Me and Maggie came to Benidorm on 26 February, staying in a great Aparthotel on the Platje Poniente side of the resort and out of the way up the hill a bit. We’re lucky to have chosen this place. We’re even luckier to have chosen that date for our holiday from a weather point of view. The first two weeks were beautiful, up to 27c, and we loafed around in the sun and ate well in the hotel and in restaurants in the hills and down in town. It’s great this time of year, without the crowds and the hotel being mostly empty.

Maggs went home for a week and I got the opportunity to walk up into the higher mountains. My first walk was from Sella, a small village clinging to the side of one of the highest and longest ridges in the region. I intended to climb up it and walk the length of it along the top of the ridge.

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The sun was hot and I had enough water to manage the walk. I followed the way marked path up a valley but the markings, usually a yellow and white painted stripe, disappeared. The path ended up at a deserted house and then petered out. I knew I should be over hills to my right to regain the route but the ancient terraces on the hillsides were high and difficult to climb up. I wondered why the Moors who built the terraces 600 years ago didn’t build paths to let farmers access each terrace easily. Later in the day I saw farmers carrying light ladders made from tree branches. So that’s how they do it!

The route I chose seemed to steer me West when I wanted to cut up North. When I aimed North there always seemed to be a barrier of gorse or pine trees clotted together so thickly that I couldn’t get through. I finally ended up on a col looking down towards Alicante and back towards the hills above Benidorm. Stunning views from alpine meadows with almond trees in blossom on the terraces.

I had veered off course a lot and scrambled up and over the crest to the North, climbing over farm fencing on the terraces to finally make it to a road that I should have hit a couple of miles back. Nevertheless the views had been worth it. I dropped down to the bottom of the ridge that towers above Sella and tried to reach the top, but again the way markings disappeared and I ended up forcing my way through thick pine forest and gorse which tore at my legs and arms. At least the forest gave shade from the scorching sun.

I tried for three hours to get through, until the sun was falling. Again when I could get to the edge of the rising ridge the views were fabulous.

Reluctantly I turned round, scrambled down the way I had come and made for Sella. En route I found the elusive path and made a note for another day.

The next training session was a walk from Lodge Moor on the outskirts of Sheffield over Stanage Edge to Hathersage in the Peak District. I got the train to Sheffield and walked up to my sister Deb’s (aka Che) place. She’s Che because I had a Che Guevara T shirt in the 60’s and she nicked it and wore it so much that folk called her Che. She couldn’t wear it now due to slight expansion in the arse and belly departments but nothing too drastic.

The three of us me, Che and her dog, got a bus up to Lodge Moor and set off to walk over to Stanage via Wyming Brook and Rivelin. It bucketed it down and to say I was not sufficiently prepared would be an understatement. I got soaked as did Che and pooch. We struggled on for a bit but it was getting worse and wetter so we turned back to Lodge Moor and The Three Merry Lads, which looked inviting in the bleak surroundings.

There’s a long-standing family connection which I was unaware of that my paternal grandfather supped here when the family lived at Ringinglow over the moors and in very poor conditions in the city centre.

We felt the warmth of the welcome with a sign indicating that a single brandy was £2.60 and a double was only £2.00. We drank a bit and had a laugh before getting the bus down town and carrying on drinking in the Grapes on Trippet Lane. To tell the truth I don’t drink spirits much and I got well oiled.  Che walked with me down to the station where I’d arranged to meet my daughter Juliet, who looked horrified to see me. She helped me to the train as I tripped a few times and fell asleep next to an old dear in an aisle seat, opposite one of Juliet’s University chums. Jet told her mate I’d been to a party – it was 5.30 in the afternoon.

Maggie picked us up at Leeds station and dropped off Jet at her boyfriend’s place before getting frustrated with me being drunk and obnoxious and chucking me out of the car. I was still sozzled with no money (I’d left it in my rucksack in the car when I huffed off) and five miles from home. I stumbled into the night through Hyde Park to the Hyde Park pub and off down Melville Road and up through Buslingthorpe Lane to Scott Hall Road. It might not mean owt to out of towners but in the dark these places can be quite intimidating to the faint-hearted and as a staggering late middle-aged man I would represent a helpless victim. Doesn’t it brass you off that when you’ve had a few the pavement moves up and down? You step down much further than you thought it was, and stumble forward, or the pavement zooms up to meet your foot, and you fall back a bit. I had my German penknife in my pocket that the German MD gave me at my leaving do last year so I felt confident. A ridiculous old fart in a ridiculous state with a ridiculous sense of invulnerability.

Meanwhile Maggie had felt sorry for me and was combing the streets in the car, looking for a stumbling bundle of drunkenness. She didn’t find me, neither did Georgie and Adam who also drove around on lookout duty. I got home and tried to keep my dignity. Long lost at the bottom of a bottle.

My second bout of training was taking a train to Sheffield, on to Edale and scrambling up Kinder Scout in the snow. I stayed overnight wid kid so I had an earlyish start. I’d bought some snow grips for my boots and they worked a treat. Two geysers went a pisser on the way down but I overtook them with ease. I only saw eight walkers all day.
It was tough getting to the top and for those who don’t know it the top is a plateau of 12 square miles of unspoilt wilderness with deep canyons winding their way through peat making navigation without clear sky or compass difficult. There are Arctic Hares on the top which change to pure white in winter to camouflage themselves in the snow. There are bits of planes dotted about the plateau that have crashed there over the last eighty years, including the remnants of a a US Superfortress that crashed with 13 crew on board in fog. No chance for the poor little buggers and when you stand in the middle of chunks of metal on a bleak day looking across the moor towards Glossop you really wonder what the point is. Only young Yankee kids carrying mail home. Well it didn’t make it and neither did they. Neither did three Boy Scouts on 15 March 1964 when the weather turned bad. It’s an unforgiving place but I love roaming over it. It’s got summat.

I wanted to cross the plateau to Kinder Downfall, a 30 metre waterfall that ices into an amazing Leviathan in winter, but the snow was very deep on top. I thought I could walk up the canyons with the streams being frozen, giving a solid surface, but there were too many deep drifts in the way.

I tried for four hours. I found somebody’s tracks and tried to walk in them to stop plunging up to my snowjones with every draining step. They were a few days old but were the only sign of anyone getting across. I just couldn’t do it. The tracks kept disappearing and I was beginning to get concerned about the light as it was afternoon by now and 4pm was shutdown for certain. I turned round and thought if I aimed for the sun it would bring me to the plateau edge just west of where I needed to be at the top of Grindsbrook. I wasn’t worried, just being wise for a change. It was a right trek. As on the back end of Ingleborough I ended up swimming on the top of the snow for part of the way to avoid sinking in.

I was glad to get to the edge of the plateau and have footsteps to walk in. It’s difficult but it’s lovely you know.

I dropped down Grindsbrook and made it before dark to a pub by the station in Edale that I got chucked out of 44 years ago for singing ‘the Red Flag’ on a Sunday. They didn’t recognise me so I got served and then got the train home to a warm fire and a warm missus. Retirement’s alright you know.

Hello dear family and friends, I’m sat in an Irish bar in a soaking wet Benidorm looking through my Southwest blog with misty eyes and itchy feet. I’ve been thinking about another walk since the last one finished but I’ve prevaricated between Spain, Corsica, Southwest England -again- and Scotland. I’ve been told since I was a kid that my blood on both sides of the family went back to a white diagonal cross on a blue background and the sound of bagpipes (perhaps as a consequence) has always brought a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. Cyclops. So it’s Scotland where I’m bound and I might even get myself a kilt. I’m looking at getting a train, bus, ferry and 4×4 bus to Cape Wrath, the most northwesterly point on the GB mainland, and walking 300 miles through the highlands down to Glasgow, getting a boat to the Isle of Man and walking 100 miles round that before coming home. This covers some of the most remote places in the UK. Thankfully Andrew is going to join me for at least a week so if I conk out during that time at least someone knows where the body is.

I’ve done a bit of training. Early in February I took the train to Ribblesdale and did two of the three Yorkshire Peaks. I got to Ribblesdale station at about 7am and found it deserted with a heated waiting room. The snow was a foot deep and I hadn’t slept well so I got my head down on a wooden bench and slept for an hour. Setting off through the snow I made it eventually up Whernside, it’s fearsome reputation being fully earned under snow that my feet would sometimes float across and on occasions sink into up to my cojones. Early on my feet sunk down to an under-snow stream and my boots filled with freezing water.

Ingleborough was a swine. Without ice grips on my boots I was slipping all over on the climb up and the snow was so thick I had to swim down the other side to avoid the exhaustion of continuously dragging my legs out of deep snow. I loved it.

I began to make progress toward Horton in Ribblesdale and got a great view of the awesome Pen Y Ghent on the skyline.

Twelve hours after setting off I finally rolled up at Horton station. A great walk. Loved it but my feet were still soaking and freezing and it took a couple of hours in front of the fire to get them back. Great training.

Well we finished off in style last night.

We arrived at the hotel and a bottle of Rose Champagne with a customised label had been sent down by Maggie and the kids. It was delicious too.
The East Dorset Marching Band arrived and marched up and down the car park of the hotel. It was stirring stuff and everyone was happy and had been looking forward to it. The band did a great session and then retired to the hotel for chicken and chips. I thanked them and then we said our goodbyes to Farmer John and the band and Andrew, Debs and me pushed off for an Indian meal and a few drinks.

The hotel was a good one on the Harbourside and I slept well.
I’ll restart the blog one day next year when I do the Spanish pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Andrew will come for at least part of it and maybe all. That should be a Gas. Thanks for reading this over the last couple of months.
Anyone intending to donate can do so on bmycharity.com/bladegoeswest and we’ll beat my target of £2.5k.
Cheers my lovely dears and although I never found the Elves may they watch over your world.

I’ve done it. With Andrew, Deborah and Farmer John we finished at 16.00 today.

Thanks for your best wishes and your support.
Love,
Dave.

Nice day, woke early got back to sleep and had a reyt long warm shower at 10.30 am. Heavenly. I went down to pay for the pitch for three nights and they said just to make a donation to RNLI. I washed my clothes at the launderama and then had breakfast/lunch in Swanage. No walking today – just waiting for tomorrow. I think there’s a reception committee at tomorrow night’s hotel but we’ll see. Certainly the East Dorset Boy Scouts Marching Band will be there.

Nice view from the campsite.

Deborah got down at 14.00 and we had a walk on the beach and back and then a couple drinks with John the farmer who came up from Bigbury on Sea.

Andy Mandy arrived just after dark and we put his tent up then all four of us went downtown for a nice Italian meal.

All set for tomorrow. Night Night kids.

I’m so happy that I got such good weather just about all the way round and some good sites. The last 24 hours have been a glimpse of what might have been, and if it had been I’m not sure I would have got this far. The site has great views but the ground is stony and it’s reyt difficult to get a tent peg in past halfway. I did me best last night as wind was forecast. And it came. I was up in the night quite a few times replacing pegs that Wilson pulled out as the wind caught him. It also started peeing it down at 4am and didn’t stop. I got up early and secured Wilson with rocks on him and ran down to the main road without my rucksack to catch the 8.05 from Swanage to Poole. I needed to get to Kimmeridge Bay where Martin and Linda had saved me from my fatigue. This was the only bus that went anywhere near there and it dropped off at a small village called Kingston, a 5 mile walk to Kimmeridge Bay along the chalk ridges inland. It’s a good job I had my Swiss Army Poncho, down to my feet, otherwise I’d have ended up more soaked than I became.

The wind picked up very strong and on reaching Kimmeridge I thought I’d get breakfast in the cafe, which as it happens closes on a Monday. That was it. Nothing between Kimmeridge and Swanage, 13.5 miles. Luckily I’d bought two Bounty bars and a Scotch Egg whilst waiting for the bus and I’d filled up my water bottle. Setting off the storm was the worst I’ve walked in. I clung to, or climbed over and walked the other side of the farmers’ fences as I was concerned that I’d get blown over the cliffs, which were still bucking and diving from sea level to 400 feet with strength sapping frequency. I was carrying all my valuables inside two Coop bags. It must have looked a little odd with a bloke dressed like Rambo carrying two coop bags, one inside the other, getting blown about by a hurricane and getting soaked. The path was so wet I was slipping and falling in the mud. How miserable could it get? But sometimes I don’t give up. I just get a grim determination and get on with it.
This is Chapman’s Bay in the wind and rain.

I made it up a very difficult hill where the mud was so bad and the incline so steep that I kept slipping down nearly as much as I climbed up. There, at the top in the middle of nowhere, was a memorial to those Royal Marines killed in conflicts since WWII. I climbed over the steps to it – why there in nowhere land? I read the inscription and messages spread around. As I climbed out over the steps I didn’t know what to do to pay my respects for these brave lads who won’t ever come home. I saluted and wept for them in the wind and the rain. I couldn’t help it. So brave and killed in shitty places.

Then a miracle of the (white) rose. The wind dropped, the rain stopped, the clouds began to lighten and break and the path started to even out. I ploughed on and eventually after seven hours of first putting boot to sod I came back towards Swanage, and another distance view of the Isle of Wight.

I hadn’t seen another walker all day.

Swanage Bay and Swanage front, so glad to get there.

I’ve done 18.5 miles today in the worst conditions I’ve experienced as a walker. I’m proud of mesen. I rewarded mesen.

I want to go home now to my old dear and a warm fire. Seven miles to go. A day off tomorrow when Andy Mandy and Deborah come down. It’ll be great to see them. Wednesday the push on to the finish. Party time, excellent.
Night Night. I’m nearly done.

I hoped yesterday that I’d dash round to Swanage today and have a day off tomorrow. Last night was freezing. I slept little as a consequence and was tired when I got up at 6.30, much later than I aimed for. I took a wrong turn first thing and again went through a cordoned off area at Lulworth Cove where the cliff had collapsed. Nothing wrong with it unless you have epileptic fits in which you levitate sideways. The cliff path is up and down almost vertically on occasions (well it felt like it) and this section is ranked as Severe on the SW Coast Path website. It felt like it. I stopped for a cold tin of baked beans and a tin of corned beef for breakfast. The sun was out, beautiful morning, but I was knackered.
Lulworth Cove was its usual serene self, with the Isle of Portland in the background.

I made it round almost to Kimmeridge Bay and a bloke coming the other way said summat, I looked up and it was Martin Baverstock, our very good friend from Bristol with his missus, Linda, behind him. I was so pleased and surprised to see them. We walked up to their car and went to Swanage where we had fish and chips, ice cream and they took me up to my site.
What good mates.

Over Linda’s left shoulder, to our right in the distance, you can see the sun shining on the white cliffs of the Isle of Wight.

I then check on my donations and find new ones from Lex, my Dad and Lisa. I’m up to £2,000 thanks to dear friends and family. It is going to a right good cause. Thank you everybody who has donated, it is wonderful.

Jet boosted viewing figures. A bit of a looker.

Tomorrow I need to get back to where I finished and walk round from there. At least I won’t have the full pack on my back. Sleep well dear family and friends and friends I’ve not yet met.

Second only in aggressive intent to – ‘Are you looking at my bird?’
Well judging by the viewing statistics it seems that you are looking at my bird. Well, my youngest daughter Jet, who created a peak in viewing when I put the picture of her on the catwalk in my blog. So here we are again. I walk 602 miles (28 to go) and get decent viewing figures. Along comes Jet doing bugger all and the viewing goes bananas. I got my top off yesterday and still no reaction. So here goes – another dose of the beautiful Jet! What’s she got that I haven’t got?

It was an early start this morning, I got up at 6.15 to get Wilson packed away before the rain came, and it did come at 6.45. Moving east quite quickly now to try to get a day off before Andrew and my Sis (Deborah) arrive on Tuesday. Probably play Pitch and Pute on Monday if I get some time in Swanage. Francis, did that make you laugh?

The grey morning slowly cleared, this is looking back to Weymouth and the Isle of Portland.

And when it cleared it was glorious again.

I was aiming for a campsite on the hill above Durdle Door, a fabulous, natural chalk arch and within two miles of it the path began to weave up and down again quite dramatically. I’m used to it now and didn’t even need to take a breather on the upward sections. It’s a beautiful sight Durdle Door, as is the bay beyond it, with people still enjoying the warm weather by swimming in the sea.

I’ve made it here and I’m going to get Wilson up and get the earliest night in history. I’m aiming to get up at 5.00 tomorrow to make sure that I can cover the 21 miles to Swanage. The penultimate hike. The last one on my own.
Home soon.