Monday, 3 November 2014

Micropoetry No.8

It is eight thirty
The zombies join me
I wait for them never to appear
But they hardly disappoint.

Beautiful blue skies
White gulls far away
Green seas calm
Before the winter foam.

Not enough ...
Concrete stance
Frail and lacking

Why should I see a stripped down universe?
Did you strand me here?
Too much
Too young
Until the end
For something so ancient.

Hard working
Little thinking
Too tinkering
You sit beautiful
And reclined
I sigh
For youth
Love for youth.

A labyrinth is the complex ways
Our seldom easy to plan means
NHS can only slowly rattle
A poisoning tail at the end of a path.

Physiological, tick.
Security, tick.
Belongingness, no.
Esteem, no.

Being aware of awareness
Inner peace and stillness
In the face of the hurricane
Of humanities farce.

Micropoetry No.7

Working in the weight
Inside eyes frightened
Scaled in to lateness
And your verisimilitude.

All psychopaths are ruling us now
From the first dawn of consciousness
Until the sunset upon this broken throne
God it is bad.

Gregg Wallace
Is a crudely pictorial
Probably false
Faked from buttons to face.
Didn't you realise?

Is it possible I've lost interest in Facebook?
But am I alone?
First I got bored of television, then computers now I enjoy sleep.

Oh, dark energy - you flood
Our light minds with fear
All we think we knew is false
Arriving on shore without pilot or mast.

The universe is a hologram
How can a string vibrate 'one dimensionally'?
Take me away from here.

Flex a wrist, right
No blood there
Sure to run free at
Least expectation.

Today is likely to be numb
And suffering mouth feel
Which speaks of astringency
When something happened
Drinking a cup of Jasmine Tea.

Is the decline of the pub the reason for the increase in male loneliness?
I doubt this.
It is more likely the decline of the community.

The only gift god gave is existence.
In other words:
Don't disseminate nonsense to appeal to more customers.

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Micropoetry No.6

Information is never absolute
Parts are lost
Parts are hidden
Parts are banned
Parts aren't comprehension
Parts are mystery
Parts suffer misery
Imparted untrue
Lies take apart trust
And deliver malcontents.

First in three
Third being sunny
Twice equally squally.

Eclipsed mood
First in heart
Heated crimson tide
Flow in; tranquil,

Garden grows
Between bricks and mortar
Falling leaves gather
Before the rake
People smile against
Being forced: awake!

Monday, 27 October 2014

Micropoetry No.5

Is it possible to know The Truth?
Where there is no questioning
Corporate media will not balance
Mouth piece of the slavedrivers.

Nothing was said to clarify
The impossible achievement
And the end is not the means.
It is always just over a horizon; too often.

Life multiples
Life is common
Life appears
Life exists
Life is to belong
Life strides
Life made it possible
But being brought life;
All ways and always.

Is concentrating
Being obsessive on one task -
Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.
As all other objects of need fade away.

I am a fiction of myself.
This I always saw
But went along.
I was a slave.
Now I am untethered - alienated.

Who am I?
Yes I once knew, I thought,
Now I am confused,
Thought doesn't untangle.

Parts of my body
Parts of infinity
Leading everywhere
Without control
Never apart
Reflecting Truth
Attached variably.

There is no authentic relationship ...
As I lay alone in my bed,
Dwelling on another vanishing Monday,
The dark growls about my lack.

Thursday, 23 October 2014

Micropoetry No.4

Perhaps I'll only be popular for my sayings
Not inclined to trust my inner folds
Saving stitches of thoughts resplendent?

Another 'so-called' ex-footballer
Shrunk to hair and clothes
Without skill nor balls
Oh, Beckham lay still
Decline; chill.

The day which never ends
We shall never fight against,
Being with forever,
And seeing every chance
As a real goal; treasured

Desperate to get away
The consequence of NHS border
And the dull repetition of
Every single news headline.
Flawed socially.

Attired in wild conflict
Strung out: skin peeled
Back bone reveals
Rotten disposition.
Some Truth pick-me-up.

Short of motivation
Breath is shorter
Feeling confused
Turning inside out
It is not working
It must be broken?

Silence is God
The gaps I desire
Feed my love.

My existence is meaning less
Little matters anything here
Walking away
What would that solve?

Masturbation is a temporary relief
Alcohol is a momentary supply
Lack still remains
But the universe is still my home

If my head explodes
It's where the demons play
I need to understand
Have you heard the other voice?
The one that says it's all OK?

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Micropoetry No.3

The enfeebled sun of autumn wanes
As clouds dart across an horizon
Deep in a treacherous increase.




If it isn't a Manic Monday
Deconstruct the playlist
Turn me on to Jimi.




The Independent on Sunday middleclass.
The Sunday Times middle of the road
The Sunday Sun middle of the butt crack.




What makes the news tick
In the same frame; leaning either way
They must sit, code, decide to cover the headlines parallel not parallax.


At ten am ingress increases
Inversely to progress
Less achieved as the stampede
Becomes grey.




Truth: silence is impossible
Silence! I command thee
Two shout
One sits noble betwixt




Friday, 17 October 2014

Micropoetry No.2

Actionless action
Thoughtless thought
Knowing knowingless
Perception perceptionless
Dao is I.
Empty and plan.


Metaphysic kept our proverbials warm Consider it inconsiderable,
All the tangle means nothing
All the worlds words are a logical mess.


Fury is a firebrand livid flamed
Upon a star it burnsout; ending
This was never
Yet departs
Eventually blank:
We drift without a candle.


Micropoetry. No.1

Leaves are yet not willing
Straining to rejoin the form
And hold up autumn
Still standing green.


Glowing grateful grin
Shining sun sing
Slowed in perambulation.


Emley Mast slices
A westering sun
Spicy glows fronds
Wait in rows
Come down the valley
Branches pointing


Leeds City workers are autumn thieves
Sweeping up the fragile ends,
Along with cigarette butts,
Of leaves withering dead.


A strip of moon cupping vapour
Thinning clouds present
Blue, where spiders do weave truth.


Instance death
Waves body dance
Outward ripples
An ankle twists
Celebrate life.



See the mad?
They suggest insanity,
Being their residence,
Is a form we know not.



#1 Rich. Never matter. Material is nothing. Bent on. Nailed too. Occluded detritus. Included atrophy.




#2 Piled up before. A beast who preys. On those who pray. Totem. Lustful licks.



Wednesday, 15 October 2014


Stood waiting - surely death must be frightenly cold. Such freezing of every emotion, body and pain. But what then? The Universe is inhospitable in all parameters except stars. The season's change makes it seem beyond a joke. We lie in bed and do not wish to lift our head. It creeps into every bone and nerve. Between toes it forces me to rock and fret. Bus home and time to descend into East India Youth.

Reflections post WMHD2014

My mind has been filled with beasts of absurd proportions and I was unheard among the cacophony of their blasted voices.  The space I was looking for was marginal and obscured to my sight.

It was there but like the thin ribbon floating on the current of broken branches, spinning turmoil and helpless hopes heading beyond the steady shore in a forced drowning.

Between the heaving, the rushing and the dominating of the presence I could find no means, no shore and no foothold. It was all lost for I.

Now I stand, after nearing a suffocating end,  drenched and gasping for meditative air; peace brought lower to my soul beyond lungs like a spinnaker forcing and heart bearing a capstan fully wound-up under earthly pressures.

It is relief to feel calm as the storm water retreats. After a purposefully felt mindful day (I had resolved to have yesterday evening). The bad weather gone and the demons drowned out at sea.

Against the odds I stuck to this crazy confusing track with voices threatening every moment. Now, as I furled yet another sail - bringing out oars and steady keel - today proceeded in a rhythm I had sorely misplaced. My mind is back today. It is time to look for a job.


Nothing I do is worthless
It is a reflection of Truth
Troth to being and equal not being
Holy is the whole reality
Discernible in pure view.

Tuesday, 7 October 2014


There is no hope. If I can't imagine ever finding peace, for all time, what real point is there? MOH is the worst head throbbing Four Seasons. The rulers have broken we with more need. 26 weeks. Half a year. Six Months: aeons. Time is pulling my teeth out. If I got a job how long would I last as another mere number ten digits long - vanishing. Should I just grasp oblivion prior to the end of this year?
Who can I talk to right now about my absence of hope? Oh buck up your ideas boy - father I am sorry.  I was always sorry but it never made any difference. You hated my faults and you hated my apologies. It must be the poison running along my arteries. How can I connect if I fear leaving this damned bedroom in case I just end up drunk yet again, forget for a moment then running it all over again?

What is this emptiness and bitter retreat?

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Eden is gone.

Those forgotten happy thoughts
And those elusive happy dreams
That is the way out of this - I heard you say
Or so it simply seems
For those who can never see it
I feel
Glued to a simple seldom questioned singular thought.
But I like alone: I think this yet reverse it often.
Seams split and unpacking at extremes, truthfully.
Can I tell? Why can't you taste this sourness?

The body occupies a strip of land at the end of time, battered
Assaulted without hesitation nor finger precious lingering
This is 2014 so all falls foul and we are deeply mired souls
Nightmares do guide; coming along this hideous way
Death soon will lead me beyond the hatred in man.

To think I actually thought I'd run away?
But to find the truth ...
And then return to rebuild Eden to discover only lies
Antagonism of my self is the only result found
Distraction doesn't come unstuck from the page
Flames should burn it black and finally.

Broken isn't so bad.
Forcing me to look up another path
Time! I used to see you as my enemy
But I now turn to a different cog
Tangled up in the roads walked
Seeing in me probable cause.
Now swallowing another 100mg
Down and waiting for lights out.
Reneged on Zopiclone and Mel
Turning the pages on the Doors
It awakes in me a memory of youth
What was the error I made before
Pissing out another wasted day?
Wait on time and sustain truth
A little while and stick to it
Anti me in depressants until called.

So how long have I seen myself as
J. Alfred and not D. Joseph?
Less than the attendant lords
Never sent for from the sides
Incompatible with myself and, 
Nevermind other selves, strange
So very sinister to face these eyes
Realising two ways can never accord

Being either one or another
Sane or insane
Truthful or blatantly lying
Fearing this prism and
Fearful of the monster
Reality, heaving heavily.

Monday, 29 September 2014

Poem on the back of Albert Camus

Broken am I?
Thinking not I ...
Blank is last -
Zero, I am.

Not ready for what is next.
Fear, so therefore can't leave.
Waiting with loose bolt
This final thing, anthing,
A hand shakes and nerves hasten
I can not do; more and more fail.
No more chance;
Is this the meaning of knowing?
I flapped my wings too close
This time with such descent
Burned it beyond connecting true
How nothing thou art, being!

Why am I suicidal yesterday, today and tomorrow
Eleven bells: are those deep breaths?
Shallower now
No joy for me means
Inside a mist stretches my head
A thick fog reaching over my thoughts.
Dreams only disappear with a
Cold cloaked foe leaning me

Wednesday, 21 May 2014


From what was an insightful point upon the Way, I seem to be losing my vision; blinkered or blinded, my eyes pulled out; plucked, gone. What has disappeared behind is too far to reach back and grasp meaningfully for: the branch hangs above my change as the gravity of 'now' drags me along without options of escaping. Embracing this revolution seems logical but it's left me unhinged; more tenuous than at any time before: and I am liable to get my self into deep troubles if these remodelings can not be assimilated, without madness clouding every point of symbolic interest, then it will only worth ending it before it ends me. The Source is beginning to be revealed and I don't know how to dump the old and accept the new with finality. It is possible I've asked for some help before, but that was help to be accepted; now I need help to be something I should always have been. Before I scream forever, at never ever finding this limb that could pull me out another reality, I must confirm my fears are entirely without aspect and are but a part of my old behaviours: I rage that they have firmly 'zero pointed' and yet this breakaway into truth/reality - my positive progression outwards again - feels meditatively slowed; maybe utterly for the remainder of this turning of the Wheel.

Tuesday, 20 May 2014


Only: dread.
The world I see is now,
In the slow long heavily slumped
Blunt march of a funeral,
And overcast.
A coffin, quite empty, is held;
Too low.
Not a thing good can ever come?
What is spread refuses to die;
Being toxic
Is free without the casket.
As the damp earth is pitched

Wednesday, 1 January 2014

The Beginning of the End.

Before the Beginning of the End.

Monday 9th.

And it is so nearly done: a final four days frantic picking and packing Bright Minds at Mosaic FS, and I thank them for providing me with this employment and example of insanity. Although I set off with high expectations of paying off much of what I had accrued this summer I found myself unable to detach long enough from consumerism on my off days - my mind was utterly numbed from the continual radio violence inflicted between seven and five. The futility of the role (but not the person's fulfilling their roles) picking and packing 'Christmas' in such menacingly large quantities makes me wonder what use are these 'things' 'made in China' (and the rest) continually for us Western needy greedy gluttonous pigs: Christmas is a time of love.

Next week I will unwind a little in the Low Countries before heading off to give Germany the chance I might have overlooked during July. There is also a slim chance I will continue walking the same path Patrick Leigh Fermor followed in 1933 up the Rhine - it is 80 years ago.

This journey is going to be achieved without too much planning - but how can I control the cost of transport on the hoof; even without flying it'll be hellish expensive for sure. A situation may arise where I need to ask for help before I come back on the 30th?

The two jobs I've had in 2013 will be of little consequence if this quest produces a golden egg and my future must 'become' as a consequence of my actions - this is called causation right?

Saturday 14th.

It must be time to set off again? Heading south and away from the eternity of The Jackson's singing 'funting' Christmas songs in Costa; which makes my life appear worthy and enforces the reality that the world is truly paralysed. What is the truth of this cyclically barren situation?

I came along here upon waking to a crowded dawn chorus (window ajar), sandwiched between waves of noise from the great north road, which abrasively shatter any potential morning greatness. So my last four months is complete and no wonder I wake so suddenly at six when for five weeks corporations have conspired to reprogramme me thus. For only a dollar a day I have slaved mindless where naught was encouraging me to see any hope in our purposeless. Now I must succeed on my next path otherwise I would've failed another challenge and another year. All these tears will not lead me back to being a long leaping dole flea for nothing again!

My most helpful cousin must be hanging so low this morning? Vodka and ginger beer in pint glasses is enough to squash any high brow! I left him for a brief right turn through The Bull where a local band weren't really rocking it for the free world. Friday I made an effort to say Merry Christmas from dawn until I crowded into my welcoming bed - post pizza - locked horns in my current monomania - vinyl -  listening to Deerhunter Monomania and, home alone, faded away!

Now Costa screams growling grounding chords at 8:45am with only the distant echoes of my mind vanishing o'er the waves of this with more white reminder alarms and this atmosphere is insane and does not allow any true morning boogie chillin'.

A shift of gear but no other truth: Filmore & Union to collect my final glance from petrified youths who never emerge from their sullenness. Oh! Awake before you are just dead! Gulls collide and collude around the Christmas tree protected in private gated pride and adverts for Wetherby's quintessence; Hell hasn't undone any as I realise it is Earth which is our Hell.

Bewarned: local band The Gonzos, nope. My visions fall on Tim Hecker to bring me back toward sanctum. Go to Leeds!

Sunday 15th.

Work is done. Work's Christmas party is done. Silly hats and dancing loonies have been boxed away for another year.

First experience of Bla Bla Car and it is arranged for me heading towards London at seven this evening (£16) and from there ... (I know not what I am doing). However I do know that the last four months picking and packing in a blasted warehouse have left me more inclined to drink heavily whenever the moment allows. The twin poisons of the working and alcohol environments are something our minds and bodies shouldn't be required to forever be. The warmth of both money and booze has always been a whirling trap into which I cannot easily escape unstretched; even if I can stare at this other me from the sides and wonder why this addiction is at all part of what I am?

Yesterday I was bitten by a puppy. He was playing and caught my nose - it bleed. Yesterday I had a very bad cramp on my left thigh. Some injury always conspires whenever I am about to set off the other I.


My actions became unstuck. A large yawning took my body. Something in that mix of party frolics undid me. But I am better for having a random quiet Sunday. I cancelled the lift, but London will be there tomorrow still.

Monday 16th.

Bye Mother; I can't let her sporadic usual unnatural aggressions set me off this end, a day late, but leaving anyway. Fear is something of the past. Fear living expecting finite loops forever. Loops are not amorphous. See you later London.

David: good morning and Bon Voyage; I took your recommendation The Ginger Man(published in 1955) by R.F. Donleavy and this will be my piece of literature to forget England and ACIM is shelved until the new year.

2013 has been many years waiting: yet when not looked for it all found me.

Why can't they live without media any more? From town crier to broadsheets and tabloid newspapers, LW MW AM SW FM Digital radio, more music on repeat. A sound task to nothing. Nothing? If only.

The irony I plug into music to escape the other din.

I had a blazing row with my mother. Usual form. I'm leaving and she's reminding me of those things that I need not (at least until they are actually upon us).

Happy Christmas mother... This is why I wish never to partake of over cooked choking frightful fodder only fit for material pigs.

Seldom do I find anything unusual in this stocking we call existence. Sharing the first off-peak of this Monday surround by those who would follow the wage slaves to say 'isn't this nice?' Must be the season of the witch.

The X99 leaves left on Market Place with 99% over biters and rotting snivellers. Wetherby is truly truncated this morning. To the sounds of The Sonics I depart again.

Again awaiting the departing while disapproving the clatter and piston pumping of coffee grounds. I escaped a simpler means. I don't wish to share England with anyone. Especially those who rush like headless lamas at feeding time.

Yes it is just I. To find any meaning when truthfully there appears to be none I arrive at Dyer Street feeling utter relief the 561 is En Route. Noon can't arrive any faster.

V4 - The Beginning of the End.


It is noon: none too soon.

A thought catches me staring back in to the barrel of my life, as I am stood here – standing to attention, strong, bright and in contrast to the wilted, grey, dirty, twisted metal barriers hanging on Dyer Street: what happened to what I was sure I thought I knew was the ultimate truth? Four months caged in that warehouse and my new ideas are tarnished, corroded and dull. What am I running away from so desperately - 'to have peace teach peace to learn it'.
Awaking from my digress upon me an overwhelmingly close, snotty nosed, ignorant youth appears to be trying to get molecularly indivisible from me (am I here at all in his presence?); take the blowing of snot into a cruddy hankie away while we wait for another late National Express departure. Without another hesitation I step back twice, out of his thoughtless way, and just move ahead and forward in the queue – careless of silent lipped frowns - putting that thoughtless and avuncular, youth less, frown firmly behind my clenched rear-end (without any possible gratis or functionals there).
(Oh, there are plug sockets on the 561 coach: Very modern and I will not lose my wit so very quick even if there is no where to strike a match!)
At what age do white dread-locked youths (a person I worked with last year told me they are known colloquially as wiggers) wake up from this social extreme and become QC - Queens Counsel ; or as QC do they ever really awaken beyond wildly stabbing me in the dark?
Turning away I plunge back into chapter 3 of The Ginger Man, fiddling madly with the frigid cold draft blowing from the air-con, and wonder when travellers lost their jour de vivre and turned expressionlessly dark: so many people dress funerally sombre black never creasing their mouths responding to my open face; turning to the pages of this novel I will never look your way again; but I still smile knowing they think I crazed when they're the ones who're mad.
Sebastian is penniless – pawning everything for booze - reminds me of someone very close to home. Students! Booze begets sex! Is that all Sebastian, Kenneth & co. appear to be amounting to (what else did I do at Uni?) and I can't bear to think of such rotten loins flexing and drunken without perception of the situation – he has so little regard for his child and wife; perhaps his character will grow on me?
Turning onto the M1 we are leaving another vacant, unemployed mill town - Leeds - and our first stop will be in Golders Green. The unnecessary evil of this hive permits me a vision of a suburban hell, repeated parallel lives in lifeless tarmac, brick and concrete lines spreading outwards from the centre of bloated , suffering West Yorkshire, but in the blink of an eye I see Emley Mast standing bold and then green fields appear; one cesspit gone. After telling myself I wouldn't conform, hoping to hitch, or Bla Bla Car, I appeal and say 'I do' just this once sat comfortably and enjoying the 'Funfare' on a National Express.
Closer to London and I begin to wonder why create these huge grey monolithic blocks, which stand enslaving millions, spread angular and bold over our once pure sight - surely making everyone blind? When, in this time, will we see the absolute 'truth' if we remain hidden in the dark? In that finite space there are crazy whirligig subterranean semi-automatic dark eyed hairy ones, for whom true light is a blinding frightening and distant memory. Hidden they may be, but these are not steel and silicon robots - of Asimov – but pure bone, flesh and blood, made of love but no longer conspicuous or capable of anything but greedy pleasure seeking, sloth, lust or another self effacing way back into the self perpetuating trap. Do they care they've been reduced to a number? When kissing dry lips - skin peeling – blinking and flexing hands that ache, tarnished and cracked, bones scraped and nails splintered, do they know they are not more than automatrons, 'As patterns seem to form. I feel it cold and warm. The shadows start to fall. I feel it closing in' - Joy Division.
Humans pre-dating Homo sapiens sapiens; dragging wrists along the dusty concrete surfaces marking their beastly wake like monsterous slug trails.
Maintaining, during this coach journey, my hateful judgemental ego I actually imagine the creatures in these warehouses to be the unevolved Morlocks from the Time Machine. Forever they have been aspects of our social normality - even though I have never really met a normal person alone out of the crowd - tiredly rusting gears sighing 'this is nice' ad infinitum? Recalling that Huxley rendered humanity into a zygote 'game' and we were created in test tubes and never witnessed by anyone other than scientists. Instead of being born free into the light we were led forth from plasma into to the darkness; never free for being, beauty, power or glory!

Why do church steeples often remind me of rockets waiting to take off and are we a Cargo Cult without ever seeing this? Will our experiment actually provide an answer worthy of Spaceman? Why did you put us here and make us so desperate to return? What reaction are you waiting for? Is there another way of understanding the altar?

From Hendon to Golders Green and more regimented hegemony rears its fearsome cranium. The snotty 'wigger' is the first to jump off, blowing his nose along the A502, smearing convention, like handcuffs, on his hopelessly wan wrists. We turn back southwards next stop passing Swiss Cottage and the paradox of London: love and hate instantly. The light changes from orange to red to orange to green and we shuffle a few feet before finally we're at Regent's Park with it's Trump Towers, Flower Station and London Central Mosque on the obligatory Red Route.
Arriving some time later I realise some things will never change at YHA Thameside. It is almost four years since I quit, but the same workers deal dispassionately with another swarm of children. Employees glaze eyed, disinterested, doling out spoons ladened heavily with leaden grey over boiled potatoes, dehyrated nutrient free corn kernels and burnt pizza slabs. For all the bland unexceptional corporate bollocks Jean Claude can still save me with his wonderful Bolognaise; so feeling slightly more real I took to my bed to digest the meal. After fruitlessly searching London Bridge, pointlessly venturing to a none existent hostel on Union Street and thrown from barricaded St Christopher's(full) on Borough High Street - I am brought out east on the number 381 to Rotherhithe because there is always room here no matter how much I do despair with YHA. 

Although The Rake remains charming, hello Glynn and Richard, and I briefly considered booziness, the colossally upgraded Borough Market feels a little strange. Even if the Wheatsheaf is stone by stone rebuilt, I spent so little time eating a good quality Empanadas from an Argentinian stall opposite The Market Porter - not now, not here, not yet. Not to unravel, not moving and not thinking; not travelling without thought of my reason. Food, straightforward thank you and bed; east to Deptford at the crack of dawn.

Full price (£18) and I can't expect miracles when time is yawning wide – I left here in 2009. Although London will always be here, I realise there is little left of my accumulated matter. Jean Claude, Beverley, Moe and Rahmat will always give me a warm welcome; which will always make a smile, but, as I fly away once more, I wonder will I ever return? London would prefer to frown as it has sensed me passing already and has no wish to be involved in my flight: Citi Bank and Canary Wharf Number One stand like a pair of scowling, palm rubbing, guardians bespoken in straight jackets, pouring laser or flame shooting from terrified sentinels, and they seem to be asking me 'why would you look up at us this way?' as they fiddle with the noose that was once an old boys tie.
Before I sunk into sleep Jean Claude called to see if I was coming back down to the lobby. Thanking him from my heart for the his love, and freely given grub, I explained I was bushed and would be unlikely to leave my coffin until the morning, but if he is ever in The North he has only to present himself so I can return the favour; the heart of that man is gold (I hear his voice declare 'you know what I mean!'). Tonight I am physically tired from travelling before the javelin even takes flight, but in the morning, recharged, I will walk to Greenwich at first light. All in all first day is the 'ready' of 'set - go'. Saying good evening to Rotherhithe I hear an aeroplane landing at London City Airport and cars fly along a damp Salter Road, SE16 – free breakfast in the morning - cheers JC.


First sleep in the dreary room 101. Early in the evening alone until around midnight when, in a thundering rush, another sleeper rustled about vigorously most fearful I might play through his hands and take take take, when I truthfully couldn't care less if you're carrying kilos of cocaine or wads of cash. Breakfast and chat with Beverley. If that was my room 101 how come I was put in this too?

At 8:10 I am on to the Thames Path heading eastwards passing legion ubiquitous London joggers, bikers, mansions and often dead-ends (this Jubilee Walk(whose or which jubilee?)was very badly planned or so many structures now stand where they didn't so long ago?). On a full stomach I pass blind alleys, covered, straddled and occupied by labouring overdue habitations. Dodging puddles as Number One and Citibank stand vertically, watching me bypassing their corporate guilt. The tide is shortened upon this once oozing Thames and a decadent steam drifts up into the stratosphere. Through modern arches and passing private estates which prevent a breathing space view near its once majestic flow. Without the Thames what is London but another 21st century toxic city? Commuters await, stood impatiently the C10 bus, smelling clean, but beneath I sense dirty bodies cleansed in the often recycled London cisterns.

This time I walk downstream, on a right bank, passing cannonades, flag poles, anchors and fully foreshortened paths. Grimely an Oriental jogger wipes his sweaty brow and blows a snotty nose leaving a smear on the seat of a child's swing. Vacant occupancies take me away from the river view as I arrive at Surrey Docks Urban Farm - locked until ten am. Echoes of a previous walk to Deptford at the hub of post war dock cranes. Passing Odessa Apartments and more columns where angels fear to tread - 'Warning Anti Climb Paint'.

Remains of this ancient empire rust back to an ore as the Thames is free for signet and swans, bikers and joggers who appear so clean yet are repugnant, stupid and still not ready for the turning of the tide. They run on still oblivious of a flock of dirty city pigeons bickerimg about bollard claw purchasing rights.

With a readjustment and a final flourish and, hey-ho let's go, I am on Deptford High Street. Perhaps a coffee and water break at The Waiting Room. But the proprietor is 'Bloody Kev' so I choose his smoothie instead. It was put here just for my random perambulations. Only open two years. Heading left on Griffin Street I need to freshen my teeth before they start to un-thank me with assaulted nose and glaring eyes. Greenwich then onward to Canterbury. Yes. A great morning stroll, pumping my lungs, to make me eager for the pilgrims away from London with its pound sign eyes, crooked nose and impatient glances. Unlikely to find anywhere to stay along this way so jump on a train.

If we removed the mobile phone (with frustratingly limited battery life), mobile internet, libraries and strategically hidden tourist information from our world we would be required to trust those people we would rarely ever speak to for any assistance. Society would be lost. You could ask a young local and he might send you in the direction counter to Old Dover Road and then find two gentlemen in the Old Pilgrims Hospital who would declare you're miles away from where you need to be. Like a burke I couldn't decide whom was telling me the truth. Eventually I gave all this confusion all up for went to a Caffé Nero, with its access point to the matrix, to discover the older chaps were correct and the young talkative git was literally talking out of his wind-pipe.

Showered like a king at Kipps on Nunnery Fields Lane. This is what I needed to find away from London will its blank tedium and very very far away from god awful Rochester/Chatham/Gillingham – Medway Towns indeed: add this to a list of shit towns - if ever you compile it Daniel! Turkish Gözleme was an edible saving grace and national rail guys helped me speedily vacate on a dissecting train: Faversham to either Ramsgate or Canterbury. At £20 for a double bed, and away from Room 101 with its broken window latch and daunting Salter Road beyond, I relax. Should I have a day in Canterbury or be away on the turning of the tide? I will look about the mediaeval centre tonight after the rush hour dodge.

A slim book referring hungry pilgrims to the best kebabs in the world. I suppose it has been done? But I took a recommendation from two locals, after I'd wandered about the Cathedral Precinct. I don't have much money, but still wanted to eat out whenever possible – this is a social engagement of sorts. In West-gate Kebab I found an excellent suggestion for a delicious protein product.

Over the lines on the left: The Unicorn is where I went to wet my whistle (it has a bronze Camra award 2013 but that means zilch in my book). With only two local ales, Sharp's Doombar or Timothy Taylor's Landlord we aren't finding the cutting edge of modern beer here. Maybe this was true many years ago. Saw a metered font for Whitbread Best Bitter and thought what next Trophy Bitter, Stones or Watney's

Heading back towards Kipps I step into a recommended brew pub 'the Foundry' which is young but has promise if the hops can be better drawn out. Highlight was a light Blackcurrant Saison (they called it Stout but wasn't) and Punch IPA was excellent. Four halves back to Kipps to discuss the meaning of life over Canadian pancakes and a Romanian 'milky-way' cake and a one terribly tasteless Australian Beer. Then followed a discussion on the merits of computers timing in stop-motion animation with this awesome frizzy-haired Parisian intern student. Happy I was in her ink stained hands until bed claimed us. I suggested we breakfast after 8am, but I know I will depart alone from Canterbury East to reach Dover Priory then cross to Calais at 10am.


Packed my bag and I am gone to seek Thomas Beckett. A shrine full of tears. This has been a year of utter change and suddenly I feel overwhelmed.

Why do the Southeast train company need to remind anyone when Christmas Eve is (holy crackers)? Why do posh people sound like they are have fallen out of a Jane Austen novel?

'When you don't have any money, the problem is food. When you have money, it's sex. When you have both it's health and you worry about getting a rupture or something. If everything is simply fine then you're frightened of death.' J.P. Donleavy.

Why are all the announcers up and down the land so obviously BBC tutuored? Another position we with local tongue tied need be reminded that we are neither plum, cherry or peach but rather tart raspberry, bitter briar or unripe gooseberry. We have no way to end this control.

Having just escape to the continent, from Canterbury, for twenty five pounds on a stomach full of porridge and soul full of hope I fear nothing finding my way there. And I just had a twenty five pound refund from TK Maxx for that appallingly badly made sheep's wool jumper (Made in China). Travelling means much more than another years fading, piling and unravelling trend.

It was simple to cross the remainder of Kent and plunge into the cold channel then I forgot the sheer size of Europe in my blind haste and stood waiting with illegal immigrants to thumb a lift, with a hand drawn sign for 'Brugge', on one of the main slip roads onto motorways leading to Paris and Dunkirk. As I waited until the sun began to sink, I began fretting when a number of guys kept checking me out: dog eats dog when you must reach England (what hope we must give those, forgotten by France,  who wait in the cold for just one opportunity) and then I galloped the full length of the port (which is massive), passed a town of refugee tents fluttering in this wind, and on through slightly interesting Calais with its Hotel de Ville, lighthouse and old tower on place Du fontain and to La Gare where I currently want to be in Brugge not Lille (twice I have been drawn bewildered into France and onto Lille (back then in 2000 I feared a park bench would need house me).

If I am so fond of these very challenges - where would I be if I didn't continue to seek confused roaming - why do I complain? This is better and reminds me utterly of my trip to Puy-en-Velay. In France I am getting used to the familiar words yet my pronunciation is still quite appalling. Even an Australian, whom I shared the crossing with, could hardly tell what I was saying in English with my Yorkshire dialect.

Oh to be free and alone on a SNCF 2nd class coach heading away from my Anglo-Saxon tongue and I am happy in this silence. Then passing a comment coming way from Ebblinghem: froid. I reach into my luggage for coat and think of the great coat Patrick Leigh Fermor wore through the Rhinelands: I saw these in an army surplus store in Canterbury and almost pounced. The weather this winter hasn't shifted gear yet so I will wait until it is just me tramping along towards a visceral blizzard not of my heart. And I don't like train stations, either old windy damp and smelly or new sleek sterile and featureless, was there ever another time when they were truly bathetic edifices; wrapped in smoke? The moon sits heavily fat tonight as we reach Lille-Flandres and I must eat – pizza slice five euros.

Hopped from one station to another and suddenly there is a winter wind driving along the main thoroughfare before I reach Lille-Europe - yet another modern, vast cold-hearted structure. A guard helps me see the Eurostar Train Manager and I get on board cutting my expense and travel time. But, oh, I know I went the long way to reach Brugge.

In Brugge found a helpful local, Luke, who delivered me to the door of Lybeer - €19 per night - and having renovations while open – two nights and I'll pay in the morning.

This is a charmingly ancient town (in the dark) and I am warned of the crowds of tourists by day. On that train journey I went so far out of my way. Now like a boomerang I alight - left Calais for Le Corbusier Lille swinging from Brussels Midi through old Ghent and chucked my bags at room nine rounded up two 25cl of finest quality brews: Rodenbach and Gueze Boon Lembeek from The Vintage, Westmeers 13, then via another handy helper(nothing is too much trouble) providing me Frikandel and fries from frietkot La Vitta. Crashing to the symphony of a Korean travellers gentle snores (reminding me of a Jay whom I walked with from Puy-en-Velay to Figeac) and lastly a miracle: tucked into a side pocket the ear plugs I purchased for a euro in Pamplona. Knackered at 12:10am. My Korean sleeping companion has been away twelve months but is always on iPad, iPhone and Video Messengering so he lingers without Seoul still!


During the day the Belfry and City Hall on the Burg/Haus square are beautiful but the corporate crap littering about it means nothing to me. Slaves for China selling beer, waffles, phoney dog pooh, chocolate and lace.

Picking up a couple of bananas and a Smoothie from Supermarkt, which I hope will rebalance me after the long day yesterday – helping me to work out the bad back ache I have this morning. Tomorrow I travel to Nijmegen via Ieper/ Ypres and once I am remunerated on Monday 23rd I will walk again. My cold feet are warning me I might need woollen items to bridled my true passion.

The brewery De Halve Maan will be my goal this midday.

In 'I love Coffee' the proprietor blends and roasts himself without a smirk (though the concept is boxfresh and cleansed to deeply); the amount of caffeine in coffee beans is said to be the same whether green, brown or roasted. The coffee was necessary yet maybe not too satisfying.

On Sint Jakobsstraat I find mention of pilgrims GR 5A and felt another tear forming, but this time the door is locked.

Found you. So a bit of mindless walking, listening impromptu to ACIM, brought me to Walplein with directions from follower who appeared to be leading me. When in Brugge go where the wort is. Well I saw no chimney so this is a miracle the Flemish man had a hand in – yet so close to Lybeer Hostel I could groan!

And I thought PH was a giant. Move over Goliath Mk1 for this is Goliath Mk2 - size 17 feet I guess and where must he shop?

Glass of Brugse Zot Blonde and finished a traditional Beef Stew, but not quite done long enough (the gelatinous fat had not yet eased away) and plenty bread to wipe the platter before a final Brugse Zot Dubbel. A shower? No! a Siesta? Good call after traipsing over a city with such gem like charms.

This really is true: that there is no overwhelming eulogized self discovery by going anywhere at all beyond what is behind a closed eye. It is all an illusion; it seems like a road to nowhere. But maybe this is because I forever seem to lack another companion with whom to see the way clearly? Why am I seeking empathy in this society I distrust - how bewildered my mind is by this reality, from dawn until dusk, where pushing a capstan yoked, fettered and bound is still a reality. In The Alchemist the pilgrim does find his other self, but only to return to the origins of his journey happy, complete and resolved. Perhaps this is not exclusive to the fiction within a novel and millions of people only need and need each an other; I often wondered what 'my other half meant'.
Ah, sweet Brugge! I knew I would be tangled up here. My soul doesn't need what my head must have. If I was able to cut my body into two distinct selves to set them both free I would be absolutely happy, but because these two dichotomy's are polar extremes there will never be anything other than separation until one lies dead! Depression is my misunderstanding of how to come out of this split. It is my life's battle for which I hope one day to stand victorious before my soul can ever fly and switch away from the alternating sadness/joy. The sadness usually takes over and I am quite blinded to my own needs and it is intoxicating. The only option I have ever had is to accept this shifting uncontrolled fever: I have been melancholy sad/euphorically joyous beyond the wisdom of my years.

Although I am unlikely to ever go truly helplessly crazy, part of me is close whenever I see nothing but a lonely shadow falling behind and ahead of me.

Time for Brugge to take me in it's loving embrace never once to blink alert or awake.

Vanishing into booze is the only answer. Truly. Tomorrow I seek those graves where men have made the earth red with head crushing, pole punctuating and heart bleeding violent nonsense.

How did this happen? Well, Brugge isn't always but it is mostly. Fickle me with neither a painted bust nor parted quim left to feaster freely in my cabin before another cold front touches those toe regions which as yet are free of wool.

Below the Monks Hole I finally resolved a local to provide me a Struise Pannepot – bliss, but it took me all night to find this sea worthy malty sock. Then three black stairs and one white undid me tripping, like a triple twisting and basting fool into a urinal - I was awaiting laughter, and some other abuse, but this was imagined as those boys helped me as I fell.

I was brought up to think all traditional fast food was always the same (Doner, Curry, Cornish pasty or sausage roll, fish or chips) but I am sure Belgium did this badly too and theirs is also not to be soberly esteemed. Tried this local taste -  Mitraillette - and I can't understand the speed with which they seek to deliver frozen chips!

Walking home you must dodge gentle creatures on a bikes - you must dodge them like horizontally falling rain drops. Without any shower options on my floor I run the warm tap for a flannel wash and now my bits feel a little cleaner if I look at my loins that are entirely useless; Peering out the end of this short alley I am not in Paris or Madrid muttering insidious. The weather is becoming clement and hardly requires felt, tweed or cashmere. Early on the morrow I clear out to stop the war beyond bayonets are fixed in 1914 etcetera and how will play this role if not properly?


There's are so many late arrivals and early departures when backpacking that I should wonder how often relaxation is found or even whether it truly sought.

Belgian fast food snacks? No more. A stern reminder for the remainder of this exposition. The short term lust is nothing next to longer self dedication and preservation.

In the morning I awoke feeling that I had to get up for work at five forty five even though my contract had ceased. Now I am relieved to discover it was some phantasm playing hand card tricks along those ebony corridors that are my thoughts.

Ablutions and a dry bath now I've hopped over to catch a train to Ieper (Ypres) apparently it is worth seeing. The girl on the counter was large with child yet pale white to be suckled and devoured. European beer rarely gives me headaches with a hangover. 9:31 to Kortrijk blue skies from horizon to horizon. Similar blank faced commuters with iPod, iPad, Metro, Macbook unable to escape they travel to work and college. Four days until the brat was born who was born to save us - really? Oh what a nice tie, inspector. €11.80 one way please.

Blue morning sparkling on fields once shelled into oblivion. The collective ego is a dangerously noisy, violent and selfish entity.

Am I alone in ignoring Metro newspapers on the train or bus. Not just news but short stripped bare columns known to get your gore up before nine.

Time to kill a coffee (€4.40 dopio) before my connection to visit fields of dead in rows too deep to fill with ancient stones. Apricot lattice breakfast. Last on the final carriage with the sun coming up and bearing great news but I am not sure I can look that way before the Eve.

Passing the first stop a light plane coming to land opaques the sun in the azure blue and is a brilliant golden silhouette. Spectacular day so far.

Wevelgem tarnished sign and a youth opposite is highlighting some course notes in perfectly justified ledger and the sun shines on her brow. What once was peaceful, unique and clean will dissolve once Menin is passed and I guess it is still a long way to Tipperary?

Irony in spades: I walk towards Menin Gate with Merry Xmas (war is over) playing on loudspeakers along the straat. No words can impress on me why this had ever to happen. Killing for land so sodden by blood and boots that pigs would have suffered to eat anything but flesh in bite sized notions of corpse. You'd need to travel beyond infinity to embrace the fallen. Tears for an end to war? The power hungry should be ashamedly sorry to need to treat the many so funereally - surreal? I know where our modern change really came from. Not sure if 'like a virgin' is suitable falling on this bastion from an open window - wasn't this the condition of many a fine fellow falling here?

Catching the 13:39 train away to the Netherlands, barbarity and war.

No you don't need to just pretend for anyone,
But I know the child is all you're together for
And then you think you have no other option,
Conforming to a church bell; coming away married.


Late last night I met two amazingly helpful and interesting twenty one year old students for whom my paramount flesh was searing: Claudia and another. Another excellent bar known locally as Samson is a beer fantasy in Nijmegen and I was unprepared for last night even though I was brought here in July. But looking everywhere I couldn't source the Hemel Brewhouse, but helpfully one of their brews was on tap propping my body up alongside this double headed four breasted beast. Apart, my head is devoid of thought and plonked upon another stool.

Just over there is the Waal so I will depart early and be purified of these holiday lusts and I intend to clean away every sweat I've kept to myself since Leeds.

I came here to finish and to understand it, will I?

As I lay warm and cosy in this new clean bed it becomes obvious I now need to look beyond the rigid structures of my ways - I can do anything; I will do anything and give even if I don't receive.

This time I am I have been on a 'holiday' - I think that's the word. Travelling for me seems a form of occupation and isn't a break from the normality. To me it is that nine to five head bleeding, back breaking, ball aching routine which I was never brought alive to fulfil - what I contently attend to now is all my purpose ever was. Some people find total happiness and fulfilment within the security of this this rigid employment(which I can understand) - they would quickly freak at the simple day to day unknowing I would always nurture and want to find.

Some of the strain I was feeling at work led me to Friday the 13th feeling undeniably stressed and insanely desperate to get out. That was security 'then' but 'now' I don't see this as chaos! Whatever I have now is not frightening and I am always keen to ride out the perpetual waves, crests, swells and surges with rigor.

It is a warm bed and I could wrap my arms within the supine shapes of yesterday I still imagine to see here.

From today I will format my mind and returning to the empty volume and begin connecting not disconnecting; be one, whole and all.

The route of the Jakobweg through Köln towards Aachen begins from the Abbey in Beyenburg. This is perhaps the way for me? From Monday so perhaps there is a cloister, relais or some similar for me to seek on Monday night?


If the money stretches then I have only nine days Fluoxetine to help me flourish in this magnificent year. Right now I am going to seek romance by the Waal, as it speeds passed us towards the North Sea.

A miniature Orthodox Jew passes me off Oude Haven - a character from so many Ghetto images. Has so little changed to stand here now but never seeming to awake from time and scriptures. If there is no substantial change then the past will repeat itself and it is all just a matter of time. Reincarnation is our inability to be enlightened and exist truly now.

An hours walking along the Rhine recalls Linda and our journey towards Santiago then my attention turns to body and health matters: breakfast.

With only one sock. Laughing I was hopping mad (silly billy) in Barbarossa Hostel Antionusplatts. Markt Stall. Bartering a la Life of Brian for two pairs of merino calf length. When I returned with only one sock he gave me another pair even though I did not need or want. So I left stall holder in a hopping fashion from the Ministry of One Legged Walks – John Cleese I became and I love this Nijmegen everyone so happy and not overcome by Christmas.

The Staat newest album is I_Con. It is en route to 42. It is Saturday which is a vinyl addiction day - even here - and I believe this is my only conscious link to capitalism. And I am in The Klinker (the stones) brew up Groene tea listening to Grimes. Who are this electro synth- pop band. Nonja the dog blends with avant-garde screen prints. A collective. Booked for dinner at seven bells. Three courses for six Euros.

When the world implodes on itself maybe a few cities will linger as the light fades back into darkness. One more tea then Saint Jacob's Chapel.

Left after meeting Joep's English mischief and I do play with my conkers and concur in feeling I know this face from a dream. Black cherries and cream. Some one that would read a short passage and make me smile at her simple laughing – but is it real?Joy to feel this word game isn't only for me.

Chapter sixteen is lingering long and I thought I know would leave Samson accomplishing that section. On the beach of Magnetic Island (Queensland) I can remember a Northern Ireland sweetness hidden bare breasted amongst dunes 1999, as I was in the last words of TH White's Once and Future King. Did fondle her as my manhood rose and I knew there was a reason she was at my feet when the books last page was eclipsed by my seed steaming over her white volcanoes. When next I saw her on Bondi Beach I wanted the same again but I felt undone sharing a mixed dorm and quantities of vodka made me vulgar and far too pressing, desperate, writhing and brutally hands on in full glare of peers and leering perverts. This girl was no soft touch. Shame that I was too bold in Bondi Junction. In the morning I puked and sought solace in working amongst the Christmas wrapping paper and greeting cards in David Jones'.

An antique clock Gillette & Johnston of Croydon turns us to four chimes and I recall that at six I was meant to wash beyond sink and step up to shower and sing hurrah as my Wiener is cleaner than my mother tongue. Time there is prior to seven and food to pamper the dirty essence away and scratching the oils to the sewer with hair and suds never to be seen again. What bother Hemel's Mariken is brought to me and Cupid dances for a malty beverage.

The vein of my blood flowing into this scroll (app) has me happy to be bold and true and behold behaviour beginning this end; beer preserve us - I am not alone even if this bar suggests a vacant stool (Dan L should still be here). Who would condemn me to death if I wasn't also this way and I shrank off this mortal path smiling at a similitude between our separate corpse, not ever renounced along his or my ways. Cheers Dan L.

I haven't been invited to a party in years.

This next glass will be my afternoon's completion.

And hello to you too Evelien! Even at a distance I can feel you here every moment I breath in/out and I smile at what was and what will always be.

To all I have know along the road
I am truly not as alone
As my solitary tread may suggest?
Like tendrils searching a source back
My heart is beating please!
A kiss a kiss is sustenance in me;
As I devour each freely given
Glee I will not forget anyone of thee.

Demanding more of Hemel's finest beer; the leaves have fallen but earth is so alive. Spicy touches linger over a tongue rarely so smiling. Every bit grasps and holds for a moment urgently thrusting - beer must end but that is also a way.

Back into the book (The Ginger Man) I leave my stylus next to inkwell never to blot and shower.

Discussing various concepts, while eating the lovely three courses provided for our pleasure, I thought only I saw the end of humanity and it moves me to know I am not alone in this conceit. But I say sorry anyway for these suggestions and say hello pleased to meet you Brazilian Manuel to whom I promised I will get references to the charms of Mulatu Astatke's Ethiopian jazz on Spotify, once I get a chance free of booze and socialising and as soon as I can dig out these collected paper fibres hidden in the folds of The Ginger Man. I will wake and look up this track.

Back to the bar named after a family who were once its landlords: Samson to taste more distinctly Christmastime beer the heavy moody aroma of Christoffel Bok, but Texels Bok is so far my favourite Dutch 'whip me please' beer.

What is fecund? Ho me oh art thou the most wonderful lozenge? A sweet to suck into a submission of white pillows I play with like sand, cream, swirling clouds so massive and youthful, Kräusen, blooms of cauliflower, white cells, Yorkshire rose flower erect and troubling for my sanity. Yes yes yes. You could swarm me now in either black, brown, red, blonde, white and big boned sumptuous frame. Satisfied I would quit to Germany without my sack so subtly aching yet so Duchessly clean. But these seldom balls are unlikely to be rendered that; my fat would slide and be spat at. I could collude explain then I should depart because wenches have to give it all unless my seed is appraised on this spot; as a solitary man watches.

In the Netherlands vet is the only order that is closing in on my fecund.

And I can't stand coming home to a gaggle of eighteen year old girls who haven't been potty trained and are in fact infants. If I react simply thus I should tell myself not to at all. But, while I eat a late sandwich and finish some coffee, they do plan to go out. The fan of the shower is unceasing while these thieves steal more masks. Closing my eyes I can smell their young bodices like sweetness dripping a fine tallow unto my aged mourning night; when they will then return I think they look upon each other giggling adolescent thoughtless and heartless. Giggle beyond checking your head space and the reality. I would like to retire but first I must accept a noise like a noose and strangle my self. How clean are your teeth? Show me your other needs that do mean your blinks are thoughts and not 100% Beyónce. In around half an hour I can lay open handed into this empty shallow cell; a lesson where love would mean a turn of a head or just a swish. But I tell you Dutch women are swarming mighty. Age is my contempt.

Where are my hosts so I may publish – the WiFi here is not happy - and then groan into my bed, while a window shakes in a free wind to the west and the street it ghostly moans. The present rain must not increase the test my Tuesday keel through puddles.

While this App seeks so suddenly to heavily underline almost every word I shudder; and the shoreline sees this crooked irony that in my embarrassed uncalled for I am emphasising nothing - please stop! As I can accept my drunken loveless self alone once you cherry bums have stopped cleasing. I have a complaint to make: the planet, the water and the electric are ours to share. Finally quiet as they leave with their pulses intact, purses bulging and pussies waving anon and I hang around for the host to reappear at midnight.

Last night was an experiment too far. Rarely do I write in a style that sexual or suggestive in character; usually I would find the form of narrative troubling or exposing too much flesh at the circus. But I managed it without blushing too much and I might have taught someone a word they hadn't ever heard before.

When I came home, after the brilliant three course meal in the Klinker, Joep's girfriend and another guy were finding Dutch terms of abuse - I recall hoer (lots of hoers) but this morning I hoped to find fecund or its counterpart (it stemming from fecundus) but I didn't.

This holiday is over. I need to move on and achieve this other end so the narrative will be less frenzied and egocentric. Once it was out of the box there was no other way for Saturday to end. Today is reliably here and should be a dreadful paranoid and sleeplessly fitting one: I often see this same coming to me as Alcohol departs.

At last the distorted me vanishes as I begin another pilgrimage by visiting Sint Jacobskapel in de Oude Stad. I have six parts left blank from the Créanciale I paid €5 for in Cathedrale Notre Same du Puy-en-Velay. Sure I didn't get it stamped everywhere (and never once in Ireland) some how, like the excitable youth collecting Panini Stickers from Football 78 onwards (got got got need), I couldn't leave that document of my passing blank of memories writ and inked.

Entering the chapel with gentle assistance I am redirected to number nineteen as there is the keeper of the official stamp (I couldn't get on the twenty forth of July because the chapel was shut and I had no idea whom to ask) Gelukkige Kerstmis and Bon Camino (he is just a guardian not ever a pilgrim).

A train at 8:08am from Nijmegen gets me to Wuppertal for 10am. This mode goes through Venlo and I must change once there (Limburg) one final train if my feet play this game well?

I do believe another shower is on the cards and I may wash all my linen too if Joep returns promptly. Please weather be kinder than on the Aubrac - I don't want chasing off another plateau wetter than the earth after the flood. I come to Bagels & Beans for a final Green Monster and two black coffees: my routine is predictable I accept.

Following a path under the railway bridge, that crosses the Waal downstream from the bridge that proved so well built the Nazi's couldn't blow it up before retreating, and here I find the promised flea market - turn right and you meet a Honig factory prior to the new bridge that was built to help ease traffic. For two euros there is a different sort of museum. All very Kitsch and past tense. Julio Iglesias and Tommy glued to one another. Christmas tat, a fat pork sausage in a bun and ice skates hung up while a faux King gives us a burst of Christmas pre-1977. There is a regressive stride which all adult present upon a Sunday in a carboot/flea market which is the dance of the dying indeed. Why did I come here expecting something else? I shall for another .50¢ leave my load and head back along the Waal.

Just time to turn about the back of the Saint Stephen Kerken and pick up two Gözleme to eat and off to brew a green tea and relax Sunday out.


Did what I could with those pieces of eight I'd been waiting to see, in fear they would never be enough for all my needs, and now I have got my stuff together I'm off to the Bahnhof via Molepoort and the Ratthaus. Bye Nijmegen and your untroubled soul. It is back too weak for the many. May quickly see Venlo, the town of the incident depicted in William Boyd's Restless - where the SIS agents got trapped, framed, etc by a 'double double' agent.

My alarm didn't go off but that isn't relevant. Brisk walk, €10.50 into Limburg, with a kerstkoek and coffee. Time is such a slave master. Last night I realised all decisions have ceased being made by people but often it is people that suffer when any analysis abandons people for the whimsical system and its brutal demands.

If the money was in a bottomless pit I would continue to Le Puy-en-Velay from the east and perhaps relive the uniqueness of the French Camino once more. But I cannot walk so far nor so easy and I would put a gun against my temple so fast I might never see the light again.

Frankly I am scared of walking alone in Germany. I hope there are a few drifting travellers heading my way too? This is some purification of me, but I guess I could attempt the same anywhere: the location is meaningless what we find in our selves is all that there is, but again it doesn't matter until we see ourselves pure, true and real in peace.

The sun is bright and welcomes me as the moon spins silently westward. It truly is a blue sky free of humanity and our thoughtless brutality. Cuijk. December feest Party broodjes is another kind of war that I wouldn't know. Some seasonal blindness, a blackness, would banish broadcasts. We are all the children of the light yet stuck in the dark failing to see our self emerging from ourselves.

Walking the earth is my return being and no doubt I'll be seeing my ego in the new year - a serial murderer of the first degree. Let me be and get back to the truth I mostly hide folded behind pages that are so hard to prize open.

Don't forget clothes keep us warm in this alien world not of our ancestry but they can be worn until you are one and not in alternating states. What is dirt but an offence to the those hosed clean and brushed beyond peace; my nerves were bad last night I recall.

Celebrations of any sort misses the point entirely unless it is a total celebration of everything and Mount Zion. Taking not giving voicing so many insincere thankyou thankyou. Again I heard this "oh my God" "oh my God". You don't need a single thing nothing. No gibberish or justification. What real gift apart from Truth is needed to add to the blooming of ourselves?
Made to Stick, another blasted 'best seller' swindlers publishing what they want we should read. Yes another mind control so sure. Yes I write and I hope what I suggest might be voted "author of the year" for why I cannot tell - slither of pride. In Venray it doesn't matter I see it so broken my repair could do no good. Put us down and allow the universe to be free - unknown.

Change trains buy individual tickets for each country which costs less. This was true of France to Belgium (but was stung by French train customer service slave), Belgium to the Netherlands and now Venlo to Wuppenthal via RE13 nach Hamm. Less convenient but more reliant on yourself and I learned that perhaps France would always be thoughtless towards Englanders when the are propped up in an office all day and I am very bad at the Gallic tongue.

Something within depicted by Donleavy in Dangerfield's ever present self destructiveness is frighteningly a lot like me, but so obtusely rendered to be intensely vile and I have never gone so far; and brings back in waves the dubious pits of Dublin. Would I ever return to the Temple Bar unforced?

Fahrkarten. Lovers entwined heading to the Christkindelmarkt in Düsseldorf for Glühwein and a stolen kiss for a quarter year of this waiting beside nature to overthrow again now the winter solar race turns that long yet inevitable corner. Kaiser Kaffee stands guard at Dülken. Please believe me I thoroughly cleansed late last night so none should fear but I might fear a train full of these bovine snorters.

Get to Beyenburg and all will be clear. Mönchengladbach passes South. My Mytrails app is uninstalling/disappearing for an unknown reason - I leave Nijmegen and I have no maps with the Jakobsweg clearly marked. Tourist Info next opportunity. A lot got off at Mönchengladbach. Sometimes books are better - they rarely vanish into the ether.

At any moment I expect Dangerfield to be carried off by men in white coats, black coats or purple robes: he has a saviour in his clandestine sexual appetite, those whom he knows who are connected, fate will eventually catch him off guard. However his only enemy appears to be himself. He has is all but how much does he know this?

We Sherburn's and Mitchell's must have a German nose, ah that explains why I'm often thought to be too Teutonic back in Blighty – is it called this because it is a land of illest health? How do I smell I wonder? Fifty percent battery and declining fast. Give it to your feet and forget the modern needs and then buy that Wege 1 route book - a la Miam Miam Dodo - Diego did try to provide me with so freely back earlier in 2013.

FinFach Deutsch. Where did I get my green eyes? Should I wear my trousers rolled or centre parted? That universe is in a steel ball disappearing in faster loops spinning and gathering unstoppable leaving all questions beyond any answer.


How does this great thing keep happening whenever I forget the past or future and become truly now?

There still exists the kindness of strangers. From Julia at a crossroads stood next to the Town Hall to four plus one in Starbucks (not for the coffee but wifi and to keep warm) and Julia brought me here as there seemed no where to go apart from Ibis, etc where I would have missed the true Germany. Wow I was there for just one reason - to meet a mother, whom probably always put her precious cargo first, so could also incorporate my loosely organised aim.

Julia, enjoy tonight your trip to the theatre with your son(and I hope you realise how good and true your mother is?).

Gerd, whom finally let me rest after an afternoon of culture and photos and walking me round and passed the start of Christmas Eves Pilgerweg. Beyenburg with it's dam and deep hillsides reminds me of what my feet might really fear if I don't double my socks and walk without chaffing.

An excited man whom gives you every warmth. And a woman who cared so much to see how it all finished. I saw this lifting me up and making my way higher than perhaps I could never have sought.

Walking the first Etape upon Christmas Eve setting off south east. A fond hug to a free soul whom I gathered in delighted to not be frightened of the kindnesses of strangers.

As I relax in warm surroundings drinking tea and munching Stollen a drooping of my eyes over come. Fully clothed I seek warmth between numerous quilts. The family invited me for food at 6:30pm. We lit a votive candle to the Schwartz Madonna in the Klein Chapel of Santa Maria. Remember where you are when you are walking and the saints may help you along.

Where did we go so wrong. When did we doubt everyone? Our neighbours our community, our town, city, county and country. What sobered our nation so far or have we always shown the cold shoulder to guests because we have this terrible fear of the foreign? It is possibly so profound to be in Germany and have all this love and hospitality unexpected and unasked for. As I was about to step out to find any food for Tuesday's unbelievable reality (I've heard it is meant to rain (bloody Aubrac come to chase me on another mountain)) both Gerd's sonnes - two giants (47/48) and their friend Sasha (41), leaving for Thailand Wednesday showed me total friendship and hospitality. We watched Kill Bill Parts 1&2 - I laughed and enjoyed a night at Beyenburg's Cinema Club, both fine and coarse local slaughter(butcher)man sausage and enough Krombacher to launch a ship: they have a tally so all is square. But I hesitate to take hospitality into obscurity and must retire to ready for another adventure on Christmas Eve: it really is a season of gifts. Although I am cut off and about to vanish entirely I am happy from the core of my being.

A final photo with the pater of this amazing family (I climb into his bed to share my other ability - humour) and I am so fortunate to be befriend here. Heartfelt hugs and Bon Camino - I breakfast at seven-thirty. We are the lucky few.

Christmas Eve.

Slept so very well, woke up prior to my alarm and I am still ready. Need to risk the lot and reach another bastion on Christmas Night. No change of heart. Fear is momentary. Breakfast before sunrise. Walk in to light (forgot to brush my teeth).


What an unusually warm and windy December day, I got a long way on the Jakobswege and, even though I was offered bed very early into my walk, I felt I'd better continue on the the end of the first 'official' Etape (which is meaningless or a safety net for those needing more than nothing) but I am not staying in a Hotel on Christmas Eve; if someone gave me a great coat, rusty bucket and showed me to a cattle shed I would jump at the chance. It is far too easy and conventional paying far too much for a single bed - no matter how well pumped up or turned out.

Tonight I managed to secure a very solid table (I had a floor in Market Rasen) in the church office. The subtle air of officiousness drifting from the church caretaker, is a most uncaring soul, suggested he didn't like offering help to a pilgrim - until the pastor told him he had to I had been turned away twice by him! Not so much as a smirk as he provided me 'board' to sleep on this Christmas Eve: he works in a church even! I already have blutwurst and speck bought in the market passing through Lennep so his distinctly cold shoulder was a little meaningless. I do hope he is unhappy this Christmas, but that this generosity is actually more than his job is worth. Things will occur. Church service at three.

After I had walked on from Beyenburg via Lennep I heard in the distant echoes sounds reminiscent of Wetherby as on my right I came close to the A1 - I do like how often this road appears about me all the times.

Up the stiff inclines and through the forest I was quite in my first ecstasy being brave against the tumultuous wind and rain with leaves blowing like thousands of dancing feathers.


A service all in German and obviously I understood nothing of the words however the meaning is clear. Joining hands and praising Christ. I've been asked to join a family for dinner.

I feel a little empty because of the walking but also a little overwhelmed that a family would invite me for dinner on Christmas Eve. Makes me think that there is still a chance for us if trust still exists amongst this congregation and I a stranger.

As I arrange my chairs next to the radiator I wished they were properly joined. Or were more cushioned or a sofa or a camping bed or a hammock but they aren't they are functional meeting chairs. No one in this organisation expected to be asked for board and breakfast on Christmas Eve. It is amazing how much symbolism can be made out of a simple desire to walk the unknown on Christmas Eve?

The Pastor, Claudia, thought I hadn't come along, I had and was squeezed next to a tree (column), on a low branch (bench) holding hands with a young mother and making her youngest elf laugh; I buffoon between hymns and was thinking of Eddie (but never again to be called Eddie-baby) - my helpful cousin's youngest son - I do hope everyone in England is happy with what they get off Santa.

A man from Köln asked if I was homeless and in some senses I am. Perhaps the Gore-tex bivouac bag I used in July would've given me another option but without a fire and alone in Germany! Yikes! I am certainly no Ray Mears and I am not picking wild mushrooms on Christmas Eve - I might be visited by a host of Angels, Shepherds and Wise-men which would definitely be too much! Now to get lead by a bottle!

Do I seem crazy to these good God fearing Germans? The serious caretaker brought me tea and biscuits on a tray. Some times you must open the box to see what is inside otherwise you could be next to the Truth without knowing it all the time.

Returning to the chapel a male pastor leads a choir in song. How like well behaved children the adults have become: never a bitter word. My Russian caretaker is not to take the pot of tea! In vernacular German the lords prayer comes in waves as I depart again to seek Christoph.

Fantastic family. I am so lucky to be slightly squiffy and have a full belly after a wonderful tour of the town. All bars are closed but hey what can I do.

They gave me one of the best gifts I've ever had in my life: a camping roll so I might get a little rest on the office table. I now feel I have a bed fit for a king. We had Raclette for dinner so now my belly is full of Potatoes, Speck and Kasse. Two loving sonnes and Eric the German Spaniel. Oh and a bottle of Burg Riesling Trocken 11er. My German is not so good but Christmas Eve feeling wanted by strangers warts and all leaves me feeling blessed. People go so far out of there way. In England where we depart from people at the door, or at most walk them to their car; we are always in our cars and hardly on our feet! It is many years since I went so long without a wash or fresh clothes like this: I have brushed my teeth though. Merino is very warm. I air it every night but its two weeks fresh off the hanger(box) I think I trust Icebreaker and the sock from the Nijmegen market are so so warm. Sooner or later someone will complain about my smell and I will ask them if I can use their washing machine!

Christmas Day.

Slept (schlafen) fitfully, on the floor, tossing and turning (schlaufe) most of the evening. Still I will go along shortly and I await my Camino urgings; no back pains but I recall a dead arm a couple of times laying down here next to the intense radiator and below the green window. And will my Russian Cossack bring me coffee and yet more bickies (and a flask of neat vodka). All night I have a soothed tick tock and from six am quarter chimes and hourly bells from the church. Nine bells strikes and life is sweet.

It is Christmas Day. What next? Are the skies so blue again so let me walk in the sun once more.

A flask of black coffee and more cheese twists. When needs must, all is given freely and with love.

This room has for decoration a full sized Gingerbread Man with whom to celebrate the day ahead. I depart at nine thirty. He lacks eyes and gum drop buttons.

Knocking at a door for a water flask refill I depart with more sugar coated almonds and spicy ginger and cinnamon biscuit I am eating manna from heaven. It is another day I measure with silver spoons.

Time to make for Christmas Day!

Choose life? I chose life!

Stop for a water, coffee and pee break at Rausmühle, ate the best sandwich I've ever had because I was ravenous and it was a Christmas gift and continued afterwards bouncing from a blonde fräulein hug and three doggy kisses. No words are necessary to free or condemn a man.

With sudden declining energies, and the approaching darkness, I really needed the Cloister in Altenburg not to be a museum! Anyway as I've not spent a cent since I I bought a Ritter, Blutwurst and Speck in Lennep and this is Christmas day - Way Hey!

Hand washed my smalls and showered for thirty minutes. Time for a siesta, look longingly at the Riesling I got given yesterday and I know tomorrow I will be in Köln looking hard for more charity. This time I am walking through it not hanging about drinking dreadful Kölsch beyond wetting my whistle. Tonight I fondle bar wenches in my dreams as the one litre becomes zero.

What will happens next? Silly me! Kirche sounds akin to Church. Kirk is Kirche. No surprise German sprechen feels closer to Grimsby than Gillingham. Drinking kirtsch in a cold church must be close to crazy. I accepted the inevitable and will drink a few beers being entertained by wenches. This happened to P.L.F. on more than one occasion, but he often had much more resources than money to fall back onto: not what you know but whom you know (he stayed in Schlosses and ate at dining tables). A pilgrim has to accept whatever happens his way. Even when all his gear was stolen a man whom knew his 'connections' at the British Consulate provided him monies to repay at his leisure: I'd get monkey faeces. Bugger for being born arse face up. So this is Christmas and what have we got? Marron soup. Soup made from chestnuts is lovely. I do hope I don't have to lose an arm here twenty clicks from Köln or I might writhe in the mud in never ending circles? Traditional local sausage. I feel overdosed on sausages. I will use this power tomorrow. And I may need to climb out of a bathroom window. Rough with the smooth. One day is totally zero and one day is Christmas Day; however there will be a place for pilgrims to stay in three years - bloody handy that!

Germany - where are your vegetables?

I think I shall literally vibrate all the way to the Rhine once I get my bill for soup and some sausages, blast why did the reformation drive all the pure needs away and provide nectar in bottles at a cost far outweighing their potential response? In this case no energy could be quantified this easily: Every drink equals what it might cost squared. Demand money you slave worker; tonight I want all spreadsheets and their makers, everywhere, to die. So now I go to bed with the flyning circus and, without a Christmas jumper, I will pretend I am blacked up and in the Attila the Hun Show. 
Boxing Day.

If I didn't suffer any set backs I would get conceited arrogant and foppish. At all times I must remind myself it is this duality which is unreal. So I said it is Christmas day and I earned this expensive bed. But can you ever earn anything. Who are you earning for: who must you pay in the end? The answer is no one : just you.

It is so true we don't know what is in our own best interests, at most times. As i hopped from puddle to mud through the valley to the Rhine I was not fighting Christmas Day with the suggestion of redemption, being saved, etc., but as soon as I lit the touch paper of humanity I was caught as a mosquito in amber.

Everything in this hotel is perfect for the expectant - white porcelain, polished wood; it is the dichotomy of age verses cleanliness. For me I only ever see a coffee pot filled with coffee - our means of conveying this natural goodness.

Hurrah! Not one mince pie, cracker or paper crown this year; this is a great joke! Big bad Dom at 7:45. Hello again trees. I haven't seen you in years.

Why am I crossing myself in Altenburg Dom (no I don't know why either - is someone watching on CCTV?) and a priest dropped to his knees when he saw me (or was this the Son of God?)
He takes me for the official stamp and every person we pass shakes his hand because they do fear themselves and look elsewhere for suggestions of freedom. Weihnachten cost me £63.00, and could be worse, but the priest provides me with an address in Köln.

The quantum theory of interaction between religious fathers and the congregation. When these particles collide priests will always be Quarks(quacks) and the congregation Muons(morons).

At this thought I missed my sign and had walked beyond the right turn off the main road into Odentahl. Passing through streets and in the pre-dawn people are still polishing surfaces; modern insanity and a head on fight with the ultimate and intimate Truth.

The insane me always seeks to scratch open any old wound - it is my nervous tick motion. But I might be walking back to sanity. This passage will inevitably lead me to down-town Chinese-land as it swipes it's paw across Köln. As I come round the next bend a German Herren is hand in hand with his Chinese Frau - bizarre.

I often feel dogs are already in heaven.

Wow I have steadily walked five kilometres already: it is too easy for me. No, just remember it is not a challenge. It just a way which is neither torn, broken or needs fixing; alone is always clear.

At seven clicks I look for my second stempel, playing the good Christian boy. In a modern church: pebble dashed brutality then I cross the street and here are my first signs of suburbia: polished Audi, BMW and other techniques I march through without a further reminders.

Hey there middle class runner! Please will you stop just so you can take off your bad head and finally see the world you want to not witness as you fly through clean and uninvolved. Why haven't we invented blinkers for humans?

In cities we went in search of life, love and safety but instead we found distrust, intolerance, lust, hatred and horror. Where is the heart of darkness? Oh I beg please keep going while we still have a chance Berliner Strässe. Straight ahead. Posters remind me of James Blunt and Marlboro least we ever forget? I can't tell where is more wild?

Dom. Stamp. I am now in the Hauptbahnhof Mission drinking coffee and eating lebkuchen. If all else fails I will depart again. Closed is the Maternushaus and I can recall that place having a huge price for bed: conditions, structure and acceptance. I might have luckily found food anyway. My belly was rumbling.

The largest untruth in religion is the suggestion of perfection in a construct about an altar (a cathedral is always only stone and glass and metal and desperation to reach beyond. All the symbolism is a form of magic and is truly all imaginary and totally unnecessary, from every angle, in any quest for redemption. Look deep into the eyes of the priest and you will still see fear. In Wermelskirchen I saw this: the perfection of the pastor was an illusion maintained as a visual need for God to allow a return to Eden by denying altruism; I slept on the floor away from the inns(hotels) only because it was Christmas Eve. I've jumped ship. I walk to Aachen because I can, I want to, I feel better for doing so and I will but I won't betray this truth I have seen just to get a arrogant helping hand.

Tonight I sleep in a cheap hostel bed £12.50 a trebuchet bucket throw away from my pilgerweg (Aachener Str.) with the sun behind me on Friday. Three days can I or must I continue until I do it without spraining an ankle? The Dom is behind me and I race west on the morrow! Now I need seek food!

Bugger: McDonald's, KFC or kebap? No option really. Undone with a Kölsch (at least it is Gaffel) and find kebap then bed.

Please recall the worst people to share a room are bigoted Brummies, anxious San Franciscans and crisp crunching Germans ( and to have them all in one room). This reminds me I will never hostel again. I would prefer carbon monoxide poisoning or a rabid dengue fever. They can snore all they want, steal whatever they want, be allergic to all toxins or jump about in Y-fronts (having six million zyclon-B showers in a millisecond), but start rustling any plastic bags and I'm calling the law!

In the summer each stage/etape I shared with deeply snoring Frenchie types with outrageous accents but not once did anyone forget they shouldn't rustle bags until the person in the bunk above you is conspiring using a comb as a knife and slashing your exposed neck at quarter to three!

The sheets are fresh the room large and the bed large for a bunk.

What decision I make tomorrow will depend on a number of concerns: my right ankle feels twisted, fractured or broken from concrete paths, the weather feels changeable tonight, I really don't think getting a stamp in a book means a single gods honest thing, I am yet to encounter anyone walking or anyone not walking who can't believe I am walking(like they have forgotten their feet's existence), I don't want to be penniless before I get back to Blighty, there is no ultimate answer from all this searching and I still don't understand the needs of the many which account for all that is considered valuable on our planet and perhaps I quite miss those I made sure I didn't see at Christmas - distance makes the heart grow fond. Rolled in my baggage is three quarters of a litre a wine I am sure I will willingly consume alone.

The Dom was clear of tourists during the Mass, and I squeezed in with my legitimate passport and stood trying to absorb the Eucharist for the thirtieth time, but I felt nothing at all.
At chapter twenty three I wonder if I haven't lost interest in JPD's soliloquies: stop with your 'what a load of bollocks!' and has the book/novel/autobiography run out of steam? Quite an expensive read, but might yet have much more value?

Some German gentlemen came in the room at 9:30pm, they had no bed linen. They asked me where to find this - reception - they left but only returned at 5:45am to discuss the night while ransacking the place and putting on the linen. Bring back curfew: a reasonable time for retiring. The lack of any centrally administrated restraint has put me off Hostels like this entirely. Sharing a room requires respect for humanity, doesn't it? Now drunken Brummie returns at seven am and that's enough for ever: no wonder there is someone in your unused bed: this is the peering Irishman from Westport still haunting me!

How could I physically walk thirty kilometres to my next Etape without proper sleep. Köln did this last time for a different reason: like a broody hen she squawks in anguish at producing such a rotten eggs: Colonia? Definitely colonic! In Altenburg I really doubted Köln being worthy of my passage: first impressions are usually correct. There must be a focal point to Köln but I missed it because my age doesn't speak to me of the youths up to no good in this town..

Twenty four hour hostels! Miss them out. It is a palace for bawdy lost men and droves of Chinese. Man of San Francisco returneth at 7:45am. I am gone to Düren in a stolen carriage(I didn't pay my fee to this ferryman taking me away from Hades) to fight this darkness residing on the separated mother goddess of Europe: the Rhine.

What would once have driven me crazy has me in hysterics. The gentleman on reception listened, while being interrupted by disgracefully drunk off his head and thoughtless controller from the West Midlands, and told me I would have to see the manager at three to discuss a refund. Fuck that: I let him off with a free coffee and skip along to number one tram (limped I did) where I am gonna jump on another ship to Düren: I did just walk into Sodom of my own free will?

Often I see this commercial image to represent Köln as the twin spires with a flat line - suggestive of Köln after the war (obviously tragic): ironic that I think Köln is flatlined (obviously comic) lacking motor life seventy years on.

Red sky in the morning
Should act as a warning
That will stop me from walking
Oh the horrible distance groans
When my mouth keeps yawning
And my hopping leaves me mad.

to Rudolfzplatz, Bahnhof Weiden West thence Düren.

Drunks on this early morning train using transport as something to maintain their drunken selves; coming out of Köln and keeping warm then heading back into the centre to do it all again? I regret to inform you your presence isn't required. Will Düren be fecund as implied by this fruitiness? Everyone travelling has vacant eyes and it seems they lack everything there is to simply be - why keep putting myself here?

Is this a stress fracture I feel in my right ankle and what can I do in Düren about this? Lebkucken and kaffee.

I am wrong about Him. He does led me to where people can and will help me but I must follow his instructions and pray that my way will be true; my instincts are not my ego. Herren in Saint Anna's church brought me to an old person's home (Haus St. Anna Stiftung) where they also look after pilgrims in need) and they will take me to the hospital too. Thomas Schultz gives me help and I feel overwhelmed. Any bed any way but away from the mad mad city. He showed me to a conference room, they will put a bed there, he took me to the Cüchen and chef will feed me there, then I was introduced to Mother Zara (who reminds me of the Mother Teresa) who will let me pass by there, a brother will take me to the Krankenhaus, now I feel completely saved and vindicated for vanishing from the bleak A&O hostel at seven.

Eleven am and am enrolled in a very perfect Krankenhaus. The receptionist took my details: finally my insurance came in use. I've been insured forever but never once got NHI card. The only time I tried to claim on insurance was when I 'claimed' to have had my iPod stolen in Barcelona. Then the insurance company decided the Guardia Civil had entered the incorrect year on the form filled in in triplicate.

Froh Weihnachten.

An hour later patience is required as I don't know how the system works in Germany. There is nothing to come from misdirecting my energies. I turn off.

Zwei heuren assessed and into radiology. Luckily just a strain so I head back to Saint Anna's to be greeted by the most amazing bed I've yet found this year. In a conference room with nine tables and ten chairs per table the staff have put me a bed in one corner. It is automatic has checked yellow/white duvet cover and giant pillow. I briefly met the priest and will attend Mass for the final time giving thanks to the love so freely shared. Köln reminded me to be strong and Düren tells me to be humble.

However my strain will prevent me from leaving on foot forwards and I really want to see all my old friends before the very tipping of the year so as long as Aachen is done on Saturday or Sunday I will set off back on the long days journey to Wetherby.

To feel so freely cleansed mentally and physically can only bring me away from thoughts of oblivion I had prior to YO!Sushi. Yes it is a clique but I feel I have been reborn: 'like a virgin' played over the bastion in Ypres and in summary I will now soldier on with my head high knowing that I am the lizard king and I can do anything! Hurray for the Way Chemin Camino Wege of James Santiago Jacques Jakob etc. The church bells ring out and I feel fine.

Thank you for saving me, beyond the perplexing Köln, Saint Anna.

Andy was the first soul and last soul whom delivered me to my auditorium vast and empty and mine alone. We got into weisse beverages before more Lebkuchen (as I am an addict) then into the deep sleep in an under belly of this cratered out town.

Tomorrow I will go yo the truest church I have ever seen: Saint Anna's of Düren remade, after 98% of the town was destroyed in 1944/45, from the original stones which were bombed into rubble; rebuilt AD1954.

Unreal but I was here listening to reverberations of a silver soul. I fell into my bed feeling the life I am in was a fever, or another day dream, from which I have battled and won.

This town is another kind of sadness I have seen this Christmas and none are worse: all death in war is for naught. (The man blowing the bag pipes outside the Dom, in highland tartan, wasn't even German never mind Scottish and it never was part of the deepest canyons in his soul; wishful thinking.) Schofferhofer popped its head over the parapet and we grabbed it fast for zwei klein bieren danke. Ah rain! I recall you. Where have you hidden for so long? We were afraid you had forgotten us or denied us your pleasure?

Extrablatt for a coffee then over to Mass... Then back on the Jakobswege to Aachen.
It is a kind of magic, but the ball and cup trick has be updated

Why do churches make you come to them for their projection and not come to you for your Truth? Somewhere distantly the Truth has been replaced by a pantomime and where did anyone get a right to assume they and not I are in direct contact with Him. Ceremony is a merely a token of misunderstanding. Clearly this church was made wonderfully but all the words don't take it any closer to heaven through the earth: there is no ultimate creation in words.

Do churches and ceremonies celebrate life or worry forever about mortality? I cannot decide.

I wished the priest Bon Camino and hope he reaches his goal. Andy was waiting to hop me out of this town. I told him that no matter what you need to look for the silence in the noise - the gaps in the wall - the mortar between the bricks - the space between the train and the platform - the singular amongst the many - between the raindrops - for the inner Truth.

Catch a bus (55) to Kornelimünster Abbey for one last hurrah

Aachen I have a stamp to complete my Pilgerweg this year. With my hopping I missed out the Abbey but would not if my feet were in tip top/good shape - anyway is the way. What cares me if it has no meaning! I loved every moment of the succession of challenges I have been with and the people too I have loved so boldly.

From there on Sunday I to Liege to Bruges to Calais to Dover to London to Leeds to Wetherby and bravo drunk on New Years Eve I will be!

In Aachen I was beginning to hunger for carnal thoughts and dreams - this is the direct expression of loneliness in cities. A few bites of lebkuchen and a doner makes me think again.


Benedictine Abbey closed until 3pm. I guess there won't be a horde of pilgrims passing this way. This is good because I have discovered a disused Vennbahn that finally gave me a hand crafted beer! Eifeler Landbier. If nothing else works out I won't leave North Rhein-Westphalia with the pithy untruth that this parts bier sucks my plums! Wow. Sour trubby unfiltered unpasteurised power beer! I will come back to get hiccupy.

I stand corrected! Oostende or Zeebrugge is a walk on possibility! Yeh baby! No more Krankenhausening and I await the Abbot to take me to a heberge for pilger eine nacht schlafen in Room NB11. Thank you Fredrick-William. If you don't get to the start again in life you will never finish and reincarnation is impossible to escape. If you don't need to begin again you must already be in heaven?

Quick tour of Kornelimunster collecting my final coin in Europe and a bier for the road. The last circumstance of the like of tonight was in Conques Abbey, Lot. Even then I would look at all my fellows and wonder why we must be here this way? In every single way I want the truth. What a very modern, clean, up-to-date place. The plumbing is fine too. From Fountain's Abbey to this along the Eastern side and through plenty of accepting homes I felt welcomed, if not understood, and my task for the evening must be to keep quiet, listen and be asked to speak.

It appears I was a little late, but still in time to be scowled at by half the table. Wearing a face you keep in a jar by the door... But Helgard made me feel Köln might be something worthy of seeing again, but I am unlikely to walk either way on the Jakobswege through there again.

German Roggen bread is definitely what bread is meant to be.

Sometimes people are the magic. Sometimes we bounce and react and other times we merge and interact; how I wish to interact more often than react. Yes perhaps Köln is not a colon but a semi-colon? One day when all the crowds of dollar slaves have departed I shall revive this dream?


In the beginning there was a the truth but this truth was so hard to understand it was reinterpreted as the word. God is truth not the word. The word can only be our perception, conceit or projection.

I lay in my cell for this evening having done as much as my mind would allow betwixt many untruths within the parentheses of walking. Something about being forty days and nights in the wilderness is all we ever need to appreciate this miracle without crooked humanity on hand to add its disappointing salts.

Having a silent perfect nights sleep in this Cloister brought me naturally awake at 5:15 am. Not even slightly tired so will go downstairs to witness another part of the day routine of religion - morning prayer at 6am.

Whenever my Snoopy joins me early in the morning that is my first prayer answered. That wet nose finding purchase between the sheets and duvet, his quick circular movement on the bed and his closeness once he has gotten comfortable.

With closed eyes I listened to the chanting of the monks at prayer and saw a crystal and a shimmering mail in my mind and then I stretched out to realise the real tiredness I have felt lately. It is very much meditation and removed many mental burdens; many of the monks have coughs this morning.

Aachener Pflümli Pflaumenmus reminds me of Stroop in Holland and is a divine breakfast conserve; it is entirely something other for which we have no comparison in the UK. No matter what our position in society/religion on the morrow we all must wake defecate and eat: these very simple cycles are not bound by psychology or training but by physics.

Dangerfield is in London and his father has died. He is dressed as a Kangaroo like the buffoon he really is. My impression of him has worsened: Miss Frost must be with child and he is oblivious.

Drei Kaffee.

I dreamt I had an argument with a bunch of American grad students who had been taught that York was on the south coast of England. Indeed the atlas they used in college had York to the east of Dover. I suggested they refer to a Collins Atlas instead. This must be my subconscious hoping the North of England is now in the south so it isn't such a long swim home up the Humber, Ouse and Wharfe to be home for NYE?

If I was sure of the return via Zeebrugge to Hull for foot passengers I would gladly pass that way on Monday to hurry home from Hull via Leeds City Station(pulling on FOH for one/two) before another x98/x99 back to the start of another year: my fortysecond. Firstly catch the bus from Napoleonsberg (Eifelsteig). This morning is still and overcast without malice(yet); there is a dull dirty orange pre-dawn and it will rain fro sure.

Bucketed down from the minute I stepped off the bus on Kaiserplatz and walked to Aachen Bhf, proper typhoon rain. Luckily I had a place to put on my backpack cover or all my paper credentials would've been damp and all those fine stempel could've merged into a disappointing smudge.

It is in the past. I am trying to get a pilger rate to Brugge - ha ha I am cunning as a weasel!

2nd leg Aachen (Aken) to Liege at 10:35am Sunday and the sun starts up again as the torrent abates. Bye bye Deutschland. Cheaper to buy a ticket on the train which is Belgian. Unplanned is ideal if you always know which direction you are going, are willing to use slower trains and hop off more often at border towns.

Christmas special ticket only ten euros from Liege direct to Bruges ( great one EUzone!). 0.89¢ for a bag of Lebkuchen and a bottle of waßer from the Abbey. Coffee a euro and bus €2.55. Not much to travel so far is it?

Noon on platform 3 direct to Oostende, via Bruges. Time to finish The Ginger Man and conclude this learning curve knowing if I were ever to return not to read that sort of sordid melancholy about Dublin again! Dubliners and The Ginger Man don't paint a portrait of a happy place - in London things get fixed up.

Only £120(!!!) to get to Hull, cabin the only option? I am a single traveller. Looks like P&O to Hull is a rip off(maybe there is another rate if you walk on, but I am not risking going the wrong way to find out no chance). Maybe I will spend a night on the shoreline in Calais with those trying to reach England's treasured shores but with concrete slippers?

Last bed in Brugge this Sunday! Busy busy everywhere. Too much beer me thinks: the fan in a shower room is driving me crazy!

Literally half way across the sands I begin sinking, but at Bruges please don't use and abuse me. Mexican boys bring me back to Thomas who in Puy-en-Velay was visiting relations: only the very rich in these countries get a chance to escape back to the Old World.

What can say but 'Huey' this morning. A very loud humming from a fan in one of the toilets and a hangover for the first time since I left England. I'm taking the slow cheaper route to Calais without feeling any want to travel this way at all.

And now I am awaiting my fate in a mogadon café with Like a Rollin' Stone playing: no direction home. An hour to kill and to wake up properly: zwei koffie, zwei zucker, zwei Lotus Biscuit, eine koffiekoek and now I am more alive even if Stationbuffet Pegasus is dead forever. Another station where people only ever wait to leave physically and symbolically. Not Leffe Blonde for Breakfast unless you have lost all reason and sanity is a missing concept.

Last stage is disrupted by French strikes - viva la revolution - I had this fact too in 2000. Them Frenchies and their strong unions. Just enough time to stare at another station for an eternity. Only a 30 minute wait so not so bad. Now I am back where I started. When is café noir a midi j'nez pas a café grand au petite?

Finally finished The Ginger Man to the climax of "we drift like worried fire" and the train eats tracks as we hunt towards Pas de Calais. Dangerfield had his happy ending because he had the right way but also the right connections to dig him out when he was entirely witless in Dublin. He was witless but never lonely: my condition of being a solitary man too long.

Wonderful raven-haired pouting femme with revealing low neckline presenting wonderfully blancmange trembling breasts just suggesting come and lay here in a final repose; she reads Death on the Orient Express, departs with breasts and all at Saint Omar and I think the irony!

GYBE! On repeat brings me out of the last two weeks into 2014 waiting for no one and no thing; the brave assault on my aural fears helps vanish my threatened glances. Come English Channel I want to return to handicapped England bruised and battered.

What is wrong with me? I find trains, cars, buses, airplanes and ships all hideous and vile forms of reaching a destination. We were probably not meant to learn how to get where we are going in such controlled or speedy manner. Christian walked from his home in Leipzig to Puy-en-Velay, before his accident, and I wish England had a proper pilgrims route as I'd happily do the same.

Over the channel I fear these south eastern day trippers with their dangerously false exteriors and disappointingly ruined interiors: tempt a baby with crisps to bring on another disappointed end. Nothing is for me with these rancid corpses; is it true I was in Brugge this morning vomiting the forgotten night: I had had enough Belgian bier so left one behind with the last third of the Christmas Eve Riesling.

The Continent looks ominously grey and it would appear England has the blue skies. Half way home. Gulls float on starboard with expectations of flotsam and jetsam: crooked bird they are. How not to go to London to get back north? Only option is a slow train to London Victoria then head to Victoria Coach Station, 561 and The North?

One long journey. We are passing Tibshelf Services and must be one and a half hours from Leeds Dyer Street. But I beat the Zeebrugge to Hull price and time just by setting off without fear. Walking is free, occasionally painful but never tiresome, the other means at my disposal not so free nor easy; had to provide this coach driver with directions to Meadowhall at one am 'why do they do this to me' he doesn't deal well with random route changes.

The End.

It is over.

I am back and I've had my first English Breakfast in aeons. I know my persistent pride and vanity will be my undoing, overhearing discussions about what coffees, when ordered and what was delivered so I am back to those I would wildly stab in the dark!

I shouldn't judge but I always will.

All the anti-Ds, counselling, deep thoughts, self help, searching and self discovery, but I am still completely mad and probably completely wrong too. The time I have spent revising this manuscript/draft finding nonsense loopholes errors bad grammar the list feels endless. I must stop now and find an editor!