“There's a kind of person that don't fit in,
The kind that can't sit still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.”

A mix for wanderers and wanderlust, and those people who only feel at home on the open road.

17 tracks