Rustic

We decided to stay a night in the lake town of Puerto Varas on our way south. A town very much as Queenstown was back in the seventies, but on the verge of taking off with the usual array of new hotels being constucted. Once we arrived it was down to the usual procedure of finding a hostal to spend the night. Once found, it was me looking after the bike and Annette doing the finer details of checking the place out.
Yes it was fine, with great rustic charm, safe parking and clean sheets on the bed.
Bike parked and unloaded, it was up the stairs. Man, is there someting wrong with me? The stair has a right hand twist and I'm heading left all the time. Onto the landing and I'm puffing, then all of a sudden I'm over a hump and running for the bed and I can't stop.
This place was built over a 120 years ago and it is starting to melt into the ground. The doors either stick to the floor or jam in the door frames. All the handles are broken off from people forcing the doors to open them. Windows that you could see under and the old varnished tongue and groove ceilings that are buckled and bowed from the strain of holding the place together.
Time for bed. Annette draws the curtains closed and they end up on the floor, the re-enforcing rod fell off, oh well a night sleeping with the moon. Sorry, that was the street light. Get the bed right so the blood doesn't rush from your head and its off to sleep.
Next day and its those stairs again and this time its a swing to the right with a load and a downhill speed, crash, polished floors again in bike boots.

Dust Devils. If Annette ever talks rustic to you, RUN.