A rebel without a clue.

Vanishing into booze is the only answer. Truly. Tomorrow I seek those graves where men have made red earth since the very earliest head crushing, pole punctuating and head bleeding violent nonsense: how did this? Bruges isn't always but it is mostly. Fickle me with bust nor quim left to feister release before a cold cold front touches those regions as yet free of wool. In the Monks Arse I finally resolve a local to provide me Pannepot. Bliss but it took me all night to find this malt sock. Three black stairs undid me and I tripped like a triple bastard fool into a urinal waiting for the laughter and the abuse but this was imagined in the fall. I was brought up to think all fast food was always the same (pasty or sausage roll, fish or chips) but I am sure Belgium did early as theirs is soberly esteemed. Tried a local taste and can't understand the speed with which they seek to deliver frozen chips! Gentle-creatures on a bike so you must dodge them like straight rain drops....

It really is true: that there is no overwhelming eulogized self discovery by going anywhere beyond a closed eye. It is all an illusion; it seems like a road to nowhere. But maybe this is because I forever seem to lack another companion with whom to see the way clearly? Am I seeking empathy in society for how bewildered my mind is by this so called reality from dawn until dusk putting us to a yoke and capstan. The alchemist does find his other self and does return to the origin of his journey complete and resolved. Perhaps this is not exclusive to the fiction within a novel and millions of people only need and need each an other; I often wondered what 'my other half meant'. Ah, sweet Bruges! I knew I would be tangled up here. My soul doesn't need what my head must have. If I was able to cut my body into two distinct selves to set it free I would be absolutely happy, but because these two dichotomy's are polar extremes there will be anything other than separation until o...

If we removed the mobile phone(with limited battery life), mobile internet or strategically hidden tourist information from our world we would be required to ask people where things were: society would be lost. You could ask a local and he might send you in the direction counter to Old Dover Road and then find two gentlemen in the old pilgrims hospital would say you're miles away from where you need to be. Like a burke couldn't decide whom was telling me the truth. Eventually I gave this all up for went back to Caffé Nero, and its access point to our matrix, to discover the older chaps were correct and the young talkative git was literally talking out of his arse pipe. Kingly cleaned at Kipps on Nunnery Fields Lane(40) is what I needed to find away from London and its mental blank faced tedium and very very far away from god awful Gillingham: add this to a list of Shitetowns if ever you compile them Daniel: golzeme was an edible grace and national rail guys helped me vacate sp...

The Burg/Haus beautiful but the corporate crap littered about it means nothing to me. Slaves from/to China selling waffles, phoney dog pooh, chocolate and lace. Banana and Smoothie from a supermarkt just to keep me balanced and allow me to work this bad back ache out. Via Ypres I'm heading to Nijmegen. Once I am remunerated on 23rd I will walk because I might need woollen clothes to unbridle my passions. Brugse Zot De Halve Maan is my goal this mid morning. In 'I love Coffee' the proprietor blends and roasts himself without a smirk(though the concept is boxfresh and cleansed to deeply); the amount of caffeine in coffee beans is said to be the same whether green, brown or roasted. The coffee was necessary yet maybe not too crème. On Sint Jakobsstraat I find mention of pilgrims GR 5A and felt another tear forming, but this time the door is locked. Found you. So a bit of mindless walking listening impromptu to ACIM brought me to Walplein and a follower leading me. When in...

It was simple to cross the remainder of Kent and plunge into the cold channel then I forgot the sheer size of Europe in my blind haste and waiting with illegal immigrants to thumb a lift, with a hand drawn sign for 'Bruges' on one of the main sliproads onto roads leading to Dunkirk. I waited until the sun began to sink, then i began fretting when a number of guys kept checking me out: dog eats dog when you must reach England(what hope we must give those) and then galloped the full length of the port(massive), passed a town of refugee tents freezing in the wind, on through slightly interesting Calais, hotel du ville, lighthouse and old tower on place Du fontain and to le gare where I currently want to be in Bruges not Lille(twice I have been drawn bewildered in France to Lille(then I feared a park bench would need house me). I am fond of these challenges. Where would I be if I didn't seek confused moments: Hell. This is better and reminds me utterly of my trip to Put en Vela...

A slim book referring hungry pilgrims to the best kebabs in the world. I suppose it has been done? But I took a recommendation from two locals, after I'd wondered about the Cathedral Precinct, as I knew I hadn't eaten, don't have much money and still wanted to eat out at my convenience. Westgate Kebab is an excellent suggestion for a very large protein product. The Unicorn is where I then went : bronze Camra award means zilch in my book. Sharp's Doombar, Timothy Taylor's aren't cutting edge of real ale. Maybe this was true many years ago. Saw a font Whitbread best bitter and thought what next Stone's or Watney's? Over the lines on the left. Back to brew pub 'the Foundry' young but has promise if the hops can be better drawn out. Highlight was a light Blackcurrant Porter(they called it Stout but wasn't) and Punch IPA was excellent. Four halves back to Kipps to discuss the meaning of life over Canadian pancakes and Romanian 'milky-way' ...

Dreamy room 101 for the evening alone until around midnight when in a rush another rustled about. Breakfast and chat with Beverley. If that was my room 101 how come I was put in this too? 8:10 on to the Thames Path. Ubiquitous a joggers. Full stomach passed blind alleys and straddled occupied habitations. Dodging puddles as number one and Citibank stand vertically watching my bypassing their guilts and the tide is shortened upon this once oozing Thames. Through arches and passing private estates which prevent a view within breathing breaking space of its majestic flowing. Without the Thames what is London but another toxic city? Commuters await in unclean bodies cleansed in or cycled London cisterns. This time I walk on a right bank passing cannonades, flag poles, anchors and fully shortened paths. Grimly a jogger wipes sweaty brow on childish swings. Occupations take away my view as I arrive at Surrey Docks urban Farm. Echoes of a previous walk to Deptford at the hub of ancient dock...