Appleby.

Appleby.

The Appleby Horse Fair is unique in Europe, with around 10,000 Gypsies and Travellers attending. 30,000 visitors come to the town during the Fair. It transforms the town of Appleby for the week.

Gypsy Caravans.

The Motorhomers had sallied across the border intending to travel much further than that of Bonnie Prince Charlie, whose abrupt end was brought about at Derby.

Francie, Josie, Phemie and Jessie, were made of sterner stuff.

It was a Sunday and they had stopped off at Appleby for a little refreshment and a bite to eat, not knowing that the Fair was on;

‘Look at a’ the people here, Phemie,’ said Jessie.

‘Aye, Jessie, an’ look at a’ the bliddy hoarses,’ said Phemie.

‘Och, dae ye smell the dung, Phemie,’ asked Jessie.

‘That’s jist the fine country air ye smell, Phemie,’ said Josie.

‘Aye it’ll dae ye good,’ said Francie.

There was a heap of manure, still steaming, piled up in the gutter of the street;

‘We’ll nip intae this wee pub here, they dae bar meals as well,’ said Josie.

The couples were supping refreshments, when three big Clydesdale stallions stamped into the bar. Each had a prize rosette attached to their halters. The horse with the silver rosette said;

‘We’re as dry as the Sahara, barman, give us each a gallon of Guinness.’

‘I see the three of you have had a good day then,’ said the barman.

‘To be sure sir, we were groomed for an hour this morning,’ said the first horse.

‘That we did sir, and then we had a large bucket of oats,’ said the second.

‘And begorra sir, we each won a prize,’ said the third horse.

‘Then why the long faces?’ asked the barman.

‘Drink up you lot, we’re no’ havin’ a bar meal here,’ said Jessie.

‘Hurry up before yon three hoarses decide tae relieve themselves,’ said Phemie.

‘Sure, Phemie, sure, Phemie,’ said Josie. ‘Drink up, Francie, they’re no’ lettin’ us have any mair booze,’ said Josie.

‘Sure, Josie, sure, Josie,’ said Francie.

Joe Sharp.

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