To walk (one form) of the pain away.

Why does everything I have just done suddenly feel utterly meaningless, void, trivial? Even as I crossed from the Nidderdale AONB into The Yorkshire Dales National Park, coming down from the hills and walking about Grassington, suicide crossed my mind at such an heroic achievement? An achievement for sure, but it makes zero difference as people still eat ice creams, toasted teacakes, their eyes are blankly vision free, I guess in heaven I will feel no sorrow?

First night in Whitby, slept peacefully until I was awoken by projectile vomiting followed by piss water from my rear orifice. Had two normal beers (Whitby Brewery Saltwick Nab) at the Dolphin, entertaining a couple from Netherlands and Derbyshire with talk of Frikandel , crossed over the swing bridge with a thought I might go to the Coop next to the station for evening grits. But like the unthinking fool I sometimes am the Whitby kebab/pizza takeaway (Porto Pizza) was calling me - good protein for a long walk I thought. One chicken kebab later it has gone eleven am and I dare not leave the closeness of the toilet. Helen and Phil are superb hosts so perhaps, if the bed is still available I'll stick here another night before setting off towards Scarborough, Glaisdale or destinations unknown. But food poisoning in Whitby: such dehydration I had not know since Mexico, yet it will obviously pass.

It is really annoying to get here and be able to do nothing - I takes away all the resurgent joie de vivre I had felt treading size elevens. The sky is blue, the gulls cry for my malady. Just chill Daniel. There is nothing I can do. Back to bed; tomorrow never knows.

It's made me return to my breath; meditation, Ken Cohen, Wayne Dyer and two hours rest. Now I must find a coffee. The Whitby Deli for the Baytown Coffee Co the Bolts and a "handmadescotchegg.co.uk" Beanie(V) scotch egg, with pickled caper berries, connichons and Baytree Garlic Pickle.
There is no one here - not one tourist! This is nice! It's packed down by the swing bridge. A little bit of Jailhouse Rock.

The world is still today. The silence, peace, subtle and beyond those who are firmly sunk at the bottom of the reed bed. It is so tangled down in the mud. Only by the individual pointed stem head is there any freedom to be. The world below is full of hatred and it revolts me. This gentle quietude is my home. The space is more frequent here. Perhaps that is why I alone walked over the dalehead?

Five o'clock chimes and I have returned to number 18 Gray Street to await my body resilience and all being well I'll head off early bright and solo Wednesday. £20 cash in hand for A Room with a View over the Esk estuary, Saint Mary's and ruined abbey stood as a measure of time, tide and mortality.

Not a bleat from me vis-à-vis the walk up from Wetherby to Lofthouse, Nidderdale because I was wholly in the passion of being and walking alone. The butcher on the bottom of the High Street in Pateley Bridge does fantastic Chorizo sausage which is hung above the shop for four months. That and two bananas sustained me up Wath Lane and to High Ruddes, but the wind was making concentration too difficult as it was forcing tears into my eyes - at one point I collapsed into a frigid bog and thought better of staying so exposed and weighed down by the twenty kilo Engineer's Bergen. In Whitby I have 10kg which is hardly noticeable now so I know the Via Tolosana won't be too grinding. Problem with Meindl Bhutan though - suddenly I've blisters on both heels - a years wear and I did a little research into different lacing methods to prevent heel friction. Probably 80 miles in 4 days did the damage? The shits forced me to let my feet repair ...