Run No. 696 26th December 2004
The Wagon & Horses, Steeple Morden
Ankle Biters: -
Knitting Circle: -
In keeping with the 'rural' aspect of the picturesque village of Steeple Morden, I have decided that these words should be read in the appropriate fame of mind, therefore, roll back the centuries to the Middle Ages, to a time of courtesy and of deeds valiant, a time of Princes, dragons and vagrants. Break out the foaming tankard of antioch, unleash the chickens and set thy pew by the fire...
"The mornin' be fine - sling thy hook, and prepare thee mystical trail!" quoth No Knickers and so it be that fair Madam, er...er...... I mean 'Madman' Big Blouse and wench No Knickers set off afore sun up to prepare for ye arrival of the lords and the ladies of thy H5 Hash.
A pretty, yet furtively cold and chilling day had unfurled but thy lord above blessed all with a demonic air, and thus it was written that they who were to sally forth that day were to be thankful to the lord that they were not born a brass monkey.
Thy ancient and magnificent church revealed that the time drew near and it were as if mystified by the eyes of the dawn that a great stead cantered to a halt at the Inn gates bearing a fearsome sight - "be you the white tornado", Big Blouse cried and genuflected in front of the fearsome warrior "nay lad nay, it be a trick of the light - I be your king, - I be Ringer", and so the day began as many had foretold and horse and cart (cough) began to arrive from the villages afar.
As the sun shone, the wind blew eerily and strangers were a spotted, "present thyselves strangers", demanded our leader and thy serf representatives of the Barbarian Hordes (ok, ok, Royston Runners, but I'm trying to build up a picture here - BB) Charlie (?) and Dave followed including the elderly Sire of My Little Pony as yet a beast without a Hash stable. Thy gathering were surrounded by the families of hashers old and new and, a suffering from many a welcoming tankard of seasonal ale, the fleet of foot Shaggy and thine missus Sleepy Hollow and various small hashers and ankle biters clad in winter skins and furs.
At the allotted time, the hash ambled forth a cursing and bemoaning their fate on the bleak mid winters cusp. "Check it out thy brethren", came the cry and White Rabbit was hot on the scent, only to discover a false end and thus My Little Pony led the way through the cobbled and seasonally decorated lanes. The brave and somewhat unhinged Tightwad, resplendent in bare legs and armour of the round head spied the mountainous trail and set forth - "this way my liege" he cried and the apathy mounted and the assembled throng set forth through many a cunning falsey. Tricksome and treacherous be the ways of the country as many trails amounted to nothing, and the travellers were laid low with the desolation of the open grass lands.
Nary had the brethren begun to advance when the graceful forms of the Lady Penelope by luck and chance led (through no fault her own) and had thy wench had become a FRB alongside the respected Gorjoyce to the amazement of the pack who had totally gone in the wrong direction, and all were greeted by the welcome site of Ye Hash Official Beer stop at the humble abode of The Blouse & Knickers beckoned forth for tankards of local brew.
Thus revitalised and afreshed with stout heart and the wind behind them (!), the brave and rusty (Should that read 'trusty' Shagpile ??) band sallied forth**.
Warmth of the ancient sun eased the rites of winter on the bones of the weary travellers as once more down the worn roads they travelled to find a fiendish sign of the Devil. "It be witchcraft" cried the Cunning Linguist, "Nay it be a check child", ventured Ringer and the question check led all with bare legs and Poofy gloves to try their luck against the mysteries of chance.
As luck were to have it, the way was clear and the band of the H5 sweated off the seasonal feast of turkey and beers onto the village center. Twisting and turning the seething mass of collective weirdness startled many a local as the trail snaked in and out of the village, at last the damp and crooked masses spied the final leg of their epic journey, Lady Penelope complete with wimple in hand (!) bringing up the rear.
Thee welcome sight of 'On Inn' was burned into the ground and thus it was written that the journey's end was near (twice I say it was written)
Great foaming tankards of ale greeted the sore and weary band and mugs of finest brew were meted out and once more the feared tankard of Antioch was placed before the travellers and the rite of Down Down was forced upon the circle of the damned.
So it was that the ale was quaffed by:
And so it was passed and written into the annals of Folklore that the H5 had triumphed this day