A rebel without a clue.

Dreamt of a colossal ruined garden and building complex that was like a forbidden overgrown city. Something built by a wealthy Victorian industrialist with 3 sons, who all did their own thing, gambling whoring etc so it was forgotten and abundantly overcome with leafy abounding but struck about were it's bold righteous robust brutal architecture. An old lady - wife, or perhaps a daughter, lived in the habitations still. An industrial landscape and an artist who came to love this tumbled down ravaged world, but knew there had been some forgotten significance to it building. And it had it's own zenlike radioactive charm; Tensor radiation. In other words I dreamt I was being irradiated by a vast post apocalyptic wasteland with an old woman creeping about the ruins! Departing Tramore for Waterford I pay four euros for an espresso too far; be gone vampires. Dropped a little way before the Bus Stop to quickly look about the town; aware of its Viking origins and before departing at ...

Yesterday I am relieved it is gone. Battle over battle won. No alcohol was a tough confrontation. But I was early to bed and managed to switch off around ten. Time to let the melancholy since Thursday drift away on the sea as another light shines taking me upon the current towards the home of ancient Celtic Christianity. The origins of monastic life began with Saint Anthony, who was from a very privileged and wealthy family, by the time he reached 34 he'd decided the life he lived wasn't working for him and he sought a simpler diviner life away from the madding crowd in the desert: easier to do when you're rich, connected, dependable. The call of monastic existence always appeals to me when I am slowly oblate by the maddened crowd. They must come to F&U like bears to a salmon spawning. Gone is a relaxing chilled steady Sunday; across the road the Catholics play, sign, sigh, prey and hallucinate their God is present in the slim piece of wafer. Where is this comet, a...

Dumb aren't I? The aches of alcoholism in my hands and feet are all I have to show for a wreckless few nights. It's the gripes and shits that my body is going through that thrusts alcohol to the front of my mind. The only solution to my current dementia is more beer but that's just an illusion. Today is another day and I am going to walk off of some my illusionary guilt. Those Berghaus walking trainers went back as the insoles disintegrated in three weeks so I might have to survive a while on my ancient Merrells from 2001. Never worn for walking really, entirely leisure in my previous obese incarnation. Mum returned to forcefully remind me of my bankruptcy in 2007: fifth time this week. Maybe she wonders why I leave the room as soon as she comes in? Currently walking route 66 without the hound. Makes a nice change. Just testing the shoes to see if they're up to Ireland. All very banal stuff, but I managed to tracked down Dan's daughter, Laura, online just so ...

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...