The journey that had to happen.
On January 6th, I walked out of Latvia with Jeb and Charlie,my two canine companions, leaving everything behind except what I could carry. Less than €50 in my pocket, a Kelly kettle, a bag of dog food, two bowls, half a kilo of coffee, and the clothes on my back.
I wasn’t running from hardship—I’d known that all my life. I wasn’t running from the winter, though it made every step harder. I was running because I had no other choice. The old c*nt had taken Nico and Neila, my Konik horses, from me, and I had no doubt she’d follow through with her threat to kill Jeb and Charlie. I wasn’t going to wait around to watch it happen.
I walked. Through the forests, through the cold, through the silence of a world that didn’t care whether I made it or not. Nights were spent under trees, wrapped in whatever heat I could muster, my two dogs pressed close for warmth. I stopped in villages to buy just enough food to keep us going, then kept moving.
The real test came when the weather turned. One night, the sudden thaw soaked everything, only for winter to return the next day. Wet gear in sub-zero temperatures is a slow death, so I pushed on until I reached the first proper town in Lithuania and checked into a hotel. It was there I discovered my passport was missing—probably lost somewhere in the forests behind me.
I saw it as just another challenge, something to be solved, not feared. I checked the UK government website and applied for an emergency passport. That meant an unwanted diversion—300km in the wrong direction to Vilnius—but there was no way forward without it.
Getting through the Suwałki Gap into Poland would have been impossible without papers. Even if I’d made it through, I’d never have gotten on a ferry without identification. The detour was unavoidable.
A Journey of Helpers, Not Detractors
At no point in this journey did I feel lost or alone, because two people, Janet and Dave, were with me every step of the way. They supported me mentally, checking in to make sure I was still moving forward. And when I needed help that required money—paying for the passport, a hotel to recover in, food to keep going—they never questioned it. They just helped.
Jeb and Charlie weren’t just companions on this journey. They were the reason for it. I could survive anything—I’d done it for years—but their survival was paramount. Every decision, every step, every sacrifice revolved around them. Losing Nico and Neila had been out of my hands, but I wasn’t going to let that happen again.
In Vilnius, I found a hotel unlike any other—a bohemian place that welcomed us as if we belonged there. A taxi driver, without hesitation, let Jeb and Charlie ride with me. The people I met weren’t obstacles; they were helpers, proving that kindness still existed.
Picking Up Speed
With the passport in hand, everything changed. Borders were no longer a looming threat, and the journey gained momentum. A €30 train ticket took us to Warsaw—dogs included. From there, I booked a ticket to the ferry port in Holland, unaware that the hardest part of the trip was still ahead.
The Polish leg of the journey started well. Then, halfway through, everything turned to shit.
I needed to change carriages, and that’s when the ticket inspector lost it. Screaming at me that two dogs weren’t allowed, that I had to get rid of one—as if they were luggage. I refused. The threats started: if I didn’t comply, I’d be thrown off the train in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, in the cold.
For the rest of the journey to the German border, I sat with the weight of those threats pressing down, knowing that in an instant, everything could fall apart.
Germany: A Shift in the Journey
Crossing into Germany, the hostility vanished. The train to Berlin was packed with early shift workers, but no one paid us much attention. Some acknowledged us with a nod; others were glued to their phones. The danger was gone.
A series of short hops across Berlin led to the final train towards the ferry. This time, I could finally rest—Charlie curled up on my lap, Jeb lying between my legs. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was rest.
Holland...another world
Sometime in the early hours, I was woken by the guard. Fear crept back in—was I about to be thrown off again?
“Is your dog dangerous?” he asked, pointing at Jeb.
I explained that the muzzle was for show, to reassure other passengers, but that Jeb was friendly.
The response floored me.
“You should take it off so he can be comfortable and enjoy his journey. It's illegal to muzzle dogs.”
Then, for the next ten minutes, the guard and his assistant played with Jeb, scratching his ears, giving him attention. Just like that, the weight of the last 24 hours lifted.
The Final Stretch
At the ferry terminal, there were a few issues—mostly caused by other passengers being idiots—but the relief of reaching this final stage was immense. Janet and Dave had arranged my ferry ticket, removing one last obstacle. I walked the long gangway onto the Stena ferry and, for the first time in weeks, luxury.
I slept.
Docking in the UK, I passed border control without issue and was immediately overwhelmed by how welcoming the staff were. No hostility, no cold bureaucracy—just kindness.
I walked into town and found the Salvation Army.
For the first time in a long time, I felt rescued.
The Final Gut Punch
The next days were overwhelming. Kindness poured in from complete strangers: Nina, Max, Debbie, Mark, Sarah and Clive, Alison, Bob and his wife, Ruth and Jim, Amy, Jade, Wendy.
I was home. Safe.
Jeb and Charlie were safe.
The Salvation Army and the Royal British Legion were incredible—beyond incredible. But then came the gut punch.
The benefits officer.
I didn’t demand help, but I needed it. I had nothing. The only thing keeping me going at that point was the generosity of strangers.
The officer discarded me.
I wasn’t expecting special treatment, but I also wasn’t expecting to be treated like I didn’t exist. I wasn’t a person to him—I was a case number that didn’t fit into any of his neat little boxes.
And then the final blow came from somewhere else:
“The only way you’ll get support is if you give up Jeb and Charlie.”
I fell apart.
Eighteen years of resilience and self-reliance—gone, in an instant.
That was the moment I wanted to throw everything away.
Not just the benefits system. Not just the bureaucracy. Everything.
My rejection of the kindness if the British Legion was a knee-jerk reaction to someone else's demand. Suddenly I didn’t want charity from anyone if the price was giving up the two beings who meant everything.
For the first time since arriving back to my land of birth, I felt like walking away. Away from the safety I’d found. Away from this place that had started to feel like home.
Anger. Hatred.
I was beyond ballistic but all that came out was tears and despair.
And Yet…
I’m still here.
Not because of the system. Not because of government support. But because of the kindness of strangers—the people who saw me as human when the bureaucracy didn’t.
I don’t know what comes next. But one thing is certain:
I didn’t walk across Europe to lose my dogs now.
Footnote:
I’m certain that, in Latvia, there are two toxic people lurking in the shadows reading this, revelling in the worst parts of this journey, proud of what they did to me. So to them, I say this—fuck you, fuck the air you breathe, and fuck the ground you walk on. Wherever this path leads me, it’s far from you and the filth you wallow in.