The Hashers and Those Who Lost Their Mummies

Lemming Mother Theresa Hashgate Linda Linda(not a mis-type; there are two of ‘em) Julia John PartyAnimal(!) OldFart Itsyor Steamer Tony Motox Cheating Shep(!) and dog Gnarler Flash Drexel(!) and dog Maggie Cloggs… and much later Wendy C5 Sue5 Honeymonster

At Last… a Real Hash

No disrespect to the volunteer Hares who have been working hard on our behalf in previous weeks. Maybe it was the small group who turned up; maybe it was the lovely sunny day; maybe it was the russets and golds of Autumn beginning to show; maybe it was the superb countryside; maybe the magnificent trail. Whatever it was this week’s Hash was a Hash event, not a race. It was just a shame that our Hare for the day, Spot, missed it. The general opinion was that he’d had an offer to get his leg over and couldn’t pass up the chance. He’d apparently loaded a hopper-full of Viagra into the boot of his car, stuffed the pockets of his velvet suit full of powdered rhino horn and set off for the liaison, munching a ginseng root. Almost everyone else had gone to the Mortimer 10k or, like Chopstix, was running in the Windsor ½ marathon. She has raised a large amount in sponsorship money so well done to her and hope the legs didn’t ache too much afterwards. We must also wish the missing Greenfly well. I’m told he underwent a knee operation recently so he’ll be out of action for a while. An appropriately speedy recovery, Greenfly. I know what it’s like.

I had been lucky enough to act as chauffeur to the lovely Linda (no, not that one, the other one) this morning and had to decline her somewhat insistent offer that I should wear a pair of those tight, jodphur-like chauffeur’s trousers, leather knee boots and a shiny leather cap. Quaint it may be, I replied. But it would interfere with my running style. “Drive on.” She ordered frostily, accidentally sweeping my nodding dog off the dashboard and crushing the poor fellow with several stamps of her 9-inch stiletto running shoes. I was quite relieved when we arrived. We found Motox assuming the mantle of ultimate power and calling the Hash together commandingly. Not that there were many of us, as you can see from above. There were some long absent friends – those marked with a ‘!’. The gathering was small and select. Intimate if you will. Although being intimate with Lemming is about as attractive as a large dose of the galloping clap. The Hares pointed us on our way and we skidded off blithely – down the wrong trail. It was wide and inviting you see and no-one noticed or bothered about the small grass track off to one side. Cheating, Tony and I were half way to Wallingford before we realised our mistake and came bustling back past the two Lindas who had been foolish enough to follow. The Hares caught us out again immediately after with a craftily laid back-check and Shep’s “On On” down a False trail caught no-one out since we were all running about the forest lost anyway. We were obviously in the hands of master trail layers since this happened a good many more times, each time reversing the pack and keeping most of us together. Some people seemed to be in collusion with them or perhaps the eyesight is going. Like OldFart. Tony and I followed him up a snicket near Checkendon stables, past a bemused lady raking a wet horse (or whatever it is they do to horses). He just had one leg over a stile when I called “False trail!”. “Where’s the ‘F’?” He queried, a leg now on either side. I pointed to the massive ‘F’ that he had just leapt over. The fellow took it well. Many would have been happy to receive the loaded revolver on the silver salver and a locked library but not so OldFart. “Oops.” He squeaked and trotted back after us. This was where I managed to burst to the front of the pack with the joyous abandon of a chap who knows where he’s going. A quarter of a mile later and I realised I didn’t. I trotted back to fall under the withering gaze of the Tremblers who were standing by a flour arrow. I quietly joined Flash and Drexel at the back as we stamped through dry-as-a-bone woods.

But it wasn’t only OldFart and myself. Cheating, despite crowing to all and sundry about getting a number of checks right, quite happily followed me up a steep, forested hill to a well-placed false. And at the end of the woodland road where there was no check at all John, Tony, Shep et al milled about looking for the trail until BGB arrived and kindly pointed out that a) there was no check, and b) there were two large flour blobs indicating the direction we should go. It wasn’t long before a real check appeared and Tony and I lumbered up a scrubby, ankle-twisting hill to find ourselves near Wyfold R.D.A. stables. “Coo. I know this area.” I thought and while Tony stopped to rehydrate a nearby rhodedendron I burned off into the woodland. Funny how quiet it is in the woods when you are on your own. Not even a blackbird fart rent the silence. There certainly was no sound of pursuing footsteps. I stopped. A distant cry of “On On” came from exactly the opposite direction, apparently many miles away. “Bugger.” I mouthed silently and started the long haul back up through the forest. Eventually I caught up with OldFart and BGB and staggered breathlessly to the Regroup, looking forward to a rest. I leant against a fence post with my tongue hanging out and a haunted look on my face. “Time’s getting on.” Uttered BGB brightly. “Long trail’s that way.” I rolled the tongue back in and tagged on to Tony. Perhaps he knew where to go. He didn’t.

But we all kept together, largely thanks to the trail. There were checks aplenty and we got them wrong most of the time. It didn’t matter; we were having forest fun. Itsyor and John took the lead. Then Motox. Then Shep (I know; difficult to believe isn’t it). Then Tony. Then I. Then John kindly called an ‘On’ near the Grouse and Claret salt mines which was actually a False. He was sure there had been four blobs before the ‘F’. We back-checked to Gnarler’s favourite pond and watched her gleefully bounding round it, leaving an open-water circle in the green, pondweed covering.

Tony and I linked up for most of the rest of the trail, bounding through dry fields full of staring cows, tearing past the Lindas again (crikey, they must run fast…), jostling past the Tremblers and finally reaching a well drawn ‘On Inn’ to take us back to The Black Horse. So we all got back except for Julia, Mother Theresa and Flash. Time went by. BGB went out to look for them. Lemming and John began to look morose. They’d lost their mummies. It may have been something to do with the fact that Julia had both sets of car keys. But surely not. Suddenly a cry went up. “They’re coming in!” We rushed to applaud and whistle their mighty achievement. Flash came first, looking like he’d been rogered by a badger. Then the girls appeared, each holding the end of a plastic baguette. Don’t ask me why. They duly lambasted the Hares (quite unfairly) for the paucity of flour. Perhaps Julia had been a tad miffed when Lemming accused her of being a “Selfish cow” for getting back late with his car keys. I have to observe that, if ‘manners maketh man’ f**k knows what Lemming’s made of.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox (eventually) presented the following :-

Up and Coming