My christened name is Charlotte Brontë. I write this journal as one perplexed by events of the last eve. I had, as is my habit, partaken of supper with my sisters and was preparing to retire when I found my very mind taken as if by some strange force from my very body. It seemed my spirit was whirled forward in time and no little distance. My beloved Yorkshire moors disappeared and in their place stood smaller, greener hills. I believe I was betook to the Chilterns. The air rushed. Strange alien sights filled my eyes. I felt fain I would swoon. Then I awoke with a start in another’s body. Although he was not aware of my presence, yet I was of him. I knew his name: Hashgate. He was tall and handsome with a magnificent head of silver hair and he was stepping from a metal travelling carriage with no horses that I could espy. My mental cheeks reddened as I realised he had but no breeches, shirt nor coat. I blush to say that his well muscled arms and sturdy legs were bare to the elements. As he greeted a gentleman, Mr. Blobby by name, I realised that he too wore little clothing. Worse was to come. Two ladies, I presume of gentle breeding, appeared, their names Mistresses HeyBabe and Cerberus. Their lack of attire in front of the gentlemen was truly shocking. No bonnets; no corsets and their legs bare to all the world. Yet not all of the females there present appeared to be strumpets. Certainly, the older ladies (of which there were many) were not disporting themselves in too unseemly a manner. More of these hussys drew up in the horseless metal carriages (with no flunkey to assist their alighting), all curiously named; Mrs. Septic, the Lady Florence, Miss Whiplash (a horsewoman, no doubt), young Miss Tacky and (I presume) a lady of Irish blood, Ann O’Rack. From the thoughts of Mr. Hashgate I understood that these simple country souls were to be involved in a local pursuit known as Hashing. Two gentlemen, one known as Mr. Chuck and the other an ancient French aristo, Monsieur Levoisin, had laid a cunning trail ‘cross heath and ling, hill and dale that was to be followed by the pack of immodestly attired folk. For what purpose I could not fathom, yet these ruddy-faced yeomen and sturdy women were excited at the prospect in their own simple way.

The throng of Hashers gathered, I had expected, to partake of prayers before the chase. But not so, it appeared. Miss Whiplash, M. Levoisin and Mr. Chuck merely made witty repartee regarding the forthcoming event then bade us adieu and bonne chance with more than hint of bucolic irony. We began with a pleasant enough stroll ‘cross the sward, Mr. Foghorn to my right – a fine bearded fellow with a voice that could reach clear to York. Then up the steep and bosky hill behind old Mr. Dumper to a fine view of the lilting countryside below. In common with the rest of the Hash, many knew not whence they should go and indeed, several persons (known as ‘short cutters’), Mr. Einstein and Mistress Speedbumps among them, subvented the trail somewhat. We followed the unglamourously named Mr. Oldfart to a bar-6 in a beanfield from whence we returned, several of the lower order cursing very ungallantly. Mr. Hashgate galloped after the dashing front runners, Old Zeb and his brother Mr. Teeteetoo – from his name I must presume he was the product of an illicit romance with an East European carpet trader. We dashed helter skelter up and down the woodland trails, Mistress Cerberus uttering her curious cries, strangely reminiscent of Mr. Iceman. The gentlemen Hares hid a very unsporting bar-2 behind a gnarled old log which caught out several of the throng. I had thought it to be the leg of the burly Mr. Motox who might have fallen in the leaves but my host Mr. Hashgate was far too clever to be undone by the Hares’ subterfuge. As we delved further into the wood Ann O’Rack displayed some Hibernian traits by pushing over a hapless tree and followed the action by attempting to hurl herself floorwards after tripping on some unsuspecting woodland creature. Mr. Hashgate managed but a gentlemanly cough where he would fain have burst out with laughter. We trekked onward, following the manly calves of Mr. Beegeebee (one supposes he is a relative of Mr. Teeteetoo) whence we broke our efforts at the regroup. Here we enjoyed the company of old Master Dribbler, Mr. Blobby and his good wife, Old Zeb and the Lady Florence before Mr. Chuck kindly pointed us to the Long Route.

Following a brief and invigorating run through a fenced area of coppice we had perforce to arrest our progress since young Master Gutbucket had managed to get the gate stuck fast. Fortunately, Mr. Harry Mau put his considerable shoulder to the task, forcing the gate ajar and allowing us through past the chastened Gutbucket. I was exceeding pleased to have overtaken Mr. T. Weenie since, while we waited for the gate, he had been scratching his (I blush to say it) ‘parts’ with the end of his bugle. Following his unseemly hurling over a stile by his master, The Reverend Lonely, hound Beaver decided not to attack a flock of bleating sheep but did decide to launch an entirely unprovoked attack on a defenceless duck. Fortunately, the feathered friend was prised from his grasp by the good Lonely.

This quaint custom was presided over by the inestimable Mr. Seefive :-