13/05/2026
Twas the night before the tour, and all through the club, Not a tour virgin was stirring, nor even a vet.
The jerseys were folded, the passports all found, while whispers of rosé and scrums went around.
The kit bags were packed with care and precision, hoping the French coast would soon come into vision.
The lads were all nestled, their dreams full of tries, while visions of Sables d’Olonne danced in their eyes.
When out on the pitch there arose such a great clatter, they sprang from their bunks to see what was the matter.
Away to the window they flew like a flash, tripped over a tackle bag and made quite the crash.
The moon on the castle and the sea’s gentle foam, cast a glow on the pride of their Cornish home.
When what to their wondering eyes should appear, but a minibus ready — and crates full of beer!
With a driver so lively, jolly, and quick, they knew in a moment this wasn’t a trick.
More rapid than seagulls his calls all came, he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Prop! Now Hooker! Now Lock and Flanker! On Scrum-half! On Winger! On Fly-half and Tour Manager!”
To the ferry we go, to the Channel we dash! now load up the kit — and don’t forget your cash!
So off they all went, with laughter and song, the spirit of Lankelly forever strong.
And I heard them exclaim as they rolled out of sight, “To France we set sail.”
