I slept well and breakfast was typical with the dried meats, tostadas and cheese. Just perfect, and I ate enough to carry me through the day. My mate Peter said today would be no easier than yesterday. Bring it on. I’m hard as anything I am, me. Well as long as it’s not too difficult. The distance was 15 miles today and I was aiming to camp around Fredes. I set off at 10am. The first climb was hard but the views speak for themselves.

The route slipped over another very long, high ridge and worked its way up and down along it, wherever a path could go to avoid cliff drops. Knackering but stunning.

And looking out to the east, when the opportunity arose, the Ebro delta was still visible through the haze. 

I can’t describe how much I’m loving this. It’s silent but for the birdsong and the occasional animal hearing me coming and scrambling across scree or crashing through trees. This route really clings to the mountainside and any slip would be painful, with vertigo inducing drops on occasions. Just take care and drink lots of water so as not to lose balance. I’m sweating lots. I must stink but I don’t really give a duck.

Eventually the track twisted over the ridge inland looking west. 

And the path itself had more of a woodland feel to it than exposed rocky mountainside.

It began to drop down a bit more than it hiked up, although it was still a bit of a rollercoaster. And it wove through an area where horses were free roaming and then cattle were about. I held my bottle walking past long horned cows, ostensibly ignoring them but cacking myself. Waiting for any sound of a movement to jump up a rock or climb a tree or scream. Or summat. There were a few pastures about now.

But dropping down meant climbing up again. As I reached the top of the next ridge I slumped down on a rock and drank a bottle of water which I’d earlier swallowed and then filled up at a rare spring. Limestone don’t lend itself to mountain streams. I heard the distinctive chirp of an ibex but had to put my iPad on maximum expand to catch the two of them in this photo, plus a baby behind a bush between the two.

The path took a drop and final climb, through undergrowth. 

As I cleared the woodland I caught the first sight of Fredes; it was 6pm and it had taken me 8 hours to get here. I kept my eyes open for camping spots, although it’s technically illegal in the Natural Parks. 

Walking into the tiny village I found a bar/restaurant which I’d seen on Booking.com offering apartments at €60 a night. There was a group of folk outside and I chatted to them in extremely limited Spanish. Inside I ordered a beer and asked the guy behind the bar if there was a single room available anywhere. He directed me to one of the women outside, Nuri, who rented out rooms. €20 and I was the only person in the house. It was great.

The bar closed at 6.30 but they made me a sandwich to eat in the house. I watched telly and went to bed. Tired but happy.

Then it got a bit odd.  I was blogging yesterday’s blog and came across a photo that I didn’t know I’d taken. It was an unfocused close range shot of vegetation. I was going to delete it but then a woman’s face appeared bottom left, immediately followed by a young man’s face top right. The woman looked like my mum but I didn’t recognise the young man. Neither of them looked happy. I shut it down and opened it again. For a second all was blurred but then they both jumped out again. This made me uncomfortable. I moved my legs off the bed and saw a scratch in the shape of an inverted cross. 

It was getting a bit silly now but I had to delete the photo. And then I deleted it from the ‘deleted items’ folder. I slept ok but my dreams were unusual. It doesn’t help sometimes to spend long days alone. The mind can take over. But mostly it’s ok. 

Night night.

I was staying at the Alberg dels Ports in Pauls in a six bunk bed room on my own. Paid the dormitory rate unall but nobody else there. I set up a washing line across the room from a top bunk into the bathroom (I usually carry a fair length of parachute cord). Some of my gear was stinking so I washed it in the shower, hung it on my line. Dry by morning. Two cereal bars, lots of water and away at 8am. The walk today was marked as ‘severe’on a GR7 website. The overall climb was 5200 feet over only 14 miles so it was going to be tough. I was heading for a Refugio, like a Youth Hostel type thing, in Caro, a tiny hamlet high in the Dels Ports National Park. Me being young and that.

I promised myself that I’d follow the GPS route and not get distracted and lost. I’d got enough batteries for my GPS to last two weeks non-stop. It was a cool morning and the first rise continued for four miles up to over 4000 feet. Higher and higher the views, as usual, got greater. Looking back Pauls glowed in the morning sun.

I missed a turnoff the main path, which I hadn’t spotted on the GPS. However by the time I realised I was going wrong I had reached a new rough road climbing up the mountain which was signposted as the GR7. I followed it and thought it must cross the track that I’d missed at some stage. There could only be one pass over these cliffs.

This route led me up to a farm, which like all buildings in the mountains, was uninhabited. But the crops were recently maintained so it wasn’t deserted. At this altitude the almonds weren’t developing, they were still in bloom. A good couple of months behind the valley. 

Outside the farmhouse was an amazing dining table and seating made out of tons of slabs of limestone. Fantastic. 

That was where the charm ended. The road in was open but the whole of the estate was surrounded by metal fencing. Even the tracks that were identified as public rights of way were blocked by the fence, although folk had climbed over and bent it in frustration. I headed along a high terrace in the farm towards my GPS track. To get there I had to get under a hole in the fence and drag my gear through, and drop down to a dry stream bed. I climbed up the far side which was steep and covered in gorse which tore my legs, but I couldn’t use my machete to cut the gorse as I needed both hands to climb the steep bank. By this time I’d  passed the path marked on the GPS. Bugger it. The GPS was wrong!

I climbed carefully back down the bank and up to the fence, which was too high to climb at this location but proved bendable enough to force forward and crawl over. Serves the get right for blocking legitimate rights of way. I walked past my illegitimate one over to the far side of the estate to try to find a way up the mountain. Long story short – it took me an hour and a half to fight through pine, gorse, fencing and brambles to get up to a path over the mountain. Pissed off? The views chilled my ill humour. Looking back and looking forward. 

The route after the pass was down and up a number of high ridges and when I thought I was not far off Caro I bumped into the only person I was to see all day. Another walker coming in the opposite direction. He told me I’d only done 5 of my 14 miles. It had taken four and a half hours. Cheers mate. Climbing up in the heat with a rucksack was draining. And this route climbed a thousand feet more than Ben Nevis. There he is again, the old comparator mate Ben. 

The route was a killer. But an inspiration.

And way down below over to the right in the distance was the Ebro delta. Glorious Espana.

The Iberian Ibex do a funny kind of whistle cum chirp to warn each other of unwelcome company, and I can recognise it now. These beauties adorned the skyline.

The route became an exposed tiny path along a mountainside which was funnelling up strong winds from below. I took my time along the next 3 miles, determined to keep my footing. But these views were my reward.

Me and nobody else. Here in this high and windy but stunning landscape. I drew every long straw in the book. 

I was sinking. I can do the Yorkshire three peaks in ten and a half hours, it rises the same height and is ten miles longer. But here in the heat with a rucksack every step up drains the sweat out of you and pumps the heart like Ginger Baker. 

As the sun was dropping, after 10 hours trekking, the path dropped down to the Refugio, which was shut. I called the number and a lady said the manager was on his way. I was the only person staying there, so my six bunk bed room was all mine – again. 

This is my mate Peter. He’s Catalan and probably the best cook in these mountains. We communicated in a lot of French, bit of English, bit of Spanish and not much Catalan. As long as you understand each other it’s ok.

I’m a bit of a sucker for Spanish black pudding.

I slept well and bed, dinner and breakfast (beautifully prepared) cost 28 quid. What have I done to deserve this?

Night night.

I’m camping for one or two nights so unlikely to blog for a few days. Don’t worry about radio silence I’m very well. X

I slept all through the night bar one pee. Only a little one because the sun is drying me up. But it was luminous yellow/green so what it lacked in quantity it made up for in quality. I didn’t flush it so I could check the colour in daylight. Just as good, even diluted in the lav water.

Breakfast was fab. Cheese, local meats, bread and olive oil. Lovely. With bottled water, coffee and orange juice it was a fiver. He asked me if I wanted red or white wine. I declined. They’re different on their alcohol consumption patterns down here. More like Russia than Spain. 

My route today was less taxing but my legs were feeling strong anyway. Getting better with exercise. Can you see it yet? Beatles. 

Only ten miles today, a decent dap. 

I was going to follow the old rail track from the station to meet up again with the GR7 by the river, turning west over some hills and ending in Pauls. A good, even walk to start the day, passing through three tunnels. Bye bye Estacion and hello tunnels.

After a couple of miles the GR7 joined the rail track and then peeled off away from the river up into the mountains. I bade goodbye to the Ebro.

It was another breezy morning but the sun was out and the world is a great place to live. Better than Uranus, boom boom!

Turning south away from the river and over the hills towards Pauls was a bit hard. It sounds pansyish but when I think about it I’m nearly 63 (ston), and with the litres of water I’m now carrying as I learnt a harsh lesson, plus my rucksack; I’m carrying about 16kgs at the moment, maybe a bit less. Anyway I’m not a SAGA apologist, just a bit tired. The view back across the valley.

I was walking southward through mixed orchard areas. How old must this olive tree be? And it’s still going like a good un. 

I’d passed lots of orange trees and couldn’t resist nipping over the gates and nobbling one or two. Sweet and delicious. Getting juice all over my hands and walking pole handles. I’ll lick them later.

And in the sheltered valley leading down to Pauls the fruit and veg were months ahead of the UK, and it looked like there might be some bumper crops. Almonds.

And figs.

The orange trees further down were even more advanced with blossom.

But what I struggled to understand was why, with the only pomegranate tree I’ve seen this far north, did folk leave the fruit on the tree to rot? 

Pauls wasn’t too far away and I got there at 3.15, perfect Spanish lunchtime. It reminded me of Competa, a town/village in the Sierra Tejedas where me, Maggie and Antonia had stayed 18 months ago, doing a recce of my southern Spain walk.

A restaurant close to my Alberg was open and I ate like a king. Lentil stew followed by meatballs. Brilliant. 

The Alberg wasn’t open until 7pm and I had two and a half hours. I walked up to the local grocers and topped up with water and grub. There was an open room next to the shop and in conversation the lady said I could stay there plugged in to recharge my iPad and wait whilst she and her mum watched soaps. Brilliant folk. 

Night night.

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.