Lost And Cross On Spanish Rural Roads comic poem 432 by Angela Lansbury

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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