Yesterday’s route was 22 miles. I ended up doing 26. Today’s route was Tivissa to Rasquera over more mountains and across a broad plain. The track then dropped down to the Ebro River, one of the biggest in Spain and renowned amongst U.K. Anglers for its catfish and carp fishing. The track crosses the road bridge and then on to a hostel converted from an old railway station across the river from Benifallet. A more leisurely 18 miles.

Breakfast at the Braseria Tivissa was really good. Tortilla, chips and bread (with olive oil and mashed tomatoes), olives, orange juice and coffee. Four quid. In fact the room, the beers, bottled water, great tapas for dinner and breakfast was £37. You wunt get the room for that in most of the UK.

On the tables around me local people were enjoying morning banter and breakfast; which seemed to consist of coffee, beer, red wine and brandy. They were all getting pissed at 9am.

I left at 10 (sober) and the steep gradient up the first mountain range began to hurt. 

This country is just brilliant. I keep expecting to see Frodo and the Company of the Ring wandering over the hills towards me. In fact I feel like Frodo. Since I first read the Lord of the Rings it’s branded on my soul. A ridiculously long walk, but, unlike Frodo, without mates. I won’t leave you Mr Frodo. Bugger off Sam. I must be more of a Bilbo. It’s the later ones that you get into that feed you back to the earlier ones that open up the doors of pleasure.

Lord of the Rings back to The Hobbit

Lou Reed back to Velvet Underground

Good Vibrations back to Pet Sounds

Given to the Wild back to Wall of Arms

Hot Rats to Captain Beefheart

Looking back Tivissa was nestling in the sun like a cat. I resisted the urge to throw a stone at it and tell it not to poo in my garden or kill birds ever again.

The track cut up a ravine and a notch in the spine of a steep ridge, through which a waterfall fell in wetter periods. The valley above then opened out a bit to the left of the ridge (below).

A spring gave me the opportunity to drink plenty and refill my bottles.

Higher up the valley the track led to a Chapel which had been designated to the people who walk the GR7. What a great gesture. And particularly for this Pilgrim as the sundial on the front was dated 1889. May your blades remain sharp, and our Sharp remain a Blade. 

Climbing higher the view down to the chapel gave me faith. 

The track led up to a pass between two peaks and gave a vista north and south, with Rasquera, my first rest stop, in the distance in the second photo down.

Rasquera didn’t look that far. It took another three and a half hours! Downhill mostly but draining in the heat with a rucksack. The GR7 veered eastwards, almost away from Rasquera, and I was getting more frustrated. It then appeared to be heading due south towards the mountains, rather than westward. And I had nearly another ten miles to do after Rasquera. 

The amazing terracing unknotted my knickers for a while. How much effort and muscle went into this older day miracle?

And then with head down and teeth gritted, under a scorching sun – only April for Jesus Blade’s sake – I crunched the track to Rasquera and stopped in a cool bar for a drink. 3pm and 10 miles to go. Only 10 miles done in the last 5 hours. Gordon Bennett. I had read blogs that Mosquitos swarmed in their billions in the bottom of the Ebro valley. Bowland Climber, on his blog, had warned about it, even in relatively cool weather. I decided to follow old and new roads that mirrored and hovered above the GR7, which dropped right down to the river banks. My first viewpoint of the Ebro scanned both the downstream and upstream views. Quite magnificent. How lucky am I? Some of my friends and family can’t do this or join me for work or health reasons or whatever. To think that I can look at a map of anywhere and decide to walk it, and then do it, is beyond my ken to be honest. 

Ebro baby!!!

I was making good time now, very good time. The route dropped down past spectacular rock structures and on to the valley floor. No mosquitos but I’m glad I stayed higher on the hills and got the views.

The road rejoined the GR7 and crossed the bridge over the river upstream from Benifallet.

After another hour of graft I made it in the twilight to the old Benifallet rail station. A hostel for cyclists who pedal along the old railway track. 

The only guest (again), a couple of beers on arrival, on the house, a great shower, a three course meal of local beautiful products with unlimited local wine for 5 quid. I thought the room rate was high; it was the only place realistically on the route and proved to be the bargain of bargains. 

I went to bed at 9.30pm. So should you. Night night.

The most beautiful walk that I’ve done in Spain. The most frustrating and knackering walk I’ve done in Spain. What a day! A cereal bar and bottle of water for breakfast and set off at 9am up the road to Colldejou. The sky was clear, all day as it turned out, but there was a cold wind blowing off the mountains.

It took two hours to cover the 8kms to Colldejou and I pulled into a bar restaurant for a second breakfast. Freshly made tortilla, bread and coffee. Four quid. Fantastic – and the view was great.

It’s a nice village, and here goes that flag again! 

The views are amazing, but I didn’t realise at that stage that I would have to go up those hills to the top. 

By noon I’d linked up with the GR7, and was feeling pretty fantastic. The footpath here was a wide country lane, with a view back down to the Mediterranean.

However over the back of the first mountain ridge the track shrank to an ancient footpath. It was difficult to imagine that this little path travels across Spain uninterrupted for 1200 miles (1900 kms) !! The signposts aren’t great on the GR7 so a GPS is essential, and sometimes not enough, as I found out. 

The footpath wound its way up the mountains shown three photos ago, for what seemed like a really long time. Beautiful and painful with me rucksack beginning to cut into me shoulders. It was fascinating, the hairpin bending footpath, supported by rock walls from a thousand years ago. Or summat like that. Maybe 300. Last year? I finally got to the top, in a sweat.

Looking back and inland the view was stunning.

Looking forward as I passed over the top was beckoning.

The wind had dropped and I realised I was running lower on water than I’d reckoned. The village of Llaberia arrived and I thought maybe I’d top up. The church bell struck two o’clock so I was happy life was there. It wasn’t. The village is completely weekend homes, renovated and well preserved but empty. Even the church had a mechanical bell and no-one ringing it.

I set off back along the track. Into a very warm sun. The way climbed again over another mountain ridge and dropped steeply down. 

Part way down I heard the shriek of a wild cat coming up the track. Closer and closer and then round the corner…. It was a German couple with their baby daughter in a back harness, screaming like a cat. Not out of anger or pain but just to hear the echos. We had a good chat, probably the only other walkers I’ll see this week, and bade each other well.

It was right hot now, on a south facing zig zag path, and the flying ants started to be interested in my arms and head. And I was running worryingly low on water. For three miles I stumbled forward as fast as I could, getting hotter, sweatier and a bit dizzy. Right at the valley bottom I heard running water. I left the track and cut westwards, coming across a mountain stream issuing from the bottom of the cliffs. I drank for England. 

It was getting later and I followed the signposts, finally emerging into a vineyard looking over Tivissa. I was happy.

However a mile later I was gutted when a signpost identified this village as Capcanes, with Tivissa signed as 3 hours walk up another mountain. I really struggled. Even the views weren’t floating my boat.

I reached the top, didn’t have to stop…. so I carried on, dropping down yet another long mountain face and valley. And after what seemed like a lifetime I saw Tivissa down the valley. It wasn’t signposted but it was right there below me. I finished my remaining water and made good speed towards it.

Oh sh** oh sh** oh sh****** hell. It wasn’t Tivissa. And checking my GPS I’d left the GR7 a while ago. Like too long ago to go back. I looked at where I needed to be and it involved climbing another mountain. Jesus H Blade. It took me two hours, without water. I hauled meself on top of the ridge and twenty yards below me in a ledge was a mountain hut. I shouted ‘Senor’, and to my utter astonishment and relief a bloke answered ‘Si’. He filled up my water bottles with collected rainwater. I was one lucky barstard. He said I should be in Tivissa in an hour and showed me the way. It was dark when I saw it.

Maggie rang the hotel to say I’d be late and, after 12 hours walking I finally arrived. 

I sank a few beers with fantastic tapas, and the family who ran it were really nice. Brilliant grub, a lovely room and, after a shower, a short but deep sleep.

Night night.

The guest house near Birmingham airport, Gables bed & breakfast, was grim. The pits. The glass in the bathroom was filthy and streaked with dried blood. Avoid. I set off walking from there at 5.30 this morning to the airport. Invigorating in the cool morning. The previous night’s curry lay in an unfriendly manner on my stomach, working its fiery way down my old alimentary canal. No it’s not in Venice. Flight on time, landed early and I walked out of Reus Airport at 11am. Today and tomorrow’s routes are here. Anybody spotted the fab 4 references yet? Oh God. Sounded like Rolf Harris.

Today was a road walk of about 12 miles from Reus Airport to a hostel in Montroig. The black marked route is the GR7 part of tomorrow’s walk. Reus is lacking character but there are a few corners in the centre that are attractive.

The Catalan flag is 4 red stripes on a gold background. Same down in the Valencian region where me and Maggie hang around in the Bavs’ place in Calpe and the Terralta in Beni. It is the flag of the King of Aragon; historical stuff. The Catalan Marxist separatists added a Cuban-style blue triangle with a white star. Now it’s seen everywhere and displayed by all separatists, irrespective of political persuasion. Why do they want to pull out of a substantial country? Potty – like Krankie in Killecrankie. Would Barcelona play in a Catalan league? Would they duck.

The next town was Riudoms, associated with Gaudi, that designer bloke. The Gaudi ‘Hand of God’ is substantially better than Maradonna’s.

Stopped for proper patatas bravas and grilled meat in Montbrio del Camp, and took the leftovers in a bag for my dinner. Montbrio was unremarkable but ok.

Montroig is ok, the hostel was ok and I got an early night. A lot of oks floating about so far! Before I went to bed the sky clouded and at night it looked great.

Tomorrow another road walk from Montroig to Colldejou, to meet up with the GR7 footpath. Then following it southwards over the mountains to a town called Tivissa. I was going to camp but the Hotel Braseria Tivissa reduced its room rate to £27 so that’ll do me. It’s a nice gaff by the looks of it and I’m walking over 20 miles and climbing over several mountain ridges so I’ll need it.

Night night.

Right….. I’ve been doing a bit of training in Spain on holiday with Maggie, swimming and walking really. But two days I climbed/scrambled Puig Campana rising up behind Benidorm. Higher than Ben Nevis and with two main routes; landward and seaward. The landward, round the back, route is quite strenuous and the seaward route is called ‘the Vertical’ because it’s quite steep.

Parking near the freshwater springs at Moli at the foot of the mountain the first climb I went up with Javi, a right good lad who works at the hotel that we stay at, the Aparthotel Terralta. Puig Campana looms above you soon after setting off. And the scree canyon that provides the ‘scramble track’ cuts up its middle.

The views out towards the coast get better and better the higher you climb. I didn’t realise I was so unfit. I was knackered after two minutes and gasping at the top. But we did a great time – 90 minutes. Unbelievable but I was trying not to let Javi down and he’s only 32, a martial arts expert and in the gym a lot. He’s just become a dad so I was grateful that he took the time out on his day off.

We did an impressive 90 minutes coming down as well. Over the back way.

Last Wednesday I set off at 7am to do the Vertical up and back on my Tod. It was a beautiful clear morning just before dawn as I set off. 

I made it up the scree slope to the top just before the sun came over the side of the canyon. Surprising a herd of wild Iberian Ibex halfway up.

I cut up to the right of the mountain to reach the highest summit of 4600 feet and to drink in the amazing views.


Maggie was in the car park of the hotel and I used my iPad to reflect the sun as a signal to her over 10 miles away. She saw it flashing like a good un! She’s over to the left of the photo below. You must be able to see her can’t you?

I’m up for this walk. My hips have been giving me bad pain but I’ve got superstrong Codeine tablets and the highest strength non-prescription cream. I’ll be ok but it’s more pleasant if it’s painfree. My rucksack is 10kgs without water and food, including my tent and sleeping bag so I’m very pleased at that. I’m cutting down through the mountains like this.

Reus.             Colldejou.           Benifallet.      Pauls.      Fredes.      Moralla.       Ares del Maestrat.          Vilafermosa del Riu.      Montanejos.       Bejis – where I got snowed in. About 220 miles and I’ve got 14 days walking to do it in. Should be ok. The route is called the GR7, a long distance footpath that runs from Tarifa in the southern tip of Spain, where I started last year, to Andorra in the north, high in the Pyrenees. 

I’ll blog tomorrow.

Night night.

Booked flights to go back to Reus on 2 April and come back from Alicante on 16 April. Itching to finish that walk and be able to stay on footpaths this time. Two weeks, 250 miles. Walking north to south, finishing where I left off. Walking with the sun in my face. Reus to Bejis, through some quite remote and beautiful mountains. No snow in April surely referee!!!

When the power went out for an hour, it stayed out. And still is as far as I know. Three days later. Power and hour eh? There was a young lady from Kent. Enough!

The snow settled and fell for 24 hours. Power cables came down and this region was plunged in darkness. Luckily the hostal’s heating was oil fired so my room was warm but the public rooms were cold. 

My iPad was running out of juice but it had no wifi or 3 signal anyway. My phone was topped up but the aerials were down so no signal. I had my head lamp so at least I had some light. The landlady cooked on a Primus stove. Nice food too but they ran out of milk and were down to the last three candles when I left. It was a Dunkirk spirit for the locals having breakfast in the hostal bar. No milk? Open the wine! All happy except the miserable looking old dear on the right. It’s only milk love. 

Two days full board, with great meals, £40 a day, room and board. I’ve put that weight back on. Can’t walk in the snow and nowt to do but sleep. 15 hours yesterday. Two days and I’m already stir crazy.

Saturday and I am going to go for it, probably back home. The landlady and landlord were sorry to see me go. The only resident guest. They asked me to be careful. There were two snowploughs clearing a track to the village and dropping salted grit. Just what the walker ordered.

I covered 4kms in an hour, reaching the next village, looking back at Bejis, momentarily lit for me by a shaft of sunlight. Still no electricity though. And Toras, this next village, was out too.

Another 8kms and I reach a village with a bus stop. A 4 wheel drive came down the hill and I stuck out my thumb. Result. A lift to Viver. The young woman passenger spoke English and said the next section of my walk was totally blocked. No pasar. The GR7 was out of bounds probably for the entire trip. The roads I intended to use as a substitute were blocked and I would have to wait for them to be cleared. However going north the power was also out. I needed to get through the mountains to reach the coast. The only routes open were trains and the main road from Valencia to Madrid which runs through the valley. I’d like to see the rest of the GR7. I’ll go home and come back to where I left off at some time in the future. Maybe later this year. 

The village of Viver celebrated my decision with a parade.

No snow on the valley floor. The buses were running so I got one to Valencia and a train to Alicante. Antonia booked me a flight to Leeds on Sunday afternoon and a hotel in Alicante. It’s been a good walk. 230 miles. Halfway there. Another time.

As my cousin Mick says. It’ll still be there. And with views like this it’s worth another shot or two!

Adios amigos. 

When I woke up this morning I wasn’t fantastic. I knew that at breakfast yesterday the black pudding was ok but I had a spicy sausage too and that tasted a bit off. I left it but it caught up with my exit procedure. In fact it expedited an emergency evacuation, luckily on the tarmac and not in mid-flight. I had fresh orange juice, coffee and toasted bread with crushed tomatoes, olive oil and salt for brecky. Old favourite. 

I hit the road at 8.30 with 33kms to my next stop in Bejis. Freezing wind. The landlord warned me about snow before I left. Be careful.

I got wrapped up. Who you looking at? Do you want some? 

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Sorry. Whilst I’m blogging I’m listening to the Maccabees album ‘Given to the Wild’. They’re playing ‘Forever I’ve Known’. Bloody, bloody brilliant and beyond. 

It was a long hard slog across 12 kms of plain to Alcublas. Stopping en route to evacuate stowaways. Feeling better afterwards. The route was unlovable.

A couple of farmers stopped to make sure I was ok and to tell me to be careful about the snow. It came on a bit, those small icy flakes that hit one of your eyeballs and make it sting and shut down vision for a few minutes. But it soon cleared. In Alcublas I went into the only bar open and had two more coffees. I don’t care for this Skinny Latte with a vanilla shot, extra whip of caramel and a keech composium slipped up the spoon. Southern muck. Four. But Spanish cafe con leche does something for a man. St Bruno does something more. 

I soon thrust myself out into the brutally cold wind. The landlord told me to be careful of the snow. He showed me a forecast for snow here at 3pm. It was noon. You’re talking to a northerner matey. Nae worries.

The pools of water from the recent downpours were frozen solid.

Fair play to this pilot, he landed his Piper on the smallest runway I’ve ever seen!

Taking a short cut over the shoulder of a mountain that the main road rolls around saved me a couple of kilometres. And the next town, Sacanyet, was the only interim stop between here and Bejis. And it was a long uphill walk to it. Another bloke stopped in his car and warned me about the snow. I’m northern me. I got to Sacanyet and was almost at the summit, before the road drops 8kms down to Bejis, when the snow came. Luckily a couple of lads turned up in an old VW Combi and offered me a lift. An Italian bloke from Venice (merchant he was) and a local Valencian. I was on the edge. Only 8kms to go, but the snow might be proper snow at this height. I jumped in and we were down in Bejis in 10 minutes. I was booked in Hostal El Tren Pita and I was there in time for lunch. No snow at this lower altitude. And the store room, where I left my kit whilst I ate lunch, was full of goodies.

And the view from the restaurant was great.

And then the real snow started. Thank goodness I accepted that lift and got down from the higher altitude. This is proper stuff. 

It’s still going after 5 hours and blizzards are forecast for tomorrow. I’ve booked to stay here tomorrow night. Bizarrely the snow storm is electrical so we’ve had lightning that’s knocked the electricity out for the last hour. The room is getting a little colder with no heating. Oh well. I’ve got my sleeping bag. 

I can plan a new route tomorrow and it’ll be fine. But at the moment it’s a lock-down. Just like Ghost Adventurers. And,as I wrote that, the lightning sparked through the dark room and the thunder roared. Spooky timing. Given to the Wild.

Night night. 

34 kms to be precise. I had a good night’s sleep even though temperatures plunged. The wind, which was making all sorts of strange noises in my Albergue, dropped in the night. That really cooled things down. A quick mini breakfast with black pudding and coffee and away. Up, up and away. Ah but it’s reight hard to remember that on a day like today. Arctic temperatures. 

The day was very clear and I had my long trousers on and three layers on top. I left the breakfast bar at 8am and the first spring had lovely icicles.

The sun began to rise over the mountains ahead, lighting up the mountains behind, with Chera disappearing into the distance. 

Wild artichokes and sheets of ice in the olive groves. 

It’s a strange season this time of year. Some of the trees and shrubs observe winter’s hibernation and others continue to produce, despite the cold. This grove of oranges thrives up here in the mountains.


My route took me east up and over to Sot de Chera, then north up and over to Chulilla and further north to Villar del Orzobispo. The first run over to Sot de Chera was quite beautiful.

The village was picturesque and I stopped for a couple of cups of coffee. That’s four this morning! Climbing up and away the village was spectacular in the sun and the setting.

Towards the top of the next range I looked back at the mountains I was leaving behind.

And just round the brow of the hill looking forward to my final destination way up the plain.

Winding down to the foot of the plain the mountains to the right of the photo above were bulky, dry and worthy of a Western movie.

Whilst the valley floor was the place to grow the winter greens. 

As the sun took over, and the wind remained slight, the air warmed and I stripped back to my shorts and shirt. Further up the valley there was a small hydroelectricity plant fed from storage in a rock face. If you look closely to the right just above the cables are two rock climbers, with another one dressed in red further up the climb. Proper climbers. When I say I climb I mean walk or scramble up a hill. These folk climb.

The road approached Chulilla, looking good in the sun with ancient castle walls above it.

And the really amazing surprise was the depth and severity of the gorge that cut through behind the town. Spectacular.

It was getting later in the afternoon now. Cloud had developed and a cold wind returned. I redressed the balance. Well, the old bloke really, not the balance. A paraglider flung him or herself off the cliffs to my left and I only managed a poorly defined outline. He or she must have been f..f..freezing. 

​
Eventually Villar arrived at my feet. Eventually I made it to my room and showered in warm water. Eventually dinner was served, they don’t half eat late. Eventually I’ve had my fill and I’m going to bed. Good scran though.

Night night.

Everybody knows, that baby’s got new clothes, but lately I’ve seen her ribbons and her bows, have fallen, from her curls. Worth a Nobel Prize in its own right, never mind the rest of Dylan’s enormous and beautiful body of work. Don’t go yet Bob. It was bad enough with Bowie and Prince leaving us, never mind the shock and finality of losing Leonard. I was working in Paris when Lou Reed died. I think I’ve told you this before. I walked into the recruitment consultant near the Champs Elysees (see, I can do posh as well as Sheffield scum) and a telly in reception had a photo of Lou on the news. I asked the consultant if he was playing in Paris and he said ‘No he’s dead’. I just burst into tears.  Fat bloke in his late 50’s weeping like a baby in reception. Bet they dined out on that.

Will and Cheggers. Do you remember the day we loaded my old Morris Minor, Tank, and flitted from that Leinster Square hostel (craphole) in Paddington to the civilised Passfield Hall of Residence in Bloomsbury in January 1973? The last thing to be loaded was my record player and we played Ziggy Stardust from beginning to end, singing and dancing each track with elation. That dump should have been gutted, disinfected and rebuilt. We thought it was ok though. Three northern lads in the smoke at 18 years old. Love you guys.
Back to Spain. Before I get ridiculously emotional in this warm and noisy bar up in the hill town of Chera, full of folk my age or older, shouting and bawling. 

Set off late this morning at 10.15 and headed north-east out of town towards the mountains. I passed a bar full of working guys in their reflective work gear, irresistible. The bar not the guys. Jesus I’m not staying at the YMCA. Not homophobic either. Any road it was great. Two coffees, scrambled eggs with chunks of cured ham, tortilla with onions, fried slices of fresh cod and bread. Breakfast like a king. Passed a bread shop that had breakfast on garlic bread in the window.

The road today was all uphill for 19kms and it was clear, windy and very cold. The cold weather from Greece and Italy is making its way across Spain and we’re one of the first areas to cop it. Minus 10 forecast tonight. Forget footpaths and tents. This is mountain roads, hostels and warmth. And beauty… it’s Spain after all!

The authorities don’t just stand around and boast…. ok Bob that’s enough thanks. They are springing into action with signs and salt spreading.

It’s snowing in Mallorca but I think I’ve got at least a couple of days walking before it snows here. Then get down to the coast for warmth and safety I think. Becoming a soft southern bedwetter in my old age. Second anti-southern reference in two days. Becoming a bit regionalist for Hampstead tastes. Third.

The GR7 crossed the road I was on. There’s a bit of a mess here with it being diverted for miles.

Sure enough I crossed another version 10kms later. 

The mountain scenery then just took over and made me remember why I’m doing this route and not a flat and homogenous Pilgrimage westwards.

It was very windy, nearly blowing me over at one stage, and the wind was really freezing. Sorry to keep on about it but the photos make it look warm. Tint warm. Scold.

This bloke loves it though. The last time I saw you, you looked so much older. Thanks Len.

My gear was heavy on my left shoulder, different parts of a more mature body take strains at different times. Mine urts allovver mostet time. This is my gear, with the Scallop shell so folk don’t think I’m a vagrant. 

And this is what folk come here for. Poorer definition as I had to zoom in but that’s a ruined castle with a waterfall bottom right. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian. It’s lovely round here.

Coming up to Chera the town isn’t lovely. Not in the grip of winter anyway. But it grows on you with every step nearer the Albergue. 

And someone has class. I’ve never meant to be unkind. 

That is Elvis, for the benefit of the only person not to recognise him. Own up you young devil. And this is tinsel town.

Eventually got to my Albergue and rang the reception woman to gain entry. To the Albergue you filthy minded beast. I’m there on my own tonight. The only occupant. My room is fine, I’ve left the little heater on, and there is hot water. Ten quid! It’s potty. Might sleep in my sleeping bag on the bed in my boots and walking gear to make it easier to get up in the morning. 

Cheers me dears. I’m out here for summat to eat and to get an early night. Up to Villar del Arbozispo, weather permitting, tomorrow. 30kms.

Night night my lovely dears.

 And thank you for the days, gentlemen. Those endless days those sacred days you gave me. I bless the light, I bless the light that shines on you believe me.

Now I’m not frightened of this world believe me. Or the next. 

Woke up early and thought I couldn’t get back to sleep so I watched Drunk Russians and Fails on YouTube. Daft but it makes me laugh. The Rooskies are basic but tough and seem like half decent folk. I think Trump is right to want closer relationships. Why generate conflict? However his regard for Russia and the UK seems unique in his repertoire. Hates everyone else! He’s the President. The elected President. People like Merryl Streep make me puke. Democracy, democracy, democracy. Until I don’t like the outcome. Wazzock. We had to put up with Thatcher. Didn’t grin but bared it. The people have spoken Streep and if you don’t like what they have said then push off somewhere else. Saudi. 

And while we’re on that. What a gas that we voted Brexit. The outcome will not be pleasant but just to let Londoners and the City know that there is one thing that they cannot buy makes it worth every penny (that they couldn’t buy the outcome with). The will of the people. And in the eyes of the polling booth, my fine feathered, silver spooned chums – all animals are equal. And none are more equal than others. 

Went back to sleep and then stayed in bed when I woke up, planning routes. Eventually got up and wandered around a bit.

Not a remarkable town by any means but ok. 

Had a great meal in quite a posh restaurant where the owner spoke English. First time I’ve spoken English for a week, except on the phone to She who must be adored. And she is. Local wine, chickpea stew, lamb chops and flan. All perfect. Less than ten quid! 

The wine heritage of Requena is a long one, there’s even a Wine Pilgrimage from here to Santiago de Compostela, the reputed burial place of the remains of Saint James the Great, one of the 12 apostles. That reputation brings hundreds of thousands of pilgrims across the plains of Spain every year. But not on the wine route.

I’ve been thinking. The weather on the telly is not great up north. It’s getting colder and Friday it’s due for heavy rain in this region. That means that at the height I’m walking at it will be snow. The forecast reckons snow over 500 metres. I’ll be well over that. New plan. 

1. Forget wild camping unless circumstances are forced. Hurray.

2. Stick to the mountain route but take mountain roads and not footpaths unless essential. 

3. Stay where there are hostels and be prepared to walk short or long days to move from hostel to hostel.

4. Where I take footpaths it has to be the GR7 which is known and recognised by the local authorities.

5. What were the rules again? Sorry. Can you repeat that?

Tonight I’m a Madrileno. 

Good. I’ve got a plan. 

19 kms tomorrow to Chera. A hostel costing £10 for the night up in the mountains above here. Wednesday 30 kms to Villar de Arzobispo to a really homely hostel with great mountain food costing £25for the night. Thursday 33 kms to Bejis to another homely hostel for £23 for the night. From then on the GR7 gives a hostel each night for a while, so I can go back on path if I want, dependent on the weather. All is better now my mind and plan are clear.

Night night.