Running around in a red frock, wading though ice-cold water, being stung by nettles … no two hashes are same. And we went from a hilly hash on a balmy summer's evening one week to ... err ... well, a hilly hash on a balmy summer's evening the next.
This week we were 'back' at the Pink & Lily. I say back, but it was my first hash from there, and what super venue for a hash it is. Before we knew it we were on. Some of us went long, some of us went short, some of us went walking and some of us were in France - not that we're envious, Jess!
We started by turning right out the front of the pub and after a little trot down the road we turned left and entered some woods - so far, so pleasant. But then things went downhill - literally. We went down hill a LOT. And, as all good circular hashers know. that meant at some point we would have to go up hill a LOT. Anyway I get ahead of myself, which almost certainly means I'll score an on-back. As we ran through the field that followed the downhill we were treated the site and sound of a Spit ... err Hurricane making some low passes and waggling its wingtips at us intrepid athletes, while the Whipping Boy displayed his sensitive side by guarding a wildflower from us heavy-footed hashers.
Now while that was going on, what I hadn't noticed was that we were still, ever so slightly, GOING DOWNHILL. By the time we had proceeded along a small stretch of road and across another field, we had reached our nadir … about 130m lower than when we started. And then the inevitable happened, and it was on-on and up-up. Fairly gently at first, but before we knew it we were heading quite steeply up - running, walking or crawling the 266 or so steps to Whiteleaf Cross. This proved to be the perfect place for a group photo (apparently we looked hot - I took it as a compliment but perhaps I misunderstood), and some stunning views, oh, and a query about quite why the viewpoint sign had a braille version ... answers on a postcard please.
Having recovered our breath somewhat, we rather disturbingly found ourselves heading downhill again. The next section passed in a bit of a blur of woods until we inevitably started going uphill again. An informal regroup was called at the zenith of our latest uphill, where found a rather curious ad hoc turning circle - much mirth made of us being hardcore hashers.
Mercifully we had now seen the worst of hills and enjoyed a nicely wooded run in over the last mile or so before the On Inn was espied; the last couple of hundred yards retracing the steps of our first couple of hundred yards.
So after a delightfully hilly run on balmy summer's evening, we were in the Pink (& Lily) enjoying some deliciously chunky chips with a range of condiments (noted: mayonnaise served in pots is preferable to sachets) and some lovely beers (Summer Daze did it for me).
General Menace yet again practised his public speaking on a captive audience (us!), this time recognising Keyboard Ken's 650th run with a commemorative t-shirt. Meanwhile Paul B (aka Oompa Loompa) was also mentioned in dispatches, for some reason that none of us quite understood, but apparently he's now an honorary A and is expected to run with the FRBs.
About a month before my great uncle died, the doctor said we should rub butter all over him. He went downhill rapidly after that.
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A hasher, a cyclist and a walker were all killed in a horrible accident. The good Lord greeted them: "There are 266 steps to the Kingdom of Heaven. To test your piety, I will tell you a joke at each step. If you laugh even once, you may not enter Heaven."
The cyclist did well, making it to the seventy-third step before giggling. The walker did even better, making it to the hundred-and-twelfth step before giving in.
But as the hasher set foot on the 265th step they broke into peals of laughter. Surprised, God asked: "Why do you laugh? I haven't started the joke for this step."
"Oh", replied the hasher, "I just worked out the one about rubbing butter on your great uncle."