A rebel without a clue.

He began the day with a single word. "Escarpment." A place of ancient, geological quiet. But the quiet was an illusion. The path had other ideas. The universe, in its own mad way, was here to play a game. A fence stood in his way, a brutal, unyielding symbol of a world that didn't care about his purpose. What a joke. The path, as always, had fucking vanished. He, the living, breathing will, was supposed to choose. Insanity. ​He chose. And in that choice, he found his sanity. The field of maize was not a detour; it was the entire point. It was a raw, non-determined mutation on the deterministic path of his life. He was not a passenger. He was the one holding the rudder. ​ And then came the maelstrom. The C-25. That river of steel and noise, an endless, unfeeling highway that he was supposed to cross. Frogger. What a mad game. And he felt the terror of it all. The world was a chaotic, insane place, and he was the unsteady boat in its great, rushing current. The madness wa...

​He began the morning with a testament to his own goddamn mortality. On a sun-baked path, a dead rabbit—somehow both pathetic and profound—lay in the dust, a small, still point in a turning world. And I, of all people, had to see it. It was a silent, unblinking reminder of an abrupt and final end, a stark contrast to this pointless, winding journey that had just begun. ​My fragile quiet was ripped apart by the thunderous, violent roar of a motocross bike. Why couldn’t I have just one single moment of peace? This wasn't the gentle hum of cicadas I’d been trying to find, but a desperate, loud motion, a fleeing from silence with a deafening noise that shook the very air. In its wake, the quiet that settled back in felt more fragile, more precious. ​The universe had to mock me. The path itself fucking vanished, swallowed by the landscape. It was a stupid, profound stutter in this pathetic journey, a moment of disorientation that forced a pause. And what did I do? I just stood there. I ...

Chapter 1: The Waning ​The Way did not begin with a glorious sunrise or a moment of clarity. It began, instead, with a hangover. It was Wednesday, July 30th, and the world was a dull ache. The mind was a mess, a scattered collection of thoughts, much like the allotment at home—disorganised and chaotic, but a whole, nonetheless. This was not a pilgrimage of piety but of honest, human struggle. I had chosen to walk towards something, towards a truth I could not yet name, and the journey started with the simple, painful truth of my own mistakes. ​The weight of the past felt heavier than the pack on my back. Memories of a broken family, of a father who had washed his hands of me, and a sister who had playfully called me uncle bonkers. The deep scars of a lifetime of being different from my peers seemed to pulse with every step. But the path was not a place for pity; it was a place for movement. One foot in front of the other. The Way is always one foot in front of the other. ​On Monday,...

L'Esquirol, "The Squirrel," seemed to carry the very essence of the place—a blend of restless energy and an innate knowledge of the land's rhythms. Daniel arrived, leaving the rugged path for the civilised chaos of the town. He crossed an ancient bridge, its stones worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims and daily life. At the first intersection, the world came rushing back. Swallows carved arcs in the sky, their flight as frantic and purposeful as the people moving through the streets. A VW campervan, a symbol of modern wandering, sat parked beside the curb, its hazard lights flashing, a silent announcement of its temporary stop. He entered a small bakery, the air warm and fragrant with the honest scent of flour and yeast. This was a different kind of sanctuary from the quiet solitude of the mountains. Here, community was baked into the bread. Daniel, a man who sought the fundamental truth in things, requested the local Pa Blat de Moro, the Catalonian maize flour bread....

31st August. I am on the A1 Flyer bus and it's sufficient. And getting less sufficient as it fills with the remnants of the match between LUFC and NUFC - which was a nil-nil washout. I avoided Leeds yesterday as I recouperated from a bad night on Friday, on my mum's lounge floor as I made my bed upstairs available for a short notice Airbnb guest staying four nights, and returned to 69 Lovell Park Grange and my cell; a hermitage or gaol cell? I don't care as it is a peaceful and solid base and has a perfection in silence. It is sufficient as I perform my solitary acts without those worldly distractions. In the early evening I listened to the falling rain on my window pane, as a wind blew through the room, as I used my bedroom to meditate. Around five pm I bathed in the dark and closed down the flat for the remainder of then day knowing on the 31st I'd be more 'stable' - less anxious - and ready to go forward from the long pause I've been on since I returned f...

​The clatter of bells, a chorus of equine and ovine voices, had been Daniel's constant companion as he left the mountains, a rhythmic applause ushering him from the jagged peaks to the softer contours of the plains. Each bell-clap was a beat in the heart of his Unity Theory, a confirmation that every sound, every creature, every step was interwoven. It was a descent not just in altitude, but into a deeper state of self, a journey where the external barriers of the land began to dissolve into the internal landscape of the soul. He was not merely traversing the earth; he was becoming it, the distinction blurring like a mountain mist. "A man goes up a hill and comes down a mountain," he mused, the old saying twisted, inverted, to fit his new reality. The barrier, he realized, was himself, and he was walking through it into a kind of Eldorado where quiet sufficiency reigned. ​The afternoon of September 5th, the first true etapa on his self-fashioned Camí, had cemented this ...