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.

TVH3 The Words for 16th January 2023 The Crown & Sceptre, St Marychurch

 

 Photo above: Forrest catches the thrown Jester's hat squarely on his head!

Run No. 1952

 

HARES: Bluebird & Man-Pig ably assisted by Bobby Woll

 

Who wuz there: Bluebird, Man-Pig, Shitfaced, Threesum, Forrest-Stump, Warmfront, Amy, Beefy, Pisswell, Pollyfella, Fukarewe, Piltdown Man, Georgie Porgy, Smellie, Wet-Johnny, Erection, Ernie, Fallen Woman, Strap-On, Strap-Dancer, Teapot, Bobbiball & Coldtits.

 

THE CIRCLE

The circle commenced with Bluebird asking for a show of hands for food. There was a choice of scampi & chips, sausage & chips or chicken strips & chips. All at the very reasonable price of £3.75. There were four takers and no further announcements. Then it was over to the co-hare whilst Bluebird scurried off to lay the early part of the trail.

 

Now, hands up those of you that have passed a sign saying "Wet-Paint. Do not touch". It is like a red rag too a bull. Curiosity is aroused. How long has the sign been there? Is it still relevant? Is the paint still wet? Invariably, curiosity gets the better of us and we reach out to touch the newly painted surface. 

 

Sometimes the paint is bone dry - old sign....should have been taken down ages ago.

 

 Occasionally, the result is a sticky finger as we regret our curiosity to enquire deeper. And so it proved to be on this occasion.

 

As is the wont of almost any Bluebird trail, there is always an element of foolhardiness in its creation. No wet paint this time but the Hare did paint a picture of an especially dodgy trail to instil fear into the waiting ranks. The Hare dished out the instructions:

 

"Do not do the Long if you are of a nervous disposition."

"Do not do the Long if you bruise easily."

"Do not do the Long unless you are a mountain goat."

"Do not do the Long if you are not competent in the execution of a PLF."

"No, Forrest. The Long is not suitable for dogs."

 

The Hare could not have been clearer but you should be reminded that we are dealing with hashers.

 

THE TRAIL

The trail started easily enough. Bobbiball had kindly offered to choreograph the Walkers' trail. This would be a walk down to the bottom of the cliff railway and then back up to Babbacombe for a quick beer stop at a local hostelry before returning to the On-Down. Simples, or it would have been if Bobbiball's first choice of pub had been open!

 

Meanwhile, Warmfront and Amy (with clothes on this time - obviously recovered from the Christmas party) led the balance of pack. Wet-Johnny was in hot pursuit and not losing ground. This would explain why I did not see them again until the pub. 

 

Somehow the main pack got slightly off trail early on. They all looped down an alleyway and back onto Happaway Road just before its junction with Teignmouth Road. The Hare got them back on trail and in no time they were in the rather sodden playing fields.

 

After a squelchy loop around the periphery of the playing fields we came across Bluebird who was issuing instructions.

 

"All those that want to do the Shorts, stay here!"

 

My heart sank as about eight Shorts stayed with Bluebird whilst six Hashers and Harriets plumped for the Longs. So much for my dire warnings. How on earth was I going to manage one of the steep slopes with a torch in one hand and a container of flour in the other? Secretly though, I was proud of the Longs steely determination. In particular, Forrest-Stump with dog in hand. Oh well, I'd better follow up and do the sweeping.

 

The trail went up onto the ridge where an unmarked public right of way traverses the upper edges of three fields before we came to a check and the south western flank of Watcombe Woods, just above Watcombe Villa. We haven't done this bit of footpath for nigh on twenty years. In the intervening period, it has become a little overgrown due to lack of use but the majority of tracks were discernible - at least they were during the day whilst setting the trail. How visible they would be in the dark remained to be seen.

 

I was pretty much at the tail end of the Longs. The only hashers I could see were Forrest Stump, who was just in front, and Pisswell just behind me. Progress down the steep and slippery path would be slow for all. However, despite not being able to see any of the FRB's, we could hear them calling on on. They weren't that far in front.

 

As we gingerly made our way down into Watcombe Glen and the site of a film studio - demolished a long, long time ago, we could hear Beefy shouting:"On to Long/Short split." This was reassuring as there was about a fifty metre length of trail that followed an almost completely indiscernible track that exits onto the rutted, tarmac lane down to Watcombe Beach.

 

Amazingly, all made it onto the lane without incident. Forrest was in Grizzly training mode as he and Pisswell elected to go Long. This took us up the lane and to the car park opposite Trinity House (I am sure that this used to be called Watcombe Manor - currently for sale if you fancy a huge pile).

 

We followed the wide path and woodland steps towards the Valley of the Rocks. But before the Valley of the Rocks we came to a check. It had already been kicked out to the right. Up, over and then down a series of woodland steps to rejoin Watcombe Lane. Then we ventured down Watcombe Lane for a mere forty or so metres before an arrow had us crossing the flowing stream created by a fractured water main. We then climbed even more woodland steps.....until they stopped. A storm had blown over a tree.

 

The uprooted tree had torn out the the top half dozen steps and these had subsequently been washed away. This made for slippery work with Forrest coming a cropper. The situation was not helped by a wardrobe malfunction as the tang had broken off Forrest's belt. This meant that he had to hold onto his dog and his pants at the same time whilst trying to navigate a fallen tree and and some non-existent steps.

 

There's nothing quite like setting yourself a challenge.

 

The rest of the run was fairly straightforward. It followed the lower path west through Watcombe Woods all the way back, around Torbay Golf Club, and then onto Petitor Road and the OH.

 

A sterling effort by our six Longs. Well done.....or was it just six?

 

THE DOWN-DOWNS

Arriving back at the pub, Strap-On was waiting outside for Strap-Dancer. I assumed that Strap-Dancer had chosen the pub option with Bobbiball (she had along with Fallen Woman).

 

Inside the pub, numbers seemed a little low. Polyfella and Shitfaced had already gone home but a few were still missing. A headcount revealed that some of the Shorts were not present - namely, Threesum, Coldtits and Smellie. 

 

Some twenty or so minutes later they arrived - some dirtier than others. A quick look at Coldtit's Strava revealed that, somehow, they had got onto the first of the Long splits. This is the one that had the steep descent into Watcombe valley and, perplexingly, Coldtits had clocked up 5.2 miles on a trail that should have been under 4 miles for the Longs. The main thing was that they were all back safely so we could commence with the Down-Downs.

 

Returnee panto thespian, Forrest-Stump, took command of proceedings:

 

"Thank the pub for the beer."

 

Last week's birthday boy, Piltdown Man, was the first up to give away an award. The pearly hat was now being described as a Turkish wedding helmet....hmmmmm. Nevertheless, the worthy recipient was Warmfront who had won a cross country 10 miler the previous day. A rendition of, "Hold it in your hand Mrs Murphy", ensued.

 

Next up was Man-Pig (not in slippers this week) to give away the jester's hat to a deserving cause. It could have been given to the Christmas Party stripper but that would have meant backtracking to 10th December 2022.

 

It could have been given to any of the Longs for ignoring the Hare's pre-run omens. It could have been given to any of the three Shorts who ended up on the Longs. However, in fairness, only Threesome was present in the circle to hear the Hare's warnings of impending doom. The other two were either late arriving or powdering their nose.

 

It could have been given to either of the fallers, and an inspection of Forrest's and Smellie's backsides was undertaken in order to ascertain who was the dirtiest hasher.....a draw!

 

Finally, the sorry tale unfolded of a deaf, but determined hasher. He had left home without a change of clothing. He had fallen over which was, perhaps, unsurprising in the absence of a working belt. Additionally, he had committed himself to a challenging trail along with the loyal Perry. And, to complete the charge list Forrest performed a party trick by catching the flying jester's hat squarely on his head. A note for the "wardrobe mismanagement".

 

Warmfront 'dished the dirt' on a hasher who had turned up in road shoes (inadvisable as Bluebird can confirm) and had compounded the error by stopping at halfway to wash them! Wash 'em Wet Johnny!

 

The penultimate award should have gone to Forrest for diving into the bushes for a pre-hash slash. This had been witnessed by Fukarewe but he had promised not to squeal. A common hash mistake. Fukarewe gets the Down-Down for "Discretion".

 

Wet-Johnny was driving and Forrest is on the wagon for January. This left two untouched halves on the bar. It didn't take long for the Hash to decide that these should go to the Hares....a DD dead heat.

 

Thankyou to the pub for having us and for Bluebird's neighbour, Big Dave, for putting up with us. The Crown & Sceptre always makes us welcome and it's really rather pleasant to have the jazz music wafting in from the bar opposite.

 

POSTSCRIPT

A feeling of relief that I had been able to assist MP laying the trail - it's always a bit of a lottery whether I can get out. We struck it lucky with an all too rare dry day. The lay was 'slightly' eventful with MP's accompanying banter always entertaining.

 

The trail went without incident although it was my mistaka that sent Coldtits, Smellie and Threesum onto the long. I had mentioned to Polyfella that I should have put closer marks at the top of the lane going right in case Coldtits came along. I didn't, and she and the others quite understandably veered left onto the first long split.

 

Fortunately, all three are experienced hashers, and were able to cope with the mudslide descent. Little wonder that Smellie was taking my name in vain!

 

I concur with MP that the Crown & Sceptre is still hash friendly and ideal for me.

 

I am sorry about my minor hissy fit at the downdowns which MP was kind not to mention. I am a bit stressed from time to time, and Fallen Woman perhaps recognized the fact.

 

I had a lovely day, thanks, MP, Bob, and all you hashers.

 

NEXT WEEK

Next week's Hash is fromThe King William IV, Totnes. The Hare is Wet-Johnny and the run is just before Burn's Night so wear something Scottish - either on trail or in the pub.

 

On-On to next week.

MAGIC MOONLIGHT ON THE TEIGN, ARCHANGEL HITS 800 & THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING PILLOCK SHIRT

by Man-Pig and the Bird

 

Run #1951 Monday 9th January

 

From the Taphouse, Newton Abbot

 

 

HARE: Archangel

 

Who wuz there: Arkangel, Shitfaced, Man-Pig, Hotlips, Zoot, Ollie, Cheerio Beerio, Warmfront, Beefy, Pisswell, Piddler, Piltdown Man, Georgie Porgy, Smellie, Melon-Picker, Soapy, Wet-Johnny, Erection, Fukarewe, Ablesemen, Threesum, Slip-on-Me, Teapot, Ernie, Bluebird & Coldtits.

 

THE CIRCLE

Grand Master Shitfaced announced that annual subscriptions are now due at £30. Threesum announced that she'd put a deposit on a villa in the Bahamas and Smellie requires hares from 24th February onwards.

 

Man-Pig volunteered Bluebird for the Words. This was a "Thankyou" for having received the Hashshit shirt last week, "You - BLEEEEP".

 

Over to the Arkangel. "There are Walkers', Shorts', and longs' trails. No, Bluebird, I am not telling you how long they are". And we are jolly well off.

 

THE TRAIL according to MP

The Longs headed across the playing fields opposite the Taphouse whilst the Walkers and the Shorts headed down Teign Road towards the canal.

 

The Longs took a short loop around St John's Street and Salisbury Road before rejoining the Shorts and Walkers at the River Lemon. The trail then looped into the Brunel Industrial estate before following the footpath alongside the River Teign.

 

Where Aller Brook joins the Teign, the Walkers headed right and down the west side of Aller Brook whilst the Longs and Shorts continued downstream along the banks of the Teign.

 

We usually turn inland towards Buckland where the A380 passes over the Teign. Not this time. Instead, we continued along the Teign footpath for another 300 yards or so before crossing a small marshy area and climbing up into Wildwood Copse. At this point, Cheerio didn't want to get her feet wet and let out a large scream.....or was that Piddler poking her with one of his walking poles?

 

The reverse trail ran parallel with Besigheim Way passing between the A380 and Wildwood Crescent and Gilbert Road. We passed the children's play area and then the trail took us to the footbridge over the A380. Up to this point, I'd pretty much been on my own but then a flying Beefy passed me on the bridge.

 

The final Long/Short split had the Shorts heading into the Brunel Estate and along Forde Road back to the pub. The Longs went left running along the west side of Aller Brook towards Forde House. A check had us running into the gardens of Forde House and then.......nothing. Beefy was running round in circles. I checked three exits out of Forde House. Whilst I was looking for marks along the Torquay Road, I lost Beefy but I could see torchlight back in the garden. By the time I'd failed to find marks in the industrial estate, I'd lost contact with whomsoever had been in Forde House's gardens. I was just about to make my way to the On-Down when I thought I'd just check out the Penn Inn. Bingo! An arrow at the only exit I hadn't checked.

The trail now took the Longs up the east side of Aller Brook and up to the Walker/ Long & Shorts' split which had now been scrubbed out and replaced by an arrow. This took the Longs down Aller Brook's west bank. At the footbridge, the Longs' rejoined the Shorts' trail for the final canter back to the On-Down. 3.94 miles of which 0.7 miles was running around Forde House's garden!

 

A nice little wind down after Saturday's A2B.

 

PREAMBLE SQUAWK

The Bird came in the wistful hope that he would be better this week than the preceding week's calamity. He had barely survived the four-mile short and had been on an intravenous drip for three days after the debacle. The question of whether you can resuscitate a corpse was for the moment a moot point.

 

A goodly throng had assembled outside the Taphouse. Old mucker - careful with the spelling - Fukarwi was back, clutching a secret cache of cash, secreted from 'er indoors, for the subs. His new year's res, to attend regularly.

 

Warmfront had arrived on her trusty cycle from Chudleigh - oh to be young and magnificent once more!

 

Ernie, sans milk cart, was keeping his unblemished 2023 attendance intact, and it wouldn't be a hash without stalwarts Pisswell, Beefy, and Coldtits - though Bobby Woll was still in full hibernation mode. Man-Pig and I will wake him up in time for next week.

 

CIRCLE & TRAIL SNIPPETS by the Bird

A carefully orchestrated circle ensued. At great expense and with meticulous planning, the Teignbridge Trotters Couch to 5K group (aka the Sharks) were instructed to have a punch-up cum warm-up with the Jets (TVH you fools). Cue menacing West Side Story soundtrack.

 

The Bird shouted a warning: 'Here they are lads, let's get 'em!' But the Sharks were mob-handed and in the face of an oncoming blazing battery of headlights, the Jets held ranks. For their part, the Sharks also didn't like (it up 'em) the look of the motley crew waiting in ambush.

In complete silence, the Sharks passed by, wisely deciding against the punch-up option.

 

Man-Pig, predictably still irate over the heinous hidden Hashit shirt affair of last week, vented his fury on the unrepentant Bird, utilizing a four-letter word whose origin is still a matter of fierce debate by historians and linguists alike.

 

It appeared to be open season on the Bird as Smellie seemed to join in on the Bird-bashing. Being deaf, I failed to hear the utterance but as all eyes turned upon me, it may not have been complimentary.

 

Enough, desist, you must excuse my ramblings. I shall now return to the trail.

 

As Archangel refused to be drawn on distances, the short seemed a sensible option. The action was in front as the formidable Wet Johnny and fellow Penner, Erection, spearheaded the assault. 

 

Under the canal bridge, a group of potential delinquents was loitering in a tent outside an opium den. Expecting verbal abuse, I was pleasantly surprised by a lone cry: 'Ooh look, he's got finger lights!' Cancel delinquents and substitute well-behaved little darlings.

 

Catching up with the Penners it was made official that we were the advance party. Wishing to delay the moment Beefy et al caught up, I pressed on. The arrows were greatly appreciated.

Turning off onto the River Teign footpath, I sensed I was alone. Looking back - nothing. No dots and I had the disquietening feeling that I was off-trail. A few moments later, many head torches appeared at the kissing gate, the game was still at least a foot long.

 

Rounding a bend, a magnificent moonlit riverscape unfolded. A deep orange Wolf Moon hung low in the sky, projecting a broad ribbon of moonlight down the River Teign. What an amazing sight our hare had prepared for us completely free of charge.

 

So engrossed was I with the spell-binding scene, I narrowly missed falling into a large puddle. For a moment I considered hurdling the water jump before sanity returned.

 

The arrows were straight as, well, an arrow, remaining reliable as I scrambled up a bank into the woods. A light manifested itself below - I had tarried too long at the moon show and now the longs were on me. Fortunately, it was a single long - Warmfront. No contest, I waved her past and watched in admiration as she rapidly left me in her wake.

 

A few hundred yards later and Wet Johnny caught up. How long will an elastic band stretch before it snaps? I managed to stretch it to twenty yards before Wet Johnny kindly eased off.

So much had happened along the highways and byways that it came as something of a shock to discover we had only recorded two miles as we paused on the outskirts of the town centre.

Just as well, I was spent and Wet Johnny knew it as he surveyed the near-lifeless body on the pavement. Helping me to my feet after my collapse, he said that we would just do a little extra around the canal bank before adjourning to the refreshment tent.

 

We picked up part of the first long split before mercifully turning for home. Thanks, Wet Johnny, good job you were having an easy run.

 

THE DOWN-DOWNS

The Hare had arranged with Chris at the Taphouse to open especially for us. This is because the tap house is usually closed on Mondays in January. Hence the first order of service was to thank Chis for opening and the beers. Thank you.

 

Horned hat from Piddler to Melon-Picker for achieving septuagenarian status. "Here's to the septuagenarian....."

 

Replacement jester's hat (as baby Bat hat had been left at home) from Smellie to Man-Pig for very nearly turning up the Hash with his slippers but without his trainers. "Hold it in your hand Mrs. Murphy....."

 

Birthday down-down for Piltdown Man's birthday the following day; all the right notes - not necessarily in the right order.

 

The Hashshit shirt needed a new home. There were quite a few contenders. The first contender was Smellie for dropping Man-Pig in the quagmire by recounting the story of the wardrobe malfunction re substituting his trainers for slippers! The next contender was Fukarewe. Some shenanigans regarding electricity consumption at their abode. Third up was the screamer. Who was screaming on trail? It was Cheerio Beerio in a botched attempt to cross a small puddle. (Could that have been my water-jump?)

 

However, none of the previous three could contend with the award of an 800-run badge. Who could be so bored as to have attained the dizzy heights of 800 runs? None other than our Hare for the evening - Archangel....."Get a life, life, life......"

 

Finally, there was a rather strange award. Brandishing a tee shirt, Teapot seemed to be offering up lost property. 'Anyone here own the Pillock of the Year 2019 shirt?' A perplexed and frowning Bird stepped hesitantly forward. 'Well, it must be me, but where did I leave it?' An answer was not forthcoming to the riddle, and the half of heavily-chlorinated tap water was downed.

 

On examination of the shirt, it became clear that it was brand new and had never been worn. Back home, I searched the archive and the mystery was solved. Dear Winfield had posted the awardees from the Union Inn at Denbury, but curiously there was no mention of a Pillock Award. I had been unable to make the Union Inn and so had thought that there was no Pillock that year. The surprise awarding was somehow forgotten and the shirt has languished in Teapot's bag of tricks for over three years!

 

Never mind, better late...

 

POSTSCRIPT

A great evening and Archangel showed that a trail doesn't have to be long to succeed. The highlight had to be the spectacular orange moon along the Teign, captured so well by Beefy and Pisswell (her photo posted here).

 

The Taphouse is fast becoming a hash favourite and we will be returning there at the end of the month.

 

Rest assured that Man-Pig and the Bird are still friends but bear in mind that the friendship will come under strain again next Monday with the Bird having an unsettling habit of going Wong Wei.

 

Last word - Congratulations to Archangel on getting his 800 run badge!

 

NEXT WEEK

Next week's Hash is from The Crown and Sceptre, St Marychurch. The Hares will be Bluebird, Man-Pig, and, perhaps, Bobbiball - but he doesn't know anything about it yet!

 

ON ON to next week.