Here is a map showing locations of some of the WLH runs during 2016.  Clicking on a run location will allow you to view the trail for that run.

Hopefully this will be helpful if you are a hare trying to decide where to set your next trail.

Emerging from Putney Station, I was about to follow the P-trail up the hill to the Green Man pub when I spotted an elegant, smartly dressed, business woman standing by the bus stop, who looked somehow familiar.  Then it clicked – it was none other than our very own GM, Dingo.  I just hadn’t recognised her with her clothes on. I left her and her lazier acolytes to the delights of the No.85 and did my best to work up a thirst for the traditional pre-hash pint by continuing up the P-trail. Mind you, I think I would have taken the bus too if I had been wearing a pencil skirt and high heels, but you’ll have to wait until the next Red Dress Run for that.

We had quite an international gathering for this run, with 14 visitors from all over the world including Egypt, San Francisco, Iowa, and even the City of London. Our hare for the day was Phickle F, who set us off into the wilds of Putney Heath and thence on into the dense jungle that is Wimbledon Common.  I do not exaggerate when I say that I have encountered less impenetrable tracks in the depths of the Malaysian jungle than some of the trails laid by our hare.

At one point I was intrepidly way out in front of the pack, having just successfully broken a check (a fairly rare occurrence for me) when I heard a distant cry of “New Balls Please”. Had we strayed so far off course that we were now in the grounds of the All England Club?  No, it was our GM again, trying to locate me so that she could ‘offer’ me the honour of scribe duties for the evening.

By the time we reached the furthest extremity of the run (Queen’s Mere by my reckoning, but I could be wrong) the pack had become rather lethargic, with only desultory efforts to try to break the check. So we were quite happy to follow the cry of On On, which we assumed would lead us onto the trail back home.    This optimism turned out to be misplaced.  Somehow the FRBs had managed to pick up the wrong part of hare’s trail and were heading in an unintended direction. Our esteemed hare-meister (his words, not mine!) Phickle F then had to retrieve the situation with desperate cries of “On Back” and the scattering of copious amounts of flour to mark out the new trail.  What then ensued will probably not go down in WLH history as PF’s finest hour, but basically entailed something resembling a live hare run, with the hash-meister continuing to chuck flour and chivvy the pack back onto the intended route home.  Even then the return journey was not that straightforward, with the On-In trail crossing over the On-Out trail and consequently leaving several less observant hashers heading in the wrong direction. Indeed, they may still be wandering around the common as I write this.

Back in the pub, Down-downs were awarded to our numerous visitors, who were all polite enough to say how much they enjoyed running with WLH.  Phickle F was of course made to atone for his trail laying misdemeanours, and Shakesbeer was castigated for not fing-off to Russia on schedule. (Apparently this penalty will continue every week until she does so).  Finally, we had the task of christening Peter, a relative newcomer to the West London Hash.  He had been observed making a plunge into the bushes whilst out on the run, so the RA proposed variations on the theme of Bush Diver, Brazilian, etc.  The hash name finally selected was (I think) Sh*t in the Bush, so welcome to your new family SITB.

On On

New Balls (Please)

Last Weeks Run Write Up Curtesy of Drain Oil An Eric run..and what a great experience. I arrived with Flasher and Felicity Shagwell, now of Oslo H3, who rank WLH3 their favourite London Hash and were my kind hosts when I visited Dushanbe a few years back. There was a good cross section of hashers in the Monkey Puzzle, both Londoners and visitors from overseas. It was good to returnees including Linford.

Dingo surprisingly asked me to write up the run but she evidently knew of the Inflappable Pope’s instruction to Eric to keep the run entirely in Hyde Park…which would keep me on trail. It should have been a simple run but by varying the level of flour laid, the hare managed to so confuse the pack, that they were kept pretty well together..those who persevered. At some stage Dingo, who was concerned that her run-upwriter was absent, was led astray by Spare Rib and lost the plot. Effes managed to confuse out and in trails and Radar was so bemused by friendly squirrels (so wary in Scotland) that she turned back early. In Sussex, we eat them. It was a fine evening but such a shame to see the Round Pond in such bad shape ! Surprisingly, most hounds seemed to enjoy the run though Flasher commented that it was the worst run that he had ever completed. He had earlier got mislaid and went to ask a young maiden if she had seen a pack of runners; she was KC, from Euston (sorry, Houston) on a work-placement in London. Not then wearing a hash shirt; later she put on a Shiggy sock (one of a pair) and explained she used it in Texas to protect her ankles from the dry brush there….in Malaysia we call it bush and Shiggy is invariably muddy, soggy and wet.

The hasherdabber did a good trade in T-shirts later. The Landlord of the Monkey Puzzle was most generous in down2 beers and costing and let me postpone payment after consumption as my coins were in my hash-bag. Splendid Badger, Furtive Ferret and Stowford Press to drink. The Circle was held in the narrow side street and various RAs strutted their stuff. Little White Buss and Alouette from Oslo H3 joined other Norwegian hashers. Stayover punished for the overuse of his inflatable zimmer frame on trail (the committees generous retirement gift) I forget other notable miscreants.

By the way, LWB commented that he would not be going to Interhash 2014 in Hainan because of too many Chinese. Give it a thought; Hainan Province in China, on a tropical island off Vietnam, is bigger than Belgium (let alone Bruxelles) and should be fun.

Onion Ain

You can’t go far wrong in leafy Richmond on one of the warmest days so far. Well, some hares could, but luckily Nutsucker (co-hare FF) realized this natural potential and laid the trail mostly off-road. That said, the hare did manage to trick most of the pack into following a few false trails before we finally made our way down to the river. Then it was on up the hill and into Richmond Park. And what a glorious trail – across the open plains, on into the woods, sun filtering through the trees, deer in the distance, fresh breeze. And just as everyone’s pace seemed to be slowing down to a ramble a perfectly-timed and -placed drink stop. This being the 4th July we were “treated” to Budweiser, wine, something else liquid with little bits in, doughnuts and pretzels. Influenced by the American service culture, all of three hashers served these refreshments across an impromptu bar counter that was a mighty fallen tree.

It was also at this point that we noticed the pack was considerably smaller than it had been at the start. The hare made a late appearance, but visitor Little pair (locally now known as Small tits) and five others apparently independently got lost on entering the park. Luckily (for some) they managed to find their way back to the The Dukes Head, which with its dilapidated exterior did not quite blend in with the genteel surroundings.

Back to the American theme: Most people’s idea of “Wear or bring something typically American” (as encouraged in the weekly email) clearly extended no further than wearing a hash t-shirt from a US kennel. And that was those who bothered. Best effort goes to Dingo for draping the American flag round shoulders in the style of a US sprinter having just won the 100 m in the Olympics. Apparently the flag was stolen, down down for that. Other down downs were many and funny.

On on

More For Less

On arriving at the pub I found a gloomy scene, Pope and Periodical sitting there on bar stools with a disconsolate look. When asking why everyone was so jolly, Eeyore, (or was it Periodical) replied, “the pub has no ale”. “That doesn’t make sense” I said “its a perfectly decent Notting Hill pub”. “No” said Eeyore “its a Sam Smiths pub”. I enquired as to whether the sad donkey could drink a lager or Sam Smiths bitter instead, “No” said Eeyore “I’d rather have nothing, and then head off for a decent pint somewhere else”. So the donkey and the Pope sat gloomily staring into space with the sort of look you might find on a small child who has just been subject to some tragic event. The look reminded me a lot in fact, of the time many years ago when the dog ate my sister’s Easter egg. We didn’t get much chocolate as kids, so this was nothing short of tragedy, but I digress.

Anyway, the pub started to fill with hashers, and on setting the pack off, I reminded the pack that it had been 8 long years since we had run in Notting Hill, and for good reason, as we were all so scarred by the last occasion when Eric truly messed up his trail beyond all recognition of anything resembling a trail. Ended up with him dropping flour as we ran north in a straight line out of town and the pack following immediately behind him at a distance of around 10 yards. The majority of the pack, having left their brains back a the pub, assumed that they were on trail, not realising the flour was so fresh it had barely fallen on the ground. A mutiny then ensued.

Anyway I digress again.

So sad again it was then that, our hare, Love Deuce had employed a co-hare named Eric. It was fair to say that things weren’t looking up at that stage. I didn’t dare look to see the level of dejection that must have descended on Pope and the donkey.

Anyway the trail set off, we had a bizarrely smallish pack, we stopped at Hugh Grant’s house at which point Plug wore some large underpants, while we mocked up a scene from Notting Hill the movie, casting Eric as Hugh and Plug as the Rhys. We ran around a lot of streets. Eric was relieved of the rucksack containing the drink stop, “just in case” said the GM. Some wearisome hashers caught a scent of home so cut the trail short. What a mistake that proved to be!

Out of the gloomy surrounds came a very green Holland Park, a summer evening, a sunken garden, Peacocks, live opera music and vodka jelly shots. Who would have thought it – a late entry for drink stop of the year? The depleted pack set ravenously about the jelly shots, forgetting that this was a form of alcohol rather than food. After consuming at least 9 each, the trail home proved interesting. Scaryoke started to get blurred vision, and we were all a lot more jolly back at the pub than we were when we left it.

Of course, those who had cut the trail or turned up late were greener than the green jelly shots with envy, at having missed such a superb event. Luckily for them there were plenty shots left. Down downs followed and were very funny, but I can’t remember much about them other than Plug complaining that the Hugh Grant pants he’d been given were too cheap for Notting Hill and defining a new hashing sin called “pantage abuse”.

On On

Stay Over

This was no ordinary run. Oh no. This was a midsummer run and tradition dictates that a midsummer run shall have fine weather (thank you to Wacker), fine food (thank you Eagermount and Periodical), and fine hares (well two out of three isn’t bad).

The run departed the Duchess of Cambridge and wound its way through the pristine suburbs of Chiswick visiting patches of greenery along the way, it made its way up to Acton Park – which was a revelation to those whose previous experience of Acton has been the less salubrious Horn Road end of this settlement, where the greenery is restricted to the occasional skunk farm – there were fine old trees, lush green grass, expansive vistas and definite signs of civilization.

Leaving the park the run made its way to the drinks stop at the home of Eagermount. Here hashers were given a glimpse of the international, jet setting, opulent life style of the hares. In a rich garden with roses and other scented flowers providing a stunning back drop, foods from the North lands of the never setting sun had been flown in and laid out beautifully on fine table clothes; what a shame it was to be wasted on hashers, whose normal idea of luxury is to put ketchup on their chips.

From the land of Father Christmas poor Prancer had been slaughtered and pieces of him turned into beautiful canapés. Herrings had been dragged from the sea, Salmon ripped from rivers, and elk cut from the heard and butchered. All this booty was piled high and offered along with other delicacies like skorfore, crème fraiche, smoked cod roe, prawns, sliced egg, and dill; beetroot and gherkins; Jarlsberg and Danish Blue; fine ham and who knows what else. All this was washed down with Aquavit and Lapin Kulta beer.

All the hashers agreed that the beer was fantastic but they were not sure about all that funny foreign food. Back at the pub the day was saved as a fine selection of proper English ale was on hand to restore everyone’s equilibrium. Wacker gave some of this away during the down downs and everyone said everything had been marvellous.

On On

Butt Plug