THE TRAIL THAT NEVER WAS & HIS TRUST WAS NOT MISPLACED

Run #2010 The words

PART 2

 

The egg-timer sands speed up as the last grains are dispensed. The flame burns bright just before it extinguishes for ever.

 

And so, oh Dearly Exasperated, I feel that a burst on my ag-ed banjo is warranted afore the lights finally dim...

 

It was a memorable day, all things considered.

 

The forecast looked unpromising and the flightless one was loth to get wet - fearful of a chill being the end of him. With that in mind, plus a sleepless night, I ventured forth at the ungodly hour of 9:30 am to steal a march on proceedings.

 

The co-hare had unwisely let the Bird design the trail and so his beloved tarmac would Shirley figure heavily. 

 

A bog standard clockwise loop would be served up with a sprinkling of off-road through Humber woods thrown in to appease the Ramboesque devotees.

 

It was going according to plan until Humber woods when the navigation went awry, resulting in a trek down to an imposing chateau set in Capability Brown sculpted gardens. 

 

Loitering most furtively in the drive, a figure appeared at a window and the Bird beat a hasty retreat.

The entrance - and cut-through to Three Trees lane was gated and topped with barbed wire with a protective earth mound in front. 

 

It did not look promising. A lady walking her dog was espied and they both exited the wood by walking around the side of the gate.

 

I was reassured when she explained that the owner didn't really object to locals walking around but had erected fortifications to prevent the scourge of dirt bikers and the like churning up the ancient wood.

It was only a few hundred metres to Three Trees lane but scenic (and sodden) indeedy.

 

Exiting the lane with the golf course dead ahead, the heavens opened and the wind picked up. 

 

What had started out as a jolly lay along leafy lanes, was turning into a nightmarish fight for survival.

 

You try it when you're nearly eighty, mush, it aint that easy.

 

The steep descent down Old Walls hill was literally awash with rain spill-off, making it pointless putting chalk or flour down. 

 

Oh woeful day! 

 

To take my mind off the misery, I phoned Man-Pig to give him the glad tidings that he needn't come out as there was only the long loop round Red Rock baby to lay. 

 

Anticipating that the rain would obliterate flour marks, I had utilised chalk in the form of lozenge-shapes for many of the marks. 

 

Diary note: It didn't work, did it.

 

Getting back to the chariot, I was soaked through. Proud Bird now become drenched Dead Duck.

 

I didn't feel at all well the rest of the afternoon and seriously considered not going. However, I then realised that I had forgotten the walkers' trail so I grimly geared up for another gogo.

 

A Grand mini-tour of hostelries was the plan, taking in the Ring o' Bells and the Cockhaven Arms in a one mile loop. 

 

I think it best to gloss over the details as I managed to get lost but not before Slip on Me had passed me going the Wong Wei as well.. sigh.

 

Returning to the miniscule car park behind the Old Commercial, the expected chaos was in full swing, despite hashers having been pre-warned.

 

THE TRAIL

Desperately did the Bird tout for customers to enlist for his certain suicide short trail. 

 

Unfortunately, he had sold the product all too well at the circle, instilling a great fear into the tiny and most suspicious huddle.

 

'It's only a transit of about three hundred metres but you would do well to keep silent and proceed in all possible haste unless you want to be blasted by a 12 bore. 

 

And, when you move around the fallen tree, be careful lest you plummet down a steep ravine into the brook.'

 

En routey, Manopause had yet to be hooked on the potentially dangerous and certainly most dubious enterprise. 

 

'You'll head 'em off at the pass, Manopause, as sure as eggs are eggs..'

 

And so, indeedy, it came to pass that the mighty Manopause, hero of a hundred hashes, set off alone, into the darkness en routey for whatever lay out there..

 

His job done, the lonesome Bird turned for home, only to meet tailender Smellie who was out for a potter. 'Keep straight on up the hill, do not enter the 12 bore woods and head for the Golf club. You can't possibly go wrong.'

 

Meanwhile, Manopause, with the Bird's final instruction ringing in his ears, had reached the dark and forbidding Humber woods. 

 

'Look for an orange square on the left which shows the way into the woods.'

 

And there it was, just as the Bird had promised. There was more good news. Under the canopy of trees, flour marks had survived and signposted the way through four possible trails.

 

Wondrous indeed was the Man o' War's transit. 

 

A thundering of hooves and a herd of deer galloped past, their eyes glinting ghostly in the hasher's head light.

 

Clambering over the far side mound onto Three Trees lane, Manopause found himself thick in the action. 

 

Oh, Born Again FRB! 

 

Flat and downhill from the golf course, Manopause could match strides with the longs. HA! Indeed.

Don't you love it when a plan finally goes right.

 

THE DOWN-DOWNS

A request to the RA, saw a special award given out. 

 

For his trust - not misplaced for once - in the Bird, Manopause had a famous name attached to his hash handle. 

 

Henceforth, he would be known as Manopause Magnifico - only the second hasher ever to be honoured with the title.

 

Possibly a first was the award of a DD to the hare whose trail really did not exist.

 

What a funny old day it turned out to be. SIgh...

 

FOOTNOTE

Don't forget I'm owed £9 for the downdown beer!

 

'Goodbye', that's all he wrote.

 

ON ON you fools, BB