It was a very clear and cold night. My tent is ok and watertight, so the condensation from my breathing stays inside, but the rain stays out. In the middle of the night I unzipped the inner tent and the outer zip for a pee. The Milky Way was in my face. Stunning. I laid back down and the sleeping bag felt wet. My shirt and jumper that I wear 24/7 felt wet. So did my shorts. I hadn’t fired out far enough and the watertight nature of the tent had retained my discharged liquid. It frickin stank, so did my shorts, shirt, jumper and sleeping bag.

At least when I’m having a meal in an Inn the staff can identify me. ‘Take the fish and chips to that old bloke in the corner who stinks of piss’.

I think I’ve brought too much stuff. It’s a struggle up these steep hills. Hey ho!

Nearly 50 years ago on a geography field trip from school I ran up the hill to Stickle Tarn, way ahead of the group, stripped off, dived in and swam around. It was Easter and snow was melting into the Tarn. A party of girls came round where I was swimming so I stopped out there for 15 minutes until they all fricked off. By that time my mates had come up, photographed me swimming and coming out, holding my bits, which hurt like the devil had started to bite them off. I’m going back for the first time since then. Fully clothed.

Another dry start to the day and the route up was beautiful.

A long, hard slog with my rucksack. But eventually I got there.

And looking out and back down the valley….

From here it was a direct route north up to Blea Ridge with a cold, cold wind. At least it blew the smell of piss away from my nose! And from the top was a panorama. With Stickle Tarn down below and Morecambe Bay in the distance.

Again, heading due north over a plateau, the occasional groups of walkers evaporated. The views didn’t.

I had to drop down from here through a valley leading to Thirlmere Lake. And it was a seriously long, boggy and arduous slog. When it wasn’t boggy it was a scramble. No wonder I saw no-one all afternoon. Part way down the valley a huge stag was braying for a rut. Loud as a foghorn. His concubines were hanging around him looking gorgeous but I decided not to throw my hat in the ring. In fact I fricked off quick before he could challenge me, and sadly before I could take a photo.

And then the valley dropped further at the end.

At the head of Thirlemere was a path that ran along the side of Hellvellyn, and parallel to the lake, to my campsite. Lovely views of the lake, through the rain that started mid-afternoon.

Twelve tough miles. Took me nearly 8 hours! Then pitching my tent in the rain and dashing into the hotel next to the site, and bagging a table for one in the fully booked restaurant. Sometimes it pays to look old and pathetic. Luckily they didn’t smell the piss before I took my seat.

Night night.

Thanks Dennis Brown.

Well, a good day today but a poor result on paper. Only 8 miles and it took me fewer hours than I thought it would. Less hours is ok.

The day was cloudy, dry, but chilly throughout, although it started with a Muthafarter of a breakfast. The Wasdale Head Full Breakfast, with toast and tea. I was away by 09.45am hundred hours, with my pack feeling heavy but my heart feeling light.

Up the route I’d taken on Wednesday, the higher route, with a great last view of Scafell Pike to the right and Base Camp back down below.

It’s hard at clickety clicks with a 16kg backpack and a steep endless climb, but you just need to concentrate on the next yard, take short steps and control your breathing. And eventually you are up, over the brow and onto the next phase of the climb.

And eventually, with a sweat on my back from the rucksack, and a cold wind in my face, over the top of the pass and looking towards the Langdale Pikes on the left and Windermere in the distance.

It was a bitter wind, but it eased as I dropped down towards Angle Tarn, with Esk Pike standing guard behind.

When you’ve got a high opinion of yourself, like me, you get disappointed that the climbs are difficult and the descents are painful. When you’ve got a low opinion of yourself, like me, you expect to be crap at everything. The joys of being a Gemini.

One last climb up to the top of a pass beyond Angle Tarn and then a long drop to Great Langdale. What a great example of a glacial valley. They churned through here as recently as 30,000 years ago. That’s when Sheffield Wednesday were last in the Premiership.

I’d done well because it was a big climb and it was a difficult descent to the valley floor. I’d done very poorly, as most people would expect, and talk about behind my back.

The ice covered this area and ground out the valleys. As it receded, as the glaciers melted, it dropped big mounds of earth that it had carried along for millennia. Here are great examples. They’re called Drumlins and you can see them in the picture below. Waiting for me like huge Anglo Saxon burial mounds. If the Dead call me in please summon Tom Bombadil. Thanks, beyond any thanks we can give in middle earth, John. Nearly fifty years of sheer joy.

From here it was slog, down to the campsite in the trees on the far left. Overlooked by the majestic Langdale Pikes.

And looking back in the middle is the pass I came over from Angle Tarn.

A great day. Under canvass tonight for the first time this trip.

Night night.

Another beautiful morning. I awoke with great pains and strains in my legs after yesterday’s efforts. I reckon I did 12 miles but I didn’t set my garmin wristwatch right that the family bought me for my birthday so it’s an educated guess. BSc(Econ) with honours. Douglas Hurd. The pain came from the up and down rather than the along.

Today’s goal is the second highest mountain in England, Sca Fell, and from here it’s a bugger to get to when your legs are aching. But then again I’m here and up for it. A reyt good breakfast. He ate all the toast, he ate all the toast, big fat baastad, big fat baastad, he ate all the toast. Ha! Well then simpletons. I’ve lost 12lbs in three weeks so best see the new me before slinging mud.

I set off just before 10am, taking it steady and deliberately today. The route would take me up the hillside opposite the Inn and then round it into the valley leading up to Scafell Pike and Scafell.

Looking down the valley it was lovely but cold. Going up, the hill was still in the shade up the Scafell valley.

It was a long slog up to a landbridge between Scafell Pike and Scafell, which I had to climb over to get to Scafell peak. I managed it but it was a bit dodgy. And looking back down the valley from the top was great.

And looking forward, apologies for the over-exposure.

I had to drop down a couple of hundred feet into this valley to find a climbing route up to the Sca Fell summit. I couldn’t find the route but luckily from out of nowhere sprang Geoff in his green boiler suit.

Geoff showed me the way to the gully I had to climb up. It was frickin scary. He stayed at the bottom whilst I climbed up to the next safe step. He was from Lancashire and might have been waiting to rob the fallen body of any valuables. Only kidding Geoff.

I don’t know if you can see him, he’s just a tiny splash of green and red at the bottom of this gully, which is a measure of the height of this climb.

At the top was Foxes Tarn, a small puddle in a big, natural amphitheatre just a quarter of a mile from the summit.

The sides were steep again and part way up the view down and around was amazing.

And then, finally after nearly four hours of climbing, I made it to the summit.

The views from the top were great.

And after a rest in the sun, which had warmed up the air considerably, I was ready to set off back to Base Camp, down the western side of the mountain. And it was chuffing murder. Wobbling down through loose scree and boulders, which tore holes in my boots. The scree went on and on. But the views were amazing.

In the end I made it down in three hours, and my legs were like jelly from the wobbling rocks and the bogland below, which seeped through the holes in my boots. Looking back the boulders looked innocuous, but it was bigger and far steeper than it seems.

I came upon another amazing view. Have you ever seen a pile of turd as big as this? I think we should put it in an identity parade with five others and get the Queen Mother to sniff them to identify the culprit. Thanks Pete.

Eventually the Inn rode over the horizon. Hooray!

Eight miles today and it took eight hours. Tough, tough going. Early night tonight to get ready for the journey to Great Langdale tomorrow. Alright my darlings.

Night night.

. 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.

And looking in the other direction… Keswick in the distance.

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.