After the euphoria of a successful week’s walking in Picos, it was back to UK walking, which regularly provides wonderful rewards but can equally be very disappointing. For some weeks I have been carrying a shoulder injury. I cannot say when it actually started or what caused it. It may have been paddling the River Wye or, just as easily, lifting boxes when Angela and I moved house. Needless to say, it is not getting any better and is often worse. It is most comfortable when carrying a rucksack, but that is neither practical or acceptable when driving or sleeping.

Helm Crag

So, the first weekend back from Spain saw me heading up the M6 to the Youth Hostel in Grasmere to join Robin Humphrey’s Kangchenjunga group. Arriving in good time on Friday, I took myself off for a walk up Helm Crag, affectionately known as The Lion and The Lamb because of the appearance of the summit rocks from below. It is not high and took me a little under an hour to reach the summit. Ascents are not a problem with my shoulder but I wanted to test it out on a steep descent using poles. The descent from the col between Helm Crag and Gibson Knott into Far Easedale is steep. I approached it tentatively, thankful that I was on my own, but eventually made it down without further damage to my shoulder, giving me confidence for the walks that lay ahead.

resting above Grisedale Tarn

The following morning I and the 14 members of Robin’s group, set out to climb Helvelyn, at 950m, the second highest peak in England. We approached the mountain following Tongue Gill, initially a gentle rise with a steep section up to Hause Gap, skirting around Grisedale Tarn to climb the steep zig-zag path up Dollyewaggon Pike. Once on the Helvelyn Ridge it was easy going, skirting around the summit of Nethermost Pike before reaching the summit cairn of Helvelyn. The clouds that had hung around the upper slopes all morning deposited some light rain from time to time but the conditions were not unpleasant. It was disappointing that we were not treated to the splendid views, some of the best in Lakeland, from the ridge and summit. The most unpleasant part was having lunch in the shelter at the summit, where any body heat we possessed soon evaporated.

The descent was down to Wythburn at the southern end of Thirlmere. As we descended the clouds began to clear, and, although the summit was not clear, the sun did shine on the rounded slopes of the Helvelyn Range. We were able to appreciate this more as we sat enjoying flapjack and coffee and walnut cake carried by Nigel and John respectively. Refreshed, we were soon down, drinking tea and eating more cake in Grasmere. I felt really good about this walk. After my week in Spain, I was mountain fit, despite the shoulder. I had reached the foot of the mountain feeling very positive about myself. I wished I was going to Kangchenjunga with the group next spring.

In the evening I gave a presentation to the group about the work of the Himalayan Trust UK, also giving them an insight into the lower parts of their trek and of the need for reliable water supplies in schools, that the group are so generously raising funds for.

While the group set out for a very wet, and truncated Fairfield Horseshoe walk, I left them to drive up to Inverness to stay with my son, now stationed at Inverness Airport where he flies for Logan Air. We were to have a couple of days walking some Scottish peaks, something I have very little experience of because of the travelling that is involved in getting  there. I gained my love of walking from my parents and Stephen has gained his from me. It is always a pleasure to share something we love together, so the next two days were going to be wonderful if the weather and conditions proved to be right.

Stephen on the summit of Ben Rinnes

We had talked about walking in the Torridon area but, checking the forecast for Monday suggested the weather would be better in the east with rain showers in the west. As a result we chose to climb Ben Rinnes, at 841m qualifies as a Corbett rather than a Munro. Although the summit was shrouded in mist, it was dry, and perhaps the mist would clear before we reached the summit. The climb was on a good path, steep to begin with as we mounted the ridge, but then gentle for some time before steepening towards the summit. On the top the mist swirled around, occasionally clearing to give us views of surrounding hills, wind farms to the north, the Moray Firth and a patchwork of fields in the valleys below.

Wishing not to retrace our steps, we continued along the ridge to an interesting collection of pancake rocks. Here, the path was not as well made and certainly not as well trod, most people electing to return the same way to their cars. En route, a hare startled by our presence, bounded across the heather, pausing at a safe distance to watch our progress. Ptarmigan, also startled by us, leapt out of the heather, cackling as they made their hasty retreat. Somebody needs to teach them the skills of stealth. Perhaps, then, not so many would get shot!

The distinctive pancake rocks

Dropping steeply from the pancake rocks over rough, very boggy ground, we made our way towards the red brick chimney of the Ben Rinnes distillery and a track that would then contour around the mountain and back to the car. On the way we disturbed another hare, which startled me when it shot out of the heather a foot or so in front of me. Beneath the heather was a warm bed of soft material. More ptarmigan flew from their hiding places. Had they not done so we would never have known of their whereabouts.

There was so much water draining off the hill through peat bogs. We realised that this was why the Ben Rlinnes distillery was where it was, collecting all this water to make its special brand of single malt whisky. In a few years time people will notice a change in the flavour. I couldn’t help it, I needed to go!

After four hours of good climbing, steep descents and bog hopping we returned to the car. It was still only 2.30. What can we do with the rest of the day? Well, when you are in Speyside there is only one thing you can do, and that is visit one of the 57 distilleries in the area. We chose Cragganmore. Stephen and I had an hour long tour of the distillery, followed buy a tasting of three different styles, all of which were very nice. Stephen had his decanted into little plastic tubs as he was driving. They were all very different, yet very good. Inevitably, we bought a couple of bottles.

It is funny how the mind works. I woke up on the Tuesday morning feeling tired, lacking in motivation and full of self doubt. Was it simply a matter of feeling tired? Was it because we had chosen to climb a Munro? Did the name daunt me? Was I fearful that I would not be able to complete the route? I have no idea. The only thing I knew was that I did not want to push my shoulder beyond its limits, or was that just an excuse? Whatever the cause of my self doubt, I tried not to let it show and prepared for a day out on the hills.

Checking the weather, it seemed it was going to be better in the west, with the chance of some rain later in the day. We decided to head out west to climb Moruisg, at 928m, a Munro. There was a chance that we might be able to follow the ridge round and climb Sgurr nan Ceannaichean, at 913m it is only just a Corbett. Until 2009 it was a Munro because the height was believed to be 915m, just within the Munro bracket. A new survey by the Munro Society confirmed it to be only 913m, and, therefore, only a Corbett.

Parking the car at the side of the road, we set off across a flat, boggy track towards the mountain shrouded in cloud. It was not cold. Gradually the path steepened without ever losing its bogginess. Every step had to be carefully placed to avoid either sinking or slipping. The steepness continued to increase until we reached a 200m section of really quite steep soft, tufty, boggy grass. I began to feel uncomfortable. I felt we did not have enough time to do the full circuit and that we were going to have to come down this route. Had it been a made up path that zig-zagged up the slope, I would have been happier, but it wasn’t and it did not zig-zag. I expressed my concerns to Stephen, that I was worried about descending this route with a shoulder that made me very careful but also very vulnerable. We turned around. Strangely, the descent of the steep section went without a problem, but I managed to fall over, on my shoulder, three times on less steep ground. It was so wet, I might as well have jumped into a swimming pool.

As we reached the car it began to rain, and continued to do so for the rest of the day. The forecast had changed while we were out and, had we not turned round, we would have had a very miserable time on the hill. Instead, we toured around a little in the car in the hope that we might get some views but none were to be had. Giving up all hope of seeing the Torridon Hills, we headed back east into sunshine, and home. Perhaps we should have stayed east all day. Certainly the decision to abort the walk proved to be the right decision.

Scotland is beautiful. It reminds me very much of New Zealand, and I feel I have seen more of New Zealand than I have of Scotland. The autumn colours are stunning, from the trees displaying the full range of autumnal colours, to copper bracken on the hillsides and golden grasses. Bales of hay still sit in the fields with golden stubble yet to be ploughed in. Autumn is early in this part of Scotland but equally the farmers make the most of the growing season and delay the harvests as long as possible. It is a shame that the sun did not shine often or long enough for me to capture all those colours on film. Over the coming months, while Stephen is living in Scotland, I intend to make the most of the opportunity and make up for lost time.

Ironically, after falling on my shoulder three times, it felt rather better.

Sun setting behind Blencathra

I was breaking the journey home in the northern Lakes. Arriving in good time, I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and climbed High Pike (658m), probably the most northerly Lakeland peak. It was an easy, steady climb on good paths, without bog. I felt much better and really enjoyed the walk. On the summit I got views to the south of the back of Blencathra, which looked an easy walk to the summit, much easier than from the south. To the north, I looked over to the Solway Firth and the hills of Dumfries and Galloway. It was beautiful and so very peaceful. I stayed up there watching the sun set. By the time I got down it was almost dark and time to visit my friends.

There was no nonsense about KLM. No sooner were all the passengers on board in Birmingham, we were off, no hanging around queueing for a slot on the runway, no hesitation, just go for it. The flight to Amsterdam was forty eight minutes with a further twenty minutes of speedy taxiing to our birth in the spider that is Sciphol. There is plenty going on there and the walk from one section to another was good training for the walking we were going to be doing in the Picos de Europa during the rest of the week.

The second flight of one hour fifty minutes was over a cloud laden Belgium and France. In fact, we did not see land until we dropped through the cloud on our approach to Bilbao.

The passage through Bilbao airport couldn’t have been easier, well it could if another passenger hadn’t mistakenly taken Katrina’s case in preference for her own exactly the same. After a few minutes a very worried passenger came running back into the airport with Katrina’s case. Obviously she was a drug mule and was concerned that she had lost her cache. There was no security, no passport control, we might as well have been to the supermarket.

Outside we were met by Mike and Pieter, boarded our vehicles for the two and a half hour journey to Aliezo, just outside Potes in the eastern Picos de Europa.

The shop that sells everything

The journey was broken by visiting a small establishment in the village of Panes, just prior to entering the Gorge De La Hermida. This was an amazing Aladdin’s cave where you can buy walking sticks, bars of chocolate, fresh vegetables, toys, wicker baskets of all shapes and sizes and eighteen San Miguel beers. A truly wonderful place and something that is missing in virtually all UK communities today. The shop at the Stiperstones Inn in Shropshire is the only example I can think of back home that is similar.

Fortified with our beer, we wove our way through the narrow gorge as Mike deftly steered us round the tight bends, occasionally using the horn to remind oncoming vehicles that they should be on their side of the road.

Romeo and Juliet? No Mike & Pieter in the courtyard to our accommodation

We soon reached the village of Aliezo and our charming accommodation, a five hundred year old traditional farm house with vines growing up the ancient walls, with uneven floors and nooks and crannies everywhere. If I don’t bang my head on a beam during our week here, it will be a miracle. The rooms are beautifully rustic, even having atmospheric spider webs across the ceiling beams. There wasn’t a surface not covered with the belongings of our hosts, Mike and Lisa Stuart and their family.

After an evening of cold beers and red wine poured from a clay pitcher, we squeezed into the dining room for a lovely meal, soup, gammon steaks, jacket potatoes and red cabbage. We were ready for this but the fact that it was all perfectly cooked made it even better. The mains were followed by the largest slices of melon I have ever seen.

With the shutters pulled across, curtains drawn, our room was pitch black and we slept really well, prepared for walking the next morning.

Although the next morning dawned bright and sunny, it was difficult to come to terms with how late it was. It was almost eight o’clock when the sun appeared, forcing the darkness to dissipate. It was only an hour later than in the UK but it seemed much later. With the shutters closed and the room in total darkness, night could have gone on much longer. We were not having early starts here. Breakfast at nine and be ready for the off at ten.

Tantalisingly beautiful

At the allotted time we piled into the two vehicles with dogs, Tilley and Sue, and drove the short distance to the village of San Pedro in the Bedoya Valley. Leaving the village behind we climbed steadily through beech and oak forests. Views were restricted because of the trees but when we eventually climbed above them on to a beautiful alpine meadow on the flanks of Pena Ventosa, a stunning vista opened out before us of the eastern massif of the Picos. The towering cliffs disappeared into clinging cloud but occasionally peaks appeared through a brief window of opportunity. Sitting there, admiring the view, listening to the jingle of cow bells as their owners grazed, and watching vultures circling overhead made it magical. In amongst the sun dried grass autumn crocus flowered in clusters, adding colour to our carpet.

A taste of views to come

Climbing further, we eventually reached a knoll overlooking the Bedoya Valley with far reaching views beyond. The cloud around the summits was beginning to clear, giving us even more stunning views. On this grassy knoll we settled for lunch, a picnic of bread, cheese, ham and tomatoes. Sitting for long enough we were able to see more; butterflies visiting flowers and bushes, making the most of the warm autumn sunshine, chuffs flying in flocks constantly chatting to each other while vultures continued to scour the cliffs for any fallen prey. As we sat there, the cloud descended gently on the upper reaches of Pena Ventosa.

After lunch we climbed a little more, to a hut. A group of Spanish families we picnicking there, having stayed there overnight, all sleeping on the long bench bed down one side of the hut. At the far end a fire still held some warmth from the night before.

Safe among the Yew trees

Moving on, we climbed up a wide track through trees and into the mist. We were going up to the ‘Cathedral’. I was not sure what to expect. Were we going to an area of towering rocks? Not at all. We were going to a group of ancient yew trees. The history surrounding these trees is a little blurred. It was either a religious site used when those practicing were banished and they were forced to engage in their beliefs secretly. Alternatively, and a more probable answer, is that it is a pagan site where, again, those worshipping were banished. The yew trees surrounding the site would fend off any evil spirits. Whatever the history, it was spookily eerie with the mist swirling around our heads.

Nearby, was the remains of an old mine with a tunnel disappearing into the rock before dropping steeply to a bottomless pool of clear water.

A leafy descent

Returning to the hut, we rested briefly, before descending steeply through the trees to the village. Happy children’s voices rang out through the trees (they were the children of the families we had seen at the hut earlier) as they were clearly enjoying the freedom of this beautiful countryside.

On our way back to Casa Gustavo we stopped off in the village of Tamo and visited a small bar. Rehydrating beers all round and plates of free olives was a great way to end our first full day in the Picos de Europa. It had been a good walk but we also knew, having seen the views we had seen on this day, that there were going to be even better ones in the coming days.

The evening was spent on the small balcony (I’m sure we exceeded the recommended weight limit) drinking immeasurable amounts of red wine poured from a large earthenware pitcher into tumbler glasses. By the time dinner was ready at 9.00pm most of us were well lubricated, if not altogether rehydrated. Man-size portions of lasagne filled the hole created by exercise and the lateness of the meal.

The following morning dawn arrived late again but was sunny and clear. By the time we get used to it not getting light until eight, we will be on our way home.

Starting at ten we drove through Potes, over the Puerto De San Glorio Pass to pick up a small track that came to a dead end a few metres below a statue of a polar bear. This bear will feature later, so if you want to find out why, continue reading.

Our ridge

We now started walking up a beautiful ridge with the occasional steep, rocky outcrop, which we tended to traverse rather than climb over. En route we came across a heard of very handsome cows. They were totally unconcerned by our presence, were immaculately clean, unlike many British herds, and were particularly photogenic, especially if the light was from behind, giving an aura to their ears as the light passes through the hair on them.

It was while admiring and photographing them that I was suddenly made aware of a danger. Bounding up to me, barking loudly in warning, was a huge dark coated Mastiff. I found it intimidating rather than frightening but it certainly distracted my attention away from the cows, which, after all, is exactly what it is supposed to do. Farmers take their livestock, cattle, sheep and goats out onto the open hillsides and leave a dog or two to keep an eye on them rather than a cow man or shepherd. The farmers will pay them a visit once a week to check on their stock and to feed the dogs. There were several herds on these hills, each with their own guard dogs.

Whichever direction we looked the view was stunning

We were gradually gaining height and the final steep climb to the summit of Coriscao was our last hurdle. This was the steepest section of the climb but at least the ground was grassy and smooth with just a small rocky area at the top. Being on the ridge exposed us to a freshening breeze, but it was beautiful to be high with such clear views of the surrounding mountains. Coriscao, at 2234m, is the highest point in the immediate vicinity. The view to the north looked across to slightly higher, but much more serious peaks because of the rocky terrain and numerous sheer cliffs. It was a place you could sit, absorb and admire for a long time. In fact, we made the most of this lofty outlook by taking lunch just below the summit, out of the wind.

Lunch. The Orio magnet is centre picture

The wind was not really a problem for us but it became a problem for Richard. Maybe he was sitting in the wrong place? Maybe Mike’s and my throwing skills were in question? Maybe, and I like to think this is the truth, Richard is an Orio magnet. On two occasions, Mike threw a packet at Sally, sitting some distance from Richard, but on both occasions the Orios hit Richard on the head. Then I had a go. I carefully aimed the packet at Sally but as the Orios arched towards Sally, they were caught by the wind, changed course and hit Richard on the head! It was a perfect shot, but with three packets hitting Richard in quick succession, he was less appreciative and the third packet came back so fast the wind did not have time to catch it.

The Molar

Descending to a rocky outcrop called the Molar. It certainly looked like a seriously decaying tooth. From there we traversed round a high valley to cross the ridge we had previously climbed. While engaged in the traverse we came across another rocky outcrop with a cleft in it. Across the cleft was what looked like a washing line with various items hanging from it. Is this some Shepherd’s washing? As we neared it we saw that these items had been there for some time as the wind had frayed the ends. It was not a washing line but a cattle scarer, frightening them so that they did not enter the cleft in the rock, find they could not turn round, and thus get stuck. Simple, but very clever.

Mastiff guard dog

Also on this traverse we came across a large herd of glossy coated goats. They really we’re looking immaculate, as if they were ready for some prestigious show. They had four mastiffs looking after them and we learned that to stave off hunger the dogs suckle the goats. Amazing!

I now want to turn my attention to something else that was truly amazing. When we returned to the vehicles parked not far from the aforementioned polar bear, Frazer, Nigel and Mike went to have a look at it. I was not fussed as it seemed so out of place. After a while I looked up and saw that Fraser appeared to have climbed on to the pedestal and seemed to be trying to climb upon the back of the bear. He failed, hence it looked as if he was trying something else. This, from a distance, looked like shocking behaviour, behaviour not befitting a man of his standing. Although there are photos of the incident I feel it is inappropriate to show them here. What made it worse was the fact that walking by at the same time was a mother and child. No wonder the English have a reputation abroad! Those who saw it were shocked beyond belief, and I, for one, was determined to make an example of Fraser after dinner when we discussed the events of the day.

That night, Fraser was awarded the “Wally” award, despite the fact that we had nothing to give him. We hoped the shame would be sufficient punishment. Sadly, this story was going to run for several days to come.

Day three required an earlier start because we wanted to take the cable car from Fuente De up to El Cable before the coaches arrived. We wanted to get ahead of any potential crowds, although, being so late in the season, we would not have been held up for too long. That said, we did have a time constraint as we had to be back in time to catch the last cable car down.

The chamois looks back as it nears the top of the ridge

The terrain here was very different. It was more like a quarry, with very little grass. As we walked up the valley with cliffs all around us, we spotted a chamois walking along the scree at the foot of a cliff. Suddenly, it leapt up onto the cliff face, which from our position looked vertical, and ever so nimbly scrambled its way to the top. It must have been 300m, at least, and it took it no more than thirty seconds to cover the distance. I must confess to being open jawed.

Horcados Rojos

As we progressed up the valley the path became more rugged and, by now, there was absolutely no vegetation. The path began to steepen as it approached the buttresses that made up the peak, Horcados Rojos. It looked daunting but we were not going up that way, we were going to climb around the back of it to climb to the summit by a more achievable route. We were now level with small patches of snow, a remnant of last winter and a reminder of what was to come in just a few weeks.

Lunching just before the col, we were joined by chuffs who were not afraid of us as they hopped among us, hoping for a morsel or two. Needless to say, we made sure their bravery and persistence did not go unrewarded.

Katrina and Mike begin their descent from from the summit

From the col the view over the other side, into a huge bowl, that looked as if it should have a lake in it, surrounded on virtually all sides by steep, impenetrable cliffs to all but those with the skill to climb them, was fantastic, Here we were given a choice, either to begin the descent or continue an extra 250m to the 2510m summit of Horcados Rojos. It was an easy decision to make to climb to the summit. It was quite steep, but would prove to be more demanding on the descent. The last few metres were a little exposed but the views were stunning and well worth the effort of the extra climb.

Having spent a few minutes on the summit, soaking up the view, we began the descent. It seemed much further on the way down.

A vulture circles the cliffs on which its unseen chicks sit

Towards the end of the walk, some of us took a small detour to another col to admire some more towering cliffs. Looking at them there was something on them that was not rock, and, on closer inspection through my binoculars, I could see two fluffy vulture chicks standing on the edge of their precipitous nest. Their parents were souring around the summit looking for tea. This short diversion took us over an interesting limestone pavement before our final descent to the cafe and cable car station.

Having been lucky enough to see the vulture chicks, I was moved to buy a stuffed toy vulture, which would act as the “Wally” award from now on. As Fraser had been given the award for his bear antics, I gave it to him while we enjoyed a beer in the sunshine on the terrace before taking the cable car.

It had been a really good day’s walking with stunning rewards from start to finish.
In the evening, as I was talking to the group, Nigel interrupted me to tell me that he had received an email from the mother of the traumatised child following Fraser’s inappropriate behaviour. He asked permission to read it out. Permission granted he read the following:

“Dear Sir Nigel Godbolt,
It was so wonderful of you yesterday to manage mine and little Fernandinho’s trauma at the incident at the bear statue. You were so kind to take the time to console me and my daughter after we had witnessed the truly awful sight of that horrible and sacrilegious act of …. on our fine nation’s national and almost religious symbol of the bear by that crude Australian (who I understand is called Fraser and who is married to a wonderful lady who, bless her, has to suffer his boisterous and British behaviour).
Your generous and kind words have helped us to start the long and slow journey of recovery required to erase such a torrid scene from our memories. Little Fernandinho eventually stopped crying at 2am this morning and whilst she will never be strong enough to read Goldilocks and the Three Bears ever again, I do think she has a chance for a fairly normal life from now on – but that is only down to you being such a wonderful human being and no thanks to that horrible man, Fraser. You explained to me that you had a nomination for ‘Dick of the  Day’. However, I regret to say that what I saw of his pathetic manhood attempting to hump the bear, he stands no chance. I will clearly have to re-educate my poor daughter on what to expect later in life from a real man.
One again, thank you for being a wonderful human being etc. etc. etc.
Yours etc. etc. etc.”

Having had three beautiful days with some glorious autumnal sunshine it was a little disappointing to wake up to cloudy skies on our fourth day.

With two consecutive challenging days behind us, we chose an easier walk for our fourth day. We were still going to be climbing about 700m but the overall length of the walk was less demanding.

Looking into the Desfiladero De La Hermida Gorge

Driving into the Desfiladero De La Hermida Gorge we found somewhere suitable for parking the minibuses so that we could climb up a narrow side gorge through forest of oak, beech and sweet chestnut trees. Some of these trees were pretty ancient. This first section followed the Rio Navedo. Despite the overcast conditions it was quite hot and sultry climbing up through the forest. The lack of wind made it more so. The climb was quite long, and steep in places but it led to a summit with two significant constructions on it. The first, and by a long way the oldest, was the remains of a fortress like structure with just a few sections of one wall still apparent. The second was a mobile phone mast giving us excellent reception had we needed to use our phones.

This was a viewpoint overlooking the Desfiladero De La Hermida Gorge with the road snaking through its bottom. Below us were numerous vultures circling around the cliffs in search of food, gradually rising on thermals so that they soured above us. They then followed the cliffs for some distance before descending to the valley floor again, sweeping along it to just below us before, again, picking up the thermals and following the same routine again.

Nigel who had been looking after the vulture award foolishly took his eye off it and it somehow escaped from his rucksack. Upon closer inspection of the creature, it seemed to have developed a new, Mohican style haircut! I wonder how? Anyway, needless to say, Nigel would have to explain his carelessness later in the day.

The descending route

Descending, we passed by the village of Pineres and through Cicera, both incredibly sleepy apart from our presence disturbing any canine residents. The descent following the Rio Cicera with its own short gorge, was extremely pleasant, again largely through trees but with the imposing wall of the main gorge, with its Mick Jagger mouth-like cave opening high up on the face, always attracting our attention.

Once down, we visited some hot springs in the river at the side of the road. Inevitably, we could have gone into the spa at the hotel that had been built to capitalise on the feature, but instead, those that chose to, opted for the free dip in the river. It is incredible how, in a country not renowned for its volcanic activity, these exist. Mike told us the hot water comes out of a fissure in the limestone, but, looking at it, it comes from under the adjacent road. The area is divided into two or three small pools of varying heat, some too hot to stay in for more than a few seconds. Climb out of the pools and the water is cold. When wrinkled, we dressed awkwardly on the river bank and joined the others enjoying the, now traditional, post walk beer.

In the evening when the question of Nigel’s ability to care for a stuffed vulture was to be questioned he interrupted and diverted attention away by saying he had just received another message. This is what it said:

“My Darling – what a wonderful surprise to receive your get well gift. Thank you so much for the bag of mixed nuts and dried fruit that arrived just after market day. They are helping me to overcome and block out the memories of that awful moment of bear back riding. 
Also little Florentinha said gracias for the lovely photo of the stuffed toy vulture that you so generously purchased for her. Understandably she is now in tears knowing that it was stolen from your backpack. I am so concerned for you regarding the company you are keeping and yet you say they all hail from Worcestershire?
As you have advised, I have contacted the Police regarding Fraser’s indecent exposure incident and with your generous help of providing his address details, National Insurance number, passport details and dental records (how on earth you managed to obtain those I will never know) – the police believe they will be able to apprehend him before he commits further crimes against decency and shocks yet another young, innocent child. 
Finally, I personallly loved the photo of you laying virtually naked in the hot springs trying to relax and overcome the mental scars of the betrayal of your former friendship with that bounder Fraser.  You looked so vulnerable – yet so strong in your baggy M&S underpants swelling under the weight of your [PAUSE] concerns. 
Anyway it is getting late now and with winter coming and only my thin negligee to keep me warm I must retire to my bed alone at number 17 Bilbao Road, Potes, 3rd on the left 2 short and 1 long ring of the door bell. 
I will try to write to you again tomorrow. 
Regards,”

We were so entertained and amused by Nigel’s creativity we forgot to punish him.

Early morning mist evaporating

The following morning the sunshine returned after a misty start and we set out for the two hour drive round to the village of Cain so that we could walk through the Cares Gorge. Unfortunately, an hour into the journey, having climbed up the winding road to Puerto De San Gloria and down the other side, we discovered the road was closed. It is only open between 8pm and 8am and for an hour at 2pm. There was no way through and any other way of getting to the Gorge would have meant far too long in the vehicles.

Decision time in Potes

We returned to Potes for a coffee and to make a decision about what to do. It was obvious that some, having got themselves comfortable in Potes were happy to stay there all day. Others still wanted a walk. So, splitting up, those that wanted to walk went off with Mike while those that wanted to relax and drink copious amounts of alcohol stayed in Potes.

The minibus took us to the village of Mogrovejo, recently the venue for a remake of Heidi. We were to spend a little time in this village at the end of the walk.

The walk was simply a circuit of the hills above Mogrovejo with stunning views of the cliffs, aretes and pinnacles of the south facing slopes of the Central Picos.

A view from an abandoned ruin

Before embarking on the walk proper, we visited a nearby village, now abandoned as a result of a 2013 landslide, which did considerable damage. We entered one house, which was clearly once somebody’s pride and joy. There were some interesting quirks in the interior architecture of the house which struck me as very Gaudiesk. The only inhabitants now were bees, who’s hives were placed on a balcony on the sunny side of the house. I couldn’t understand why the house had been so abandoned. The damage was repairable, and the landslide having already occurred was unlikely to occur again in the same place.

The walk took us up tracks and through more ancient woodland. Some of the sweet chestnut trees were probably growing when the Armada set sail. Their bases were huge and really gnarled. The track led up to a most beautiful alpine meadow, where we broke for lunch. It was warm, so we took advantage of some shady trees but this just enhanced the outlook on to vivid purple autumn crocus and gradually turning trees. The sound of cowbells jingling in the distance rang out across the meadow. And above it all were the majestic crags of the Central Picos. This place was about as close to heaven as you can get.

Reluctantly we gathered our things after lunch and headed back down in a loop to Mogrovejo, where we found a little bar open and took advantage of a little liquid refreshment.

When we returned to Potes, they were all still settled where we had left them, although they did assure us they had moved between times. I was pleased they too had had a good time.

Needless to say, Nigel’s vivid imagination had been working overtime, probably with the help of a little fluid help, and he entertained us well in the evening with the continuing saga of his new lady friend and her daughter. This time the message came with a warning:

WARNING!!!  
This email has been written under the influence of alcohol and any relevance to people living or dead is pure coincidence apart from John. Any offence is therefore probably intended. 
“You Bastard!  Whilst I will never know how he found out where I live, Bill called round just after midnight, followed by Richard for some strange reason with 3 packs of Orios and finally, a first for me when all 3 Mikes came at the same time just before dawn. I was surprised that Spanish Mike even found my house given that he couldn’t find a gorge in the morning.
On top of everything else that I gave Spanish Mike, I gave him a guide book entitled ‘How to read road closed signs in Spanish’ and another book called ‘How to pass the blame onto someone else even when it is clearly your fault.’ 
And  I was so pleased to welcome John who told me he could afford anything as he apparently had something called a kitty in his pocket?? 
I don’t know what you have been telling them about me but anyway, dear dear Bill told me everything. How you, John and Fraser dump your wives on him and he has to chauffeur them around all day going from bar to boutique shop and back to bar. 
And you then berate him for not delivering beer to you at lunchtime at the top of a mountain. That poor poor man. 
He told me how sweet Angela will never truly know the length of a kilometre nor how steep a slight gradient truly is from the daily lies she is told by John.
How poor hot hot hot Clare is drugged every night by her own daughter who pretends to everyone that she is only administering salt rehydration tablets. I understand that Clare is now so weak that her teeth break at the merest mention of a banana. 
And how the very same Catrina with a drug cabinet at her disposal still claims she gets travel sickness just so she can sit in the front of the vehicle every bloody time right next and almost on top of Pieter with the blue eyes and bleached hair, big biceps….
I do so hope that Trish is found to be innocent of the terrible whispered accusations against her that she arranged for the road to be closed just to have a day off from walking. 
Bill then rather surprisingly pulled out his telescopic stick right there infront of me and showed me how he enlarged it. He then went onto showing me how to zoom into the photo you sent me yesterday of the hot spring pool. I now realise that not only were you clearly not wearing your own M&S pants as Bill pointed out the fine Nepalese embroidery of the letters J&A for ever on them, but you were accompanied by 5 other female beauties, 2 men who had the potential to cause the river to go into flood, and one other man who appeared to be drawing up a Venn diagram whilst applying pythagarus’s theory to calculate the span of the bridge. 
Bill did appear to show a degree of remorse when he explained to me how he had suggested to Sally that she leave her rucksack behind with him safely in the car whilst she continued her walk and in so doing, left her vulnerable to last nights rigged vote. 
Bill then went on to explain that far from you being the victim of the stolen vulture toy that you promised for my daughter, you never even purchased it in the first place! Little Fuertaventura will never be able to trust a man again and Worcestershire is now off my places to visit list for good. 
I do not think I will write again, unless of course I have any more visits from your group at number 3 Bilbao Road, 2nd on the left 2 long rings and 1 short one.” 

In order to get through the roadworks before they closed the road we had an early start, leaving the house at 7am. We successfully passed through the obstruction and continued until we came to a pass. Here, we took a short break to look down towards the Cares River just as the sun was beginning to hit the peaks with its golden glow.

Continuing down into the valley we stopped briefly at a spot where there was an old wolf trap. Here the wolves were funnelled between two narrowing lines of stakes until there was nowhere else for the wolves to go but into the pit. Whether it was actually used as such or whether it is an example of how it might have been done in the past is up for debate.
At the village of Cain, nestling deep in the Gorge, we had a coffee in one of the bars before embarking on the 15km walk down the gorge. There were several hostelries, so I was guessing it gets quite busy in the height of the season.

The gorge just beyond Cain is at its narrowest, the towering walls just feet apart. Tunnels have been cut in the rock to accommodate a path. Running parallel to the path for the bulk of the route is a canal constructed between 1915 and 1921 to provide the water power for a hydro-electric scheme. The path we were walking was constructed at the same time but improved after the Second World War to maintain it and to protect it from harm. For many years Spain had suffered political and military hardship and there were some who might have wanted to do harm to the facility. It was an impressive piece of civil engineering. It is also an impressive piece of natural sculpturing, created by the trickle of water running in the Cares River at the bottom. I guess it is much more lively after a period of rain.

I was surprised by the number of people walking towards us, most in a hurry as if they were taking part in a sponsored event. I realised later that most of them would have parked their vehicles at Camarmenia, the village at the northern end and would therefore have to walk the length twice. Hence the hurry. I preferred the pace we were walking as it allowed us to observe and absorb our environment, to turn round and look at the way we had come, without feeling we had to get a move on.

There are some stunning features, none more so than the ringed arch that was high above us. If you were rushing and not taking note of your surroundings it would be easy to miss. It was all stunningly beautiful and a fitting final walk of the week.

Mike and Pieter had not been able to walk with us as they had to do the long drive round to the northern end. They were there to meet us as we finished, armed with lots of good food for our picnic lunch.

Then it was back to Aliezo and Casa Gustavo for our last night and a superb paella cooked brilliantly by Lisa.

That was it. The next morning we split up, those flying had to go to Bilbao, while the drivers all had their own routes to follow.

We had a couple of hours or so to enjoy in Bilbao. The sun shone and glistened off the walls of the Guggenheim Museum. Although I did not venture inside, I am sure the outside is by far the most impressive aspect and surpasses all of the art it displays inside. I even liked the giant dog festooned with living plants in the square next to the museum. Buskers played, street artists performed, fountains danced in rhythm and locals and tourist alike were enjoying the warm sunshine and relaxed atmosphere.

All too soon we had to head for the airport and our efficient KLM flights home.

The Picos de Europa have certainly made an impression, not just on me but on all who travelled with me. The pictures I posted on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram have spread the word and already six people have expressed a desire to join me when I next return. Can we wait?

1. The only way is Essex

John’s E-mail said to me

Ooooh! I thought…..that’s up my street

As I’d seen it on TV.

2. “I’m up for that!” I answered

And preparations I did start

Fake tan, white stilettos and lipstick

Thinking I look a bit of a tart.

3. “Wessex!” said John “not Essex!

We’re going to walk and to camp”

So away went my glamorous outfits

And I packed to look like a tramp.

4. The rest of the group seemed quite normal

And I regretted my nearly “faux pas”

So we set off to tackle the Ridgeway

John said that it wasn’t that far.

5. We chatted and laughed while walking

And talked about this and that

About how we’d arrived at this juncture

And how it helped if you were a bit of a twat.

6. Evenings were spent eating and drinking

Joshing and joking, having some sport

I blushed when it got a bit smutty

I’m from Bolton, so wasn’t that sort.

7. One day we passed the Cerne Abbas Giant

Cut in the hillside, naked and tall

I found it a bit underwhelming

Seen one and you’ve seem them all!

8. But its anatomy gave John inspiration

For the “Dick of the Day” award

To present to some Klutz in the evening

To stop us from all getting bored.

9. So nightly all our misdemeanours

Were discussed with hilarity and fun

As it’s not the sort of accolade

You’d be proud to say you’d won.

10. The final night was upon us

And at dinner as John started to speak

We presented him with a giant appendage

And voted him “Dick of the Week!”

11. He accepted the honour in good spirits

As he gazed at his Dick on a Stick

But his dilemma soon became obvious

As he wondered whether to bite or lick.

12. So finally our Wessex week was over

Great people, great walking and laughter

Thank you for all your fun and friendship

We couldn’t have been any dafter!!

A journey across the delightful Dorset countryside following the ancient Wessex Ridgeway from Tollard Royal to Lyme Regis.

What is it about recent Saturdays? It always seems to rain when I least want it to. This was the case as I left home to drive down to Dorset ahead of the main group so that I could set up camp. Ann Jones provided company on the journey and we picked up her sister, Kath, en route. Our priority, on arrival at The Inside Park camp site, was to get the shelters up and organise the kitchen and dining areas before putting the tents up. Light rain focused the mind and it was not long before the shelters were up and everything was in place. The rain even ceased long enough for us to get eight of the nine tents up before the heavens really opened. The only one not up in time was mine and Angela’s, so not entirely a disaster.

Our pitch at The Inside Park

The Inside Park is an excellent site with plenty of space that can accommodate a lot of people. We were on a flat plateau at the top of a hill, adjacent to to some woods and although it was quite a trek to the facilities it was a good spot.  Clearly, this had once been part of a large country estate. It might still be so, but apart from out buildings, now converted into bathrooms etc. there was no large house to be seen. The OS map indicates that there is a house well away from the camp site. Some of the trees are magnificent and must be several hundred years old. The grounds were well cared for and it proved good value.

With time to spare, we boiled the three kettles, got cake on the table, the wine chilled and chilli con carne bubbling away on the stove, all in time for the arrival of the rest of the group. How good is that? Despite the rain, spirits were high, and we were reliably informed by BBC Weather and a variety of other weather related apps, that it would be fine when we set out on our 62(ish) mile walk in the morning. With good food, plenty of wine and beer, everybody was happy.

It rained all night and was still raining when we began to stir, thinking of getting up and preparing for the day ahead. The rain, heavy at times, meant that sleep for many was punctuated. Hooting owls and low flying helicopters on military exercises ensured that, even when the rain was easier, we still had reasons to be awake.

All set

A hearty breakfast of bacon and egg set us up for the walk, from Tollard Royal to a care park on the edge of Blandford Forest. My bit of string stretched across the route on the map suggested it was 12 miles or there abouts. Others might argue it was a bit longer!. Finding Royal Tollard in the high hedged, narrow lanes proved to be a challenge in itself, but find it we did and, after the customary start of walk photo we set off.

Just like the minibus ride, we soon found ourselves wandering around a field, scratching our heads as we tried to work out the route. This proved to be a problem from time to time as the signage was sometimes confusing as there were different routes for walkers, horse riders and cyclists. A bit more head scratching, we realised our mistake and corrected it. Judith seemed to like head scratching; she was raked across the forehead by an overhanging bramble but fortunately there were two doctors in the group to attend to her injury. It was hardly visible once the blood flow had been stemmed.

Harvested fields showing the downland nature of the route

While the walk was varied, a mixture of farmland and forest, rarely did we feel we were on a ridge. Occasionally we climbed but height was never maintained for very long. Ashmore Wood, with many tracks criss-crossing through it and dubious signs proved a bit of a challenge. I thought we might have seen more wildlife on this journey but here was the only place where we saw deer, and that was really only the privilege of those at the front.

Further route confusion occurred where farmers had ploughed across the path, forcing us, sometimes, to walk around a field rather than across it. This naturally added a little to the distance covered.

Despite it being cloudy for most of the day it was extremely warm and humid, particularly noticeable on the up hill stretches.

Normally on these walks we have a “Wally” Award each day with the recipient having to carry and look after something appropriate for twenty-four hours. Being in Cerne Abbas Giant country it seemed appropriate to have “Dick of the Day” but to expect people to carry something of that nature was clearly inappropriate, so we just had the title awarded each day. During the course of this first day we met a very likely candidate, the leader of a South Dorset Ramblers group. We walked the same route for a while and he did not want his group talking to us. He kept berating them for being slow and constantly put them under pressure. Unlike me. Somehow, after dinner that evening, I was awarded the “Dick of the Day” award for losing my walking poles. I’m still not convinced I did.

Dorset is a county of beautifully named villages. Sometimes, they can’t make up their mind what to call a village so they give it two names. Such is the case with Iwerne Courtney, also known as Shroton. Here we stopped at The Cricketers for refreshments before embarking on the last section, and arguably the most beautiful, of the day’s walk. The cricket field has an interestingly steep section to one side of the square, I suspect making boundaries difficult to come by.

Reaching the trig point on Hambledon Hill

Climbing out of the village, we ascended the ancient fort of Hambledon Hill, which gave us far reaching views along the ridgeway, and, for once, gave us the impression of us walking along an escarpment.

From the hill we had just one last descent and a further ascent into Blandford Forest, the other side of which was our end point of the day.

We set out to do a twelve mile walk but according to those with the technology it was a couple of miles further. Even taking into account a few extra meanderings where the route was not entirely clear, I struggle to understand the discrepancies. What I did get right was the timing. Just as we finished and climbed into the minibus the rain fell from above and continued on and off throughout the night.

One of the disappointing aspects of any walk of this nature is that, for whatever reason, it becomes necessary to walk some stretches along roads, most often very quiet country lanes, but roads nevertheless. While this speeds up progress it is hard on the feet. So it was at the start of Day 2 and while we covered some distance quite quickly it numbed the mind. There were little highlights. The overnight rain had given a sheen to everything, foliage, flowers and cobwebs, of which there were a great many.

We also came across a pig farm, which in piggy terms was five star quality. Dotted around the field were pig yurts for them to pop into and sleep in. Otherwise they had the run of a very extensive field. They were friendly, too, coming over to investigate us as we stopped to admire their piggy luxury. Further down the field a farmer was loading some pigs into a trailer and the impression of luxury was lost when a loud voice rang out over the hilltop in a delightful Dorset accent, “GET IN THE FUCKING TRAILER!”

Bulbarrow Hill

Leaving the road we crossed the top of Bulbarrow Hill, another ancient fort settlement with commanding views over the surrounding countryside. This whole area is littered with Iron Age forts and more recent Roman forts, making the walk fascinating on so many different fronts.

Shortly afterwards we met a remarkable woman, Vyv Wood-Gee, and her two Cumberland fell ponies. These beautiful black horses are quite short but really strong and sturdy looking. Vyv and her horses were 1200 miles into a 1500 mile journey connecting all the historical horse sites in the country. She started on the 18th June and is due to finish on the 2nd October when she rides across Tower Bridge. She is raising funds for MacMillan Nurses and Cancer Research UK. Do visit her at www.horselandjourney.uk

We walked the same route as her for a while, she riding one horse while the other carries her kit. She has a tent but has not had to use it, always being fortunate enough to find or be offered accommodation. Her pace is similar to that of a person walking but is often slowed down by having to negotiate gates, constantly having to dismount in order to get the two horses through together, and then remounting. It was good to talk to her, to learn of her exploits and to give her a bit of support, both financially and morally.

Having made good progress earlier in the day, we slowed during the time we were with the horses. However, at the Dorsetshire Gap, a cleft in the ridge, we parted company and we were able to increase our pace a little, so much so that we reached our final destination, Giant Head Farm, ahead of schedule. It was only a further two kilometres into the village of Cerne Abbas, where a cream tea was tempting us and where we would be able to get a decent view of the Cerne Abbas Giant with his thirty foot appendage.

“Dick of the Day”

The cream tea was most welcome, although up to that point we had not yet seen the giant, even though we had walked very close to it. The shape of the hill prevented us seeing more than just part of a foot. So, after we finished our tea, we went to the viewpoint on the edge of the village to see what all the fuss was about. I expected him to be much whiter and stand out more. The rock was yellow and quite muted. The ladies in the group seemed unimpressed by his magnificent attributes. He certainly was “Dick of the Day”.

Approaching Sydling St Nicholas just after early lunch

Day three saw a change in tactics. In order to sustain energy, i decided that we would have two lunches, and early and a late. Early would be around midday and late around two. This would also mean that we did not eat too much in one go and make us feel lethargic in the afternoon. I also broke a rule and I would like to thank Mike Wilson for that. In Sydling St Nicholas, just after early lunch, we visited the pub in the village. Mike said, “I’ll have a beer if you do.” How am I supposed to respond to that? If I chose not to, Mike would feel upset, denied of something he desired, so I gave in to temptation and had a beer with him. It took me ages to come to the decision, about as long as it takes to blink.

We had been promised wonderfully warm sunshine but it never really materialised. It was certainly very warm but the cloud struggled to clear. On the top of the ridges there was a light, cooling breeze, but in the valleys it was airless and sticky.

We ended the day at Lower Kingcombe and a craft centre, nature reserve and cafe that served wonderful ice cream despite the fact that we arrived twenty minutes after it had closed. Thank you Lower Kingcombe.

Relaxing in Weymouth

We then had a day off so that while I moved camp to The Dorset Hideaway at Whitchurch Canonicorum, Angela took the group to Weymouth for a day on the beach. The sun did shine and it was an extremely pleasant day if you were on the beach relaxing. Not so if you were pitching ten tents. I did have some help with the shelters from Chris and Trevor before they went off to be little boys in the tank museum. To be honest I was happy doing what needed to be done and was pleased with the uniformity with which I had pitched the tents. I was disappointed to learn that nobody took advantage of the opportunity for a swim in the sea. A few paddled but that does not count.

Weymouth

The Dorset Hideaway is a new campsite in its first season. The pitch is very flat and the facilities, although not numerous, were really good. There is also a spa at the site offering lots of different treatments. It seems a very odd combination because campers are usually not too bothered about how perfect they look, particularly when they tend to enjoy the outdoor elements so much. Certainly, the day I spent at the campsite setting everything up, there were no queues of people looking for treatments.

The fourth day was again sunny and warm from the start and in many ways was the best day’s walking out of the five. We spent most of the day relatively high, enjoying the elevated expeience for the views it provided and for the breeze that cooled us slightly. When we weren’t high we were walking through wonderful beech woods on tracks that were sunk between two tree lined banks. You had a feeling that these tracks were very ancient and had been walked by travellers for hundreds of years. How many feet had travelled along them over the years and who did they belong to? I am sure that there are many interesting tales to be told.

Dropping into Beaminster between lunches, we gave ourselves half an hour free time to wander about the small country town. Mike led me astray again and we spent the time supping a pint in the Red Lion. Naughty Mike.

After Beaminster we climbed up Gerrards Hill and then remained relatively high for the remainder of the day, crossing the sites of a number of forts, the last being Pilsden Hill just to the north of where we were camping

Tree in the mist

The following morning we were greeted with low cloud and dampness in the air. Returning to Pilsden Hill, we had to work our way across it to pick up the Wessex Ridgeway, but this proved, in the conditions, to be a little more difficult than expected. Once sorted we then began to make good progress, largely because there was very little to see. It was a case of heads down and let’s cover as much distance as we can, in the hope that the weather will improve as the day goes on.

The weather did gradually improve but the navigation, at times proved to be difficult. Not only were we walking the Wessex Ridgeway, but this area saw a number of paths converging, The Jubilee Trail, The Monarchs Way,The Liberty Trail. Where the trails merged there became a confusion of signs and sometimes no appropriate signs at all. Sometimes the signs were hidden by dense undergrowth. But for all the challenges it set, none was more testing than crossing the A35. This busy trunk road, where the traffic travels at the top end of the legal speed limit, and beyond, has no facility for walkers to get safely from one side to another. How this has been allowed to happen is beyond comprehension. If we had been rare toads or endangered hedgehogs, provision for getting from one side of the road to the other would be there. It is only a matter of time before an accident occurs.

On the end of The Cobb

The final couple of miles took us gently downhill through beautiful forest to the outskirts of Lyme Regis. It is a very pleasant coastal resort, quite small and not spoilt with rows of arcades and stalls selling nothing but cheap tat. We walked along the front to the Cobb, the official end of the walk. Although the weather had improved considerably, the wind, for once, was quite strong and occasionally a fine spray came drifting over the Cobb. The windsurfers and kite boarders out in the bay were certainly enjoying the conditions.

In the evening we celebrated by all going out to The Five Bells in Whitchurch Canonicorum for a celebratory meal and a drink or two. It had been a very enjoyable few days, not least because of the company. The Dorset countryside is delightful, without being spectacular. It is quintessentially English, with rolling hills, quaint villages with thatched cottages, narrow country lanes, a sense of history, birdsong and so much more. And whether it was 62 miles or somewhat more, it really did not matter; every one of them was a pleasure to walk.

How rude!

Somehow, that evening, back at camp as we celebrated Stella’s wedding anniversary and Chris’s birthday, I was awarded the accolade of “Dick of the Week”. How harsh is that? Ann entertained us with another of her observant and very humorous poems. If she does not let me have a copy before this is published I will do a separate entry.

During the night it rained, heavily, the wind blew, so much so I feared for my shelters. They survived. It continued into the morning as we packed up camp, loading sodden tents and equipment into the van, all needing a good clean and a drying when I got home. What is it about Saturdays that it always seems to rain?