Unlike previous Trip Advisor reviewers, my wife and I completely failed to find any thrill whatsoever on Blueberry Hill, and I find it hard to believe that we were even staying on the same hill as F Domino from New Orleans. Not only did the moon not stand still, it moved about a lot in a haphazard and extremely annoying way. And the wind in the willows didn't play Love's Sweet Melody as we had been promised either, but seemed to be stuck on an especially dreary version of Mood Indigo at a funeral march tempo.
In fact, my heart sank as soon as we arrived as the foot of the so-called "hill." Pictures on Blueberry Hill's web page had portrayed a beautiful green mesa covered with sparkling blueberries and elderly bluesmen dozing off in old-fashioned rocking chairs. Unfortunately the truth turned out to be rather different. After the uncomfortable and unpleasant two-hour jalopy journey from Jeremiah Bullfrog Airport, we pulled up at what can only be described as a muddy mound with clumps of weeds and stinging nettles growing out of it. I assumed there had been some sort of mistake, but our surly driver assured us that this unattractive wasteland was indeed Blueberry Hill. Then, on exiting the jalopy, I immediately stubbed my toe on an old rusty banjo that was just laying around on the ground and spent the rest of my vacation in the Saint James Infirmary. Needless to say, we will not be returning to Blueberry Hill.
