Although credits were given to Treefeller and the Can Man, it has to be mentioned that they had honourable assistance from Giro (Brazil) and Emilie (France). An Englishman, Scotsman, Brazilian and a Frenchwoman - there must be a joke about that and if any hashers can remember it them we would all be grateful.
For once the weather was beautiful and there were lots of legs on show. Unfortunately the legs belonged to the male section of the hash but then you can’t have everything.
(Unless you are a lady hasher). The pack began to gather and finally The JMs called the pack to order just as Caroline ‘Last Minute’ Matthews turned up with seconds to spare justifying her new nickname. So over to the hares and were led off down the hill. Which turned out to be a total waste of time as the trail went in completely the opposite direction. Still hashers are never known to grumble and we set off down the opposite track and across the fields and into our first wood.
As usual Bambi and Whispers were bounding along ahead usually down the wrong trail but Sue and Rasta were taking the considered approach and very rarely making a false move.
Although this area is just on our doorstep and we all vaguely had a rough (well very rough) idea of where we were the hares had still managed to make me dizzy half way around and totally lost. We plunged ever deeper into the wood to find another check where Old Faithful felt he had enough and suspended himself by the hashit (now that must hurt) from the finger post. Pictures were taken and he was shamed to carry on. By now the pack was completely lost in the woods bereft of trails and searching for sawdust. BUT seek and ye shall find and the Chichester pack were back on the scent.
Out into the fields and then after another check back into more woods. We thought that we would try a bit of a devious ploy here as Giro and Emilie were virgin hares and the pack decided to follow them. However as they have only attended one or two hashes their brain cells are still intact and they soon cottoned on to this and thereafter stood on the check until we had made our decision. Hash Flash’s attempt to woo Emilie into disclosing the true trail in pigeon French was also to no avail.
So across another field and then as the pack regrouped we came across a road. A quick look at the sun indicated that we would be better off with a compass but we felt that the end was nigh. Another check and Sinbad set off across the field as your Humble Scribe and The Chamois set off down the road. Sawdust was seen and eventually there was the Treefeller gracefully reclining at the chariots. He delightedly informed us that all of us had over run a falsie and only Sinbad and a few select hashers had come in on the correct trail.
When we were all gathered around the hashit was awarded to hash Flash for a truly terrible French accent in trying to get info out of Emilie and then the pack made haste for the pub.
For the first time this year basking in the sun on a pub patio, righteous in the knowledge that we had down out bit on a Sunday morning, we felt that God was in his heaven (Tony Blair permitting) and all was right with the world (Well, excepting war, famine, inequality, disease, reality TV etc.)