Diary: April, 22

During this month I visited the Peak District, West Lothian, Fife, Perthshire, Cairngorms National Park, Ross and Cromarty, Sutherland, Moray Firth, Banffshire, Strathbogie, Aberdeenshire, Lancastershire and then returned into the Cotswolds.

30th

After a nights rest I examined my Sony Alpha DSLR camera, and found the focus, with 52mm and 300m lenses is water damaged smeared beyond repair.

The above picture is a good as the camera gets, there is no working auto-focus anymore either. I have left the camera in a friends airing cupboard.

29th

Woken at 5am by a security guard hurling abuse at me. Last night, both anxious and exhausted, I pitched by a Skateboard Park / BMX track in Memorial Park, Whaley Bridge. The over vigilant security guard (who I have never met until now) alleged that I had abused him, refuting I stated “from inside my tent whilst I was sleeping?”.

He appeared to be patrolling a compound which had taken space in the public park, why this had been so was anybody's guess. I packed up and made my way down into Whaley Bridge, walked an old railway track, urinating underneath a bridge before aligning my direction with the road to Chapel-en-le-Firth.

Along the road I found an exhausted bee that appeared to have been away from its hive all night, by its limp movements it appeared to be suffering. I reached inside my rucksack and pulled out some sugar, placing a spoonful on the step I added a few drops of water before the bee took to it. I hope he is OK, I so know what it is like to be outside, cold, and exhausted. Chapel-en-le-Firth calls itself the capital of the Peak District, but I did not find much evidence of that.

I more or less walked straight through the small town, stopping only to beg tap water from a café along the way. I noticed a double-glazed window reflecting light as an X, I've noticed this oddity before, many times, but on this occasion took a photograph of it. There was also a Golden letter box, presumably to commemorate something, although I am not sure what exactly. The road out was through an industrial estate, then an incline towards the A6 towards Buxton. After a thirty-minute wait, I was picked up by a Muslim Taxi driver. He said he was going to Matlock but could drop me at Buxton, after ten minutes I realised he was taking me to Bakewell. He stopped and let me out when I asked him, but not before he had taken me a further eight miles out of my direction. Before attempting to hitch-hike another lift I paused to observe a beautiful copse, the contrast was really this verdant, the peak district is both soft and rugged but tame compared to Scotland.

The next lift came from a painter and decorator picking up his wages, he said at Chapel-en-le-Firth, but took me to Buxton anyhow. Buxton was lively, hungry I purchased a cheese and vegetable pasty from an incredibly grumpy local bakery. The woman behind the counter who served was so abrupt, she left me wondering what the service would have been like if I'd of gone to Gregs.

There was a white male playing the trumpet most beautifully in Buxton town centre, further along there was also another guy playing the guitar; both were talented. I landed in an Indian styled café named “Chakra”, greeted by two happy face women sporting rainbow print everything. They were not dissimilar to Rod, Jane, and Freddie in both appearance and presentation. After small talk, I was served and enjoyed a Halloumi wrap and two lattes.

It took a three-mile uphill walk out of town to acquire a lift. This time, a lorry stopped and offered a lift to Stoke-on-Trent. The driver drove through a 7.5 ton limit with a 44 ton load but offered to take me further after he had tipped this load (sandstone), but backed out when he saw congestion on the road out of town. Hitching here was terrible, I kept seeing priests driving by, followed by race mixers, thought I was imagining it, but they were there on the photographs I took.

After a two-hour wait, hundreds of cars, trucks, and everything else had passed, I decided to walk along a footpath closer towards the junction of the M6. The footpath became the A500 highway and was dangerous to walk for some time. I walked past the Stoke Football ground, a BMW showroom, Harvester restaurant, before stopping at an Esso / Spar garage for refreshments. I attempted to hitch at the roundabout here but was unlucky, another walk past a Catholic Church, another sports ground I came to the motorway junction. In a mere five minutes, I was picked up by a middle-aged woman driving a camper van; she took me all the way to my friend's doorstep in Stroud. After showering, I relaxed for the rest of the evening watching Television, I retired early and slept like a log on a comfortable bed.

28th

Disturbed at 1am by a badger having some sort of schism about me occupying a small park of his woodland which may or may not have been blocking is path. Badgers a peculiar about their routes and get very upset to see you on them during the early hours of the morning.

Yesterday I purchased two tins of my favourite Cullen Skink soup, so that is what I had for breakfast this morning!

I walked back to the M74 junction near Lesmahagow. Here a very strange walker past me, then an elderly man with his daughter in a push chair, who walked past me, stopped, then walked back the way he came. Work men came ten minutes after I arrived and cut all the grass; making me sick with hay fever.

I waited here some time before a lorry stopped and took me over the Scottish / English border and into the M6 Southwaite service station. The driver had a poor, maybe even profane presentation which I found cumbersome during a two-hour-long wait for the crippled motorway to clear from an overturned sewage tanker.

The truck driver admired drag queens, I attempted to tell him how bad they were and therefore should not be reading children stories in libraries. He did not care for this opinion, instead choosing to talk about his retirement in Thailand, which I found disturbing. Before I exited his cab, he denounced me as a “Nazi Bitch”. The next lift came from a woman driving her elderly father from her house in Scotland. She kindly gave be two snack bars before attempting to illegally drop me off on a motorway slip road. She apologised when I explained the possible situation with the police and exiting, I was dismayed at not being able to get back onto the M6 southbound.

After looking at my map application, I realised that I was close to Lancaster services, a few miles north of an area where I had pitched a week before. I hitched a lift of a man driving a Mercedes, he was a spitting image of famous footballer striker / England captain Brian Robson, he was also the same age. He drove me to Lymm Poplar 2000 Services before leaving the M6 to go along the M56 into Wales. So many race mixing strangers drove past me at this junction, and also some really sinister looking people, glaring at my presence. The first lift appeared to be a meat factory worker going to Manchester, I turned this lift down and another came as the sun had set about an hour later. The last lift of the day came from a man driving towards Whaley Bridge, he dropped me off at Tesco where I used the toilet. This was off track, but I was in earnest to get away from shadows rising from the submerging darkness of Lymm Service station.

After an hour and a half of walking I settled down to pitch my tent on a playing field, as I tried to sleep I was disturbed by a super bright torch shining right through my tent; every ten to twenty minutes. This is not a good place to sleep, I thought to myself shortly before blacking out with nervous and physical exhaustion.

27th

Last night I pitched on lovely soft grass in a woodland one mile east of Aviemore, but was bluntly roused by obnoxious and rude dog walkers.

Refusing to let anxiety move me, I overslept before cooking some bean soup breakfast in my new cooking pot. The pot is very good, but I am not sure how the handle will hold out with daily cooking; these items are used mostly by weekend campers, a mere few times a year. (that's all you're going to get, I don't do reviews for sponsors, not that any would be interested in me!)

Later after checking my map application I discovered I had pitched a few yards from the East Highland Way. I have often liked Aviemore, a friendly place I thought with many ramblers passing through, but I have grown to find it not that great. I walked to the junction of the A9 south of the village and got a lift from a Polish man going to Perth. Next lift came from a same red car, driving a retired university professor going to Edinburgh, she asked if I wanted to stop at Kinross. Then she advised, I'd go into central Edinburgh before I altercated and disembarked on the outer ring road. I have no interest in going into the centre of Edinburgh, which is now full of trauma triggers, similar to those I picked up whilst enduring two years homeless on the streets of London.

The woman, from Blair Athol was snuddy and scoffed at almost everything I said; I knew she was one of them. I walked the ring road and then headed east along Glasgow road for a few miles before I was picked up by a Spanish guy, he drove me east to the centre of Falkirk. I sat at a small park, cooked some soup and enjoyed a coffee before setting off to walk to another suitable place to hitch. I walked to Bonnybridge and waited by junction 1 of the M876. I was picked up by a guy, driving to see his girlfriend, he side tracked and took me to a deserted Road Chef Bothwell service station on the M74. I scanned the area as the sun had set, but found no suitable place to safely pitch my tent. I waited about another half an hour before I man stopped and took me fifty miles future down to a junction with a truck stop and Tesco's supermarket. Here I purchased a £3.50 value meal before heading into a nearby woodland to pitch my tent.

26th

Today I travelled again to an anxious start, gritting my teeth as I left the safety of my friend's home to face off another journey north. She dropped me at junction 13 of the M5. I waited for twenty minutes before a woman stopped and offered me a lift to Tewksbury junction of the m5. The next lift came from a trade plater (somebody who delivers cars), he took me up to Charnock service station. At the services I was really disturbed to see this sign, I suppose it's a legal requirement because the CCTV cameras are hidden?

The next lift came from a Northern Irish man who had resettled in Scotland. He stunk of booze, said he was driving back from London after spending time with his daughter. He took me to Gretna Green service station. My next lift came from a lorry driver going to Aberdeen, he took me as far as Perth. My last and final lift of the day was from an Economist travelling up from London to see his mother in the Black Isle. He dropped me off in Aviemore at the local BP garage, so I picked up some provisions before heading off to the pub to celebrate the 381 miles (613.16 km) I'd just hitched with a pint of Guinness. The pub played endless Motown music, a white couple took my picture from the side, opposite on the other side was a race mixer and her stalker boyfriend; utterly evil I thought, so picked up my rucksack and departed after downing my pint.

25th

This morning I travelled to Cheltenham with a friend in her car, we stopped in Montpellier area and had breakfast at Cheltenham's currently the finest artisan café, named Baker and Graze. After, I visited my building society to order a debit card and to draw out money. I visited a camping shop, purchasing a new sleeping bag, tent pegs and cooking pot; I also got a new plug adapter, and two pairs of leggings.

My friend and I parted company at Cheltenham train station, and I set off on my travels north walking because train tickets were so expensive, much beyond my budget (Cheltenham to Evesham £20!). I walked through St Paul's area, past a leisure centre then travelled eastwards on a footpath, turning north to walk through Pitville park until I came to the pump rooms. Walking through Cheltenham I noticed, as I did in Glasgow, that I was being side walked (I call this out as zoning), from some distance by patrolling Africans strangers; maintaining a sterile zone of hapless lifelessness.

Leaving Cheltenham, walking north towards Bishop's Cleave I noticed Cleave hill to the East and the Malvern hills to the West.

I rested on a public bench for five minutes to collect my thoughts before walking north, passing Cheltenham famous Gold Cup racecourse and also a steam railway station advertising an end of May event. Walking a further three miles, I entered a small town named Bishop's Cleave.

There are two pubs along the main street, I visited them both before my friend came and took me back to Nailsworth. In the evening, we had grilled fish. Peppers and mushrooms cooked and served from an open wood fire, which was absolutely delicious.

Spent the last two days at a friend's house attempting to catch up with writing my blog. I hope to fill the gaps between the dates soon with information about my experiences during my travels across the UK sometime in the near future when I have desktop computer access again.

23rd-24th

Rested at a friends house and worked all day and night both Saturday and Sunday, updating my blog with descriptions and pictures of my travels.

22nd

Woke up inside my tent that was pitched on a bridleway half mile away from a cotswold village named Coates.

After a chat with my friend over the phone I returned to stay with my friend in Nailsworth for a few extra days.

21st

After spending the night with my friend, this morning I am on my travels again. I left Nailsworth walking through King Georges playing fields and through Hazel Wood.

20th

Woken early, my tent pitched on a Nature Reserve named Scorton Picnic Site. Wouldn't it be nice not to be woken up by dog walkers, getting so tired of them.

Coming fresh from the wild highlands I presumed that there would not be much to see here, but there were many beautiful sights, pictures below.

Road kill is always senseless.

I had one pound fifty pence left in my pocket and was wondering if this was enough money for a cup of tea until I found a snack van on a countryside lane facing the service station. Here, from a very nice man and woman I purchased a cup of tea for fifty pence; they didn't only give me some hot water and a tea bag, they also stirred sugar and poured milk into the cup for me, how rare it is to get this sort of service these days I thought.

We chatted for a while as I have drunk three cups of tea, they also gave me a free egg buttie on the house before I parted company. I used the service station for a shit before hitching a lift from a woman driving to Keele M6 Service Station. The last and final lift of the day was from an amateur boxer / professional photographer heading towards Portsmouth. We talked for a while, then he offered to re-route a little out of his direction and take me into Stroud.

19th

Today I continued with my hitch-hiking, having made up my mind to leave Scotland a few days ago. The first lift was very creepy, a guy returning to Perth after visiting his girlfriend in Blair Gowie, claimed. He was sporting a black and white Raiders jumper (they used this in gang stalking, I believe these to be worn by strangers envoking inherent disinheritance). I found out he knew about my families castle at Balthayock as we drove past Scone Castle and into Perth, he dropped me off in the city centre.

It took almost two hours to walk south out of Perth and link with a lay-by on the A9. Many cars drove by before a Taxi driver stopped and took me all the way to Glasgow Airport. Here I hitch-hiked another lift to Hamilton. From here I walked through Larkhall and onto the M74. The next lift took me to Carlisle, then another to T-bay services from an old man with huge fingernails, placing my rucksack in the back of his van I noticed twenty dead pheasants. The night ended at Lancaster Service station.

Before exiting the service station, I did think about possible places to sleep, but the woods surrounding the immediate area were full of noisy crows. Luckily for me the service station had a foot bridge which was more surreal than creepy, thinking back and looking at the above picture, maybe both. Walking out of the West side, I walked down a few lanes until I came to a village named Hollins Lane. I walked past the Duchy of Lancaster estate office, through a field and onto the A6.

18th

I awoke pitched in a village named Rhynie…

There were sheep in the next field and in the field I was pitched, predators making weird sounds whilst watching them. The first lift I hitch-hiked was from a single man, he dropped me off here…

After a long walk, I was picked up by a rat faced Romanian drain cleaner working for Aberdeenshire council. He told about living in Italy before he moved to Scotland and said he wanted to go live in China; I asked if state oppression bothered him, he replied, don't believe everything you read in the papers, but it's all over TikTok and China own that, I thought.

When the second lift dropped me off on the A97 I knew I was in for a long, long day, with much walking; in fact it took another lengthy eight miles of road before I managed to flag down another lift. This is where Ranger rovers and tweed began, attached was a snobbery that had no sanctity for the existence of commoners, least of all for a wayward waggle taggle gypsy O.

Eventually, after about three hours, a woman was visiting schools within the locality of the area picked me up and drove me to a small village named Dinnet. Here I was passed by a silver Jaguar E-type (remake), close behind, almost tailgating was a police escort then a succession of ranger rovers with suited and booted passengers. I tried to hitch for another hour before I began walking again. Another three miles down the road, a bus stopped and gave me a free ride to Ballater; the bus driver said, “I stopped because nobody around these parts will give you a lift”. I walked out of Ballater almost immediately, passing by some kilted bag piped do on at a small church.

The next lift came when two roads co-joined, the driver was a man who had just dropped his family off in Ballater before going back home to Braemar. He talked about the Royals, and the local economy, about how businesses could not find employees do to an accommodation shortage (due to rich people inflating property prices to keep out the oinks). I always visit the river when I am in Braemar…

The burn that runs through the village is impressive too.

A woman stopped in a camper van and gave me a lift to Blair Gowrie, she spend time telling me of a situation at a campsite she had stayed at. We ate fruit pastels along the way.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fair O Blair of them all”.

Nothing happened in this town, but I saw exactly the same people again, in the same places as I did over four years ago, how creepy stagnant is that!

I slept very well that night in Bluebell woods, about one mile south of Blair Gowrie.