I was sorry to leave Cortes. I’d enjoyed my mini-break there and I’ll remember the town fondly. I had breakfast in the hostel and shook hands with the landlord. He gave me a bottle of locally grown and pressed olive oil and said to take it home to the family. I’d showed him the photos last night. The wind is stronger and colder today, needing three layers plus Auntie Vera’s hat plus Liddy’s scarf. Still got me shorts on though. No surrender on the lower body front. And back. The road dips down towards the lake and runs round the hydroelectricity plant and onto the bridge through a tunnel. No lights.

Crossing the lake it was bitterly cold on the exposed bridge.

Looking the other way Cortes and its river hung over the lakeside.

Looking down from the opposite hillside the road reminds me of when the kids were little. The bridge shunts the motorcyclists along (it’s Sunday and they’re even in the mountains) like a long spoon into the tunnel’s mouth. I fed my dad like that recently when he was in hospital. Out of duty rather than devotion.

I was going to do just 15kms today and stay up in the mountains, trapping down to Requena tomorrow. The road turns to the right of the mountain range to work it’s way up to Venta de Gaeta, a little village with a well known restaurant and a hostel, which wasn’t answering the phone. I turned left. Another road in the opposite direction runs parallel to the lake and then winds up into the mountain range and over. It joins a main road after 30kms and that runs for 19kms into Requena. I’m going to walk 49 kms today and sleep in a cheap hotel in Requena, a fair sized town. I felt fit. The pack was comfortable on my back and my muscles were feeling good. And the hills were cold but looked good.

I made good time, after leaving at 9.30. I reckoned I’d be there by midnight. There were no cars on the mountain roads. None. On the middle slopes were vineyards for the first time in a hundred miles. And higher up almond groves that had been given recent attention. 

I just kept going. I’d bought a big block of chocolate and kept eating bits off it throughout the day and sipping water. On the top of the mountains there was an abandoned village. It looked sad and lonely but there are many like it across Spain I’m sure.

Sunset came and I just kept going. I felt like a machine. A young machine. Makes a change. The day’s R&R had done me good.

As it turned dark I was on the main road but turned on to a lesser used side road that would save me a kilometre. It was now pitch black and nothing but fields and forests and the occasional farm, where dogs would hear the click click of my walking poles and go berserk in the distance. I strapped on my head torch but kept marching. It was now beginning to hurt. The lights of Requena poked through in the distance.

At 8.30 I finally made it to the hotel Maggie had booked earlier. Knackered but happy to see a bed out of the wind. I put my long trousers on – it’s Sunday – went round the corner to a local cafe bar and had local wine with oxtail and chips. The old git did it. 49 kms. Kiss my tomatoes, Christian!

Night night. 

Cortes is an energy town. Hydroelectricity and nuclear generation just down the road. But it’s Sheffield in miniature, character, class (working), talent, history and culture. What a great day. I’ve rested, eaten well, blogged and watched some footy. More than owt I’ve planned some options going forward as it’s getting very cold and windy and fewer days wild camping the better. Not that I’m a pansy. 

I dint do no drugs or owt. Just steady exercising in my local gymnasium.

Today has been lovely. I had breakfast in the hostel at 9.30.  This is the early morning freezing view from my bedroom window.

I went back to bed to plan going forward. 

There was a bit of a Saturday market and I stocked up on water, food and batteries for Gav. My mate.

Then I went to Emilio’s restaurant and had a great meal and  a pitcher of really nice wine. I stayed there watching Spanish footy and doing me blogs for four hours. Loved it. And they charged me £11.00 for the lot. The scran was delightful. Black pudding soup.

I offloaded my stuff at the hostel and it’s San Anton’s day. The patron saint of animals. They build huge bonfires in the streets here, which horses jump over. It’s magical and very warming in the sharp icy air. The clear day and night makes it more magical.

They’re all over the place. Brilliant. Everyone has been nice to me and my Spanish has improved today. The owner of my hostel is the same age as me and Maggie. He’s one of my bezzies. 

When the fires go down a bit they all put their scran in the hot ashes to cook. Brilliant. With Coldplay blasting through the main plaza.

All is good. Until tomorrow but that’s just another time.

Night night. 

So David Smith, (you know you’re in trouble now) what have you done so far? Speak up lad, speak up. 

Beni to Relleu 24 kms                           

Relleu to Benifallim 30

Benifallim to Alcoy 23

Alcoy to Bocairent 30

Bocairent to Vallada 24 

Vallada to Benali 29

Benali to Collado Carroche 29

189 kilometres Sir. About 118 miles Sir. 

Well done boy. What a son, what a son, what a bum, what a son, you’re just a – boom boom boom- lick spittle. Lick spittle. 7 ‘o’ levels. Thank you Lord for giving me such a son such a bum, such a son, such a bum. Good boy. Good boy. Good lad. 

Thank you Sir. Please don’t hurt me.

The alarm went at 6am. Charge running down on my phone, iPad and Gav. Found some batteries for Gav, thank God. Don’t do this walk without a gps device with a GPX track on it that keeps you on route. It’s essential unless you want to get lost for months.

31 kilometres to do today and I’m determined to make it to Cortes de Pallas. I rang a hostel when I got a signal yesterday on top of a hill and I’m booked in. I need a good meal and a warm bed. I would have crumbled if I were Shackleton. I strapped on my headlamp, dismantled the tent, had a bounty bar, salted peanuts, two dates and water for breakfast and set out into the cold wind. Wrapped up in my Auntie Vera knitted hat, cashmere scarf gifted by Liddy Lin, waterproof jacket gifted by Tesco for £18, thermal jumper, Blades shirt, shorts and knickers. No commando capers today. 

I set off at 6.30 in the dark and marched with grim purpose. My duty as a trekker and my necessary purpose as a man. It was a very cold wind which made me wince. My chest was bad last night but a decent length of broken sleep had gently waved it away. Only to return I think like an unwanted neighbour who keeps running out of sugar. The sun eventually crept between the horizon and the cloud cover, lighting up the vapours in the valleys. 

Apart from a couple of four wheel drives who have passed and stopped out of morbid interest to assess my preparedness for these conditions, I haven’t seen a soul in the last two days. I’m going to make that warm bath and soft bed tonight if I have to drag myself there. In the half light I spotted some headlights slowly snaking up the hill towards me. Must be hunters at this time of day. As they eventually arrived I spotted rifles in the back of the cab and gave them a friendly wave. Thought it might extend my life expectancy longer than a V sign. 
The track dropped down and came to a real, if poorly maintained, road which according to Gav I should follow. 

Don’t want you to think that I’ve just relied on Gav for prep for navigation on this trip. I did weeks of prep, including downloading over 100 small maps, big scale, and read several blogs in detail of people who had walked this track. I’ve done a spreadsheet of where I should be when and whether I’m camping or hosteling that night. I’ve photocopied smaller scale maps so that if it snows badly or is otherwise horrible I know which direction to escape in. The scallop shell on my pack indicates that I’m a pilgrim not a vagrant and the document far right is my Pilgrim Credentials. It’s to get folk to treat me courteously as I treat them. I have a list of every hostel and spring on the route. Don’t do this if you’re not prepared. It can turn nasty even when you are prepared so improve your chances. And truthfully Harris is for overgrown paths, to cut a way through, but for wild dogs too. They can be nasty in one in a million cases. So can Harris.

So down to the bottom of the mountain road. And the valley floor opens out into a tight, but not insignificant, agricultural plain. Strewn with boulders.

How do they farm this land? By clearing it. Back breaking, by hand, diligent rock clearance. So that folk like this can plough the land. The second contact with humanity today. 

The road became a track through wilder land and heads north for 12kms before turning east along the side of a mountain range overlooking a man-made lake and snaking along for another 12kms to Cortes de Pallas. 

This is looking at the buttress I have to go around to the left,  8kms before turning to the right and heading east.

Halfway to the easterly turn a waterfall, possibly unheard for a few years, pours down from the buttress. Beautiful. Fill your flasks.

Hitting the T junction I turned right, climbed halfway up the hill and headed east. The views, with an ancient Moorish fort on the other side of the lake, looked amazing.

Even the clouds looked great.

And the lake cartainly does.

This is a long path that works it’s way up and down for a long way. It doesn’t take bikes, too many boulders, and it isn’t really a direct route from anywhere to anywhere. It’s a route that the GR7 made. So no-one walks on it. So lots of wildlife uses it. I saw deer, rare in this huntin’ shootin’ country, and wild oryx. As well as lots of mud baths along the path used by wild boar. Although they had dried up since the rains.

The views of the lake, castle and mountains to the side became more lovely and imposing, in proportion to my fatigue.

Late on in the afternoon, after sweltering in the sun and shivering in the shadows, I made it over the last hill and saw Cortes de Pallas below.

And it was still Christmas.

I had the longest bath in history, washed my clobber in the bath (which was a jacuzzi bath) and hung it up in front of the hot air fan. Limping down for dinner I had menu del dia which was mountain soup, with lots of veg and meat,  a whole squid with chips and chocolate custard. Kismet Hardy. (Again). 

Night night my loves. 

I did 29 kilometres yesterday from Vallada and it’s 88 kms in total from Vallada to Cortes de Pallas. The night was cold but not unfriendly. Bizarrely a car came up the track early in the night but it didn’t stop and there were no animal noises. There were two rocks under the tent and I had to make a letter S shape round them to sleep. It takes a while to get used to this.

It was just coming light when I had breakfast, dates, cheese and half a bounty bar with water. 

I hit the track at 8.50 am and made good speed downhill as the sun came out to play (with his hat on) hip, hip, hip hooray. 

The road passed a dry river bed in the bottom and cut up yet another hillside. I took three wrong turns that Gav spotted before I’d gone too far wrong. I hope Gav dunt brek. It was early afternoon before I got to the top and dropped down over the back of the hill. This is great exercise for a twenty year old. Yesterday a sign came up pointing to Casas de Benali saying 2hrs 15mins. It took me three and a half hours. Who does it in 2.15? Superman – without a rucksack? 

Another valley bottom, with some wild deer who had avoided being shot in this deep countryside leaping away from me over the tussocks and fallen trees. There was a good flow of clean water so I topped up my bottles. Had to get my feet a bit damp again crossing the stream.

This next climb was a megathon, finishing up at Pico de Carroche looking back south east.

I missed another turn. Apparently this is the E4 European super track from Spain to Greece. Jesus.

Another 4kms and I’d be at Collado Carroche. Nothing there but a spring but that would be gratefully received. I got there in half darkness, sorry no photo, climbed up the next hillside and pitched me tent up a bank at the side of the road under some pine trees. The flattest part was a worn animal track through the grass tussocks so I put broken branches across the path before the tent to warn the wildies that Dave woz ere. Another 29kms under my belt. 

The wind had got up. I lay underneath my sleeping bag fully clothed including my socks and boots to get an early start in the dark. I hadn’t eaten much in two days and wolfed down a tin of cold beans and a flask of spring water. I was fatigued and heard people talking. I’m sure it’s the funny little squeaks I was making due to a bad chest and a bit of a sniffly cold. It sometimes sounds like folk talking quietly against the whoosh of the wind in the treetops.  Or it could have been the spirits. 

I didn’t care too much. The spirits need love too and they’re only what we might have been and what we will be. Night night.

You know when some words don’t look right. Do you get that? Being just looks wrong today. Like Boeing without it’s O. Bering without it’s R or Beijing without it’s etc.etc. Anyway I’m glad that God made such beauty around me. My walking environment, the Blades and my family in reverse order. I’ll sing hymns while I’m walking. 

My paternal grandfather owned a forge in Sheffield. Not as grand as it sounds, he was Little Mester rather than Master, and one of my many uncles (Grandad was prolific on the reproduction front) wrote an article in the Guardian about him when he died in the 1960’s. My Uncle worked in the forge  as a child and remembers him singing hymns as he hammered industrial scissor blades white hot from the forge. Or summat like that, memory in shotgun rather than rifle territory. When I reread that a couple of years ago, after discovering a cut out copy lurking in the loft, I was touched. But the article was entitled Double-Edged and there was a selfish and uncaring side to him too. He wasn’t a family man. 

He chewed and smoked tobacco in a pipe. When I was about five years old he gave me a wad of tobacco to take a bite out of. I pewked and had a headache for hours. I was about to say what an old bastard trick that was but I’ve just remembered feeding Juliet a spoonful of chili oil at the same age, saying it was tomato ketchup. I wet myself laughing at her distress. Some of the genetic chain is unbroken. I hope I care more and that my epitaph is more like At Least He Tried. The maternal grandfather? Words cannot be written or spoken that would adequately describe the beauty of his soul.

I was in the Hotel Makasa four days ago and a taxi took me back in the morning to where I had left off my walk the night before in Vallada. A Spanish breakfast in a busy bar and a walk past a local mini-chapel.

There must have been an air of hopelessness about my gait as the vultures circled in the sky. Big buggers they were too. But not from this distance.

It took me a while to cross the valley floor and make my way to the start of the canyon leading up into the mountains, and some of the way was a struggle round flooded patches from the recent deluge. Eventually I had to wade through a pool, getting my socks and boots wet for the rest of the day. The jungle was too thick either side for me to work through, even with my chopper ‘Harris’. 

My feet might have been wet but my eyes were delighted. The track drifted up, down and across both sides of the canyon and was mostly rough rocks building up to a strewn boulder path. 

Nobody. Nowt. Even the vultures had pushed off. Disappointed at my survival. The track up the canyon wound for at least 10 kms, twisting and turning and revealing fantastic aspects and features.

After a sweaty lifetime, my pack was peak full with food, water and what I’d brung, and the sun was out, the valley opened out with olive trees and a ruined farmhouse and the track kicked up to my right by the side of this grand arch. Duke. Ferdinand.

I struggled to climb up and escape the confines of the canyon. But it was great looking down to where I’d been and where I would have gone.

The path led further up a reasonably flat back of a long escarpment, with long distance sideways and backwards views, and then dropped steeply down the scarp.

Working down, across and up valley sides became the norm. Until a farm blocked my way. Thank God for my gps, Gav. You can’t rely on signposts. This is one of the primary walking routes across Spain, GR7, and it forms part of a pan-European route that arches through France, Switzerland, Austria etc to the southern tip of Greece. And it’s not properly signed, locals don’t know it exists and nobody walks on it. They’re too busy walking in groups of hundreds of people on pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela like I was going to before I realised how crap it is. Flat, featureless Caminos. I’d crossed the one I was planning to take earlier in the day. Earlier in the day I’d crossed the one I was planning to take. Back to the blocked way.

I climbed over the farm fence and crossed it’s land. A pack of dogs suddenly let loose and I reached for Harris in my shoulder bag. Luckily they were penned behind an inner fence. If I’d got pepper spray I could have blasted the lot. An angry young man stormed towards me but relaxed a bit when I was ok with him. He explained in Spanish that he ran an animal sanctuary and they had to fence off land to keep a wide variety of animals. The GR7 maintenance crew had come out a year before trying to cut a swathe through the woodland and scrub around the farm and he’d seen them off. He smelt. My sense of smell is poor but he stank of sweat and unwashed body parts. Dirty get. He helped me through the scrub on the outer fence and got me some water from their well. The water level here had dropped to 300 metres below the surface so I was topping up with deep supplies. Tasted great. A woman who spoke a bit of English said hello. Bet she stank too.

Just two hundred metres away the track rose up a very steep climb. It was a killer. I pulled myself up with the pack pulling me back. At one point I slipped and grabbed hold of a cactus. Kiss my tomatoes Christian! That hurt. I still can’t get all the spikes out three days later. One poor little bugger had given up half way up.

Finally I emerged out on the top ledge. A feeling of relief.

I belted it down the last three kilometres as it was going dark and found Casas de Benali to be a tiny row of terraced cottages less then 50 metres long. Two people were taking the evening air and neither knew of of any rooms locally. I traipsed up the trail and plunged thirty feet into a wood, hidden by the trees from the track, pitched my tent, had a can of cold beans and slept fitfully from 7pm to 8am. 

A long, long day and a cold, cold night. Night night.

I thought I’d got enough signal to send the message about Vallada to Benali but it’s only just posted. I was in me tent two nights ago on the edge of a forest. It goes dark at 6 and light at 8 so not much walking time. Here’s me intent.

I have made it to Cortes de Pallas and am in a hostel. The walk was 55 miles over the last three days, which is ok but there int owt from Vallada to here apart from one mountain spring so my pack was over 20 kilos with two days water and three days food. On top of which there is mountain range after mountain range to climb. I am tired and I’d scheduled a break here so I’ve got a rest day tomorrow to recover, replenish and blog. See you tomorrow.

Night night. 

In tent and done a very hard day’s slog. 
Saving power and not very good signal. Will blog fully in a couple of days hopefully. X

Last night (she said, oh baby I feel so down), well the bit in brackets is actually the lyrics of a Strokes song. And excellent it is too. Last night after checking in I went to the only place open in Bocairent for tea and chat. Two pints of Estella damm, one glass of tinto, patatas bravas, home made pork belly scratchings, octopus, mini spicy sausages with bread to soak up the juice, and a plate of kidney shaped beans in a garlic gravy which blew my socks away. Kiss my tomatoes Christian! Less than £11. 

This morning was cold and a bit of a breeze, but no frost around as it was cloudy and rainy. Just a wind chill factor. I headed down the GR7 track and realised that the first 20 kms were across a plain and with the rain in Spain it was going to be as boggy as heck. I made a snap, and good, decision to turn around and detour to Vallada by road. A local bar was open so I stopped for two coffees and a tostado for breakfast. Felt better. Bocairent looked ok as I left, despite the power cable!

The rain came on faster and I had to put on my Swiss Army waterproof coat over my rucksack, which makes me look like this.

People tend not to give me the benefit of the doubt. I don’t give a shit. I’m too old and battleworn to care what strangers think of me. That’s for people who are climbing the life and career ladder. I stepped off it. 

The road curled down a canyon towards Ontinyent.

In extremis I could sleep in these caves. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The extent of the recent deluge was amazing and apparent. This is water deposited debris a good 40 feet above the present river level. Just six feet below the level of the road I was standing on. Unbelievable.

The farmland survives on irrigation from the river and the channels weren’t running. They were blocked by flood deposits.

You can probably only see one of the guys in blue down in the channel on the bank on the other side of the river but there was a gang of them digging out the mud from the deluge. Just one little blue dot showing. Spot the dot. Left of the little concrete stanchion. 

After Ontinyent the road rose up over another line of hills. Knackering. Looking back at Ontinyent the weather cleared a bit. The peak in the middle is the top of Serra Mariola which I climbed up yesterday. 

Eventually the top of the hill arrived and the road started dropping. There’s no traffic. Nothing for an hour. After another hour walking Vallada appeared in the valley. Beyond the valley are the mountains in the distance that I’ll be walking through. So far it’s been a bit domesticated. Those distant peaks are in uninhabited territory. Well, not many folk anyway. 

The peaks above Vallada looked pretty impressive, none more so than this baby. Reading glasses will pick out the cross on top! 

I pulled into Vallada, well I walked actually but pulled sounds cool. I asked around if there was a room for the night and there was a clear no. I had to wait for the supermarket to open at 5pm and I stocked up for the next three days as there are no shops or anything for the next 88 kms. My intention was to get back on the trail and pitch my tent but it was getting dark and I was nowhere near the forest cover I need to wild camp. Maggie had spotted a hotel on the internet, 8 kms from where I was. Coincidentally it was on the Pilgrimage route which I had originally intended to follow to Santiago de Compostela, and I had my pilgrim credentials with me, which I’d obtained from The Friends of the Camino. I called the hotel and they offered me the Pilgrim rate for the room. I went for it and stuck my thumb out as it was getting dark. The first truck stopped and gave me a lift to the hotel door. Result. I paid and the hotel stamped my credentials. It’s only a white lie that I’m doing the Pilgrimage. Nothing too bad. I’m in my room eating my stores. Darkish because the main light dunt work.

Not only stores but the best dried dates you can ever get. Maggie bought them from a couple across our road who support the livelihoods of Palestinian farmers under occupation by distributing Zaytoun products. Beautiful taste in the mouth and in the heart.

No escape route now. I’ve got 88 kms to my next possible bed in Cortes de Pallas. Fanny Adams between now and then apart from one spring. I can’t avoid wild camping any more.

Or I could pretend to be tough and defiant.

Night night.

The smell of crushed wild thyme under your feet. Kiss my tomatoes Christian. Which means absolutely nothing but I thought might represent an English version of an American superlative. Tolkien must have based ‘athelas’ on thyme. Surely ref?

I’m including the kilometres from my mistakes below so this is what I’ve walked so far.

Beni to Relleu                         24 kms                           

Relleu to Benifallim              30

Benifallim to Alcoy               23

Alcoy to Bocairent                 30

So that’s 107 – 66 miles. That’s ok. If I can average that I’ll be ok. 

Camping tomorrow unless an angel intervenes. It’s a bit chilly and damp in most places for that caper. But needs must. Cheers babes.

I felt terrible last night. I felt like I couldn’t move my arms and just felt ill. It cleared up but I had a fitful night and the dreams weren’t mine. Like I’d got someone else’s head on my body. Weird. In the morning I felt crap too and was bunged up and sneezing. I’ve not been ill on my previous walks and didn’t want to be now. Then it occurred to me that I wasn’t drinking a lot of water. I knocked a litre down, had some breakfast and set off. The morning was clear and freezing so I had my hat on. I felt better after a while and made a point of drinking at each spring I came across. 

Alcoy looked good in the morning sun.

Hi G.

I’ve got a GPS, only a basic Garmin Etrex 20 but I downloaded a GPX of the GR7 track and it was brilliant and essential today with poor waysigning. That’s brilliant jargon int it? It looked good signage when I eventually joined the GR7 but it peaked early.

Straightaway I was into the type of country I’d come here for.

The track followed the gorge floor for a couple of kilometres before cutting up the valley side, giving welcome relief from the sub-zero temperatures down below. 

The track climbed another 8 kilometres and part way up it was blocked by fallen trees. Lots of em. I had to climb up the banking and climb over wherever I could. The foliage was dense and spiky. Not great when you’re in shorts commando (too much information) and a t shirt, but no hat by this time as it was very warm in the sun.

The mountain is over 4000 feet and it was a reight slog. At the top the views were well worth it. Stunning. 

The air was good to breathe and the water from the springs was sweeter than any I can recall. Not cold either as it filters through the mountain core.

The route cuts round the top of the mountain, Serra Mariola, and heads west and undulatingly downhill. But it disappears and then miraculously reappears two hundred metres to the left or right and you end up pushing through gorse and other shrubs to get back to it. You only know it’s there because of a trusty GPS, that I’ve christened Gav. Without Gav I’d still be up there.

The sun was now full on and it was really beautiful out there.

But time was moving on and the track descended into forest where the views disappeared.

I saw one other walker all day in 9 hours and 30 kilometres. A Spanish bloke coming the other way and we shook hands and wished each other a good trail ‘Buen Camino’. As the sun slowly descended the frost began to expand its territory.

Still warm in the sun I quickened my pace but I knew it would be almost dark before I made it to Bocairent. Down in the valleys it was a British late spring afternoon out of the shade and you could feel growth starting.

I came on a deserted old church with the oldest tree outside that I’ve ever seen. There were stone ramparts either side to support this ancient oak.

The sun was sinking down when I first spotted Bocairent and started to drop down a steep mountain track towards it. 

It’s a pretty town. With ancient narrow streets. 

The local premiership team, Valencia, are on tv. I think I’ll watch it – the atmosphere here in a local cafe where I’ve topped up with tapas is pretty good. Night night my darlings.