After all the original and witty hash reports of recent weeks, I feel that I will be the Marlowe Donkey to Will's thoroughbred. All the globe's an oyster but I do not have a pearl of wisdom to polish and present to you. What follows is much ado about nothing.
Another goodly number of erstwhile drinkers gathered by The Squirrel, drawn by the keening of the hounds. When the dogs show their frustration it is time to go.
The hare pointed south and off we all went, the long and the short, into the bluebell wood. Like some of we hashers, the flowers were past the first bloom of youth. I opined on this to my walking companion, a dapper (in the sense of neat and spruce, not small and nimble) young thing who looked more college professor than mud surfer. Yes, our very own Marlow thoroughbred, having passed the mantle of Sooper over to his daughter, had now succumbed to the kneeds of running gear and joined we walkers.
Then it was back across the road to circumnavigate the squirrel's rear acreage, without once being able to invoke the on-inn rule.
At the Holy Trinity church we had the first of several L/M/S splits. Longs sped right towards Mop End, shorts trudged forward towards Blair Avon, distraught that we were now responsible for our own checking. Fortunately for us, Rob H had his Merlin with him, which meant he was damned if he did run, and damned if he didn't.
Notwithstanding our predilection for perambulation, we stayed ahead of the longs for a good while. We even did checking, helped in no small measure, by my withholding map information. Boy, were they grumpy. Like addicts going cold-turkey.
Anyway, the inevitable eventually happened, and we were caught again by the longs, even though we had gone into silent running mode. For a while the sound of the other hounds could be heard through the trees, then a two tone (light upper/dark brown lower) dog appeared by my side. Summer had found the mud, and lost the pack. Rumour has it that quite a few others found solace on the ground. I won't mention names Mick.
Our unity was short lived. Ere long, the longs dived downhill towards Common wood and we followed Merlin wherever he went (which actually seemed to be the right direction). Things went well for a while until we reached a previously visited check. This caused some confusion in some, as the confidence instilled by deja vu led them down a trail just run. Eventually, common sense prevailed when I pointed out the direction of the pub.
There is nothing like the whiff of a deep fat fryer to get the tired legs moving again. Even better, we got to the bar before the main body of troops.
Congratulations Maggie for doing what I always threaten to do, which is set a run completely within Penn Wood (apart from the bit that wasn't). Great weather. Satisfying chips. Another satisfied Hash.
And in the pub, the GM asked (for those hard of hearing) whether there were any volunteer(s) to undertake the enjoyable task of organising the Saturday night entertainment in Bewdley, in September.
PS On the Bike Bash in Dorset last weekend, Natasha inadvertently came up with a new, modern, breed of cat, the Cyber-toothed tiger, which got me wondering. Does a cyber toothed tiger byte the bits that other cats cannot reach? And if Alex sang "Cyber toothed tiger, down, sport" in his Miss Scarlet voice, would it be amusing?