A rebel without a clue.

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...

It's time to draw a line under the journal I've been keeping for Abby and returned to the journey. So I've begun day one the same way as all the others. Coffee. Podcast. Listening to nature awake. Crows and pigeons. And the distant hum of the A1(M). I know where I am staying for three nights from tonight. Wednesday I am in the communal tent on the campsite in Monistrol-d’Allier ( Camping le Vivier): I am packing my own tent... But is this a fools errand as the more weight I put on the left foot the more it seems incapable of coping. Hobbling the GR65... If it fails I will hitchhike forward. But I am not there yet? It's just gone six am on the May Day Bank Holiday. And I've got to pay to put the larger backpack, I intend to carry, in on hold of the plane: vintage Karrimor Jaguar S65 Litre KS-100e SA - I have two, but one (although better externally) has lost its waterproof treatment to the corruption of time. But I am not on the way yet. Back to Free Thinking with Ma...

I. Dogshit Alley and the End of Grande Civilization I left the flat for Starbucks on Street Lane. One grande mug of Café Estima Blend® and a brownie later, I’d had enough. Sweet indifference in a paper cup — and no Wi-Fi. So I walked back through what I’d christened Dogshit Alley, the shortcut across the Romans Estate. They still call it The Romans, though it’s no Rome. A turn-of-the-century suburb sagging into 1950s council spill-over, trailing off into The Bumps — a park more by accident than design. I lived just the other side. “The Romans” felt wrong. More Gypsy than Ravenna. More tired than tragic. I don’t mind a park’s edges being dumping grounds for dogs, but that path was a wager with disgust — hop, glance, dodge. Miss one pile and comedy strikes. I still remember 1985: I fell flat into a steaming one. Oh, the smell. Oh, the shame. The “lake” in The Bumps was no lake. A brown puddle with an upturned Presto trolley sticking out of it like some exiled relic. Ribbon-shaped, half ...