Compared to recent turnouts, the band of hashers that appeared at the top of the Trundle in Goodwood seemed to be just a hardcore bunch of diehard hashers who would come out whatever the weather. And what weather. The rain poured down and as our JM’s called us to order Splasher and Bambi were still hiding in their chariots.
Still after a short preamble we were off and as was expected up and up to the top. Except we were not as it was a falsie. The hares began to complain that they had laid the trail with flour and the heavy rain had washed it away (a likely story). This became even more fun later when we realised that wet flour on a chalk hill was not easily spotted.
However the trail was found and we scurried across the fields watching Whispers worrying sheep.
A couple of passing horsewomen seeing your humble scribe shouting and indicating On On with his hands ventured to ask if they were allowed to ride there. "Why Not?" I replied. "Oh we thought you were rounding up the sheep!" Proof positive that it takes more than a horse and a Barbour jacket to be considered a true countryman. So with Miriam ‘The Chamois’ proving that her new nickname was apt as she ran across the steep hill (I am sure one leg is shorter than the other enabling her to run along the side of these hills) towards a gap in the fence using local knowledge, the pack came out at the top of Chalk Pit Lane..
Most of the pack went downward following a hot lead but crafty Old Faithful was not so easily fooled and started on up the field. When the Doc also crossed the field and crept through the fence I knew we were on the right track. This proved true as we arrived at the top to find Sue hiding with Rasta watching us scurry up the hill. Another check and then off to the trig point at the top of the hill where we found the Treefeller resting. The pack caught up and then there was only one way to go - down. With only two trails to take the Can Man managed to take the wrong one but Pancsi sniffed out the true trail which led us down to the racecourse. Bambi now took the lead and we were taken around the bend (apt) and then into the woods opposite the racecourse playground. Sploshing through the mud (although it had stopped raining) we got lost in the wood and it was up to Spiderman to point out the way for little lost sheep and hashers as the trail had dissolved.
By now we knew we were heading back as it was (a) 12 o’clock (b) we knew the area and (c) one of the hares told us so. (It was the last clue that clinched it).
As we climbed down a steep bank we heard the cry of On Inn! from the front.
This confused us (easily done) as we were nowhere near the chariots.
Still what is a mile long On Inn between friends (although the hares insist it was only 1K!
A muddy and bedraggled pack reassembled back at the Goodwood Triangle to hear the nominations for the hashit - your humble scribe for frightening sheep with luminous tracksters, The Eskimo for only wearing 4 layers of clothing and all the usual suspects.
The honour was given to Mussolini for deserting the pack to spend Christmas in the southern hemisphere to avoid the cold and snow - wimp! He got his own back though by tricking a poor hash trail virgin into laying a run with him. So a good day had by one and all.