Our trip to Festival was an ordeal. I flew up with the kids, Liz drove Myrtle the Mazda.  Myrtle’s transmission died and we had to buy a new car. This is the story of that.  Bordescros is Albury/Wodonga, and Loch Alba is Wagga Wagga, if that helps place it all on a map.

Easter 2016.

Don’t bring your wagon to Rowany, Rowany
Don’t cross the squid-riddled waters
Don’t tempt the Fates over Rowany, Rowany
Don’t risk your sons and your daughters.

Festival called us from over the water
Come to the feast of the year
Raced to the west of the barony flying,
Full to the top with bad food and good cheer.

Further behind, on a wagon named Myrtle,
Leaving our calm country life,
Loaded with staples and stock for the journey
Who but my Lady Beloved, my Wife.

Safe in the land of my grey-bearded fathers,
I and my offspring lived large,
While Adelindis with Myrtle the wagon
Braved the wide water by boat and by barge.

Don’t bring your wagon to Rowany, Rowany
Don’t cross the squid-riddled waters
Don’t tempt the Fates over Rowany, Rowany
Don’t risk your sons and your daughters.

Ice-clad the seas and the thunder rolled looming
Bravely my love sailed forth
So disembarking in changeable Stormhold,
Fair Adelindis and Myrtle strove north.

Sadly that wagon, so sturdy and steadfast,
Myrtle that served us so well,
Plainly found crossing the waters distasteful:
Bells of the harbour, mortality’s knell.

Messages sent by the swiftest of pigeons
Reached me, a day’s ride away.
Myrtle was dying, my Lady near stranded,
What might I do this mischance to allay?

Don’t bring your wagon to Rowany, Rowany
Don’t cross the squid-riddled waters
Don’t tempt the Fates over Rowany, Rowany
Don’t risk your sons and your daughters.

Off to the south in my father’s own wagon,
Stopped I at Loch Alba’s shore,
Purchased a shining new wagon, Sylvester,
Left it secured and urged southward once more.

Now in the Bordescros lands of my uncle,
There Adelindis I met.
Quickly unloaded our stock and our staples.
Myrtle, defeated, is resting there yet.

North to Sylvester, now patiently waiting;
North to my father’s chatêau;
East to the Festival, glad to be stopping;
Nevertheless, my advice is just so:

Don’t bring your wagon to Rowany, Rowany
Don’t cross the squid-riddled waters
Don’t tempt the Fates over Rowany, Rowany
Don’t risk your sons, not even loud ones,
Don’t risk your sons and your daughters!