Category Archives: Travel

Ah yes, the joys of travel. Off to strange lands, to see culture at its best. (Inspired by a blog on Bonnywood Manor/Wordpress- Present Tense-#9 (and our trip to Old Scotland that had a few similarities.)

A Breath Of Fresh Air.

It was wonderful to depart the plane in Spain
After a flight at the height of the tourist season,
Yes, it seems I’ve picked up the travel bug again-
Ten hours of recirculated air would be the reason.

I thought all would be well once at the hotel
But upon arrival, well, sadly I was not,
So I laid my heavy head on the pillow a spell
Awaking to find no piffling sniffle, this was snot.

No, no not for me a sick bed holiday,
I was dying to see the Medieval sites,
Down the cobbled streets I made my sway,
To climb to the castles rarefied heights.

Thus we began the now-historic climb;
Those first steps were hewn by a craftsman;
Higher up steps were taken to cut the time,
Carved by ‘prentice or cut-price artisan.

No miss-step was quite the same,
Some a stretch, some one leapt up;
Any stonemason worthy of the name
Surely should’ve looked, then stepped up?

At every switchback, at every frikkin’ fork
I’d clutch my ribs and cough and blow,
Down every declivity I’d hack and hawk.
My apologies and sympathies to those below.

But I’d climb my Everest of a mountain
Though snot ran in an unending stream,
At a thousand steps and still countin’
It became more nightmare than tourists dream.

Ah, but when one steps upon the crest-
Oh, the view is quite breath-taking,
I clasped my hands to my breast-
It’s a heart attack in the making.

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The crown weighs heavy on the Head at times. These are right royal troubling times. So show a little sympathy, please.

Pardon The Subject.

After a fresh new dawn, clear and bright
Dark times have come for the kingdoms Lord,
Another wrong to right, another obituary to write
When he who wields the pen yields to the sword.

(I try to leaven these posts with a bit of humor. I can’t see much to smile about on some of the days these day though.)

Off on holiday, off on vacation, doing the Route 66 thing. Ah, the romance of finding a hidden gem somewhere off the beaten track. True story.

Burn Out On Route 66.

After a hundred desert miles in a hot Mustang rag-top
Near Kingman we turned into a quiet deserted rest-stop,
At 100 decibels AC/DCs intro to ‘Thunderstruck’ was roaring
Unhappily rousing an indignnt down-and-out from his snoring.

He sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking,
Looking much the worse for drinking.

He stumbled out from his refuge of dark concrete
Then his steps syncopated with the pounding beat,
In his long-lost eyes a spark of recognition had flared
As from the rumbling Mustang ‘Thunderstruck’ blared.

He felt a trembling in his shoes-
And not from the DTs from the booze.

The hands he’d balled into fists uncurled,
His bright eyes looked into another world
As far from earthly care as the farthest star
As he began to sway and play his air guitar.

Hungover and down on his luck
But he was all over ‘Thunderstruck.’

Satriani, Slash, Stevie Ray, Page nor Hendrix
Could never hope to replicate those licks,
Whatever had washed through that sodden mind
A flash, a trace of rare talent had been left behind.

He’d had to have led an ass-kicking band-
Before the elbow raising got out of hand.

As the thunder begun to come to a close
On that animated face puzzlement rose,
After a few pyrotechnic moments in the light
Those bright eyes fade and darken, dead as night.

We left behind a man lost, unsung and unstrung,
A sobering warning to any wannabe Angus Young.

Getting wet and wild on your holiday/honeymoon. A bit of a cautionary tale.

Taken, With A Dose Of Salt.

The summer sun was dazzling bright,
The sea a’sparkling in the sunlight,
Not one solitary cooling cloud in sight
For honeymooners on the Great Australian Bight.

Up on deck after a hot ardourous night
Still this couple are feeling set to ignite,
Where, where to escape 100-degrees Fahrenheit?
The sea offers a cool promise of respite.

Skinny dipping is a sheer naked delight,
The seas ebb and flow sure to primordially excite,
But bare bodies are also sure to whet the appetite
Of Tiger, Tigers, Basking, a bloody Great White.

In Ireland it looks like blasphemy is being taken off the books. That’s the latest word.

A Touch Of The Blarney.

In Ireland the Church has long held sway,
It’s been ”listen to Father’ for forever and a day,
Eternally, paternally told to watch what you say,
To blaspheme means you’ve Hell to pay.

Or at least a spell in Purgatory.

But now it’s influence is on the wane,
Soon it will not be a crime to profane,
Though many Fathers will dogmatically remain
Convinced it’s a sin to take Gods name in vain,

And to say so deserves a stint in the reformatory.

Father McEvedy kneels in despair,
He’s been praying hard to Him up There,
But his cassock and faith are getting threadbare;
Christ, what happened to the power of prayer?

Perhaps He’s deaf to old fashioned oratory?

Soon, I swear, you’ll be able to say your piece
And not be forced to confess to the priest and police,
When a quiet oath is not heard as a breach of the peace;
In Ireland, miracles and wonders will never cease.
 
If you believe the old old story.

A change for the better in the old monarchy of Swaziland. But better for who? Or whom? Who knows?

Ruling The Changes.

The good King of Swaziland
With one sweep of his hand-
Not to mention a Kingly decree-
Now reigns over the Kingdom of eSwatini.

For the Kingdoms King
It has a less colonial ring,
Old British tethers, now unbound;
His Majesty’s reasoning sounds sound.

Map makers the whole world through
Are left with reams of work to do, and undo,
The Kingdoms King revels in the change of name,
For his poor but loyal subjects life goes on the same.