Est 1983 - ON PRES: Robin Low
A pleasant sunny morning greeted our brave little hash band at Lavington. Well, I say pleasant but Rasta, Dogwhistle and the Eskimo began the day by deciding how many layers of clothing they were going to wear around the course! Wimps...
The pack was again small and elite with various apologies and excuses sent in by many members.
Miriam made a plea for marshalls at next weeks Stanstead Slog and then Invisible and Splasher greeted everybody including Lord Lucan who had run with us on one previous occasion.
So after the usual pointless preamble we were off across the common following sawdust. I mention this because some hashers claimed that this was the only occasion when they saw sawdust but I think they were exaggerating ... perhaps.
The trail went across the common and we knew we would be heading for the wood on the opposite side (at lest that is what Pancsi thought), but lo and behold a devious and very long back check past the chariots and off in the other direction.
The pack entered the wood and came to the first of many checks with Splasher beaming like a demented gargoyle grinning from ear to ear every time we went wrong, which happened frequently.
Within a few checks the pack had been switched this way and that until many poor little lost hashers were totally confused (which is a permanent state of mind for some of us).
It seemed that the falsies got longer and longer and every time each hare blamed the other.
We lost Lord Lucan twice (is that how he got his name?) with the hares showing little concern.
Miriam seemed to have the measure of the trail because every time we went down a trail it seemed to be chasing her. For me and many other hashers the highlight of the day was provided by our glorious JM.
Invisible was scrambling up a muddy bank and at the top turned and proclaimed that she was turning to observe any hash misdemeanours that may be taking place. She then tumbled down the bank bouncing upon her trim and finely honed ‘popsi’ (Hungarian slang for bottie). A laughter break had to be taken.
Deeper in to the forest with Lord Lucan disappearing into the distance, Whispers bellowing On,On (sic) and The Ref and Old Faithful looking totally bemused.
We seemed to be heading back towards the chariots and Mussolini headed off with determination sure that he knew his way in (poor fool). The pack seemed to drift in over the next few minutes from various directions. Eskimo said to me "I got my shoes wet at the stream". "What stream?" I asked, proof positive that we had come in from different directions.
Still as usual Veronica had presented us with a blistering turn of speed to arrive back first and completely fresh as though she had not even run the course, but there it is... the realm of the super fit.
The pack then changed and gathered around to hear the excuses and also see Treefeller receive the hashit for, well what was it for exactly?
Never mind, hashit awarded we retired to the Foresters in Graffam for drinks and socialising. £1.80 for a tomato juice???
A pleasant day had by one and all. On On