A night of almost. Its almost 7:15, there is no sign of the hare and almost no-one notices. The Hare arrives, time passes, and almost everyone is quite happy to stay in the pub until the hare nudges the GM, at which point almost everyone shambles outside into the cold night, leaving a few lingering inside the pub until the run actually gets going.
We’re off. Down to the canal and turn left, not the way we usually run from this pub. We almost like the idea until we get to the first false trail mark and have to go all the way back.
Then it’s down the tow path the normal way toward the gate we almost always go through and which almost half of the pack runs past, despite there being no trail that way. Eventually, we all get together again in the fields where almost all of us get caught up in more false trails – some of the Hare’s making and some of our own.
It was great being off the hard surface and into grass, so rare in a city based Hash. There was less light pollution, we were bathed in light from the moon in its Waxing Gibbons phase, and often dazzled by the arc lights some of us wore on our heads. One feature of these light conditions is that flour can take on the colour of its surroundings and become almost invisible, which is why almost all of the pack ended up having to follow the Hare while also enjoying the shiggy.
Horsenden Hill looms. We almost always run up it, so the Hare has cannily set the trail around it for a change. This doesn’t stop some of the pack, including Pope, from running up it on the off chance of spotting a trail at the top while the rest of the pack struggles with disbelief and the above lighting conditions until , finally, salvation appears in the form of a road and we can make out the run markings again.
From then on, it was an on street trail, set with the guile of an experienced Hare who knows the area well. It was never the right option to take the “obvious” exit from a check and almost all of the pack were unaware of how far they had to go until they were almost Home, thanks to the back streets and footpaths used. Spirits were raised as “The Black Horse” came into view, and crushed when we realised it was the wrong “Black Horse”.
Back at the pub, after a decent interval, Wacker presided over the Circle and awarded down downs to:
The Hare, Yorkie;
Love Deuce, for Twerking (“A sacred, traditional practice originating from the Amhara tribe. The act of twerking occurs when one’s legs move in such a way that causes the buttocks to resonate, connecting the participant with cosmic energy. It can be used as an act of communication and also can allow the user to communicate with the dead.” (http://www.urbandictionary.
Stay Over, for Minding the Step;
Tash, for Next Week;
F Shakespeare for reminding us that there was an old brothel on the trail – to which his after dd comment was that the Pride tasted like the whore’s mouth (before or after? We never got to find out);
Tinkerbell and Eeyore, for returning
Pope, for not being able to distinguish between Love Deuce and Dingo’s rear ends (He also, very cautiously avoided letting on as to which he preferred);
Butt Plug, and his Harem of Roll Back, Dingo and Love Deuce, for almost going to Benidorm to run a half marathon (almost as it is this weekend)
And finally, Adam the Lager Drinker, a virg*n, for doing two laps of the pub car park by way of a run.