Great night in a guest house. I haven’t got a mattress with me so to not sleep on the cold ground was very nice. Good breakfast unall.

Today was a journey from Petersfield 5 miles to South Harting by road, up a tough climb to the top of the Downs and 10 miles along the humpback ridges. Then two more miles downhill and along the plain to Graffham campsite. A good 17 mile slog. But first step was a domestic exit from Petersfield.

Which led to a fair road walk to South Harting. Typified by this place.

And then a long, hard trek up a steep and narrow country road. To a vantage point looking back at South Harting in the neither cool nor warm spring haze.

The ridge switch-backed up and down along the 10 miles I was riding it. 


There was always a haze, stopping clear views beyond a limited horizon, but what could be seen was beautiful.

Then came a stronger cloud cover and fewer walkers and cyclists on the Way. As well as the Devil’s Jumps appearing in all their stark and historic glory. Ancient graves containing heads of tribes which pointed in a line directly to the point of the setting sun on midsummer’s day. 

Carrying on into the late afternoon the sun was strong, although it was about to fight a losing battle. Is this a line of hawthorn blossom, or summat else? 

From a vantage point above Cocking, and looking back westwards at the part of the Way I had already covered, I got this great snap.

The track disappeared into woods, with the cloud coming down, and the eerie screech of the occasional cock pheasant. And nobody around. Good. They’re either on bikes messing up the path, or they’re ignorant southern bedwetters who don’t return your greeting of ‘good afternoon’ and don’t look you in the eye. Hah! Sorry Mike and Lyons. They’re probably northerners down here on holiday or down to pinch your jobs.

This cock pheasant scooted off quickly.

And then more barrows. Don’t even think of what the Barrow Wight did to the hobbits!

Finally I reached my drop off point and made the long descent to Graffham, seen here across the chalky field.

And onward to the distant campsite. A welcome end to the walk. Luckily the local shop was still open and I picked up some Saint Agur blue cheese and tinned mackerel in white wine. Dinner fit for a king.

Night night my subjects. 

Holden Farm was a good place to camp. It’s worth paying £10 for a campsite to get to use decent toilets and washbasins. I don’t like wild camping that much. I’ve done it a fair bit in Spain when it’s been the middle of nowhere but always with my machete or pepper spray handy. It helps you sleep easier even though it’s a very safe country. I got a reasonable start at about 9am and pushed on towards Meonstoke, a village about 4 miles away.

The route was across country and a bit wet and boggy, but enjoyable. I had to make it to a place called Meon Springs where one of my mates, Mike Edwards now retired, from Interface, my second last employer, was going to meet me. It’s his fly fishing haunt and it was coincidentally on the South Downs Way. We’d arranged for 1pm. The weather was holding up, with some nice views.

I got to Meonstoke at 11.15am but hadn’t had anything to eat or drink so I got two coffees at a pub that was open and a bag of crisps. Then set off at a pace to meet Mike. I passed a Queen’s Diamond Jubilee beacon which looked ordinary but no doubt breathtaking on the night when they lit up all around GB.

And the day was getting lovelier.

I pushed it to get to see Mike because he’s a Portsmouth fan and I thought they might be at home. But they were away at Wycombe Wanderers and they did them 3-2. Mike was there when I got there. In his seventies and looking good for an old bar steward. Good to catch up on the last 15 years, and get a sandwich and coffee. Good bloke.

The chalk streams around here are brilliant. Look how clear this is.

What’s just as great are the churches and the houses. Cop this church! The leaning gravestone tickles me, but you’re bound to disturb something when you get out of bed at midnight to visit your old haunts.

Cop this for a house. Using plenty of the local flint as building material. 

I really love wild primroses at this time of year. Watch someone point out that they are not, in fact, primroses. But I think they is. 

And of great reassurance to anyone worried about an interrupted supply of pharmaceuticals, wine and cheese after Brexit, these south facing chalk slopes are doing their best on the wine front.

I made it to Petersfield to the guest house before 7pm. A good walk today, around 16 miles. I’ll treat you to a photo of me. How lovely.

Night night. 

The night was cold, and wet, but not as wet as previous nights. I like my tent but my sleeping bag is very thin. It rolls up really small because there’s nothing much in it. 

In the damp nothing much was worth photographing on the first leg, from Three Trees to Winchester. But Winchester is at the very heart of England. England was unified at a battle in Dore, a suburb of Sheffield, when Wessex and Northumbria had a scrap in 886 AD or something round then. It didn’t last long but a while later Alfred the Great defeated the Danes, against massive odds, and made Winchester the capital of England. Great job Alfred.

It’s a decent place dripping with history.

I had my first and last meal of the day here, an all day full English breakfast with chips. Yessss! Then departed on my second leg of the day from Winchester along the South Downs Way, one of the UK’s national trails, to Holden Farm. 

This is rolling chalk countryside that isn’t going to be dramatic but will continue to be quintessentially English and beautiful. 

There was nobody on the Way, apart from a handful of cyclists. It was a reassuring countryside, compared to the unusual quiet and uncomfortable feelings generated by the New Forest. 

Holden Farm was a good campsite, good facilities and no unwelcome noise, apart from me – snoring.

17 miles today, 66 so far in total. Doing well, my legs and lungs are behaving and the only slight concern is my feet. Sore soles as my boots were sodden the last couple of days so I road walked in my trainers. No worries. I’m hard as nails me!!

Night night.

Before we go any further, I have to announce a discrepancy and issue an apology. My photo of a rose, which looked like a rose to me, is not a rose. It was a Camelia Japonica. It isn’t even a member of the rose family. Well spotted if you did. Nice to know that people are reading the blog – cheers. It’s nice to get feedback. Here’s the photo of the rose from yesterday.

The morning was wet and cold. I packed the rucksack inside the warm  toilet and then dismantled the tent very quickly. There is an effective waterproof cover on my rucksack and with my less than waterproof jacket on I made a half decent fist of the day. But my route was subject to a detour at the first challenge.

After half an hour my socks and boots were wet and this was the wettest horse I have ever seen in my entire puff.

I tried to get into a march with my walking poles pushing me along but after a while my hands were too cold to hold the poles. Oh misery me! But I’m from the country that produced Shackleton, Scott, Fiennes and Billy Sharp. I girded my exposed loins – damn these floppy shorts – and plunged onwards. Only to nearly poo myself at the cattle blocking my route, a bit like Shackleton might have done.

I cunningly waited ten minutes for a car to disperse them from the road and then legged it. The rain didn’t consider stopping. These horses are next to the path, completely flooded.

After 7 miles I hit the main road from Salisbury to Southampton, and got off it after I’d been splashed by lorries for the tenth time. An old dear directed me to a hardware store that had a cafe in it. Noon and I hadn’t etten owt so two coffees and a chocolate slice did the trick. Thanks Country Consumables. 

If anyone talks about trout and barbel fishing in England then at the front of their tongue will be the River Test. Legendary. And completely in spate.

I made it to Romsey, just 5 miles short of Three Trees campsite, and coincidentally twinned with Paimpol in Brittany, which I’ll be walking through with one of my daughters, either Georgie or Antonia who are minding me in turn on the Brittany coast path in June. Brilliant. I love em.  Stunning innem? 

Love Jet unall, our youngest. Wouldn’t have done Nepal without her.

I went into the local NatWest in Romsey and I gev them a sob story and they gev me £200. Rock on Tommy. On the road out of Romsey I saw this house, with ducks and a muddy river outside the door. Nice place.

How’s this for Art Deco?

And finally, before Three Trees, and hopefully a better night’s sleep – faggots, peas, mash and gravy. Absolute dog’s doodahs. 

Night night. 



No man is an island. Thanks John. 

A cripplingly cold night without too much sleep in my tent. I didn’t bring my gloves (despite our old lass’s entreaties), my scarf, long trousers or my waterproof coat. My waterproof jacket failed the trades descriptions act. My undergarments are soaked. Prick of the month!!!! Well, soaking wet prick of the month. As well as the two mates dangling next to……. OK OK OK. No need for smut. Apologies my dearest friends.  

I’d remembered to buy a tin of beans so I had cold beans and water for breakfast. Luvley. Today was a bit on roads but mostly on tracks and footpaths for 14 miles across the Forest north northeast from Burley to Nomansland, which is a village close to Canada, another village. Strange area!

En route the forest started as heath, then became forest and then became forest and heath. Oh such change, I think I need a rest. And first views of the free roaming horses of the New Forest. There’s thousands of them. Good as gold as well. Don’t mess you about like bulls can. 

Cloudy and a bit showery but sunny spells as well. Not too bad to begin with. There are some posh houses coming out of Burley, and one with a Morris Minor convertible. My first car was a Moggy. Tank we called it, XNU362. Born in 1955. What a star. 

The spring is not ahead of the North. Leaves and flowers are at the same stage, with the exception of some bluebells being out down here.

And a rose bush. How beautiful is that? 

I found the track I needed to head north off the main road and ploughed on through the forest. I’ve got used to my rucksack now, which is about 14 kilos, and I don’t notice it. I feel physically very good, I got discharged last week by the consultant over my calf muscle tear that I picked up in Nepal and my chest is fine now I’m trekking. Oh happy day, ooh happy day, oh happy day, when David walked etc….

There are a few birds singing but apart from the horses I haven’t seen any other wildlife. This forest is a couple of hundred square miles at least and it feels strangely devoid of rabbits, squirrels, badgers or deer. People only pass me every hour or so and they’re on bikes. It feels unusual. 

My track crossed a road and there was a memorial to Canadian soldiers who had been based near here in the run up to D Day. I know I’ll disappoint my sister, but the messages placed there from grandchildren and children of those who didn’t make it back made me cry. And yes Maggie I am taking my Citalopram, so that’s not to blame. They were just young lads. Poor little buggers thrown into a horrific situation. Sleep well dear boys. 

From here I cut across country without any clear paths. It’s called getting lost. With thick cloud blotting out the sun, and no compass, it’s easy to get lost in a forest.

But I broke on through to the other side. Thanks Jim. 

Nomansland is a small village with no shops and a pub that opens at 6pm. I pitched my tent, had an hour’s sleep and went up to the pub for a pint and ham, egg and chips. Heavenly.

And then back to my snowy tent. Another cold one I fear.

Night night.

The fool afoot thought he’d lost his wallet with his cards in so he cancelled them and then found the wallet. In the meanwhile he’d rung his mate to ask him to get him some money and forgot that it was his mate’s birthday. Prick of the Week!!!

Good breakfast in the hotel and set off at 9.30 on the (wet) road again. I cut south to the sea down one of the many chines in this part of the world. A chine is a steep sided gorge leading seaward. So there! Didn’t you know that? Jesus! Are you daft or what? At least you didn’t cancel your credit cards. 

 

I walked along the beach for 4 miles, aiming for Mudeford ferry at Hengistbury Head. The tides throw sand on roads and benches every week apparently.

Darker skies and occasional showers but it was a lovely walk, with the Isle of Wight getting closer every minute.

Until the sky cleared a bit and Hengistbury was there in front of me, with the IOW and the Needles in the background.

The sand was turning into pebbles but I kept higher up on firm ground to avoid the crunching exhaustion of a pebble dash. Hengistbury isn’t high but it has a great 360 view. Looking northwards into the almost landlocked Christchurch bay. 

Then looking southwestwards towards Swanage and Poole.

Here’s where I were at. There there. With a short walk from the top of the Head down towards the ferry point.

Along the full length of the sandbank were dozens of wooden beach huts.

Some with great views like this.

The ferry was a small boat berthed at the far side so the trick was to walk out on the wooden pier and wave. Within ten seconds the boat was on its way.

It was a bit bouncy with the wind and waves and we covered a few hundred metres but the channel itself wasn’t very wide.

Climbing up to the quay there was a sight for sore eyes – a fish shop!

I bought three big oysters for my lunch and the bloke opened and prepared them for me. Delicious.

Now, head down Smithy, don’t muck about, a mile along the shore and then inland for a week. One last look at the Swanny Sea and then off.

The track cut up the cliff side past Highcliffe Castle and up to a main road into the New Forest.

Cutting across the heathland I made the YHA in good time. Fish and chips, tent up in the garden in the sleet and a damp and chilly night ahead.
Night night.

I’ve been looking forward to this walk. It’s a historic part of rural England that, more likely than not, I’ll not see again. If you don’t consider your own mortality as you get older then you’re avoiding the most significant part of life. Death. I won’t walk the South Downs Way or through the New Forest again as David Smith. 

Maggie dropped me off at Leeds station this morning and the trains were mostly on time. Down to Birmingham, change on to the Bournemouth train, bus to Sandbanks and a 5 mile walk back along the beach to the hotel where I’m spending tonight. What is it about stations that make me sing ‘Homeward Bound’? S&G you nailed it!! Compare Leeds station…..

…. to Birmingham New Street.

Six hours on trains and then an open topped bus to Sandbanks ferry terminal, where I finished my South West Coast Path walk nearly 5 years ago. What a spot.

And the final link up. I’ve done John O’Groats to Lands End and on to Sandbanks ferry….

….and now I’m off to Hastings. What a lovely part of the world this is.  Looking west to Old Harry Rocks in the distance. Old Harry always rocked for me. So did our Mick.

The weather was perfect. Cop this beautiful view of the Costa del Sandbanks.

And the property on this little bank of sand is the most expensive in the UK.

The beach runs up against the chalk cliffs as you walk eastwards towards Bournemouth.

My rucksack is heavy and I’m going to need a couple of days before it feels normal again. Lots of Russians and Romanians on the beach. Probably investing in the local property. The pier at Bournemouth appears and if you see just above the sea line to the right of this poor quality photo there is a barely perceptible pale smudge. That’s the Isle of Wight that is. 

Up the cliffs with my rucksack holding me back like a reverse tug of war, and the view westwards back into Dorset was stunning in the waning sun.

And the final shot on top of the cliff showing a great statue of the RAF display team. Looks real at cursory glance!

Great great afternoon. Loved it. Into the New Forest tomorrow and the forecast is for cold and wet weather. It’ll be a bit chilly in that tent! Nae bother. 

Night night. X

Thanks Jim. 

A full day in Pokhara and our hotel room was unusual for us. It had a warm shower, electricity that carried on working, some WiFi, a bog that you sat on and didn’t have to put used toilet roll in a waste paper bin, comfortable beds and a telly. And the view from our bedroom window was breathtaking.


Breakfast was great.

We went up on the hotel roof for a couple of hours of sunbathing, before setting off for a walk by the lakeside up into tourist town. Lads were fishing, not catching owt, and the lake was lovely.

Heading up the bank side the views got better.

Jet uses trip advisor a fair bit and found a great restaurant. My fish cooked in sweet and sour with ginger was outstanding. Jet’s house special was good unall.

Back down to the lake and we hired a rowing boat. I posed in front of the island with an ancient temple.

Jet posed too. Lovely photo.

Earlyish night and a 5am pickup by jeep for Kathmandu. It’s a long slog but we were there before noon and had one and a half days left. The food is good if you find the right places and we ate well. On our last day we visited the Garden of Dreams and rested from the hurly burly of Kathmandu.

Returning to the hubbub Jet rested at the hotel that afternoon with a bit of a stomach bug. I went souvenir hunting. It can look like a war zone but it’s a safe city.

So that’s it my dears. Adventure over. Back to Blighty tomorrow and a jolly good time was had by all. I’ll catch you on the next trek. Namaste.

Night night. 

The morning was reasonably clear and we had slept well from 8.30pm up to 6.30am, with a few comfort breaks. 

The guides had been noisy again below us during the night and there were a group of Koreans in the guest house. A few had stayed up, and one had engaged on a marathon solo piss-up. He lasted through to 1am, with guides and friends peeling off for bed at various stages, but he was determined to get completely arseholed. He drank 12 pint and a quarter bottles of Nepali beer. I make that 15 pints. With four quarter bottles of local rum. I make that a full bottle. With some of the locally distilled spirit. I make that the final straw. 

He insisted on staying up, was directed to the toilet but couldn’t operate a simple opening mechanism and pissed his trousers. Sorry I didn’t get a photo. But to his eternal credit he continued drinking with a wet patch across his lap. A credit to Korea. Is it Seoul because they get are-seouled?

He turned up for a 7am breakfast as bright as a button, smelling of piss. His gormless inbred son sat across the table from Jet leering like something from Deliverance whilst she ate her breakfast. Never Ending Peace And Love. We ignored him. 

The last day of the trek. The breaking of the fellowship. But first there was a lovely early morning walk down the track by the river.

Jet has become a trekker. In tough climbs and difficult conditions she has done a great jaaab!

Some of these footbridges are quite remarkable!

And religion plays a part throughout Nepal. Not least with these little shrines. And with great tolerance and co-existence between the Hindus and Buddhists. We’re all Nepalis aren’t We!

At Nayapul the trek ended and reflection, rest, recreation and summat else beginning with R, to continue the alliteration, took over. 

A taxi picked us up and we drove over the mountains to Pokhara. Checked in to our hotel and said goodbye to the boys.



Cheers me dears for an unforgettable experience.

Me and Jetty went for lunch near the lake and I had a shave and haircut.

The evening was a great meal at The Harbor Restaurant after Jet had scrutinised the menu.

We were in Pokhara that afternoon as the bodies of those lads were flown in to the local airport by helicopter. Bad luck is an executioner in these mountains. God bless boys.

Night night. 

Thanks John. 

There is a vantage point at 10,500 feet, up above Ghorepani, where there is a panoramic view of the Dhaulagiri range and the Annapurna range of mountain peaks. It is called Poon Hill. Like pilgrims, people get up well before dawn, don warm clothes and head torches and climb, largely in silence, up the footpath for an hour, shedding layers of clothing on the way. Most of the way is ancient steps so the footsteps and nodding of the beam of the torch on the steps in front, surrounded by jungle, gives the climb a meaning and the participants a sense of purpose beyond sightseeing. It feels ritualistic. Let’s sacrifice somebody at the top!

Gathered at the summit there was a hut dispensing warm tea, and the dark was beginning to break up. Around two hundred people waited in anticipation of the dawn. As the light grew it was apparent that the clouds would obscure a lot of what we were here to see. But the clouds parted to reveal the summit of Fishtail Mountain, the holy mountain of Nepal which climbers are not allowed upon.

And, to the left of that, Annapurna South was revealed, behind a fat bald bloke with a hat and a beard. Weirdo!

The sun was beginning to make an appearance and created some gaps in the clouds. Showing Annapurna South to the right and Gangapurna behind to the left. It was more than a week ago since we were climbing up the other side of Gangapurna to the bottom of its glacier from Manang. 

We loved the views but we had to go back down, pack our gear, get breakfast and hit the track, Jack. Even on the way down the patchy views were awe inspiring.

Down at the guest house we could see down the valley towards the Dhaulagiri range and Dhaulagiri itself was peeping through the clouds of the storm that had previously killed the poor little buggers from Korea with their local guides.

Then breakfast and then the long trek downhill to Hille, dropping 4,300 feet today.

Goodbye altitude. I doubt that I shall ever climb as high again, but tomorrow never knows. Thanks again John.

We went over the top of the pass that Ghorepani straddles and immediately started dropping down on the footpath through jungle. Hindus at work to persuade their god to grant salvation.

People were climbing up the path carrying goods and essentials. There are two men here carrying bamboo foliage for animal feed.

One guy was carrying a full-sized fridge on his back. A group of young lads was carrying huge burdens. And the path isn’t half a mile on the level. It’s 5 miles climbing 4,500 feet. A tough breed. Or many breeds. There are numerous ethnic groupings in Nepal, all living in peace. 

The jungle is stunning here. This is a view down into the gorge carrying the river.

And this one is less spectacular but equally impressive with the light on the vegetation, the movement of the water and the shapes and textures of the leaves. Cop this little stream view, bubbling down to the main river.

Dropping further, rivers began to converge and valleys cut the mountains in segments. And we were back in major avalanche territory.

Then, in the middle of all this serious stuff, we stopped for lunch!

After a good tuck in we set off again, down, down, deeper and down. Thanks Francis.

This stretch went on for ever and was again mostly ancient steps that really tested our calf muscles. And they failed. C minus. Did I tell you I was deprived of a first class honours degree at the London School of Economics by a scheming group of professors?

We crossed two rivers at the bottom on swinging bridges and hit upon the path on the far side of the valley, nestled in the sun, eventually leading down to our guest house in Hille. 

Great day, great walk, great company, great country. We’re down to lower altitudes now, and it’s very warm. Luurvely.

Night night.