Pikeys

Bomber Posh Swallow Donut Hashgate Dumper C5 Flash Potty Ozzy LoudonTasteless Spex Baldrick Whinge TC BillyBullshit Cerberus FannyBag BogBrush Simple Dunny Snowballs Potty Nutcracker Slippery Foghorn Vlad BlouseBlazer Pissquick Glittertits Spot Hitchiker Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Uplift Motox Quack Ladybird BlowJob Twanky TT2 Anorak Trainspotter Cheating Nigel Sam rebecca Bootsie Lonely Dylan the dog NappyRash Diver PP and dog Barney Dave OldFart Itsyor Nick Escort Nick Pyro Zebedee Florence

Pottering About Near Stoke

‘Idiosyncratic’ probably does not describe fully the Jenksian school of trail-laying. He has, after all, been known to lay False trails without ‘F’s’. Always a bit of a rib-tickler that one, especially after ½ a mile or so. We had thought his off-the-wall enthusiasm might be tempered somewhat by his co-hare (and rarely seen) Squirrel. But no. Jenks had brought in several offspring (Catherine and Alistair) and dog Dylan to help with the trail and they proved to be every bit as bonkers as their (ageing) Dad. Dylan is a curious dog. Soft, grey curls cover his skinny body and every bit of him is shaped like a ‘C’. Narrow neck and head, curved back, emaciated tail and legs. And when he gets covered in shiggy – as he certainly did tonight – the wet curls stick to him, making him look even scrawnier. But can he run! Crikey, I watched the little fellow leaping from tussock to muddy mound as we slogged through that early riverside bog area. As well as the sheer speed he seemed to hang gracefully in the air at full stretch. Unlike Nick, Spex, Uplift and just about everyone else as we trudged drunkenly through the wet and uneven ground. Jenks’ parenting skills were very definitely called into question when he and his lad stood in the middle of a huge puddle of suppurating shiggy, chucking and kicking gobbets of it at anyone who wandered past. Poor Donut, who had started in clean black shorts and singlet, looking bright as a button, pretty as a picture and as cute as the daughter of Mr and Mrs Cute, of Cute Crescent, Cuteley looked as though she had got into the flight path of a red kite with stomach problems who had recently feasted somewhat incautiously on a large and rotting chocolate cake abandoned on the river bank two weeks ago by a small party of picnicing nuns who had been surprised, during a naked river swim and trout guddling competition, by an equally suprprised party of retired male button packers from Cleckheaton who were down for the day. Alistair spent the rest of the Hash appearing to wear one long, brown sock.

This had been the Hares’ first big joke since we went round a large loop that led us back almost directly to the pub. Nigel and I were rather hoping that we were about to finish the Trail. But no, we enjoyed a small loop round the pretty Church before weaving frantically riverwards again. From here the trail consisted of a series of long bits interspersed with slightly confusing bits. We started by hurtling along the river bank after Baldrick, Vlad (I’m sure it was him – if not it was Drac) and NappyRash until we got to the splendid brick railway bridge where the impish Jenks had (finally – gasp!) placed a Check and a couple of blobs going up inside this architectural delight. Unfortunately, NappyRash and I found the False some way up the river bank, which allowed the likes of OldFart, CIAC and Itsyor to catch up before we wandered forlornly back – past Hares Squirrel and Catherine who carried on, smiling, past the Check. It took us a while to find the overgrown path leading off the towpath to the equally well-hidden, echoey little tunnel that led beneath the railway tracks.

This in turn led into a field with a variety of light grey and milk chocolate cows and calves. The cows looked rather uncomfortable. Whether this was because the calves butted their udders unmercifully while suckling or because a collection of multi-coloured, middle-aged Hashers tore across their field was unclear but they eyed us unblinkingly from under lustrous lashes with the clear, unspoken thought – “Come near my calf matey and prepare for a spot of beef flamenco on that flabby belly.” BlowJob and Donut were particularly trepidatious about the beeves’ proximity. But although they did not have the protection of ace cow-frightener, Dunny, they did have (albeit one-armed) Simple to ward off any bovine predators. I believe the plan was that, at the first inkling of any beefy movement towards them, they’d trip him up, give him a quick shoeing to disable the fellow, then run off like hell, leaving the unfortunate Simple to explain his transgression to the mad-eyed, snorting cow. She would certainly not be happy, having just rapidly dragged a struggling calf half way across a rough, dry field while he hung on desperately to a teat. Having finally disengaged his teeth from the now throbbing article he would be standing dustily and safely behind her offering the following exhortation, “Moo moo moo. Moo moo moooo moo. And moo!” Which roughly translated, means “Go on ma, hoof the crap out of him!” Luckily for Simple the girls didn’t get the wind up. Once out of the field they turned back to watch Motox striding fearlessly along with the Hash Cross, unconcerned and un-bothered by the watching herd.

We then came to the long straight bits, interrupted only once by a little loop round the little woods that brought us back to the path we had just left via a small, but steep bank. Posh demurred only slightly at my proferred low-born hand, almost but not quite preferring the likely trip and fall. She managed the journey with the grace and ease of a lady of her exquisite breeding and carefully wiped her own hand on a lace handkerchief before dropping it distatefully on a nearby grazing sheep. Foghorn too essayed the bank – without my assistance – caught his foot and slid down sideways while mouthing a surprisingly wide selection of nouns and descriptive phrases that had the delicate Posh’s cheeks burning. “Beggin’ yer pardon mum.” He uttered finally and footslogged it up the narrow hill track with the rest of us.

The best was yet to come. We topped the rise, turned right after Mr Blobby and TC and began coursing down a wide track through the stiff corn. The hard, yellow stalks arrowed up at a multi-coloured sky. Pinks and greys, whites and yellows complemented varying shades of blue as the clouds, puffed like ragged balloons, hung unmoving over the undulating countryside, now dry after the recent torrential rain, each field bursting with almost-ready crops. A cool breeze tingled our skin as we swept downhill. We could see for miles across the beautiful landscape. It was absolutely lovely.

A brief race with TT2 (no doubt still smarting over the Fun Run), some downhill tarmac with Bogbrush, a chat with Glittertits through a leafy snicket, and a wave to Jenks and Trainspotter, sitting with their feet up, in Trainspotter’s garden and we were back to the pub – where everyone else seemed to have got there first! Many thanks to our (too rarely seen) Hares. Good trail. Good country. Good fun.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-

He’s been taking lessons from Anorak

Up and Coming