Philosophy, Spirituality and Extreme travel: How I walked to Greece

MossDogg

Copyright © 2016 by MossDogg

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

https://www.youtube.com/user/yeeragliff

Synopsis

I am MossDogg. I am a free thinker and traveller. I have been travelling off and on for 15 years so far and have visited many countries and seen many things. I still know nothing however!

This is the story of my latest and most epic journey in which I walk to Greece from my parents flat in Eastbourne, England. I had to take a ferry from Dover to get to France but other than that, it was entirely on foot–no hitch hiking, no buses no nothing. I took my trusty hammock and free-camped almost everywhere I went–no matter the weather, sometimes finding decent camps and sometimes . . . not.

I took money for emergencies only, using my survival skills and street 'savvy' to feed and water myself by searching in forests, fields, bins and more besides. I was alone for the whole journey but I met a whole host of 'interesting' characters, most friendly, some mad and a few downright dangerous. Come with me and experience what it's like to travel through some of the hardest land in Europe on foot, with a heavy rucksack and only the money and supplies that I can scavenge en-route. No plans, no ideas, only the destination. Through the Alps of Austria and Italy, to the seas and lakes of Monte Negro.

From elation to desperate panic, this is an entirely true account, told in confidence as to a close friend, I expose my heart and soul, telling the tale in a third person past account, as well as in first person discussion, where the psychology and philosophy of the events are laid bare.

Nothing is left out, no consideration is given to conforming to any rules or traditions of writing, it is simply the raw emotion of one man and a 2,500 mile journey into Europe and his soul.

I invite you to join me, join MossDogg in philosophy, spirituality and extreme travel: How I walked from England to Greece.

A conversation.

"I came back to make you an offer." I said to her; soft morning sunlight and warm breeze.

"So make it then." She cut me to the chase in her clean white dress.

Looking into her far-away eyes I felt for her. I already knew her answer, but smiled inside because I knew I would still make the offer regardless. After all, it was why I came back.

Strands of her hair moved with the air around us, like lens flare.

"Come with me, I can be your guide. I know you want to but you don't want to go alone, here is your chance."

She smiled, she already knew my question and her answer too. What's inside is always felt but rarely admitted. She looked away as she answered. A dream that she cannot make real.

"I can't, I have too many responsibilities here." The cliché is real however.

"I knew you would say that. Take a holiday then, just come for a week or two, you can bus back. Surely that's OK?"

"I can't." She repeated "Its too hard now, there are too many things going on here that need me." Reinforcement of the walls which we hide behind. Walls that make us feel, safe.

"What's going on that you can't postpone or get someone else to look after for a bit?" I began to feel a prickle of enjoyment as I challenged her. Knowing that feelings rise from such things, perhaps to be thought of again in the future . . .

"I just can't. I've too many responsibilities, I'm sorry." She looked away again. Half truths. People don't like to 'rock the boat' so much, in general.

"Ahh its OK, I just thought I would make you the offer." I said smiling. "Here . . ." I brought my hands together between us, pulling off a bracelet from my left with my right.

She smiled and relaxed with comprehension: I wasn't offended, I really did know what she would say.

"It means freedom." I looked into her eyes to emphasise the deepness. A new owner after over 10 years upon my wrist. She pulled the white rubber onto hers and grinned. Safe now.

"That's really sweet, thank you."

I grinned back. Yup–safe . . . 'ish'.

"No problem. Remember - the only thing that can ever hold you back, is yourself."

[MossDogg and Nina. Croatia. 2016]

How I Walked from England to Greece.

April 2016: England. Background.

I've just pulled myself out of a rut, more a pit really. Despair induced and drug enforced, or maybe the other way around but the result is the same. It happened like this: After returning to England from a road trip through France with a good friend in 2015, I dallied in Hastings. Having no plans or ideas to glean a degree of momentum I stewed. I ended up in a relationship with a crazy, but good-hearted girl named Mills. We lived together in my old van which had failed its MOT in glorious style: the garage wrote that it was too dangerous to drive on the road and that I was very lucky that it made it back in one piece from the Euro trip! But it was awesome inside, all covered in neon graffiti and messages from friends and people I had met along the way, it was special, it was home. So rather than have it scrapped, it turned out that Mills had awesome parents who agreed to let us keep it on their driveway! So there we lived. Beryl (the van) was home for just over three months until the smoky haze and inertia had gnawed at my resolve until it was dust. We took a trip to Portugal to deliver a car to a good friend as a favour after which mills and I broke up and I tried to create some small semblance of a life plan . . .

I ended up wandering for a couple of days alone. On the second night as the rains beat through my set-up and slowly chilled me, I realised that my tramping kit and my mind weren't ready and though I was desperate to escape it simply wasn't the time. I ended up gravitating in the only direction I could do: Eastbourne and my parents. I needed a solid base, a start point. On my way walking there it began raining again. It was even worse than the previous night, pelting me with fat, pitiless beads. I felt broken and I no longer possessed the strength to carry on. I called my Dad and asked him to come pick me up, that was a huge thing for me: I'm quite proud and independent and I hate to call on anyone for help, especially my parents. It was like waiting to be picked up by the police. I knew that I needed their love and security while I recuperated and formulated a plan. I knew also that living with them meant that I would have to sacrifice my way of life and put a leash on my behaviours and activities. So be it, if they were prepared to take me in–yet again, then I would do my best to make it a positive experience for us all.

My parents and I have been through a lot in our relationship. I suppose it's more like, I have put them through a lot. Actually–I am the family black sheep. I have crashed their cars, taken drugs that scare them, not called them for weeks on end, called them and been in trouble, had the police call them because there was more trouble and more. I have lied to them and they have known it on many occasions, I have shouted at them, called them many, very bad things, I even told my father I hated him after smashing my computer and swinging at him because he made fun of my hat (there is more to it, but it sounds funnier like that). Yet still we love each other and I wouldn't change them and they wouldn't change me. It's life, there are lessons to be learned here. I used to pity them for not understanding me, now I have come to accept that we don't understand each other just yet, maybe we never will–The main thing is that I know 100% that I can call on my parents and they will help me no matter what. This has enabled me to get to the point I am today and I am eternally grateful for their forgiveness every single time.

My father is a 6' 6'' big dude that most people don't mess with, but actually he has a beautiful heart and would do anything for those he cares about, which is most people he knows really. I have a deep-seated, irrational fear of him that stems from my childhood, a fear that I just can't shift. It has permeated into my world in general too, meaning that I fear confrontations with people and hate: rules, responsibilities and the system. It has always been impossible for me and my dad to have a heart-to-heart as we are so different in how we think: I'm spontaneous, reckless and I don't consider the future much or give toss what anyone else thinks of me, whereas my father cares deeply what others think, is greatly concerned for the future and thinks everything through using tried and tested formula. We both know we love each other and hate to be at the impasse we always find ourselves but–c'est la vie.

My mother is shorter and it is from her that most of my physical traits come. She is naïve at times but getting wiser all the time, so much so that she often surprises me now. She is kind and generous and will do anything for me, always asking if I want to eat or drink something. It is from my mother that I get my obsession for never wasting a thing. She is very concerned with appearances and status and this used to bug me a great deal, now I accept it–she has much more good in her which outweighs that. I figure: if it makes her happy then it makes me happy for her. She has always been the one who listens to me, I can cry with my mother and that is a wonderful thing. I don't tell her everything however, she is too loyal to dad and whatever I confide in her, she will tell him. I love my mum to bits. I think she is a bit crazy which is great!

And so I stayed in their flat for a while, I soon got bored and I decided to try something that I had never done before in the UK: go straight! Start a business. It felt like a great idea, I would be independent again and my parents would be mega proud of me. I longed for that. So I took out all my savings (£2,000) and borrowed £6,500 from family and friends and created a business. I worked intensely for seven months, often seven days a week for 10-12 hours a day. The business proved a success. It was a small shop and club for 'geeks' which filled a niche market in Eastbourne. One day my father told me how proud he was of my achievements and my mother said the same. I felt my head fill with joy, so much so that I felt as if it would float off! I felt that for the first time in a long time, ever since boyhood really, that they meant it, they approved of me! But I was dying inside. No one can keep up that amount of work for long and after Xmas I shortened my work hours and hired help as the business expanded.

I met a girl, I knew she was bad for me but I was lonely, working all day and being 'cooped up' in my parents flat all night, I had no real life of my own other than work. She made me feel a little more alive but we started to smoke hash together . . . a lot! It helped at first, it eased the tension and made me more relaxed about my life, but gradually it made days meld into each other and life fell away. After two months I broke it off with her as she was becoming borderline 'schitzo'. I could see all the signs of a mad woman which I had seen before in another girl from my past. It's all in the eyes . . . I was lucky to get out alive I think! However, I continued to smoke pot, I believed it was my only solace. I woke up, went to work, came home and slept. Smoking pot helped me to unwind after work–that was my excuse. Really I just wanted my life to end or at least, to change. Pot fast-forwarded it all into a hazy blur.

I was once again bereft of a reason. I had made my parents proud which made me feel great but the novelty soon wore off. I was making money but what was the point when I didn't spend it? I didn't want clothes or a nice car or a nice house or anything, what did I want? I didn't want to settle in Eastbourne that was for sure! I no longer enjoyed running the business either, so for the next three months all I could do was press fast forward again. I was stressed and I couldn't sleep properly, deep inside I knew that I was spiralling down into depression and that if I didn't act soon it would get harder and harder for me to act later. I had to change my life in several ways or I was going to end up destroying it!

So I finally stopped smoking and I decided to sell the business. When my parents found out they hated the idea and just like that, I felt their pride in me vanish as if it had never been there at all. They felt so different towards me, I knew that they couldn't understand my actions and more–that they felt they were stupid ones. I saw then that the only way I could ever make them proud was to constantly do what they felt I should do. That is not living my own life at all. I laughed! How I laughed! I had spent so long, years, fighting for my father's approval. It meant so much to me and now I finally could see that it was false: laced with venom. My father could never be proud of the real me which was why we hardly ever talked. But now, after having a taste of it, I knew that I no longer needed or wanted it anyway. I was free!

Fuck it! I could now do anything I wanted to do. I didn't care about people judging me and I need please no one but myself. Loneliness is simply a construct of society–they make us chase sex and love because it means we trap each other, creating routine and a system in which we feel safe. It's genius really! The one thing all of us have, is a body. What better control then to have each of us crazily chasing after each others and then link it to 'love': our very own word for control. Have you ever wondered why there is no real definition for the word? Can you define it without a struggle? Not that I don't believe in it–just that the way we are taught to understand it, I feel is incorrect. For instance: we are taught that our 'soul mate' will 'complete' us, thus we feel as if we, alone, are incomplete, we desire to find someone who is going to make us magically feel better . . . as with so many things that I have discovered, the real answers are waiting inside ourselves.

I began to realise that I had trapped myself in so many more ways than I realised. I was imprisoned by sex, money, comfort, security, entertainment, self-doubt and probably a host of other things as well. I saw very clearly that I had to escape, fast. I decided to sell my business, buy a camper and go travelling. After deciding this and thinking about it for a while, I decided that a camper would severely limit the places that I could travel to (as well as the fact that I had done camper travelling many times already). I began to look into flying somewhere far away and totally different. So where to go? India? Asia? Australasia? (I didn't fancy the America's then), and what to do once there? Wander about a bit? It all seemed a little pointless, I felt that escape was good but I needed a reason, something to fix my mind upon and keep me going. It was then that I remembered an old idea that I had a few years back: to walk to India like the original hippies did! It sounded so good and my mind buzzed with excitement, it seemed 'legit'! I would do it!

I began to sort my kit out for the journey. I modified my hammock so that it hung inside a bivvy bag as one, fully waterproof unit. I then tested it out in the loft at my parents place as it's almost as cold as outside up in there. I couldn't sleep that night. I know it sounds like I was being a total 'weener' but it was freezing! I wanted to see if the bivvy around the hammock increased the inner temperature enough that it meant that I didn't need a sleeping bag while inside. I was very wrong indeed. My plan to cut down on weight and space wasn't going to work, even with full thermals on it was still too cold. Damn! I thought back to travels I had made around the Dartmoor national forest area: Just me and a rucksack for three weeks after I decided to quit my job and accommodation by sneaking off in the middle of the night with said rucksack and never returning. It's a gorgeous area around there and easy to camp but after the first two weeks I became lonely, frustrated and depressed. I began to wonder as I lugged my gear down from the loft-tired and achy-if this idea was just going to be the same. Was I destined to run every time I got depressed, with no direction like a terrified rodent until I gave up again and came back once more to my parents house?

My bubble burst, the trickle became a flood and I was washed away on an ocean of despair known as 'existential depression.' Why am I here? Where can freedom be found? Does it even exist? What's the point of doing anything when I have zero impact upon the world? I want to die . . . I could go more deeply into this 'episode' but I believe that its enough to tell you, that I became first frustrated, then angry, then despairing again, until I discovered the phrase 'existential depression' and what it meant (TY Google). I found myself a little piece of focus then and directed it into the origins of mankind, looking into the Sumerians: what they believed, created and wrote. Incredible. I began to feel a little more in control. This digging was helping me to understand the bigger questions that I was asking and why I was asking them. I was still far from an answer but I wasn't despondent anymore. I had a dim flame inside. A decision was coming, I could feel it, I would do something soon. I started doing more. Then I met Leyla . . .

Light had come flooding back into my life again and I felt great! What a difference getting out of the house and going for lunch at a garden centre can make hey. Leyla was perfect: a beautiful hippy girl full of light and energy and love. A free-thinker and a wounded soul looking for the same answers that I was. She waited our table that day and I really liked the way she smiled and how her eyes had a sort of, far-away, peaceful look. I said to myself and my sister:

"I'm going to leave that girl my number if the universe wills it."

What follows for a few paragraphs may seem a little 'romance novelesque' but there is reason for it beyond that. Stick with it! I looked around for a pen to scribble my number down for her . . . No pen. My sister didn't have one either.

"C'est la vie!" I said, and that was that.

Later on a guy came over to us, my sister knew him and they chatted about her husband and fish-related things (my sisters husband is a fisherman), he asked for her husbands number so he could then contact him about the fish-related things. Guess what he left on the table? How often does someone come along out of the blue and leave a pen and a pad of paper on your table right when you could really do with them? Ah universe! What a beautifully droll sense of humour you have! How could I not then leave my number, together with some banter, to the girl with the peaceful eyes?

"C'est la vie!" I repeated.

I didn't hear anything from her for a while, actually I didn't expect to-I didn't care that much. I liked her but I didn't know anything of her and I was happy being single. Plus it was a terrible note! I don't think I even spelt her name right. I have a big problem with names: they go in and I repeat the name back to its owner so it looks like I'm committing it to memory and then–just like that, literally within 20 seconds, they go and I often look like a fool or someone who really doesn't care much at all about the person I'm talking with. She even had a name tag and I actually made a point of looking at it to get the spelling right and still I forgot! Ah well, c'est la vie (I say that a lot in my life). I had tried, which was a lot more than I had done in a very long time, so I was still pleased with myself. It gave me hope that I would do more and more in the future. And then, later that night, she sent me a text me, right out of the blue.

She told me that I had indeed spelt her name wrong but then added a wink on the end so I didn't feel so bad. So it's Layla, with an 'A', OK. I replied, trying not to be too quick and look desperate but I couldn't help myself, after five minutes I was entering the characters. Again I didn't hear back from her for a couple of hours this time, but again–I wasn't worried at all, I was still amazed that she had text me back in the first place. Over the next few days we conversed via text about travelling, dreams, freedom and love. It seemed that she felt the same way that I did about pretty much all of it too! I felt that we had a connection and that it was growing. It felt so right texting her. Then she agreed to meet up with me almost a week later. Once again I was stunned. I just never expected it. I never even expected an initial reply from my 'school-boy' note and now its a 'date' (I hate to use that term). So I replied: 'yes. Hell yes!'

I was nervous, I usually am on things like this. I have been told that I'm a 'grower.' I now realise this is true. Apparently, because I'm so intense and honest and a bit nuts, most people think that I'm fake, which is so perfectly ironic since that is one of the things that I am most definitely not! I'm too honest really. But once people get to know me and they realise that I'm not acting and I really am just a bit nuts, they begin to like me-for the most part. She was arriving by train and I was waiting at the station. The nervousness started making my insides react. I began to fart . . . it's the way it often is with me and nervousness. My body seems to think that whenever I'm nervous, there must be a problem nearby so I should prepare for 'fight or flight.' The best way to do this is to have a crap?! I couldn't go to the toilet as she would be arriving any second and I wanted to be here waiting. I had to clench. I don't like to write about this kind of thing but I feel that no one really does and thus we hide this little bit of truth from the world. I want to be as open as possible during this book. After all, I'm only human. Shit shit SHIT! Bad word to use. People were flooding the platform from the train. Dammit!!! Then I saw her. She looked so cool, honestly! Alone, head-phones on, little natural dreads with beads in amongst her hair. Her eyes had that far-away look again, then I realised–she was high! She hadn't seen me yet and I got parallel to her as she walked towards the centre of the station, closer and closer until she saw me at last and jumped in surprise. Ha! We both laughed and it so began . . .

I will condense most of the 'mush' herein and save you the details but sometimes a little mush goes a long way!

We walked to a small park close by. I was still nervous and so I talked, constantly. I talked about everything and I held nothing back, I went straight in with things like: my beliefs, the purpose of existence, society, my dreams and my research into the Sumerians. It felt amazing actually! I was spouting my deepest fears and hopes and she actually listened, not only that, but she understood what I was going on about and felt the same. It all came out of me like some kind of pressurised hose of information that for me served as a kind of 'shit-test:' if she could take this, then she was alright by me. She listened and she didn't judge me. She had been asking many of the same questions herself–so she told me.

We climbed a tree and she rolled a spliff that we shared. I was a bit apprehensive to smoke it since I hadn't smoked anything for a while now and it was green–not the pot that I was used to. Also, since I was still fighting for bowel control and cannabis is known for its relaxation qualities . . . It was all OK though and we talked more and more. All I wanted to do was to spend as much time as I possibly could with her, just talking. There was no pressure, I wasn't acting and I had no goal other than to continue. We shared another spliff and then went into town where in a little bar we sat opposite one another in deep, comfy seats and talked more. I didn't want to go to the loo and sort myself out, as I imagined I would be ages and that would give away that I had just taken a dump–I would feel embarrassed and then she would no longer like me . . . so I didn't go. I held it as long as I could but eventually I felt that I would burst and had to excuse myself. Thank God. It was quicker than I thought and I felt like a new man.

I returned to our area and we talked more about everything, our past, our dreams and our present. I loved every second and as we talked, we became two stars, we gravitated towards each other, we couldn't have stopped it if we tried. She came to me and my arms were already open. I smelt her hair. I could have stayed like that forever and we savoured that first embrace. The embrace slowly became a kiss as deep and as tender as a warm sea. I had no mind, I was floating and so was she, our stars were melting into one and I was lifted into another place where all I knew was her. We could barely restrain ourselves and our passions grew as our embrace tightened. It wasn't until staff brushed by us delivering drinks that we came to, and realised just how far we had gone. Faces flush and eyes glittering, we giggled Naughtily. We were too swept away to care what they thought. We kissed again. We kissed, until the bar began to close for the night.

Out on the street I didn't want the night to ever end, but I knew that she would soon have to catch her train home, half an hour roughly. I suggested that we could hang out at my work since I had the keys and it was right next to the train station. She said that she didn't want to go home just yet and agreed. Once inside my work (a small shop with a lounge area and kitchen), I put on some music and began making tea. I only got as far as boiling the kettle . . .Later, she lay nestled in my arms as I told her stories of some of my travels. We were on my beanbag bed and the music played softly. She began to breath deeper and to my wonder, I found that she had fallen asleep in my arms. I couldn't sleep for hours as I had left the music on and I was a terrible sleeper. I didn't care–I had found her.

So we got to talking about the future the next day and travelling. I said that I wanted to travel with her anywhere she wanted to go, either in a camper or backpacking or whatever. She seemed pretty keen so I decided to spend the next few days working out the details. Maybe we fly to Asia I thought, man that sounded good! Or Egypt, or central America. Life tasted good again. Well how things change and how quickly they can do so . . .

Two weeks after that night and I was still single, we never became a couple at all! After she took the train home in the morning we texted each other and it was all fine. Then her texts began to take longer and longer in coming. The penny dropped for me when I sent her a message saying we could go anywhere together! She replied with a very singular: "do what's best for you." there was no 'we' involved at all. I knew then when I read that text. My walls disintegrated and I felt the harsh wind of lonely reality violently freezing me once more. I cried on my mothers shoulder. Something I haven't done in years and it felt good, I cried hard and I cried long. As I cried, I felt all the anger, the frustration, the fears and the pain wash away, as if they were layers of mud upon my soul, my tears–the rain. I let it all go. I would have given Layla the world. C'est la vie, if she was right for me then we would still be together.

Crying like that–letting go as I did, made me finally see that I could truly do anything I wanted to do and I could, and I would, do it alone. I could spend the rest of my life alone in fact. I didn't need anyone else and I was no longer worried about finding someone. This really liberated my soul: I didn't feel happy as such, I felt more–a calm balance begin to spread from within me and I felt a resolve building that was stronger than anything the world could throw at me. I felt like I was at ground zero. I was ready to answer those deep questions that had been gnawing at me for so long, or at least–to begin to answer them. Questions like: why am I here? Is there a God? What is the point of living? Do we have souls? What do I truly want to do? Who am I? But I needed time and space to do so.

I was ready for a challenge, why not do something utterly crazy? Something huge that people will not think is possible. I decided I would walk. Fuck a van, fuck a plane, fuck hotels and money and everything. I would walk, alone, to somewhere far away and that would give me all the time and space I needed, plus it would give me a challenge to set myself against. I needed a destination to finalise the idea. Once again, India took centre stage. I looked into the route, I had to cross either Russia, or Syria. Neither felt right. Both pretty much war-zones at the moment. I thought for a while, and that's when I decided to walk to Greece. Situated right at the bottom of Europe it's pretty much as far as one can travel from the UK on foot without crossing war-zones or being really frikin cold. Set. To Greece!

June 2016: England. Packing

I had travelled western Europe four times before in camper vans. At times I had money, and at other times I had not. I knew that I could survive with no cash in most of the more affluent areas no problem. I was confident that I would be making money from busking. I was also very confident in my ability in those same areas to find food and water in bins or on the road. To that end I decided I would take a stash pouch with a few hundred Euro and my cash card for emergencies, but I would essentially be travelling as if I didn't have a penny.

My kit consisted of my 40Litre British army rucksack, my jungle hammock–complete with mosquito netting, my tarp, thermals, two pairs of socks, swim shorts, a light coat, a beenie hat, a 'spork', a wind-up torch, my diary and pen, a cigarette kit, four tent pegs, spare cordage, fire-lighting kit, sun cream, fake wallet, contact lenses, vitamins, 1Litre water bottle, my 'Vibram' soled, 'Gortex' walking boots, a water filtration bottle and spare filters, emergency phone, two pairs of boxers, a half roll of toilet paper, medi-kit, needle and thread, 1Litre of muesli (trail mix), bivvy, 'Snugpack' extreme sleeping bag and a harmonica. It seems like such a lot written here yet it all fits into one bag upon my back weighing in at about 18kg. I had no electronic equipment (apart from my emergency mobile–switched off) and no watch, so no way of time keeping (most times written herein were estimated) or contact keeping. I would have 'alone time.'

What follows is the day-to-day diary of the journey from my parents front door in Eastbourne: on foot to Dover, the ferry to Calais and then from there–by foot once more to Greece. I have tried to write all the places I visited down, but sometimes I was just too damn tired or didn't see a sign! So apologies if some place names are not quite perfect or missed out entirely. Unless stated in the journal, every day I found food en-route in order to survive. This means either wild food, 'scrumping', food from bins: both commercial and street (never private house bins however), or food that I literally found lying in, or by the road! Same goes for water, for which I also knocked on doors or asked in bars etc. Any money that I spent was (unless stated) all made from my busking as I travelled, or was money that I found en-route–I am nothing if not resourceful! Finally I should like to say that everything you have read so far, and will read herein is true. It all happened . . .

June 13th – 17th 2016: England

Day 1

So I hit the road! I hoisted my pack onto my back, did final checks and jauntily walked through the front door as if it were just another walk to work or something. I was full of excitement as I walked. That first day I walked all the way from Eastbourne to the 'Fire hills' in Hastings. I found myself grinning and singing along the way, I was finally free! I felt so happy and alive. I had a fantastic goal and that would motivate me to keep going and to stay focused. I saw all the brambles and wondered what the black berries were going to taste like in Europe when they came to fruit. I had no ties anymore, nothing to do other than to walk and to survive. I was all eyes and ears, I marvelled at everything I saw since it was now all coated in the lustrous film of freedom! I had spent the three days and nights previous saying 'shalom' to my friends and family. I was really going to miss them. I went to Pevensey castle three nights previous with friends, we smoked it up on the crumbling walls as sunset came and long into the night. Last night my father came in to see me and stood for a while, finally he spoke:

"I feel like I should say something . . ."

It quickly degenerated into an argument that neither of us wanted. It seems that's the way talks with me and dad go-So many things not said, so many things so far apart. We have learned though: we didn't let it degenerate too far this time, we both sighed and somehow brought a better feeling between us back, but it was far from the talk either of us wanted to have. Same old. I went to bed.

At Little common beach I met a lovely couple of friends who were travelling together in vans around the UK. The women and I chatted and they invited me to sit and have a cup of tea and some cake, definitely needed since I had already walked nearly three hours and I was just beginning to get hungry, perfect timing really! They loved what I was doing and had lots of encouragement to give me which I lapped up, I felt very good: motivated and strong and so I continued walking through Bexhill and all the way into Hastings. As I began walking upon the promenade that stretches right the way along the Hastings sea front, my legs decided to make it known that it was no longer a joke–they were serious: I should stop. Man they ached and every step from that point on was painful. I felt it odd how one minute I was pretty fine and then boom! Ache-city. Ahead was a little square shelter with seats on each side. In the side facing me was seated an old–looking woman. She was feeding the pigeons and she had a wild smile on her face. I had to stop and I thought it would be better to sit with her and maybe chat, than to sit alone. I asked before I sat and she assented. It felt so good to rest my legs, which began to throb as they adjusted to no longer walking. We watched the pigeons for a bit and then we began to chat, I saw that she was drunk, both from her crazy eyes and the spittle that flecked randomly as she spoke. Every time she spoke directly at me I silently prayed for deliverance from the damp missiles. But she was cool, she even offered me some gin but I declined. She told me how she had been a slave until 12 years old in Africa and through the help of her uncles, had come to Britain after 30 years of wage-less work. I was pretty gob-smacked that that kind of thing may still be going on in the world in places. Was she telling the truth? I guess one never knows? After a while I continued onwards along the seafront, my legs still hurt but I wasn't in danger of collapsing anymore. Nice.

In Hastings town I felt hunger consuming me so I went to my old favourite haunt–a potato place just outside the shopping centre. I got talking with the guy serving at the hatch and told him my quest, he was very positive and even gave me a discount since I only had £3 cash on me (don't forget: the 350 Euro was for emergencies, I was literally travelling as if I didn't have it, preferring to use my resourcefulness first). He then decided to give me the two unsold potato's as he was about to close up! Thanks! Food for tonight and tomorrow too. I began to recognise that rather than worrying about food, shelter, water etc. if I simply enjoyed my time, those things would all fall into place.

I now call it–the 'Universe'. Other people might call it God, but essentially, I believe there is an all-powerful, loving force of creation that watches and lives each of our lives. I won't go too much into it now, but more will be explained throughout this book.

After a rest and finishing my potato (was huge), I continued through Hastings into it's amazing old town and up the steps of the east hill. There I paused and turned around to take in the view. I saw the whole of Hastings and beyond, up the coast all the way to Eastbourne where I had started this morning. It was incredible to stand there, looking back upon the ground that I had covered–I could say: I walked that. It made me feel strong and confident. I stood there for a while longer, content in the afternoon sun, seagulls wheeled and the people went about their business. Eastbourne was all the way back on the horizon, it was so distant yet I had just walked from there. No problem at all. I could do this, no–I would do this! In my mind, I already had already done so.

I continued over the east hill and into the Firehills region of Fairlight. It had rained earlier so the long grasses and bushes were wet and as I plunged through them in an increasingly worrisome effort to find shelter for the night, I became more and more soggy. It took me over two hours from the east hill to find a spot to camp, way longer than I wanted and it was already coming up to dusk. I had seen a lovely spot earlier but that was when I first started to search, and since I had loads of time left before dark I had decided that it wasn't perfect enough. Mistake. Beggars can't be choosers . . . And I paid the price by being knackered, cold, and damp. But it wasn't all bad: a peaceful little stream passed near to my hammock and as I sat on a rock next to it, the setting sun sent shafts of soft golden light through the trees and onto my camp. It was beautiful, the light delicately warmed my face as I stood and moved into it. I felt such a peace, a long day of walking over, and camp was set, all I had to do was sleep. It promised to be a cold night but I was ready, I had my thermals on and clambered into the hammock for the first night of the journey. Bliss.

Day 2

It rained in the night but not too bad, my tarp deflected it well. Up at half six or so. I swung my legs out of the hammock into the cool, damp forest air and noticed that they hurt-a lot! I had overdone it a little on the first day! Too much enthusiasm and too long trying to find the perfect camp. My body, although fit, wasn't at all used to walking for so long and it was making it's discontentment known. I think I must have walked 25 miles that day. It doesn't sound like much now, but for a first day it was a bad idea. Warm up and warm down's are vital. I decided to shift my focus from walking stupid distances, to relaxing as I walk. I realised that there was a need to balance the day better from here on. I vowed that while in England, in preparation for the main walk from Calais, I would have a cuppa in the morning at some point and buy a full on English breakfast for lunch. (yes, spending money. I had found some UK cash notes in my room and took them with me–remember, I'm resourceful). I decided that I needed to set up camp earlier and then have time to chill and enjoy the beauty of wherever I was. In fact, I decided to take more time over everything from that moment on, after all–I was free now! It was a journey and not a race.

I walked on and got into a regime of resting every half hour or so. In fact, my body forced me to rest; my legs, arse, back, neck, feet and shoulders all ached like I had slept in a working cement mixer. I have been a gym guy, I have had muscle repairing pain the next day, but this was something beyond. However, I managed to get all the way through Winchelsea, Rye and Camber and then make a wonderful camp next to one of the lakes in Lydd. In fact, the lake I camped next to I last visited about 25 years ago, my father used to windsurf and he would take the family with him as he practised there. I remember me and my sister standing in the water and giggling as the 'weird things' nibbled at our feet and legs, I later found out that they were shrimps. Good times. I had a cuppa in a cafe which was my early day treat, then later I bought some seafood mix from the fishmongers in Rye harbour which I ate with my trail mix for dinner. The sun had shone all day and even though I was aching, mentally I felt fantastic. I felt that I had used my time a lot better this day: I had rested, chilled, gazed, listened and thought much more. I hadn't walked as far as day 1 which was good. I had followed the sea all the way and didn't realise that the river Rother was uncrossable south of Rye, it meant that I had to add five miles westerly trek into and then out of Rye to cross it and continue, but I didn't get fazed by it at all. I was fine–just achy. The camp I had made at the lake was on private land, I had to wait until the coast was clear and then jump the barbed wire fence. I hung my hammock as close to the waters edge as I could and had to stay quiet in order to remain hidden from the walkers that occasionally past by, nothing too difficult. I was shattered and fell asleep fast–a rare thing for me until this trip.

Day 3

What an amazing night! After falling asleep so quick, I woke in the middle of the night and got that incredibly strange but kind of wonderful sensation: like only a second had gone by. It was well into the night however and several hours must have passed, it felt totally surreal–like time had somehow contracted for me. Maybe it had? I had fantastic dreams too. I got up about half five which is totally unlike me. Usually I would lethargically drag myself from my bed at about 10am after going to sleep too late, due to computer games or reading. Half five felt amazing, it felt right to greet the dawn and to make full use of the sun. my body ached like crazy again, especially my feet and shoulders. I had to walk slowly so as to conserve strength and enable my body to heal a bit, it also meant I could enjoy the scenery more and I was rewarded with some beautiful visions: A secret lake behind a screen of high grasses, a gorgeous field of wild flowers, several different sorts of butterflies and so on. I began to get hungry but held it off for as long as I could before I took lunch, I felt it must have been around two but it was actually noon. I bought another full English at a little place and felt epic! Then I noticed a little local supermarket and did my first bin dive of the trip. I ended up rescuing a bunch of yogurts and cheese which was great news as I was almost totally out of food. Just as I finished the dustmen arrived, how lucky was that!? Another two mins and all that good food would have been winging it's way to the landfill. Bin diving saves not only money, but the environment too.

I began to read 'the 70 stanza's' (or something like that): a book on Buddhism, as I really wanted to find a higher purpose in my life and felt that religion may provide this–as well as answers to some of my other 'big questions'. As I read I developed some opinions on what I was reading: I took it, that the Buddha attained 'enlightenment' as it's put, and that 'enlightenment involves being free of all suffering through the denial of active 'grasping'. This I translated as: the Buddhist wants to ride the creamy middle of nothingness rather than the up/down of emotions (this was my opinion and is open to criticism). I reasoned that this was all well and good and I agreed that it was totally plausible, but I knew it wasn't the right path for me at that time. I felt that it puts our conciousness aside and this means that we can't appreciate stuff, it just kinda washes over us and that felt wrong to me. I feel that we are the most concious of all physical beings on this planet and I feel that there is a reason for this. 1 key reason, I feel, is that we are here to 'appreciate' this planet, to swoon at it's beauty and to marvel at it's magnificence. Without a beholder, nothing exists . . .

I made it to Dymchurch and realised that as I was on the sea again, there was nowhere suitable to camp. See, a hammock needs two stout and tall objects to string itself to, trees being the number one choice and beaches tend to lack such things. I had chosen to bring a hammock rather than a tent as I have used both in my travels previous, finding that I don't sleep well on ground and that the hammock can cope with slopes a little better than a tent can. But in situations like this, the tent would definitely have been better–Damn! I was so frikin tired and looked round forlornly for a place. My feet ached. I had to forge on. Eventually, after another hour of dragging myself along the seafront promenade like a zombie, I decided to cut my losses and go bivvy on the ground. I climbed over a nice high wall and found there was a grassy gap between the wall and someone's garden which would be perfect. There is a massive sense of relief I always feel when my camp is all set up, after which I often then experience a great sense of satisfaction for the day's walking. I sat on the wall, my camp hidden behind me watching the sun go down and the sea's clash against the shore, then I buried myself in my bivvy and slept.

Day 4

I found that the bivvy set up worked pretty well, much better than the time in the loft where it was impossible to get in it. This time it was directly on the ground which had made all the difference. As I woke I stretched my legs and turned my feet this way and that to test their state and they felt good, once out of camp and my weight upon them however, It was sharply proven that I was wrong, they still ached like hell! Walking for the first half hour was a nightmare. Every step was a painful thud as my abused extremity hit the ground. Once they had 'softened' or whatever it was they did, walking became easier (as long as I didn't stop to rest for too long anywhere). The sun was strong that day and so I hastened into a caravan site to get some sun screen. The market therein was asking extortionate amounts for their wares since they had a captive audience-I wasn't prepared to pay what they thought they could get away with. When the assistant was distracted I squeezed a little 'Malibu' into my palm and made my get away. Thus protected from the dangerous rays for a while I continued, heading towards Folkestone, forging my own path through the gorgeous countryside. In the sun there is something magical about ancient trees, verdant, grassy hills and the bleating of far away sheep. England is a beautiful place if one explores it. I ended up a little lost so asked a couple of girls if I was heading right, it turned out that I was and we chatted for a bit. Once they found out I was on a walking quest to Greece they were gob-smacked. One of the girls then gave me some wonderful words of encouragement:

"I don't think your gunna make it mate. I don't see it happening."

It was my turn to be gob-smacked. What kind of person would say that to someone about to embark on such a journey? I felt it showed her to have absolutely zero compassion or empathy. Did she think it was good advice? That I would thank her for being so forthright? What the hell? I left quickly feeling pretty angry, England may have some beautiful countryside but it's people needed some work sometimes. I feel this can be particularly true of our young, who are growing up in a world where social skills are either non-existent or are warped through the media: TV, internet, music etc. I have seen many times, parents plonking their child in front of the TV or giving them a tablet computer or mobile in a lazy effort to placate them. kids and young adults putting so much time into computer games that they do nothing else. FaceBook completely changing the face of social interaction so its no longer physical, its virtual and no one really knows anyone as we are all behind masks. I worry for the future generations I really do, but then again–I bet every previous generation has said the same . . .

I soon found myself walking through the town of Folkestone which I'm sorry, but I felt it was a dive. The people didn't respond at all as I said my passing hello's, they seemed down, and a touch afraid of a guy who acts out of the ordinary and actually attempts friendly interaction with strangers. I stopped in the town centre for my full English, across the street at the foot of a closed down store lounged a group of drunken wasters. They shouted and hollerred at whomever they chose, obscenities abound. People were uncomfortable as they passed and girls tended to suffer what surely was abuse of the verbal kind. Yet no one could do anything about them. They were not moved on or anything. Now, I can say this as I have been, and doubtless–will be a bum again in my life. I have lived on the streets and there are some awesome people there, but I disagree with it when those people just spend their days getting wrecked and then annoy, upset or abuse people. This, in my opinion makes them wasted humans. The universe doesn't like it when we waste the gift of a physical form. It doesn't get angry, it gets saddened and this saddens me. I finished my lunch and moved on. I had to walk very slowly as my feet were still very sore, I began to see this as a blessing in disguise though–it was teaching me the correct speed at which to travel. I made a plan from now on, to walk in the mornings, then chill-out while the sun was hottest: from about 11-2pm, then walk again and make camp around 6pm. No more than six hours walking a day! No rush! I should take it slow and lap it all up . . . Didn't I learn that the other day?

I find that I forget things a lot, or perhaps I just don't care enough to remember? I reckon it stems from my 15 years of on and off dope smoking and my philosophy of living in the moment. Literally, I often feel like I wake in the morning and have had a reset button in my brain pressed. I don't harbour grudges, I don't feel the same as when I went to bed and I don't learn from my experiences. Which in many ways is good. It means that I still take chances on things, even when I know it may lead to pain. I remember my experiences, but it's like I forgive them if they ended up bad. Hence why I have no qualms about going on crazy adventures like this! I'm not worried about where I camp, where I find food and water or who I may meet–I'm excited about the possibilities. It's a good way of mind but it does have the potential to lead me into trouble, but I also have an amazing knack of not attracting that trouble! On the rare occasions that it does comes to me, I somehow always manage to escape unscathed. I can say that, and I don't even need to touch wood I'm so confident in it, Seriously! I think a lot of people would say I'm tempting fate by saying things like that, I trust in the universe enough that I don't care. Good or bad it really makes no difference. I feel that it's this openness I have that means somehow–though I don't deserve it at all since I'm just a normal human being–I get away with living without a care. Some people may call it lucky or blessed. I call it loved. The thing is: we all are.

I made camp that night above Folkestone, on her cliffs which are gorgeous. My hammock hung in the boughs of an old tree whose branches curled up and then round, creating a half-dome that was perfect for me to camp beneath. After setting up I wandered the cliff top I was on. It was magical and I sat for a while, somewhere between meditation and rapture with a grin on my face. I watched the seagulls, I watched the sea and I watched the little town with its tiny people below. A few people came by here and there and I said hello as they passed with pleasing results this time. I chatted with an old, shirtless dude called Craig who was an ex-boxer and present grocer even though he was in his 80's. I could see from his 'shirtlessness' that he had been 'built' and he still retained the iron core of it. His eyes gleamed with an infectious mischief and he had a friend-making smile. He kept punching me in the chest as we talked and I felt it was important to tense up and receive his blows, which he clearly only gave to those people he 'really liked'. . . I think. He told me that I would make it to Greece, he said I have the confidence and punched me about again, I was beginning to like this guy! He gave me his email and told me to message him once I had made it, which I agreed to do, in fact–I thought that was a great idea and it would became the major thing that I could offer the people I met, it meant that they became a part of my journey.

As the sun set and a colder breeze set in, the darkening sky and my body getting colder made my thoughts turn slightly more melancholy for the first time since I left. I thought of an ex-girlfriend of mine called Clare who I broke up with about a year and a half ago. She was amazing and we were amazing together, but in the end I realised that we wanted different things out of life. It came to the fore as we were planning to travel New Zealand together. I talked about it in terms of campers and wandering and forever on the road, she spoke of apartments six months in and 'mod-cons' and settling. Though I loved her, I knew that we had no future together and as conversation between us died, so too did our relationship. At least I wasn't thinking of Kylie anymore, she was my first love and I messed things up there good. I was a fool then but if I went back I would act no differently, after all, I would be a fool once more.

It took me over ten years to forgive myself for Kylie. Forgiveness is a wonderful gift and we should be better at it. We make decisions based upon the situation itself and the person we are at that point in time. I believe there is no wrong or right and everything happens for a reason. I learned a lot from Kylie and from the years of guilt I heaped onto myself. It made me stronger and though it caused a long episode of self-loathing and depression, I would not change anything. I am who I am today because of my past. Letting go is the key, ask yourself– can I change it? No. can I forgive myself? You had better!

June 17th – July 14th 2016: France

Day 5

I woke up early due to some light rain. Reacting quickly I pulled the modified bivvy up over me and the whole hammock, Sweet! Once dawn arrived I broke camp and hit the road. It was a morning where a thick mist had slunk in and it made the world seem like a dream. This early it was quiet anyway, but with the mist too–it was like another world in which I alone lived. My feet absolutely killed today, I had to hobble, that was a bad sign. However, it made me appreciate the small steps in my journey like getting to the next town rather than worry about the whole thing. I felt much better today, I was enjoying this more and more. I arrived in Dover at around half nine via a wonderful countryside footpath. I decided to have a cooked breakfast which was cracking and really set me up for the momentous event today: the French crossing and the journey proper. I was very excited, I couldn't wait to be on road again in Europe, but I was really going to miss the English 'greasy spoon' diners. I made it to the ferry port at the perfect time, only having to wait 10 mins to board. In that time I chatted with a few characters: one guy was pissed and was ranting on about classic rock, another guy was pretty shady and was telling me how he was going over to 'pick up some gear.' Not too sure whether that was alcohol and fags or stronger stuff? I also met a couple of elderly travellers who had rucksacks on as big as mine and were very excited and chatty too! On the ferry I found a corner, removed my boots and slept the whole way. I felt my nerves tingle as the ferry docked, this was it! 2000 odd miles stretched out before me. Unknown events abound. Would I make it? I had no doubt. Would I make it in one piece? Now that was a different matter entirely . . .

I walked from the ferry with the two elderly travellers, they were heading into Calais town and invited me to come along and stay in the hostel with them to the south west. I declined as I wanted to head south east and I didn't want to stay in hostels unless I absolutely had to, so we said goodbye and off they went. The first thing one gets to after the ferry if you're walking in Calais is a big round about. Take the right exit to go to Calais town, I didn't want that so I began to walk around the round about to see what the other exits had in store. I had no map, I was relying upon my compass and sense of direction to get me through. I passed policemen on the road and waved at them. The next exit was a motorway so no good. The one after that was a building site for a new road–also no good. Then I was back at the start. Bum–I had to take the town exit after all! I went past the police again who sniggered. Yes yes I went the wrong way, so what! I'm walking to Greece so-ha! The sun came out and cheered me, I didn't have to go into Calais proper as I very quickly found a turning off to the south east which I took. I passed a few of the 'dreaded' migrants on the way, I said hi and they were fine. People had warned me to beware of them but they seemed really nice, no worries there at all. Seems to be a lot of ignorance which causes irrational fear with humans these days. Also, the more money people get, the more they fear people with less, because they feel those people want to get at their money. Money is not a good thing I feel. True it's necessary in this day and age, but what if we lived in a world without it? We used to. I found an old straw hat in a bin I passed and decided to sport it. It turned out to have a bee in which stung me but it wasn't bad. I like to look as ragged as I can when I travel in this sort of way, it affords me a degree of protection as it makes me look poor and therefore not a good mugging target. It also means that I don't worry at all about damaging my clothing or kit. All my kit is old, old bag, old sleeping sack, old hammock, old clothing and now a stupid old straw hat too–Epic. Some children laughed at me as I rested on a rock. Whatever. I was pleased that I was resting more, I felt that it was vital to the longevity of my fitness.

After the array of wonderful footpaths in England I was not impressed with France's converse lack of them. I had to walk on the roadside a lot today which was smelly, unsafe and spoilt the view quite a bit. I came upon a local sized food store around five and decided-since I was tired and needed a sit down-that I would to do my first busk of the trip. I played my harmonica (badly) and made 12E in the first five minutes, sweet! I decided to use it to buy myself a good dinner from the store. I got lasagne and kiwi and when outside once more I decided it was camp finding time. By incredible good fortune, right next to the store was a little wooded area which was perfect for camp. I was really tired so strung my hammock and tarp and retired to bed early.

Day 6

I slept really well, I began taking notice a lot more of my body and heart today: when it said rest–I rested, when it asked me to eat–I ate, if an opportunity came my way–I was open enough to take it (if I so chose). I felt in control, I felt liberated! Don't get me wrong though, this journey was hard already: it had and it still was, taking a big toll on my body and my mind. My body: in terms of lugging my gear on my back all day long for hours and hours, and my mind: because I was alone. But I knew I was learning so many wonderful things and I wanted to learn more. In fact, my body was already showing signs of responding to the rigours of the road and I was getting fitter. My feet however, still ached so much–the back of my ankles especially. It was as if I had torn ligaments, maybe I did? I became hungry as I walked but there was nothing around, I continued and became ravenous but I was out of food. Then, there in front of me on the curb was salvation! A barely touched bar of French nougat-yum! Then, not much farther: cherries strewn across my path–thank you! I ate all the cherries and all the nougat and was sated. The universe provided for me, it seemed to me that all I had to do was be 'Zen,' in the now and free, allowing the universe to look after me. All I had to do in return was love it back and love the world, spread happiness wherever and whenever I could through smiles and interactions. Not a bad deal!

Later on, I passed by another local store and busked for a while with my new-found mentality. I smiled at everyone and put my heart and love into it. I ended up being given a ton of food and my bag became super-heavy! I had food sorted for a while, thank you! Later I came to find that I had lost a five Euro note somewhere but hey–easy come, easy go! I entered into another store en route to get pencils for my journal, which I found to be 15 cent. I was watched the entire time I was in there and as I tried to leave I was accused of shoplifting, yes-for the 15 cent pencils!!! The manager stopped me and demanded that I pay for the pencils which I had already paid for! I very smugly got my receipt and showed her, plus the checkout girl waved at her and said it's OK. The manager bitch just walked off, no–'I'm sorry Mr. Traveller sir that was my bad here have a free pencil sharpener.' That made me angry, but then I did something I don't usually do: I let it go, right then and there. Usually I have to simmer with things for a while before I'm able to let them go, this time I said 'C'est la vie' in my head and the anger was gone, in fact, I felt even better–I laughed.

I continued south east looking for camp. Nothing. I plodded on as the evening began, leaving the main road in favour of a country lane which looked good. I plodded some more. I tried to feed a crazy dog some milk I had, but it just barked at me from behind it's gate. This alerted it's owner: an old French dude, who came out all puffing and ready for action. He wanted to know what was going on: me with a bottle of milk at his gate and his dog going nuts. I speak a little French and after a while we sort-of understood one another and he was cool with me. I tried to give him the milk, for his cat which I saw hiding in the porch but it seemed he didn't understand that part, because after I gave him the milk and went to walk away, he ushered me back and put the milk back into my hands. . . Humbly I thanked him for my milk and walked away feeling confused. Do dogs drink milk? I plodded on, my feet killed, there was still nowhere to camp. This part sucked: being tired but having to continue on. I was in serious danger of collapsing when I saw a smoking-hot girl running towards me on the road. Quickly I stood straight and made it look like I was totally fine and not in any pain at all. We passed one another and shared a smile. I felt a little better and then I saw a camp spot just up the hill. It was by a train track but I knew I had to take whatever I could get. I made a spliff as I had some leftover pot from when I was with Stacy but I regretted it–it made me feel negative and alone. I decided not to smoke again. Bed.

Day 7

I finally woke up to feet that felt a little better! Not healed yet but definitely on the mend, I was beginning to think I had done irreparable damage to them . . . I felt very happy. I deduced that it must be a Sunday as there had been no trains running since late in the night, there was also much clanging of church bells and many bikes upon the roads. I have travelled northern France a few times before and I was of the opinion that it is a boring and ugly sort of place. Up until now I had only ever travelled through this area of France to get to other places however, and now that I was properly exploring it along its smaller, country roads, I found it to be most beautiful. It wasn't hilly, but there were plenty of little rises upon which tiny villages sat contently, most comprised of only a few houses and perhaps a charming little church. The sun when it shone, bathed the swaying fields of wheat and pea in a soft glow that melted my heart. People were friendly there (mostly), and a cheerful "bonjour" was almost guaranteed at every passing of ways. There were barely any cars on the roads, it was so peaceful and often when I stopped for a look back, my view stretched on and on and I felt giddy that I was so lucky to view it. I could hear the sounds of nature now much clearer as I walked: birds of field and forest alike chirping and insects clicking. I still had to stop every half an hour or so to rest my feet but I felt so good. With Greece as my goal set in my mind, I had a massive motivator to keep going.

As I wandered I came upon a village fête. Cars lined the road until the village itself and then stalls took over. It seemed that residents were encouraged to make a stall in front of their home and sell whatever they wished-like a bootsale but a lot easier for the sellers! I slowly breezed through, content to just glance at the stalls and absorb the atmosphere on that sunny morning. On one stall I saw a stack of collectable cards which I used to be very, very heavily into. I felt a hidden string pull tight and desire rose in me to buy them, but I resisted. I was pleased with myself for that, it made me feel free and it reminded me of what I may have been doing if I wasn't on this quest: I would have been so board! Screw that! It felt a lot more fun now, since my feet felt better. I said thank you to the universe for having guided me to such a special little event that usually only locals would see. I know its only a fête but it was really lovely! I did tons of walking that day, but never too fast or longer than an hour per stint. I even took a break at noon where I slept atop a hay bale in the warm sun. I saw an abandoned windmill whose sails had fallen to the ground and she had simply been left that way–It was surreal. I made my camp later on in a stand of trees between crop fields. I began seriously debating whether or not to keep my modified bivvy bag or to chuck it, in order to lessen the weight–the tarp was doing just fine on its own. I couldn't decide though. I massaged my feet before bed which I felt would speed their recovery and I thanked them as I did so, they had been amazing thus far! I also made two vows as I lay thinking in my hammock:

1. To never again take any sort of drug alone.

2. To never own an 'entertainment machine' again.

I mused how I would love to find a map right about now . . . I had no idea where I was!

Day 8

It rained last night and it continued raining well into the day too, until something like 4pm I imagined. It was too rainy for me to walk but it was OK, my feet needed the rest and I still had plenty of food from the last busk. So I relaxed, I meditated, I dozed and I thought in that time, it was nice. I watched the birds from my hammock and enjoyed the pattering of the rain on my tarp. When it finally stopped, I explored my surroundings and found a small patch of wild strawberries–yum! After eating all I could find, I packed up camp and continued south east along the road. I walked an hour or so and then the road wound back on itself to the west. I saw a small farmers track which looked to be heading the way I wanted, so I decided to take that. Oh man . . . I got absolutely soaked because the track soon ended, followed by saturated crop fields and woodland I had to push through. It took ages and soon the clouds and night began to threaten. I saw a stand of trees up ahead and made for it.

It was the freakiest stand of trees I have ever explored: there was a weird 'x' in red on a sign at the entrance, and a lone crow cawing at me as I entered the shadows. It was small, only about 20m square and at the back was a metal cargo container all alone and rusted. I wondered if I could get in there as it would make an awesome shelter but on looking through a rusted hole I saw a most strange sight. Inside were five chairs, all facing the back wall and nothing at all else. It was too weird for me and I decided to flee, snagging myself on brambles as I went. On my way out I noticed the corpse of a crow on the ground before me, it was headless . . . There was no way I was hanging around there a second longer and I ran back to the path! As I continued I heard the crows cawing from the stand–they seemed to be laughing at me. I was so glad I didn't make camp there as I truly felt a hideous force in that place and I trust my instincts. However, it now meant that I was back looking for camp with little time left. I slogged through more wet fields and grass, I saw four falcons hunting the crop fields. Eventually I found a spot to camp on a slope in a forest. I hung my clothes in the hope of drying them a little but it was unlikely. There is not much worse than being wet through on a long walk. I felt pretty wretched and decided that tomorrow, I would find a room for the night and dry the kit whilst sleeping well. This was the first day where I realised I had lost track of date and day. That felt amazing.

Day 9

Last night's camp was amazing! I woke up to all sorts of wonderful bird song that I didn't recognise and I could here the scratching and rustling of animals too. I was very tired since I didn't fall asleep for ages because I wasn't sufficiently tired due to my napping but I forced myself up in order to reassert my early regime. There was a grey sky which looked like rain but I really wanted to move and not have another day in bed so packed up camp and struck out. It began to rain, not heavy but that drizzle that eventually saturates everything completely. I had to cut through more wet fields of wheat to find the path. I got utterly soaked again in no time, but I realised that if this was the worst that France was going to throw at me, then I was going to be fine–it was only being wet after all. I reasoned that in a few hours I would dry off, I wasn't cold so pneumonia wasn't going to be a problem, I knew it was mainly a question of moral and so I kept my chin up! I laughed to myself as I realised–I really am going to do this! I still really wanted a room tonight if possible, but c'est la vie. Eventually the rains died and I began to dry out a little. I found myself noticing the beauty all around me once more and the things that mattered: Swallows, like darts playing in the sky about me, a pair of hunting hawks keeping pace with me as they hovered, cows moving toward me for a smell, dogs guarding their grounds and trying to see me off, I saw it all with such clarity then, I was unfettered by worry and responsibility, I was in 'now.'

I did another busk at a small 'Carrefour' and in one hour, I earned four sandwiches and 10E before I was politely asked to move on. On the road I saw a sign–a pilgrim with a pack and I recalled having seen another just like it a couple of days back. As I contemplated what they meant, two dudes came out of the house in front of me and said 'bonjour.' After chatting with them, it turned out that unbeknownst to me, I had been almost exactly following the 'via Francigena,' which is a pilgrimage route from Canterbury to Rome! This was useful information as I could now use any signs from the route to confirm my heading. I thanked the guys and continued. Next, I stopped in a church I passed along the way :) and I sat for a while. I had to, as my feet were hurting so much I honestly wanted to cry. The church was incredible: it was totally deserted and had tons of art and a wonderful domed roof. I wondered for a while as I looked up, how on earth they managed to create such 'defyments' of gravity, especially so long ago? After sitting for a while I struggled to rise, the pain in my feet (once again at the rear of my ankles) was excruciating. Had I torn ligaments? It felt like I had. After a little bit I was able to hobble onwards, I wanted to get to the next town and try for a room but my feet wouldn't let me, I had to make camp asap, luckily just on the towns outskirts was a small statue of Jesus, behind this was a beautiful slice of forest, too small to be of interest to walkers but perfect for me and my camping needs. With camp set up I felt very relieved and upon exploring the slice, I found a Cep (Pennybun) mushroom which I had never tasted before. Not kidding it was delicious! Some kids came into the slice but even though they were close, I was not spotted at all, I think they were too busy smoking their naughty cigarette all furtively!

Day 10

I slept very well, rising just after dawn and hitting the road. I honestly said to myself before bed that I couldn't wait for tomorrow, I hadn't said that in a very long time. The days were now a strange combination of cold and hot: they started off pretty overcast and cool, then in early afternoon, the sun would come out and it was crazy hot until dusk which felt very late, 7-8pm maybe? I stopped in a small bar for a tea and chatted with the two French women within. They were lovely and showed me a map of the area which provided me with a surprise: until then I had no idea where I was or how much ground I had covered, it transpired that I was almost in the next region of France–the Lorraine. At the rate I was going, I estimated that I would reach the sea's of northern Italy in three months and then Greece in another three. I'm not going to lie at all–even then at just 10 days in, there were hard times, times where I wondered what the hell I was doing, times where I just wanted to go home. I have said that it was easy at times, and during those times, it did indeed feel that way, but when the times were hard, they were an all-encompassing hard, and the easy times were long forgotten. Today was a hard time. My feet were all kinds of sore, I walked an absolute shit-load and I knew I shouldn't have, but what else to do? I couldn't rest, I was consumed with the quest. Once again, there were times when my feet were so sore I had to bite my lip to keep from groaning with my steps. I must have damaged them in a way more serious than I imagined but I had to walk, if I stopped, I worried that I might lose momentum and not start walking again for some time. I was only going to get one shot at this, all or nothing. I walked. In the end I found a salvation.

I stopped at a small stream for lunch and bathed my feet in its frigid waters. It was absolute bliss. Then I massaged them until the tightness was gone before drying them and left my boots off until I left. I did that twice more today, at little rivers that I came across and it helped so much. I vowed to do that every chance I got. My days felt so long and trying then. The baking sun over the days had begun to sap my strength, the fact that I couldn't swim in a sea and enjoy it's heat was grating on me. I began to ask myself even more–'why was I doing this?' I could simply fly to Greece or hitch-hike. It began to dawn on me that this quest was just like a gigantic 'vision quest:' voices would rend at my resolve in my mind, they would try to find every conceivable way for me to end the journey, screaming at me until I took control properly. Once I realised this, I was able to become stronger again–I remembered my reason: walk to Greece. That was my purpose now and I would not give up.

I had been reading that book on Buddhism over the last few days and I had learned from it. I had learned not to 'grasp' for anything, or rather, to put everything into a positive context, to let things come to me and flow around me or though me, passing me by. I like this concept, it is often only anticipation or desire that drives us and I see my thoughts doing the same often, for instance, I was often thinking things like: 'I want to swim in the sea,' 'I want to stay in a room for the night,' 'I want to be dry, 'I'm hungry.' I realised that all these things were 'graspings,' and further–I recognised that grasping never brings real happiness, only a temporary appeasement of grasping. More often than not, we are already thinking about what we want next, as we consume what we just got–making it a constant cycle of grasping! I realised that if I could cut out my grasping, if I could let the universe give to me and take from me as it wished, I would be at peace. No more of those voices, no more greed. Now, when I notice my thoughts turn to grasping, I try to remember–turn off the grasping, be in the now. What does the moment I am in right now need? Nothing at all.

Continuing, I did a little busk but it was far too hot and I had to stop after a short while, I made five Euro and dinner though. I camped up for the night in a bit of woodland just after some houses, not ideal but if I stayed quiet I would have no trouble.

Day 11

I slept well, I had some awesome dreams about roller-skating and action, that kinda thing. As I woke up, the first thing I heard was thunder . . . I hadn't put my tarp up last night to stop any rain, I was way too tired and my feet hurt too much to bother. Now I might pay the price, but it was OK, I still had my bivvy folded at the feet end of the hammock so I just pulled that up over me and waited. It was all good, the first hour or so of rain was turned aside but it got worse. Thunder and lightning and driving rain got the better of me and my camp–water began to seep in through the top opening where the bivvy couldn't go far enough to cover it. It was hard to breath in there and I was unable to move until the rain had stopped, unless I fancied a soaking. I tried to take shallow breaths but it wasn't enough. In the end I had to twist my head and put my mouth to the top opening, sucking in the fresh air–basically I was trapped in a bag! I did this for what felt like an age until the rain passed. All in all, a crap start to the day! It helped make my mind up though–I decided to get shot of the bivvy, it didn't do a good enough job to warrant it in my kit. I packed up camp and continued.

The day was still overcast but didn't rain again, in fact, as I walked the clouds dispersed and the sun came out, it became a most glorious day woop! I stopped in a little village and strew my kit along the roadside to dry for a while. After a bit, I got board so I packed up and continued on up a big hill. It was hard going for me with my broken feet and heavy pack and after a while, I saw that fast-approaching behind me was another walker. Soon he drew abreast of me. His name was Jean-Pierre (J.P) and he hailed from the village we were approaching. A middle-aged man with a bemused expression and a droll tone to his speech. We chatted for a while and I learnt some more French from him, he invited me into his home for a drink. He showed me the garden and I met his mother, whom I felt it respectful to greet her with an English peck on the cheek–it took me back to Xmas as a child when I had to kiss my great nan, something which I dreaded on account of the hair and creases on her face. The old woman (J.P's mother) screwed her face up and spat a string of French from her mouth in response to my kiss, it sounded bad–Fair enough. J.P responded to her and I got a sense of the relationship that was going on: J.P didn't like his mother in the house and his mother didn't like being there. J.P thought his mother was an annoying old crone and his mother knew that he thought so. She in turn, thought that he was a useless, spineless waste of space but had no choice in the matter since her body had failed her. She was like a simmering cauldron that if animated, would have destroyed half the village if it could. J.P was a bit of a wet fish so I could see her side. J.P and I shared some juice and I sat at his kitchen table watching him smack his lips and wonder what to say to me. It was hilarious! I was polite though, I indulged him–going on his house tour and complementing him on his garden. I left as soon as I could though as I wanted to get to Arras tonight (grasping!).

Onwards I walked, the sun was baking but I was now pretty used to it–slow breaths and sun cream. I felt so grateful to be on such a journey. I chucked the bivvy in a bin and stopped to rest, finishing the drying of the kit which I began earlier. I saw a sign for Arras: 13km. That spurred me on and I began walking again, intent on the destination (more grasping . . . It took me a while to learn!). I pushed on longer than I should have, through a sudden downpour and still onwards. I sang to myself as I walked. When walking such long hours as I'm doing (eight-ish a day) one tends to get annoying, random tunes stuck in one's head, on replay. Often those tunes are the most annoying, terrible tunes you know and sometimes they only repeat a single line, over and over . . . some examples of my travelling headaches were: that Latin one from Madonna, happiness is a warm gun, heard it through the grapevine, power rangers, pokemon theme, sk8er boi and other such. Real entertainment! 13km turned out to be much farther than I thought, but I felt sure a great night was waiting for me in Arras town. I finally arrived in Arras, it must have been around six so I had walked nine hours already. I was exhausted but it would all be worth it once I found a hostel, which would mean I could then have a majorly chilled night and in the morning, dry my kit out again since it rained as I was entering town and I was soaked. I was denied this desire however–there were no hostels at all in Arras. The cheapest hotel was 30E and I wasn't prepared to spend that much for one night. So I continued. I should have taken the room . . .

This is a prime example of how 'grasping' can fuck up our lives: because I wanted to have this 'great night' in a hostel in Arras, a night where I could be warm and dry and in a bed that didn't get water seeping in and maybe a shower, internet and all that, I pushed myself–I walked for longer than I should have and I arrived later than I would have liked, I watched my options dwindle one by one. I then chose to grasp again when I refused to stay at the only place possible, due to cost. I was even offered a lift to the hotel and I turned it down! The universe was trying to help me all the way, but I was too blind to see. One thing I know now: beggars can't be choosers–the universe will give you options but it's up to you to take them, if you keep on grasping for 'better' options, you may end up with none at all–as I was about to find out . . .

I walked through Arras and out the other side having found no more options for rooms and no places to freedom camp. My feet were killing me and I had begun hobbling again. In the suburbs around Arras, I asked an Indian lady that I met (Nergie) if she would please fill my water bottle. She returned having raided her kitchen, with a bag full of food for me. What an angel! I had been running out of food and it gave me a boost in moral too. It did however mean that I was now carrying even more weight–I was tired and I needed to find camp asap. I said goodbye as I tucked into a huge sandwich she had made for me. I passed through the suburbs and still nowhere to camp. It had begun to get dark now and I felt the flutter of panic setting in. I tried to walk a little faster and look every direction at once, I thought I saw somewhere! I clambered over a fence and into someone's back yard–nope, Back out and on. I got to a world-war graveyard, it had a small alcove to one side which was just big enough to shelter in–yes I thought about staying there, I was desperate! I made for it, asking the spirits of the graveyard if it would be OK as I passed through. Once inside, I saw all the water on the floor and the massive cobwebs everywhere and I just couldn't face it: creepy crawlies, legs on my face, wings in my eyes and mouth–I couldn't do it, what a weener! I left and slogged on.

I was so desperate that I walked into a concrete yard belonging to a factory, reasoning that if I got up early enough the next day, I could leave and they would never know. There were two trees there and it might just have worked. A guy came out from the house next door and walked towards me . . . I had nothing left, I was broken. I slowly turned towards him and weakly raised my arm. I knew what was likely to happen. I shuffled back his way a little and I mumbled:

"Pardon, J'ai sans maison, s'il vous plait, s'il vous plait."

My eyes filled with tears, I was about to crumble. I felt pathetic and probably looked it too. I hoped it was enough. He simply shook his head and said "Non." I couldn't quite believe it, auto-pilot took over as I reeled with the knowledge that I was totally fucked. I shuffled past him determined not to cry. I couldn't feel my feet anymore but I knew I had to keep going, the road stretched in a hazy street-lamp gloom. I felt anger come to my aid–How could he deny someone so clearly desperate, something so small as a place to rest for the night? It probably wasn't even his property I thought. Man it made me mad and that gave me strength. I could feel him watching me as I went and I decided that I would not turn back. I would keep going and not be humbled. Fuck him! What choice did I have anyway? I saw a forest in the distance just off the road–hope. Once I got there I had to stealthily make my way across a garden and a field to get to it. The field was full of stinging nettles and thistles and I got stung and scratched to fuck but I made it, after all, it was make it or sleep on the curb. Once in the trees I began to make camp but then I heard voices...

Two guys had come out from the house who's garden I had just walked through and they had torches–they were looking for me! Fuck! I couldn't let them find me, I didn't have the strength to be told to move on again, it was now dark and I was ready to collapse. I crouched low and froze– silent. They searched for a while but thankfully they didn't find me or see my camp. Quiet as I could I finished setting camp and just as I felt it was OK, then they came out once again! I heard a dog barking and knew my number was up–there was no way I could hide from a dog. But it was OK, they didn't have a dog, it was another house nearby and they failed to find me once more. I felt very, very lucky indeed. As quietly as I could, I got into my hammock and prepared for sleeping. That night was a long one, I was terrified that every bark I heard would be the dog that would find me. So lucky . . . lessons to learn . . .

Day 12

I slept well and made it through the night without being rumbled by man or hound. In the shallow light of dawn, I thanked the universe profusely for this little forest that saved me last night and the luck I had in not being caught. I then broke camp and decided to go a different route out of the camp just in case there were waiting lookouts. Why, at these crucial times where stealth and poise and mindfulness are needed, does the mind decide to tell the body it's time to crap and It won't take no for an answer? The stress of this journey and the upheaval it had created, meant that my body hadn't worked correctly in that department for six days so far! On the one hand–I was pleased that finally, my bowels had got their act together, but really–why now? Once relieved I continued my escape. I scouted the small forest's perimeter but I found it to be surrounded by farm buildings and houses. In the end I had to bite the bullet and leave by the same way I came. As quickly and as quietly as I could, keeping low I climbed the fence and stole through the overgrown field of stingers once more. No cries of alarm were raised and I made it to the road. Phew! I got the hell outta dodge! Once sufficient distance had been made from the area I slowed right down, my feet were still very sore and I needed to let the stress from last night dissipate. I stopped a little further on and took my breakfast under a railway bridge–thank you Nergie for the lovely food! The day was making an overcast start as usual, but I felt great. I continued and found a path that took me off the road, It was utterly gorgeous! The path was flanked by raised earth sides as if it were an old riverbed, trees grew from these 'banks' all the way along with little gaps in between, it meant that the sun-which was now out-shined in shafts through the branches, creating a magical world where only I wandered. The earth on the path was full of vitality and gave rise to a lush covering of grass, moss and fern. I was spell bound by this secret pathway as I wandered through, I thanked the universe for having found it.

The only problem on this most wonderful of days was of the tiny and winged variety–Crane flies. Man I can't stand them! Sorry, I love nature and her creatures, but crane flies–I have had no compassion for since I was a nipper. It's the way they always fly directly into my face, makes me shiver. They were everywhere all of a sudden, from midday onwards. Literally every 10 seconds while walking I was assaulted–mainly in the face but also my neck, ears, arms, chest (it was so hot I was now only in shorts) and all over, were they trying to mate with me or something? I tried to be 'Zen' about it, I tried to imagine that they were only doing their Crane fly thing and it was actually an honour, to get so much attention from them. But I couldn't maintain it, I was soon flapping around like a madman trying to defend myself as I walked. It drove me absolutely nuts! I wanted to scream in frustration and rage, but I carried on walking.

I began to approach a large settlement (Ecoust-Saint-Mein) as the sun went down, so I decided to make camp now, rather than risk a repeat of last night. I found a site on the side of the road where I simply folded the long grass down to create a mattress, upon which I laid my hammock. It wasn't ideal and it was camping directly upon the damp ground so it wasn't comfortable, but it was camp and I felt safe there. I had learned to take what was offered rather than to grasp for desires and miss my chances. I felt very good about that. After camp was set I watched the sun go down. I wasn't able to set up my tarp as there was only one tree, but I reasoned that the days were sunny enough now–if I got showered on in the night, I could dry off in the day. It is truly difficult to put into words how wonderfully beautiful and utterly peaceful it was that night. After watching clouds form and then disperse, I felt a giddy ache as I gazed this way and that. I was alone but totally suffused with joy, the blue sky gently darkened and I drifted off to sleep under that tree, on my mattress of grass surrounded by gently swaying sweet pea.

Day 13

I had the most amazing dreams that night, dreams in which I was flying, haven't had those in years! I also had a dream in which I had a harem too lol! I woke up and felt very achy–even a grass mattress gets hard after a bit. My kit was pretty damp since the morning dew had covered it, but it soon dried in the rising suns warmth. I felt alive and full of positivity, onwards! A couple of towns on, in Noreuil, and I was hailed by a dude on the other side of the road to me. We chatted and I spoke as much French as I could, which was pretty good and he ended up inviting me to his home for breakfast! His name was Bruce and he took me on a tour of his home and garden before sharing a classic, continental breakfast with his family and I. Bruce loved motor bikes and snails and he was most enthusiastic about showing me both. The snails were kept in a cage in the garden and he told me that the 30 or so now in there, had all come from just two that he had found in the woods long ago. Apparently it's all about the lettuce that you give them–Bruce made sure to only give them the finest! He advised me to visit 'Flesquieres' where there was a ww2 tank museum. He offered to drive me but I had to decline due to my journey's rules, he didn't quite understand:

"I can only walk Bruce." I lamented "san's auto, san's bus, san's hitch-hike . . . "

"Ok, I just take you to the musee, this is OK yes?"

"Non Bruce!" I laughed. "ONLY walking, you see. Otherwise my quest is broken."

He stared, thought for a while, and then said:

"OK Moss. Bon chance et bon courage!"

I walked on. Two minutes up the road and I heard a car beeping behind me. A silver Renault pulled up next to me and I prepared to smile and politely decline a lift as had happened a couple times so far. It was Bruce.

"Get in Moss, I go there now, no problem!" He was smiling brilliantly, very proud. I sighed inwardly but felt so grateful for this total strangers total generosity–Bruce had a big heart. After explaining again he drove off waving and I continued walking.

I wasn't sure about visiting the musee, It sounded interesting but it was to the north east and thus it was a detour. Bruce had told me earlier that he would phone his friend who looked after the musee, and that I would be expected, so I felt a bit obligated to go, especially since he was so animated about the place and really seemed to want me to see it. The road soon came to a 'T' junction. To the north east was the museum and to the south east, my goal. I hung there, indecisive for a while and suddenly a flock of pigeons flew above the north eastern road. It was a sign, my path was clear. OK! I said to the universe chirpily and with a spring in my step, I set off north east. The sun came out and the road was lovely–narrow and free from traffic. On the way I found a coin on the road, another sign that I was on the right path.

"Thank you universe!" I cried and continued.

I firmly believe that the universe tries to help each and every one of us as much as it possibly can, without directly influencing. I believe that subtle signs are one of the universe's preferred methods for this. The signs are different for everyone and are very personal, but I believe that if one is open enough, you will discover that there are coincidences about things the that you notice upon your path. For me, those signs are flocks of birds, feathers, coins and purple chocolate bars or wrappers (Milka, dairymilk etc). It's not that–one direction is better than another per-say, more that–the universe knows us better than we know ourselves, and if you would like to be given direction as to a path that you 'should' take, then be receptive and the universe will oblige. Do you know your signs? Wanna find out? Then try it!

I was passed on the road by five or six bikers to whom I extended my warmest greetings. They waved and said hi back as they sped off, I think they were English! Continuing, I found another coin and I thanked the universe again. Then I found a dying butterfly, it was beautiful and really big. I stood it up on the tip of my finger, it wobbled a little and then flexed its wings. I whispered encouragement as I held it aloft. It didn't fly though. I walked with it for a while but it just didn't seem to have the energy to make it into flight mode. Sadly I whispered that I would launch it, and that this was it–if it could use my launch and open its wings and fly, it would be alright. I flung it into the air and it unceremoniously plummeted into the hedgerow, Aw . . .

I arrived at the musee in the middle of the tiny village of Flesquieres. It was inside an old barn and comprised just one chamber. Inside the chamber was a tank, the six English bikers that passed me and the custodian of the museum. I introduced myself to the custodian and told him that Bruce had sent me, he was glad to see me and it was apparent that Bruce had spoken with him, and I was expected–apparently the musee is rarely open and a special request is usually required, so I was really lucky. I said hi to the bikers and I explored. Even though small, the museum was amazing. It was totally open, there was the tank: it had taken a shell to the rear and the compartment was all exposed, incredible how so many men could fit in so small a space. Also, all around on the bare earth, were relics that had been dug up and transported here from the Somme area. I chatted with some of the bikers, one of them was really interested in my tale and my philosophy, she told me that I had really inspired her and that I must be very brave. My chest puffed out. I felt very important! I laughed in reply however and said:

"Or stupid!"

It's very like me to belittle my achievements outwardly. Inside I felt good though. I was also very happy that I had inspired someone.

After the musee, I travelled onwards and came upon a graveyard for British troops that had fought in the Somme. I felt it appropriate to tarry a little there, so I spread my kit on the grass to dry and rolled a cigarette. I sat on the ground surrounded by the graves of all those young men, I imagined that many had fought and died and probably didn't even know why. I looked at the names and the ages chiselled on the white slabs. So many were 20 or 21 or 22. I felt awful. So young, and dead–Barely even begun to live their lives. I raised my cigarette and lit it, offering the smoke to the dead. I felt very, very strange once the cigarette was finished, sick inside with a heavy sorrow. I slowly packed my kit and exited. As I walked away I felt better and the sorrow lifted.

I decided to follow an unmarked lane, which soon became a narrow path, which soon became–no path at all. I had to tramp through farm land once again to rejoin the road. I crossed the damned motorway and then fields of freshly harvested pea. The harvester had failed to collect them all and I gorged upon the fresh, popping treats–yum! I saw rain in the distance and so I began searching for camp, early so I had shelter. I soon came to a forest just off the road which I named: 'Red slug forest' on account of its slimy denizens, which were everywhere and were bloody huge! I think slugs are cannibalistic? They seemed to be eating one another, I thought. Not too sure though–Google it! If so, then they are one ferocious species! Red slug forest was beautiful, totally wild and peaceful. It took me an hour to set up camp since I misjudged the distance for my hammock to hang, then I had to keep altering it, but got it in the end. There was a huge badger set right next to me and I was exited about perhaps, hearing some activity from it during the night–me being all safe a couple of feet in the air. There were cuckoos and crows above me making lots of noise. I ate and relaxed, preparing for the night. I felt so grateful, I felt in love with my existence. I felt that here, now, in this dew-sparkling, bird-calling, secret badger and slug-infested forest, that I was truly–MossDogg. I was free. I would complete this, and I was loving it. I sent my happiness to the universe as I thanked it over and over. A big rabbit bounced by.