Locals

Swallow Slowsucker Donut Motormouth Hashgate Ironballs Nappyrash HP Zebedee Florence Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby and dog Mitzy BumWiper and dog Ebony Cerberus BillyBullshit OldFart BGB Tequilova Dumper Whinge TC Glittertits Pissquick Spex C4 C5 Bomber Posh Ms Whiplash Iceman Slapper NoSole Snowballs Twanky TT2 Dorothy Motox Fannybag Bogbrush SkinnyDipper Lemming Mother Theresa RandyMandy BlindPew Mary and dog Poppy Angella Mark Spot Matt Roz Foghorn Brendan Dunny Rampant

The Way Through the Woods

Twanky managed not to pout too much as I apologised to him for failing dismally to write up his and Blowjob’s excellent Trail last week on a sunny Rememberance Sunday. The morning had started with a reverent and thoughtful two minutes silence, followed by the roundel poem ‘In Flanders Fields’ written by John McCrae and read here with poignant gravity by Shandyman. Our mood perfectly matched the moment which, like the young people on Flanders fields and in more recent theatres of war lived briefly, and was gone. But not forgotten.

The Trail was longish and muddy and our Hares popped up at intervals to wave us on cheerily. The best moment was at the ford that everyone had expected to have to wade through. Two of us did: Mr Blobby and Messenger Boy, the latter mincing carefully through the thigh-deep swirl, lifting up the bottom of his shorts with crook’d fingers. Very twee MB. And, of course, we did not go through the ford but straight back up the steep road, while our intrepid (or daft) two waded carefully back. The pub was a very welcome sight after this pretty long Trail and proved to be a bit of a find – I don’t think we have Hashed from here before. So our thanks to Twanky and Blow for a job well done 

At the beautiful 17^th century Bottle and Glass the weather was every bit as clear and sunny as the week before. The venue was perfect for people like Bomber and me. He lives but 3 miles away and took the opportunity to run to the venue, while I live but lesss than a mile… and drove. You can decide who was the more sensible. Donut and I parked next to Swallow and Slowsucker whie Booby wandered over, having just completed laying the Trail. Swallow noticed the slightly bloody welts on Booby’s calves and sympathised, saying, “You look like you’ve been whipped.” To her evident surprise Booby replied that, “Oh, that was last night.” Without elaborating too much on his statement. I looked up to see if Miss Whiplash was smirking knowingly nearby.

There is a preferred and much-loved On Out direction from the pub and we duly took it, squidging our way through the shiggy along the narrow track that leads to the woods. Quite a number of woods. Most of which we ran through during the day. Bones, Summerhouse, Crowsley Park, Redhill and High Wood to be exact. Nappyrash, HP, Bomber, Posh, Donut and I know this area well. Which is a bit of a drawback on a Hash since, of course, one thinks one knows where one is going – probably true – but no idea how the Hare intends to get one there. For example, Spot and I barrelled down the first slope into the wood from the Check at the top. “Nearly always goes this way.” I said to him confidently… just before the ‘On Back’ call came. Blast! We trudged halfway back up. Spot was gentleman enough not even to arch an eyebrow as he tripped lightly past.

A long, arboreal loop fetched us up at the Regroup where we met with the walkers and enjoyed(?) the sight of Slowsucker a little way off abusing a tree in a liquid manner. Though a little early for a Regroup it was, as Booby mentioned later, the ideal place since the Longer and Shorter Trails split from here and it was off the road. I caught up with Spex as we trotted towards Sonning Common Road. Her backside and thighs were liberally covered with flour following Billy’s earlier rear end foray with some spare flour. Twanky, not knowing about Billy’s part in Spex’s posterior decoration, had earlier posited his theory as to the cause of the effect. “I reckon.” He offered. “She put too much talcum powder in her knickers, then farted.” I put this to Spex. The effect was enjoyably explosive. There was much spluttering. “Wait ‘til I catch up with him!” She screeched (while laughing her head off). I ran on, guffawing, straight through a brittle, brown bush. Mistake. It was a brittle, brown bush full of those velcro balls. The front of me looked like agéd Christmas tree decorations and were a right bugger to get off. I ran alongside C5, trying vainly to pluck ‘em off. He commiserated without quite realising his double entendre. “I pulled a couple off earlier and it went all over my gloves.” He’s so naïve.

An enjoyable thrash about over Crowsley Park and we dropped down into Harpsden Valley where my local knowledge again proved completely useless since the crafty Booby used the old switchback routine to pull us back on ourselves before diving off unexpectedly into more woods. Now I had said to Donut earlier that perhaps I wouldn’t write about the beauty of the woods at this time of year but I can’t resist. Even though I was running with Lemming at the time (bathos you see) the crisp beech leaves crunched springily underfoot, each one gold or copper, an unwoven, rich, magic blanket that spun in the sunlight and brightened the clear air. Dry branches, hidden in the leaves, crackled. Somewhere in that quiet wood deer browsed, stepping deftly while we stamped noisily. A wood is a special thing. We Hashers are luckier than most – we get to enjoy them every week.

We stepped out on to the narrow road half way up White Hill. A killer hill I used to run up during training runs. Curiously, I don’t seem to do that quite so much these days… I notice Zebedee ahead – great to see him running again after his cartilage operation. Now at the top of the hill you have a choice. Turn right and run ½ a mile to the pub, or turn left for Booby’s last gasping hurrah of a country loop. He appeared, so I ran/walked with him round the loop. All fields and woods. Lovely. A shortish trot down the road after the bobbing Fannybag and we were back at our thatched hostelry and a welcome pint in the warm November sunshine. Thanks Booby – thoroughly enjoyable.

On On. Hashgate.

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