THE POACHER TURNED GAMEKEEPER

Run #2027 Monday 1st July from the Church House Inn, Stokeinteignhead

Hare: Poacher

 

Who wuz there: GM Shitfaced, Piltdown Man, Forrest Stump with Muttley, SMEllie, Satnav, Wet Fart, Slip on Me with Boo, Justin with Dylan, Well Hopped, Big End, Rodger the Dodger with Ned, Pisswell and Beefy. Squeaky Bum, BeeFlicker, Smash with grand-daughter Charlotte, Soapy, Palmolive, Melon Picker, Poacher, Hotlips, Zoot, U Bend, Strap-On, Strap-Dancer, BB, Ernie, Pork Torpedo, Hornie,

 

Piltdown and Smellie had asked if I was okay to write the words for #2027 and I had, at the time, thought I was.

 

After three failed drafts - Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I found that levity had deserted me.

 

This then, is my fourth (and final) attempt to relay my thoughts of the evening - albeit limiting the usual free-flowing embellishment.

 

It was late in the day that I decided I could make a return to hashing after fifteen weeks in the wilderness.

 

The intention had been to assist Poacher with the trails. A miscommunication on my part resulted in Poacher waiting for me at the pub before setting off. 

 

Thinking that Poacher was going to drop by at my abode, I drove down to Stoke to find his 4 X 4 in the car park. Enquiring in the pub, Maisey said that he had been in for a drink and then had set off up Deane Road. I had missed him by about ten minutes.

 

There were two choices. Return home and probably give the hash a miss or, now I was here, get a short run in and have a reserve walkers' or short trail. I chose the latter option.

 

My second visit to the pub at around 7 pm found Poacher, Beefy, Pisswell and Forrest already there.

Poacher had laid all three trails and was rightly dubious of my story.

 

Back from her many adventures, Pisswell looked bronzed and lean. She confirmed that she had lost a stone - I tip my cap to you. I also noted that U Bend was looking trimmer, and he too had lost quite a few pounds and would be setting off on the long trail to keep up the good work.

 

The roll call was a solid thirty. In a bit of a daydream, I missed the circle banter and even Poacher's trail description. I did hear Wetfart say that there was no change in Teapot's condition. It will be good to see him back with us. Let us keep our fingers crossed.

 

Not having run for some time, I wasn't sure how far I could go, but a gentle walk around the short was not for me. If I cannot run, I will not hash. 

 

On home territory, I could bale out when the legs inevitably went. Forrest wasn't hopeful of running and had resigned himself to hobbling around the trail.

 

The first check fifty yards up Deane saw the trail turn right up onto the bridle path which climbs to the A379 corniche. 

 

Heavily overgrown and rock-strewn, it was not possible for me to run, and I awaited the cavalry charge of FRB's. Threequarters of a mile up, I heard Beefy calling the on on but his progress was halted by a tempting check by a field that ultimately went nowhere.

 

The trademark of the trail would be the abundance of checks, so beloved by the pack but abhorred by the FRB's. Tonight, the poacher had become gamekeeper.

 

In the words of the poet, I halted gladly at the summit and paused awhile to gather breath. Still no sign of anyone but I was getting a bit lonely. I waited but still no takers. Having recovered from the climb, I legged it down to the main road.

 

I had led a charmed life thus far, but the last grains of the egg-timer were trickling away.

 

Into the coastal fields, another fiendish check. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing - Poacher had mentioned that the trail went close to Maidencombe so I plumped for the right hand track above Suicide Woods. (Do you recall our outing in there many years ago?)

 

The check proved to have been the closest to Maidencombe. Two minutes lost and now the game was up.

 

Another cry of ON ON! and Beefy was there. A hundred yards down on the coast path - another check.

Still clinging to the 'close to Maidencombe' snippet, I doggedly veered right down the unforgiving trestles. On one, on two .... ON THREE! I was Shirley ON!

 

Half-way up the hill, I think I got a glimpse of Beefy behind me. 

 

Disquietingly, he did not follow. I then took a closer look at the marks which were, I must admit, a little faded. 

 

Old marks, oh dear. Slip on Me confirmed that they must have been AH3 who were at the Church House the previous Tuesday. 

 

It was an honest mistake. I looked up. 

 

High above, hashers were arriving at the first check. An orange vest, probably Well Hopped. I was too spent to backtrack up the savage trestles and I ran up the white flag.

 

Plan B was to climb to the main road by the southern flank of Suicide Wood and smash back down the bridle path close to Pools Weir.

 

Fifteen weary minutes later, I staggered over the stile by the main road. On Higher Commons - a cross, I was back on trail. The check down the bridle path was kicked out. I was sure I was last on trail.

 

Meanwhile, back with the longs, Beefy, Beeflicker and company were making slow progress out towards Labrador Bay. They were further delayed by a backcheck which Poacher had thrown, gleefully no doubt, into the mix. Justin had not seen this mark before and its meaning had to be explained.

The longs made Labrador bends before climbing to the top path and eventually retracing their steps back to join up with the short trail.

 

It had been an unusual hash for me. I hadn't completed the long, short or walkers trails. I had been in hailing distance of Beefy a few times and seen a few hashers in the distance. Never mind, it had been an adventure and I had enjoyed it.

 

Back in the car park, Forrest had some good news. He had, after all, managed to run and was very pleased. 

 

Thirty hashers, each with their own adventure and story to tell.

 

Now for the après trail in the Church House.

 

Smellie was sitting by the bar with a bag of ice on her ankle which she had turned en route but no lasting damage, thankfully.

 

The £5 pint is now firmly established. I can still recall Blaster standing at the bar in the Thatched Tavern when confronted with one of the first (in Torbay) £3 pints. 'HOW MUCH?' Blaster roared!

 

Shitfaced was sitting at the bar with a soft drink. Soon to be a hasher reborn, he was keeping away from the waft and temptation of garlic mushrooms.

 

Forrest first asked Strap-On if he wished to RA before presiding over the down-downs.

 

The recipients were: Smellie, Pisswell (Hashit shirt), Strap-On and Poacher (hare) for a great trail,

 

A final DD went to Smash's granddaughter Charlotte who downed the water with alactrity.

 

We will be returning to the Church House later in the year (October) for the Harvest Festival auction after an interval of some seven years.

 

Next week: A visit to the Dolphin in Bovey Tracey where Poacher will be haring again.

 

A little shamefaced about the words, normal service may not be resumed for some time.

 

Postscript: Somewhere east of Stokeinteignhead there is a charming little trail chalk-marked almost exclusively on small stones...