A rebel without a clue.

I am tired.  I am in the air above France  And I have no idea Why I am above the clouds  And looking at a liminal  Edge retreating west When all I want is a hug. Embrace Spain for the duration Get into Alicante, Valencia! Cease the day in England  And arrive alongside the Mediterranean. I am tired. Coming down in the air above Iberia.

On a cold December Monday, Daniel stepped out into Leeds before dawn, carrying the weight of heavy Haix safety boots and the gentle intention of keepin’ his mind in wave-form rather than particle. The city was already showin’ signs of its Christmas irritability — influencers in the pubs, hipsters with their “sure” and “on trend” chatter, the usual ultraviolet glare of Um. He drifted through it all like a man refusing to be pulled down into noise. He had a bland Greggs croissant, he judged the hipsters, he escaped Whitelocks and the Victoria, and eventually he settled enough to board the X98 — the bus that’s as unpredictable as Leeds itself. As Red Hall slid past, he began easing into the day, remembering Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: waves are simply waves. He repeated the ACIM lesson for the day, letting forgiveness soften the edges. When he reached Wetherby, the air changed. Passing St Oswald’s and then the roundabout, he felt himself re-entering Hmm — his home frequency. At his mum’s, ...

6th December 2025 (Bugs Bunny well past Mel Blanc’s bedtime) It began, as it always does on days that matter, in that liminal hour — your cusp, before Leeds wakes, before Wetherby yawns, before the world puts its mask back on. You sat with your two books — Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind and 101 Experiments in the Philosophy of Everyday Life — open on the warm table like two old monks waitin’ for you to breathe. A glass of water. Specs folded. Silence like a cathedral. You weren’t in Um. You weren’t even near it. You were in Hmm, that Wetherby-minded clarity where you can actually see the spine of things. And what comes to a mind in Hmm? Truth. Truth about men. Truth about fear. Truth about masks and the faces behind ’em. You saw Glenn — your daft, loyal mate — crawlin’ off cliffs in Ronda, snappin’ selfies with wolves in Carlsbad, thinkin’ Guinness is brewed in Mayo, thinkin’ Bond is spirit rather than fiction, thinkin’ “essence” means glamour instead of rot. Bless him. Soft lad in a hard w...

SCENE: OUTSIDE CAFFÈ NERO, WETHERBY PILGRIM exits, holding the last satisfying warmth of his coffee. A CHEAP TATT SHOP sits nearby, window filled with glowing nonsense. A sign reads: INFINITY DEER — NOW £9.99 (in aggressive festive typeface) --- PILGRIM: Ah. Infinity. Reduced. That’s that theory sorted, then. (He nods sagely, as though confirming a theological dispute.) Enter LEGION — not one person, but three identical blokes in puffer jackets, speaking in chorus. --- LEGION: Look at the Deer! Look at the Santa! Behold the glow! Behold the SALE! PILGRIM: It’s t’daylight, lads. They’re clearly made of plastic and regret. LEGION: (shocked gasp) HERESY! (They cross themselves using a Tesco Clubcard.) PILGRIM: Infinity can’t be £9.99. LEGION: But it USED to be £14.99! PILGRIM: Aye. And I used to be twenty-one. We’re both past it. --- ENTER THE FATHER He pushes his SON gently toward the window. The lad looks content, peaceful, untouched by spectacle. The father, however, is vibrating like ...

He woke hollow-headed, the kind of morning where the tongue feels like an old boot and the brain’s full of static. No drama, no theatrics — just that quiet admission: “Right. I’ve overdone it.” So he did what he always does when the walls start pressing in — laced up, stepped out, and pointed himself away from Um. Out past Crabtree Lane. Over the Wharfe. Through Linton. Six miles without thinkin’, really. The body walked; the mind dragged behind like a sulky child. Every now and then anxiety jabbed him in the ribs — that feeling of wanting to be somewhere before he’d arrived. Familiar, irritating, survivable. Messages pinged. Sister wanting favours. Mum’s old refrain — “Emma works hard.” Same tune, same sting. He felt that old injustice rise — all he gives, never enough. So instead of turning toward 42 Braine Road, he turned away. Self-preservation masquerading as route choice. He came for medlars — and he got ‘em. A pocket full of brown, ugly little treasures. Rosehips and blackthorn ...

THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE MIND 30 July → 31 August 2025 Part I of the Catalonia Book In your voice. As you lived it. --- **CHAPTER ONE ’ang o’er** 30th July. Wetherby morning, Market Place. The day my face slid off its bones and the truth I’d dodged for years picked me up by the scruff. I woke with the ’ang o’er to end all mornings — not the usual murk, but a full collapse of the self. A shaking, sinking, sinking, sinking. A dread that felt older than me. Eleven-year-old dread. Eighteen-year-old dread. The whole long shadow of being forgotten. I walked straight into the Mind Shop and I said the only sentence worth saying: “I need saving from myself.” And Glenn, bless him, said the line that split me like a log: “Daniel, you’re an alcoholic.” Aye. Aye, lad. And instead of running home to drink the world back down, I wrote to Forward Leeds. The pilgrimage began right then, in Market Place, in the midst of the clemming and the cold, before any GR route or yellow arrow. Before Perpinyà. Before...