Judy and I now avoid group walking holidays. The main reason is that everyone else in the group is not there. They are on last year’s holiday, or the one before that or any other number before that. Without fail (and within a half hour of the start of an organised walk) someone in the group would pipe up with the talismanic opener “When I was in (Greece, the Italian Alps, The Old Bull and Bush)…”.
Thus it was at Barney’s run. “You should have been here for last week’s r*n” “Beeping good thing you weren’t at last week’s r*n” “Did you hear about that awful r*n last week?” “Last week? Unbelievable! We’re still waiting for two of them to finish”.
Fellow hashers – to-night was Barney’s run, 63 run t-shirt and all (“Not another ruddy t-shirt” chorused Barney and Mrs Barney thinking about the house extension they’ve just completed to house the rest of the collection.)
Barney’s weather was dry – forget the unending downpour of last week. Barney’s trail was firm underfoot – forget the Stygian swamps that we were trapped in last week. Barney’s trail brought everyone in together – forget the straggling refugee-like trail that was last week’s. There were traces of Barney’s shredded toilet paper at no less than two points on the trail – last week’s downpour failed to dislodge one iota of the three puffers of flour used to mark trail. (So how come all but Ade missed the vital turn-off?? Answer – he stayed back with the hare)
Who said lambs? The anxious, bordering on angry, farmer from Speen Farm corralled us on the narrow Flowers Bottom Lane having tracked our progress alongside one of his fields with a moving searchlight. I, for one, froze in the light awaiting the terse command “Hände hoch!” accompanied by the noise of a machine gun being swung into position. Our yelling and hooting could have spooked his pregnant ewes but he calmed enough to accept our sheepish (ewes, sheep – gettit?) account of the history, aims and purpose of the Hash.
And hills. Barney did take us forever up and rarely down. “Ooh look down” marvelled Ken “steps cut in the clay” as we neared the ON INN. Ken, the only place the pack could look was down, so steep was this Machu Pichu ascent. In the absence of clay or any other steps, we would all – even now - be piled up in a heap at base camp.
Back at the King William pub, great portions of finely cooked chips (blotting out memories of empty pretzel dishes last week) and a growing awareness – prompted by that t-shirt presentation - that we had all been on this week’s r*n, 953, when the GM ruined all by presenting last week’s hare with the Tosca award for Run 952.
Anyone for Run 259?