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Q1 2006
The author of the deception David “Benchbreaker” Griffith in covets with Lesley the Blonde were out for revenge for Gerry's past trickery. I am sure none of us knew exactly how David intended to hatch this and I for one was quite apprehensive. More so when it was discovered he'd not told the landlord of our parking requirements. Anyway after much fluster about 20 hashers, a walker and 3 dogs set off up a steep hill to intercept Gerry's run and soon found signs of flour. David thought the real hash would be coming over the hill and down through the wood and we were to hide at the edge of the wood while David did a reconnaissance on their progress. It's odd when
you're on the move you don't notice the wind and rain not until waiting
for a bus or half way up a hill ready to surprise Gerry's hash! More confusion halfway down the hill where a “B” some how meant run back up the hill again. Well having missed the bit about the run rules I thought Gerry was just trying to get even over David's deception. Anyway eventually they all came back down the hill again ending up in Fingest at the Chequers where the “deceptors” had started! The trails checked out passed the church and up a footpath to a wood where more goody/party bags on offer on a seek to find basis for us who had not been lucky or quick enough previously. My goody bag contained a Lion Bar, Cadburys Cream Egg and a fetching black slip to wear! Eh? Discovering the difficulties of negotiating a slippery woodland path whilst eating a Lion Bar we proceeded though the wood crossing the road that leads up to Frieth and round the bottom of Turville Hill to the next check which was also the point for choosing the long or short trail. The fit and active FRB's checked it out and called the on up Turville Hill towards the windmill at the top. The short route indicated by Gerry was to be into the village and on down the road to Skirmett. At this point, with a dastardly grin, Gerry suggested we have a short break before taking the shorter route as he knew that the trail up Turville Hill was false and that they would all be coming back down from their 200 foot climb very soon. Well the shorter route took us through the village and down a footpath along Watery Lane leading back to the Frog in Skirmett. However as we had left our motors in Fingest it was decided to make a left turn and head back to pick up our cars. The Frog had
an excellent drop of ale and with our own room full of party balloons
we enjoyed a multitude of chips and a scrumptious birthday cake.
Being smart, and knowing I was going to be busy for a few days, I jotted down a few notes about the Hash as soon as I got home. Being a bloke I lost them. So what follows is a combination of half remembered events and fiction. The evening started, as usual, with everyone ignoring the hare as he went through the rules. Somewhat more unusual was that when I checked down Lee Road I actually found the first blob! I wish I hadn’t as it seemed at least ½ mile before we got to the second one and I was totally Cream Crackered. Even Ade (who to be fair was suffering from a hangover) whinged that it was a long way to go for a body running out of alcohol). Phil also had over-indulged the night before and was well below his usual form. The trail took us left towards the Chiltern Hundreds (Aside, under a resolution of the House of Commons on 2 March 1623, Members of Parliament cannot resign. Instead they have to apply for a paid office of the Crown, which automatically disqualifies them. There are only two offices allowable and the Steward and Bailiff of the Chiltern Hundreds is one of them). The next check took us left towards Slough Glebe Farm and was memorable mainly as it was one of two checks on the hash that were both almost exactly ¾ mile long! – I know as I measured them later. Phew, in other walks of life big checks are great – but not for a tired and weary hasher! The next check was the long-short split. Sadly for Matthew he had just been caught by a back check, had seen a torch and had gone a huge distance back just to find it was walker Dave! (Actually Dave caught up with us while we were milling around and chatting rather than checking at the split!) A short 200 yards further took us to a check near Dean Farm – followed by the second massive ¾ miler along the side of the valley! If you have ever considered Barny as a nice fellow the next part of the run is sure to change your mind. Faced with two options, a gentle 200 yard stroll along a gently downward road, or an unnecessary 700 yard loop up the Great North face of the Eiger to Piper’s Hanging Wood, what did he do? Yup, you guessed it and up we went! What was worse was that our beloved GM phoned me while I was puffing and wheezing on the mountainside to tell me he had just arrived at the pub and was ordering a leisurely dinner! Grrrr! As soon as we reached the top we did a “Duke of York” and went straight down again, ending up on Slough Lane and on the way to Saunderton. Crossing over the A4010 we hashed up Smalldean Lane for what seemed to be the third of the two ¾ mile checks before turning left into Munt’s Wood, where the glaringly obvious path over the stile escaped everyone’s attention for some minutes. Eventually we reached Callows Hill and Ade called On-On straight ahead. This was a pity as the trail went left and I ran back up the hill I had been checking down only to be told I was going the right way in the first place! The downward slope through the woods was pretty, steep and fraught with moose traps and I think it was near here that poor Helen twisted her ankle. We emerged into a wide vista of valley and I remember thinking that the pub must still be little further along the valley. So I checked that way. Someone had meanly dug up the pub and moved it making me check the wrong way (again). I also twisted my ankle a little running down the soft earth path, but the sight of the pub was a cheery one and the beer either cured my ankle or at least made me forget it for a while. In the carpark I had parked next to Des and the two runners he brought with him. I was impressed at their forethought when they broke out hot coffee, croissants and Eccles cakes while they were changing! (A Tosca nomination for sure.) In the pub Jo
promised that as it is my Birthday next week she would wear the T
shirt I made that she won at the Christmas Bash. But it was the way
she used her hands to demonstrate the fact that it was “interestingly
tight and cuddly” that made it stick in my mammery – err
sorry memory. Next week should be interesting!
Run
No. 796 Wot no 'at. I thought I'd got away with it,{writing the runs report that is} Gerry not being at the hash on Tuesday last weeks runs report not on the web site, I was hoping that some kind of over worked element would kick in and I would be let off the hook. No such luck, as on returning back to the shop on Saturday afternoon a note had been sellotaped to the fax machine, it said simply " runs report". That runs report sinking feeling you all know what I mean. This was a well run hash, Plenty of flour, easy to follow Good trail, not to long, not to short, not too muddy, everyone back at the pub safely, I'm stuffed what am I going to write? Well there's only one thing for it, Noddy's 'ashin' in Amersham.... No that don't work either. Right, as its got to be a load of old flannel, try this. As you all know. last week saw the death of political correctness in Tony Blair’s Britain. Our glorious leader's traditional English folk songs gig at the Falcon, did not hit the spot with the land lady. Benchbreaker unplugged lasted not two songs, when proceedings where brought to an abrupt end with a ticking off by the land lady. Good taste had been put back fifty years, mind you everyone else in the pub thought it was fantastic, but after ten minutes the ungodly Benchbreaker was given his marching orders, along with his followers. So it was the following Tuesday that the unholy rabble met out side the Saracens Head, laughing and joking and generally giving a wickedly good time. Enter Maurice... Pastor Maurice, a God fearing man, a man of religion, a man about to put the fear of God up these sniveling creeping sinners, oh yes, things were going to change and for the better, if God’s not my witness. First, a stern lecture. "Tonight my children you will run, yes, run like you have never run before, Run like the Devil himself is on your tail. You will not be tempted by the short trail that will lead to damnation and the fires of hell. Yeah, err ok
then, we got started. Lo and behold brothers and sisters, the path
of righteousness was looked for and found, yes its was found, praise
be to the lord, on the other side of the road to the pub. The assembled
throng made hast across the road to ruin that is the A 404 to High
Wycombe. The sinners crossed the high street of Amersham, the devils own town, and on, and on pushed forward by the urgings of the good pastor. At the next check, no paths lead to heaven, only false paths, the bible says "take not the false path" (the hash bible being the good pub guide). So the false path was not taken and the hash was delivered to the kingdom of heaven, that is Amersham on the Hill. Well not really the kingdom of heaven, but hey give me a break this is not easy. The penance was working, full of righteousness now, the hash was presented with a test, had the hash seen the light. Glory be, had the hash seen the light, or was that just the beam from Roger's head torch. The test was easy temptation of the short route, or the sanctification of the righteousness of the long route. Praise the lord, praise him. Some yes sinners, and we know who you are, ever to burn in the fires of hell, may the lord have mercy, some were backsliding and took to the short route. But most yes, hallelujah, most, took the long route and were blessed and were received into the chapel at the Saracens Head, Pastor Maurice was much pleased. In the chapel the were host of sinners dining on the fruits of the devil, and drinking the devils brew. Benchbreaker get your guitar out, and sing these sinners some hymns.... Better not...
Run
No. 795 It was a very wet and miserable night as the band of Hashers met at The Falcon in Loudwater, Buckinghamshire. Moose was our hare for the evening’s entertainment and therefore it was he who summoned us together and duly gave us a warning to be quick when crossing the main railway line to Birmingham as the trains tend to go rather fast. Was he implying hashers don’t? The Moose then informed those of us you hadn’t worked it out yet that is was a miserable night ‘so lets keep the hash running and lets get this over with’! That’s the marvellous thing about the hash, we do it despite the fact that often at the start, most of us would be happy to go straight into the pub and miss the run altogether, a view we then completely reverse once we have run back to the pub! We run for the sense of belonging, of being proud hashers and probably because we are all slightly strange. More on acting strange later! As we prepared to start, and possibly to avoid any mutiny, Moose promise us all a treat when we returned!! What could such a treat be we wondered? It was at that precise time that somewhere else in deepest Wycombe a young man was picking up his guitar, combing his hair and telling his Mum he would be back by 11.00pm little realising that he and his mate Colin were definitely not in for a treat! Our first ‘on-on’ was called, which took us left and along a footpath. Next was and ‘on right’ and along to a road from which no one seemed keen to check it out, a trend that stayed with us for most of the wet evening. As we ran through the woods the chanting of ‘roots’ could be heard as we snaked our way to a car park where a young lady was busy trying to work out what the devil we were up to and whether she should get back in her car and drive! While waiting again due to a lack of keen checkers, Gerry was stating how he is one and half stones overweight. Lenore duly prodded his stomach to check what was padding and what was not, it all seemed to be padding. (Ed's note some, but regretfully not all of it, it was a hat) As we ran on
up the road and over the motorway, someone noticed that Lesley had
‘view’ written on her posterior! Who, why and how someone
noticed this I do not know? We ran past a large notice stating that
we were entering ‘South Bucks District’ now that’s
interesting, so I feel duty bound to mention it! Also of interest
is that we ran very close to where Lesley old boyfriend lives. As
we passed the Harvester, Moose quoted the famous line ‘Have
you been to a Harvester before’? To which one of the reply was
‘no I never go out, I’m a Hasher’ As we ran down another very muddy hill in the dark, in the rain, feeling cold, with our little torches trying to look for blobs of flour, barely managing to shout a tired on-on and acting like demented sheep on valium, Lesley and Roger were busy discussing the high use of drugs within society these days. Roger said he would not take drugs because he was worried it might make him act strangely! (Ed's note, perhaps Roger's alcohol and tobacco aren't drugs?) Downhill we went and came out to civilisation by Tesco (well civilisation of a sort) and then turned right at the Bombay Dream (I wonder if there is a fish and chip restaurant in Bombay called the Wycombe Dream?) As we came down to the pub and under the motorway we passed two large flour drawn feet, which I believe signified ‘On-In’. Moose as this point suggested I call the run ‘The Big Foot Run.’ This I would have done it is wasn’t for the treat that followed! I therefore believe the run should be named after the band that was formed in Loudwater that very night namely ‘GM and his wild men of rock’. At 9.20pm a band of wet hashers returned to the cars and began the usual old and furtive dance routine of trying to change from being wet, cold and smelly to warm, dry and smelly while standing in the rain and trying not to let our dried feet touch the wet ground. The pub seems a quaint old pub with a relaxed group of locals, which included Colin and his mate who we mentioned earlier. While we were all getting cold and wet they had been enjoying playing their guitars quietly and relaxingly by the lovely roaring fire, dreaming of one day playing to a packed house at the Wycombe Swan. I imagine that they would not describe what was to follow as ‘a treat’. Others however did like the GM's over-loud rendition of various "rugby" songs, some didn’t understand it, but most were is a quite surprised mood and continued to eat their gratefully supplied chips in silence. While the landlord would agreed with Colin view all would agree it was an unforgettable evening! If one believes that time is indeed a healer I believe that before I am called to the final ‘on-in’ we will in deed be allowed back to The Falcon with open arms and perhaps a police escort! Please
note:
Run
No. 793
The map was a nice idea but somewhat unusable following Mark saying “ignore the yellow markings” which was the only thing about the map which was likely to give anyone a clue as to where we were going. I would say, however, that the mellow yellow drizzle looked like the map had been used as a placemat in a Thai restaurant which it probably had. Anyhow, an immediate bonus as Mark unveiled a shortcut from the pub. “Save yourselves ‘alf a mile” he whispered Whilst the longs cut across the common and presumably went round the back of the Brickmakers Arms, us shorties zipped down the road before climbing the hill (drat) to pick up the footpath at the end of the common and onto Piddington Lane. Once on the lane the confusion which often comes as a natural part of shortcuts set in. Whilst Aud and I effortlessly smoothed downhill, Kerry reminded us that we had sailed past a check at the top of the hill. Being convinced that Mark had meant us to cruise to the bottom however, we ignored this advice and continued downwards with such assurance that the other shorties soon followed. Alas, at the bottom no flour. Oh bother. “Told you so – didn’t listen” said Kerry. Back up the hill – funny how it seemed a lot shorter coming down. Another long short cut !! At the check we checked. No sign of any flour. No sign of the longs either until they eventually arrived having done what must have been a very long ‘alf mile add on. It transpired that the trail did indeed go exactly where we thought it did i.e. right past Oakridge Farm and on through the woods to emerge on the footpath next to Bullocks Lane. A word to the wise from the Hare and the right hander passing Bullocks farm was avoided (a Pamela Anderson) and the correct oblique footpath was embarked upon leading through Upper Dorrels Wood. Now it is here that it gets a bit confusing. I confess to not paying attention as the conversation at the back was, as usual, pretty riveting although the usual two words ( Brazil and Ian) did not come up this week. I think we swung off across to Toweridge before heading towards Sands. I know we were definitely somewhere near Sands ‘cos Simon, replete in his Ayatollah beard (apologies for the spelling but I don’t do Arabic) said when asked – “ dat is Sands. This of course triggered the usual banter – “sands of the Kalahari”, “sands of time” etc, etc. from us rabble. The trail led through Hellbottom Woods to a short/long split at the edge of Great Wood. Us shorties forged on along the valley bottom whilst Mark very kindly took the longs up into the woods to return down onto the mutually acceptable trail at the end of the woods. It was near the end of the woody bit that us shorts came upon a very deeply furrowed bit. Looked like a spaceship had landed. Perhaps it was from the planet Shiggyless sent to scoop up some of our Earthlings very available commodity – mud. Dunno, just me being silly. Onwards along the valley bottom before taking a bogus path through a gate into a field whereupon Aud, having led the way told us quite rightly that it was not right – if you know what I mean. On back and further along to the long uphill drag out of the valley. “ Oh the hill goes on forever” said Mark with obvious glee. Eventually the trail led up passing Rickett’s Farm to emerge through a front garden adjacent to the pub. So on in to the pub where there was much talk of it being renamed the Pongo Arms – something to do with the drains apparently. In the executive lounge however, all was well. Fine ale and New Hasher telling us how he is attempting to teach the local Great Unwashed. Rather him than me. Also Lenore revealed a
cunning plan to descend en masse upon France in May. Wasn’t
quite sure if what I thought the quoted weekend price of £1.50
was right however that could have been my ears. Toute a l'heure mes
amis
Run
793 It was not a large gathering that formed outside the pub for Mick's Run but it was a very cold one. Kerry stayed walked on the spot for over five minutes while saying it was much warmer in the car, her female logic obviously preventing her from taking the next step… But she wasn't alone in complaining about the cold, everyone was doing it, mainly blaming it on Mick, (rather than the BBC weathermen and ladies with whom the blame rightly lays). To cheer us up Mick said it had been much, much colder at 6.00am that morning when he laid the trail, but somehow this didn't help. We started off after a brief speech that said (three times) that there was to be no speech. Mick demonstrated the pale blue flour which was to evade our sight for much of the evening. I checked to the right, so naturally it was to the left. Most people, (including me), then missed the first check and piled past it along the road, until the faint sound of On-Back turned us around and along a path into Woodbine Cotts that hadn't been there just one minute before. For the next five or ten minutes we wiggled, a check every 100-150 paces, through woods, houses and back into woods again. We came to a little common when Lenore said it can't be right as the pub is just over there, so naturally it was. A quick jog took us to Maltman Green Girls School (which holds a unique place in the world of education. It was set up in 1918 to follow the ideas of Beatrice Chambers, a pioneer in the progressive movement who encouraged girls to sleep on balconies). A right took us onto the common, where I went the wrong way along a footpath that didn't exist, to a check where I, again, went the wrong way (hint, you may spot a theme developing here). When I returned to the check I was surprised that there was no sign of the hash, so I went back to the common. They weren't there either. I struck out blindly and luckily found them two checks further down the trail in the direction of Goldhill Common. Now Mick actually gave me a map of the route, but I still have absolutely no idea where we went as it bore no relationship to the route I took. Mick said something about him getting lost in the morning? To be fair, I also got lost and found the pack yet again, so I may not have followed his exact route. I remember a lot of roads and alleyways and woods, but where they were is anybody's guess. Eventually we said goodbye to the shortcutters and found ourselves running through a wood, over fields and down a long narrow path which I think was along the edge of Grove Wood. Now I claim that the bar across the path at this point wasn't visible, so I checked right, heard an “On-On” and went back to find (again) a whole lot of nobody in sight. I ran on the only way it could be, but, despite a quick sprint to catch up, the lack of hashers remained total. No lights, no people, no anything except a very small
and windy road in the middle of nowhere. I tried a loud “RU”
and thought I heard a cry from the woods so I went back to check out
the woods. 10 minutes later I returned to the same spot, with no idea
where I was, where the pack was, or where the pub was. Yes it really is called Great Legs Wood, and yes the next bit I wrote about the physical attributes of one particularly attractive female hasher has been censored on the grounds of both political correctness and good taste. Yes, it did include stilettos, stockings and suspenders. At this point male hashers are invited to close their eyes and make up their own story, Lady hashers are invited to think about Frankfurter from The Rocky Horror Show. With small (but important) differences you are now all thinking about the same things! When the pack had realised I was lost, Ade and Roger very kindly turned back to find me - and they got lost and didn’t find the pack again either! What’s more amusing still was that they, like me, got back before the main pack! Apparently the long cutters had a bubbly stop to celebrate Mick's 21st (again) birthday. Back in the pub a jolly time was had by all and the lack of speeches by the GM (who was in South Africa) was deafening.
Run
792 Even before we had got out of the car, we knew this was going to be another of those much talked-about, much admired, yet never copied “Gerry Palmer Theme Night” special hashes. Here’s a clue – it was Valentines Day. The elder, married-off male members amongst us were all no doubt wondering whether there would be any hash totty at all showing up tonight, or were they all staying away, sharing candle-lit moments with their loved ones, whilst counting Valentines cards and arranging red roses. But not to worry. Gerry came bounding up and presented us each with a small key and tag, loosely tied together with pretty silver tape. Through the windscreen, bathed in the warm and romantic sodium orange of the pub car park arc lights, we could see that the ever-growing band of ladies were each being handed a small padlock and tag, also adorned with the requisite silver tape. We were in luck. As we were called to order, the GM and Jo were busy putting on matching cone-shaped bras. Hmm. Someone should tell Jo that ladies’ boobs are usually at the front, and not normally found pointing backwards from below waist level (unless you’ve been under the knife a few too many times). She was wearing rabbit ears too, but had managed to position these correctly. In the friendly pre-coital banter, some wise wag suggested that the keys would perhaps be used later on to undo the ladies’ chastity belts. “Quiet!” yelled Gerry for about the 5th time. Here are the rules for tonight’s hash: 1. The GM can
only be referred to as “Nun” from now on Got all that? Crikey, our virgin hasher Alan, now sporting a rather worried look and bedecked in shiny new designer running shoes with the price tag still showing, was already wondering whether this was the best choice he could have made for his Tuesday night out, and that was without all of this Valentines hoo-hah. Perhaps Roger had told him that we only run on the roads, cheeky boy. Was that a grin or a grimace fixed across Alan’s visage? So off we went, heading north past Wheeler End common before a check took us west through the smelly shiggy bordering Laurel Farm (how are those new shoes now Alan, heh?), then gently downhill towards Fillingdon Farm, with Barn Wood up on our left. We came to the first Valentine check. Daintily wrapped heart-shaped chocolates gently swinging in the trees were roughly torn from their strings and presented to the lady hashers by hopeful, shiggy-smelling blokes. The small thicket became alive with the sight and sounds of expectant puckered lips (and that was just Yob and Lenore) occasionally finding their intended target. On-on towards the south west, up a gentle incline into Barn Wood. Gentle that is, unless you were an FRB, in which case it was pretty damned steep after the 2nd or 3rd check back. Through Barn Wood into Leygrove’s Wood, after yet another chocolate check. Where were the ladies putting all those chocolates? “No more, no more” gasped The Blonde (though that’s a story for another day), as a long line of chocolate-laden male members queued up for their turn. Now here was a novelty. BUNNY, written in large white letters across the trail. This wasn’t in the rules. Should we all run back to Jo and start looking for more chocolates, or should Jo do her first check back of the new millennium. We never really got that one sorted out, as the Long/Short split was now upon us. The Longs turned west towards the furthermost reaches of Leygrove’s Wood, whilst the Shorts continued briefly south before turning left out of the woods and uphill towards Watercroft Farm. We just knew that that wise old hare Gerry would have laid a few check backs for us on the climb through Leygrove’s wood, and we weren’t disappointed. There was even a falsie which caught just about everyone, before the trail turned south again and then east, emerging from the woods at the bottom of another stiff climb to Kensham Farm. Some fast level running now, the M40 on our right suggesting that On Inn couldn’t be very far away. We picked up the short trail at Watercroft Farm, and emerged onto a lane near Cadmore End Common, recognising this from Ken’s recent hash, then dropped downhill again beneath Huckenden Farm. The tell-tale signs of another chocolate check, already raided by the advancing Shorts ahead of us, flittered in the breeze. Incredibly, a makeshift soup kitchen emerged from the darkness. Gerry’s wife, cunningly disguised as the Soup Dragon, handed out generous helpings of tomato soup, with an extra special secret ingredient which we would find out about later on. My goodness. Chastity belts, chocolates, and now The Clangers. And we hadn’t even got back to the pub yet. In fact the pub was only a few hundred yards further on, and we retired to the non-smoking end to await our instructions for the final part of the evening’s entertainment. Solitaire red roses were presented to the blushing ladies. “Gentlemen, take your partners” roared Gerry, handing out what looked suspiciously like a Pub Quiz sheet. “Your starter for 10. Which magazine, still in circulation today, was first published in 1922?”. “The Readers Digest”, barked the GM, at a massive advantage here as he was the only person present who was alive when the first edition appeared on the news stands, all that time ago. Gerry rummaged about in his Tesco carrier bag for some prizes, and pulled out a couple of boxes, the contents of which would have been intimately familiar to Neil Hunter’s wife Suzanna, (see photos of Christmas Parties passim). Yes, it was another pair of lightly used his’n’her edible undies, drawn from Gerry’s exclusive Winter Collection. How we all laughed as Nun and Bunny posed for the flashing paparazzi. On to the Pub Quiz itself, matching songs to their movies and musicals, with all the answers provided in random order across the bottom of the sheet. Again, the GM at a huge advantage, as he would have seen all of the black and white originals whilst sitting on his nurse’s knee (Ed’s note – in fact that was only last Wednesday). Gerry revealed the secret ingredient in the tomato soup – a special aphrodisiac which he had picked up on one of his expeditions to India. As far as I could tell, it had no effect on me and in any case the Missus was asleep when I got home. So instead I watched a short film by J Arthur Rank before lights out. Thanks Gerry
for a great hash. On On to the next hash at the Three Pigeons in Gerrards
Cross, set by Motorhome Mick, the Jolly Gypsy. I hope we haven’t
frightened Andy off, and that he will be back for his formal initiation
next week.
Run
791 This was my first hash for many a long week - my left knee still suffering the long-term after-effects of the GR20, despite having an instruction sheet of rehab exercises which I have... looked at and thought about every day. As we gathered outside the Old Oak, the hare warned us against the use of foul and profane language on our return to the pub, as the landlord was not partial to swearing. Loud mutters of "*&%#! the landlord!" rippled through the pack, then we were off through a series of snickets and alleyways that eventually led us off down towards Haleacre Wood and the environs of Little Missenden. The recent dry, cold weather meant that the trail was relatively firm - at least at first - and the hare had done an excellent job of marking the trail with liberal amounts of flour. At one point as we trotted down a short stretch of road, a passing fleet of cars decided to give us a fanfare of toots - clearly mightily impressed with the athletic display with which we were entertaining them. Eventually we reached the long-short split, and not wanting to overdo it I regretfully sloped off with the ragbag of stragglers that is the SCS. Good job too, as there was a fair bit of uphill to regain the pub, and my torch decided to complicate matters by dying and abandoning me to the shiggy which from nowhere had made itself ubiquitous. It was that particular brand of shiggy much beloved of hashers that lends a certain robust aroma to the surrounding atmopsphere - in other words, slurry. Having gingerly negotiated the deep pools of liquid manure, we finally emerged to the glorious sight of the pub. Cruelly, it was the wrong pub, but the Old Oak was but a short turn away, and we arrived back to chips a-plenty, for which many appreciations were visited upon the hare. [PS for those of you who were concerned as to Twist's state of disrepair, the vet advised he had a strained muscle, so he is confined to the house and garden for a week, otherwise he is happy and healthy.]
Run
790 Why is Downley called Downley? Surely it should be Upley!, and why is the pub down a dirt track? I was convinced I was in the wrong place and was turning round, when a silver Jag, with Mick gesticulating wildly sped past. I’m still not sure whether, Mick was trying to point me in the right direction or wave the bloody fool, doing a three point turn in the middle of the road to get out of his way, but at least I found the pub. Which is one up on Mark last week, who gave up completely; and went and found a chippy instead? As we gathered in the car park awaiting a hare “Whipping Boy”, Steve Super Cooper, strode in, carrying a map and flour dispenser, looking suspiciously hare like!!! It turns out Whipping Boy was unwell and Steve has stepped into the breech at the last minute. Heroically, Simon feeling ill, sick and bad had actually laid the trail earlier that day, then handed over to Super Cooper. It’s very sad that since Simon turned 40, he has fallen to pieces, poor old boy, still we should not mock too much, what ever he is suffering from; he probably caught from one of us on Saturday. The usual rules were explained, plus one new one, a double bar, which MUST NOT BE CROSSED. As per Simon’s instructions, we were eased out of the car park. Once the trail was picked up, it was On-On, down through Common Wood and an abrupt halt, with much head scratching, lost already. Super Cooper, after some studying of the map, soon had us back on track. Heading towards Hughenden Manor, distant church bells, could be heard ringing out, was this an omen, were we approaching a double bar THAT MUST NOT BE CROSSED. Nearing the Manor the short’s cut off to the left, leaving the longs to circle round the Manor to Hanging Wood, before rejoining the shorts. Well we would have joined the shorts, if they hadn’t been stuck behind the double bar, THAT MUST NOT BE CROSSED. Next followed a steady climb up through Flagmore Wood, which Kerry, Aude, Barnie and Mick, all sprinted up!!!!!!! Why do we set a short cut for them each week? When secretly, they are highly toned athletes. Now warmed up and setting into our stride, not yet an hour into the hash, we swung left and back to the pub. I know at the start Gerry said this pub holds the record for the longest hash at 8 ½ miles, it must be a contender for the shortest as well now. Roz did suggest going around again, but was quickly gagged. In the pub, the shorts turn of speed became apparent, a large tin of chocolate biscuits to celebrate, Kerry’s forthcoming birthday. Well done Super
Cooper for saving the day and shepherding us around Whipping Boys,
small but perfectly formed hash, it will be different next week as
it's Pete’s turn.
Run
789 Now this may be a slightly “sparse” runs report as I wasn't expecting to write it. But the person who was (and Roz will remain nameless) told me, three quarters of the way around the run (when I reminded her it was her turn), that she wasn't going to write it as it was dark. Well, she was right, it was dark and I was not exactly sure where we had been (OK I hadn't got the foggiest). We had started off with an introduction from the hare however, as so many people were late only about half of us heard it. Not only that, but the latecomers didn't catch up with the pack for the first mile. Still there was plenty left to go as we had been knew the “long” run was 5.5 miles - though with Matthew's “easy-to-find” blobs I hoped we would whiz around. During his intro I am afraid to say that Matthew told a fib. He said it was the “welcome” return of the flag check. Now I question the word “welcome” as, at the time we were all very, very cold and moaning a lot. Even Ian's smiling return didn't raise our spirits as much as normal. Being Matthew there was a new twist to the flag check! Not only did we have to charge back to the flag when we got to the check, but “either” the first or last person was going to have a “Prize or a Forfeit”. Hmm …... there was much suspicion what he meant about that! But in the end it turned out to be quite nice as the prize was a small bottle of hooch, and the forfeit was to drink it. We set of from the pub back down the road we had just driven up and turned right. After that I lost my sense of direction. And after that I lost the will to live when, cold, tired and dispirited I missed out on one Matthew's bottles of hooch by less than a gnat's whisker (Question 1: do gnat's actually have whiskers?, Question 2: do I actually care?) Apart from that I was very impressed at the Short Cutting Society being so far ahead of me at one check when I had been running my little heart out. I suspect foul play (or at least short cutting) After that I remember a lot more running and a lot of big hills. I think, at one point, we went over Little Hampden Common and on to Hampdenleaf Wood - and I am certain I saw the main road to Wendover in the valley. We ended up at Dunsmore, which is a sad place since all the pubs have closed, I remember thinking that our pub would be closed soon too - as despite the late hour, it was still a considerable way off. Surprisingly it was nearer than many of us had thought and a quick jog down one hill, and a slow jog up the next took us to the Icknield way and back the last few hundred yards to the pub. Or at least it would have done if I hadn't got caught by Matthew's last back arrow a hundred or so yards out from the pub!!!! Now it may not be quite gentlemanly to mention the fact that “the Blonde” was one of the people who was also caught by this - and then she “did a Howard” and DIDN'T GO BACK! - just because someone told her not too!!. So, I guess as it isn't gentlemanly to mention it, I had better not. Back in the pub the roast potatoes were scrumptious - and there must have been about two entire fields of them! The GM's speech made a welcome (and brief) return and it was all on-on to the Christmas Bash on Saturday. PS In case you
were wondering gnats have antenna, which look like whiskers. But if
you weren’t wondering you needn’t read these two sentences.
Run 787 It was a fine night for not hashing. The temperature was just the wrong side of too bloody cold and the clouds were low and grey and would have made the world dark and gloomy if it hadn't been so damn dark. The communal spirit of the hash was in much in evidence though - we all waved at each other now and again as we each sat in our cars waiting for the last minute. There was even the suggestion that we do the run in our vehicles rather than have to get out of them (which as it turns out we probably could have done)... Soon though there was no time left - we had to turn off the heaters and ease ourselves out to face that which we'd all been dreading - that's right - Gerry's holiday stories. Just what you need on cold January night - stories about sitting around boozing in 90 degree sunshine. Still, at least the thought that he must be feeling even more damp and cold than everyone else was some consolation. Off we set. Left off out of the pub and down the road towards Wheeler End. Under the motorway bridge and up to the edge of the common where we found the first long / short split. I took the long version, so can't be sure what happened on the short version, but I expect it was something like chatting and having fun and laughing at all those pillocks who went the long way on a night like this. A few hundred yards into the common was a left turn down across the grass, through some mud ( I won't actually mention all instances of mud due to only having one side of A4 - just assume that if we weren't running on tarmac then it was muddy. And actually some the macadam was pretty boggy) and then a path up through some woods and onto Wheeler Common proper. Another left and over the road, past the scene of the famous July 4th. Another stretch of road took us up to Cadmore End Common (it's a very common place up here) and through some woods to emerge by Kensham Farm (which I assume is where the hare gets his pork products from... ahem). Then back over the motorway bridge, pausing only to pity the commuters in their nice warm cars listening to the football. Over the Marlow Road and down into the fields. At this point the realisation struck that we were now on the route of the Chiltern marathon, and not only was there still about 24 miles to, but Lenore wasn't even there to provide the sandwiches. At the edge of the fields we went down a spectacularly steep and muddy path where someone made a bid for a late moose of the year entry. However - due to either great discretion on my part, or really slack journalism and not finding out who, I not going to tell you who it was. Across the long field down towards Fingest. Still on the marathon route. Still worried. At the bottom of the field, a quick shimmy to the right up into the woods and then back down and along a path that had aspirations to being a drainage ditch one day. Then, phew, a left down off the path to the Fingest road. A left up the road and a brisk run along the tarmac before turning right and heading up towards Frieth. Another long drag up the Frieth Road. Very thoughtful of Ken to set so much of this run on the road so we could avoid all the mud - he must have got his car absolutely covered in flour after all. Just as we were beginning to think we really would end up in Frieth we broke left and up across the fields alongside a long copse of trees - which I notice from the map is called Long Copse. Then through Finings Wood to the on in and dash across a common with eyes only on the pub - which was a bit of shame because of the posts at groin height at the edge of the common. Back in the pub we soon warmed up and remembered the real reason we go hashing in mid January - so we can watch enviously as warm people drink beer whilst we nurse our new years mineral waters. Cheers Ken.
Run 786 So, here we
are again.
(I thought that Ragman’s Castle sounded rather exotic, so I
did a quick search and came across this extract. I don’t think
it is related but it was an entertaining article. |
