Spanish hills

The following poem was written following an Exodus trekking holiday in the Sierra de Aitana

At 6am on a Sunday morning
Bleary-eyed and stifling the yawning
We step aboard an Easyjet plane
For an Exodus walking trip to Spain.

I wonder who my fellow travellers will be
I expect they’re thinking the same about me.
We’re looking forward to a week of fun
It had better not rain as we need some sun.

We’re met at the airport by Jose Miguel
A shy and retiring chap, I can tell.
But it soon becomes clear that the trip will be fine
When he stops after an hour to buy us some wine.

And although Frances was first looking a little dismayed
After stopping for wine, all her fears were allayed
She was worried it would only be her that was drinking
Good God! What on earth was she thinking?

It seems a bottle of wine is the cure for all ills
A panacea  for all those hills.
Ah yes! That brings us to the important part
The subject of mountains – now where do I start?
No rest for the wicked on the tortuous climb
But the pain will be cured by the vistas sublime.

Breakfast is at half past eight
We leave at half past nine.
Don’t worry about being punctual though
Juan works on Spanish time.

He calls it a gentle warmup
Just up that hill and a little bit more.
But I think it’s his way of punishing us
For so much wine the night before.

We follow our fearless leader, however,
And when the hills we have survived
We’re rewarded with elevenses
And soon feel much revived.

There are jokes and banter constantly
It keeps us all relaxed.
Jose Miguel takes it in his stride
When we ask if his chest is waxed.

He puts up with a lot from us
We’re relentless throughout the day
But he starts to look a little non-plussed
When we tell him we thought he was gay.

Jose’s English is already first class
But we improve it all the time
He learns the term for a very steep hill
“It’s a bugger of a climb!”

We have a fine collection of ailments
They affect us all at some stage
There’s diabetes and asthma, bad knees and gout
Sore legs, blisters and just plain old age.

Peter and Di are pancreatically challenged
They compete with their blood sugar test
But despite Di’s very expensive machine
Peter’s results are always the best.

The two guys from Belfast keep us amused
With dancing and singing and jokes
But the best is their photo of Benidorm
In which they proudly display that they’re blokes.

I’ll leave you with something to think about
As we part at Alicante airport
If you come with the aim not to make any friends
You’ll find it’s harder than you thought.


This entry was posted in Europe, poems, Spain, trekking. Bookmark the permalink.

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