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The Maltsters Arms
Rotherfield Greys


Penelope Pitstop

Desperate For A Pitstop

Nappyrash Florence Donut Hashgate Itsyor Twanky Cheating Whinge TC Lonely Baldrick Ms Whiplash Salome Cerberus Billy Bullshit Desperate JWax Simple Skids Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia Slowsucker Swallow Canoeist Ben NewBoiler Tinopener Quack SlackBladder Little Stiffy Gnomealone Robert (from Zurich) OldFart ShutupWally Spot Iceman Poca Honeymonster Potty Nutcracker Hitchhiker C5 Caboose Steve Harry Potter Snowballs Paella Motox Blowjob BGB Paul

A Damn Fine Evening’s Hashing

Mr Shoveller berated me, quite rightly, for not writing up the last couple of Trails that he and Ms Pitstop have so expertly laid. Thing is, of course, he probably expects me to give him a good report. Should I appease him since I owe him a couple? Did the Trail warrant praise or excoriation? (And, yes Motox, I did put that word in especially for you.) Let’s continue and see whether this Gobsheet settles itself decisively into the super-efficient cockpit of F1 prose or shambles recklessly along the crumbling cliff edge of cheap journalism on a wonky-wheeled bike.

The evening was again fresh and clear with a fine blue sky, marred only by Twanky’s insistence on showing us the recent bondage scars under his armpits while trying to pass it off as the result of running in a too-tight T-shirt. We hurried swiftly on to the Circle where a seeting mass of Hashers surged and chatted excitedly. It included returnees New Boiler and Canoeist with his son, Ben. Fortunately, His Eminence Slowsucker was in less voluble mood than usual during his introduction, informing us briefly that the pub used to be known (rather appropriately for one of our Hares) as the Shovel and Broom. Shitshoveller too was in précis mode, since dusk is still falling early at present, and merely advised us to take care and walk when we got to a field with heifers and their calves. It was interesting to note that, when we reached said field, he and Snowballs were very concerned about the creatures’ welfare, shouting at the top of their voices, “WALK ALONG THE EDGE! WATCH OUT FOR THE COWS!” Luckily, their current preferred grazing area was some way off, though a couple of lone-parent bovine families legged it uphill and away as the decibel gale roared their way.

We On Outed the usual way – by the Church and across the fields at a fast pace. This was a bit of a mistake. We had forgotten that our Hares are masters (ok, and mistresses – one has to be so careful on the gender issue these days) of Trail-laying obfuscation. We pelted off to the left when we reached the dry mud track, following the blobs to a Check, and gasped off to check it out. A False, a Bar-9 and a Bar-6. Aaargh! It may have been a beautiful evening but some dark mental thunderclouds rolled across what passes for minds in the Pack. We heaved our panting carcasses back. Then hurtled just as fast as before along some rather long straight bits to the golf course. The cheeky beggars had laid the trail parallel to a False and it took us a while to figure it out. Worse was to come as we pasted onwards. A narrow, likely-looking downhill alley led down through some woodland and most of the Pack hurled themselves down it, suckered by the blob of flour and, amazingly, a flour arrow that pointed straight down it. We just managed to avoid confronting Itsyor who was having a comfort break by a tree and whistling and we streamed after BGB who appeared to know where he was going. It slowly dawned on us half way up the massive hill after the downward that track that we hadn’t seen any flour for about ½ a mile. Now this was bad but those of us at the front had the double whammy of having ShutupWally in our midst who was clucking and warbling non-stop like a chicken on speed. O Joy. When we finally staggered back up the hill we had originally descended we were met with the sight of a flour arrow pointing in a different direction, the first having been kicked out. Hmm.

Not long after we stood at the top of a hill covered in beech trees. The ground was crunchy with last year’s fallen leaves and a Check had been laid by a stile, beyond which the path curved steeply down into a grassy valley. And here it was that Blowjob uttered the rather too-appropriate statements, “I’m not going down. Not again.” Perhaps a renaming might be in order?

I must pause for a moment to let you enjoy the beautiful countryside through which we were disturbing the wildlife. The countryside laid back and relaxed in the cool, still, evening air. An eye-pleasing vista of gentle hills, alternately clothed in green and light brown. Or dotted with clumps of rapidly greening trees. Barely a sound vibrated the fabric of the placid evening and we flowed over the land with liquid strides, leaving silence and calmness behind us. How lucky we are.

The beautiful Tudor manor of Greys Court met us next. A bit of an uphill struggle along the road in front of the ha-ha, particularly when one is accompanied by ShutupWally and too knackered to run away. But we lived through the experience and Simple, Skids and I enjoyed watching Poca as she ably demonstrated her ability to care for the countryside by running up to a gate, shouting, “Gate” very loudly, pushing it wide open and running through it, leaving it gaping wider than our jaws. The first Long and Short split bifurcated the Trail and I found myself running along the ‘L’ with Twanky, discussing bluebells, some of which were peeping prettily from behind trees. Not long after came the second Long and Short where Florence and I came upon Donut and Swallow, lurking ‘neath a mighty oak for reasons best known to themselves. It all began to get a bit surreal, what with the cow field, Florence astride a stile urging Caboose and me to “Kiss my ass”, and Poca pouting sulkily about the fact that she wasn’t attractive – purely because she could not get a discarded magnetic ‘L’ plate to stick to her. I did offer to tuck it in the back of her running tights but she declined politely, if somewhat frostily. We turned down into another of those lovely valleys, and felt the temperature drop by a couple of degrees. But we knew we weren’t far from the pub as the light began to fade. Only one more steep hill to climb. One more stunning view at our back. And we were there, enjoying(?) the sight of NappyRash whipping off his kecks in the churchyard. Visual bathos? It certainly was.

Thanks to our Hares for an extremely enjoyable Trail on a perfect evening. Followed by a good pint in an excellent pub. Nice one.

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA C5 presented the following :-



Style points


Joining us from Zurich

Superbly quaffed, with style


Arriving dresssed for the Arctic

It was too cold for her to drink quickly!


Insisting on knowing the direction of the Trail. When he didn’t

Rather slow first ½. Noticeably quicker on the second 


100 Runs! Well done.

Fine pint in a fine tankard


Colour blind. Not knowing the difference between a bluebell and a cowslip

Titanic-like sinking


Being employed

Obviously relished the experience

Penelope Pitstop

Tonight’s Hares

SS only just got there first

Up and Coming



Grid Reference



* 6:00 pm *

(Bank Hol)


The Royal County of Berkshire Health & Racquests Club
Bracknell RG12 7PB
(Bring clean gear & towels for entry to club and showers, respectively. BH3 food specials

Helen, TA,




The Swan Inn, Newtown
Newbury RG20 9BH
(Park tight at end of car park)