Diary: March, 22

Continued... 2/2

18th

I woke up pitched a few yards from the Ridgeway national footpath…

Just outside the embankment of Uffington Hillfort.

And fifty yards from the Ridgeway.

I managed to get a picture of the hill summit before thick mist rolled in.

But no pictures of the White horse which I passed by today!

Walking through Uffington village, some three miles away, this made me laugh.

I was thirsty and happened to catch the door opening at the Fox & Hounds public house, so entered and ordered a cup of tea.

I must have walked another two miles.

Until I came to another pub named The Woodman Inn, Fernham; thirsty, I entered as the pub cook was leaving. The few punters eating by their tables when quiet as I approached the bar to order half a Guinness. I was served by a barmaid, after drinking up I ordered another, this time I was served by a French man, who appeared to hate me. Trying to rationalise I scanned the pub to find a Communist poster, obviously this Parisian had some ancestral links to the French resistance, and thus hated Norman peoples.

Whilst walking to Farringdon I contacted a doctor's surgery requesting some medication. Some minutes later I received a call back and described the medication I required. The doctor agreed to prescribe me antibiotics, but no HRT despise my protests. Ten minutes later I received another call stating a prescription had been faxed to Farringdon Chemist and would be read for me to pick up on arrival.

The chemist was dishevelled, a Black African man placed pill boxes in little heap piles around shelves within a small room that I presume was once a shop. His English was quite poor, and so I found myself instructing him to do things over and over again, as if in a carry on film. I tried not to be condescending as my patience ran thin, and eventually I left with bother antibiotics and HRT.

Leaving the chemist, I sat on a bench to pack away my medicine before crossing the road and entering a pub named the "crown". Was relieved to find locals here were initially friendly, but again, bad people entered within an hour. Leaving, I tried to pick up my bag but collapsed with exhaustion; I then attempted again an hour later after consuming another pint and was successful; I walked for about half an hour before finding a place to pitch my tent.

17th

Pitched my tent in-between Marlborough and Swindon alongside the Ridgeway. This ancient road has been walked for almost five thousand years, when camped here I have amazing dreams, as if I am witnessing stages in our history, travelling back as well as time visiting me; this footpath is truly awesome.

Did not waste much time packing up, the morning was bright and sunny, a welcome sight after yesterdays relentless down pour.

The Ridgeway can be illusive in that distances are not always what they appear to be.

I anticipated to arrive at Wayland Smithy long barrow much sooner, my feet were hurting too much whilst I took these pictures of our ancient ancestral heritage.

I did not stay long at Wayland Smithy as darkness was quickly approaching, my body ached and burned with tiredness, my thoughts became sloven, so I heaved my weight onto my feet and walked to Uffington Hillfort and pitched up my tent for the night.

16th

Pitched my tent at the side of Avebury's east avenue.

After shouting down a obnoxious dog walker I entered into the Stone Circle and began to rise.

I wandered around the village for an hour then decided I'd go to the National Trust cafe for some breakfast. As I waited outside I was joined by an old man who sat opposite me; he was insane with conspiracy theories ho hum. I was also accompained by a Robin...

Don't ask me why but I decided to rejoin the National Trust, I recived a receipt, and a canvas bag containing their yearbook. I then decided to visit the Avebury manor house garden.

After being swarmed by "strangers" in Avebury's Red Lion pub I decided to leave Avebury ASAP, walking directly East towards the Ridgeway. I arrived to find the Ridgeway completely bogged out, soon slipping over into it.

I slipped over again at Overton Castle, one of my walking boots filled up with freezing water. This was my first big walk and it became loaded with misery; I also lost my bearings, ending up a mile and a half off the Ridgeway path. I thought to myself, if this was the Cairngorms, I could have easily walked myself off a cliff edge; time to toughen up girl!

15th

I am leaving Cornwall today, I am excited. This page won't be updated for a while, as I have not managed to secure myself a portable computer to edit this website. I will post updates of my journey onto my Twitter account until I acquire a suitable mobile device to enable me to write HTML, edit and upload images from my DSLR camera, etc.

The manager for the accommodation I was leaving gave me a lift to the station and paid for a ticket to Chippenham, Wiltshire. I chose this as a connecting location to get to Calne where I would start my walk from a White horse located on Cher Hill; then connect with the Ridgeway national footpath.

Just before Cher hill, I stopped in a public house and purchased a Guinness and a packet of crisps. I was really optimistic about my new journey, I had resided in Cornwall for eighteen months, virtually lifeless and assumed that at least a little inherent worth would come my way, one day.

The night had arrived by the time I reached Cher Hill. I walked up and over the hill and down to the White horse. Then I climbed back up and followed the footpath into Avebury.

The Red Lion had the same bar staff as three years ago during my last visit. Observing a difference in the decoration, I was told the pub had been closed during lockdown for a refit.

The clientele had not changed, both whacky and cultic in my honest opinion; I have no mind for their tom-foolery these days; this time the decievers were in a house directly east of the pub, also owning the shop over the road. I had planned on sleeping by the roots (a group of beach trees to the east) but decided to sleep outside the circle, just out of the eastern Avenue, about half a mile away from Silbury hill. The rest of the night from herein was quiet, I don't believe I was harrassed or followed.

14th

My last day in Cornwall, And I'm really happy about leaving, to suffered where you live as I have means any move is a blessing. In many ways I blame the housing association to the local baptist church, a string of male residents have horrifically abused me in some way or other, one after the other. The abuse here has also ramped up as I have exposed the decimation cult around me, most noticeably when I have written about the deranged Christian named Lindsay Hamon who wheels a wooden cross around the city on a Saturday, shortly before they gather to preach their nonsense outside the cathedral and target their cult harassment, overbearing themselves at young bystanders.

It is common knowledge, and accepted by most historians that crucifixion happened upon a wooden pole, and not within an unfolded box that resembles a coffin, symbolic of deathly alienation we have become through their people cancelling exploits of psychological terror.

That help they offer is not usually a good thing and has the potential to malign a victim with inconsolable grief, often incapacitating victims into a false state of security when destroying the inherent world around them. Containment to the Church means an invisible circle of death placed around the victim. Where the victim knows, and interacts only with their perpetrators that covertly ruin them, associating that ruin with the victim, in every perceivable way. They wait, to ambush those who wish to heal the victim with life, alternating that life unrecognisable to themselves with defacing acts of miscegenation.

13th

Today I went out for a ride on my BMX to Ideless woods for the last time, I won't be purchasing another one, nor will I be returning to Cornwall. Only one picture I am publishing today, of a magnolia tree in blosom..

I had been trying to sell my computer and BMX on Facebook market place, and what a joke that was, not even one enquiry. Yesterday I was in Saint Austell, returning to Truro I felt my stomach sink from a harash ebb of surrounding darkness, truly I believe this city to be cursed.

10th

Today, I have been scaling down my belongings to fit them into my rucksack. I have thrown so much stuff out, there are still belongings that need to be shifted and sold; ho hum.

I have not lived out of a bag since February 2020, over two years ago! I have a feeling this relocation will be ardous and stressful, but I am going to try and enjoy the journey as much as possible; it's not all about the destination you know!

1st

Today was a start of what I believed would be a different month for me, today I had an opportunity to meet others who have an endless narrative going through their heads. Maybe, I thought, I'd learn some new coping mechanisms etc. I have never been diagnosed with Schizophrenia or Psychosis, but I do hear an endless chatter of thoughts, not voices. The thoughts are just thoughts, thoughts that I believe have surfaced from latent trauma I experienced as a child. I guess some people would call that being "disturbed".

The train journey from Truro to end of the line Penzance was OK, was great to see people not wearing face nappies, although the weather on arrival was an edgy mixture of greys, spraying drizzle and gusts of wind slightly turbulent.

I was early for the meeting, and was also requested to arrive late, so others would be made aware of my attendance. I walked around the town for a wee while, taking pictures of some nostalgic buildings and observing so many varieties of subtropical plants.

While I was displaced homeless upon the streets of London (in 2010) people often told me I thought too much, and it was at this time going through extreme poverty and harassment the narrative of thoughts became present.

I arrived about ten minutes after the group had started, the session was hosted around the back of a crystal shop. I was welcomed by a silver haired lady into a room covered with esoteric ordainments, I felt as though I was back at Findhorn! So arcane!

I cannot say anything about the group due to confidentiality, but the time I spent here was very informative and helpful in many respects. Mental health is truly the last stigma to be conquered, I believe mental illness has been caused by four hundred years of artificial purgatory, issued by the Vatican after Cromwell.