A rebel without a clue.

Have I developed a little writers block or is it me becoming an overnight alcoholic again? Since returning from Germany on Sunday/Monday coffee, dog walking, breakfast and mid afternoon boozing is all I can account for. Dan's unfortunate death reminds me alcohol solves none of anyone's problems but might create a legacy we're unable to see until it is far too late, and our bodies fail us with the heavy pressure we're always putting it under; yesterday I got pissed in Wetherby, returned with a kebab(for the second night running) and ate some ice cream before bed which meant I slept fitfully until nine am then disappeared for another coffee at Filmore & Union. Something clicked and reminded me this is not the new me, but some creeping in of the disappearing ego so I must deal with this devil before I leave for Ireland in the wrong mindset. Returning to further research the routes I could possibly take walking the west coast the weather has turned windy from the west ...

For a few days my finger has been poised but I've hung off writing, but my grief yesterday prompts me to speak of a tragedy I knew would happen eventually yet was  UN- ready to accept at all. The death of Dan Laythope was such a shock that I barely believe I could cry like that over someone not family and rarely seen enough as an erstwhile character, confident and friend. Yesterday I tried hard not to let this shadow to push me into drunken bewailing or fury. What a cruel hand fate is. I surely dreamt Dan died while in Holland but never registered it at all. It is only a dream and really dreams mean nothing; but Dan still laid dead for 3 weeks being reduced to an atomic state in a summer quite unlike another. Every time I returned to NorthBar I made sure I asked after him or said hurried hellos while I whisked away from Leeds in my remunerate need. In the long past and change of seasons, years and a decade, at least, while NorthBar became another institution unlike t...

With the sound of warbling birds, the church clock chiming the turning of the season, the welcome turn towards unbroken blue skies and the descent of a long sun as I strode towards the eye of Ra. Holding my rucksack by my side drifting freely down the valley into ... and without a care in the world; except a definite tiredness creeping in my lactic sore muscles, when I heard the sound of straight-four engine coming from behind and beyond the receding crest of the road I was happy and thoughtless. The sound is a joy to my ears; something I had seen and paid particular attention to throughout Croatia in 2010. A vehicle I found in swatches of a crazed coloured brilliantly roughed by age and holding a patina glistening with Mediterranean reflections. Bringing me out of me revere I saw coming towards me down the dusty road a truly classic motorcar: 747cc of French automotive genius: a Renault 4.

Yep, even in France on a Monday mornings, commuters are running to catch buses or trams and getting their heels sheared off. Quinconces is the hub for a café and croissant and mass transits. With a start I awoke after a worriesome night; there was a gargantum effort between the heat, the sleeping bag, my body and that fizzingly fork tongued mozzie. Every time I heard it's high frequency humming the battle to end it's existence began in earnest: but the cunning insect had seen this coming and had an escape car ready to extract it from the situation. Hearing is not the same as seeing. Blood sucking git! Magnum Kisses! It's an Ice Cream Choc Ice for the 21st century. If any girls kisses me and she tastes of cream she'll be straight to a dental hygienest. Bullshitting commercial Crap. Before I dismiss Bordeaux in this soul searching eye there is the small matter of the Garonne. All the rivers I've been caught fighting in France come to here and it is a river dreams a...

This morning youths are showing they gave no damn for the night or dawn; good on them. Penultimate jour pour moi. Sat in voiture sept of le TGV from Hendaye to Bordeaux St Jean. Need one night in a Gites d'etape or relais before bon voyage a au revoir. Again France explodes in my face at how expensive anything is: €3.50 Croque M. No way am I even considering that. A cheese toasty for £3, bechamel is a blanc sauce. Shared a room with a French pelerin so €60 was not helling heavily weighing. Yesterday was a day of traveling and sleeping and purchasing travel tickets. Suddenly it is too expensive to roam unplanned. What ever happened to last minute sales? But it is of no matter. The conductor blows his whistle and I can look at the many positives of my pilgrimage: I did it! One way or another I reached a goal that beckoned me unasked. Now reach out for cafe noir. Coffee is literally more expensive than beer on a TGV. I moan, but it is just some beans roasted to a very hi...

Waiting for the closure of today back in Cervantes where the folk music still flows and is a gracious improvement on vagabond pipes and harp played 24/7. A tray of scallops to earnestly become a paid in full member of the Saint James club and Ribero del Duoro barrique aged; dense but insignicant. Seems white barrica is not common/possible: fancied a chardonnay fat buttery but there is no fat barrique white to be had von Cervantes Bar. For some odd off reason just must fly/drive anywhere Saturday or Sunday. Nothing calm can come from Santiago. Perhaps a trip to the open mercado early on the morrow; buy fruit. Just said bonjour/salut to Wilfred and Linda; nothing to say: the end has come. Why should this normal place freak me so much. There isn't nothing anything something different from York, etc tourist city. Check out an internet cafe to book a flight to northern England? To be sure found O Paris Bar again not easiest bohemian place to locate in the street of thousands of facele...

The final day of walking. Amazed at myself for being brilliantly resilient since all that was thrown my way since 21st May in Leeds, UK; bit vain too! Of all the guys who left the final cafe this morning only the two Germans and I made it to this 3* Hotel(my only extravagant expense since leaving France); over a dinner of fresh tortilla and salad, tarte compostella and a bottle of Alberino we discussed which wine, movies, books we'd take to a desert island. I assumed they meant a book they'd not read before as you'd need something very long, interesting and unknown to you previously? Late rise for me was just prior to seven. I am packed and will bathe again; I noted this morning the mozzies gave me one stinging in Bruma. Much welts! Time for breakfast has come and gone and I'm on the final stage. Leaving hotel saint vincent lighter mentally and financially. The town that disliked people: Siguerio. Sure it won't let you down? Checking down the way markers we brea...