A rebel without a clue.

Well there are only a few days left until my pilgrimage begins in earnest. I've been keeping away from this blog to put a little room between my convulsive negative feelings, dwelling within my past and struggling with my turgid mental system. I am feeling enthused more than I have been for a very long time; by looking forward and with help from the various positive inputs, since the pilgrimage idea popped into my head, including Prozac, planning, therapy and karma. I am making a conscious effort to think differently. All of this may be helping; but I think I am stating the obvious. In the last month I have been helped from an unexpected source and I am completely thankful of my brilliant and selfless cousin; a being whom has a million senses open and aiding with a fundamentally true understanding and he has supported me with real brotherly love and engagement. On Wednesday, during my analysis visit, I felt it would be useful to try to explain how I perceive the world: so I tr...

After my first nights sleep, when I was woken up without any bed clothes, I stepped out to fix my trip to Piran. Buon giorno: sorted €5:40c, and now I am officially in an Illy caffé house in central Trieste. I have taken a photo of James Joyce walking over a bridge on the grande canal (well a bronze!) First ever Italiano cappuccino. I notice that the modern Italians are coffee crazy! Last night I ate some awesome cheese and pancetta. Pancetta del calabrasi and a matured local cheese. Some bread a few glasses of Merlot and Aperol Spritz aperitivo. Some thing like a Friulian tapas style food along the way. Then bed. I was aware that they all talk so much. From that chattering mouth what must they be talking about. A commanding style of pristine hair and immaculate clothes here, but it's atypically Italian I feel. I will myself to walking up to Castello; it is very windy day today; dusty too. I am less uncertain today than I was yesterday. Will I camp in Piran? Plans? 5 days t...

Eyes full of irritating pus gunk. Slept fitfully waking with crusty eyes. Self prognosis suggests bacterial conjunctivitis. Sun was out this morning but it is hiding a little. So shorts might not be the obvious attire. Quick coffee then a walk. Man having a discussion with the fishmonger in loud voice. So everyone can hear what is being discussed. Politics. Business of the day. Not real. Not real at all. Steven Smith off to do his driving theory test. Was out for a couple early for Jonesy's babies head wetting last night. Everyone in shades of grey, blue or brown. Not a bright contrast of colours except for Lloyd's Nike red and green. Not sure I can do much more of those contrived events. Nice to bump into Simon Handley, though and I am very happy for Mr and Mrs Jones; Westy is weary: he's a baffooning gibbon. I linger. Second coffee. Alerting me: perhaps! No rush today. Louis Armstrong playing his jazz in the coffee shop. Gravel voice. I don't really enjoy Ladyday. Tha...

I got off the bus once the traffic slowed to a stand still. We had only come as far as Bardsey and I felt I would be here on the A58 for hours yet. I had to be at work for 2pm at Coors in Headingley for my evening shift. I called ahead to explain that I was going to be late. It was a pleasant afternoon at the end of August so I jumped off the bus and I walked all the way to the Oakwood Clock so as to catch a 12, 13 or 13A into town. It was the first time I had ever walked most of the route to Leeds. This was before Snoopy came along in the early noughties. I knew I had a short time back at Coors before I wouldn't return; I would leave Coors tearful as half of me was going to miss those I worked with. This was either 2003 or 2004 and I had started counselling with a lady called Jean Booth. I used to go to her house in Oakwood every week. It was useful to talk to her. I was referred to her through occupational health whom Coors had onsite. I would get breathless, I had trouble walkin...

The stones of the Town Hall groan under the pressure of age. I took the bus. Nothing could stop me disappearing today? As I waited and waited the time questioned my decisions. Some subconscious feed provoking my torturous ego. There I was barely coping and overwhelmed with overt thoughts of my insignificance. All the plans within me coming unravelled as the things I need fight against that I have become. As I look up at the blank faced yawning gape of the bus driver as the routine X98 pulls up to alight the pensioners Wetherby welcomes I am straining to vanish. For a number of years I have been numb to what happens around me. It happens; I hear it, but it leaves me emptied of life’s essential beat. Rat-Tat-Tat. Have I become so distanced from the reality of these conversational needs that the booming voiced chorus delivers in waves of banality. I repeat that I am a ghost. I can't imagine when this happened as I was unaware of my own death. This Thursday I am sat hear...

Born to two working class parents from Rawmarsh, Rotherham, South Yorkshire in Bishops Stortford on the second of February 1972. My father was a company chauffeur and my mother a housewife and dental technician. I remember nothing of my first two years in Saffron Walden. We moved to Easington, near Whitby where my father bought his own fish and chip shop and my mother had my sister. We had a dog called Sam. He got run over. I played behind the garage, pebble dashed prefab, and got ill. This might have been a first migraine or a fuller episode of the sensor and visual disturbance I used to have regularly. I remember being sick. I didn't eat any dirt, but I did dig deep. My father built a bed with planks, we had bunks in my room. Bright blue curtains. I used to put turquoise felt from a blanket up my nose. our toilet was near the front of the house on the ground floor.I used to think the rust on the screws holding the wooden seat was dried on excrement. I had a teddy bear that had a...

Glancing at the routes away from here and destinations I have trouble pronouncing. Dra gon ya Por to rož Po reč (this could be the Porridge I heard a couple mention in Piran) Krun či či Opcinà Limski kanal Eating out last night our host in Galeb - Salvo - reminds me of Enoch Powell ... but served lovely soup. It seems to me that Japanese tourists are stereotypical. We arrive at a shocking shocking bus station in Poreč and there is a reason to take a photo? Getaway! Maybe they are seeing something worthy of megabits and mega-pixels? On the campsite trail. I come upon my first naturist camp. 3km from Poreč. Rotel tours - www.rotel.de - arrived alongside me in Rovinj. With great advice I arrive at Porton Biondi How many days shall I stay here. I have to chill out tomorrow and stuff. Then perhaps move on by third night. It needs to be value for money. Maybe move the tent to a less bumpy plot or get a better under roll. Actually I feel better already. The facilities ar...