TVH3 The Words for 23rd January 2023

The King William IV, Totnes

Run No. 1953

 

HARE: Wet-Johnny

 

Who wuz there: Wet-Johnny, Bluebird, Man-Pig, Shitfaced, Threesum, Forrest-Stump, Beefy, Pisswell, Piddler, Fukarewe, Ernie, Piltdown Man, Georgie Porgy, Smellie, Erection, Ernie, Strap-On, Strap-Dancer, Coldtits, Big End, Well Hopped, Slip-on-Me, Ablesemen, Fallen Woman & Satnav.

 

The Circle

Brrrrr......it was cold. So much so that only twenty five hardy souls made it to the King Bill for the, notional, Burns' night run. It was so cold that early hashers congregated in the pub to keep warm. Inevitably, the time came to brave the cold. But not for long. In the middle of the announcements, Smellie arrived with what looked like a chemistry set; a lot of test tubes in a square rack. What dastardly Porten Down experiment were the hardy hashed being exposed to....anthrax poisoning? No. It was a nip of scotch being distributed in test tubes - courtesy of Smellie.

 

There were no announcements per se apart from, "Get back before nine if you want scoff". Then it was over to Wet-Johnny who obviously was immune to the sub-zero temperature as he, Erection and Beefy were all wearing Shorts. "There is a Walkers', which is a loop around the town. A Shorts' trail and a Longs' trail. The Longs' should be less than six miles. The blood drained from Bluebird's already blue face......that'll be the Shorts then!

 

Burns' night is on Wednesday 25th January. Hence, tonight's run was to have a Scottish theme. Most elected to save their Scottish attire for the pub but some were, additionally, taking the Scottish theme on trail. The bekilted Beefy ran the entire trail tossing his caber with a mouth full of red hair from his false beard. Meanwhile, Pisswell had brought along her pet haggis on a lead. At the other end of the spectrum, Piltdown Man and Georgie Porgy had turned up not with, but without, THEIR TRAINERS! Imminent down-down methinks.

 

The Trail

Spoiler alert: I don't know if the cold weather is coincidental with the arrival of UFO's but the Hash set off with a strange apparition hovering above them. A single, stationary, bright red light hanging over the eerily quiet town. Was this an alien spacecraft? No. But it was enough to distract the Bird as he careered into a wheelie bin in the closing stages due to gazing at the mysterious orb rather than watching where he was running. Fortunately, no-one saw this tail-end charlie so he escaped a down down.

 

Man-Pig found himself leading the pack down Station Road towards the roundabout next to Morrisons' petrol station. The marks were clear and close together as we turned left and continued towards Totnes railway station. Just before the western bypass, the marks had us going left again and down Castle Street and to the first check. Ahead of us were steps that must lead up to the Norman motte and bailey castle......and a cross - false trail. Back to the check to check right and along Castle View Terrace. We were "on".

 

The trail continued straight, along Collarpark until we arrived at the junction with Plymouth Road. The trail took us right and along Plymouth Road and towards Follaton House when an arrow took us right into the new estate centred around a road called Puncher's Down. At this point, Beefy, avec caber, lumbered (get it?) past. A zig-zag around the estate and we crossed a main road and an uphill stretch of tarmac.

 

After 50 or so metres, the tarmac fizzled out and we were on a relatively broad track; uphill - a long way uphill. At this point, the penny dropped and I knew where we were. This is a track that we've run along many times before, but usually from the other direction. At the top of this track are a couple of caravans at its junction with Green Lane. I overtook Beefy, who was changing shoulders, and sure enough there were the caravans with generators running. The trail took us left along Green Lane for maybe 150 metres before the marks took us onto Jackmans' Lane. Usually this track would have been very muddy. Tonight it wasn't too bad. This was simply because the mud had frozen! At the end of this piece of track there was a check. Beefy checked right and towards Gill's Cross whilst Man-Pig checked left back towards Green Lane; no-one else was with us so no-one checked straight ahead. It made no odds as Man-Pig called the "on". At the next junction I was convinced that the trail would take us straight across and down Harper's Hill. It didn't. The trail went right and towards the A381 Totnes/Harberton Ford road.

 

We were back on Green Lane, crossing the A381 and heading towards Lower Sharpham Barton before an arrow had us sweep left and downhill to the sweetie-stop and the only Long/Short split of the evening. A couple of fizzy-wine gums later, a recovered Fukarewe appeared with Ernie close behind followed soon after by Pisswell.

 

Wet-Johnny pointed out the Long/Short directions with Beefy and the Pig being the first to commence the Longs. This is an uphill track bordered by mature trees. This is where Beefy came a little unstuck. His caber kept snagging on the branches. This was good fortune for the Pig who could now keep up with the handicapped Hunk of Beef.

 

We came to a check at the junction with another track. Man-Pig knew that the track led down to Fishchowter's Lane and the toll house at the top of Kingsbridge Hill on the Western Bypass. What Man-Pig did not know for the next 150 metres is that he would come across a cross in flour - drat. Back to the check which Beefy was already kicking out just as the other Longs were arriving.

 

At the top of Totnes Down Hill we came to another check; this was outside the rear entrance to Bowden House. Once again the Pig checked left down Totnes Down Hill whilst Beefy checked ahead and up Totnes Down Hill. A sense of deja vu overcame the Pig as he found a cross and returned to a check being kicked out by Beefy just as the rest of the pack arrived - double drat.

Two hundred metres up the lane, small steps to the left had each been adorned with a blob of flour. We were now on a public footpath crossing an open field and heading due north. The Pig headed for the silhouette of an opening in a hedge but no marks. Beefy was 100 metres to the left and called "on" as he passed through a galvanised steel gate. On entering the second field, we were blessed with the most spectacular nighttime view overlooking Totnes. We were high. Very high. 143m to be exact. The public footpath carried on diagonally across the field for 150 metres or so before another steel mesh gate took us along a fenced pathway for a further 200 metres. Eventually, we exited onto the upper reaches of Totnes Down Hill. And down hill it was. Down the steep hill till its junction with Moat Street and Maudlin Road.

 

We were back in the outskirts of Totnes as an arrow directed us left and up Maudlin Road to its junction with Leechwell Street. The trail carried on along Leechwell Street and then a little zig-zag and onto the High Street at the top of town. The final leg took us down the High Street to its junction with Fore street and the On-Down.

 

Thankyou to Beefy for keeping me company throughout the run. I am not sure quite what the occasional car driver thought of the bekilted, red-bearded, caber carrying highlander running down Totnes Down Road. He probably just thought it was another TQ8'ian having smoked too much weed!

 

And now, with severe reservations, I pass you over to the Bird's memories of the trail.

 

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE STRANGE KIND

What will now be related is strange but true, the episodes along the way actually did occur - with none of the usual 'embellishments' - though dear readers, your collective credulity may be tested. So settle back, cuppa in hand to hear the various close encounters of the strange kind on our Burns Night hash.

 

An unpleasant journey to Totnes ensued. A word to the Ernie & Wise [sic], do not take the A381 Newton to Totnes road. A dozen expletives were shouted as pothole after pothole were hit at 40 mph, each one jarring and potentially damaging to the suspension. As Ernie, who also suffered, stated: 'What do we pay our taxes for?' Quite a shocking [double sic] start to proceedings.

 

Arriving late at the car park, I thought I had missed the circle, and there was a welcome shout from Ernie who also was late owing to the traffic and potholes.

 

Rounding the corner into Fore Street, the circle was still in progress, and we were welcomed by Smellie dispensing phials of a dram to send us on our chilly way. Beefy McCaber was, in true highlander fashion, bare-legged and sporting his trademark cardboard carpet cum caber tube.

 

The 'ish' voiced by McJohnny regarding distances had not really registered and, wee dram fortified, the pack spilled out onto Station Road en route for Morrisons Petrol Station.

 

McJohnny had us at it until our route up into the boondocks finally revealed itself. The finger lights were dispensed with as all feeling in said digits had long since gone, and a sinister pain in the left knee presaged a possible curtailment, even of the forecast three 'ish' miles short.

To lift my flagging spirits and to amuse (annoy) those around me, a stirring shanty was uttered as our brave little band of Pisswell, Erection, Piddler and Fukarwi drifted along.

 

The trail twisted and turned until the fateful climb of Jackman's lane. I didn't mind the steepness or the stones and near frozen mud but the knee pain was intensifying and there was a niggling doubt about the distance.

 

Further and further from the pub we climbed, and then, with a cry of 'abandon ship' the good ship Bird turned back, saluting his stouter shipmates.

 

Various shorts were passed on the descent but then the Grand Master Himself, to be sure, appeared on the lower slopes of the tortuous climb. Ye gods on high! Never had I seen walkers out so far into the trail - McJohnny had said the walkers' trail was just a 'little' loop..

 

Reaching the main road, the preferred choice of turning right to the town was hastily discarded as juggernauts thundered past. Straight ahead down a lane seemed to have been where we had come from, but somehow, I blundered off-trail - the bitter cold and knee pain having dulled my senses.

 

A succession of works vans drove up the lane. Crossing over the railway line in the dip, arc lights and hi-vis jacketed workmen were everywhere - all evidence of a major operation on the line.

 

On his break inside a van, the workman sighted a little old man limping towards him. 'Am I okay for the Plains, please?' uttered the distressed pensioner. 'What are the Plains then?' replied the workman. It transpired that the workman was from Plymouth and was not cognizant of the area. 'Totnes, then?' was the plaintive reply from the distressed pensioner. Consulting his tech, the workman triumphantly declared that Totnes was 'just over the hill'.

 

With a now jaunty limp, the pensioner set off up the hill, blissfully unaware that he was on Cott lane en route for Dartington..

 

It didn't feel right, it didn't look right, and the Bird paused, mid-flutter to consider his limited options. He had passed a muddy bridle path some way back, which bore the legend 'Totnes' on the sign.

 

Back I limped onto the right track but aware that it could be a long haul back.

 

Unable to run, the cold was seeping into my very soul. So this was it, I would perish out here in the wilds of Totnes, whatamistakaIhadShirleymada.

 

A half mile along the very muddy lane, a strange sight unfolded. Two ladies and a man were standing in a little huddle, seemingly sheltering under some trees. There was a hippy like appearance to them, one of the ladies wrapped in a large white shawl and the other lady clutching what looked like a heavily cocooned baby. The man looked morose with a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. 

 

On reflection, it was like a scene from a century ago. As I passed by, I remarked: 'I hope I'm going the right way, I don't where I've been and I've just been there.' This elicited a squeal of laughter from one of the ladies. Strange, very strange.

 

At last I tumbled out onto tarmac and found myself at the bottom of the bypass. I knew where I was, having lived in Totnes well over seventy years ago. I had nearly killed myself coming down this very bypass on a runaway Triang scooter circa 1955 - ah, happy days.

 

I paused outside my old house at 2, Station Road on the corner across from the railway station, peering wistfully into the lit front room where I had spent my early childhood.

 

It was then that I saw it. High up in the sky was a large, pulsating (my eyes had misted with the cold) red orb. Transfixed, I stared up at it. It was very large and composed of several facets.

There it was, hovering above the town, and with my eyes still on it, I continued along the raised walkway beside the road - straight into a carelessly placed wheelie bin. 

 

Climbing to my feet, I decided that I needed a beer, and made my even more painful way to the car park. Perhaps the light was from the castle but it still seemed improbable given its height.

 

Outside the Dartmouth Inn, I met Erection, complete with a presumably now deceased haggis in his arms just as the longs also swept into the car park.

 

I was so cold that it was an effort to open the boot and impossible to fasten shirt buttons or tie shoelaces.

 

As MP mentioned, I was now literally blue with cold and in a sorry old state as Slip on Me and Able will bear witness.

 

Later, at the bar, I asked Rob about the light and was relieved to hear that he and other residents had also thought it to be strange when they had first observed it. 

 

What was it? A bl**dy great crane on a new housing development!

 

Returning home via the safer Berry Pomeroy route, I mused on the evening's strange events. Had I imagined the time warp trio outside Totnes, and how could I have been taken in by what I was sure was a huge UFO? 

 

And why does it always happen to me...

 

Still limping three days later, and I may be missing for a while.

 

The Down-Downs

Back in the pub, it was good to see that most hashers had made some attempt at Scottish adornment. Ernie had a Saltire flag draped over his shoulders. There were numerous tam'o'shanters, Glengarries, tartan scarfs and tartan skirts but I think Smellie stole the show. She had put on her tartan pyjamas! Oh well, she was staying in Totnes overnight so might just as well get ready for bed early! At the opposite end of the spectrum, some Scottish attire had gone missing. Pisswell's haggis had slipped its lead and was now missing in action somewhere near the top of Totnes Down Hill or was it already in the kitchen of the King Bill?

 

A minor disaster ensued back at the pub; our bagpiper for the evening, Teapot, had called in sick. Quick thinking pub landlord and quizmaster extraordinaire, Rob, hastily arranged some Scottish pipe music to coincide with the arrival of the haggis....brilliant. RA for the evening, Forrest Stump, called proceedings to order with a bolt of lightning! Well, that's what it looked like. He had liberated a prop from the Dunsford pantomime which was somewhat reminiscent of Gandolph's staff. Banging it on the floor of the pub caused it to emit a bright flash of combustible material. "'tis the devil's work to be sure".

 

Silence established, Man-Pig delivered an abbreviated (4 out of a total of 8 verse) of Robert Burns' Address to the Haggis. It was certainly not up to the standard of Pork Torpedo's excellent delivery the previous year - which was rendered from memory. Nevertheless, and judging by the applause, it served its purpose.

 

After devouring two different types of haggis, one in sheep's stomach and the other in pigs' stomach, the Down-Downs got underway.

 

Firstly, Forrest thanked the pub for the beer, the haggis and the rapid improvisation of some bagpipe music to accompany the presentation of the haggis. Forrest also had the first award to dish out. Unsurprisingly, this went to Beefy for being an enormous tosser. A delivery of "Hold it in your hand Mrs Murphy but with the word, "Turkey" substituted with "Haggis".

 

Next, Man-Pig had to identify a worthy recipient for the Turkish wedding hat. This went to Slip-on-Me for trying to pull off a ruse that she was a clan chieftain by wearing an eagle's feather in her bonnet. The eagle eyed [sic] spied that it was not an eagle's feather at at. It was a tail feather from a Devon cockbird pheasant. This would have been a hanging offence in the Highlands 400 years ago. Today, the sentence was a half pint of ale.

 

Smellie had been looking after the baby bat hat since her trail from the Devon Arms. Now that it had escaped the Teignmouth bat cave, Smellie was on the look out for culprits. This was in the form of Georgie Porgy. Georgy had approached a stranger in the car park at the beginning of the Hash. "Are you a Hasher?", she innocently asked. "No. I always smell like this". Perhaps not an unexpected answer as there was a distinct aroma of skunkweed in the car park - this is Totnes after all.

 

The awards had run out but not the beer. Were there any stories? Of course there were. In particular a need to call the RSPCA. A certain Harriet had been seen dragging a barely conscious haggis along the trail on a lead. This is a wild animal for Heaven's sake. Even worse. It was the same animal that we had just eaten! At least it was fresh. A note for Haggis abuse.

 

Our Hare for the evening had to depart early. That was a shame as it was an excellent trail, some parts of which I haven't been on for at least 7 years - and that would have been with AshHash. Hence who to give the final half pint of ale to? There were two contenders. The first was Beefy who had admitted to eating red hairy pie all round the evening's trail....lucky devil. The second was an absent minded Piltdown Man. Not for the first time he had forgotten his trainers (and he hadn't got the excuse of being on his motorbike this time!). This was compounded by the fact that Georgy Porgy had done the exact same thing. A note for the "Footwear faux pas".

 

That pretty much concluded a very good evening which was made even better by our very hash friendly landlord, Rob. Rob had arranged the haggis, provided the down-downs and stepped in at the last moment to provide some appropriate bagpipe music to accompany the entrance of the haggis. Thankyou, Rob. And thank you for everyone who made the effort to come out on a jolly chilly evening.

 

Next week

Next week's Hash is at The Keyberry Arms, Newton Abbot with Hares Threesome and Slip-on-Me.

 

On-On to next week.