate and kept eating bits off it throughout the day and sipping water. On the top of the mountains there was an abandoned village. It looked sad and lonely but there are many like it across Spain I’m sure.

Sunset came and I just kept going. I felt like a machine. A young machine. Makes a change. The day’s R&R had done me good.

As it turned dark I was on the main road but turned on to a lesser used side road that would save me a kilometre. It was now pitch black and nothing but fields and forests and the occasional farm, where dogs would hear the click click of my walking poles and go berserk in the distance. I strapped on my head torch but kept marching. It was now beginning to hurt. The lights of Requena poked through in the distance.

At 8.30 I finally made it to the hotel Maggie had booked earlier. Knackered but happy to see a bed out of the wind. I put my long trousers on – it’s Sunday – went round the corner to a local cafe bar and had local wine with oxtail and chips. The old git did it. 49 kms. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian!

Night night. 

Cortes is an energy town. Hydroelectricity and nuclear generation just down the road. But it’s Sheffield in miniature, character, class (working), talent, history and culture. What a great day. I’ve rested, eaten well, blogged and watched some footy. More than owt I’ve planned some options going forward as it’s getting very cold and windy and fewer days wild camping the better. Not that I’m a pansy. 

I dint do no drugs or owt. Just steady exercising in my local gymnasium.

Today has been lovely. I had breakfast in the hostel at 9.30.  This is the early morning freezing view from my bedroom window.

I went back to bed to plan going forward. 

There was a bit of a Saturday market and I stocked up on water, food and batteries for Gav. My mate.

Then I went to Emilio’s restaurant and had a great meal and  a pitcher of really nice wine. I stayed there watching Spanish footy and doing me blogs for four hours. Loved it. And they charged me £11.00 for the lot. The scran was delightful. Black pudding soup.

I offloaded my stuff at the hostel and it’s San Anton’s day. The patron saint of animals. They build huge bonfires in the streets here, which horses jump over. It’s magical and very warming in the sharp icy air. The clear day and night makes it more magical.

They’re all over the place. Brilliant. Everyone has been nice to me and my Spanish has improved today. The owner of my hostel is the same age as me and Maggie. He’s one of my bezzies. 

When the fires go down a bit they all put their scran in the hot ashes to cook. Brilliant. With Coldplay blasting through the main plaza.

All is good. Until tomorrow but that’s just another time.

Night night.