‘Meet me in Londinium, before the legions arrive’,
I told a mysterious woman, whom I knew only as the Mystical Montessa.

We were both caught up in the nightmare of war,
as my countrymen fought the invading Roman army. 

Trapped between marching columns, we sheltered in undergrowth,
and I held her in my arms.

Persuaded that we were of like minds, lovers of the land and its lore,
she told me of a journey with a minstrel troupe, who,
after she’d cured them of an irritation of the bowel,
had given her sanctuary, as she travelled from a land of hot climes. 

Her skill on that big brass instrument the spinalobire,
added to the coffers of this travelling theatrical group,
as people flocked to hear its lovely tunes.

So alluring was her musicality, it attracted a donkey,
known in Latin as equus africanus asinus, or ass, which she called Velosopeed.

Brought to Britannia as a beast of military burden by Roman armies,
it became a constant companion.

Then, while she was away ministering to the people of Cornwallia,
who still talk of the mystic who appeared among them,
marvelling at her ability to move among the throng in disguise,
I foolishly heeded the call of that warrior chief, Fidgety Franbrydlebrass.

His cry, ‘Britons must defend our capital city, from centurions of sturdy feet,’ 
echoed from the Fenland fortress of Thistlethise, and as far as the Mountains of Mourne.

I was expecting to return a hero, and meet my sweetheart in Londinium,
but my courage failed me in the heat of battle, and I deserted my comrades.

Wandering alone, hiding at every corner from vengeful Romans,
I came across a strange woman covered in weed, riding a large donkey or ass.

The rider and her mount moved among the invaders with ease,
and somehow I knew she would save me.

We trotted along, and were soon sheltering under the wooden bridge at Misantollpattle,
built by Pagan chieftain Malachi McFlail,
and I thanked his foresight, for it proved a timely hideout.

The helpful young woman shushed me when I asked her name, 
but when I looked round she’d gone.

‘Strange,’ I mused, ‘she looked vaguely familiar.’

After a long journey I arrived in the Cumbrian valley of Kentmere, 
only to find our conquerors had built a mountain road they called High Street, 
and their matching legions would disturb my sleep.

Toiling in the meadows or fishing in the river Kent, 
I would see an ass ridden by a girl crossing the high hollow, 
her pack filled with bread and cheese, singing a lovely song.

However, shortly after hungry Britons were seen scoffing these tasty treats.

Then a marching legion, high up on the newly-constructed mountain road, 
found their way blocked by grazing sheep, who, attracted by a lilting voice,
had followed it along the tops. 

Some of the men, startled by these woollen-coated trespassers,
fell into a bog, while I, on my way to Ullswater market, couldn’t help but laugh. 

But one spiteful soldier threw a spear at me,
sparking a violent reaction from a circling sheepdog.
 
The soldier’s commanding officer, centurion Gnaeus Gollopflint, apologized,
and I took the opportunity to ask if he’d seen a woman on an
ass playing a strange instrument. 

'I have indeed, what a marvel she is,’ he replied.

‘Her prescription for corns and blisters saved my life, 
for I was able to run like a greyhound from marauding wolves.

‘Then, under fierce attack I led a charge so fast, the enemy, 
a fierce tribe from the land of the Gael, thought I was superhuman.

'But the general called me a fool, and told me not to consort with the locals.
If you see her, ask if she could sort out an embarrassing problem – I seem to
have what the medicos call piles.’

Blushing, he added, ‘I’m glad you find it amusing.’

Despite our differences I quite liked this suffering soldier, and often looked for him.
But the tribal elders disapproved of this ‘questionable’ friendship.

My fate was finally sealed when into town strolled clown
balladeer Jasper Jesterton, who was touring his new show,
The Sleepy Sentry, about an unwilling soldier who’s so dozy
he falls into a castle moat.

It’s anti-militaristic tone offended some, and I defended it in a debate, 
joined by that genial centurion, Gnaeus Gollopflint. 
But the protesting voices shook our village hall,
and I was accused of consorting with the enemy.

My detractors were given further ammunition by my friendship with the jestful fellow, 
whom I suspected was the type of man only whispered about,
for he had a very affectionate male companion called ‘Sexy’ Samuel Saulbellow,
whom he said was ‘just a friend’.

But one day I saw them kissing, and that night,
as we three rolled back from a tavern, they both held my hand.

Before I knew it, we were hauled before a self-appointed committee of the people, 
who gleefully handed down a death sentence.

Awaiting the executioner’s axe in a secluded forest clearing,
I was startled to see a woman on a donkey storm in, hurling sheep droppings,
her head covered in wool, shouting ‘Muddle funndle, bigalot flassage.’

The assembled warriors were repelled by the obnoxious smell,
which caused great amusement, as the rider shouted to me,
‘Come on, my lover!’, to great cheering,
and my rescuer steered us with uncanny accuracy through the gloom.

Our pursuers were confident of running us down, until they ran into a Roman Army checkpoint, overseen by my pal, the helpful centurion, Gnaeus Gollopflint.

Pretending he was looking for rebel bands from that wild land of the Gael,
he gave us a surreptitious smile, and safe passage.

Now, as I write this badly-poetical memoir,
I look at my fellow outcasts who escaped with us on our headlong flight,
those two lovely fellows, Samuel and Jasper.

The local populace find their singing and dancing a delight.
But I tell my friends we shouldn’t forget our faithful steed Velosopeed, 
that donkey, who, known in Latin as equus africanus asinus, or ass,
ridden by she who rescued us, the wild woman who finally revealed herself
as the long lost mystic, Mystical Montessa.

After all, her trusty steed, like us all, is a refugee from war.

So, as is the custom of my people, I stood before her reciting an
ancient prayer to the God of the animal world, ‘Baa baa, bun bustle bis.’

But she just chomped on our secluded valley’s luscious grass,
occasionally pricking her ears up and neighing,
to warn us of soldiers scouring the forests and mountain passes.

Dumb animal, ass or donkey, she certainly saved our asses.­