I thought I’d take a holiday
And walk the old West Highland Way,
A mountainous and scenic track.
I bought some boots, an anorak,
A Fodor’s guide to keep me right,
And found this place to spend the night.
The Lang ‘n’ Wearie Lodge hotel
Gives guests a grandstand view of Hell.
A mouldy stag stares down the hall,
At miles of tartan wall-to-wall,
And spies the patches worn and frayed,
Beneath the broken balustrade.
Within the Raven Suite I lie,
Where comfort went, alone, to die.
The mattress gave up long ago.
A piper’s skirling down below.
“Loch Lomond” is a tuneful gem,
But not so much at 3 a.m.
The dining room serves “woodland fare”,
With “innovative Scottish flair”.
The strangest food I’ve ever seen,
It pioneers nouvile cuisine.
I force down weasel à la mode,
But balk at ballotine of toad.
At last, I set off for a tramp.
As usual, everything is damp.
The outlook in this ghastly clime,
Is wind and drizzle all the time.
I trudge through sodden fir and spruce,
And think, “Where can I find a noose?”
When (Glory be!) the downpour stops,
I take myself off to the shops,
To find each one’s a tourist trap
Stacked ceiling high with utter crap.
I buy a “local hand-made” tie,
Produced, I notice, in Shanghai.
Thank God! The time has come to go,
And fleeing South this much I know:
I’d rather be tied up and shot,
Than forced to see another Scot.
Farewell to stag and skirl and storm.
Next time, I’m off to Benidorm.