Diary: April, 22

Continued.. 3/4

13th

Risen this morning after a good night's sleep, my tent pitched overlooking Loch Garten. The student who gave me a lift out of Dulnain Bridge was here in sleeping in his Honda 4×4, this morning he is giving me a lift to Inverness.

Arriving in Inverness I found I had lost my Debit card whilst packing up my equipment at Loch Garden so visited my building society to report it missing and make a large deposit before continuing on my journey North; as there a no branches north of Inverness.

It took a mere three minutes to hitch a lift to Ullapool off Longman roundabout, Inverness; from a van driver delivering art to the Isle of Lewis. His stereo was playing a medley of world music, and resting on his van dashboard was a pair of Spanish Bag pipes.

He dropped me off near the harbour by Loch Broom, I walked into the centre of Ullapool and visited Ceilidh Place for a drink and a bite to eat. Here in this establishment (visited once or twice before) I noticed a family seated a few tables away (donning Stewart tartan) that I recognised from countless over locations around the UK; how bizarre I thought.

Walking around Ullapool I was spooked to find the port had a link with Martin dePorress (“socialist patron saint of race mixing”), through both a Freemasonic lodge and a Catholic Church, could the sinister miscegenation cult have originated from here? was this a port of call for dePorress?

Many readers might mistake this as Martin of the Tours, but the port has a loch named “Broom”. There was also a creepy lorry driver "stranger" racing around the town, in his cab he had nameplates on the dashboard which read “Martin” and “Tango”; get it? "Tan" - "Go". Anyway, this is not his town, so I stopped to cook some bean soup by the loch, best restuarant view, right here.

In the even I sat far west of the town and watched a partial sunset before I could no longer tollerate the midges biteing my thighs.

There was nothing in this town for me, no conversation, no friendship, not even an acquittance; I felt invisible. I sat on another bench alone until dark, of no concern to a group of six people laughing whilst burning an open fire twenty yards away, then walked east to pitch my tent.

12th

I stayed another night on invitation at the house, but parted company and left the village in the morning. I slept beside the guy on the bed but refused to have sex with him because he'd been vaccinated, a shocking four times, he'd also recently suffered a heart attack, ho-hum!

Dulnain Bridge had an awesome agricultural outdoor museum...

I walked south out of Dulnain Bridge and onto the A95 where I managed to get a lift of a guy driving a Honda 4/4 into Aviemore. Myself and the guy, an ecology student from Inverness, decided to have some breakfast but settled on just a couple of lattes because the menu was awful.

After eating Pizza at a restuarant named the Balavoulin we endured some foul men seated opposite who had turned on the television set to watch football but spent more time shouting at each other whilst chatting to the waitress. The food was good though, I questioned where I would pitch my new tent but the guy said he knew a good place so we left Aviemore to go there.

11th

Today I woken having slept on a bed inside a semi-detached council house in Dulnain Bridge; the guys house it was had slept on the sofa (had kindly gave up his bed for me). He made us a nice breakfast before he phoned us a taxi back into Aviemore. It felt great to walk into Black's leisure shop and purchase a new Banshee 200 tent; but not so great roaming every hiking shop for a pair of walking leggings, which no shop in the town stocked. I could see my new friend was starting to tire with shopping so we went to the pub for a pint, again. About an hour later we worked out purchasing fish and chips after all the restuarants in town were booked out, he stopped in Tescos and purchased two bottles of Jameson Whiskey before getting in a taxi back to Dulnain Bridge. We ate the take away in his lounge but never opened the two bottles of whiskey.

10th

Woken in my sleeping bag underneath the stars by the River Tay on a green in Birnam.

The mist from the river had frozen a thin layer of ice over everything but my sleeping bag.

I call out these disturbed places of despairity where I have slept rough and displaced as graves because I feel as though part of me has died there.

Nobody gives a shit, they only revere the length of flesh they can skin from a ostracised soul, because they are alienated from each other, if they dared to live they would be chased down and zombified with incremental trauma and psychological torture, as I was so they choose to remain ignorant and careless, yet nurture the beast of burden behind locked doors of godless prisons they call home.

Walking along the River Tay towards Dunkeld I noticed the Birnam Oak...

The river led me back to the A9, I then thumbed a lift from a polish woman who was travelling to work as a therapist at a hotel in Pitlochry.

Walking over the river I noticed the town had a dam..

I decided to walk to Moulin (Moulin is one of my ancestral surnames) and that led me to a standing stone, then onto a footpath and up to a scenic view point.

My mobile phone camera did not anywhere near detail the astetic of the scenery as it was seen from my eyes, but I'll share the picture anyway.

I seated myself on a bench and gave sometime to TLC, moistiser, CBD oils, lip balm, brushed my hair, put on clean knickers and socks.

Then I smiled and took a photograph just to prove I can rise (without inflicting disparity upon another) above any imposed predicament. I walked back into Pitlochry and out of the town the way I arrived. I cannot remember hitch hiking a lift to Aviemore, but I got there.

After looking around the train station, I think to remind myself I was actually there I walked south towards the pub, and purchased a pint of Guinness.

Look at that awesome pint of Guinness and it tasted as good as it looked my dear; beautiful. It's amazing how reviving to ones complection just a little TLC can do. Anyway, only an hour later a men a man who everybody knew, he offered shetler for a night at his cottage. He was a well loved character and I had been seen with him so I accepted as I felt safe. Once the pub closed, alteast seven pints and a few wee drams of whiskey he ordered a taxi and we left Aviemore for Dulnain Bridge.

9th

Woken under the sky very early in the morning, just a few miles north of Perth near Kinnoull hill.

Having walked past Kinnoull hill on the way to Balthayock I decided to go walk up it to see the view from the top.

A bit worse for ware but enjoying the view, runners were concerned, asked if I was OK, seems so surreal, almost as if I can't comprehend people genuinely caring whether I live or die…

I took lots of photographs with my DSLR, but none of them came out clear, due to water damage a few days ago. After an hour's rest, I gained enough composure to walk downhill into Perth.

Walking over the east bridge, I took the river path, walking west out of the city. I was followed by "strangers", who walked west and others on seeing me began to walk east. One old man wearing a black and white crescent / occult styled hoodie I remembered doing exactly the same thing but on a different visit.

I see the strangest things on the road, sometimes I wonder if they are placed there from some deranged rationality. I called the picture below “fly on the wings of love” after Olsen Brother's hit single, maybe that is what it meant to the anti-White racists as both brothers were White and Danish:

I remained on the river path until Almondbank, I took this picture of myself in the mirror on the way..

The man in Almondbank general store was friendly, and a couple a few hundred yards up the road I begged tap water from where also talkative. Just outside Almondbank by the roadside, I stopped to cook some late lunch. The woman that past me and then stopped said she knew of a better place for me to rest on her village green.

We walked to Pitcairngreen, the longer I was alongside her the more evil I sensed from her and wondered if this what yet another “friendly diversion”. I sat on the village green and cooked, then left via a road north of the village. Half an hour later I was picked up by a man in a mini, he took me to the outskirts of Birnam. I walked over Inchewan burn via a small bridge and noticed a plaque…

After getting stuck with anxiety on the Dunkeld bridge, I sat on a bench until dark; I sobbed and sobbed some more as the chill from the river wrought cycling pain against bones in my hands, wrists, forearms and noticeably around my ankles.

After disociating from Dunkeld I walked back into Birnam, down a lane and onto a green near the river bank. I got out my roll mat and sleeping bag, rested my head on my hard rucksack, and attempted to warm the pain out of my bones. I don't know whether the night was sleepless but I do know the morning was freezing.

8th

Spent a cold night underneath the stars by the side of the road on the edge of an ancient village named Kintillo. The red brick houses on Kintillo road were told to be hundreds of years old, perhaps some of the oldest houses in Scotland. I returned through the Bridge of Earn and walked the rest of the way into Perth; I hung about the city for a wee while until the evening, when, at the spare of the moment decided to take off to go see my ancestral home at Balthayock. So I saw and followed the signs to Balthayock.

As soon as I came within sight of this castle I felt a thump on my chest; this is where my family had first settled in Scotland, from conquest of William the Conquerer.

The walls of the castle are 10ft thick! I got about ten minutes solace here before there was a drive by intrusion by another race mixing member of my estranged family. Walking out of Balthayock I experienced a wonderful sunset that lit up the road in gold, once the light disappeared the beast of burden drove by from behind in a speeding car, hiding in the front passenger seat.

7th

I woke shivering in Kinross, inside a wrecked tent propped up by my walking poles, the wind had swept in rain from Loch Leven and soaked all my belongings.

A moody Loch Leven..

I gathered my wet belongings and walked into Kinross, purchased a French cake and seated myself on a bench. I thought to myself, I used to think that people weren't scum, but now, alienated and estranged, I know of them as scum.

6th

I walked east away from Blairforge and found a beautiful Loch Ore...

A little while later came across Mary Colliery...

Swans came...

And the end of a rainbow...

A little rain doesn't bother me.

I walked around the loch and back to Blair Forge. By this time I was extremely tired, wet and cold but endeavoured to walk the B996 to Kinross. I woman in a van asked if I was OK exiting a gypsie site but did not really wait to hear an answer, as if she felt obligated to ask the question. A Kinross crescent had fallen into a roadside puddle.

Slowly, with the increasing cold my ankles froze up, I dragged them through Gairney Bank and into the town of Kinross leaving a trail of excruciating pain along a poorly lit and dangerously creepy B996. By the time I reached the centre of Kinross I was too tired to look for a place to rest. I found an occupied police van and asked the officers if they knew a safe place to sleep, they pointed ahead stating "the park by the loch".

5th

Woken early, about 5am, packed away my sleeping bag and roll mat and found a village bakery open at 6am. The food was delicious and a warm hot drink was welcoming after a long cold night, the chill from a blustery estuary had blown through my sleeping bag most of the night. I walked out of Kincardine, at a layby a Ranger rover followed by a work van stopped, then pulled off quickly as I got close. About another half mile up the road a workman who had been laid off gave me a lift to Dunfermline.

4th

There are no pictures of my tent pitched this morning, I remember taking them but have no idea why they are not on my phone. Anyway I pitched in an open field next to a busy main road, loud cars came past, kept me awake most of the night. I packed up my belongings whilst being watched a local, gazing from their house front window.

I walked back onto the canal until I came to another town (can't remember the name), I stopped at Gregs and purchased some breakfast. A white women with her child sat opposite me, introduced herself, and talked. I tried not to roll my eyes when she told about being from a local church before I declined her offer of a beef pasty.

Sleep deprivation was beginging to play tricks on my mind, when I saw a weird face in the trees I had to take a picture of it, do you see it? Over a bridge I saw a man peacefully fishing, before I could snap him he came forward but I still managed to capture the image on my phone.

I walked through and out the otherwise of the town, past an extremely well kept cemetary and down a closed road that was in need of a serious resurfacing. I walked past a weird earth mound, thought it may be some sort of ancient earth work, burrial mound.

I stopped at a bar to charge my phone and rest my weary head. The bar maid was friendly but I felt unnerved by the location, everything seemed on edge here, including a torn flag blowing in the wind outside.

After purchasing some supplies at Iceland I decided to head towards Fife, it took a few hours to stagger to the Kindcardine Bridge. The bridge was very rustic, so I took some photographs on my way across.

As I walked off the bridge I entered into the Kingdom of Fife.

In Scotland there is a Masonic hall in almost every town, but I won't be shopping in the Spar in Kincardine; nor will I be using the public toilets, once a house.

After a half our of exploration I walked into a bar named the Auld Hoose.

They had a lovely open fire, but Clientele were not that great, some were snuddy whilst others appeared to hate me. I spent the night under the stars, in my sleeping bag upon the village green.

3rd

I awoke at 5am in a residential doorway, body shaking with lingering, bone chilling cold…

Having no mind for hanging around another day in Glasgow, I left, heading north out of the city centre; it wasn't long before I came across a canal.

I followed the canal West and stopped at a park to have breakfast after some stalkers past by with a loaded Tesco shopping bag…

I decided to take a more direct route north from the twists and turns of the canal, walking through an estate, over a hill and through a park. Throughout my time in Glasgow I witnessed being encircled by black males with rucksacks on their shoulders, this was extremely creepy, as they were unresponsive to engagement provocations.

I received a message through signal messenger, an internet friend in America, had wired over £34 to help me along my travels. This ensued a search for a Western Union to release the monies he had kindly sent to me, this took me two miles in the opposite direction to a small newsagent. I purchased some essentials whilst chatting to the female store assistant, leaving I walked uphill and through a park. I continued in a North Eastern direction until I re-established my way. About half a mile north, I reconnected with the canal via a café that failed to open, due to the day being a Sunday! I'll not be hampered by a simple life, even if dire circumstances become stricken destitute…

Even if people do not wish to share their life with me because of political correctness crucifying me, I'll take still photographs should they change their mind, I found a section of the canal quite beautiful around Possil Marsh…

I felt slumber and my steps were cumbersome, so I paced myself on these two walkers who joined the towpath shortly after Possil Marsh and nearing Cadder.

I did not want them to think I was stalking them, so I stopped walking in Cadder to take some wildlife pictures…

People revere Swans, and they are a beautiful bird, but they are also annoying. In every river, lake they are found, they arch their wings and threaten anything that attempts to come and enjoy the waterside. I find this bird overbearing and extremely oppressive, which is why they are associated with grot bags (Queen Elizabeth II).

I decided to break from the Canal at Cadder Wharf, walking a lane then a few busy roads to Torrance where some rest came from entering The Rambler of Torrance pub. Initially the pub was accommodating and friendly however with the arrival of a prebooked party, the clientèle turned evil, I was politely requested to move to the far corner of the pub for them…

They were all watching the Rangers v Celtic game (Rangers lost 2-1 against Celtic). A guy at the bar wearing a blue and brown jumper was friendly, when he left the pub changed. Considering I was the only rambler in the pub together with being asked to corner off from clientèle, I guessed I wasn't “the” rambler “of” Torrence. So I lifted my rucksack and swiftly left the pub, village, and area by footpath eastwards, soon arriving at a town named Kirkintilloch. I cannot remember being so much spun from my bearings as I did in this creepy and disorientating town. I should have felt hungry but only felt sick, a blonde woman attempted to approach me, held back by a desperate and grovelling man pleading his love for her to altercate her path. In an Italian restaurant I was pointed at by people surrounding a black negro child, this town was weird; so strange I did not wish to take anything, not even photographs with me to remember it by.

I walked long and far, uphill through chilling wind, until I came to a wharf on the canal in a place named Auchinstarry. Numb with tired, I continued along the canal until I walked into a canal boat named Indi, I watched a woman feeding the ducks before continuing with my journey. A woman with a man (covered up to the nines) passed by saying “thank you”, (I get this all the time when entering and leaving locations). The canal towpath became dark, my tired feet in agony, as if a trail of pain bled from my feet onto the grey crunch of gravel.

“My ankles and starting to freeze up during cold nights, walking spurned on by anxiety delivers incredible pain, I am suspecting the beginnings of arthritis.”.

I began to notice frogs, hundreds of them had come to have a party on the footpath. Some were mating and not wanting to squash them underfoot, I turned on my torch to careful navigate around them. I walked endlessly, mentally strained with gazing at the canals vanishing, I turned and exited the towpath in search of a place to pitch my tent. The footpath before me became lit with LED lights, and for a further mile I followed gazed into a village named Banknock. Here I pitched my tent 500 yards (0.46 km) from a busy road, too tired to care about my safety.

2nd

I arrived in Buchanan Bus Station, Glasgow in the early hours of Saturday morning. The National Express I caught, boarding shortly after midnight from Manchester, had its air conditioning turned off and its heater on full blast, presumably to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Regardless the coach driver packed every seat on the coach with travellers (minus the seat next to me), with many purchasing tickets from him; the journey was crammed with people who I'd never associate with, this for me was misery. I walked around Glasgow centre for a few hours, arguing with the Communist party demonstrating in Queens Square. When I told them Marx had never worked a day in his life, they stated neither have you, I glared at them and replied “all my family were fucking miners”. None of them had an answer to this and stepped back; I turned my back and then walked away. They despise people who know the terrible history of Communism because they are defenseless to deny it; I also asked them if they were planning on committing another Red Terror, which met with an unanswered eery silence I also found a free Gazza from Hamas, I talked these white lefty radicals, they seemed honest and sincere, but ignorant of problems upon their own doorstep.

After following an ignorant family member up a flight of steps, I discovered Glasgow train station was full of race mixing propaganda.

As I walked north out of Glasgow I passed by the Bristol Bar (most popular Rangers supporters haunt) where members were handing up various Union Jack flags (included the red hand of ulster) and posing with an old man wearing a ton of war medals. I learned Rangers were playing Celtic the next day, had a look inside the bar, and thought better of stepping over the threshold and into the rowdy atmosphere.

Walking up to the Bristol bar, it felt as though a succession of cranks had tried to turn me around to walk back on myself, including a Rastafarian. I left the area and heading north, passing a park, then on through an industrial estate. Further, up the road, a man said “hi” to me from outside a bar, then invited me to meet his friends for a drink. After purchasing me a Guinness (not on draft but a can) he claimed the bar was his local, I talked to his friends before they departed. I then sat beside an elderly man and woman, both claimed to have drunk in the bar for years and stated they had never seen the man in the bar before, who had invited me in.

What kind of Tom Foolery was this I thought, I talked to the elderly couple more, who claimed to be Platonic friends who had both lost their partners. They revealed the entire bar, minus one supported Celtic but all who drank in there were Catholics, they also claimed the bar was owned by gangsters. Everybody who I had spoken to inside the bar was polite and friendly towards me, but I felt uneasy about some historical facts about Catholicism, not to mention what I have written here on this blog. I knew this was the wrong place for me to be, but how come I end up drawn to wrong places again and again, just what kind of hold do they have over me? The sun was beginning to go down, I walked back from myself to return to the Bristol bar. Arriving, I found people taking down banners I'd seen them erecting only hours earlier. Curiously, I asked them what the Red hand of Ulster meant to them? They replied “William of Orange” but did not elaborate what Holland had to do with Glasgow Rangers. For behind me a black hand reached out and shook his hand, I stepped aside and watched the two men embrace. Over the road I noticed a group of Germanic men leaving the Bristol bar and decided to leave the area myself.

A lot of race mixers pass by on my way back into Glasgow, and on my way back out the Rastafarian who had walked past me before I got to the Bristol bar was again nearby. Walking behind me, zigzagging across the road, greeting person after person, as if proving he was well liked everywhere he went. He stopped at a pub, a white blonde woman stood outside, talking to her friend, he picked her up with a hug before entering the building, but turned around when I shouted him down as a cuckoo. All it is to them is with and without, isn't that why they have a “matter” movement, why their “religion” is based upon Karl Marx's Concept of Alienation. I headed for a more wealthy area of Glasgow to try to get a more peaceful and undisturbed night's sleep, I walked around for about another three hours before I managed to rest my anxieties within a doorway. Plagued with the memories of assailants doing shit things to me, the more tired I got, particularly when my head would be rolling off my shoulders.