Diary: May, 22

Continued.. 2/3

13th

Woke up with my tent pitched on the Blair Estate, over my head an electricity pylon was buzzing, the six-hour-long EMF exposure had given me a rather sharp headache.

“If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency first by inflation then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around them will deprive the people of all property until their children wake up homeless on the continent their Fathers conquered”.

I travelled long and hard to get here yesterday, and this morning I feel beside myself because of it, but time to pull myself together and commence a walk through the woods…

And to the house, kept in my family (Scotland's oldest occupied house) for over 900 years until 2012.

Today is my birthday, I am forty-eight years old today. I have no money in my pocket and only a cheap 60p tin of lentil soup to eat stored somewhere in my heavy rucksack. In the morning, I had enjoyed a muffin as my birthday cake.

In Dalry I could not help noticing the town had a Freemasonic establish named Blair Lodge (located at 14 New Street), and named after the first grand master of the lodge, over two hundred years ago.

At 2pm, I visited Dalry library to access information about the Blair Estate from within their reference library. Two elderly ladies attending a crochet group shared their tea and biscuits with me, the archive had very little information; but worth a look over nonetheless.

Earlier I had seated myself on a bench and boiled some water for coffee, outside the Turf Inn a group of men had gathered to smoke tobacco. They asked what I was doing, I explained I'd come from the estate, and they shouted “shithole, shithole, shithole” at me, I asked them why? But never received an answer from the degenerates.

At around 3pm I hitched a lift out of Dalry to Saltcoats; bizarrely it was also the birthday of the man who picked me up; he was on his way to the same pub I was heading, to meet his daughter. He dropped me off at the seafront. Front here I walked around, my friend wired me £10 enabling me to purchase something warm to eat with a hot drink.

I entered a bar named Bobby's bar and sat down opposite two elderly ladies. One of them took a dislike and repeatedly verbally threatened whilst clacking her false teeth at me. A man trying to unsuccessfully attempting to chat me up bought me a drink, ten minutes later I left, to go to a Wetherspoon's pub. A Twitter friend had offered to purchase me a birthday drink and a hot meal with their phone app.

The man who said he was having a birthday drink with his daughter in The Salt Cot did not show his face; and with him having a Filipino girlfriend, I could easily guess why not. Outside began getting dark enough to go find a place to pitch up my tent. I feel so drained of life, both emotionally and psychically. I'm hoping I don't have far to walk to find somewhere safe to sleep, tonight has unnerved me.

12th

This morning I woke in Dumfries, tent pitched on some rough land adjacent to public playing fields.

Look at this weird car, parked two hundred yards away from where I slept in the field, I seriously doubt this having anything to do with the "strangers".

Walked back into the city centre and visited the Moon and Stars café to enjoy a hot roll and a cup of tea for my breakfast. An old man came and sat directly opposite me, then an old woman came and sat in the same place, both also were wearing the same clothing, this happened all in the space of 15 minutes; too odd to be a coincidence.

I decided to have a walk by the river and then hitch-hike out of the town, I wanted to get to the Blair Estate for my birthday and had less than six hours of daylight to get there. I paused in the street thinking about going to the Victoria inn for a wee dram, but thought better of it.

I hitched a lift from a man going to Sanquhar, he told me about the local history and dropped me near the town hall which had become a museum, I decided to go in and have a look around. From Sanquhar, a black Mercedes SUV drove by slowly and came back whilst I was thumbing for a lift, north of the village. A Yorkshire man opened the door after pushing his Dalmatian dogs back into the rear seat, and offered me a lift to Cumnock. He said he had worked in the glass industry and had toured India teaching Indians how to make glass. He took me on to Ayr, dropping me at the southern side, oddly he came in from the north, but explained that was the way he knew.

Ayr was full of Banana Republicans, knowing our children are being defaced from their ancestral spirit curdles my soul, and does make me feel psyhically unwell. So I did not choose to hang around for an adventure, with limited daylight left I set about walking out of the city, the road north seemed as though it went on forever. I was chased down by strangers in a (among other cars) black BMW 3 Series as I walked through the city of Ayr; this picture was taken by myself along the A79 that ran by Glasgow Prestwick Airport.

At the A79/A77 roundabout I thumbed a lift of a bearded man driving a blue coupe Mercedes, he took me to the southern edge of Kilmarnock.

11th

I woke up at 6am in a spare room within the flat, all my belongings were there, so I guess the hospitality was genuine. I packed away my bag and knocked on the other bedroom door to thank and say goodbye to the couple. Had breakfast at a cafe and also at a takeaway. The takeaway seemed taken a back by my presence, but slowly warmed enough to say goodbye and wished me a "good day" as I walked out of the door. After a walk around town and down by the river. I found a friendly pub at the Victoria Inn. I approached the bar and ordered from a tattooed, bald headed man named "Bingo"; a wee dram of whiskey and a Tennants Larger then seated myself down.

I placed some money down on the pool table which seemed to make the men a bit anxious, a woman sitting at the bar gestured me to come away, but I ignored the warning. I played and lost the game, the man breathed a sigh of relief, but shook my hand and thanked me for the game, all was well. There was a twist to this place, just the other day, in Moffat I had purchased a green and purple dress from a greyhound charity shop, outside the back of this pub, in the beer garden there was a purple and green flag, in the exact same colours as my dress; uncanny I thought.

The publicans were friendly and down to earth people, I enjoyed being in their pub, and played some songs on the duke box that they said they enjoyed. The duke box was confusing in that it was computerised, and hard to navigate to songs, after a couple of pounds (which equated to 20 songs) they put some money in and asked me to pick some songs, which I thought sweet. I stayed in this bar the entire afternoon, in the evening I made friends with a woman named Selena, the pub had emptied of men, so we took it upon ourselves to shoot a few games of pool. As 8pm approached, Selena mentioned that Bingo wanted to close the bar, we drank up our drinks and headed up the road to a pub named The Douglas.

This pub was very hippy, the lady behind the bar knew Selena and also knew she was having trouble with a violent boyfriend who was buzzing her phone crazy. I was unsure about the pub, even though the publicans warmed to me; I have been surrounded by so many fake people for so long. After seven pints of Larger and five drams of Whiskey, I struggle to down my drink.

Just because the strangers are nice, doesn't mean they're not crucifying you.

Selena asked what I missed about being on the road the most, I replied a warm, safe home, and a family. She told of abuses that go on behind locked doors of the home, how they are prisons, where perpetrators get away with crimes, such as child abuse and rape. She said next time you look through a window, know that there is something horrible probably going on.

I have been given the impression that homes as boxes, are where people not only lock themselves away in to ignorance, but use the confinement to commit appalling crimes upon their kin. Maybe hospitality, under Cromwell became a facade, a cover story, to put a caring face on an environment emptied of care.

When the strangers began crucifying me of inherent worth I had a very névé view of the world, I cared what people thought of me and wanted to know what they thought. Now I know their heads to be squirming with madness, schism after schism, ruining and laying to waste everything they see, came to be in this alienating pandemic of abusive systematic mistrust. I was sick outside, my stomach was moving as if I was throwing up some of bacteria. Feeling unwell and noticing the warmness of the Douglas chill I left the pub to find a safe place to pitch my tent. On my way out I met two drunken prison guards complaining about the lack of people turning up to their colleages funeral; one was warm towards me, the other cold. Both seemed offset by their empathy, polarised by others lack of emotive concern.

10th

This morning I awoke pitched on a playing field in Moffat, I had been here only a day before, and I know the strangers do shit things to associate me with their decimations, usually at where I previously slept.

Packed up my things and went into Moffat to enjoy some breakfast, later I entered Hugo's bar and enjoyed a bowl of Cullen Skink, but the Chowder was wrong, and this variant contained no smoked mackerel.

I figured out the bus times to Dumfries and, after a couple of attempts (avoiding the strangers), got onboard the bus. Along the way, rain poured down, many people boarded as the bus neared the city.

The bus was stuffy, at the last stop I went straight to the river to enjoy some fresh air, perched on a stone I looked down to find a face carved into the wall; it felt as if somebody knew I was going to be there.

I first landed in the Imperial pub, I sat and study the map of Dumfries before deciding on going to Robert the Bruce pub. At the bar I noticed I did not have my phone, panicking I returned to the Imperial but found no phone there. I returned, but the bar man said no phone had been handed in or found. This Wetherspoon pub was busy, so I sat outside at the rear of the pub. Here I met an elderly couple who offered to put me up for the night. After a while a barman came and returned my phone to me, the couple bought me a drink then, via a closed shop, I walked with them to their flat. As I sat down in the lounge of the flat, her boyfriend joined me, he pulled out a big bag of heroin and proceeded to chase the running brown stain underneath some flame lit tin foil.

I knew this guy in Nottingham back in 1992 and from other parts of the United Kingdom; it is bizarre I should meet him again, decades away in 2022. This place would have seemed too dangerous if I had not known this guy was OK.

9th

The road east out of Moffat was friendly, almost everybody greeted me. My mind calmed as I left the town of Moffat and started my ascent to Hartfell.

I love the vibrancy of ascetic of the countryside, nurturing nature is the all healer and ultimate mind calmer, both settler and rationalised motivator of a disturbed soul.

Have chosen to find my own route up Hartfell, ascending a steep incline from the West with the assistance of my walking polls.

The wind and rain were ripping across the summit, but doubling up my fleece kept me from reaches of exposure.

Partial visibility came and went, teasing from sight an awesome view of the Moffat hills.

I walked back into Moffat, and entered a bar named the Coachman Bar. There were obnoxious men playing pool and a lanky blonde white woman, known to them, kept entering and leaving the bar.

I keep asking myself why I keep resting in these places for so long, maybe it's because these publicans are so brain-dead that my frantic, disturbed mind rests easily here; and after being castigated for so long, any company is better than none, right?

The two barmaids were butch and appeared to be Lesbians, one said she was South African, I did not ask her any more questions. Various people entered the bar through the evening, including two cyclists who were riding from Land's End to John O' Groats. After some degenerates entered the bar from the camp site, I realised this pub was a hapless dead end, quite literally. One minute before 10pm I made my escape, walked to the playing field and pitched my tent in the rain.

8th

I woke pitched on a hillside, in a park near Cumbernauld.

Well, I was quite safe here and was not aware of being bothered during the night (whilst I was inside my tent).

The park was pretty and had a manor house which appeared to be now converted into residential flats.

I walked into Cumbernauld village, then into Cumbernauld town and found nothing but a town that resembled at street on Milton Keynes. After returning to the motorway junction, a Polish woman stopped in a “red and black” car, she said she worked as a waitress for a restaurant. The woman dropped me literally outside the door of Glasgow's COVID-19 testing unit, contrary to me not being sick.

It was a thirty-minute walk to Buchanan bus station, here I waited an hour to board the Dumfries bus to Moffat. An Asian man attempted to push in front of me as I got onto the bus, behind me seated the noisy elderly ladies who had travelled to see pop band Deacon Blue play in the city. Exiting the bus, I walked down to the river path, and attempted to rest the evening there. I was encroached by numerous cranks, notably a brunette woman wearing a rose quartz “love” heart around her neck. I was also smiled at by a couple of Israeli Jewish women, who seated themselves fifty yards away.

Shortly after a local police man appeared asking to know who I was; he said I'd been rung in as abusive by two people. He radioed my name through then left the area, I then turned around to pitch my tent on a public playing field.

7th

Woke up early but not disturbed at 5am, but lazed about till 9am. Thankfully, no dog walkers to disturb me on this side of the River, Forth.

There was a 4G mast only 200 yards (0.18 km) away from me, I was slightly concerned about them microwaving me during the night, so pitched my tent slightly underneath the brow of the horizon; not that I really thought this would help.

A pasty is called a "Foggy" in Bonnie Scotland.

Today I am finding it hard to motivate myself.

But I packed up within the coming half hour, but only after enjoying a hot drink.

I walked down and across the river, discovering a children's fleece hanging off one of the branches, I walked around a path by some houses and then along another footpath by a meat processing plant.

There was a long incline to the roundabout where the M9 becomes the A9; I thought this would be a good place to hitchhike. I was right, after only a few minutes a couple picked me up, they gave me fizzy drinks and offered cigarettes. The couple dropped me off at the east edge of Pitlochry. Immediately I found myself staring hard at an abandoned house, as if the dereliction was trying to relay a message toward me, but I could not focus my cognition enough to read into it.

I didn't hang around Pitlochry, the tourists are as insulting as the £7 sandwiches served up by the local cafés. There is not much I like about this town other than the road out, the river and loch are quite nice though.

From here I found another lift North to Aviemore. I was surrounded and overwhelmed by the "strangers" almost immediately as soon I entered the town; so I hitched out more or less straight away. A white van stopped and picked me up from a not so busy A9 lay by.

The ride South was given by a Kashmiri man returning to Glasgow, having dropped off groceries in Inverness. He was happy for the company as I was to leave the cranks behind, but couldn't help but feel sorry for Aviemore, what a burden for them. He planned to drop me at Buchanan bus station in central Glasgow, but not wanting to be at the centre of Glasgow so late, requested he dropped me at Stirling Services. The next lift was from a Pentecostal grocery man who had just finished his shift at Waitrose. He took me to a park on the outskirts of Cumbernauld, I walked through the park, paranoid about the neighbouring council estate but really too tired to be hesitant about pitching somewhere within the park. My body sunk into the ground immediately as I lay down, whilst my mind raced, and raced into unconsciousness.

6th

Really not happy to have pitched my tent here in this small copse that stunk of cigarette ash, so close to a busy main road as well.

Walking back along a footpath from where I had pitched my tent, shortly before I came to the main road, I found numerous bags scattered filled with what I assumed to be dog excrement.

So many "strangers" (including a defaced traitor driving a mini with a Rastafarian) drove by me as I walked towards Junction 23 of the M6 to hitch-hike a ride back into Scotland. By the time I reached the roundabout I was too anxious to hitch-hike so instead walked North East by the side of Haydock Park Racecourse.

I managed to circumnavigate Ashton-in-Makerfield, passing anti-clock wise over the north of the small town. Along the way I asked a farmer for some water, he invited me into his house to fill up my flask at his kitchen sink.

Passing a friendly lady looking after her horses, I stopped at the edge of Wigan Flashes Local Nature Reserve to enjoy a hot drink now I had some water. I had no money and had not eaten during the morning, so thought wise to top up my sugar levels.

Along the way, I passed by a faery village, and what appeared to be some sort of creepy anorak cult doing some unknown thing in the woodland. As I approached the flashes (lakes) I began to enjoy the nature reserve after I spotted a magnificent Kingfisher.

Following the river I walked into Wigan Council offices, from above a blonde woman made mockery of me to her colleagues. This happened when I made enquiry as to the origin of the evil work of art they had installed on the wall; know it all idiots.

I walked north through an industrial estate, stopping to fill my water flask at a workout place located in one of the industrial units. I passed by a takeaway café and smelled the food, which made me feel more hungry. Pressing onward with the journey, I walked across fields, and I wondered what sort of farmer places plastic on their fields?

Nearing the top of the hill I could see the Heinz 57 soup factory behind me, a dog appeared and jumped all over me, soiling my dress with its filthy paws. I complained to the dog owner, who proceeded to abuse me with the words “evil cunt” and “fucking bitch” before walking away, with his dog still running about off the lead.

Another hour of walking, I got to the M6 junction, where I hitched a lift to Lancaster from a guy who had just come from a hospital appointment to get his legs fixed. He told of being a carpenter, and that all his family had been in the same trade, going back many generations. From this junction I hitched a lift over the Scottish border from a female lorry driver, she bought me dinner at a service station before taking me over the border and dropping me off at Gretna Green service station. The next ride came from a French couple, they also purchased me some food before dropping me off outside Stirling.

I waited over an hour to thumb another lift without result. Tiring of the day I looked at my surroundings and decided to pitch by the River Forth for the night; whilst they were midges about, lucky for me there was a strong breeze to keep them down. Making my way over a foot bridge, I walked to a field then put up my tent.