Est 1983 - ON PRES: Robin Low
|704||2011-01-30||Dogwhistle & Miss Perfect - Selsey Rd/B2145||Pagham Nature Reserve Visitor Centre
||SZ856966|| || || |
A perfect day for a hash. A Sunday, 11.00 and bitterly cold and fresh
but there was not a cloud in the sky. There was the slight anxiety of
hoping we were on the right side of the harbour as the venue was
unfamiliar but just as I was getting worried it came into view.
We arrived at the twitchers paradise to have the unnerving experience of
having the birdies high powered optics trained on us as we emerged
from the car. Had they not seen any Lesser Spotted Yellow Bellied
Hashers at close range before? Our names were presumably scribed into
grubby notebooks once we were identified and the breeding pairs
Our numbers were depleted of the leanest and keenest, by that
I mean no Max and no Jan (competing again) , however Gerry was rumored
to be running to the venue and he was late, 2 early nominations
We were goaded into a circle and brought to attention by a solitary
multi-tasking JM. There were several moments of reverend silence as
the Hasher of the Year trophy was bestowed with all due pomp and
ceremony. I was just about to start a tearful acceptance speech,
modeled on the Oscars, full of hyperbole and thanks for my mother’s
love and attention and gratitude for all my fans, when a quick photo
was taken and instead of being passed a microphone, we were rallied
for the off.
My moment of glory had passed. No Golden Globe, just
something that looks remarkably like a loo seat with a chain. Still
the gong had my name on it in a couple of little brass plaques and I
felt truly humbled after reading all those august names enshrined
Some people seemed to be more interested in Sue Spooner’s
remarkable recovery than me. Now I know how Miss Piggy feels when
someone upstages her and the moment passes.
We were warned about mountains to climb and mud to wade through and
Some quality in the sea air had prevented the flour
from either being laid or seen. However, it takes more than a lack of
markings to stop a Hash and those with local knowledge just seemed to
steam on ahead using a seventh sense for where the trail lay.
Perhaps most were spellbound by the frozen salt marsh with ice and white
encrustations where the reeds had oozed liquid freezing in the frigid
night air. If we were impressed, the birds were not and they generally
skulked out of sight.
Can Man lost a shoe, literally littorally as it was sucked off by the
hungry mud below the high tide mark. He was reunited with his shoe but
remained without cans to the end. Bruce, however, was going remarkably
well, leaping gazelle like thus avoiding all the boggy sods. He
admitted to have been training which along with short cutting brought
him the the attention of the nominating committee.
The rest of us, more terrestrial beings, just got wet feet. We were chastised for our
half hearted attempts at a regroup but some were for surging on and
could not be restrained. ESP and sense of smell seemed to guide the
pack but those who were expecting flour were to be disappointed, so
were the hares as checks were run over and flasies ignored. Generally
the world was put to rights as we hastened to the “On In”. It was too
cold to tarry long.
With Bruce’s example fresh in our minds, we all resolved to indulge in
some ‘training’ too. Our luck was in, as a cheery Jim and Jan showed
us how to focus on that other discipline in the Hashing biathlon, of
course I mean enjoying a drink in the pub. On On (come back Bambi,
Paul Stross email@example.com