Or How to Make Life Difficult for Yourself. But let’s rewind to La Fatarella and a fascinating conversation with the young(ish) Italian owner of the B&B over breakfast. This small town was not only central to the Civil War in the 1930’s, but was also renowned 800 years before as the Head Office of the Knights Templar. The international centre, no less. 

It’s not talked about in the town. It’s not, locally, revered for this. But it is the biggest untold story in Catalonia. There are two storeys of tunnels and archways under this street, linking monasteries and places of worship. Locals are unaware that they are living in Templars’ housing and they mortar over the stonework and carvings. OMG as someone might say on fB.

The host was great, the breakfast was nice and the room was good and warm. This area is Terra Alta – the Highlands. According to a bloke we spoke to yesterday it’s hot in summer in the sun and cold in the shade. It was cold last night and this morning. This is me last night. 

We talked a lot to GianCarlo, the owner, this morning, fascinated by his insights, and left just before 10am. The air was cold but the clouds were slowly clearing. We were cutting across country on tracks and paths for 18 miles.

The land is like this, with terraces, woodland, vines and olive trees. It’s great but for the second day running we missed our route. What a bugger! When you miss your Way you end up in very difficult overgrown territory with high terraces to climb down. There are lots of angry dogs and people who tell you to go away. There are also vultures waiting to eat you!

We came across all of these and decided on cutting across country to a road from Vilalba des Arcs to Batea to Nonaspe. An additional 13 kms and 44kms in total.
We eventually found the road, after being told we were on private land, but a smile and three or four Spanish words usually cut the ice. We made good time, marching under the warm sun to Batea. The road was empty.

The sun was then going down as we gritted our teeth for the last uphill 17 kms and a swift downhill 3 kms drop to Nonaspe. Our shadows were great against the warm stone.

But the air was cold and turned colder as the sky darkened and kept clear. It’s unforgiving territory. 

We crossed over from Catalonia to Aragon. A real turning point.

We marched side by side with our rucksacks and walking poles in the moonlight for 90 minutes and made it, after 27 miles, to Nonaspe. We’re staying in a converted medieval prison. As usual we are the only ones here. Not even any staff. We’ll see later if it’s haunted.

Since we started we’ve done 90 miles. Another 90 to go. Anyone who sponsored us per mile will pay for 160 and not the 20 additional miles caused by our wanderings. We might be knackered but we’re loving it.

 Night night. Love you. 

We got up just before 8am for breakfast after a good night sleep. However after yesterday’s rain    we had a return of the cold. Gazza was better than me. I was ill again. After a great breakfast of toast and hand-made and home-made marmalades, Gary walked down to the river to spot carp (unsuccessfully in the cold and misty morning) and I went back to bed for an hour. I needed it and woke more refreshed. 

We were heading for La Fatarella today, a long walk along a pilgrimage route to a monastery to San Jeroni up in the mountains. Over the tops, down to the next valley, up and over the next ridge and onward to the highlands and the village high on a plateau. 

It was cold but dry and we cut a good pace up a thousand feet to San Jeroni monastery and then up another 500 feet beyond. 

I’m not as fit as I was before my fall but I kept going today as well as I could in an uphill struggle. Gazza done good yet again. Focused and determined. We reached the summit of the first range, dropped down to the valley floor and looked for the footpath to take us over the next mountains. It wasn’t there! The footpath was so overgrown we couldn’t find it. Instead we had to wind our way around the valleys for a couple of miles to get to where we should have been an hour earlier. The land was rich and beautiful though, with almond trees, olives, vines and hazlenuts. 

The weather was still iffy but we got our heads down and cracked on.

Reaching a main road that cut north to the road to La Fatarella, and into very emotional and historically-laden country. Eighty years ago during the Spanish civil war the Republican forces launched an overnight attack across the Ebro river, including Mora where we stayed last night. They surprised Franco’s forces and pushed up the way we are heading towards La Fatarella. Young lads from Spain, reinforced by international brigades from the UK, other European countries and the USA fought the might of fascist Franco, supported by Hitler and Mussolini. 

The views from the hilltops were awesome, and must be unchanged since the days that these lads spent four months defending them. It was a long slog going up the valley.

 But getting to the top we saw a sign to a landmark of the civil war. This was something we couldn’t ignore. The trenches and shelter from attacks and bombing by the Nationalists and Nazis to provide a last defence for La Fatarella.

When your head covers in goose pimples it doesn’t stop for a while. We wandered around lost in awe at the conditions these lads fought in to the last over four long and bloody months.

We walked, largely in silence, to La Fatarella.

The majesty of the Pyrenees, 100 miles away, was covered in snow and sunlight behind Gazza’s shoulders.

A good meal, a few beers and a good night’s sleep. God bless the young lads who gave their lives for democracy and decency. Gary’s face says it all. 

Night night.

What a great night’s sleep. I only had one pee break and otherwise slept through until 07.40.  Gazza slept through to 08.40. Lucky divil.  Breakfast was revolting, some kind of mushy, heated pastrami with cheese in a sandwich. Horrible. Pity we don’t speak Catalan. 

The world outside was chilly and wet with very low cloud.

Luckily we were walking towards the northwest, and south of the mountains, and then cutting westward to the River Ebro and the town Mora d’Ebro. This was to be a short day of around 15 kms. We cut across country on a short cut that I’d seen on some old maps but we got pulled up by a bloke who was quite opinionated. Although we couldn’t understand Catalan he indicated that we should go back a kilometre and walk alongside the dual-carriageway to Mora and that we couldn’t continue down the track we were on because it led to a private finca (farmhouse). Bullshit. This was a public track.

We haven’t found the Catalans to be overly friendly. Quite the opposite compared to the other regions of Spain. Miserable and introspective. If I was Spain I would grant the miserable buggers independence and see them off. Malcontents.

We diverted away from the track that the bloke had stopped us on and followed a different and very quiet road. No point in arguing, even though I’ve got a machete. The weather deteriorated and although we hadn’t left until 10.00am we strode at a fair pace. 

This wasn’t mountain country; it was fruit and vineyard land. It was chucking it down but we really struck a strong pace. Walking side by side, silent but very manly. Bloody hell, we’re tough. Well…. maybe not.

After a while the road cut down, and although we couldn’t see the mountains on the far side of the river we felt we were making good time. The cutting showed great rock colouring.

Pushing on we made it to the outskirts of Mora by 1230! We were so determined in the pouring rain and aided by a downward path that we nailed it. It was only 9 miles today but we needed the rest and we did it really fast. Over 3 miles an hour. And got down to Mora pretty fast.

We cut across country to the second Ebro crossing. 

And Gazza spotted quite a few huge carp in the margins. Amazing. The most highly regarded fishing river in Europe.

We arrived in Mora at 12.45. I’d thought we would be much, much later. Determined marching in cold and rain. We done well and rewarded ourselves with an amazing four course lunch for just over £8each. Beautiful. 

We’re early for our room but we’ll get there soon and get a reyt early neet to steal a march on tomorrow. Thislocal vermouth was free and was the dog’s. 

This street graffiti reinforces the independence sentiment. Let them have it. There are many quiet and miserable people here. Free them!

Night night.

I had hoped that this would be a manageable walk over 25 kms of undulating land. I’d remembered it with some trepidation but also confidence that I’d researched a new route at the end which would be easier. However it turned into 20 miles of sweat and tears. 

The morning was misty over the mountains as we ate a breakfast of eggs, cured ham and sliced fried potatoes  to stock up on protein and carbohydrates. Yesterday we used up 3,800 calories according to Gazza’s superwatch. Today we were to use up nearly 5,000. 

The route today was uphill and seriously difficult. We set off at 9.30 am and got instantly coated in sweat with the weight of the rucksacks. It took us two hours to climb up over 3,000 ft and the last couple of kilometres were so steep that we followed a careering path up to the top of a cloud-covered pass. 

The summit was around 3,500 ft and we had a difficult walk down to a ghost village, Llaberia, which is complete and well maintained but has no inhabitants!

Having reached the top, we had to stop, and drop down the route we were following, the Gran Reccorrido 7, being the longest and most prestigious footpath in Spain – but dilapidated and no-one walks it. 

We were pouring in sweat and running out of water but when we eventually reached the valley floor there was a sliver of a river and we topped up with fresh water and filled our water bottles. Good job. We’d have really struggled without this top up.

We climbed up onto the valleyside and there were the most fantastic vineyards. They now carry on for hundreds of miles to the Rioja region. The village behind Gazza is Capcanyes.

Bad news is that we shortly had the longest, most severe and highest climb of this trip. We struggled. It went up almost 75 degrees in places and it blasted us. I’ve had the worst cold for ages, and it only peaked yesterday, so I was struggling for breath. Gaz done good. In pain but kept going.

After a long slog we made it to the back of the mountain and a rock face to our left as we descended over very iffy ground through the warm cloud.

It took us an hour to reach the valley floor and we slipped through an unelectrified electric fence and cut across a steep gully to join a track up a valley that I’d spotted on google earth. 

This is wild country. It took us another three hours to get to Tivissa to find ourselves the only people in the Hostal, again. We had some free tapas and a sandwich and called it a day at 9pm. This walk is great. I’m exhausted, Gazza’s doing well but exhausted too as we hiked over 20 miles today over high mountains, climbing 5,000 ft. It’s not easy but it’s great.

Night night. Love you. 

Night night from Gazza too. He’s loving it.

Well I got here yesterday with Gazza. We went down to Stansted on Monday night, flew in to Reus yesterday and walked into town from the airport. Just loosening up with the rucksacks and massive change in temperature from the UK. Sunny and warm here. This is Gary on successive Tuesdays, in Spain and then a week ago on top of Ingleborough in a hurricane!

We stayed in a dodgy Hostal last night which served fantastic food very cheaply. When we arrived we were hungry and raided the tapas bar. Liver and onions, mussels in garlic, clams and other stuff. 

With two pints of beer, ten quid! The bloke on the right was off his head, talking, singing and laughing to himself. The bloke at the end of the bar was the barman. He walked around like a zombie and spat out big lumps of gob onto the floor behind the bar. Dirty dog. 

Nevertheless after three hours sleep in late afternoon and an early evening stroll around the centre of Reus we came back for paella and local red wine. Fantastic. The Hostal was £14 each. 

This morning we set off late, just after 10am, and aimed to cover 18 miles, mostly uphill and off-road, in the warm and, at its zenith, hot sun. The cherry blossom was already out and we picked up free oranges which were ripe on the trees by the side of the road. Sweet and juicy.

This region is part of Catalonia and there is a strong independance feel in the villages and cities. Flags everywhere and some people will only speak Catalan. Nobody speaks English but we get through on my poor Spanish.

We trekked through the mountains and, after a very rough uphill path for the last few miles, made it to our Hostal by 6pm. Just in time with the darkness and clouds closing in. We’re eating as I blog (how rude) and the food is great. Free tapas, burger and spaghetti Bol for Gazza. We’re tired and will get an early night. 

18 miles done, 142 to go. Night night my dear friends. Love Dave.

The campsite was miles from anywhere so it was an early night. However the manager used to be a chef so I got Chicken Jalfrezi for dinner for a fiver (good unall) and two sausage and egg bread cakes for breakfast for four quid. Brilliant. 

Today’s walk was to be a tough 2,600 foot climb over Bleaklow and Kinder covering 16 miles. I needed an early start and got away at 8.30, breakfasted and packed. 

The tent was dry and there was a cool breeze, a welcome addition for a steep climb out of the valley. Looking back across the reservoir to Crowden the moors, and Black Hill in the background, were great.

The track was extremely steep for the first 400 feet climb and the rucksack dug into my shoulders, but I felt ok. Slow, deliberate steps and as I’d lost a few kilos from my fat belly and was much fitter than when I started it wasn’t too hard. And going up Bleaklow, one of the legendary High Peak places when I was young, was coming home. I can’t help but think  of the poor buggers in planes that crashed into Bleaklow and Kinder when I’m walking these tops. There are over 100 crash sites up here. Incredible loss of life during and shortly after WWII. Poor kids. Thirteen young American lads in a Superfortress lost in fog. A Halifax bomber killing five kids, and amazingly two survived. Lumps of undercarriage and engine parts can still be seen. 

Bleaklow is a flat peak, with a nominal summit of a cairn with a wooden stake sticking out of it. Wild and windy.

Over the far side the PW runs down a winding brook which cuts through four metres of peat bogs. All this was forested until Stone Age man cut down the trees and the vegetation started to rot and create peat. The sun came out to welcome me back.

And Kinder smiled in the distance, beyond the cars parked at the top of the Snake Pass. It all looks so innocuous in the sun. But this place can be deadly. Lest we forget.

By early afternoon I was climbing up a Kinder with its trademark rock formations. Showers were scooting across the sky, and I was lucky to just catch a few spots of rain at the edges.

At last, after early three weeks, the first views of the Edale valley.

The Way drops steeply down Jacob’s Ladder and gives views back up to the ridge around the Kinder Scout plateau. God I love this country. It’s part of my fabric. My mum’s ashes are a few miles away in the Peak District and she’ll be happy to rest there. She deserves it, after living with that arsehole for so long.

From dramatic moorland to domestic vale, the last mile or two are enchanting.

It’s over. The Pennine Way has taken me closer to my end goal, completing the long trail from the northern tip of the British Mainland to the southern tip of the European Mainland. 278 miles in 20 days walking. 

Thanks for following me. X

I got up late as it had been raining and I wanted to let the tent dry whilst having a cold tin of beans for breakfast. Heinz – money no object. I took down the tent, filled my water bottles and set off in the breezy but mostly sunny day.    

The day was made for walking. No, walking was made for days like this. No, days were made for walking like this. No, walking days were…….  Shut the front door Smithy lad. On the boggiest parts of the moors the stone floors from old cotton and wool mills have been helicoptered up and form a solid base for a path. It means that erosion from footfall is less and that you can make reasonable speed. But I wasn’t reacting well to the rucksack. I’d forgotten how heavy it was. Wasterd.

The route rambles over moorland for a few miles, then up Black Hill and finally over the top and down to a campsite in Crowden. 

The views eastwards into Yorkshire outshone westward Lancashire by a long chalk. Useless Lancky gets. This view sees the TV transmitter at Emley Moor in the distance.

Onward and downward to a small stream spilling down the Moorside, with the purple heather in abundance in its late summer finery. It stoned me to my soul. Stoned me just like going home, and it stoned me.

Upward and onward to Black Hill. Only 11 miles today but not a pushover. Certainly not a pushover with the rucksack. Has Che put lead weights in here for a laugh? This was one of the few times Pennine Wayfarers passed me in the last week. It really seems to be less popular. 

And down to Crowden.

The Way skims precariously along the sheer edge of a ridge, the most vertiginous part of the whole walk.

Down to the campsite in the valley below. I find myself singing old songs that my grandmother, mother and (surprisingly) my father sang when I was young. Trekking takes me back to a simpler time, before school and before my family became dysfunctional. But when I was 8 years old my mother was petrified by the Cuban missile crisis and told me and my 4 year old sister of the potential end of the world through nuclear war. We never said nuclear war. It was atom bombs in those days. I lay awake and cringed at every plane passing overhead, thinking it was a Russian coming to Atom Bomb me, and less significantly Norton RAF aerodrome nearby. If something horrible is happening then tell your kids that it’s ok. And they’ll be happy in bed, like this.

Night night.

A good night sleep in Che’s tent whilst her and the dog slept in her converted British Gas van. 

The hills looked good in the morning mist.

 She took me back to Colden, via breakfast at the Shay Cafe in Halifax. 18 miles today walking back to the campsite, then I’ll pick up my rucksack for the first time in a few days on tomorrow’s walk. 

Che dropped me off and I was on my way on a sunny day. She left her teeth out and wig off but she still looked ok.

Dropping down to the first stream was an ancient bridge of which I have not seen the like before. A long stone slab. It must weigh a few tons.

Over the next hill the Way dropped down into the Calder valley and the monument of Stoodley Pike pierced the horizon. Celebrating for eternity the victory over Napoleon, although it fell down once and had to be rebuilt. And building was suspended after he escaped from Elba,until he met his Waterloo at … well Waterloo actually. 

Physically I feel pretty good but my feet, right foot in particular,  hurt real bad on occasions, mostly late afternoon.

Today all was ok for a good while. Climbing up towards Stoodley Pike the view northwestwards over Todmorden was bootiful. So let’s talk turkey. It was booootiful.

The monument was impressive and hang gliders flitted over it like birds of prey coasting the thermals.

Here the Way turns southward and follows a ridge looking west towards Manchester, Liverpool and the Irish Sea, sadly out of range in the haze. At one point it cuts uphill eastwards along an old packhorse track with a 600 year old waymark stone marking the way. Well, course it does. If it was a skidmark stone it would mark the skid. It does what it says on the tin. Marks the way. 

The Way rises up Blackstone edge, with it’s vantage over the northwest of England and, in the eye-screwing distance, north Wales. God bless Great Britain. 

Then the route crosses the main east to west motorway, the M62, incongruous in this moorland. At least the PW gets its own footbridge. 

And on to Saddleworth Moor, forever haunted by the buried bodies of the children murdered by Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, may they both burn eternally with a red hot poker stuck up their jacksies. Sub-human. And on a day like today the sun must lighten the pain of those lying beneath its peat and heather. Some warmth penetrating the gloom. Manchester down in the distance, congratulating itself on its status as the cradle of civilisation. Pat yourselves on the back boys and girls and then peep over the hills with envy at the beauty of Sheffield and the new music outstripping your dried up Stone Oasis.

Eventually (again) my campsite arrived at my feet and an early night in the tent that Che built.

Night night.

We got up early to get some bacon butties in Hebden Bridge and to drive on to where I left off in Lothersdale. The route today was through Bronte Country with wind-blasted moors and stark hillsides. Meandering 16 miles up hill and down dale to the rendezvous point, the New Delight Inn, Colden where we had spent last night camping in the back field. Debs – oh bugger it, everybody calls her Che – Che was dropping me off, coming back to Colden to derig my tent and push on to Marsden to put her own tent up, for me to sleep in. It’s big and comfortable. Marsden is one day ahead of where I’ll finish today but I’ll stay there for two nights. Means I don’t have to carry my rucksack for a day when Che’s gone. But she’ll take her tent with her and put my little one (tent) up. 

Bacon butty mission accomplished we, me, Che and her dog Flo, walked together up the hill out of Lothersdale in the wind and the rain, and the backstreets and the backstreets.

Looking back Lothersdale looked lovely, even in the rain.

The route cut over the moors to Ponsden and the weather started clearing up a bit.

On the top the views were brilliant, with the purple heather playing a starring role.

The moors give you wet boots, peak bog sinking in to your socks, rain and wind. They also give you an enormous sense of spiritual freedom. Expecting a punchline? There int one. I felt it. 

Che and Flo had gone back to shift the stuff early on so I was alone mostly today, as usual, and I enjoyed it. Beautiful views, no rucksack and only moderate foot pain. I passed and looked back at Ponden reservoir.

I was also really taken with this little view up a valley but the photo doesn’t quite do justice to the pleasure it gave me. The purple heather topping the variety of colours.

Now I was really into Bronte country and the footpath signs included directions in Chinese!

Directly on the Pennine Way is the shell of Top Withens. Clearly significant in Bronte history.

Onwards, upwards and over the Way runs alongside reservoirs high in the Pennines feeding down drinking water to Halifax, Bradford and Leeds.

I made it to the New Delight Inn at 6pm, bang on rendezvous timing, and we shot over to the tent at Marsden. Che was cooking lamb chops on couscous for us and when it was on we nipped next door to the The Carriage House pub, where the campsite was based. A couple of drinks took us long enough for Flo to get wrongly accused of biting a member of staff. Much to Che’s denial. The owner of the pub came to complain about it. I asked her if she wanted us to execute the dog but she and my sister both thought that was an unhelpful comment. I nearly peed myself. I thought it was brilliantly funny. 

We got an early night after an excellent meal. Cheers Che. 

Night night. 

I slept really well but woke up a little achey from previous days’ efforts. The route today is a 14 mile yomp, without a rucksack. Should be ok. Debs is taking down the tent after I push off and taking it to Colden near Hebden Bridge. I’ll meet her in the Hare and Hounds in Lothersdale at 6pm and we’re going to have fish and chips tonight. Get in!

Before setting off we drove down to Gargave and had an English breakfast at a Beefeater type pub and stocked up on fat and protein. The views were less spectacular today. Rolling grassy hills.

I was so pleased not to be carrying a rucksack. Gargrave came sooner than I expected and the Leeds Liverpool canal cuts through it. With more locks carrying canal barges uphill than you can shake a stick at.

And further down by the village green the River Aire pitches down towards Keighley, Bradford and Leeds city centre. 

Out the other side of Gargrave and over the hills I came on the canal again with more traffic evident this time.

And cute canal bridges.

Before dropping down to Lothersdale the Way climbs up to Pinhaw Beacon at 1300 feet, which is nothing by PW standards but, in later afternoon in later life in the rain and strong winds that had returned, it was tough today. The Way signage going southwards was awful and I thought I was lost at one stage. A motorbike rider came out of his farmhouse and was just getting on his bike when I caught his eye. He told me that the Pennine Way went over the moorland away from his farm and I should go back. I said the path I was on was ok and I’d follow it along to a road. He asked if I’d seen his sign warning people away from his house and I admitted that I hadn’t. When he rode off I noticed a bright light in his loft, shining through a small hole under the eaves. You crafty little cannabis cultivator you. And it turned out that I was on the Pennine Way after all. I made it up to the summit of Pinhaw in really grim weather.

Dropping down over the back I made it to Lothersdale by 5pm, looking forward to defrosting in front of a fire with a pint in the Hare and Hounds. 

It was shut for renovation and nowhere else in the village provided shelter. I waited for an hour under a tree for cover from the rain. 

Deb came just before 6pm and we went down into Hebden Bridge for fish and chips and a mug of tea. Finishing off with a couple of pints in the New Delight Inn which we were camping next to. 

A good day all in all. But very tired now.

Night night.