Run 1751 Cold East Cross, Dartmoor. Hares Wigwam & Bobbiball.
Forty two trusting souls assembled in the windswept car park at the aptly named Cold East Cross on yet another glorious summer evening. Sussex visitors Bogeyman and the splendidly named Roaming Pussy were introduced to the circle before the hares were summoned by the GM.
Wigwam gave the gen that the shorts was about three and a half, the long perhaps a mile or so more and a walking trail of two miles - though his rider that the trail didn't go exactly where he wanted it to was slightly perturbing.
Marching orders delivered, the hash gently rolled out upwards and westwards through Buckland Common, led of course by TVH's perennial FRB Poacher.
The trail was devious, much like the layer and succeeded in delaying the FRBs many times to let lesser mortals catch up and join in the fun. Ipplepen's finest, Wet Johnny and Manopause tracked the pioneering Poach with SH3 Whisperer in tow.
A welcome relief appeared at the SS which proved to be most refreshing melon slices - lovely jubbly but off we went immediately, the FRBs scorning recovery and loath to lose distance.
The adventure commenced after we climbed up a track towards the rifle range. It was going well and I mistakenly thought it was going to be a fairly short trail as we legged it down through the gorse and back towards the car park.
The first hint of difficulty manifested itself at a trail cross as we encountered bog conditions. As we backtracked, WJ continued to probe the area and called ON ON shortly afterwards. By then, a fair number of hashers had congregated and unwittingly entered the treacherous bog. Manpig with Number Two's dog in tow, must have known what was going on as he prudently turned and retraced his footsteps.
Slipping off a tussock (what wally shouted keep on the tussocks?) I upended and nearly drowned my new cam again. Wedged tightly, I could only bellow 'Man down, man down!' Confusion reigned as hashers sought to escape the unrelenting bog. Going Down went down, Forrest appealed to the gods on high 'They shouldn't do this to a one legged man!' though in truth he seemed to cope with the conditions better than most. Piddler tried to raise spirits with a rendition of 'Pack up your troubles...' but ceased abruptly as the bog swallowed him up.
Meanwhile, a gallery of shorts and walkers had assembled in the car park a few hundred yards away and, much like ghouls surveying a car crash, observed the unfolding drama below.
Finally and with great relief, stable ground was reached and the gorse ravaged, bog stained survivors limped back to the haven of Cold East Cross CP.
However, the drama was not over as a white vested hasher appeared from the gorse and stopped, apparently in some distress. Wet Johnny and Woof Woof sped off to the rescue and guided the hasher back. At the same time, other hashers were seen wandering aimlessly in the boondocks, such was the difficult terrain.
Also mentioned in despatches were Rent Boy who sported some impressive blood stains on both legs, Beefy who arrived late and soloed round the trail and Coldtits who got back safely.
Disaster? Debacle? Why, not in the slightest, beloved brethren, just hashing adventure and sport at its finest and I had a great evening.
The only mystery was how Wigwam avoided a DD in the Exeter Inn afterwards!
Thanks Wiggy and Bobs, the boys dun good.
ON ON to next week from the Cridford Inn at Trusham with Forrest.
Forty two trusting souls assembled in the windswept car park at the aptly named Cold East Cross on yet another glorious summer evening. Sussex visitors Bogeyman and the splendidly named Roaming Pussy were introduced to the circle before the hares were summoned by the GM.
Wigwam gave the gen that the shorts was about three and a half, the long perhaps a mile or so more and a walking trail of two miles - though his rider that the trail didn't go exactly where he wanted it to was slightly perturbing.
Marching orders delivered, the hash gently rolled out upwards and westwards through Buckland Common, led of course by TVH's perennial FRB Poacher.
The trail was devious, much like the layer and succeeded in delaying the FRBs many times to let lesser mortals catch up and join in the fun. Ipplepen's finest, Wet Johnny and Manopause tracked the pioneering Poach with SH3 Whisperer in tow.
A welcome relief appeared at the SS which proved to be most refreshing melon slices - lovely jubbly but off we went immediately, the FRBs scorning recovery and loath to lose distance.
The adventure commenced after we climbed up a track towards the rifle range. It was going well and I mistakenly thought it was going to be a fairly short trail as we legged it down through the gorse and back towards the car park.
The first hint of difficulty manifested itself at a trail cross as we encountered bog conditions. As we backtracked, WJ continued to probe the area and called ON ON shortly afterwards. By then, a fair number of hashers had congregated and unwittingly entered the treacherous bog. Manpig with Number Two's dog in tow, must have known what was going on as he prudently turned and retraced his footsteps.
Slipping off a tussock (what wally shouted keep on the tussocks?) I upended and nearly drowned my new cam again. Wedged tightly, I could only bellow 'Man down, man down!' Confusion reigned as hashers sought to escape the unrelenting bog. Going Down went down, Forrest appealed to the gods on high 'They shouldn't do this to a one legged man!' though in truth he seemed to cope with the conditions better than most. Piddler tried to raise spirits with a rendition of 'Pack up your troubles...' but ceased abruptly as the bog swallowed him up.
Meanwhile, a gallery of shorts and walkers had assembled in the car park a few hundred yards away and, much like ghouls surveying a car crash, observed the unfolding drama below.
Finally and with great relief, stable ground was reached and the gorse ravaged, bog stained survivors limped back to the haven of Cold East Cross CP.
However, the drama was not over as a white vested hasher appeared from the gorse and stopped, apparently in some distress. Wet Johnny and Woof Woof sped off to the rescue and guided the hasher back. At the same time, other hashers were seen wandering aimlessly in the boondocks, such was the difficult terrain.
Also mentioned in despatches were Rent Boy who sported some impressive blood stains on both legs, Beefy who arrived late and soloed round the trail and Coldtits who got back safely.
Disaster? Debacle? Why, not in the slightest, beloved brethren, just hashing adventure and sport at its finest and I had a great evening.
The only mystery was how Wigwam avoided a DD in the Exeter Inn afterwards!
Thanks Wiggy and Bobs, the boys dun good.
ON ON to next week from the Cridford Inn at Trusham with Forrest.
