A rebel without a clue.

I have been searching for meaning in my life for as long as I could consider what life could possibly be for. The conclusion I perpetually come to is that there isn't any. This makes me very very depressed and disappointed. But I must be wrong and must be missing something because a great many people do appear to have a great deal of meaning in their lives; and leave so many smiles in their passing. As I sit quietly by, early on the Monday morning, it's impossible not to listen to the passing conversations between the various bird species: crows in the tall sycamore trees, pigeons on the rooftops and a variety of songbirds perched around the hedges, shrubs and smaller trees and in the background I hear the rumble of traffic on the A1(M), but what am I listening for? Is it the answer to my search for meaning? It's 5:30am and I'm stood waiting the the same kettle to boil to fill the same cafeteria before I sit at the back patio doors and linger over the same cup of coffee...

Six days walking and several days suffering a hangover... Boring. I'm bored of me. Truly I must break the cycle. When I'm in the moment of walking there is nothing to say. It's only when I'm hungover or pissed off about something or someone that I have a word to say. I'm utterly contemptible. S unday morning in Pollença, 3rd October. To a bustling Roman era market town escaping Palma on the first bus 301 at eight. BOC Hostel wasn't a party place (they said), but, it being Saturday evening, the younger others in room 3G were out until around 3. Then, at around 4, some heavy bass began kicking out in the park behind the Hostel. It didn't last long, and I drifted back to sleep until after six, when I abluted and went searching everywhere for coffee on a Sunday morning. Discovering a microbrewery next door to the hostel didn't help either - Adalt which means attic or above or something. It took me a long time to discover a café and recover some p...

A journey to the end of the novel Or a journey to the end of the night? When does this conveyer belt become comprehensible? I distrust everything I despise everyone As I trickle over Towards extinction And excursion It's Domingo And I'm tired And appalled.

Final whole day of this mixed up two weeks in France and Spain. It's too damn hot for September/October. Spain is becoming more and more impossible to cope with, personally, as overheating isn't the ideal condition for an Englishman who considers 20°C perfect - especially when the bag I am carrying is 11.5kg too heavy! And in the last two days I've heard numerous complaints from locals who are also infuriated by non stop baking sun. The final morning is tomorrow, but this morning I walked back the way I went yesterday, along the coastline from the campsite (Trillas, Tamarit €33 for a cabin), to return to Tarragona to give it a second chance. On Wednesday I had one too many Vermuts, wines and beers and then slept, fitfully, in a busy, overheating cramped hostel (Hotel Tarragona €18 dorm/€45 private). With a heavy heart I have decided to give backpackers a final goodbye as I have developed a real hatred of these establishments which are aimed at the ...

Two hours out with Lola and The Demon Dog Then measuring life in espresso cups One sugar and a glass of ice cold water. Watching them participate banally, Barren dream, waiting for 'it' to happen. Tramping over Barleyfields Along the Ginnel onto Westgate Left by the Town Hall Onto the Market Place Ready to scream (like Edvard Munch) A wasp lingers to sting Puncturing a deflating sack Which connects nothing But frowns melancholic, Asking, Can you pass the poison?

Top floor, overlooking Top dog, basking. My feet end His majestic head begins And I feel protected. Happy eyes blink up, As he balances sleepy, Knowingly reciprocated The safety spread Universal. Such a happy lad Sleeping at the foot of the bed The sound of a sleeping hound Is a pleasure to be had. Looking up for a morning cuddle He's so sweet being there With love spreading inwards And onwards, intertwined. A cup of coffee, watching North Street come alive preparing for a day By his side until he stretches. Then, locking tight, We go to meander Before traffic overwhelms Or the day sweats us

Leeds is such a dirty town And the stench wraps itself With grasping arms  To choke the life out. Such a soreness Pustules and maladies Lingering in doorways Or walking passed lifeless Litter, blowing east Where saviour leans With spice haunted eyes Just the solitary beast: Watching I can't comprehend Where it went wrong? Post-industrial, Post-milltown, Post-worsted, Post-trauma: Please X99 arrive to deliver me From Vagabond folks Emoting something broke. A crack through which I can see What was meant by Conrad 'Exterminate the brutes'. Get me away from this filthy waste! It is up to me. On the plus side I slept peace full Last night.