Monday 15th October #1764 Castle Inn at Stoke Gabriel. Hare Wigwam
It was the anniversary of Migman's birthday and the hash was down in Stoke Gabriel where he had laid many a trail. Bobby and I had arrived early to secure a parking space - the pub car park, as usual, being full. Memories of the Castle Inn flooded back where I had (briefly) been head barman a couple of decades ago.
The circle up was delayed as latecomers sought to park at ever increasing distances from the Castle. I made the roll call twenty eight, including a virgin, Bev. The notable absence of the Ipplepen chariot plus the Park mob (there for the pub afterwards) kept numbers down.
Wiggy had been out laying the walking, short, medium and long trails since 11 am and believe me, you everlasting non trail layers, that was quite an achievement in itself.
The medium trail, estimated at some four miles sounded the ticket and down the hill, presumably to the quay we percolated. Poacher returned almost immediately and we drifted into the church yard for a quick check on the graves.
The trail destination became clearer as we descended to the river and slipped and slid over the pointless duckboards before turning right up Byter Mill Lane.
Grinder and Manpig sped by with Woof Woof and Fukarwi just ahead. Attempting to keep up with the longs (until I could mercifully escape onto the medium - which I never managed) soon burnt my ultra short range turbo assist out and I started to look for the exit earnestly Ernie.
There was a 'twist' in the tale, as rounding a corner, Fukarwi and I came across a limping Beefy with Woof Woof alongside. 'What's happened?' 'He's rolled his ankle,' replied Woof Woof. So, off we went, Rocknrolla, Woof Woof, Fukarwi and a catching up Piddler.
It wuz climbing Coombe House Lane that the defining and ultimately destructive point of the trail was reached. A clearly kicked out check (I wonder who?) sent us left down a narrow muddy track. A few hundred yards along, head torches could be seen returning. 'There's a ruddy big arrow pointing back, we've gone Pete Tong!' Back at the check, the number of hashers was increasing: Longs Fukarwi, Woof Woof, Deep Throat, Grinder, Manpig, Piddler, BB and Rocknrolla were joined by Coldtits, Archangel, and virgin Bev or was it Pisswell? In the finest tradition of disorganized hashing, confusion riotously reigned. Scouts were sent in all directions to discover the trail, but with no success. 'We should all stick together!' an unknown Wally cried and at that moment, two hashers made their own minds up and backed away into the darkness..
You only have to look at Beefy's post mortem Strava to see the extraordinary lengths he and other longs went to in search of the trail. The to-ing and fro-ing must Shirley have voided Beefy's warranty.
And that was the last time I saw the longs who had, in true David O Selznick style 'Gone with the Long'. Linking up with Piddler, we ploughed a lonely furrow through lane and byway until, with almost blessed relief, we came upon the drop down to the pub which was barely a furlong away. However, at this point Piddler (most unfortunately) spotted the SS arrow. 'We can't miss Wigwam's port and Stilton stop, ARE YOU UP FOR IT BLUEBIRD?!' Well, to be brutally honest, I wasn't as we had already covered six miles and I just wanted to get a pint of Sea Fury. But I stood/staggered for it and on and on we went until finally descending the steps to the river's edge.
The rest is legend. I spotted some crackers stacked neatly on a rock and thought they had been left for the birds. The awful truth slowly dawned on us. This was all that remained of the SS - ARGHHHH! Suffice it to say that Piddler was not a happy bunny though I was far too exhausted to have any emotion at all. We had gone to Hull and back, literally.
Much, much later, the valiant longs (covered 7.8 miles) also came across the crackers and Woof Woof forlornly munched on one as the mortally wounded, shredded survivors limped back to the Castle Inn.
Hash grub had been laid on for us and the sausage 'n chips was a fiver though Satnav called me over to inspect the fare. Two bangers and twenty chips (crisp unt light brown though they were) led me to deduce that the bangers were £1.50 each and the chips 10P each... never mind, the pub was snug and the staff John and Kat were welcoming as was the Sea Fury.
Manpig RA'd the Downdowns which were:
Poacher eventually to Archangel (originally we thought to Slip on Me and Beefy stepped forward to take it) for 'Just standing around without checking.' ?!?
Shitfaced (Pillock shirt) to Archangel (again) for 'Getting on his hands and knees and praying in the church yard.'
Piddler (after insane garbled intro by a demented BB) to Wigwam for being DISAPPOINTED at missing the port and Stilton stop.
Finally, a birthday DD for our Songmaster Pork Torpedo who had brought along a splendid cake to share.
POST MORTEM
Things hadn't gone as Wigwam planned and a strawberry flavoured yoghurt sent it spinning from his hands... But you know what? That's what makes a memorable hashing evening, not the hash trail that goes like clockwork - they are all so soon forgotten. Were we disappointed? Well, I wasn't and I can see why hashers like Piddler (and of course Wetfart) love to moan during and after a trail. It's quite simply because they really enjoy it, poking fun at all and sundry. And by the way, remember what Wigwam said at the circle about Migman's first ever trail and how he sent the longs on the short and vice versa? Was something spiritual and strange at work this evening? It makes you wonder, doesn't it?
Well done Wiggy, great evening.
POSTSCRIPT
As Bobby and I walked back to the car, we heard a loud bang as a hasher's car backed into someone's entrance. We know who it was!
*Please don't make me explain, Shirley you get it.
ON ON to next week from Teignmouth Rugby Club with Wide Receiver.
It was the anniversary of Migman's birthday and the hash was down in Stoke Gabriel where he had laid many a trail. Bobby and I had arrived early to secure a parking space - the pub car park, as usual, being full. Memories of the Castle Inn flooded back where I had (briefly) been head barman a couple of decades ago.
The circle up was delayed as latecomers sought to park at ever increasing distances from the Castle. I made the roll call twenty eight, including a virgin, Bev. The notable absence of the Ipplepen chariot plus the Park mob (there for the pub afterwards) kept numbers down.
Wiggy had been out laying the walking, short, medium and long trails since 11 am and believe me, you everlasting non trail layers, that was quite an achievement in itself.
The medium trail, estimated at some four miles sounded the ticket and down the hill, presumably to the quay we percolated. Poacher returned almost immediately and we drifted into the church yard for a quick check on the graves.
The trail destination became clearer as we descended to the river and slipped and slid over the pointless duckboards before turning right up Byter Mill Lane.
Grinder and Manpig sped by with Woof Woof and Fukarwi just ahead. Attempting to keep up with the longs (until I could mercifully escape onto the medium - which I never managed) soon burnt my ultra short range turbo assist out and I started to look for the exit earnestly Ernie.
There was a 'twist' in the tale, as rounding a corner, Fukarwi and I came across a limping Beefy with Woof Woof alongside. 'What's happened?' 'He's rolled his ankle,' replied Woof Woof. So, off we went, Rocknrolla, Woof Woof, Fukarwi and a catching up Piddler.
It wuz climbing Coombe House Lane that the defining and ultimately destructive point of the trail was reached. A clearly kicked out check (I wonder who?) sent us left down a narrow muddy track. A few hundred yards along, head torches could be seen returning. 'There's a ruddy big arrow pointing back, we've gone Pete Tong!' Back at the check, the number of hashers was increasing: Longs Fukarwi, Woof Woof, Deep Throat, Grinder, Manpig, Piddler, BB and Rocknrolla were joined by Coldtits, Archangel, and virgin Bev or was it Pisswell? In the finest tradition of disorganized hashing, confusion riotously reigned. Scouts were sent in all directions to discover the trail, but with no success. 'We should all stick together!' an unknown Wally cried and at that moment, two hashers made their own minds up and backed away into the darkness..
You only have to look at Beefy's post mortem Strava to see the extraordinary lengths he and other longs went to in search of the trail. The to-ing and fro-ing must Shirley have voided Beefy's warranty.
And that was the last time I saw the longs who had, in true David O Selznick style 'Gone with the Long'. Linking up with Piddler, we ploughed a lonely furrow through lane and byway until, with almost blessed relief, we came upon the drop down to the pub which was barely a furlong away. However, at this point Piddler (most unfortunately) spotted the SS arrow. 'We can't miss Wigwam's port and Stilton stop, ARE YOU UP FOR IT BLUEBIRD?!' Well, to be brutally honest, I wasn't as we had already covered six miles and I just wanted to get a pint of Sea Fury. But I stood/staggered for it and on and on we went until finally descending the steps to the river's edge.
The rest is legend. I spotted some crackers stacked neatly on a rock and thought they had been left for the birds. The awful truth slowly dawned on us. This was all that remained of the SS - ARGHHHH! Suffice it to say that Piddler was not a happy bunny though I was far too exhausted to have any emotion at all. We had gone to Hull and back, literally.
Much, much later, the valiant longs (covered 7.8 miles) also came across the crackers and Woof Woof forlornly munched on one as the mortally wounded, shredded survivors limped back to the Castle Inn.
Hash grub had been laid on for us and the sausage 'n chips was a fiver though Satnav called me over to inspect the fare. Two bangers and twenty chips (crisp unt light brown though they were) led me to deduce that the bangers were £1.50 each and the chips 10P each... never mind, the pub was snug and the staff John and Kat were welcoming as was the Sea Fury.
Manpig RA'd the Downdowns which were:
Poacher eventually to Archangel (originally we thought to Slip on Me and Beefy stepped forward to take it) for 'Just standing around without checking.' ?!?
Shitfaced (Pillock shirt) to Archangel (again) for 'Getting on his hands and knees and praying in the church yard.'
Piddler (after insane garbled intro by a demented BB) to Wigwam for being DISAPPOINTED at missing the port and Stilton stop.
Finally, a birthday DD for our Songmaster Pork Torpedo who had brought along a splendid cake to share.
POST MORTEM
Things hadn't gone as Wigwam planned and a strawberry flavoured yoghurt sent it spinning from his hands... But you know what? That's what makes a memorable hashing evening, not the hash trail that goes like clockwork - they are all so soon forgotten. Were we disappointed? Well, I wasn't and I can see why hashers like Piddler (and of course Wetfart) love to moan during and after a trail. It's quite simply because they really enjoy it, poking fun at all and sundry. And by the way, remember what Wigwam said at the circle about Migman's first ever trail and how he sent the longs on the short and vice versa? Was something spiritual and strange at work this evening? It makes you wonder, doesn't it?
Well done Wiggy, great evening.
POSTSCRIPT
As Bobby and I walked back to the car, we heard a loud bang as a hasher's car backed into someone's entrance. We know who it was!
*Please don't make me explain, Shirley you get it.
ON ON to next week from Teignmouth Rugby Club with Wide Receiver.
