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Run:
729 The pack assembled in the vicinity of the 5 Fulmerstons in Stokenchurch. The parking lot was small, but there was parking in the street. The temperature had plummeted just before the run, so the roads were slick with very thin ice. We would have to be careful if we were to run on roads, but of course Wycombe hash never runs on pavement. The hares handed out a green or pink glowing rod to each hasher, so we would look amazing running across the hillsides, and so we could be seen by traffic (if we were to run on roads, that is.) Steve came dressed for Christmas in his Sherlock Holmes hat and lights. Others remembered their Santa hats and tinsel. Off we went, finding the trail, and calling it, through the streets of Stokenchurch, to the bottom of the village, and back up to near the start. After we had exhausted the streets of Stokenchurch, we ventured out onto a footpath muddy but manageable. When we got out of earshot of the village, a re-group was called. Kerry handed out the words to altered Christmas carols. Our voices rose in the cold misty air to the strains of Tuesday Night, and Hashers' Jingle Bells. New hash dog, Twister, has lovely soft fur. But I had to tell Whipping Boy that his whippet needed to be whipped into shape, as the hound was having trouble keeping up with us. Simon corrected me that Twister is a greyhound lurcher, not a whippet. I wouldn't bet money on him at the track, but he's a lovely dog. From the singing circle it was on back to the village church, where there was a long/short. We were told the long run would be another 40 min. Some chose the long anyway. We made it to a check point, and after a long search in all directions, Ade finally found flour. But no! The hare had told Roger that that was the on-in trail. So lots and lots and lots more looking, but no more flour was found. We consulted a local resident who had lived there 22 years, (Ken) but even he couldn't help. So, we followed what flour we could find, and before long were running over a bridge and back into downtown Stokenchurch, then on-in to the 5 Fulmerstons. (Audrey promised to bring the map next week to show where the trail actually went.) The shortcutters were probably surprised to see us back so soon. There were still lots of chips and mince pies left. This was a great pub; they didn't even charge us for the drinks and pies, but we did have to sing for our supper. This time it was something to the tune of Hark the Herald, followed by the 12 Days of Hashing. The latter used an original choir I and choir II arrangement, each choir singing equally loudly, with choir II dragging along at half the tempo of choir I. Thank you hares for the food and drink, the songs, and glowing sticks. (Just an aside, don't leave your dog alone with Mick.)
Date
14th December It was quite an eventful evening really. One of those nights when things just don’t go as normal or as planned. First of all there was the Hare. Supposed to be Bev – turned out to be Sam who wouldn’t have looked like Bev even if he shaved his beard and legs. Then there was the return of the prodigal, Gill, from well, who knows where except I gather that there was some jungle in there somewhere. Then there was Kerry’s toe which managed to connect itself to a wall causing a 100% level of non appearance by not just Kerry but also Aud who felt she ought to support Kerry’s toe in not running. And then there were the pubs – not one but two, both of which must surely feature in the “Pubs to Avoid in Buckinghamshire” guide book. But on to the run. We met in the nether regions of Wycombe known as Desborough Road and justifiably famous for muggings, dodgy kebabs, piddle drenched doorways and chunder covered pavements. As previously stated, Bev was unable to hare and Sam bravely stepped into the breach at the last moment complete with, by the look of it, about 10kg of flour. We started off running west down Dumpsborough road (apologies to any reader who lives there) before shortly turning right to emerge on the West Wycombe Road. Across the road, we scaled the short ascent to the access road to B & Q of some other d.i.y mecca before smoothing down to Morrisons (nee Safeway). It was here that we were confronted by a near vertical path up the side of the store. Gut and lung busting stuff, particularly if, like me, you only get warmed up when sprinting to the pub at the end of the run. The path went up through some houses where, after a modicum of abuse from the local youth, we turned right only to start running downhill loosing all that hard earned altitude. A right hander led us further down to emerge just the other side of Morrisons – could have been a great shortcut. From here, we ran through Frogmoor, past the very appealing Bell PH and through the middle of the town taking in along the way the very pretty xmas lights. Rising up Amersham Hill, Sam had laid a cunning trail into the car park. The pack proceeded to take the vehicular route up several floors whilst a few of us tried, without success, to summon the lift. We emerged on a path alongside the station and proceeded to run past another Wycombe highlight – the British Legion before being ushered down to the A.40 and across onto the Rye past the old watermill. It was here that Sam introduced that most glorious word “short”. Yes, there was a short/long split with most following Sam on the long and a select few going short. Not sure what happened on the long route except that a lengthy discussion had set in about the distance round the Rye so I guess that’s where they went (Ed’s note - yes). For us shorts, the trail led along the road, going up Marlow Hill before coming back down again on the other side of the road. We next ran through the back of the hospital passing Wanderers madly sloping pitch which is now the hospital car park. At the end of what was Loakes Park near vertical takeoff was again achieved as the trail went up a steep flight of steps into the ether. It was undoubtedly a wonderful view from the top if one was not bent double gasping for air. The trail led on along
a fenced path emerging in the region of Wycombe high School according
to Gill who also confided “we ain’t been here before”.(Ed’s
note, yes we have). We went right downhill to enter another fenced
path where Rob spent time and energy trying to remove a piece of pipe
sticking out of the ground – moose trap. Down we went checking at crossing roads until turning right along a path passing along the way a rather drunk dark gentleman and his even darker dog to emerge just round the corner from the “pub”. Hooray. (Ed’s note – the “Longs” met him as well – infact they met him twice!) Unfortunately, not Sam or Bev’s fault, the venue was dire having all the ambience of a flatulent vicar not to mention nowhere to sit. Having passively smoked for England, Gerry et al suggested we decamp to the Hogshead. This decision to which I freely agree I subscribed to was however fatally flawed as the new venue was also less than welcoming and served “I can’t believe it’s not bitter”. Never mind. All in a nights
hashing. Well done Sam.
Run
No 727 It was a mild and dry Decemeber evening as the hounds double stacked their cars in the small car park at the rear of the Garibalidi Pub, then gathered for a pre-hash natter and exchange of news. Soon Mick had called us to order, read the hash rules
and we set off down the road past the pub to the first check. On the hash moved around the outskirts of Bourne End to Woburn Green where we picked up the path parallel to the old railway track that used to run between High Wycombe and Bourne End. The question was raised as to when the line was actually closed with SS Cooper arguing that it was post-Beeching in the 70's. (if you know the answer to this, write it on the back of a dustbin lid and send it registered post to your nearest Prime Minister) The next check saw Sam cruely sent checking up a steep hill almost all the way to Flackwell Heath before being called back with an “ON ON!” across the road into the recreation park at Woburn Green. Hare Mick was then heard to say that the next section might involve a small climb. Small climb my bottom! We eventually arrived coughing, spluttering and gasping for breath at the top of the hill on the road near Hedsor. Ian running his second hash “moosed” up the hill but seemed no worse for wear. Now the hash split with the short cutters heading south, back towards the pub and the long cutters running in the opposite direction. The long cutters then lost the plot completely and were unable to find the trail, with much fretting and gnashing of teeth. Ros insisted she had found the trail, marked by what appeared to be white mould on the base of a tree (actually she was probably right), but GM David took control and the hash was manhandled back to where we had split 10 minutes earlier. Along down the road and onto a track through the woods we descended crossing the river at the bottom, over several fields and then back up the road past the garden centre where we came to a halt at Mick's house. Mick had arranged beer and nibbles which were ubiquitously served from his garage. ( I wonder what that means?) (Eds note: 5 bonus points for getting an excelent word into the Trash, but -3 for incorrect usage - it means everywhere or omnipresent) for incorrect When we had all had our fill, we limped across the road to the pub, for further refreshments. Nice one Mick.
Run
No 726 A crisp winter evening saw the hounds gather at Lewknor with one thought on their minds would the decent considerate Ken take us North into gently undulating Oxfordshire countryside where the contours rise and fall no more then 10m. or would his sadistic side show, and take, us South, where we might bump into Michael Palin on his latest Himalayan adventure - does the Pope wear a silly hat? Never the less I check the lane north and wait for the inevitable, ON, On in the opposite direction. A gentle start takes us under the M40, where the echoing, bellows, of the Moose, drown out the overhead commuter rush. Nearing the Lambert Arms, Lenore slowed to a walk, letting several hounds pass her, meaning only one things, the first back arrow has been spotted and after my ribbing last week, it was very satisfying to see G.M., No 5 turn back on a arrow clearly marked 4. Stopping for a check at the A40, will it be left gently undulating Oxfordshire countryside or right the ever-looming Beacon Hill! On. On right called – “Bollocks.” A short way up Aston Hill and it’s a right turn, on to a very slippery Ridgeway, where Steve Super Copper entertains us with a sequence of pirouette and triple salchows, Torville and Dean would have been proud of before a left turn onto the hill proper and the first long/short split. At this point on the OS map, the contours are so close they cannot be counted with the naked eye. However, with the help of a magnifying glass I made it 15. A traverse up the escarpment prolongs the punishment but once at the top there are some magnificent views over Oxfordshire and the beautiful twinkling light of Oxford’s spires and the silence of the still night air, only being broken by the rasping hack of bronchial tubes, being coughed up. Ade and Sam, who had strapped on crampons and shifted into mountain goat range, had long disappeared on ward and upward, leaving no respite for mere mortals to catch breath. Long and short runners regrouped at Grants Plantation and made their way over the M40 to Sadler’s wood for the nest split. Ken explained the long loop was 2 miles and very tough at the exact moment the G.M’s ankle gave way, forcing him, reluctantly to take the Kerry rout, the look of disappointment on his face was heart breaking. The good news, we were at last going down hill, to Lower Vicars Farm, the bad news in the opposite direction to the pub. 18 contours up, later we are back on top of the ridge at Cowleaze Wood. Then the words we had all been waiting for “ from here on its it’s all down hill.” (2 miles and 25 contours of do of down hill) Back at the pub and in the warm embrace of a pint of Breakspears Special, Ken confessed the run to be 6.2 miles long. Roger and Ade were heard to say,” the gauntlet has been thrown down and it must be beaten.” I am seriously considering embroidery at evening class on a Tuesday. The excitement of the Tosca night blanked the pain from G.M’s mind as he leapt and frolicked like a spring lamb, announcing this months nominations, eventually awarding it to Lesley for her elaborate sting on him only to find he had been, had a second time, and he was actually the recipient. However, in true Gerry style this was a double gotcha, with a second Tosca this time genuinely for Lesley. CONFUSED, I certainly am!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Run
No 725 I thought it would be a good hash when virgin hare Matthew announced to the thronging hashers, “The long run is 5 miles, the short run is 3.5 miles and there are chips if you get back in time”. Nearby hashers said that Kerry almost fainted with pleasure at the thought of a short run and a fistful of chips. Infact most hashers started drooling at the prospect. What we didn’t know at the time was that the hash would also take us back to traditional hashing values (ie shiggy), followed by shiggy on hills, shiggy in forests, shiggy on footpaths and shiggy turning up in unexpected places to catch dashing young hashers out and deposit them in huge oozing quagmires of it. I started by checking down the lane, so the on-on was naturally in the other direction and downhill through a little wood. At one sudden dip Aud was heard to cry out “oooooh” in a very feminine voice, though nobody was quite sure why. Roger suggested she might be a damson in distress – but it was pointed out that this was a type of plum and we carried on running. It has to be said that a major feature of the hash was the magnificent trail – large clear blobs and plenty of them. Later on this was found to be particularly important as not one but two separate hashers turned up well into the hash having managed to catch up easily because it was so clearly marked. Once we arrived at the bottom of the hill it was only fair to take us straight up the other side of the valley, climbing over what felt like several dozen contour lines on the way - though it turned out to be just 4 when I checked it on the map later. Sometime around this point the GM yelled re-group (probably because he had noticed the R in the circle) – but he had gone the wrong way and taken most of the pack with him! Having none of it, Matthew sternly called the hash to order, announced the on-on in a different direction and made everyone run the trail properly before congregating at the next check - only to double back to where Benchbreaker had called the Regroup in the first place! The trail took us to Hampdenleaf Wood - which is described on the internet as “a place with a lovely name, but sadly also a place of mud.” And so it was (Thanks Matthew). Infact there was mud everywhere – “Mud to the left of them, Mud to the right of them, into the valley of mud ran the 15 “ - OK, that’s not quite as dramatic as the Charge of the Light Brigade, but it does have the bonus of describing (some) of the mud we ran through. On through Dunsmore to a regroup and a long/ short split. I am not at all convinced that I know where we went after that – but at various points the hash took us to Chequers and back towards Fugsden Wood or, possibly, Buckmoorend. Matthew ended the hash in truly magnificent style – he got confused, got too close to the front of the pack AND GOT CAUGHT BY HIS OWN BACK ARROW! “OH” he said looking very bemused – “It’s a four back” - and he was the fourth. Actually as somewhat cruel aside he wasn’t actually fourth, he only thought he was – he was actually fifth. But we didn’t tell him so he went back anyway! We believe that getting caught by your own back arrow is a genuine hashing first – WELL DONE MATTHEW! PS. The chips were great and Mick gave Kerry a whole bowl of them!
Date
16th November 2004
There was much confusion about this run both before and during. Was this Gerry's run? Was it a fancy dress run of historical Nordic ideals? Was it at this Crown or that Crown? Well it clearly takes a bit of confusion to spoof our MC David “I feel a right pudding” Benchbreaker Griffith and as we all witnessed it was a superb Gotcha. We had all kept the secret and only David arrived in full Viking regalia, - horned helmet, blonde wig with pig tails and brandishing his double bladed axe. A Viking warrior grinning from ear to ear at the deception. Our true hare Lesley, who with Gerry’s and JAWS help had set up David to remember his 64th birthday, would reveal all. Now to the trail, a good start up the road and around a padlocked gate into Calicott School grounds. Needless to say the SCS cut across the sports field to a pitchside shelter where much entertainment was aspired too as “would be football managers/coaches” demonstrated their Saturday match instructions to the 1st team. (Ed’s note, the non-SCS also performed with their usual flair by loosing the flour and running twice as far around as they should have, so perhaps it evened out) Up to the school gates and double back to a familiar service road, for MC “I feel suspicious about this” Benchbreaker that is, just adjacent to his abode where Mrs Benchbreaker and his two daughters greeted the hash - as the trail led them through the front door into the lounge pausing to part take of scrumptious biscuits and on into the garden around the shrubbery and back down the drive. At this time our resident Viking purloined a flaming torch and was getting into the character and spirit of typical Nordic behaviour when travelling abroad. On-on up to wot must be Farnham Common High Street and a sharp left and the trail soon took us in Burnham Beeches where one trail in the dark looks much like any other. Non the less our Vikings torch was lighting the way and scaring the daylights out of any motorists taking a shortcut through the back lanes. Soon we came across an old burnt out banger (some surmised it had been a Vauxhall Astra) and our old banger of a Viking posed for his birthday! At this point the hare offered a shortcut to what Lesley described as the green gate. Eagerly taken by the regular SCS crew plus a couple from JAWS, we headed off along a trail clearly marked despite the masses of fallen leaves and soon found the green gate and waited, rather long, for main hash to arrive. (Main Hash note - Yes, it was a lone, long way for us including a complete loop back to where we started from. Some people said the loop encompassed all of Buckinghamshire, others thought it that perhaps it included most of Berkshire as well). On-on through more beech woods to emerge on the road and be ushered down steps into a mini-amphitheatre (I think it was an ex. Ice house (ed’s note, I heard it was built by the scouts so they could sing Ging-Gang-Gooley without fear of reprisals), where thanks to JAWS we afflicted our 64 year Viking to a rendition of the Beatles classic “When I'm 64”. (If John Lennon was alive today he would have turned in his grave) This was officially the end of the hash - except we were 2 miles from the pub! Most without hesitation set off to run back to the pub. A few, myself included, cached a lift back to the Crown which was closed. Hence we then went onto the Stag where a huge birthday cake was shared out and a fine rendition of Harold's 1066 Battle of Hastings in Yorkshire dialect was performed for us by our very old Viking MC. Our special thanks to Lesley and JAWS for organising an exceptional hash and a birthday bonanza I think David will not forget in a hurry.
Run
No 723 After the exertions of last week, which in some quarters were deemed excessive, the hare raiser showed the kinder face of Hashing. The weather omens did not look good, with typical autumn lashings of rain in abundance, both over the weekend and on the Tuesday itself. Our expectations were of a conducted tour, with no markers to be seen. In the event, timely reapplications by the hare saved the day. It all started a little late from the car park adjacent to St Mary's Church, in part due to the scribe discussing the dietary habits of (Kerry's & Audrey's) children. For this we apologised and joined the fray. The hare has
been well disposed in the past towards The Ridgeway and Whiteleaf
Cross, I guess in part because it entails a stiff climb, or maybe
it is to enjoy the views. So our feeling was that it was only a matter
of when, not if, we headed in that direction. But between the now
and the when lie the vagaries of the hare's choosing. In a matter of minutes we left Brimmers Road and headed off along the Ridgeway to begin the climb up towards Whiteleaf Cross. We never actually made it as the route lead us back down Kop Hill where you feel that all running should be as effortless as that (it is downhill of course). (Kop Hill, easily distinguished by its unusual shape, became famous in the 1920's as the scene of many hill climbs by the drivers of early cars and motorcycles.) At the bottom we met up with the SC party and off we went again along Brimmers Road. Before reaching Brimmers Farm we turned right along a bridlepath and headed south to Wardrobes and Wardrobes Lane. At the junction with Woodway, we took the L13. This crosses recently ploughed fields and this, combined with the rain, produced the best Chiltern Clinging Clay. Every step you take, you lift 3kg of the earth on your shoe. This conveniently falls off so that you can reload on the next step. Simon coped quite well, due I think to Steve's co-operation. Gerry Rose (Ed’s note Grin!) to the occasion by moosing at a stile. I pity the laundry executive who has to deal with that. The L13 leads to Pyrtle Spring. I didn't see this at the time, so here is a brief description to show what we missed.
Now, sadly, the
flow has reduced to a tiny trickle and, in certain seasons, is completely
dry. The Spring had become somewhat overgrown and neglected and has
also suffered abuse, but plans are now well in hand to enhance the
area.
Run
No 722 Oh. Roger! We need to send you on an Ordnance Survey Interpretation Course. 5.8 Miles? - 5.8 miles? This perhaps sets the tone of the write up, but, more of that to come. 23 stalwarts arrived, (7 of them soon to be lucky short-cutters). Gill, on her last Hash before travelling the World, Lesley before lying on a Spanish beach and Lenore before gadding around the environs of the USA dedicated to the man with the long chin, (the Presidential race loser), and finally Nigel back from his recruiting drive in Central Europe among us. For Roger (he
of the clear directions), it wasn’t exactly his usual briefing. So, into the pleasantly warm evening we set off charged with expectancy. Grange Farm came and went, and the pack was in good humour. Round Cockshoot Wood, and still spirits were upbeat. Here, Sam failed dismally to negotiate a Harvey Smith Horse of the Year Show Puissance Fence, (he actually did a Tom and Jerry Cartoon heel skid at the foot of the fence as discretion and basic common sense kicked in regarding the protection of his private parts). He appeared somewhat crestfallen at the failure of his effort to impress the ladies on his Sally Gunnell hurdling skills. THEN CAME THE MOMENT OF TRUTH, - the Hare’s LONG/SHORT BRIEFING. “3.3miles or 5.8 miles” was the proclamation, made with a certain military authority. “Those of you taking the long route will eventually come to an area where there are NO TREES”. (OK we get the picture) “When you get there, there will be no longer be any flour on the ground, - so look for the flour ON THE TREES” (Sorry Roger? Float that one past us again please). “Don’t worry, - it will all be obvious when you get there, - Lenore here’s a map, you 16 honed athletes go on, - meanwhile I’ll bugger off with these 7 short cutters ‘cos I need to look after them and I’ll see you all back in the pub. It shouldn’t be any problem for you all to TONK ON HOME without me.” And with that he disappeared into the night. All I can say is “Thank God for Sam and Ade and their inherent homing skills”. Millfield Wood, the A 4128, a gut searing half mile run up to Hughenden Park, Hughenden Manor, the Church, over the road (again), and then on up, up, up the longest pull in the Chilterns, - sliding, cursing, sweating, Moosing, (Yep, Ade again, - determined not to be usurped out of his established status), - more muttered obscenities more “ I now see why Roger whimped out” theories and finally, - devoid of lactic acid, breath, good humour and will to live, we collapsed at the road at Cryers Hill. It was now 9.18 and we hadn’t exactly hung around getting lost. “Phew”, everyone said, “it’s a simple matter now to get back to the pub along the road”. ……WRONG. Where did our Hare take us? Down, down, down again to Boss Lane then another lung searing climb up another trek to Annapurna Base Camp to…. guess where? Yep, you goddit, the road at Cryers Hill. We finally arrived back at the pub at 9.34pm. But Golly, we all had lots of fun and were "full of praise" for the Hare’s map reading and measuring skills! (Particularly Gill). A hasty drink in a smoky pub, followed by your scribe witnessing a scuffle in the gent’s toilet between 2 drunken locals, made an end to a memorable Hash. Finally a statement from the GM to all future Hares who set long hard runs on a winters evening – you will be forcibly sat down next to Gill in the pub and she will be encouraged to tell you exactly what she thought of the run! PS the 5.8 miles was measured on the OS at 6.2 the next day - perhaps the world had expanded? PPS I will
am looking forward to the Tosca of the month ceremony this month!
Upon gathering at the car park, Mick was organising car parking in the pub (A fine job too), only Ade managed to park in the lower car park much to the annoyance of the landlord. A landlord who tried his best to make everyone unwelcome. Is this man in business to succeed, I think not, it never fails to amaze me that people can only see now and not future business. (Scribe on his soap box). The usual list of rules was announced and the Hash duly walked off. 10 minutes later and we'd only gone 100 yards. Mick was then heard to say we'd be back at 11 o'clock at this rate so the pace quickened. The run went through Happy Valley, happy? it was about 10 degrees colder, not my idea of happy. Uphill we went, the main pack going wrong at a typical “working” farm (NOT), the short cut society runners went the correct way. A regroup was called as Karen, a new member of us didn't feel well, so went back with Kerry, back to the warm reception at the pub. Back through the farm we went, down a road, cars having to halt as they'd never seen as many lights coming towards them. Into the woods we ran, the pace now quicker, moose traps and shaggy were a plenty, a good number of checks in the woods made for good hashing. Into Marlow we ran down roads and alleys only to be caught out by another back arrow. Down towards the river we went, the hash breaking with an extra 1.3 miles add on if desired (Ed's note it was measured later at a few yards under 2 miles of extra running and sweating!!. Beer was what was most desired, but a few gallant souls ran off, making good time back tot the pub. A room had been reserved for us (where the brooms are kept) keeping us away from the paying foodies, who both left as we arrived. Mick tried to arrange chips but he wouldn't my advice is “Landlord Stuff your chips” (I'll get off my soapbox again). It being the last Tuesday of the month it was Tosca night, with various mentions and nominations but Barney shone through (without his torch) to win this acclaimed title, but I still feel that Gerry should have one it for moosing last week whilst stationary at a check. Many Thanks Mick for an excellent run, only marred by the fact you didn't invite us all to Egypt. Also, Mick, good luck with your new job. Hashers, raise your glasses to Mick.
Run
720 Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no Well, that was a hash and a half literally! Hashers assembled in the car park to the Plough at Cadsden those who had foolishly not decided that a 'Robert Green' hash might be best avoided, those who were new to the game and had no idea what they'd let themselves in for, and a few mad idiots who knew, but turned up anyway. Moose was late as usual, and delayed the start by about 10 minutes. (Why does he always need to change? His work clothes would be perfectly suitable to hash in, I should have thought.) Well anyway, the late departure usefully provided Robert with a handy excuse for the finishing time for his hash but I anticipate. Eventually we jogged up the first hill out of the car park and onto one of the many ridges surrounding the Plough. Sadly, here the hash rather came to a halt. There must have been 6 or even 60 - checks in the first 20 minutes, with the result that after spending quite some time milling about on the hill top, we were no further from the car park than we had been at 8.55. (At this stage the hounds were still good humoured and cheerful, and amazingly, only a few adverse comments were passed.) At last we left the hilltop and set off for the hash proper, the horn blaring and most people running. At this point I managed to fall over a small nay, very small twig. Would that I had had the sense to retire wounded but I gallantly pressed on, foolishly not using a few streaks of mud as an excellent excuse to trundle back to the warm bar.Very shortly afterwards, Gerry too did a moose into the mud (actually he did two) and he didn't go back to the pub either. He gallantly pressed on. How dumb we both are.Well, the next part of the hash was pretty spectacular. We headed up what Gerry maintains is the steepest path in the whole of the Chilterns. It was either a crampon jobbie, or hands and knees, or traversing the hill sideways, or any other way you could think of to keep your feet. Puff puff, pant pant. Cor. And I have to tell you that things didn't change all that much after that. More heavy breathing. We motored on, up hill and down dale. It reminded me of A Midsummer Night's Dream , I could just hear Puck saying 'Out of this wood do NOT desire to go'. We desired, but we didn't go.The next dire event was when we reached a small clearing in the woods and I suddenly realised we could be no more than 300 yards from the pub. ('Ah, but you can't see it' claimed the hare.) Once again, a superb opportunity to get into the warm. But once again, not only did I not go in, but nor did Barney, nor even Jonesy, we all believed that the hare would mercifully take us on a short detour, never guessing that after ANOTHER hill we'd be exclaiming over the beautiful view over Princes Risborough. But you know that all good things must come to an end, and at last the cramped and smoky bar welcomed all good hashers to its bosom.It was 9.30 pm. (Did I mention the false trails? And the turn arounds? No? Well, ask me and I'll elaborate.)
Run
718 Last week Ade thought he
could predictably pre-write the write up to my run, using a few bland
sentences that could describe any run, and then filling in a few blanks
with names, adjectives, etc. (Sort of like what a horoscope writer
does.) Actually, there's a name for that type of writing. It's called
called Mad Libs. I pre-wrote Steve's run in that format. On the hash
I asked for help to get words to put in the blanks.* Here it is. When we set off, the weather
was loopy (adj). After finding the trail we went up a jolly (adj)
hill, after which Mick (name) said, “I feel horny (adj).”
We cried (verb intans) manfully (adv) around in the dark for a while,
and finally found more trail. Nick (name) pumped (verb) a sigh of
relief when it was time to go downhill, then he laughed (verb intrans)
demoniacally (adv) down the hill. We encountered 78 (number) more
hills. “I can't run (verb ) up another hill,” Sam (name)
moaned willfully(adv.). Peter (name) got lost,
but eventually turned up. As happens every week, after we had been
out for only 43(number) minutes, a few hashers started to rock(verb,
intrans), saying it was high time they should be back at the pub.
The hare said, “Don't worry, there are 2 trails, the brainy
(adj) and the stupid (adj).” In the pub, David shut
us up while he awarded Barney a crutch (noun) (made by Gerry) for
being the 7000th hasher to arrive at a hash. We started the run, which included the usual checks, some check backs, and some hills, but not the worst of hills. Weather was pretty good, but it was definitely a torch run. Someone fell (I don't know who) and we were told to wait a minute. Peter got lost and eventually
turned up. The run included a long/short option.
Run
717 EDS NOTE - before starting theRuns Report we need a little competition to find out exactly how many magic mushrooms Ade had consumed before he wrote this! - you have been warned! And now something for the younger Hasher (ie most of us) Noddy goes Hashing Noddy was busy, he hadn’t hashed for a few weeks, so that now he was going he couldn’t find his trainers, “Bother” said Noddy and thought back to the last time he had seen them. “Back of the cupboard” said Noddy and, sure enough, there they were, rather muddy and a bit stiff. Noddy sniffed them, they didn’t smell too bad so, he chucked them in his kit bag. So with torch and batteries he was ready to go, must remember to pick up Big Ears as he closed the front door behind him and jumped into his car. Noddy drove carefully down the road. Noddy, you see, had saved all the money he had made on his summer job at the honey dew extraction plant and brought a rather nice yellow and blue convertible - 2 litre, lady owner, never race rallied. This, however, got him a lot of admiring glances from the ladies but also the attention of the police, in the form of PC Jack, who Noddy called “Plod”. PC Jack pulled Noddy over every time he saw him, in the hope that he could find something wrong with his car. PC Jack did this because he knew Noddy called him PC Plod and it was his way of “Getting his own back”. PC Plod was a spiteful Bas!**d. Big Ears was waiting at his gate as Noddy arrived. Big Ears was also a hit with the ladies, he was how shall I put this err…. The Errol Flyn of Toy Town, his reputation was well known so people called him Big Ears (God knows why) as a mark of respect, probably this drew the eye to his ears and away from the bulge in his trousers. So even as an old gent, Big Ears could still pull, this impressed Noddy and helped to cement the relationship between the boy and the older man, Big Ears could also offer Noddy a guiding hand, which boy, Oh boy, the lad needed. The two friends soon arrived at Christmas Common, where the other toys were assembled ready for the off. A large Teddy Bear, the GM of the Hash, called on dolly Lenore to give out the instructions. The bugle was handed to the Moose who blew it as hard as he could, a small cracked note fell out the end, and the fun began. As toys do, they ran about all over the place and soon found the trail on into scary woods, which were really, really dark and full of owls. The toys were running well now as they began to warm up, even the tin soldiers were going well on their stiff legs. Soon they were running along a rutted path. Gerry Light Year (ed’s note – actually it’s Inter Galactic Super Hero or IGSH) told Moose to be careful as he may fall over, it was a shame he didn’t tell Beverley as down she went. “Oh OUCH, I’ve hurt my knee she sobbed” Bigg Teddy and dolly Lesley ran up and, with the help of the tin soldiers Barney & Mike who were marching along at the back, gently lifted Beverley up. “I don’t think I can go on” said Beverley between the tears. So Big Teddy and dolly Lesley walked dolly Beverley back to the pub. They soon had a plaster on Beverley’s knee and wiped away the tears, and with a drink and a packet of crisps, soon it was all smiles again. Meanwhile…. It wasn’t all smiles with the rest of the pack, however it was getting late the toys had to run a long way and they were now quiet tired, when Oh No!! they had wandered into Mr McGregor’s allotment. Now Mr McGregor was sitting by his window having his tea, when he noticed all of the torch lights in his allotment. “Those Bas!**d rabbits are after my carrots again” shouted Mr McGregor as he jumped from his seat and ran for his car. The toys were soon confronted by a fuming farmer. What the ‘kin hell do you think you are doing?” “H. H. Hashing” said the trembling toys. Dolly Lenore had to explain, and with that the toys were let go to continue their run. Noddy had managed to get to the woods and was watching the scene with Big Ears. Noddy was keen to get on back down the field and sort the beggar out, but luckily for everyone Big Ears managed to put him off the idea. The toys were back together again and, as it was so late, made straight back for the warmth and safety of the pub. The beer and crisps were soon brought and moose was smuggled in (as he had previously been barred for running amuck in the car park – a episode that still tickles Gerry Light Year – if you ask him nicely he’ll tell you about it) (ed’s note, especially if you buy him a pint!) Amidst all the slurping and chomping, Big Teddy got up and cleared his throat; he had awards to give out. It was time for the Monthly Tosca. Lots of deeds were discussed and in the end it was Gerry Light Year who won for doing something which I can’t remember. Gerry Light Year looked very pleased with himself and gave a small speech, at the end the toys all clapped and cheered. Well-done Mr Light Year. “Time to go “ said Big Ears to Noddy. Noddy put on his blue hat with the bell on the end, and the two friends climbed into Noddy’s car. Back at the pub Steve Super Ted looked sad “I hope everyone turns up for my run at the Dew Drop Inn next week” he said. “We will” said the toys and they will! Whoopee!. Noddy climbed into bed “I’m knackered” he thought to himself and was soon asleep. So Noddy’s in bed and it’s time for my
bed too. So Good night Boys and Girls. Goodnight.
Run
716
We could go left or we could go right…we could go left the left again or right and right again or left and straight on or right and straight on or left and right or…..Left and left again was called. We ran a long a path going DOWN hill, its always worrying when you start downhill. The path brought us out in Bennett End in sight of the Three Horseshoes, should we stop here for a drink? We were called left and ran towards a combine harvester still busy in the dark of the night. The stars were out and it was a perfect night for running. On right was called and we started UP one of the many hills Hair Moose had planned for us. Leslie fell down a large hole and after the rescue mission to recover her was over the pursuing hounds shouted “Hole”, which was followed later by “I bet Leslie falls down that!” somebody blew Brenchbreaker’s horn and deafened a few hounds. We ran around Andridge Farm and DOWN the lane to Town End, then through the Church yard at Radnage which Hair Moose said was haunted. We regrouped and Sam gave a rendition of the Last Post…Or was it Puff Daddy’s “pebble dashed girl”? Out of the back of the church yard and UP a path which led to a wood where the Bronze hounds took a right and the others a left, taking them up over the top of the hill where there were plenty of on backs to exhaust the hounds further. It was here the pack took it in turns to play with Benchbreakers horn. The track came out just down the road from The Boot at Bledlow Ridge, should we stop here for a drink? On right the hounds went picking up the path which went DOWN hill to Bottom road from here it was left and on UP to Radnage. As we regrouped the sky was clouding over and our beautiful vista of our Galaxy was disappearing. Several constellations were being pointed out when the ON ON was called from the left and the Platinum Hounds took off towards Ashridge Farm. Bronze Hounds took right and ploughed back for an early pint. DOWN to Bottom Wood the Platinum Hounds went followed by an on right and another on right which slowly led the pack UP a long slow hill and eventually into Beacons Bottom. From here it was on left and a run into the pub. The Platinum was 6.5 miles an excellent training run for the proposed Clarendon Way Marathon on 3rd October (all entries to The Travel Agent). The Bronze a superb training run for getting the pints in before the pack arrives….What happened to the Gold???? Nobody ever gives me gold! PS A Special Toscar nomintion goes to Barney who, after a truley herculean effort at tooting. PS A special Toscar nomintion goes to Barney who, after a truly Herculean effort at tooting, only managed to produce a volume of noise that a three-year-old girl would have been ashamed to make.
Run
No 715 This has to rank as a record for HWH3 stalwarts to travel to a Hash. Cholesbury? Chorleywood? Cheapside? Chequers? Where the hell’s that? The two Hares confided to your Scribe between short panting breaths on their return to the pub after resetting the trail that “no more than 8 hashers would turn up tonight”. So, it was a magnificent effort on behalf of the 23-orienteering specialists who found the pub, mostly at the appointed time. Arguably situated as far from our traditional Hashing base as you could go, we could easily have been confused as being members of the West Ipswich Hash House Harriers running in their own back yard. Indeed, one alarmed local resident proffered detailed advice from his front door as to how to return to the Full Moon and find our way back to Suffolk by the shortest route. Still, the countryside was beautiful and it was a great pity that we were probably a month too late in running around Hawridge Common with torches. The summer days would have revealed just how magnificent some of the woods really were. Longs and shorts were in abundance. “ON ON is Straight on, - or Right - or Left, - whatever you fancy really” were the instructions frequently heard from Sergeant Major Black at the start and at various checkpoints. Were we confused? Never once did we falter. Never once did we doubt the wisdom of these exhortations. A perspiring Lenore appeared somewhat later from behind a hedge having caught us up. She had after further questioning, apparently been twice round the Ipswich Ring Road in her efforts to find the pub. The rest of the Pack soon quashed her accusations of having started “early” and we proceeded onwards into the unknown. It soon became evident that even Sam, with his instant recall of every footpath in Bucks, could not offer advice as to where we were or where we were going. Now, I’m appalled to write that I witnessed a deliberate act of sabotage by Phil “tree trunk legs” Crookes on Gill. However, I’m pleased to report that the dastard failed to push her headlong into the shiggy he had lined her up for. (Sally Gunnell would have been proud of her combined hurdling and long jump skills). Matthew then disappeared into a bog and after several attempts to get him out with ropes and ladders, he finally emerged having left one of his shoes in the morass. So, alarmed at the thought of running another 3 miles in a muddy sock, he promptly plunged in again to retrieve it. Pete Simpson, Ade’s guest, went round the whole route armed with a map and compass which would have been quite useless in the circumstances as he failed to bring enough torch batteries to read the aforesaid navigational aids anyway. What else can you expect from a vegetarian? This was undoubtedly Gill’s night for a dose of histrionics to seek the Pack’s attention. In retrospect, I am sure that Gill deliberately Moosed near Cholesbury Fort in order to get the attention and sympathy that had been extended 20 minutes earlier to our Virgin Hasher (and Virgin Mooser), Nigel. Her weak and pitiful cries as she “deliberately” fell, revealed not a mark nor scratch on her knees and she duly got up without a whimper or angry gesture. Phil was nowhere near her at the time anyway, - so she received no sympathy whatsoever from anyone witnessing the charade. Meanwhile Lindsay had been shepherding the “Shorts” along the way, - obviously successfully, -as they were into their second pint when the remainder of the Pack got back to the pub. Alan’s 40th (41st)?, Birthday and praise in abundance for Beverley and Lindsay for resetting the run at 6.00pm that evening occupied most of the GM’s 40-minute post run speech. Particularly impressive was the attendance of our intrepid band of HWH3 Hashers that had run the 26-mile Cross Country Chiltern Marathon 48 hours earlier. Sam, Lenore and Ken’s appearance was particularly appreciated by all present, as their legs must still have needed a lactic acid top up. Well done the Hares, well done the Orienteers that made it to Cholesbury and well done the 3 Marathoners. All in all, plenty
of nominations for this month’s Toscar Night in 2 weeks time.
Run
No: 714 A large crowd of hashers gathered in the car park of Oakwood Golf Club to welcome the hare/GM back from his period of Capitol Punishment in America. The rules were explained, including the option of “around” seven or so different runs (N.B. maths is NOT David's strong point, especially if he has to go to his second hand to count high enough). The Hare explained that a novel feature of the hash was the way that half the trail was “no longer” there, despite, we were told, it being laid just a few hours before. Apparently the local residents do not approve of arrows, do not like blobs and positively detest flour, so they had gone around removing them. At least that's what the hare claimed and I, for one, would never accuse him of being lazy or not fully setting the run! Once the rules were settled and a new hasher welcomed, we were off with a quick right and left, after which I became totally and utterly lost, and remained so for the entire rest of the hash. At the first field (which I don't know where was) we came to a long short split, with the “long” taking us around two fields, and the “short” around just one before meeting up again at a regroup. The GM insisted we walk (though I never found out why) to the next check. As I was towards the front I naturally checked it out when I got there. This was a mistake as it was another two way split though I didn't hear about it until it I was irrevocably committed to the long route. I think we went to Hodgemore Wood, which made the local news a few years ago because someone spent £40,000 improving its footpaths. Hmm £40 k for some compacted mud does seem a lot of money, especially when you are lost and running around it. However there were lots of footpaths in the wood, enough for some hashers to go the wrong way and still end up at the right check. The Hare told me that we were in either Chalfont St Giles or Seer Green (I still don’t know which) so I guess he was as lost as I was. At several points around the hash we were told that there was either an extra long way or “another way for the wussies” as he put it! The emotional blackmail of being branded a wuss must have worked as we all went the very longest way possible. Overheard: “Right now I'm having amnesia and déja vu at the same time. I think I've forgotten this before”. I remember a field, an alley, a clump of particularly nasty stinging nettles and a hill. But mostly I remember the hash being unusually fast so, I had a lot of catching up to do. Definition: - Shin: a device for finding tree roots in the dark. Eventually we arrived back at the golf course with a sedate run on-in collectively behind the Hare - who sneakily announced that anyone who overtook him had to buy a him drink! Back at the bar I heard the cry of “What a star” from short route hasher (Janet), I think she lost the trail and headed back for the bar soon after the start of the run! Still, I guess Ade made up for it by arriving late, not finding the trail and getting back a good 40 minutes after everyone else had started drinking. He even missed Mick being awarded a T shirt for his 250th run and Barney for the amazing accomplishment of 500 runs! (An extra impressive event considering the strange but true fact that he was only on run 426 the week before (See the GM for details).
Run
No: 713 It's not often that you get to write up your own hash, but having set two hashes in a row, that privilege fell to me. Do not think, for one moment, that I will be anything other than strictly impartial and purely bipartisan. Infact, if anything, I intend to be somewhat over-critical of my own run to avoid any risk of bias. I will tell the story in a factual and wholly independent way. That said, the run was un-questionably the single best run of all time from any venue and by any Hash in the entire space-time continuum. We started off with a warning of poisonous flora as the run was well supplied with both Death Cap Mushrooms (deadly) and copious amounts of Black Nightshade (not as deadly as its sister plant Deadly Nightshade but still deadly - not that these fine points of toxicology matter too much if you have just eaten one). The hash started with a quick dash along the side of the Church where Steve went off on a massive downhill check, going far, far, further than necessary (especially as it was in the wrong direction), it took him two checks to catch up - wherupon he was promptly caught by a back arrow! We ran, or ambled depending on how much chatting was going on, towards Winchmore Hill and an impromptu regroup, catching a few more people (including Waine) with a sneaky double back arrow on the way. The countryside and the blackberries were at their best. Past Barbara Windsor's old pub, the Potters Arms we went and on through a sneaky alleyway that nobody noticed for quite a while. We were soon back in the countryside running through a field where Black Nightshade gently twined through the roots of the corn (Yumm!). Down to the woods in the grounds of Penn House, where there was debate about the number 3. The backcheck had become partially obscured and some people (who obviously didn't do any maths at school) claimed the three was a six, an eight or a blob. In the end 5 people went back (led by Waine). So, no matter what it was someone cheated! I wasn't near enough to see who the guilty was, but the name Lenore was mentioned in hushed tones! Left at the road before a sneaky extra hundred yard loop through Branches Wood brought us back running across the same cornfield as before. (Aside, Penn House was given to Sybil Penn by Henry VIII as a wedding present she was Governess to the future Elizabeth I) (Second aside, despite any myths about it, the state of Pennsylvania was not named after the village of Penn - Charles II actually named it in honour of Admiral Penn, who served loyally and, perhaps more importantly, lent him £16,000.) Back over Horsemore Lane where the astute noticed one of the six swallow holes that we ran past. The less astute noticed the sudden appearance of a bog and the downright dim will have noticed nothing. Not naming names, but Beverley only noticed the bog. A quick jog further took us to Hertford House and if you don't know why it is called this you obviously didn't pay attention at school - until 1844 Coleshill was actually a part of Hertfordshire though it was completely and totally surrounded by Buckinghamshire. It became a refuge for rogues who were protected by the county border. Today, the rouges are replaced by hashers - not much difference really. Soon the long/short split was reached and we bid farewell to the members of the infamous SCS. By this time we were sadly covered up by the vale of night. Normally this would have been OK, but as I forgot my torch, the last part of the run was more a vale of tears - mainly when I ran smack bang into a very solid tree that I hadn’t seen in the middle of a particularly dark forest. Fortunately Roger came gallantly to my aid by the simple expedient of flashing at me (thanks Roger). At nearby Ongar Farm a second lesson was learnt by the Hash when they couldn't find the trail (hint, signs saying “Footpath” denote a footpath - and if you don't check down them you might not find the trail!). After one last backcheck (and yes, Waine got caught YET AGAIN ), and a discussion about windmills, we were back at the pub. Despite there being a private quiz on, for the first time in history we actually managed to stop Gill from shouting out the answers! Well done Des for getting married, well done Aud for being named Lesbi-Ann and well done Kerry for the series of acts of unsurpassed folly that led to a much deserved Lifetime Toscar of the Month award.
Run
No 712 Those of you, dear Readers, who are not related (affairs do not count) to Gallus Domesticus, will recall that I described an earlier run that Audrey laid (in the perpendicular sense of the word) as a “HASH as they are meant to be”. This was a HASH as they usually are. No fault of the hare (Gerry ISGH) who was an unwilling spectator to the wiles of the Atlantic weather front, that is wet to you and I. His chosen venue was the “The Pheasant” in Ballinger. Normally, this sort of pub/restaurant is more interested in the dining clientele than the bar chaff that we are, but in the end I think he was pleased to see us occupy the conservatory, given the lack of genteel clientele elsewhere. However, I jump to the end of the story too quickly. The tone of our visit was set very early on. Most of us who have accepted our station in life parked our cars in the common car park. Others, such as Gill, who have lived in close proximity to a more affluent life, parked by the pub. Gerry waited until 19:50 before starting addressing the troops. This was because he had faith that those who normally turn up late would be true to their earlier form. In this he was right. Exceptionally, they proved him wrong by being later than usual. This was to be an H and L run and the challenge was to determine what this meant. Gerry kindly told us what the “H” stood for. This was “hypochoristic”. Unfortunately, he was relying on me, the scribe, to remember what it meant after being told at last week's run. This was not a wise choice on his part. Orthogonal may be an everyday word but hypoccccc…… does not often crop up when asking someone to pass the milk for my cereal. However, from henceforth I resolve to act on this everyday before brushing my teeth. By the way, Gerry is an hypochoristic form of Gerald and also a hyponym of homo sapiens. From Ballinger Common, Gerry led us to Field End Grange which leads into Lee Common. It was here, I think, that the trail became very well defined as we were forced to follow the flour through a childrens' adventure play ground. Up ramps, across bridges, down narrow ladders and through the tunnel of death. From Lee Common to Lee Clump. My, my. Every house must have cost more than £1m but Ade was strangely quiet. Perhaps he really wants to live here. One could fit at least 10 minis in any conservatory you chose to look at. All of the run so far had been conducted at high level. Now we were to descend to a lower altitude that would induce a degree of hypomania and wet feet, which as everyone knows can lead to pneumania. Bassibones Farm lay to our right and beyond that, Lower Bassibones Farm. What curious names. I wonder what Google will throw up. It didn't disappoint. We, your hosts, have lived in the rural Chilterns for over thirty years and will be proud and pleased to share this beautiful, but little known, part of England. We are also seasoned travellers ourselves, having walked and rambled in many countries in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres and are sympathetic to the needs of like-minded, fellow travellers. It is because we have become so aware of the beauty of our very own "Really English" lifestyle and because we have discovered how difficult it is to escape the tourist route abroad, that we have opened our home to overseas visitors. A week at Lower Bassibones Farm is a rare opportunity to experience REAL England. In order not to become drawn into the commercialisation of tourism, we have limited the hosting of our walkers' visits to just one week a month throughout the summer (June - September inclusive) being anxious to avoid the temptation of tailoring our lifestyle to suit the expectations of our guests, rather than vice versa. We have striven to maintain a balance between the comfort and high standards expected by discerning international travellers, and the authentic lifestyle of a typically English country home. Any week in a single month can be made available to welcome house guests, but once that date is selected and a maximum of eight visitors confirmed, no further reservations will be undertaken that month. What have we missed? What will the walkers enjoy? I will tell you. A mud bath. From Bassibones, it was literally all downhill following too closely the route that water takes under the influence of gravity. Till we went up the hill, to come straight down again. Did the Duke of York get his inspiration from a walking holiday in the Chilterns? Who knows. The H and L split was a moment of enlightenment. “L” stood for long. A double bluff if ever I met one. Then back to the comforts of the pub. Mike Swan celebrated 250 HASH runs with a spectacular T shirt showing his predilection for pink hair before it became a source of income and a cake along the same lines. Your scribe held round two of the P&O quiz, which was duly won by Gerry in the absence of Simon. Well done. Perhaps we should have asked some of the new “A” level passees to partake to introduce some competition. (I think not). Thank you Gerry. Please excuse the rambling.
Run
No 711 Confused all the Way “The Wheel” should have been a warning that this 7/11 hash wouldn't turn exactly as Roger had planned. He made the mistake of admitting that he was being economical with the flour by not marking back arrows, only the number. There was also a brainteaser for us to ponder which split into an 'O' and 'P' route. A turn right out of the pub saw the hilarious sight of the GM being dragged by Frumpy trying to take a dump along Naphills “main road”. Then a left turn into Stocking Lane where amazingly there were no jokes about “runs” or “ladders” because everyone had missed the check (ed’s note: other jokes were “suspended”). There was a lot of moaning about the size of “blobs being smaller than a Malteaser” and David vowed to have a whip round (collecting an impressive 5p) so that Roger could buy more flower (special see in the dark variety). We were bleated at by Roger (perhaps allegorically) to go up over the footpath into little stocking wood (ed’s note: illiterate people can ask what it means). Perhaps Gerry had caught on by this time because, at the mere mention of the word “stocking” he trapped his foot in a hole and he came crashing down to earth. 'O' or 'Orrible' route 14 of us groaned and panted up the hill into the nettles looking for non-existent Malteasers. Eventually we arrived at a road to the sound of GM shouting “Come on you fools, it's this way,” taking us into the darkness of Courns wood. On Ons were very sparse at this stage, but we made it to Walter's Ash and this is where the sheep really lost their way. Momentarily, the flock split to backtrack; some knocked on the door of “Ye Olde Cottage” which was answered by “Ye Olde man” who declared, “It's a long way, it's over a mile, the other side of the village.” The flock reunited at the main road to some unconfirmed rumours that only the Brits could get lost when we live in a country the size of a postage stamp… (she will not be named). On On home to the pub where only hashers would sit huddled together under three umbrellas in preference to an empty warm, dry bar. The P runners route Back at the pub The GMs speech afterwards presented Roger with a Jolly Roger t-shirt, mainly for having “a vast behind” but also for completing his 200th run that evening. The hash miserably failed to acknowledge Mike Swan for his even more impressive 250th hash that same evening, but reparations will be made and the guilty punished. As for the 'P' and 'O', I am reliable informed they stood for 'Parallel' (to contours of the map) and 'O' for orthogonal which is something to do with right angled lines, but since the wrong trails were taken, a more suitable word would be 'Obtuse'. I don't think anyone “got
it”, so the official answer is :
Date
: 10th
August 2004 FLASH MOB AT HEDGERLEY Well that's what it must have looked like to the locals. A sleepy summer evening at the normally placid Hedgerley was replaced by the organised chaos known as HWH3 when van loads of hashers of all shapes and sizes well alright 44 actually, descended on the village to partake in the arcane ritual of 'ashin. Phil, admirably assisted by Lesley, Janet and a supporting cast of thousands had set up a triple whammy. A hash ordinaire with both short and long options, a kids hash and a walkers trail. A special order had been placed with the local flour wholesaler to supply the “K , L and S” trails as evidenced by the half a bucket full spilled just up the road from the venue which did sort of give a clue as to the on on. “Ooh ah my goodness it's huge” is not a phrase which I have heard used since inadvertently walking into the plant repair shop at work one xmas where the boys were viewing one of Steve Sheep Shagger Szeffer's cultural videos. It definitely applied to this hash however although not for quite the same reasons. Eventually, after much milling about, we set off passing the pub, up Village Lane to take the right hand track up to the edge of Church Wood where we rather surprisingly took a right back down the just scaled hill. It was on this track that Lenore decided that she wanted to examine the mud a bit more closely, taking a nose dive into the shiggy. There are dark tales of being nudged mudwards but, having been a little off the pace, I cannot comment. Apparently brown is this year’s black in fashion circles but what do I know. I think Lenore made a pit stop for repairs but seemed to reappear later on so hopefully no harm was done. We then ran on up through the churchyard between those who are definitely slower than me and into the aforementioned Church Wood to be presented with seemingly endless options, several of which were populated by the kids who seemed to have a knack of getting in front of us in spite of those little legs. Lesley managed to caress a root with her foot at this juncture but, after limping gingerly for a while, soon returned to full throttle. We eventually emerged just down the lane from the pub where, despite cries of “I can see the pub so it's on in”, Phil ushered us left and then right up Kiln Lane then on towards Pennlands Farm up a boulder strewn track to arrive at that wonderous feature, a short/long option. For those of us going short, the trail led up over a field to emerge at The Yew Tree on the Farnham Road. Phil was asked whether he had set up a tab but this seemed to fall on deaf ears, particularly as he was busy examining some magazines which he said were “the other half of the dodgy ones”. We will not elucidate on this pronouncement. A delightful rummage about in the woodland strip between the Farnham Road and the lane down to The One Pin was followed by emerging onto said lane and a straight pull down to Hollybush Corner where the woodland option looked and indeed was the right one. Running through the woods, we again encountered the young hashers who were busy giving the pheasants earache as they progressed. Over now to our long run correspondent David “Benchbreaker” Griffiths. The scribe was wise to do a short cut. Up a steep hill across the A355 and into Burnham Beeches would NOT have pleased him! Here in the Beeches we encountered a truly rare flour mark. One worthy of an “Oscar Night Nomination”. Despite Phil's detailed and authoritative “pay attention to detail everyone including you kids” briefing before we set off from the pub, he hadn't actually told us what a single line of flour across a path meant. It even confused Peter Mitchell, (known for his ability to react to his own brand of direction interpretations, - to alarming effect). The pack turned once, once again, rechecked, - but until a rather pitiful suggestion from Phil's co hare Lesley indicated to the GM that she “rather thought that the way was straight over the aforesaid line”, did we pick up the trail again. Lesley, loyal to the last, opined that she thought that Phil's offending white line was meant to force everyone off the path and into a six-foot deep puddle along side the path. - Oh Phil, where did that one come from? Trailwalker perhaps! The time taken to run back over the A355 and into the woods was still insufficient time for the pack's banter to work out the meaning of the single white line episode. Back to yours truly. Running through the woods we could see plumes of smoke rising up. Was it a fire, was it Phil torching the aforementioned dodgy mags, no it was the ladies ably assisted by some of the kids doing a barby complete with some cold beers. The pronouncement was that this was for Gerry who had been unable to do the Ridgeway and hence fill his boots afterwards. Having “sausaged up” and taken on essential fluids, a nice run down Hedgerley Hill led all and sundry back to the pub for some more essential reflation. Well done Phil, Lesley and all others remotely responsible.
Run
No 709 Petanque Paradise
@ Bovingdon Green Yet another world record car parking record even before we started out! Potential Petanque Parties at the pub, (alliteration?), caused the record to be broken. Now, Jonesy our Hare, who obviously had spent much of his youth panicking and flapping his arms furiously throughout his commercial life, decided to put this practice to great effect. Someone, somewhere within the environs of industry had evidently noticed this inherent semaphore trait of his and had suggested that, in retirement, he should either become an On Course Bookmakers Clerk or that he attend a course in traffic management at the National Car Parks Induction Training centre in Aldershot. Luckily for the Hash, he attended the latter and obviously graduated with honours. The sight of Jones standing in the middle of Chalkpit Lane waving his arms in all four points of the compass was the first indication to all and sundry that we had indeed arrived at the correct location. But for his attention to detail and for his practical interpretation of the rigorous and highly intensive training methods at NCP HQ, - how else could he have got 20 cars parked within a space big enough to take only 3, and park them on a double bend in a country lane listed at the top of the Thames Valley League of accident black spots? The “Left hand down a bits” and the “You're OK there's” must have put off the Pub's Petanque Playing Punters prior to their push off, (alliteration?) before we set off on our Himalayan Odyssey. Lest you should be concerned for his welfare, -don't be. I'm told his next assignment will be as The Harrow Road Traffic Warden on Cup Final Day in Wembley We should have known we were in for his wrath and ire by way of revenge to Phil Crookes following the beetroot like look on his face after running the final leg in the heat to Wallingford Bridge on Sunday. The “shit, I'm knackered“ comment he made before permanently depositing himself in the canvas chair for the rest of the afternoon should have been an ominous sign to us all. “ It's a bit hilly around here” he opined at the briefing Hilly? Hilly? That is probably the understatement of the year, 'cos personally I found every hill in the county. Now, I admit that I broke the one unwritten rule of the Hash. (NEVER DO A CHECK DOWNHILL), but one foolish concrete drive sortie of mine involved a hill that was so steep that the construction company had thoughtfully inserted permanent crampon and rope devices into the edges of the pavement to enable people like me ascend the driveway in order to rejoin the Hash, - that by now had disappeared into the distance. Tahir wisely opted out of the mountain goat experience, took the short way back to the pub and buggered off home. Lesley, despite the 7000 odd verbal warnings put her foot firmly into the only rabbit hole on the entire route, - (Moose you may have a rival here), and Simon wished it to be put on record that he did the most Palmerisms of the evening's entertainment. ... So we have now done it, by way of this missive. “Let the record show”…. etc. Wayne, (welcome back), and Lenore did their utmost to turn their ankles by descending helter skelter the steep gully resembling a dark sewer down from Highruse Wood. However it took Barney with his Foreign Legion hat and plastic water bottle to bring some decorum to the Hash by walking sedately down the aforesaid effluent ditch together with the Hare. More hills and more well thought out Falsies. By the end it was getting dark and nobody knew where we were, which is good for lowering the morale of the pack, then raising it again on sight of the pub from an alien and obtuse angle. Mick, a well thought out run in good weather. Just the right length in view of the hills. Thank you. Good to see Brian Webber and Linda running with us again. Lots of possibilities for this Month's Oscar Night here! Paradoxically perhaps, the peeved pub patronizing personnel with a penchant for Petanque had pissed off pretty promptly, - perhaps pondering the perils of a portentous pack of pathetic posing podgy perspiring plonkers providing plentiful platitudinous pithy personal post-mortem pleasantries about phenomenally precipitous panoramic ploughland, thus pervading and polluting private party proceedings, particularly as they had been planned perennially. In all pretty perplexing.
Run
No.
708 Marathon Training - Putting the Miles In When leaving Buckinghamshire and crossing the water to Berkshire, I wasn't sure if you needed a passport, so I packed it anyway. The Hash doesn't usually leave Bucks, so a trip to a foreign country needs a little planning. First of all will I need a passport? is the money the same? and then there's the language? Berkshire being a Royal county the lingo can't be same and will the locals understand me, I wondered if I could grasp the local lingo quickly enough. What is going to happen when I say something like “Sh*t I've forgotten me trainers” when they would expect to hear “Gosh! One appears to be without one's plimsolls” and “I say you there (Oi! Mate). One's horse seems to have thrown a shoe (That nags knackered pal)” and so on. Crossing the water at Marlow Bridge the coast of Berkshire is soon in sight. Once on dry land, we drive hard for a full 15 minutes, our destination being a tyre burning distance inland. We arrive at Holyport, not that hard to find as local maps are really quite good. This is where the fun begins, it is difficult to make myself understood by the good people of the village as I've left the Bucks-Berks translation book at home, not thinking I'd need it on a short trip like this. Three times we asked, three times we got sent in the wrong direction, finally roaring into the carpark in a cloud of dust and gravel with seconds to spare, more by luck than judgment. Not a great turn out considering the warm evening, but then I understand a number of hashers were hassled by the Customs on Marlow Bridge. I, of course, looking as I do a pillar of respectability, got through okay. Tahir then gave the opening instructions. This is a foreign country, try to conduct yourselves in a proper manner, no laughing at the natives, don't steal anything and try not drinking the water, and with that we were off. There was a low turn out as I have already said, so a serious lack of FRB's, what with injuries, holidays, customs police etc. So more than a fair share of the checking was down to me. Only a mile in and I find myself checking out a cemetery, in a mark of respect, I think it's only right to walk, not tear around like a mad goat and run. No trail so returned to check. Gone! the Hash has gone! Not out of your head gone, but disappeared gone. Oh! No, my God I'm lost again, this has happened before (most weeks actually). I'm saved, some chap out walking his dog points me in the right direction. On then to a gravel pit. Gravel being a major export and revenue earner for Berkshire. Here we find a man launching a tennis ball with a tennis racket into the water for his dog to retrieve. Training him as ball boy for the wetter days at Wimbledon he tells us. On On and we're away to marvel at a fine piece of civil engineering, that Berkshire can be justly proud. The motorway bridge which carries the M4 over the Thames, fair takes the breath away. Mind you, that might be all this running about that causes the breathless problem. Along the Thames past Monkey Island, and over a bridge not too unlike the foot bridge at Hurley, and back to more gravel workings. On On again towards Firfield down a busy road dodging the traffic. Right, into a country lane, On On some more. Hang on one cotton picking minute. It's 10 past 9, we're in the middle of the boonies, it's getting dark and no one knows where the Hell we are, not even Peter and he lives in this manor (now there's a surprise), all we can do is keep running. Steve's in front and is calling like mad, we follow him. We have him in sight, he has the scent of the pub, the end is in sight. We thought the end was in sight, but the pub isn't, so we run on, and we run on some more. Fed up with running now, we just want to be back…please! We run on. Bridleway, stile, field and on. Jeez! How much ble**ing further and on. The rest is a bit of a blur. All I remember is standing in the car park next to my car, how I got there I don't know. I don't know how far we ran, But Tahir told me that he checked out about 8 miles for this hash, started to set it, thought it was a shame to waste any, so decided to set the blo*dy lot!!! Just enough energy to lift a shandy to my lips and return home to Bucks. And now a big thank you. The following morning I couldn't find my mobile phone. Like a bell end, I'd only left it in the pub. Thinking it lost I rang it anyway. “Allo,” said a Voice at the other end. “You've got my phone,” I said. “Too right I have, it's behind the bar just come and collect it.” It cost me all my loose change in the charity box, but I got my phone back.To the staff at the White Hart: Thanks!! Cheers!!
Run
No. 707 Many things in life tend to happen on a yearly cycle. The seasons, migrations, the Great British Beer Festival, druids holding pagan festivals each solstice. It was no surprise then that upon being pressed to hare another hash, the Moose went glassy eyed, began perspirating heavily and gasped out that summer venue ritually set by the Horizontal Hasher ------ The Bounty, or as Moose actually put it The Baaaantee. Another ritual which annually precedes this run is the total confusion and immense angst to be observed in Bourne End station car park. “Oh b----cks we’ve got to pay” was a frequently heard phrase. The machine in the car park has instructions which are so obscure that I believe them to be sanscrit but of the most clever dialect specifically designed to extract the maximum cash from anyone actually wanting to park. After a great debate, Ken opted for the painful insertion of £2 into the machine. Others followed suit until Roger, being the exceedingly clever fellow that he is, translated the sanscrit and announced that the correct charge was only 90p. A low sobbing sound could be heard from Ken and other by now lightened pocketed hashers. Some portly geezer with a dog who seemed to be completely hiccious doccious appeared to throw in his comments following which we actually started the run. Going from the car park down to the towpath, we encountered Moose completely blocking the right hand option which gave a bit of a clue as to the “on inn”. So we duly went left, up Camden Place forking right along a narrow path to emerge in Station Road near the garage owned by John the Car ( an acquaintance of my mate Dave Mines a Pint Fowler). Déjà vu set in as we, like the previous Mooseathon set from here, ran up Furlong Road and set off along the disused railway line towards Wooburn Town. Any ideas that we had seen it all before were, however, soon dismissed as we immediately hit a Pamela Anderson then to be ushed up the loooooooooong grassy track towards Ronalds Wood stopping on the way at a “V” which Moose had stated was for “view” but which I personally felt should have been for “ very long slog up hill”. The view was very nice but was obscured for some by the dripping sweat from ones bonce. On briefly to a check where we hung a sharp left onto a path that ran gently down to Brantridge Lane at the bottom of which disaster struck I.G.S.H. (Gerry to us mere mortals). Had the warp drive failed, was the ion transfer system no longer transferring --- no it was a pulled muscle. We forged onwards,
now without Gerry, running down past that educational home of ill
repute Wye Valley School A cunning right
hander into Fishermans Road was followed by a zip along Loddon Road
to emerge on Blind Lane. Those of us of the shorter persuasion took a steady lope along the Marlow Road passing (isn’t life cruel !!!) The Black Lion whilst the long cutters took a large detour via Green Dragon Lane, Chapman Lane and Elm Lane to emerge by the aforementioned Black Lion. Smoothing down Coldmoorholme Lane towards Spade Oak, a further metallurgic split occurred with us Goldies carrying straight on, past Enid Blyton’s cottage, the Brewers Fayre emporium and down to the towpath whilst I am reliably informed that the Platinums went right, along the field edge and then left over the rickety bridge to run around the lake. No doubt many twitchers spending a quiet evening were really pleased to have the hashing hordes descend upon them hollering “On On” although at least Rob Green, who is well known for mooning, had gone Gold to spare them from a binocular full of his bottle and glass. The longun’s then ran down, crossing the railway track to join the towpath somewhat further away from base than us shortun’s. A straight pull along the towpath followed although, for some reason, various of our brethren seemed to still be coming in at irregular intervals over the next half hour. Over to The Bounty for a well earned beer where, delightfully, the party from Westinghouse who’s boat was tied up alongside the pub unwittingly picked up the tab for my round. Yes, there really is someone up there. Nice one Moose. Mick
Run
No 706 At last. A summer HASH as they are meant to be. Like the good ol' days when we were young. But to begin at the beginning… Some years ago, but very definitely not 50 years ago, Audrey's mother gave birth to a princess who she called Audrey. Over the next 40 years, Audrey matured and blossomed until she became Queen Hirschfield of Bolter End, a small principality near London. On the occasion
of her next birthday, she determined to show to her people the beauty
of her possessions. As it was not a HASH dinner she kept her clothes
on and, instead, determined to show them the wonders of her realm.
All was well in the heavens. We had a bright light to guide us, and warm air to caress our skin. Does anyone remember the last time this was so? Audrey declared, before we set off, that this was to be an “Oooh-Aaagh” run, on account of the stunning views that were to be seen as we went around and the noise that we would be obliged to make. In this respect she was absolutely right, as this area contains some of the most dramatic sweeps in all of the county. When Audrey set the run, she was accompanied by King Gary. Some of the route was marked in flour, some in sawdust. As far as I could tell, KG's task was to carry some logs around and grind them up as required. I did innuend (a verb derived from the noun. The spell chequer hates it, ed’s note - I think he means Onomatopee - or is that Ade I am thinking about?) that the run was called the “Oooh-Aaagh” run for other reasons, it being an amalgam of more basic grunts. (It was Audrey's birthday after all). But Audrey said she was a lady, and ladies don't make noises like that. Kerry might, but not Audrey. As is fairly common these days, there was to be a longer section for the FRB hounds (note, after Audrey's award of the monthly Toscar for running with the FRBs, she has now gone one stage further and traveled both the long AND the shorter paths). Unusually, this was to be at the beginning. Thinking about it, this is no bad thing, as it makes it more of a “hare and hounds” chase to catch up. From the pub, the FRBs went north east towards Cadmore End, climbing up through Hanger Wood, before turning south west and descending backing down to Chequers Lane, where we rejoined the main path. Ooogh-Aaagh 1 (OA1) was observed just leaving the wood. The main pack went west and then north to the conjunction at Chequers Lane skirting along Hanging Wood (Q. Does Ed Snoat know whether there is any significance in the names?) (Ed Hanging Wood is an old Bucks phrase meaning a small strip of woodland . Not sure about chequers unless they are hashers who check?). At Chequers Lane, we found the first of several messages left for us on the ground. “Catch us if you can”. The challenge had been issued; the chase was on. Up and down to Turville passing Cobstone Mill (disused) (I must admit that I did not see this except when I looked back from Skirmett.) and Oa2. Another message on the ground. “Where are you?” The rabbits are getting cocky!! Up and down through Combe Wood and OA3. On the descent, we ran down a Swann and then the hares. At the road, we waited awhile for the back markers to catch up and then be given the option of a short shortcut along the valley. Some took up this arduous challenge while the rest opted for the easy climb up the east face of the valley. Adams Wood, Mousells
Wood and Goddards Wood (OA4) fell to our rampant pack before we were
humbled. As we descended back into Fingest some of the FRBs ignored
a “5 back”. Off with their heads? The GM had other ideas. QA had two more delights to give to us: Frites a la jardin (eventually when barmaid deigned) A ding bat quiz. Needless to say, IGSH consulted his computer HAL and won (ed's note, actually I thought Whipping Boy had won by a short head and a large score, he certainly scored more than the editor). I came a credible nth, just one point ahead of Simon. (Ed: Perhaps you won?) Excellent run Audrey. May all your remaining birthdays before you reach 50 be as pleasurable.
Flatsville
Your scribe did not have to rack his brains too long to find a suitable adjective to describe this run. Flat seemed the most suitable. With a rise and fall of only 2 ft over the entire run, Barney had shaken off the ignominy of running up the 6,000 steps from the River Thames at Cliveden the week before, in one fell swoop. Well done Barney. How I landed “Frumpy” as a running mate, I don’t really know. Was it the fact that I was feeling Flat before I started? Was this a devious Crawshaw ploy not to have to pay for a dog walker? There he was alongside me, his tail a’waggin and that soppy look in his eyes. What can you do? So Me an’ Frumps were suddenly new best mates and on leaving the pub had to endure the inevitable banter from the rest of the pack about running companions, who’s leading who? Just look at that Flathead etc, etc Past a block of Flats into a Flat cow pasture where I nearly fell Flat on my face as Frumps decided not to go under the stile. On On, past a Flat capped farmer looking deFlated after several attempts to get his Flatbed lorry started. It was at this point that Janet decided to go in for a bit of Flat racing. She emitted a quick burst of Flatulence on seeing a herd of bullocks charge towards us and promptly went into a Flat spin and attempted to Flatten us all against the hedge in her desire to get the world land speed record for Flat out stile jumping. Now I admit that I’m a bit Flat footed and that I should Flatter all lady runners occasionally but all these bullocks needed was a short, sharp (or Flat) inducement to Bugger Off. Janet succeeded in causing abject panic into the animal on the lead beside me and Frumps went off like a rocket leaving me utterly spent. So, On On across a road the Flat-footed band of Hashers went, into nettled hedgerows, through cornfields full of Flatworm in cracks in the path the size of the Mont Blanc Glacier. We were going so fast at one stage that I thought it was the Flat season at Newmarket. Frumps re-found his master, (thank Gawd) and here was I running Flat out after a devious Palmerism when I spied a beautiful mirage in a field. Barney, bless him, and his wife Elayne had supplied refreshments at the half way stage. When I arrived, (last one there), the short cutters were already getting stuck into the ale and chocolate Swiss rolls and Lenore was already making Flat denials to someone who obviously thought she had missed a Palmerism. I said I was still feeling Flat and shitty after my Trailwalker recce and asked how far it was back to the Pub. Mick said that I would be there in 5 minutes Flat if I followed him, - which I did. (He was right). David Flattered me (Gerry) into writing a few words about the long section of the run. About 50 yards out after the beer-stop, I remembered that running and beer don't mix well, actually they do - they conflate the beer - so I now know what a fizzy drink feels like when it has been shaken by a small boy who wants to give someone a frothy shock! After what seemed like several miles of gentle burping, while running somewhat less than Flat out, we turned left and left again to head back in the same general direction we had just come from. There were several paths across the field, I fortunately took the correct one, Steve (who was checking) went the wrong way and decided to carry on as the paths should meet, while running through the waist-high crops, he looked as if his legs were missing and he had become a Flat bottomed boat floating gently across a sea of wheat. (Question, what do you call a man with no arms and legs, floating in the sea Answer Bob! ...... Question 2 - what do you get if you drop a piano down a mine? - A Flat Minor!). Eventually he made his way back to the one true path where his legs were miraculously restored. Soon we arrived at a check at which anyone but a moron would have gone straight on – so naturally I turned right and ended up loosing sight of the pack and wading through copious (and sharp) brambles both going out and coming back. Eventually the pub hove into view and I could burp one last sigh of deflating relief and hand the narrative back to David. Back at the pub the same Flat capped locals were poking through the smoke ridden haze some coloured balls with sticks on a Flat topped bit of slate covered in green baize. (I suppose you’ve got to get your kicks somehow in Flatsville). The garden was the healthiest place to be for tuned athletes. I was calmly drinking my cold lager when out of the pub came Gerry, Mick, Ade imitating the Landlady. “Sorry, no Bitter on tap ‘ere mate, only Mild”. Guess what? Not only was it warm, apparently, it was Flat. Thanks Barney for a good run which was enjoyed by all, - and for the mirage in the field. |
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