It starts off ok with ‘the rover is over ‘ but then it just kind of falls apart after Dover. Anyway I’m not over from Dover today, I’m over from Leeds, Seeds, Deeds, Weeds, Feeds, Heeds, Needs, Reeds. Or, as their football fans would have it, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.

I’m midway through my John O’Groats to Tangiers trek and my next phase is to walk from Calais to the Pyrenees in the south of France. This is the first leg from Calais to Le Havre, down the northern coast.

I came over on a flight to Paris, at around the same time that Juliet (youngest daughter) and her fiancé George were flying to Ibiza, so we spent a couple of quality hours together in the airport.

You go your way I’ll go mine. Thanks Bob.

My way was to get a flight to Paris and a train from Paris to Calais, although it took 3 trains to get here. The views were fleeting, from the TGV.

I got here despite the shambolic signage and misinformation from SNCF attendants, and because of the efficiency of the trains.

Calais appeared. Timeless and still with a British feel. It was ours for centuries.

I’m in a hotel tonight; I expect to be in my tent for 12 of the next 15 nights so a hotel tonight is great. Tomorrow is the start of my Gallic trek!

Night night.

I sat on a bench yesterday and a man’s voice came from underneath the seat reading out a letter to his wife, written in 1914 on his way to death in Flanders. Folkestone was the big departure point for millions of soldiers pulled out of their fields and factories and thrown into hell. This was a very effective art project, the recorded voice triggered by me sitting down. It was moving.

And this is a tribute to those who fought in WWI. Poor buggers. Just lads, that’s all they were.

Anyway, how much would you now give to be transported back to January 1968 on to the beach at Cannes when Captain Beefheart played the mesmeric ‘Electricity’ and the thunderous ‘Sure n’uff n yes I do’ to cameras from a bewildered French tv station. Priceless.

If you can see this photo clearly then you weren’t really there!

The morning was cool, to the extent that I needed to wear my jacket as I strolled down to the harbour.

It’s an appealing town with some history and a touch of class, in addition to a darker underbelly of Class A and homelessness. Lovely surroundings however.

Dover is my last stop before the long stretch through France, and it was a decent route along the shore and then up a very steep ascent over the top of the cliffs.

There are some nice little coves which you wouldn’t imagine down here in the busy southeast.

Then the climb, which took a long time, inadvertent rhyme but that’s just fine. Although technically fine doesn’t rhyme with time. Working part time in a five and dime. Thanks Prince.

And away….over the top and along the coast. Then looking back from the top. How impressive.

Coming down inside the cliffs I had a first view of Dover harbour. After more than 2,000 miles of walking across the UK I was close to the end. Which is more than these wagons were.

Dover looks great from here.

And I was down and past these yachts moorings before one could say hoorah!

I’ve finished John O’Groats to Dover via Lands End (and Eastbourne). Now back home for a week and then on to Calais. Le grand depart.

Night night.

I made the mistake of having a pint in the hotel bar last night after a long boozy session by the locals. One bloke was holding forth about the merits of ‘the white man’ and the demerits of ‘the black man’. His wife supported him by shouting that ‘they even call it the ca-rib-Ian. It’s not it’s the carry- bee-Ann.’ Another old bag was studying her iPad and showing her mates a real-time radar screen on which she was tracking a migrant boat. She announced that she was off to the beach to shout abuse at them on their arrival. Have I entered a time warp somewhere between Camber Sands and Lydd? Or have I been transported to 1850 in Mississippi? They should rename it Lykkk. Okkk Scotty, beam me up.

I slept long and late, getting up at 9.45 this morning and setting straight off after a rapid rampage with the toothbrush and a swig of water. It was cloudier and much cooler than yesterday.

Lydd All Saints church looked sombre with the sudden chill. How old do you reckon the oldest part of this church is? 1675? 1275? 875? Answer below.

Around 475AD! More than 1,500 years old. Incredible. If my ancestors reproduced at age 33 then my great (44 times) grandparents could have worshipped here.

Just down the road was Lydd airport. It is actually named London Ashford Airport, obvious really being closer to France than London!

From here I cut across the marshes again, heading for New Romney.

And the path of righteousness opened up before me, carrying my soul forward towards the church of St Nicholas (a paltry 800 years old).

I can strongly recommend the fantastic breakfast at the Coach House cafe, which was followed by a quick dash to the coast. From here it was going to be mostly tarmac and concrete all the way to Folkestone.

It was high tide and this old lad was pulling in dogfish on sand eels on a rounded Japanese hook. He was delightful to talk to.

Just before Hythe the coast path was blocked by an MOD shooting range, around which the road was diverted inland. The racket from coppers shooting handguns, and some other blokes hidden in the dunes firing machine guns, was dreadful for locals. Particularly for any poor buggers on night shifts.

There is a 30 mile canal and raised embankment running from Rye to Folkestone. It was dug out during the Napoleonic wars to protect the southeast from attack if the Froggies tried to do a 1066 again. ‘Froggies’ is ok still int it? If anybody feels upset they should spend a weekend in Lykkk.

It’s called the Royal Military Canal and it is pretty impressive.

The weather was brightening up by the time the road returned to the sea.

With the end in my sights I rattled on at a pace. And when it arrived, Folkestone was a pleasant surprise.

17 miles today and only 7 miles to go to Dover. Then next week I invade France, if they haven’t dug a canal to keep me out.

Night night,

I will reiterate that Hastings charmed me last night. I’d previously wandered around the town between trains and thought it was really ropey, like Eastbourne. And it is, but it has an injection of new folk. Fun folk who might have gone to Brighton but either can’t afford it or don’t like the posey people there (or both). So that is my (relatively uninformed) view of the Sussex coast scene. When has fact ever shaped my opinions?

Day dawned, somewhere above the cloud, and I took a photo from my room and went back to sleep.

I was reawakened by some prat roaring down the front on a motorbike. And then he (on the balance of probability) did it again and again. But the noises were different, so I cleverly concluded that it was different bikes. Lots of em.

I woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head – Christ knows why because I haven’t got any hair there but thanks anyway Paul. And cruised down to a local greasy spoon. This is what made Britain great. Not cheese or croissants or muesli but a full on big bloody English/Irish/Welsh/Scottish. This full Monty created the greatest Empire the world has ever seen!

Not that we’re proud of imperialism or the way we achieved it, but I’m proud of my country. It means a lot. Even these stupid, noisy pillocks who woke me up!

You’ve got to admire eccentricity.

And then Hastings sprung another one on me. Jack in the Green. This is relatively new, it only goes back to the 1700s, but it is a celebration of the coming of summer. There were hundreds of Jacks!

Eventually I dragged myself away from this town of two halves. I’d decided to scramble down the coast rather than walk over the cliffs, but a bloke warned me it was a very high tide today and it was coming up. When have warnings …..etc. It looked like I had a good concrete walkway so away I went.

But the walkway ended and I was stumbling across boulder fields like an old b’stard. I couldn’t get inland because the cliffs were crumbling and where they were lower the vegetation was spiky and too dense for a normal bloke, or even me to try.

After two hours of the tide coming up and me stumbling over boulders I saw a fisherman. Salt of the earth. He must have got down a different way because the tide was high and I’m moving on. Thanks Debbie.

He pointed me in the right direction for a way through the thorns.

Freeeedom! As well as a beautiful, but very steep climb up to the top of the cliffs. Thank Christ (again) that I didn’t have a tent and all the etc to carry. And thank him for a reyt good path through the wild garlic and bluebells.

It was an hour’s climb to the top. These cliffs are steep and initially difficult. It was then reminiscent of the Southwest Coastal Path, getting to the top and then dropping back down again and down and up and down.

After too many hours of negotiating this stretch I reached a proper coastal path. This is looking back at it, for your orientation.

And eventually dropping down to sea level again. I was well behind what I thought my time would be. Pretty pathetic But don’t worry Dave. You’re not as crap as you think you are. Hoooray!

It was a long schlep (thank you Ziva) along the beach, enlightened by the RNLI speeding along the shoreline. Hooray!

And then it was head down and crack on to Rye. But what delights in between! Commissioned by Henry the eighth this was a castle originally on the shore. Now half a mile from from the sea.

Eventually Rye appeared on the horizon, originally one of the Cinque Ports but now landlocked. The sea level dropped. Reyt weird.

Rye city gates were impressive!

And there were still fishing boats moored in it’s estuary.

Then I began the last stage of my 22 mile walk to Lydd. And did it hurt! Yes it did actually. The route passed between the estuary to the right and the lake to the left in this photo.

I cut across a golf course for a mile and a half and this was a remnant of the WW2 machine gun post overlooking the14th fairway. Whatever happened we had to defend our golfing. Ffs!

Then it was just a slog across the Romney Marshes to Lydd. Miles of walking through flatlands with nobody there, and a strange atmosphere for someone from the hills like me.

But I made it. The hotel is nice and cheap and all is well with the world. Nine hours of walking and I feel quite ok. Love to you all.

Night night.

I haven’t walked any of my JO’G to Africa trek for three years. It seemed to disappear in the fog of covid and my illness. I couldn’t imagine last year being able to walk more than a mile even without a rucksack. I was gone, physically and mentally. And as it turned out the mental was the monster.

A month ago I met this bloke in the snow. Because he must be f**king freezing, Scantily clad beneath the clear night sky. Thanks Alex. I thought ‘If he can stand there throughout the winter without moving then I can at least restart my Magnus Opus’. And then I thought, you pretentious pillock. Magnus frickin Opus my arse.

I’d done John O’Groats to Lands End and on to Eastbourne but I needed to get up to Dover. So here I am, on my Jack Jones and this morning on my way to Eastbourne on the train. I sat next to a personable young bloke with: 3 kids – snap, living in Roundhay – snap, from Sheffield – snap, brought up in Charnock – snap, went to Charnock primary school – snap, supported Sheffield Wednesday……. He’s a scumbag don’t you know! Thanks again Alex. Nice lad though all the same.

I was due to arrive in Eastbourne at 1.30 and walk 17 miles to Hastings. I am travelling very light and staying at cheapish hotels to avoid the weight of a tent and all that goes with it.

What do you mean ‘all that goes with it’? A tent’s a tent.

I mean sleeping bag, mattress, towel, toiletries, etc.

What do you mean etc?

One of my trains was cancelled so I didn’t get to Eastbourne until Nearly 3pm. This is the best picture of Eastbourne.that I could find.

I set off at a good pace and soon came upon the sea.

It was overcast but warm and I kept at it, getting a reyt sweat on. The pebbles were knackering to walk on so I switched back to the coast road. These scenes are really atmospheric.

I ran out of water but an old dear with a hosepipe watering her garden filled up my bottle. Decent cove.

I was starting to like this coast. It’s not bad you know. It’s not posh like Rustington on Sea. Oreyt Chip? But it’s got character.

The small stone rectangle by the sea contains the perfectly preserved remains of the Amsterdam; a Dutch East India ship which grounded and sank in 1749. It is surrounded by petrified trees dating back millions of years and fossilised dinosaurs. How rich is our heritage? I love this country.

The ebb has turned to flow, and this young lady is trapped. Should I help? Nah.

Coming in to Hastings there was a lovely vibe. It was going dark and there was a long half open tunnel along the seafront, with deeper tunnels leading off it. Some of these dark side tunnels were throbbing with music and pulsating people. Smashed and mashed but thoroughly loving life. I entered this long straight section.

The booming unmistakable bass line of New Order’s Blue Monday got louder and louder as I walked down to a group of a dozen folk gyrating in the tunnel. They were loving it, and so was I. Where did they get the leccy to power the music system? Best not ask.

This theatre reminded me of the Art Deco facades in St Kilda near where Georgie and Ads lived in Melbourne.

And then I was there. I will sleep well tonight.

Night night.

A bad start to the day. I couldn’t find Vera’s hat. My Great Aunt Vera knitted me a woolly hat 30 years ago and I wear it most days in winter. Have done for years. I wore it when I fell down the cliffs and it padded my head so that I only had a terribly, serious head injury. Silly old get.

I’ve lost it several times and it causes me to panic. A condition with which I am sadly familiar and which is largely controlled by citalopram and occasionally temazepam.

I didn’t feel comfortable about starting the Lairig Ghru today either. It had been a cold night and tonight was forecast to be minus 8C on Cairngorm. Any snow would be icy. Nevertheless I shouldered my rucksack and took off.

The first stage was walking through the Rothiemurchus forest for 8 or 9 miles to the start of the pass. A lovely starter.

It was cold up this Glen despite the sunny periods, and I came across a couple of local hikers. They expressed concern about the snow in the Lairig Ghru and that at nearly 3,000 feet the summit of the pass is likely to be frozen snow on the boulder fields. My enthusiasm for three days of snow trudging with a heavy rucksack subsided.

I got a clear view of the mountains and the snow was at a lower level than I remembered. Let’s give it a go anyway. I’d rather not slip on ice in a boulder field with a heavy rucksack on my back. Or freeze to peckin death in a tent. But it is a great route.

After a mile I moved aside for three middle aged mountain bike riders who stopped and expressed interest in where an older bloke with a big pack might be headed. They felt that the pass would be difficult with the recent snowfall and suggested that it might be better to live to fight another day. This sounded like genuine concern for someone who would be committing himself to 40 miles of climb and fall and climb and fall. And surprisingly I was very happy to accept their advice and return to Aviemore. What has felt right for several weeks, and seemed very right yesterday, didn’t seem right today.

I returned to the Coylumbridge hotel via a roundabout route through the forest.

One advantage is that I can rest my shoulders now. And Vera’s hat had been handed in to the hotel. Thank God.

It didn’t feel right to carry on. Too many old buggers think it’s easy because they’ve got experience and it won’t happen to them. But it happened to me where there was lots of help and immediate medical attention. If it happened in these conditions eyed beef act. It’s no country for old men.

I’ve done a good run up the full 82 mile length of the East Highland Way and that was great. I’ve climbed up 4,000 feet to the summit of Cairngorm in fairly deep snow and looked over the Cairngorm range from the top. And I’ve reacquainted myself with a childhood favourite location. The Lairig Ghru remains on my to do list. A blessing not a setback. God bless Scotland.

Night night.

The snow was too much to set off on the remote route to Blair Atholl today. I’m wise, if a little boring. Bugger it – I’m going to do it tomorrow. Should complete it in three days.

But for today I’m aiming for the summit of Cairngorm, at just over 4,000 feet it’s higher than any mountain in England or Wales. If I can I’ll try for Ben Macdui as well, the second highest mountain in the UK.

I got a bus from the hotel to the car park on Cairngorm. There was an awful lot of snow and no ski lifts were working for hillwalkers, only tows for skiers.

What a sense of freedom.

This was a tough climb without crampons or snow shoes. In fact there were a lot of occasions where the snow was so soft and deep that my feet sank in up to my thighs. And other times where it was compacted, icy and steep. I slipped three or four times, ending R Suppards. Undignified but injury free.

Near the summit the honking of a large flock of geese grew louder and they appeared out of the light cloud, at around 5,000 feet above sea level. Hardy migrants.

The last half a mile was really exhausting as the snow got deeper and the slope got steeper. It was starting to snow again as I reached the cairn marking the top. And the world was white.

Ben Macdui was over to the left of this photo. I would have no chance of reaching it so I settled for one munro today and set off back to the car park below.

I hitched a lift to the hotel and prepared my kit for the morrow. The passage of the Lairig Ghru. I’ll be out of signal for a few days but I’ll catch up when I reach landfall.

Night night.

It had been snowing even more in the night and I woke up to a white world. Nothing wrong with winter at the end of March in the Cairngorms. Long may it continue.

I had worn the same clothes for 4 days at the beginning and even the recent ones were dirty, so I needed a launderette. I completed the East Highland Way to Aviemore, just a couple of miles from the hotel, and found the launderette.

I cleaned my clobber, stocked up for the second leg of the trek and found a fishmonger with some interesting contents for a barbecue. I also found a disposable barbie at the BP station. All set. Completely ignoring my namesake Chipper.

The snow was still heavily on and off but I knew there was a river behind the hotel with a shoreline under trees where a bbq could be protected from the wind and precipitation. Looking the other way, in the direction of my next stage through the Lairig Ghru, it looked a bit dodgy.

Looking down to the river it looked perfect.

Get a barbie going and top it up with local wood.

Get some Scottish langoustines on for a starter. Kismet Hardy. With packaged salt, pepper and butter from the hotel.

Get scallops, crab and smoked haddock cooking in milk, parsley and garlic.

Drain it off and add three eggs, double cream and matured cheddar.

Call the ambulance before you have a thrombie. But it’s stunningly beautiful. And now keep the fire going through snowfall, starry sky and nightfall.

Brilliant food, brilliant fire, brilliant day.

Night night.

At this late stage of the trek, and with the weather worsening, you should get your rucksack on, gird your whatsits and crack on. I’ve enjoyed some of the warmest and sunniest days this part of the world has seen in March, and now some balance is required. Hello snow.

For a hotel that is fading a little, the breakfast was magnificent. A buffet, and I whacked down tons of haggis and black pudding. The Scots know how to live…and how to die with a diet like this. Fatties!

Oy! I am 14% Fatty so quit the wisecracks you Sassenach! And onward down the Spey valley.

The Way today starts on tarmacked road to the east of Kingussie and into the foothills of the Cairngorm mountains. It passes the Ruthven Barracks, three hundred years old and built to house the English oppressors of our Jacobite brothers and sisters. Rebellious Scots to Crush eh? Didn’t see yez trying to crush the rebellious Scots at Hampden Park ye Sassenach bedwetters!

Head down, carry on. The wind is racing up the Spey valley, right into my face and I need to crack on.

High road bridges cross the wild torrents that tumble from the Cairngorms.

Then the sun came out, and later went back in again, playing hide and seek behind the clouds. And it’s coming ready or not.

The snow showers became longer and more intense. But the sun held its own when the showers died down.

There are certain grassy fields that contain lots of migratory geese. This one had thousands roaming across it. Such a shame that I haven’t got a shotgun in my rucksack. I think that wild goose is the best meat I have ever tasted.

And the torrential rivers kept coming.

Nearly 50 years ago I was on holiday here with Maggie and my sister Deborah one Easter. We drove down this dead end road to Glen Feshie and my old Morris Minor packed in during a blizzard. I told the girls to stay safe and I set off to find a phone to call the RAC. This is the phone box I used all those years ago. I just couldn’t understand the woman from Inverness at the RAC centre there, it was so strong an accent that it was like a foreign language. I gave up and was walking back to the car when I heard it coming down the road. Maggie had kept trying to start it and had succeeded. She didn’t know how to drive but managed to get it moving in first gear and drove two miles down the Glen in first. What a catch!

Cutting across country the rapid snow movements were catching up with me, and getting more intense.

I really wanted to follow the last part of the Way down to Loch an Eilein, a beautiful Loch with a historic castle ruin on an island. But the snow got worse and I’d promised Maggie that I’d stay safe. It normally doesn’t bother me, even after my head bash. But my darling looked after me last year so I owed her much more than one. I cut through the hills to the road and marched as fast as I could on the tarmac.

Nearly there and I aimed for a hotel I knew, rather than the campsite. The snow was going to be too much for ma wee tent! Made it.

Night night.

I do love Scotland, particularly the Highlands. My daughters bought Maggie and I a DNA test for Christmas and presented the results after dinner.

They showed that I was wanted in four countries for motoring offences! It’s not my fault that their speed limits are too low.

Anyway I’m 14% Scottish and Maggie is 19%. That explains it then! I’m a bit Welsh, a bit more Viking and a lot English, based around Sheffield. Yes…..it is that detailed and targeted. Amazing.

A good sleep in the Laggan Hotel, it was freezing again and I was running out of food so all in all, since there are no shops, the Hotel was a good call. One of my chums at Sheffield United is an ex- Coldstream Guard. He’ll love this photo from the hotel.

The day was cold but dry as I pushed off across country, trying to keep on the path through forests where recent storms had uprooted many of the trees, blocking a clear route. So I headed for the edge of the forest to take my chances walking across marshland to the higher land that I was aiming for.

It was a mile long swamp but my amazing Meindl boots kept out the water and warmed my tootsies. First time with German boots, I think I’ll call them Adolf and Eva. No it’s not an oblique reference to the Second World War. That would be dated and a reflection of the views of some kind of Leave voting, archaic, soon to be extinct dinosaur. Some of my best friends are German. There was that taxi driver in Hanau Steinheim, nice bloke. Yes, I know he was Turkish I’m not daft, but he worked in Germany! Then there’s that comedian Henning summat. Yes, I know he’s not my mate but he makes me laugh when he’s on the telly. Particularly when he tells jokes about the war and that.

I made it to higher ground and found the track up to the head of the Glen.

Just to clarify the remoteness. I’m venturing a few miles at a time into the Monadhliath mountain range and seeing nobody all day. Silence. But this is a 700 square mile wilderness where nobody lives apart from Golden Eagles and Deer. A mountain range as big as Surrey that nobody has ever heard of. But it is valuable land even in its anonymity. This is controlled burning of swathes of heather to aid regeneration and healthy growth of the grouse population so that they can be shot by rich folk paying thousands for the privilege. And the deer need their numbers controlling. Christ knows why because I’ve only seen three, but rich folk pay thousands to shoot them.

There are deserted properties, in remote places, called bothies. These are usually old farm buildings that are maintained occasionally by a Scottish Association and can be used, free of charge by walkers needing shelter from the weather or somewhere to sleep. I’ve slept in a couple and rested in many more, but this little gem was one of the best I’ve seen. Dalnashallag bothy will have saved many folk from frostbite and hypothermia over many years.

I love the comments folk leave.

I meant the one by Matt and Vic!

Pushing on down the Glen towards Newtonmore there is no path and you have to negotiate the crossing of a river and numerous streams. It was fortunate that only melted snow was pouring down rather than days of rain. The East Highland Way website warns that these streams are uncrossable after heavy rainfall.

A cold wind funnelled up the open Glen, biting in to my chest, face and hands. My legs seem immune from cold, even though I only wear shorts. But the rest of me can feel a slow return to winter from what has been a remarkable series of sunny Spring days. Days I’ll remember all my life. Thanks Ray. And Kirsty, of impeccable lineage and gifted voice taken far too early.

Cold wind or not, when the sun comes out life is transformed.

After nine miles of slog a proper track took weary walkers down to Newtonmore, and I am going to be one of that number.

Stopping for a pint and a packet of crisps in the village I warmed up in the local hotel, girding my loins…yes it’s ok to say that…..girding my loins…..it comes from the chuffin Bible and you can’t be on safer ground than that…. girding my loins for the last stretch to Kingussie before the snow. And my bollocks.

You just can’t resist it can you. No question mark needed.

Look at this. Newtonmore Hall with a Saltire – fair play – and a cash sign. I’m not surprised with the cost of a pint of beer and a bag of crisps. Kerching.

Cold wind and cloud have an inevitable outcome in this neck of the woods.

And finally I’m in Kingussie and staying in the Duke of Gordon hotel. I know wild camping is interesting and exciting but trust me, snow is on the way!

Christ my shoulders are hurting from that rucksack.

Be reyt after fish and chips and a good kip.

Night night.