Run 1065

Sunday 30 October 2011

The Sloop, Scaynes Hill
(part of 1066 weekend)

Hares: PP and The Count

HASHERS: 25  NEWBEES: 4  ANKLE BITERS: 3  MUTTS: 1  APRES: 5

Laying in unknown territory and with original hares Sniffle Cock (a sickly child) and Ringer (knackered after a hard weekend acting as Rapid's batman) forced to retire from duty at the 11th hour, Private Parts and your very own Count had every excuse for making a pig's ear of this one.
Unfortunately it would be disingenuous of us to use any of them to cover up the lack of skill and map reading ineptitude which lead us, three times, to lay the trail in completely the wrong place.
Fortunately the magnificence of the hashing countryside in this area covered up our mistakes and we fooled most of the people most of the time into thinking it was a fine hash if a tad on the brief side.
Not a good start. With 4 guests from Hastings H3 raring to go (including your Scribe's new Hashing Idol, Bushsquatter - runs like the wind, different hash song every time - take note H5 - and though you'd never guess it, is even older than The Count. A Goddess) we were playing for time waiting for our GM to turn up.
But it was time well spent. As the Count distracted onlookers by pointing out the Bluebell steam train chugging by, PP explained number checks in great detail. So much so that our guests seemed to become fascinated by them, seeking them at every opportunity and obeying to the letter. To use the word "mugged" would be more than unfair but it worked a treat.
Less so the cake stop. Not that H4 or anyone could, or would even dare, complain about the quality of Lady P or The Frau's shortbread: it's just, well, as the Fat Controller says "where's the beer stop?". We muttered something about being the WI Hash and asked if they wanted the recipe but doubt if we got away with that one.
Back on the trail, we had a hint of cattle, to bring Lush Big Pant's genteel weekend back down to earth, and prompted the question "why are we running through a field of clover?" from Skippy (are ankle biters trained to be so profound?) before yet another piece of awful trail laying was glossed over by an impromptu short cut and series of fish eyes.
Through delightful woodland, featuring the sort of toadstools I imagine Noddy living in, and finally (I use the word only to give an illusion of length) back to the excellent hospitality of The Sloop, which I did my best to ruin by chucking Lady P's coke over the bar.
In the circle Capt F, GM of this parish, once again paid tribute to the hospitality of Hastings H3, those who organised a super weekend and a couple from East Grinstead H3 we found in the bar.
Rapid, Forking & PP launched into the usual suspects - Twiczer of course for snoring in an Eastern European language, and I'm sure the others (but not me, despite Grace's urging) were equally obscure and there must have been lots because by the time we got round to the Fat Controller his down-down comprised Pussies' lovely carrot cake.
ON BACK to somewhere only Bangers has heard of.

THE COUNT