The roads go up, the roads go down
And we are driving round and round
Satnav does not agree with signs
Alas they have not been aligned
We spend hours seeking our hotel
We know things are not going well
When Google sends us through a field
And straight ahead at left-fright 'Yield!'
When we get lost
We both get cross
Divorce at every next mishap
"You're wrong. It isn't on this map."
"I think this road is too remote
Not built for cars, but for a goat,"
"It's not a goat, my dear, a deer"
"Whatever, our hotel's not here."
The satnav told us to turn right
We want to get there in daylight
We follow a rutted farmyard track
End at a barn, have to back back
And now it's turning into night
"I told you that this wan't right
A hotel has a proper road
Although it's a remote abode
"Booking dot come would not allow
They would have been struck off by now
You should have followed what the hotel say
Although we came from the other way"
***
At last we find it, our hotel
We know that now all is well
There's nobody at reception
Those nine plus ratings are deception
***
Yet one day later
All has been re-arranged
The bearded owner's jovially changed
Our attitude, he's like our pater.
He's like a silver-haired grandad
Worked years, all week
Creating the solitude we seek
We both agree it's not half bad
The walls are mosaics of stone bricks
The trees are miles of armies of chopsticks
The signposts give places, but not miles
Kilometres, and anti-cow turnstiles.
The menu is either almond tart or paella
The waiter's a bilingual, Spanish-Catalan fella
But after all the z-bend miles we're driven
We'll eat anything we are given.
Signs show the same leaping lonesome deer
No sign says welcome, you are here
Each building is topped by a cross
Reminding us of ancestors now lost.
Next day, returning, we know our way
So we've only good things to say
The bill's what we expect to pay
We laugh about the our lost first day
If you arrive a little late
In Spain dinner's at nine, they'll wait
Although eating late's a pity
It's six long miles back to the city
The house is full of antiques and old books
Oddities in each rustic nook
The path to the bedrooms is cobblestones
I tell you, it's not like our home
Besides, in this place you must book
It's fish or meat from your personal cook
The black route back to the annexe is a mystery
But that's the price you pay for living history
It's all so different, but it's Spain
Rain on the green hills, parched on the plain
We travel because it's not the same
Sure one day we'll go back again..
-ends-
Spain. Lost route to the hotel. 2024. Near Santiago do Compostello. Not that near!
Room Mestre Mateo. Written during our last trip to Spain, which we have now left.
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