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The Sun, Wick Lane, Windsor
or Savill Garden Visitor Centre


Organ Grinder – Cheating
Monkeys – Zebedee, BGB, Florence

Shorts And Longs

Heybabe CIAC Donut Hashgate OldDog Pissquick Glittertits Gaffertits Nappyrash PP and dog Barney Baldrick Jwax Slowsucker ShutupWally and rat Bonnie Hamlet Fukawe Lemming Mother Theresa Spot Hitchiker TT3 JustMoist C5 Iceman Caboose Foghorn Nick Dumper Septic Karen Cloggs Nonstick Motox OldFart Twanky

Please… Stop

By the time we got to that damn totem pole those of us who could still walk were ready to uproot it, bend Cheating over and stuff it’s splintery magnificence as far as possible up his bottom. Can you blame us? Apart from changing the Hash venue from Watlington, in the far West, to Windsor, in the far East (to a pub with little or no parking), he had organized a Trail of such a distance that took such a time to run (about 2 hours) that some of the elder Hashers began to mistake the brilliant sun for something altogether different and had started to think about walking towards it’s welcoming radiance. His Eminence Slowsucker, realising quite how far this damn thing was going to be and remembering his afternoon golf match gave another witty little speech at the Gather Round, stonked along with us for twenty minutes, then buggered off. Sensible move, I reckon.

The main saving grace on this epic trail was the location, and the weather. Windsor Great Park and surrounding area is a superb place and unusually for October (and unlike last week) it was not chucking down rain. On the contrary, the morning mist hung like a feathery veil over the grand parkland and slowly unveiled the beauty of a landscape. Just as we got to the huge green space of Smith’s Lawn an unseen hand gathered it up, let in the sun and stunned us with the sight of the autumn trees, some clothed in fiery red, others in spun gold, all shades of russet and amber and fading green. One tree in particular was dressed in a swirl of red and gold that swept round its trunk in what seemed like an elegant spiral, the delicate leaves blending into an elegant, dreamlike cascade. It helps here by the way to have a bit of left-brain imagination so if you’re the kind of person who steps unsteadily outside after an evening pub session, spies the luminescence of the moon and thinks, “That’ll be handy. I won’t burn me nose when I light me fag.” Then please ignore the previous description. On the other hand, if you are a sensitive soul who thinks the stars are pinpricks in the black velvet curtains that hide heaven, enjoy. Curiously, a sensitive soul to whom I gaspingly mentioned the arboreal splendour and who thorough;y appreciated it was Lemming. Perhaps this is the side that only Mother Theresa sees? Perhaps he paints, enjoys poetry, weeps at Debussy? Perhaps he’s really a right poufter? Sorry – thought you’d enjoy a bit of bathos. Contrasts you see. Rather like that wonderful park in Windsor that’s set next to the urban/industrial sprawl that is Slough. Ok. I’m rambling. I’ll get on with it.

Our first foray took the Pack through damp woodland, carpeted with crisp, coffee-coloured leaves. Oh, for goodness sake! I’ve got to stop getting carried away with the descriptions. We’ll be here forever. This first bit certainly kept us together, even though we all seemed to be running along different paths to get to roughly the same place. Hashers dodged round the bushy gardens to meet other Hashers dodging round from the opposite direction. Having met each other with surprised expressions they would then shrug shoulders and dodge off in different directions again. Luckily, this was so confusing that we got to walk a lot – which was a help to people like Spot. He had been daft enough to run round the Bash the day before and was feeling decidedly knackered. As was Hare Zebedee. He had been even dafter and had cycled to the Bash (a tidy distance from his house), round it, then back again; the last five miles with a puncture. So – just the 40 miles or so then. And I thought he was quite smart.

The first Regroup by the polo club split us up into the sensible Short Trailers and the unbelievably stupid Long Trailers. Apart from the distance it was the course of the Trail that exhausted us. We would drift contentedly down the side of a valley, then stagger up the other side, then back down again, along the valley floor for a bit, then back up again. You get the idea. After the second Regroup we just went where Cheating pointed. There was no energy left for Checking. People began to disappear. Cloggs, Wally, Foghorn. C5, Nick and Glittertits began to discuss the current banking and financial crisis just to take their mind off the pain. Even the ‘Starburst Checks’ (a tree atop a leg-tiring hill circled with flour and a blob on every tree around it) failed to spike our interest. Believe it or not, even Zeb was (not surprisingly) walking. We were hot, and tired, and mutinous. Thoughts on what to do to Cheating’s gonads were aired publicly. This is the Hare who foot-stampingly insisted a flour blob lay on the “fourth post from the end of the fence, you tosser!” Only to see it clearly adhering to the sixth. This the Hare who, when asked by me why a Check had three blobs in it vacantly confided that he had, “No idea.”

There are actually no more notes on my recording machine which tells you quite how desperate it was getting. Normally, that gardening triumph, the punchbowl, would have engendered a few admiring comments. But nothing. We slogged and slogged until we reached that totem pole and stopped for a well-earned bit of vertical admiration. Before staggering on again and being greeted by the sight of… an ice cream van. But, woe was us, no-one had any money! Unlike Just Moist, with the Short Trailers, who had a crisp tenner and generously bought some.

Suddenly, I realised where we were. Not far from The Sun! And thus not far from the car park at the Savill Gardens Visitor Centre. Blank-faced, I staggered off up the tarmac trail, closely followed by Nappyrash, PP and Barney. It’s amazing where you find the energy when you know you’re close to home isn’t it. We burst up those last couple of little (big to us) hills like the leaders in the nearby Legoland race. Even Twanky wouldn’t have caught us as we sprinted past the lake, brushing small children and dogs aside, clattering through pairs of spindly old ladies and hurdling gents in electric wheelchairs in our insane dash to get to the car, drink water and sit down! I finally stumbled up to my car where a languid Donut idly toyed with the Telegraph cryptic crossword, raised her eyes to my husk-like, sweating form and said sweetly, “Coo. I’ve been here for over half an hour.” Uurg.

Thankyou(?) Cheating et al. At least you had to go round it twice.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

No idea. Did anyone go? TT2, Donut and I repaired to the Visitor Centre figuring that, if there was no parking at the pub we wouldn’t get either drink or food. So we spent an interesting half-hour initially chatting with a couple of older Runnymede Runners who started off the conversation quite pleasantly but then descended into a diatribe against cyclists who use the walkers-only footpaths around the area. Hmm, if that’s what getting older does to you shoot me now.

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






The Rampant Cat, Broad Layings
Woolton Hill RG20 9TP

Rampant Rabbit




* Hallowe’en Hash – wear something spooky!*

The Red Lion
Upper Basildon RG8 8ND

Ms Whiplash

Hash Walk – Saturday October 18th

Meet at 10:45am at Combe Gibbet car park (370621) near Inkpen. 7 – 8 mile walk with an opportunity for a pub lunch.
Please let Craig (Tinopener) or Carolyn(Lilo) know if you are coming.

01488 657176 or