Help is at Hand

Whilst Spain decided to bust a gut to help prevent the spread of the Coronavirus,

we self medicated with Earl Grey tea and pondered our next blog.

See you on Friday.

The Wallys xx

Brit Abroad

We understand that some people are thrilled that the UK is leaving Europe.

Sign on the wall of a private house in a major tourist area of Alicante.

Yes, but is it art??

Art for sale at Jesus Pobre monthly market. We like it.

We got the impression that the artist was so impressed with the impressionists that s/he decided to to paint their own impressions of them and then offer them for sale to see if we, the public, would be impressed. And we were.

Wally Dancer

When backpacking, ‘like what we were’, there is very little space for anything but the bare necessities. Wally washed a small amount of smalls and got to grips with drying them in the smallest amount of time. In his defence, he is saving the world, one handkerchief at a time.

The result is this flawless interpretation of that ancient art, Morris Dancing; unfortunately.

Moulay Bousselham will never be the same after this.

Twas The Night T4 Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not one single fight

The stockings were hung by the campers with care

In the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The campers were nestled in snug sleeping bags

While visions of sugar plums were dancing in cags

And mum in her T4 and I in my bus

Had just settled our brains for a long winters ZZZZZ

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When out in the campsite there arose such a clatter

I sprang from my bunk to see what was the matter

Away to the window I flew like a Hind

Tore open the curtains and threw up the blind

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The moon on the breast of the new fallen reveller

Gave the lustre of mid-day to she who’d fell over

When what to my wondering eyes should appear

But a miniature whiskey – no glass, “Oh dear!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In a face like chopped liver, her eyes lively and quick

Stared in amazement, “It must be St Nick”

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On Cupid! On, on Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of that T4! To the top of it’s roof

Now dash away! Dash away! Give it some hoof!”

(Google it if you fancy reading the original version)
with apologies to anon