. I nailed it today and felt fit as a young person might feel. I’m 66 you know! Sixty six – clickety click. Oh those heady days of bingo on North Sea Ferries.

You might have gathered that I had a good day.

Breakfast at the Inn was great…..Yeeeeessss!!!!!! Give me clogged arteries any day of the week. And the day was cool but beautifully dry.

Apparently St Olaf, the patron saint of Norway, came over to these parts over 1,000 years ago to help build defences against the Saxons for the local Viking community. This is St Olaf’s church, rebuilt 1550 but there’s been a church on the site since 950AD.

I decided today to head up Wasdale, over the top, and cut back towards Scafell Pike (highest peak in England), scrambling up Ill Crag and Broad Crag (4th and 5th highest peaks) on the way. And the scenery was like this.

The lower path wandered up the valley, but I took a higher route so that I was higher up when I began to feel tired. A good strategy from a wily old fox.

Looking back was lovely, seeing Wast Water in the early morning.

I made really good time, without a rucksack, and the Inn soon shrank.

It was a long slog up to the top of the valley, and beyond it was another world of higher moorland and mountain peaks. Really lovely stuff. And looking back the way I’d climbed was great.

Then I turned round and looked to my right as I was climbing.

How good is this? Windy up here, cold and essential that I got my scarf, gloves and woolly hat on. But nowt else. Schooldays.

Eventually I reached the top of the pass where the land dropped down towards Morecambe Bay in the far distance, but I turned right, up another mountain side, before the drop. Half a mile of steep climb took me to Ill Crag, the 4th highest peak in England. The view from the top was great, all the way down to the sea.

I scrambled over and up the northern side of the Scafell range to the peak of Broad Crag, the 5th highest peak in England, with lovely views again.

Then the last long push across the range to drop down a few hundred feet before a steep climb to the exposed summit of Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England. It was windy and cold and there were a lot of day walkers. It brassed me off that other folk were there. I’d come up the long and arduous back route. These folk had climbed the less difficult front route. Maybe I should relax more. But the real summit was rough.

Three of the highest five in England. I’ll settle for that today. I set off down but there were so many folk climbing up the main route that I pushed off it, round towards the valley I had walked up. It was a rough route but eventually I met up with The Corridor, a half decent path, with great views of my route up.

Eventually I was back at the Inn. Great day, three out of the top 5. Great day. 

Night night.

My original intention this time was to walk the Cape Wrath Trail again, using a different route closer to the Scottish west coast but still through remote areas. With a severe lockdown on hospitality in Sweaty Sockland I decided to switch to the English Coast to Coast path, which crosses from the Irish Sea in the west, through the Lake District, Yorkshire Dales and North Yorkshire Moors to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea coast. It’s just under 200 miles but I’ve added a bit.

To my shame I’ve not spent much time in the Lakes so I decided to start further south than the classic route, walk inland to a base in Wasdale for three nights and climb the five highest peaks in England. Then I’ll set off for the east coast. How super! Jesus. This blog is boring me.

I got a train from Leeds to Seascale this morning at 6am and arrived, after two changes, at noon. £10. Bargain of the month! On the last leg the Isle of Man was clear out west and Scotland was visible up north.

Doing the Coast to Coast (C2C) it’s traditional to dip a part of your anatomy in the Irish and North Seas. I’ve put two vids up as I had to cut out very rude language in the middle.

It was decent walking weather, cool and dry, and it was great to get a trek underway for the first time in 13 months, with a rucksack on my back. The route was all road walking for 12 miles but for a first day that was great, and I was a bit loaded up.

Gosforth was a decent village with an old church and a jolly graveyard. The headstones and caskets were reeling around. They’re having fun under there!

Another 5 miles and I was well and truly in the Lake District. I couldn’t get the smile off my face. It was frickin frozen on by the wind.

And just when I was getting tired and cold from the incessant headwind……… my lodgings appeared! It’s a good spot. The food is pub food, the rooms are adequate and the bed is brilliant. Hooray!!!

Tomorrow is a climbing day. Can’t frickin wait.

Night night.

The very, very, very, very last day of detecting. I got an early start and checked out of the motel, looking nice in the morning sun.

I was going to drive back to Coiltek in Maryborough, where I would exchange my SDC 2300 for a 5000. Cop that you muthafarters! Hey, that was tough wasn’t it? I must be a brother from a socially deprived area who talks tough…… you filthy muthafarter! I think twice is quite enough don’t you? You muthafarter. Oh dear it’s going to be one of those blogs.

Anyway the day was bright and warm and I was ready for another physically demanding day in the bush, detecting and digging for gold. And the drive back was great through dry farmland stretching for hundreds of miles.

Picking up my 5000 I felt like a man, just like Jesus’ son. When I held it I knew it was powerful. Maggotfarmer! My first destination was a target area on the edge of Maryborough. See… ‘target area’. This Mutha is focused! I worked among the old diggings from the1850s trying to find that elusive piece of gold, but it didn’t come.

In desperation I drove to two other locations and realised that, as Jim Morrison said, this was the end. My friend. Still …… a challenge for next year! I dropped off the detector and headed for home in Melbourne, a fair distance away, aiming to be there by 7.30pm. The skies were beginning to fill with smoke and I was driving towards the source. Controlled burning! These folk play with fire!

The views are not stunning, but starkly beautiful to me.

Home for dinner and bed, then two days fishing before returning to the UK. Saint Patrick’s day is also my grandad’s birthday, long gone but never forgotten.

I usually drink a Guinness to him and the saint. I love it when it falls on a matchday and I can remember him at Bramall Lane, where we both belong. Cheers Harry.

These two days were down around St Kilda, pier fishing and enjoying the sight of the place.

Capped by catching a couple of fish…..

…. and a great meal by the beach with Georgie and Adam. Beautiful kids.

Oh well, home is calling and my old lass could do with me around for a while, I think! Cheers to Australia and to those who made it a great place to be.

Night night.

A cold night and a cool morning in Avoca, which had a big regional Pétanque competition starting at 8am as I drove through on my way to the goldfields.

I returned to Maryborough and went back to where I left off yesterday. It’s a classy little town, a bit rural as Australia seems to be outside of the cities, but ok. The station is great.

Some of the houses throughout this region are absolutely stunning. But I wouldn’t buy one. This area relies on community spirit and me and Maggie recoil at ‘community’ and Maggie isn’t that keen on ‘spirit’. Boom Boom.

I was detecting early and once again it was a continuous flow of shot and fragments of wire. Bill called down to see how I was doing and he was disappointed for me. The sun was beating down and the air had heated up. If I was finding owt I’d be in heaven really.

You need to be careful in these parts. There are some deep and dodgy mines, and some have snakes in that fall down and can’t escape.

In desperation I switched locations but ended up getting lost in a conservation area on dirt tracks where I didn’t have a signal. Luckily I came across some folk camping in the bush to gold hunt, and they directed me along the tracks to a road that I recognised. They let me photograph their map of the area. Time to go home.

It was clouding over but the views were still epic. Vast lands stretching for thousands of miles.

It was better than a good meal in the local, wild hare, hung to get that real gamey flavour with sweet vegetables. It reminded me of the way they cook it in some areas of Netherlands. Right good; and in bed for 9pm. No gold, no worries……. Bugger it, I need to do it again tomorrow!

Night night.

And they’re worth a lot more. Anyway my loves, today was the fourth consecutive day in the bush, although today’s bush was less isolated than the Kara Kara. That was a strange feeling place, not antagonistic but watchful and maybe resentful. All these goldfields saw massive population growth over days, not weeks, and success was rewarded by theft and murder. And if I see any baston digging up gold when I’m not then I’ll stick my pick in his head and nick it! Today was a lovely day. The temperature had turned in the night and I’d had to put another cover on the bed, but it was brilliant to be cool in the morning sun.

I checked out of the motel, drove down to Coiltek, where I’ve hired my gear, and extended the hire to Sunday night. Tonight I’m staying at a smaller town called Avoca, just to see if a change can change my gold luck. Coiltek advised me of a local place to find gold, just a couple of miles away. Now, I’m not sure that this isn’t Muck About a Pommie Week, but I’ll trust them.

I found the track, parked up and started detecting. Plenty of action but all old iron, or lead bullets. Then a revelation occurred. An old bloke, who had been in Coiltek when I was there, had heard that I hadn’t found owt for four days and he drove down to where they’d sent me. He introduced himself as Bill and told me to pack up and follow him. Diamond geezer.

He guided me to hot spots where he had found lots of gold up to last week, and walked round with me for a couple of hours. Then he had to go to pick up his cousin from hospital who needs a triple heart bypass. Bill, you are a gent and I’ll see you again tomorrow!

The day went on, but you don’t notice time passing when you’re prospecting, particularly when it’s pleasantly warmed up. However plenty of action but no gold. No freakin gold. No freakin gold.

In the end some monkeys moved in to where I was prospecting so I wrapped up and came down to Avoca, a typical rural Oz town.

The light on the way down was beautiful as the sun was slipping down. But still reasonably high as it is still late summer/early autumn here.

Avoca is small but pleasant. A bit like me, and my room in the Avoca Motel was great.

The centre of the village is the memorial to lost soldiers, loads of them in both world wars.

Poor little buggers. Dragged from here to Palestine and Gallipoli when they should have been shearing sheep and herding cattle. Cop this; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZqN1glz4JY

Need any hankies? If you do then don’t worry. It’s normal.

I showered and went down to the Victoria Hotel for beer and dinner. There was a very lively Hen Party doing a bus tour of the region in a day. They were very drunk and kept singing about the bride that ‘her name is Sheila, her name is Sheila, she drinks and smokes and ***** all the blokes, her name is Sheila.

What they said she did with all the blokes didn’t refer to playing bridge with them or anything civilised like that. I can’t repeat it. I caught a photo of the reluctant rearguard who had to be dragged back on to the bus. The older woman up front is the mother of the bride, who sang the song most loudly. The lady on the left drank her drinks through that straw in her mouth which was in the shape of a willy and things. Disgusting.

The food was great, which is lucky because it was the only place open in town. Tomorrow is gold time!

Night night.

The third day in the bush, fourth if last week’s day trip with Damien is included. And you don’t need scales to weigh my gold. Because I haven’t chuffing got any. WAAAAAH!

But wait! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and I’ve got no chuffing gold! WAAAAAH!

Today I’m going northwest to some mountains in the Kara Kara National Park and I reckon I’ll strike lucky there. No problem.

A scorcher again, and I immediately get lost in the hills. Luckily I’ve got my GPS and iPad and discover I’m walking southwards instead of northwards. It’s due to having the sun in the north moving from right to left, instead of in the south moving left to right. It disorientates old buggers like me.

Prospecting for gold is restricted in this park and I had planned to get to the western limit of the permitted zone, up in the hills, and then detect my way back to the car in, more or less, a straight line. And maybe this tactic is working.

And then………..

You can’t always get what you want. Thanks Mick. The bush can be really spooky, even in broad daylight. You’re alone, at least you hope you are, your machine makes whistling noises that would attract the dead, and you’re in the homeland of the Dja Dja Wurrung people who want gold prospectors not to gold hunt on these ancient lands. Well sorry guys but I bought my miner’s permit and I’m allowed. Is that ok with you? Pretty please.

There is a lot of dry grass, bone dry fallen branches and eucalyptus trees full of resin. I’m not surprised at the fires and the speed at which they raced through the land.

Ah well, the day is moving on, no gold and I’ve physically had enough. Like a rusty old boiler. Oh, here one is!

Back at the ranch after a Chinese meal and just about to shower and go to bed. I need a change to bring some new luck. Friday 13th wasn’t a gold day, but it was a great day. I’m in the freakin Aussie bush for Christ’s sake (written in a slightly high pitched Australian accent). I’m alive, pronounced aloive, and all is well. I’ve extended the metal detector hire for two more days. I’m moving to a place called Avoca and I’m going to find gold.

Night night.

Last night I was down town in the Park Hotel, had a couple of drinks and a great fillet steak for 15 quid. I asked the bloke behind the bar if he could get me a taxi and a fat baston with tats said ‘no worries I’ll give you a lift’. He did and then I went round to his farm this morning to do some gold hunting on it. He’s my best mate now and his place is epic. Hello Murray!

This is his house.

His mate lost his leg in a motorbike accident and he got an artificial one. When he died he left it to Murray, who attached it back to a bike for old times sake.

Murray’s farm didn’t throw up any gold so I pushed off on to common land next door, which had lots of old gold workings on it.

It was another hot day and it was hard hammering away at the earth with my pick and carrying several litres of water on my back.

Again, over the course of another five hours I got no gold. Just iron, including a metal miner’s button.

Ah well. There’s always good food and a welcome Carlton Dry at the Park Hotel with my new mate Muzza.

Night night.

Well I’m trying but it’s thin on the ground nowadays.

It’s been a semi-family reunion in Australia with Tone and Jet visiting Georgie and Adam, who have moved out here for a while. I’ve tagged along but the girls have gone back home for work. Love you kids.

I dropped Jetty off at Melbourne airport yesterday and drove on up to Maryborough, which is central to the Victoria goldfields which boomed in the 1800s. There’s still gold about but not on the surface so much. I’m here to get some!

I’m staying at a motel on the edge of town and it’s cheap and pleasant.

This morning I drove down to Coiltek, a shop out of town that specialises in gold prospecting equipment, and hired a metal detector and a pick. I’d been in touch with them for a couple of months before I came out. By 11am I was out in the bush, with my gear on and sweating like a dog.

I took a reading on my GPS on where I’d left the car as it is so easy to get lost in quite featureless land. I got buzzes on the detector straight away but it was iron parts used by the prospectors 150 years ago during and after the gold rush. Thank you Neil.

There were nails, screws, wire and flakes of thin iron sheet littering the surface and just underneath.

The sun is so much stronger down here as there are holes in the ozone layer over Australia, and carrying round two litres of water, the detector, a pick and assorted implements was bloody hard work. Pronounced ‘bladdy’.

Under the canopy of eucalyptus trees the land was silent, like someone was there and watching me. It was hard work digging into the ground whenever there was a buzz. The machine is sensitive and detects tiny fragments of metal, but I wasn’t getting gold.

By two in the afternoon I was starving and opened up my supersize tin of Heinz baked beans. What a treat!

After lunch I followed the old mining patches, hoping to find gold that the old timers missed.

No joy, and the heat got intense. I’m glad I did my research and knew what to expect and what to do to avoid ending up like this poor baston …… pronounced baaarstad.

I still had that feeling I was being watched. It was quiet, no birds, no people, no animals. Then I looked up and caught sight of this bugger …. pronounced bagger.

A kangaroo clocking me and keeping very still. I moved quickly and he bounced away in seconds. A ‘wow’ moment.

Towards the end of the day I came across some old works which relied on horses to drag around grindstones, making deep circular tracks whilst the stones ground the gold out of solid rocks. Fabulous history.

After 6 hot and sweaty hours graft I decided to call it a day, and got back to the car. I hadn’t seen a soul, apart from Roo, and had no gold; but I’d loved every minute. My haul was impressive, but all iron. Never mind, I’ll try again tomorrow.

Night night my matey dears. X

Just give me some candy before I go. Thanks Paolo. I didn’t get candy but I got two fried eggs. Very good. Bhim had been at work and there was a jeep, with other people and goods in, coming to pick us up at 7am. It would cost us a couple of quid each for a three hour drive. However the weather had been appalling during the night with a monsoon thunderstorm for many hours. Bhim was concerned about the state of the road.

The weather was showing signs of clearing as we took off with two other passengers and the owner driver of the jeep. The road is horrendous and an owner driver is more likely to be careful to avoid damage to the car and his livelihood. Employed youngsters screech around too fast sometimes. Four died in the hills above Pokhara in a jeep tumble from a mountain road, just a week ago. The kiddy drove too fast. Seven survived.

We were the first jeep down that morning, and the driver stopped a few times to roll fallen rocks out of the way. Stopping for a quick pee break the view back to Jagat, which we had passed half an hour after setting off, was beautiful.

The road seemed to be perfectly ok round here, and both the jeep and the driver were great. Reassuring as some of the drops at the side of the road were instant death. In fact instant death would be good if you went over, but this would be a long rolling fall. Adam can have me season ticket. I know that inside he has that glory fan desire to be a full Blade and not just a part time one. Good lad. Should he deny this then he is cut out of my Will. Well, he’s not in it but I wanted something dramatic and threatening. And now it’s just turned out foolish. Adam has made a fool of me. I instruct my eldest daughter to leave him. After I’ve been to visit them in Oz. Well, perhaps later if they go somewhere else. There he goes. Making a fool of me again. Barstaaard! He’s a good lad though.

Last year at this point on the Annapurna Circuit, coming uphill, there was a huge landslide which Jet and I climbed over with some trepidation. This year it was still very difficult for the jeep going through the same spot. I had a momentary lapse of reason, as we skidded going over the river and the rubble, and trumped. At least it was something which would disperse. This is a photo of the spot from last year.

As we drove down to the valley the driver got a call asking if we were ok. Apparently, not long after we passed last year’s landslide spot the mountain had come down again knackering the road. Oh dear. I did another Donald. At least it wasn’t a Geoffrey Hurd. The jeep wouldn’t be going home tonight, or anytime in the immediate future. How lucky we? Thanks Mike.

It was another hour to Besisahar, and glad we were to get there. The jeep had been shaken to pieces. And as soon as we got there we drew up next to a bus. By coincidence it was a bus to Pokhara, leaving now! This has been a lucky trek. Long may it continue. The luck, not the trek; I’m buggered.

At a stop further down the road the bus filled up with local folk, as well as sacks of rice in the aisle and construction materials in the boot on top of our rucksacks. But we were in the front seats and our window pulled back to give us some respite from the heat. Me and my mate Bhim.

Halfway to Pokhara, after nearly three hours, was Dumre, where you turn left for Kathmandu and right to Pokhara. Before we got there a young boy across the aisle from Bhim projectile vomited into the aisle and over Bhim’s shoes. He then decorated his seat.

A bit later, as the bus was stopped, the woman behind me leaned over to my window and puked out of it. We got out, to avoid being puked on again, and she threw up out of my window onto the bloke who collected money and put all the goods in the hold, who was stood directly below. I had a quick word with Bhim and we thought a cab might be a good idea if he could negotiate a good rate.

We got our rucksacks out of the boot and Bhim came out of a heated discussion with a local crew, who had descended on us straight away, with £22 for the two of us in an air conditioned cab for a two and a half hour drive. What a star that man is. And the taxi driver stopped so me and Bhim could buy a couple of cold beers, and commemorate our friendship with chinking bottles of locally brewed lager. Whilst being driven in relative comfort with no-one vomiting on us.

On the way I had to take this photo.

It could only have been beaten by Buddha Was a Blade, like Jesus was when I walked in Spain, for those who remember.

Now we’re going on a journey, up to the puckin Prem! Knew he was!

All things must pass. Thanks George.

This has been a gas, the experience of a lifetime. More yet to come. Experiences and lifetimes. Thanks Buddha.

Goodnight Irene and my dears. If anything cosmic happens in Pokhara or Kathmandu before I come home then I’ll blog. Otherwise, a la prochaine. XXXXXXX

Well I reckon this is the 13th day of the trek and we’ll be down below the high altitude level of 8,000 feet by the end of the day. And for the third day running the sky is clear! In the monsoon season too.

Porridge with honey and apple slices is great in the morning. A solid base to work from. We set off on the penultimate leg, although we were on our last legs. Boom boom. Even downhill is a struggle.

After the bridge our track rose slightly to give us a fabulous view of Tilche and the valley above it.

The sun was determined to hang around today, although we were glad to be in the shade.

The Blade and Adhikari boy made very good time, descending into Dharapani/ Thonche in just over an hour, joining the last section of the Manaslu Circuit, which is also the first section of the Annapurna Circuit which me and Jet did last year. You can check out any time you want but you can never leave. Thanks Don.

There are different ways up the Annapurna Circuit. One of them involves crossing this bridge. No thanks!

A nice cup of spicy Masala tea was waiting for us just outside Dharapani, in the blue roofed building in the middle of the photo and the most distant (as we looked back).

We were well aware of a huge landslide further down the valley, which had torn the road out of existence. Soldiers were passing us on the way down, Bhim said that was a clear indication that they would be dynamiting the landslide area today. We were sticking to the road/trail, which was now navigable by jeep, to make good time and we hoped that the blasting wouldn’t force us off road. But for now the views took any concern away.

We had begun to rise quite high to the right of the valley and we were approaching within a mile of the landslide, with a number of jeeps down the side of the road, and workmen in a makeshift canteen. One confirmed that we could get past the landslide for the next 20 minutes but then the police may stop us. We put a bit of pace on. Yes that little track halfway up the ravine on the right is the so called road.

Yomping round the corner of the mountainside we came upon the police and workmen, who waved us through. It’s really difficult to climb down landslip when you’ve got a rucksack on your back. It really interferes with balance and stability. At my age. This landslide didn’t take any prisoners. These guys were drilling holes for explosives.

Happy to be past we set our sights on Chamje and made good time. A spectacular waterfall came down on to the road and we cooled down in the spray as we passed.

Then we came to Chamje, the first village since the landslide, and stopped for lunch in this bijou little place.

I had mash and chicken, enjoying eating meat again since the butcher caught and killed the clucker for us in Namrung, a week ago. We talked about the best place to stay, with a view to getting to Pokhara by tomorrow night; meaning that we would have to get a jeep out of the mountains and a bus down in the valley. As we ate, the jeeps that had carried people up to the landslide, for them to climb across it and reach the upper valley on foot, were returning. Some slowed down and asked us if we wanted a lift down to the valley.

We decided to stay here, the night would be pleasantly cooler at this height, get up early and easy to get a jeep to Besisahar, where we could get a bus to Pokhara. So we relaxed, had a couple of beers together, had chicken and chips for dinner and an early night in this teahouse. My room is the first blue door on the right. Lovely innit?

Night night.