How Ten Folk and Three Hounds Fared by Paderne Stream
Wednesday 23rd April 2025
Listeth, lordes and ladyes free,
Of venturous folk, a compaignye,
That in the Algarve, sooth to say,
On Wednesday they took their way.
Ten souls they were, right hale and stout,
To ramble hill and plain about.
Ther was Martin, that led the pack,
And Ken, who ne'er did courage lack;
And Miriam, with spirit bright,
And Ros, a joyous, welcome sight.
Ther was gentle Linda, and David sly,
And Peter, with a watchful eye.
Right well-met Richard, Alan bold,
And Jan, whose tale is to be told.
With houndes three, of varied grace,
Old Rafa, Toby, Bica's face.
From Paderne village, steppéd they,
At prime, upon a sunlit day.
Down hills they went, with merrie chat,
Where smell of orange blossoms sat
Upon the air, so fresh and sweet,
A comfort unto wearie feet.
They passéd by, I make no lie,
Wher goji berries caught the eye,
A farm of fruit, a curious sight,
That shone right red in morning light.
But lo! Before them lay a stream,
No less a test than any dream.
The leader warned, with sober cheer,
"A crossing waiteth, draweth near!"
Then Ken and David, wise and grand,
Pulled out their sandals, close at hand,
And changéd shoos, with mickle care,
To wade the water, cool and fair.
Young Jan and Linda, full of glee,
Had bags of plastic, two or three,
To wrap their feet, a cunning guise,
To keep them dry from head to thighs.
But some there were, I name no names,
Who scorned such finnicky-games,
And plungéd in, with splash and sound,
And let their hose be soaking wound.
But saddest hap, and worth a sigh,
Was Rafa hound, who stood hard by.
Though largest he, and stout of bone,
His courage then was all but flown!
A wimpish yelp, a fearful glance,
He would not take that watery chance!
So lifted up, a heavie load,
Across the stream his master strode,
With dripping fur, a sight to see,
Carried like a babie.
Upon the bank, they driéd off,
With little pause, and many a scoff
At those who dripped, like sudden rain,
Then laced their walking shoos again.
Through flowery paths, they held their course,
With growing speed, and rising force,
Til suddenlie, before their face,
Appeared a weir, in that wild place!
A waterfall, though small it be,
A wonder in that countrie!
Now came the toil, the steepest climb,
A test of strength, a taxing time.
Up up they went, the path did wind,
Leaving the gentle fields behind.
At last, upon the crest they stood,
Beside a wall, both old and good.
In shadow deep, they took their ease,
And ate their lunch beneath the trees.
With bellies filled, and spirits mended,
Down to the road, their path descended.
Then turned aside, from thoroughfare,
To hamlets small, beyond compare.
Through lanes they walked, both west and south,
With dustie throat, and parched mouth.
At last, when sun was setting low,
And wearie limbs began to slow,
They spied the place, Moiras Encantadas name,
Where rest and comfort were their aim.
Upon the terrace, cool and wide,
With thirsting souls, they did abide.
And ordered drinks, of potent cheer,
To banish toil, and conquér fear
Of aching feet, and aching bone,
Content to be no more alone
With weariness, but side by side,
The Wednesday walkers, full of pride
For journey done, and humours shared,
A testament, how well they fared.
