Are you as dull as ditchwater,downright desperate,despairing or, recently back from the dead? I know I am so, a Monday evening could not be better if it were mounted on a marble plinth and illuminated by searchlights. (Can anyone hear a fanfare or, is it only me?)
This particular Monday,in what is very much early August, a consignment of Polyester Tourists drew into the car park at Hound Tor and alighted to form Teign Valley Hash House Harriers.
Hip hip hip hooray! The sun had put his hat on and irradiated the Tor and the greenery around it (the early morning had been quite misty on the higher ground). The car park was in the shade and, with the breeze, a few of our number felt the chill.
Those present were: Hare Poacher, Georgie P’Orgy, Piltdown Man, Bee Flicker, Pocket Rocket, U Bend, Slip on Me, Soapy, Melon Picker, Pork Torpedo,Hornie, Mane Attraction, Miss Inn (who did), Wet Johnny (who did also), Archangel, Forrest Stump, Manpig, Coldtits, SMEllie, Pisswell and Beefy. Late arriving was Psycho.
Coldtits, with the help of What 3 Words and SMEllie’s navigation skills, had ended up in a cul de sac in Helsinki on the way to the Hash but, arrived on time, somehow, only to miss the Circle (and the Trail) owing to losing her car keys.
At the Circle, SMEllie asked for Hares for October.
Over to the Hare:
“It’s laid in flour, on the right, three and On, two Long/ Short splits and there’s a crocodile and a boat, a splash pool, inflatables, a wave machine, two bubble slides, diving platforms and a springboard, flumes, water canon and jet skis.” No cream tea by the pool though: points dropped compared to Pisswell’s Trail of last week. Oh dear, I didn’t bring my trunks.
On on to Swallerton Gate and the first check. Eventually, On was called and the denizens of the Monday Trail followed the road heading south. Suddenly, Poacher was laying fresh marks and calling everyone back. On to the first L/S split. Your chronicler elected to to walk the Shorts having carelessly contracted tenor’s elbow in his left knee. The Longs departed to meet their destiny (more on that anon).
We Shorts were dispatched widdershins and never left the comforting aegis of Hound Tor.
Soapy was regretting wearing the ceramic shoes she had made for herself at evening classes and was glad of the short Trail. Melon Picker KNEW this would happen: his evening class was crystal ball gazing/ swimming combo.*
“Shallow but not slow,” announced Pork Torpedo, “air trip in the semi-darkness.” He continued. “Blank A blank blank L blank blank blank T.” He concluded. Seven across, apparently.**
“You need a man to go to the Sleepytime Gorilla Museum with!” said Hornie, brightly, misquoting Tuesday Weld.
SMEllie, as an expert navigator, knows it is unlucky to travel widdershins so, occasionally, she pirouetted in the opposite direction as a countermeasure.
U Bend has been studying “mind fullness” by mistake: his intention was to learn “mindfulness” (an entirely different subject and, in fact, not as cheap). The upshot of this is that his mind is so full now that, if you merely say “hello” to him, he will forget something. Good work, Ubie!
Slip on Me said “See you in a fortnight!” as she lay down on a pile of sand she had found because she wanted a holiday.
Pocket Rocket had donned his fighting shorts, by mistake, and decided to return to the cp to see if there was a skirmish he could join or, failing that, something he could poke with his GM stick. We may never care about the outcome.
Georgie P’Orgy and Piltdown Man were discussing a different recruitment tack: “We need more OLD people, I mean REALLY old people to make the rest us look really adequate...” and so it went on.
Fire breaks and animal tracks formed the Short Trail. After 1.4 miles, we found the O.H. and decided to go on a folly of our own to bump up the mileage (where was the second L/S?).
On the Longs, Bee Flicker was wearing Dutch military dress in the belief that it would render him “nicely inconspicuous”. It didn’t...and the extra moustache did nothing to help, and he had left the cap at home, too. Where is that clanking noise coming from?
Wet Johnny, who is excited about his next holiday, found some shrimps on Trail and had taught them to whistle. Who of us did not hear that wistful three part harmony rendition of “The Skye Boat Song” drifting, inappropriately, across the moor (accompanied by that clunky metallic noise)?
Miss Inn had brought a stepladder and had lent it to Manpig who descended clutching his second-favourite binoculars. Venturing into ornithology as he is, he announced, proudly, that he had seen some Great Tits and, possibly, a Swallow. It’s a tricky subject and the birds were being scared away by the ongoing muffled clang noises.
Meanwhile, Mane Attraction had seen a pony and had given it one of her flip flops hoping it would fashion it, deftly, into a piece of “lucky” door furniture. Are ponies that superstitious?
Forrest had been on the Longs and had decided to head back because his other leg was giving him some bother. So, he removed it because, he thought, everyone else makes do with two so, he should, also.
Pisswell, having the benefit of being on familiar territory, was FRB. Leaving only footprints and a cloud of dust as evidence of her presence. She ran the watery parts twice, added some Trail of her own, led the pack back to the cp and ran on to the On Down.
All of a sudden, the source of the mysterious metallic clunking noise became apparent: it was Psycho who had come straight from a horse-climbing incident and was still covered in ropes, reins, bits, stirrups and carabiners.
At the Kestor Inn, the pub donated the Down-down beers. Very kind, Hurrah!
Pisswell assumed RA duties.
Poacher, as Hare, got a cider and “S.H.I.
.Y.T.R.A.I.L.”
.Y.T.R.A.I.L.” Beefy stole the GM’s stick but Pisswell got the blame and the HASHIT shirt: “A soldier I will be”.
Forrest was given the elephant hat by Georgie P’Orgy for allowing Mitch the dog to escape from the pub. “He’s the meanest”.
Coldtits lost her car keys and the Trail.
Poacher got a second d/d and the Irish hat from Soapy for asking Forrest if he was On. “This is your Down-Down song...”
Hornie got the last half and the last laugh. For what I don’t recall. “She’s the girl for me”.
Where are we next week, SMEllie?
*He’s a buoyant clairvoyant.
**HALFLIGHT
Well, some of the above happened (ask Baron Munchausen). I can do much worse. In order to avoid this, volunteer to write the Words!
On On,
Beefy.
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