Saturday 6 October 2012

Suspicious minds and ancient finds

What do you get when you mix a Squirrel with a Spanker?  Invariably a fine hash, but inevitably a certain amount of chaos, often with a sprinkling of uncertainty about the direction.  Route location is made particularly tricky when the local yokals have removed all signs from the vicinity, but that pales beside being hauled into the local police station whilst setting the thing, accused of being Romanians planning burglaries.  Well, it could have been worse:  a few years ago and they probably would have accused you of being witches and dragged you to a hastily erected pyre in the village square.

With all the excitement of the setting, it was rather disappointing to arrive in the said square - a very pretty spot watched over by an old stone church, with a couple of big quintas and a trickling stream bordering - to find that the promised local bobbies were nowhere to be seen.  Neither was there a trace of any horny-handed sons of the soil bearing angry pitchforks and angrier wives/sisters, ready to hound us all out of town.

Oh well, just a hash then.  Off we trotted, up a hill into the residential heart of the village.  The first sign, a checkpoint, was in place, followed by an on-on.  Clearly it was going to be another one of those occasions on which the hares worry unnecessarily about loss of signs.  Or perhaps not.  Much to the hares' frustration we barely encountered another sign for the next twenty or thirty minutes.  It can mean that the running becomes a bit fragmented as the momentum of a checker's call and the pack's response is lost, but on the other hand, checkers could easily add length by trying the wrong route  when there are no signs anyway, thereby giving themselves extended runs to catch up again.  The effect was enhanced by Spanker's throat deciding to go on strike, reducing her voice to a noise akin to sandpaper over a wet towel and her on-on calls to whispers in the ether.

It was a nice area, especially out of the built-up part of the village, and the highlight was, of course, the archeological site, a wonderful excavated hill-town dating from the first three centuries a.d.  The acropolis was the ideal place for a pit stop, so that was what we did, stiffening our legs in traditional style before trying to get them working again, warm sunshine melting the chocolate on the biscuits provided to soak up the fizz.

The pack had been rather stretched at times on the way up and that continued as we headed for home, with, effectively, two groups emerging.  Two became three, four - I'm not quite sure how many - when we re-entered the village whose absense of markings made it a D-I-Y finish.  Watching hashers arrive home at the same time but from three different directions was rather amusing, but Chalky, here with Hooker (and her camera) for a visit, was nowhere to be seen, having at one stage been with the front group.  It turned out that he had been for a pee in the woods only to emerge and find himself left behind, and his homing device in sleep mode.  Eventually, however, he found us and the World was in order once more.  No burglaries, no Romanians, and Macieras all round at the end of the meal.

I have consulted my Romanian dictionary - or dictionar (yes, I have got one) - to sign off.  A prize to the first person I hear call this way and get a response in a hash.

Haide, haide!



   

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