From Hobbacott Down to The Bullers

The Strange Lad walks from Hobbacott Down to The Bullers to slake his poetic thirst.

High on Hobbacott, with the old barn aside,
I look to the west where the Atlantic lies wide.
But a chill wind is blowing, and bringing the gloom,
So I turn from the ocean to hunt for the Doom.

I descend Thurlibeer, down the steep, Porter slope,
Through hedges and fields that are fermented with hope.
To the basins below, deep as barrels of stout,
Where the tub boats once floated, the Strange Lad steps out.

Round woods where the stream runs like ale in the glass,
I cross over bridges and smell the wet grass.
The bog is like mash, hoppy, and sweet,
With wort on my boots and fresh mud on my feet.

I follow the fence where the wild barley grows,
Past sheep and past cattle, the wind surely blows.
With Stratton on high, I say Marwenna adieu,
Tramping on dreckly for a Tribute or two.

Past Cann and the orchard, deep down in the shade,
I’m slaking the thirst while seeking a maid.
Past old cottages standing, the end is in sight,
A Proper Job waiting at The Bullers tonight.

I made it for open mic, not a moment too late,
With a poem in hand and a dark Guinness to rate.
I don't know how these verses will be received,
But the keg has been tapped... and my thirst is relieved.