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Scribe Q2 2007
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Run
No 859 After a cold damp Bank Holiday weekend, “snow in the Chilterns according to the Daily Mirror and Sky news recorded colder temperatures here than in Lapland and the Siberia.” It most irrevocably proved that hashing is righteous as the sun came out for most of Tuesday and the going was surprisingly firm on the course. During our arrival Gerry announced it was his 600th run with HWH3 and invited everyone to pre-run celebratory cakes from a grand spread in the boot of his car. I never could resist a sugary umm-umm, but many of our more puritan hashers did! This overshadowed Maggie's prologue about short, short-long, long-short and long versions of tonight's trail. I noted the short was 3.2miles and the long was very very long. Dave's gaiters then distracted me, appearing like tarpaulins for footwear I wondered wot he knew about this run that would prompt sure attire! An ambling start to the front of the pub set us off across the road and down the lane at the side of Penn church where Helen and my niece had got married, I hasten to add: - on separate occasions and not to each other. Also where Jo had been near to tears cos 'er 'airdo 'ad nearly fallen off 'er 'ead. Hurtling down Paul's Hill to the 1st stile a startled BMW driver was halted by our marauding down hill charge. Across the meadow and onto a metalled track the 1st check fooled the whole hash into taking a false trail. Upon resuming the true trail our hare raiser mad Mick performed a stumbling forward roll and came up with a sprained ankle. Look out Aide Micks up for the annual moose award with grazed knee and elbow he'll get a bonus score in the falling over stakes. Anyway Mick hobbled on to the next check where the hash had regrouped. Mick's ankle had recovered by the time we got to the next check, a short/long split on the trail. The following check was a regroup outside The Royal Standard of England, an excellent stop for refreshments I thought, except no one had brought any cash. Anyway the long cutters soon regrouped and apart from dogs Butch and Twists excitement over a local cat we were off along the road to another orthogonal stile, one of many in this area, across a field to another short/long split. On the short trail we came through a wood and up a hill that gave us a glimpse of the long trail runners and Roz announced they were on the wrong track and had missed the best bit with the two-foot high stingers. Frantic arm waving could not turn them back and the long trail runners short cutted the short runners! We emerged
at the front of Lude Farm to discover yet another short/long split
to the trail. The trail continued over more orthogonal stiles across
meadows and scrappy woods and as the long runners were heard approaching
behind us Roz and Maggie were keen to run relentlessly and keep one
check ahead. This strategy appeared to ensure we all arrived at the
Penn Road almost simultaneously where Sam debated with Maggie the
length of the run and if the additional loops on offer, 1 mile or
1.8 miles, would result in a 8 mile hash! Thanks Maggie, Roz and Dave for a very well marked trail, excellent choice of venue with a chip service to die for. It was Tosca award week and MC Dave Griffith gave a very informing account of the months misdemeanours and deservedly this month it went to Gerry cos he had persisted to arrive on a Tuesday evening 600 times!!!!
Run
No
858 This weeks Run's report is perhaps a little shorter than normal – here it is in it’s entirety:- “key points; Very hilly, False trails, Jack pee'd up Helen's leg, First night sat outside, Morris dancers, Overall a good run” So the powers that be decided that we should break with convention and have two reports. Report 2 What had been a glorious sunny day changed suddenly from sunshine to dark gathering clouds as we approached Rob’s favourite haunt (does he get a commission for taking us there?) at Cadsden. Though to be fair it does offer an impressively large (albeit hilly) range of options for a hare. The pre-start speech ranged widely, covering wheelbarrows, the lack of a long-short split and the funeral cortege of John Hampden 450 years ago. I confess my attention might have wandered, partly due to listening to the many heckler’s points of view and I remain uncertain as to why his death was celebrated by guests eating cherry pie. Sadly, the GM was away and the Cherry Bakewell “Down-Down” was taken by Gerry who nearly gagged on it (he doesn’t like sweet things) and then spent the first half of the run retching silently at the top of each hill. (Aside, this may have been only partly due to the aforesaid pie.) As all good things do, the speech came to an end and we were off – predictably up the steepest hill Rob could find away from the pub. Ten minutes later we were back down and just 200 yards from the Plough. Sadly we couldn’t see it so on we went, again up a very steep path, followed by a left at the top and a long and gentle jog down again. Here we discovered the short cutters who, as is the aim of their society, short cut. A long false trail up the valley was eventually and with difficulties called back, mainly cos Ade insisted the run was to the right while the Hare stood there grinning saying it wasn’t. Back and up (another) hill, with a particularly wicked back check (yes I was caught) to what I can only describe as the top of yet another hill. A theme was beginning to set in. Simply put it went – first run up a hill, then get caught by a back check and have to run down, then run, wheeze, pant, sweat and crawl up to the top again. The next few miles followed much the same pattern, with numerous hills and mutinous comments about boiling the hare in oil. Comments also started to be mumbled about Lenore and her reluctant, dawdling or non-existent approach to back checking. Now I would like to defend Lenore against these scurrilous accusations of a “Howard-like” approach. Sadly though I can’t. Guilty as charged. At the top of (yet) another hill we come to the highlight of our evening. While gathering at a check Helen boomed in a loud, clear and somewhat shocked voice “Jack has just wee'd up my leg!” For any non HWH3 hashers who might read this it must be mentioned that Jack is of the canine persuasion. Then, having announced this to the world, she came into the centre of the circle and showed it to everyone. Then she said it again. Then again! The evidence was plain - one soggy, dripping and slightly stained and possibly still warm leg and shoe, plus one relieved dog happily wagging his tail. It wasn’t really Helen’s night. A few minutes later we were all sitting watching a truly spectacular sunset, when Jo got up and said to Helen in a theatrically loud voice, “I can’t sit near to you as you are stinking.” She then explained to the multitudes that, perhaps to balance Jack’s exotic fragrance Helen had squeezed her other foot into a luscious and steaming pile of nature’s plenty. Photo
taken by Aud at sunset on the hash - click it for a larger copy A phrase seemed to escape from the vicinity of Helen – but I might have misheard as I thought it sounded like “You Old Cow”. And I couldn’t see one? For much of the rest of the run hashers kindly searched out numerous other little piles for Helen in case she wanted to roll in them. For some reason Helen took off and, using her superior speed, spent much of the rest of the hash away from all human company and well in front of the rest of the pack. Nearing the end of the hash Rob took us to an oft-visited dell with massive hills on all sides. First left, via a back check, then up what is reputed to be the steepest path in the Chilterns, before finding a false trail at the top. Then back down, on round and back up to yet another massive and steep false trail. Then the on-on was called straight on, which was odd as there was no flour that way. Much confusion and no flour later (we think the Hare cut out a section of trail) we regained the trail and descended back to the on-in and the pub. Happily,
we missed the Morris Men who had forgathered outside the pub with
their folk dancing and little jingling bells, so we could settle down
to a quite pint outside drenched by the rays of the setting sun. Congratulations
to Roz for her 50th Run (incidentally a record for the longest time
ever to reach that august total) and to Simon for his 200 / 222 run
and his Miss Whiplash T shirt. Excellent run – and nice chips!
Run
No. 857 An Ecdysiast's Adventure Edging
out into the river of water coming down Hedsor Road, and having just
dried out from Sundays Marlow 5, I couldn’t help thinking of
that phrase from ‘Allo ‘Allo – “what a mistaka
to make” uttered often by one of Italy’s finest soldiers
Captain Bertorelli. (Ask Moose for a definition of a fine Italian
soldier). Pleasant therefore to find that Stokenchurch was dryish. After a short, but fairly confusing briefing from The Girls, with mention of K’s and T’s in with the floury bits, we set off across what I think is a cricket pitch to the footbridge over the motorway. Shortly after this, we came to a road where, deep joy, an early long/short split was announced by Kerry. Whilst Mrs. F led the SCS off across to Ibstone Lane, Tracey took the longs left through some housing to emerge on the Lane further south. Now an amazing thing took place here – Barney took no heed of his natural station in life and went off with the longs. He did partially recover face later, however, by admitting that his ear wax was to blame and duly fell into line at the halfway regroup to take the shorter tour back to the pub. Meanwhile, us shorts ran past the edge of an industrial park where we were cheerfully greeted by the security guard Chalkie. Dunno what he said but we waved back (all five fingers) and went downhill through South Remlets Wood skirting Wallace Hill to a crossing track where the longs were to arrive after they skirted Wallace Hill Farm. We swaggered, sorry staggered, up the hill to Hanging Wood trying to get undercover before the longcutters arrived as there was, according to Kerry, a juicy falsie. A further ploy to equalise matters was the frequent addition of “on backs” which you might just have noticed. (Ed’s note; YES! I got caught a record 14 times!!!) Up in the woods, we swung left running down passing Lower Vicar’s Farm remembered by Aud from last years Moonraker, down through Highfield Shaw and then on down past Wellground Farm into deepest Wormsley Estate. Being the SCS, the conversation took in such cultural topics as the relative merits of various bottom sizes and other matters of import. With the longs to be heard behind us, we slogged up the edge of Bowley’s Wood and then through Gooseneck Wood to meet the Ibstone Lane again where we regrouped. The longs came flying in a couple of minutes later led by Matthew and followed soon after by Helen sporting what looked like a pair of protective glasses. Had she been welding before the hash? Another short/long split with the longs lung busting down the Lane and our newly increased bunch of shorties merrily jogging across the road onto the wooded path to Studdridge Plantation. Now I have to say that, following the salacious events of last week, we were on close lookout for doggers, bottom squashed bluebells or red faced blokes hastily putting away their tackle whilst their lady friend hastily put the beaver to bed. Nothing so exiting to report however. We motored nicely past the strangely named Bissomhill Shaw and then down to Fowler’s Farm. It was here that a very stern sign warning not to advance up the track towards the farm was met with Rob and Aud doing a jig one metre beyond the sign and yours truly giving the Farm a bit of builders bum. Whilst up shorts slid under the motorway and on in I believe you longs were slogging up through Hartmoor Wood, then down through Second Bottom Wood (I always felt one is enough for anybody) and up in through the valley to Fowler’s Farm. I was reliably infomed that somewhere en route, Gerry did a quite spectacular Moose with his legs speeding up resulting in an unusual face up horizontal plunge. According to observers, it was one of the best this year and the Horizontal Hasher needs to look to his laurels if he is going to maintain his reputation as the person most likely to need air bags. Back at the pub, the tatty establishment, with virually no window frames and a much tattooed potman did itself proud with a surfeit of excellent chips, even if they were delivered by one of the “Golightly’s” whose trousers where 3 sizes too small but bore testament to the tensile strength of corduroy . (Ed's aside: the lack of windows was entirely bypassed by Jo who hadn’t noticed she was standing smack bang in front of the pub's most panoramic as she changed behind her car after the run. She spotted it towards the end of her entertaining burlesque, whereupon she promptly moved in front of a wall, showing everyone outside the same delights the crowd inside had already been fortunate enough to admire.) All
in all, a very enjoyable, very scenic run. Venue:
Grouse & Ale @ Lane End Tuesday night found us gathered in the car park of the Grouse and Ale (née Clayton Arms). A quick head count suggested to me that we were 42. An excellent number. In cricket, a good score for England. In football, a good season's total for Liverpool. In literature, the answer to all things. So all in all, a good omen. Our squad of walkers set off hale and hearty, a spring in their step. Little did we realise why…until later. De de de duh (V in morse code and known to Beethoven, reputedly). The hare was the GM, the heiress was Lesley. Bellow, bellow, point, point and we were off. The choices we had were road or right of way between houses. Needless to say, we went down the latter. Unfortunately, being so close to housing occupied by dog lovers, the first 100m was inevitably a K9 lav fest (or at least I assumed so, I didn't enquire too closely) so progress was a bit like a knight on the chess board, until it gets taken by the opposing queen. Eventually, LE25 led us into open fields and to Park Lane and the open road. That didn't last long before we swung about and headed back inland again, only to reappear back at Park Lane. Cunning little hares. Could be cunning little hobbits's except that they wax their toesies. Or somewhere. The hares then played the “cross the motorway” gambit. Off we went like sheep, because we KNEW where the trail went after that, there was no choice, was there? Except there was. We bounced despondently off the F and trudged back to the entrance to the shooting range. We can't possibly go in there because it is private land. But we could. The GM knows someone that knows someone (etc) who said it was alright. So that was that. The question of whether he was empowered to do so was irrelevant. In we went, just like Star Trek. Gone where no man has gone before, except some other men who went there earlier and laid the road. This private land was both shooting ground and assault course for Landrovers. Being short of guns, ammo and skill we followed the Landrover tracks. I didn't understand what all the fuss was about. We all managed to run round and then up the steepest slopes. Two legs good, 4 wheels bad. Thence towards Booker aerodrome, where we met up with the shorts and the walkers. The choice of path is normally quite limited here, but that was no limitation for our Hare. He knew someone who knew someone (etc) who could drive a truck and tell the time (at the same time). The truck was a fire tender parked at one end of the runway. The driver stood on the ground in front of his truck, struck his staff on the ground and said, “You shall not pass” (until 8:30pm that is). At the appointed hour, we were all allowed the privilege of running down the runway and could admire the view. Mind you, we all ran so fast that all I remember is the stroboscopic appearance of the white markings down the centre of the tarmac. The truck followed at a slower pace. Upon reaching the assembled group, two lady walkers got out of the fire truck, kissed the driver farewell and said thanks for saving their weary legs. Then Rob Green got out. Well. What did he think he was doing in there? Or more to the point, who did he think he was? At this
point on the airfield, our track options were limited, so we took
it and ran towards some hangars. On the way we passed a derelict aircraft
of some vintage. Mick Jones went over to assess scrap value or get
a souvenir, but in the end got neither. CCTV and all that. The longs needed some more mileage so we followed the trail along a tongue of wood and then back down the other side, then wiggled our way back through Widderton Wood to Lane End. There the path brought us out by a group of local lads wolf whistling for all they were worth. I saw a fire truck in the background and assumed the whistles were for Rob G and not directed towards the girls. Karen pointed out the house where her friend lived. Helen didn't. Then it was back to the pub. All over for another Tuesday. Or so I thought…. Barney
came up to me in the pub, all a'tremblin' and pale. “I seen
something nasty in the woodshed tonight”. Just like Ada Starkadder
in Cold Comfort Farm. Sit down, I said, and tell me all about it. This calmed Barnie down and to make sure, I said I would report it to the proper authorities, his fellow hashers. And this I do.
Run
:- 856 Unusually the evening’s trek started early. Normally we collect at the pub then get lost. Tonight, however, it was the other way around and many of us were lost before we even arrived at a pub which was conveniently situated many long and weary miles past the back of beyond. The hare protested that it only took him 18 minutes to get there in his Batmobile. Mere mortals must gaze in wonder at such feats. After the usual idle chatter the rules were announced – chief amongst which was that if you see a messy and unreadable blob, it was a back arrow and the minimum number he had used was 3. We had to explain to him later that a 2 is actually less than 3 – but he is an engineer and we don’t think he really understood. Soon we were checking, with me setting a precedent for the evening by going in exactly the wrong direction (as I did at no fewer than 9 other checks) and we headed down Ray’s Hill, branched right into the woods and, a few hundred yards later, left into Cheddington Wood. When I googled the wood I discovered to my amazement that, just 4 weeks ago it saw the region’s first ever sighting of a Narrow-bordered Bee Hawkmoth. My raptures were dashed when I discovered it was a different Cheddington Wood, and thus the heights of this hedonistic pleasure were once again denied to the Hash. A right and a left took us to Peppett’s Green, near the site where a Mustang Mk.1 crashed in WW2. Somewhere around here the GM baled out (Unfortunate choice of phrase that) so Lesley had to drag Cassie the next mile or so on a leash. For those new to the hash and that don’t know, it’s OK, Cassie isn’t a Hasher but the GM’s dog. Crossing over Hawridge Lane we soon arrived at the Long / Short split where the usual crowd sensibly cut off the extra two miles leaving us poor fools to the extra hills, valleys and depressions (in both senses of the word) that were to be our route. Soon after passing Asheridge the cry came from the back to re-group. As I was checking 100 yards up the next (very steep) hill, my reluctance to return was, perhaps, understandable. Sadly soon after the on-on was called (I got it right for once) and at the crest of the biggest hill of the evening, a sneaky, despicable and deplorable back arrow was lurking and I had to go all the way back down again anyway. Still, we were greeted by Jo and Helen who had navigated over half way around the hash by themselves to catch us up. Praise to Helen who, despite the fact that there were only two of them, did ALL the back checks anyway. Apparently they were among the hoards who failed to find the pub and, to quote Helen “I knew we were really late as when we arrived even Moose wasn’t left behind changing!” “However”, she continued “he did promise a full moon to me when he texted earlier”. There seemed to be some controversy as to whether he had promised a quick flash of his nether regions or was just referring to the pub or the evening – but Helen stuck to her contention that he had promised the former saying it “would be a bit of a bummer” if he reneged on the deal. Although I had to run up the hill twice, full marks go to Hare Roger for arranging the full moon to be rising beautifully over a ridge at the time, making it (almost) worthwhile. It was certainly a fabulous and majestic site. Innumerable mountains, ravines and gullies later we came across a herd of highland cattle. Lesley, Natasha and Jo agreed that they were amongst their favourite animals, though apparently, in the case of Lesley, this was because they are both horny and sensitive. A left and right turn took us to what Roger announced in a broad northern drawn was a “left paaath”. Nobody was quite sure why he said this, other than he turned it into a detour for those who mocked his paaathy brogue. We ended up where we would have been had we gone straight on. For a few minutes through a wood we had to switch on torches, (aside it’s only 7 weeks until it starts getting darker again), before the welcome glow of the pub hove cheerily into view. Score: 10 out of 10 for the weather; 14 out of ten for the fabulous views of the full moon; 2 out of 10 for not knowing that 2 is smaller than 3 and minus several million for the horrendous hills and accent. However, overall with the moon…? One of the best runs so far this year!
Run
:- 855 Mike Gilby Memorial Run 0-50 runners, walkers, UN Observers, dogs + looped tape of Aid’s London Marathon, step by every bloody step. “Beards will be worn”. Nothing puzzling about this command: no obscure grammar, complex Latin syntax or imported neologism. So why, ladies, no beards? Apart from Judy’s five o’clock shadow, narry a brushed-on bristle, fake follicle, stippled stubble or glued goatee. Apart from Roger’s Rasputin attachment, supported by his real scarey, starey eyes, Mick’s eye-level codpiece and Barney’s shredded Santa costume, the men weren’t a whole lot better. True, GM and Judy’s Mick had raided their respective wives eye shadow kits but overall, this was a mutiny of non-response. And what about the 854 run report then? Four hours hithering and thithering on a Sunday, a trail that used up a complete sheet of gypsum wall panelling, a bakery load of flour, two pairs of shagged out shoes, a brace of shredded Ordnance Survey maps and what does our run get? A piffling apology from a scribe whose e-mail system implodes when called upon to deliver the required ecstatic eulogy. Just finding the Blackwood Arms should have warned us of the worse that was to come. My blind faith in Judy’s ability to guide us to our destinations is a poor match for her fragile map-reading skills. I dread the phrase, oft delivered at dead of winter’s night on a single track road “I think we should have turned left about a mile back”. And here it was again, voiced on a bright sunny evening as we straddled a narrow junction where Leonore skillfully manoeuvered round us to belt off in the wrong direction. “Follow her” squealed Judy. I feel a trial separation coming on. We all have our favourite bits of oratory – Churchill, Kennedy. Martin Luther King. We can now add Gerry’s homily to Mike who, having paid his round, died a year previously at the Blackwood. “For those who knew him, there is nothing I can add. For those who didn’t know him, there’s no point in telling you about him”. Gerry, men, wives and dogs shed a tear this day. No less skills re-appeared at the Tosca ceremony. “Chopsy
little sod. bumptious little prat. No, not from “Paradise Lost” (or Mislaid), “Othello” or even Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight but from the heavily made-up lips of our GM in his singling out of Mark as the evening’s winner. Deserved? Well, yes when, earlier. Mark had gone to the bar, where Brakspear’s blond organic bitter was on offer. In attendance were two somewhat stunning barmaids, one with distinctly black dyed hair, the other with darker roots pushing through the blonde overlay. “I’ll try the blonde”, chirped Mark. Regulars and hashers alike froze, the barmaids’ faces set into a rictus smile and a full hour passed before Mark could even get served a packet of peanuts. The run itself? The javascript map print-outs show the positions of the British 32nd and 36th Divisions in the Thiepval Wood area of the Somme battlefield in the spring of 1916. Although the Hash didn’t come across the enemy, they didn’t come across the trail either towards the end of the run until the GM gathered us unto his ample bosom and took us off to where the trail came back into view. Thanks,
Gerry, for a dry, pretty (as against pretty dry) run, beard (real)
and oratorical skills.
Run
:- 854 Tuesday evening again, they seem to arrive ever more quickly. Lenore and I arrived on the dot of 7:45 after a cross country drive to the eastern reaches of HWH3 territory on a fine spring evening. We mingled with the assembled throng awaiting instructions from out intrepid Hare when Marc arived looking for a parking place, something that’s becoming more of a problem as Hash numbers increase, he was duly directed to the nearest public car park not to be seen again until the end on the Hash! Mike our Hare for the evening, ably assisted by Judy then proceeded to instruct us in the hash markings he had meticulously invented for the run. Now many of us are still struggling to come to terms with the conventional markings, so ON-ON was called and we ran off into the night looking bewildered. Down the road a touch, looking down at the pavement we came across what was at first thought to be yet another new symbol but was merely a steaming present left by Dexter, Dexter of course not being a hasher, but one of Simon's canines. Simon then proceeded to leap over the offending present in stylish manner. The Hash moved on through the streets of Chesham towards the station and we crossed the railway line and started to climb and climb and climb. Several on backs kept the F.R.B’s in check and we emerged at the top of Chesham mountain with much heavy breathing. After a re-group we spread out across the fields looking for the trail and moved on towards Dungrove Farm (I know this because Roger kindly gave me a map afterwards in the pub). There were fine views down the mountain into the chess valley though we had little time to stop and admire them as we chased the flour through several fields and down a grassy slope where we re-grouped for the long/short split. A dozen of us went long and we were rewarded by the long uphill drag almost into Botley, eventually turning to come back through a very rutted field complete with freshly dug badger sets and various other traps for the unwary. Ade & Sam who were both running the London Marathon the following Sunday slowed to a cautious walk to protect their ankles. Crossing two more fields brought us back to where we had left the short cutters At this point the general babble of conversation that often pervades the Hash when people aren’t running as fast as they should be turned, and the question being asked was “How pregnant is Helen?” According to Helen not at all, someone had overheard her talking about a friend and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Time will tell! Eventually we started to descend back to civilization and ran down the hill after several false trails to Waterside where we crossed the river Chess (by a bridge) and headed back at maximum speed towards the pub. Marc appeared at this time having been off on a run of his own somehow having failed to find the trail after parking his car (its getting to be a habit). We arrived back at the pub at about 9:15 to find a good number of the throng standing outside on the pavement apparently the pub doesn’t allow kids or dogs, either in the pub or in the garden, bit of a bummer that, otherwise the pub was good. Well done Mike and Judy, enjoyable run.
Run
852 Dear reader, where to begin? I’d like to start by saying this was the best hash of the year. I’d like to… but I do have some integrity left. ‘Twas a cold and windy night…. But first, you’ll be asking “why is he writing his own run report”. I know I am. Is it because it was so bad that nobody else wanted to touch it? Or just to scare me off from coming back for another retirement run in case I have to do it again? Anyway
to start at the beginning, inspired by the apparent need for short
and long runs in the HW hash I decided to offer a range of runs from
3.5 miles for those SCBs who went short at every opportunity, to about
6 miles for the FRBs who consider it an affront to suggest anything
but a half-marathon. In the event Sam measured his efforts at well
over 7 miles. (There were a few Palmerisms!) Of course I discovered
the problem with this multiple-choice type of run when it came to
setting it on Tuesday afternoon, as it was necessary to mark all eight
possible routes! As a result I was totally knackered before the hash
even started. I had envisaged a close and exciting race in the early stages, between the SCBs and the FRBs but in the event the SCBs shot to the front and disappeared over the horizon, never to be seen again until we reached the pub. I think they got there about 8.30pm. They took care not to kick out any checks and to ignore any back arrows they came across. (Note to future hares: 3.5 miles is evidently too short!) I have reached the conclusion that the SCBs actually run nearly as fast as the FRBs, it’s just that they treat it as a sprint over a shorter distance. Actually the long-cutters may have been delayed at the start by the afore-mentioned horses having eaten the flour laid in their field. I had instructed them to leave it but once my back was turned… well I can’t be everywhere. A few folk took the 2nd short-cut opportunity (a matter of a few tens of yards saved only, and then a few more again took the third, cutting out at least a mile, and earning an early drink. All the remainder were super-fit FRB types who were determined to get their moneys worth and experience the scenic joys of the golf club. Feeling that I might struggle to keep up, and hoping to be able to keep an eye on the SCBs and the FRBs, and just so that someone would have used it, I took the middle way. This proved a lonely vigil as all the SCBs had long since disappeared and I had a long wait for the FRBs to emerge from the 19th. #Hearing their merry cries I trotted ahead, past the pond, down the road past the false trail (did anyone actually find that?) past the 5th long opportunity, past the dogs at the farm, which greeted us all so cheerily, to the first railway tunnel. Here I waited for all the excited whooping and calls of on-on to echo back from it’s vaulted roof. I even switched on my torch to be the light at the end of the tunnel. Sadly all I got, apart from cold waiting for 5 minutes, was a muffled “Oh no” at the “2 – back arrow”. Then as the pack veered off up the hill to the right I had the excuse of limping back the short way with Ken who had injured his leg, although his limp was a deal faster than mine. Back at the car park I was joined by Peter, who had arrived late and run the long route all the way to the second tunnel without seeing anyone at all, but then managed to overtake the FRBs while they took the final long-cut though the woods. The FRBs arrived back at 9:20, complaining about having to run up hill at the end (tee hee). Excellent timing as all were installed in the pub in time for the loads of chips at 9.30. The hash-meister was kind enough to say a few kind words about me at the start and again in the pub, just before informing me I would have to write my own report, as a special treat! He said I could judge what people thought of me by the numbers who had turned out on a cold night, but I think Roger summed up the feelings of the hash with his observation that they all wanted to make sure I really left! I was touched (space for Ed’s note). Seriously though it was lovely to see so many old friends and have a chance to say cheerio for now. I’ll think of you all while sitting on a stuffy old beach in Denmark all summer. I hope you may allow me back for a guest run in the autumn. Have fun. On-on-on.
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