An annual outing for the club,
That time of year for summer grub.
Among the trees that long have stood,
A barbecue in Abbotts Wood.
Cars disgorge their country wares
Of plastic plates and picnic chairs,
And hungry hikers tread the hill
To the sound of sizzling on the grill.
While on the path each walker strolls,
Helpers slave over red hot coals,
Envying those who are having fun
Ambling out in the morning sun.
Straight lay the sausages, often turned;
A deeper brown yet skin unburned.
Burgers too are striped and scarred
On metal rods expertly charred.
By the lake it’s all serene
Here, no thoughts of margarine.
While tranquil waters take their course
Elsewhere, a search for HP sauce.
The tasty onions catch the breeze,
Wafting westwards through the trees,
To entice the ramblers back to eat
The seeded buns chock full of meat.
When food is served all goes quiet
As guilty thoughts forget the diet.
Tucking in it tastes divine,
Accompanied by that glass of wine.
Following on is ‘chuck the boot’,
A hikers’ contest of great repute;
Keenly thrown with skill and guile,
Plus brute force and a touch of style.
Otherwise, a game of boules,
Like pitch and toss, with extra rules.
It was devised in southern France,
Renowned for its flat-footed stance.
But now it’s time to douse the fire
And thank the charcoal burners for their hire.
Zealously working free of charge,
Bless the one who brought the marge.