Porto Hashing blog

Modivas merriment

2012-01-26T08:15:00.000-08:00

On another fine Sunday morning we assembled at Modivas Sul metro for the traditional wait for Mrs Slocombe. With five virgins (although, I'd question whether any of them actually looked like a virgin) present at least it gave some time for explanations. Plenty of time. Anyway, with such holiday weather few minded standing around for a bit and eventually we were off, into the nearby woods and tracks.

Obviously, I don't have to justify my love of hashing, but when a whole bunch of newbies turn up I want them to fall for it too, so in many ways this was an ideal one with which to make one's bow. Set in the flat, pleasant, semi-rural environs of Modivas it was easy to get going so everyone was quickly into the groove, and virgins were soon to be seen checking, leading and calling from afar. Jade, as a PE teacher, one would expect to be somewhere near the front, and, although I am sure we will see her go faster she showed the sort of material Girl Power was made of - I feel a name coming, Sporty Spice. Fellow virgin, Alan, not a PE teacher, with an admirable sense of symmetry, ably ensured that there was usually a virgin at the back as well.

As mentioned in my blog about the Jingle Bells, we must present quite a sight at times and that was apparant on this one, too. I loved the bemusement in the centre of Modivas as one beautiful stranger after another, plus Droopy, sauntered past sweating and swearing. Nobody says a thing; they either stare intensely or look away as though offended by your unathletic appearance; clearly you are borderline crazy for you have got up on a Sunday morning, driven to the back of beyond, got out of your car and chosen to run through the muddiest, smelliest places available locally.

Well, anyway, it was a very smooth hash, without hiccoughs, which is more than can be said for the roadside shrine we passed near the outlet mall - smashed to bits, it was, madonna and child one side, candles the other, an unholy mess, (it looked like a prayer meeting had turned ugly) that for the supersticious could have boded ill (I could tell Master Baker was quaking, unless that was the result of his Saturday night curry). No, our lucky star was out and everyone made it back unscathed so that we could christen Nancy 'Bow Job' and Asha 'Deep Throat', paying homage to their personal talents, one of which was ably demonstrated to us all before their down-down. Shrotly afterwards, Inspect My Gadget caused gasps of horror and consternation as he threw beer over little Harry Trotter; his apologies to the dog appeared to involve sucking the Super Bock back off his muzzle.

After a long wait, surprisingly not for Mrs Slocombe this time, but for the restaurant which had a liberal approach to the concept of booking, we managed to sit down for a marvellous bash, by which time I think it's fair to say we were well-watered. Hopefully each of the virgins was able to live to tell the tale and will be back again.

Roll on the momentous 400th weekend. Order your t-shirt now!

On, on.

Happy New Year!

2012-01-14T02:25:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, hashers.

Okay, so I'm a little late in greeting you thus but at least we're still in January. So, we've had the Jingle Bells and the two Tonys' New Year cobweb-blower since I last wrote and they've provided plenty of moments to remember.

Let's start by going back to that grey day in December when Matosinhos was brightened by a record number of hashers (thirty-nine) arrayed in a variety of costumes and poised with keen athletic intent near the sea front. To paraphrase Linford Christie slightly, the pack set off on the G of BANG, trundling off round the roads leading to the bridge over the docks to Leca. In Droopy's absence, I looked for a replacement Religious Advisor and it was soon obvious that Snorter, dressed as a cardinal, had to be the one. As I (Scrooge) ran alongside him on Rua da Serpa Pinto, looking ahead at the masses of santas and elves, a pair of pirates chasing Peter Pan and Pocohontas (the Mutter-Allard clan), a Christmas tree in trainers (Master Baker), a wrapped present (Twirly), the least delicate looking pink fairy you could wish to see (Whip-it, presumably dressed by his daughter), and behind at the World's slowest motor racing driver (Walkie-Talkie), I could not help noticing the look of total indifference on the faces of some of the locals: nothing to be interested here, then, they appeared to be thinking - it's just another Sunday morning with costumed foreigners gallumphing round my town.

Similarly amusing were the looks that appeared on the faces of a pair of men out for a proper jog when half of us overtook them on the bridge. Emasculation was a word that sprung to mind as a pantomime Johnny Depp-alike (Horny) sprung past, cutlass gleaming in the faint morning light.

Among the thirty-nine it was good to have no less than five virgins, but especially to welcome back Hooker and Chalky, the latter for his first PH3 run in quite some time. Hopefully, they may be able to join us from time to time now they are back in Europe. There was ample time for catching up at the delightful pit stop, featuring mulled wine and a marvellous biscuit assortment all created by Spanker's fair hands in the pleasant environs of Quinta da Conciecao, that took some dragging away from.

Eventually, we did move again and headed for home via the back-ways of Matosinhos. Down-downs, as might be expected, were quite lengthy and drew a crowd of observers. Twirly was awarded best costume, then we repaired to a nearby restaurant for our attempt at recreating a British Xmas lunch in Portugal. There, Titchy Percy was nominated Hasher of the Year and Family Jewel's 'wine lecture' at Quinta de la Rosa was announced as the vote-winner for Hash Moment of the Year.

And so, suitably fed and watered, we said goodbye to 2011 ...

... only to emerge, like fattened butterflies from the cocoon of Christmas, in a cul-de-sac in Gulpilhares in 2012, ready to shake our thing for the Two Tonies.

As might be expected, it was an expertly constructed hash that managed to maintain a lot of off-road work in a fairly built-up area. Perhaps the phrase 'off-road work' is a little to purposeful-sounding for a hash, but, although not particularly quick, we all kept going steadily whatever the terrain. Okay, there were a few fallers, and Mrs Slocombe's Pussy had to get wet in order to avoid crossing a little cataract by means of a thin plank, but nevertheless ... it was all pretty steady and sensible, wasn't it?

Ah, but then there was Horny, who decided, even with the hares telling her it was completely unnecessary and not considering how some of the other hashers and animals would follow, to scale a ten-foot wire fence, then to return the same way, only for us all to get to the same point two minutes later via a nice path through the woods onto the fenced-off road. Still, she seemed to enjoy herself. What is it about Horny and fences or gates? Later, she tried something else with a fence to procure a short-cut home - I don't know what exactly, tunnelling, probably - but that also failed.

In between the two, Deviant had announced himself to the neighbourhood with a pee whose public nature could only have been outdone by a four-legged hasher - in fact, I'm sure little Harry Trotter's ears were drooped with embarassment - and Flasher had taken a tumble, so it was an auspicious day for that particular hash dynasty.

After a refreshing pit stop of cava and Bounty rip-off chocolate bars in a copse we headed for home, where we were treated to some barracking from a grumpy South African resident who complained that Gadget's parked car was dangerous for children ("So is shooting them in the streets" was Horny's feisty retort, soon followed by a v-sign (her fourth of the day!) flicked at the twattish driver of a car who made a show of accelerating past us. My, what a day she was having.).

All in all, it was a fine re-commencement. Now we look forward to Kitty Fiddler and Gender Bender's affair (no Droopy, con't get over-excited by my turn of phrase) and then the 400th weekend. If you haven't yet, get you booking for that in now.

On, on!

Ponte de Lima

2011-11-18T08:47:00.000-08:00

We were lucky with the weather when PH3 trotted up to Ponte de Lima for the last weekend of October, as temperatures rose to around twenty and blue skies gave the perfect backdrop to one of the loveliest areas of the Minho. Spanker and I were alone on Friday night, having done most of the setting (or so we thought) for the two hashes that day. We had a most pleasant evening in the tapas and straightforward bars that make the town feel decidedly Spanish and wonderfully vibrant. We knew we both had a bit of work to do the next day, but not so much as to inhibit a good night out. I had to fill in the gaps I'd left in case anyone should arrive early enough to stumble upon them (which of course no-one would do since we were the only ones there already); Spanker and co-hare Walkie-Talkie had set their hash completely, only to decide at the end that it would be better done in reverse. Still, that would be easy enough.

Come Saturday morning we found oursleves on our second 'wait for Noel' - this was something of a motif for the weekend, and as it turned out, not only for us. By the time I had finished mine, taking longer than I had expected, the first of the hashers had started to arrive and before long everyone due to hash on Saturday (not too many, as it happened - the curse of Plunger struck again) was ready and waiting to go. The meet time of one o'clock came and went, but still we were without Spanker, or W-T, who was not hashing but due at his Uncle and Auntie's for lunch. The clock ticked and ticked; we kicked our heels and waited. At five to two Spanker called, saying that they were five minutes away. From the car. But the car was parked no more than ten minutes from the hotel. Half an hour later, like a scene from Cagney and Lacey, a car screeched to a halt by the hotel and out leapt Spanker, flying into the hotel from which she soon re-emerged, clad to hash, whilst her partner sped off to meet his destiny - big trouble with Auntie and Uncle for being late (I presume they had met Noel before, but anyway).

So, finally, we were off.

The hash went from the hotel and included a quiz (pre-warned), based on observation, but things did not bode well on that front as everyone blithely trotted past the first historical information board. There was also a competition to collect the most green strings, in which Little Voice utterly trounced all opposition to take the prize.

In the warm sunshine we made our way through the old centre of the town before heading to its outskirts, the famous Ponte de Lima wine co-operative (funnily enough, most hashers did observe that detail), and the cattle market as we turned back along the riverside heading for the Roman bridge. On the other side of the river we stopped for spritzers on the lovely wooded bank looking back at the town, hazily tucked beneath the rising hills. The pit stop came at a convenient time for Tigger, who had given himself a chronic stitch by hurtling like a cartoon tiger around an ornamental garden that he found aesthetically pleasing (a very good spot, he declared upon entry) but physically discombobulating. Another half hour or so round mossy lanes and passages brought us to the high road bridge above town, and down to a finish at about an hour and twenty-five, a decent time for a hash that was well run by all.

Down-downs saw Joe Dyer named as Master Baker and then we retired to rest and oblute before dinner. Or rather, before waiting for Walkie-Talkie so that we could go to dinner. When we did, it was to feast upon great quantities of grilled meat and plentiful servings of local wine, being joined by some of the latecomers as we did so. Spanker won the observation quiz with a magnificent total of three right answers, out of about twelve, and to celebrate we headed to the tapas bars, so that the newly-arrived Hard Drive could eat and the children could throw bits of bread at passers-by from an upstairs window. All was going fine until Claire found English cider in a local bar, at which point it all threatened to get a bit messy.

Fortunately, we had an extra hour, a fact of which Hard Drive informed the entire hotel floor when he arrived back at about three a.m.. After breakfast the next morning we - our numbers swollen overnight (I said, numbers) - assembled outside the hotel ... to wait for Noel. When he arrived we made a rather tricky way to the start and set out on one of the barmiest hashes in some time.

The cause of their late return to base the day before had been the fact that they had got lost. On their own, already-set, hash. They had even considered, with Baldrick-like cunning, that we might just follow signs in reverse ('Run away from the signs! If you see a sign, run the other way!"), but fortunately thought better, but this did mean that at various points we could have gone on one of about three hashes, as most of the signs were still there, regardless of whether they were still in use. As it happened Inspect My Gadget did indeed embark on a couple of these alternative hashes, which made life interesting, as did the hares getting lost yet again on a couple of occasions. There were even lamp posts that had contrived to end up with arrows on both sides, each pointing the opposite way. We also managed to pick up a little dog, whom the children christened Fluffy, and who did almost the entire hash with us. It was stunningly beautiful at times, mind, and the pit stop, at a tiny bar in a converted watermill beside a lovely cascade was an absolute gem.

Down-downs saw Claire christened Ladyboy (young Tigger's suggestion of Gagging Cock was passed over with many a lip having to be painfully bitten) and then we headed to bash on Rojões a moda de Ponte de Lima, complete with excellent Papas do Serrabulho as a sauce for those who wanted it. Flasher was unimpressed, but the rest of us thoroughly enjoyed it to round off an excellent weekend.

Don't forget to click on the link below to see the pictures.

https://picasaweb.google.com/101572354459991373643/PonteDeLimaHash?authkey=Gv1sRgCIO9ie_iivvO2gE

Donnellys at the Double

2011-10-22T05:44:00.000-07:00

Squirrel and Gnasher stepped in to set this one, which, in Snorter's words, was never going to be a long'un; indeed it wasn't, but on another beautiful, sunny day this was an excellent jaunt around the coastal strip south of Espinho, and at an hour and a quarter running time for the front runners would still have caused Lisbon hashers to raise their eyebrows.

At the beginning, young Tigger, self-declared RA for the day due to Droopy's absence (oh, how quickly the power gets to them!), was scouring for signs below the level of his knees, on the reasoning that the hares were not very tall. By the time he had raised his head, we realised that we were on the wrong path and the hash headed towards the dunes.

We had three hash dogs with us, but that was temporarily reduced to two when the Donnellys' Charlie disappeared, but he was back with us by the time we made the pit stop - Buck's Fizz beside the beach (actually, in a car park near the beach, but that sounded more romantic and alliterative). At that stage we had already had our hash thunder (no, that's not what came from Bunbasher after the bash) stolen when the curiosity of the locals as we blundered past was diverted by a rather motley parade of bikers arrived noisily for their seaside outing. Brighton 1963 this wasn't, but it excited some of the local boys, who pursued them on pushbikes chanting, oddly, 'Esmoriz, olé' as if to show these invaders whose turf they were in. Or near, at any rate.

After finishing with a good, long run-in and dealing with the down-downs, it was, of course to the 'chicken place' in Arcozelo for the bash, at which the post-prandial brandies made a pleasant return.

So, we are into Walkie-Talkie zone now, with two successive hashes set by him, including the weekend affair in Ponte de Lima next weekend (itself a double header, don't forget). Soon after, we will have news of other events coming up, such as the Jingle Bells - start thinking up those costumes - and the 400th, in the Caminha area at the start of February.

On, on.

Is it something I said?

2011-10-09T01:21:00.000-07:00

Well, after the low attendances for my two hashes, commented upon in the last post, numbers have risen dramatically. If they drop off again for the next one I set, I'll start to get paranoid.

Anyway, after a respectable eighteen for Titchy Percy and Pink Extender's short but demanding run in mid-September, a very healthy twenty-six appeared for the next, Inspect My Gadget and Kitty Fiddler's jaunt around Modivas, although I reckon the promise of the home-cooked Mexican bash was the prime draw (and with good reason, as it turned out). As I write, ahead of Squirrel and Gnasher's Espinho affair, we are expecting another twenty-plus outing, so long may it continue.

Let's go back to no.388. I still don't know where it took place, and TP couldn't remember by the time we'd got back to town. With such an obscure location it makes sense to arrive together, in a convoy, following directions, which we did. Except for Mrs Slocombe. Being the nice hash we are, we waited half an hour for him to arrive, despite grumpy mutterings about 'my day...' from some of the more senior brethren. Having set a profile for himself, he continued in the same vein, and the sight of him puffing up a hill to a rest and viewpoint just at the point that the rest of us decided we had rested and viewed sufficiently remains in my mind. Oh, the look of despair and loathing in those usually sparkly eyes. Most amusing (well I am a teacher - causing anguish and hatred is part of my raison d'être).

It was a hilly hash, but only about an hour and a quarter in time, so Squirrel's refusal to attend due to TP being a hare was perhaps a little hasty. The bash, in a place one would never identify as a restaurant, was splendid, a good introduction to virgins, Joe and Claire, and in the general spirit of lubrication, it was decided that Droopy needed an assistant as RA. Clearly the sneakiest hasher, based on that morning's showing, was Tigger, who was duly installed.

His first opportunity to use his newly-aquired powers came two weeks later as we assembled beside Modivas metro stop. It was, once again, a belter of a day, our Indian Summer showing no sign of abatement, and the sweat was soon pouring as we made our way around some patches familiar from several recent hashes yet nicely reconstructed. With Kitty Fiddler slaving over hot stoves for the bash, IMG had to control twenty-five hashers single-handedly. I'd like to say he did so immacculately, but as he managed to lose me on about the third checkpoint, a fact of which I believe he remains oblivious, I think it might be better to say that the hash sort of held itself together. With some long runs (classic IMG-style), the crowd was quite often stretched as a number of people found it surprisingly tough. It was hot and, once again, pit-stop free (what has happened to pit-stops - is it the crise economico?) and with the hare measuring the distance at about eleven kilometres a one hour forty-nine finish time was reasonable, if not exactly record-breaking. Droopy made the American contingent feel warm and welcome at the down-downs by punishing IMG for Americanisms in his pre-hash briefing (and, Droopy, don't forget that he is a Maths teacher) then Tigger went all bashful at his big moment but whispered in Droopy's ear like a conspirator in a Greek tragedy.

So, on we go to Espinho, with a number of enticing events on the horizon, including a weekend in Ponte da Lima, the Jingle Bells, with Chalky and Hooker back in town, and the 400th hash weekend in Caminha.

On, on!

Back with a very small bang

2011-09-10T03:26:00.000-07:00

So, after the longer than expected summer break we are back on the hashing trail. Only the 'we' has been rather wee. The hash I set shortly after getting back to Porto initially appeared to have attracted a healthy enough group, but by the time we were ready to go, on a balmy Friday evening, it had diminished to a mere six stalwarts, the second lowest in PH3 history. Still, we did it, crossing both tiers of the Ponte Dom Luis in a circuit that took in historic areas of both Porto and Gaia. Titchy Percy stood out by checking for three or four others, often dealing with a checkpoint entirely on his own before the others reached it. All in all it was not a bad little hash, coming in at about an hour and a half, so, if you missed it, well you missed out.

If you missed it, the chances are that you also missed the next one, which the sturdy six decided would follow the following Friday, as that one attracted only nine. Also in town, leaving from Lapa church (which still had signs visible from a hash precisely a year and a day earlier) and covering a number of areas used in various ways over various hashes down the years as well as some new ground, it took in a fair bit of Boavista and Cedofeita. In contrast to the marks at Lapa, when we hit a checkpoint I'd used last week, the signs there had gone completely, but then so had certain hashers' memory of where they had been anyway. The pace was good and, again, we finished in about ninety minutes, after which there was a fair bit of Official Business for nine people, with a virgin, Hard Drive's 200th, and Anita Quigley's naming, with Kitty Fiddler finally decided upon, for reasons she may wish to relate over a bash bottle of wine some time. Slightly alarmingly, perhaps, she seemed quite taken with it.

Anyway, on to hash 388, for which, at the moment (Saturday), we have a decent turn out. But I'm not holding my breath!

Yankee Doodle Dandy

2011-07-07T08:41:00.000-07:00

Albeit a day prematurely, we assembled last sunday for a fourth of July hash, set by Mrs Slocombe and me in the rural surrounds of Mosteiró and Vilar, near Modivas. There was a fair smattering of red, white and blue, with Hard Drive sporting a stars and stripes bikini top, which he managed amply to fill, almost to the envy of some of the female hashers. Quiz answers were provided at fifteen checkpoints but the questions were held until trhe end - the winner was, perhaps inevitably, one of the Americans, Nancy. Flasher, having in out-of-character fashion necked a beer upon finishing, was demonstrating why all around her steer her away from such wanton behaviour, teetering about and demanding that Nancy be 'discarded' - presumably on grounds of nationality.

The hash itself was of decent length, about sixteen kilometres without checking, and the running was strong and consistently maintained. We decided to forego the planned pit stop lest the momentum be lost through Superbock and stiffening legs and it finished at around two hours ten/fifteen. The ground was good for running although there was relatively little road work. We started through a cornfield freshly sprayed with muck and coninued through a mixture of fields, woods and back lanes, dusty, ripe with silage and with a stream to cool the feet with thrown in for good measure. On three occassions we crossed the previous hash, but as the only hashers other than me to have done that one were Hard Drive, Spanker, Droopy and Tongue Fu, there was little chance of anyone noticing, even though we used the earlier signs at one point.

Down-downs saw Spanker mark her 210th hash, two virgins - Greer and Aude - make their bow, and a few other misdemenours marked before a few went off to the American Community barbie at the OBS.

Now Spanker and I are away for a few weeks, but hopefully things will continue in the meantime. Until August ... on, on!

Douro II

2011-06-29T00:11:00.000-07:00

I wrote the last post over a month ago, just before setting off up the Douro for the weekend hash up there; and what a magnificent weekend it was. Having driven through a thunderstorm on the way up, the advance guard arrived at the beautiful Quinta de la Rosa, just outside Pinhão, and awaited those who followed in the balmy early Summer evening. The weather was hinting at how good it would be over the following couple of days.

The next morning was spent around one or other of the pools, or mooching about the town, or seeking extra beer having realised how much would be needed, except for the hares, of course, who were off setting the hash, a process apparently somewhat slowed by Walkie-Talkie's timekeeping and fag breaks (I say 'apparently' because it is so hard to believe).

A gentle, picturesque walk from the village of Provosende back down to Pinhão preceded a fine and generous wine tasting and tour at the Quinta. It was noticeable how many more appeared for that part than the walk, although we were yet to see Big Stick. That point arrived at dinner, by which point he still had not checked into the pensão, prompting him instead to opt for the sofa in one of the Quinta's houses (and breakfast, it should be noted). The dinner was great value and the drinks then flowed freely beneath the vines at the Quinta until, one by one, people dropped by the wayside.

On Sunday we assembled, a nice large group, for the hash, only to discover that we needed to make a large detour to get to the start, at the end of which I, for one, was reeling with car queaziness. However, it wasn't a long hash, although interesting and attractive (and hot), weaving in and around Lamego. Down-downs were quite involved, with several virgins, some birthdays (including my 200th), a naming (Jo Thorpe becoming Pink Extender - thank you Little Voice) and the usual array of plonkers needing punishment. Another great bash followed to conclude a top weekend.

Ave Breezer

2011-05-20T05:29:00.000-07:00

Having missed the previous hash, set by Spin Doctor and Walkie-Talkie, Spanker and I were raring to go when we convened for Inspect My Gadget and Gender Bender's run in Vila do Conde. True, Spanker would rather have done it on horseback and there was a distinct lack of lithe gauchos on hand to ease her passage, but it was good to be back.

In the end, it was a select group of twelve that made it, starting with a whisper of sun on our backs from Vila do Conde mettro stop. This was only after waiting for Snorter to return from the Club to Miramar and back, having arrived without the key to his car, in which lay his hasing kit. There is indeed no such thing as a smooth start to a hash.

Anyway, off we trotted (I'd love to use a more dynamic verb, like 'bounded', 'charged', or 'spang', but I am bound to realism) away from the town and around the football ground. Due to bouts of heavy rain overnight (according to the hares - most of us living in town had only their word for this) there were few chalk signs to be found. Mind you, it was about fifteen minutes before I saw a sign of any variety, so perhaps the hash sign pixies had been to work.

We wound around the margins of the town, over the river and through the woodland on the other side, often touching on old routes, but maintaining a sense of something original. After a while, the clouds drew in and then opened, giving us a few fairly heavy dousings before easing off once again. It was enough to persuade us to eschew a pit stop at a café in the town, so we carried on, moving through the old cobbled streets until heading home. Predictably enough, Bunbasher decided he knew the route home and headed off near the end; almost as predictably, he got it wrong, went in the wrong direction, and got home last.

For all my jibes about the pace at which we set off, this was notable for the fact that there was almost no walking, the whole way round, apart from Droopy, who took about five minutes to break into a shuffle. We were back in time for a leisurely drink before the bash, and down-downs featured most people. It was nice to welcome back Ren for his second hash, around a year after his first, and duly punish his absence.

A Tale of Two Squirrels Episode Two: the one where Monica reached 100

2011-04-15T07:47:00.000-07:00

A week after The Great Moan of Mindelo, Squirrel was back, her old self once again, in new(ish) trainers and determined to run. Deviant and Flasher had put this one together, with a start and finish in Arcozelo, although Horny managed to get us all comfortably parked in the wrong car park, the wrong side of the cemetary, through which we all then traipsed in our Sunday best. This one also saw the return of Boozy Woozy, now resident in London, and that brought back Family Jewels and Twirly, as well as a couple of Twirly's friends, who, sadly fell by the wayside rather early on. Definitely not falling, though, was Alex Mutter, who ran his socks off, eventually pipping me to the post in a thrilling sprint finish that must have had the watching throngs dreaming of the Olympics in 2020. His overall bounciness - seen at several excited moments on this one alone - later earned him the name of Tigger, which seemed apt. Meanwhile, his sister, Anna, as usual, glided round the hash in her usual manner, determined and unflappable, and was named Then there was Squirrel, a different runner completely from the week before, marking her 100th hash in fine form. The hares had nothing to fear this week, although the previous week's hares' absence might have reflected their trepidation upon realising that her hashing trainers had not been hung up after all. With another decent turnout of 22 who stayed the distant, down-downs in the sunny afternoon took a while before we repaired to a local spot for the bash

A Tale of two Squirrels - Episode One: The one where Monica lost the plot...

2011-04-15T05:46:00.000-07:00

Hash 278 saw us assembled at the seafront in Vila Chã, a cool wind coming off the waves to mask what was actually quite a warm day. Within minutes of the start various hashers were discarding the extra clothing they had donned on emerging from the cars. Titchy Percy and Adam O'Connor were the architects of this one, that took in a good deal of road work, often over quite punishing cobbles and that saw some substantial gaps emerge at times among the nineteen runners (yes, I will use the word, because Walkie-Talkie was glimpsed through a gap in the trees, like one of those old grainy film clips of Big Foot lurching through the American wilderness, running at one point). Running past TP and Gender Bender's house raised brief hopes of an early pit stop, but that was delayed until we reached Angeiras, after about an hour and a half. You'd have thought that the following four-kilometre run more or less along the beach home would have been a welcome, pleasant finish, but when the majority had reached the finish and were tucking into the beer and crisps, the final stragglers were still way behind, so down-downs began. As Tony Robson was awarded the name Inspect-My-Gadget, Walkie-Talkie, Squirrel and the injured Rhythm Stick emerged from the beach, darkly. Welcomed straight into the cirlcle, Squirrel took her beer with rather more than rodent-like gentleness, swearing and vowing never to hash again, threatening the hares with all manner of physical harm, and declaring a rule that hashes should not exceed and hour and a half. It was, indeed, a flounce to remember, and as, the bashing few sat down to their (rather good) food, the questions came: would Squirrel hash again? would the hares be safe in Miramar? what would it have been like if she'd been pissed? Only time would tell...

Fânzeres Frolics

2011-03-26T03:19:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding as though I'm a catholic in confession, forgive me, hashers: it has been a few weeks since my last post, in which time I have committed two hashes.

Still in February, the two Tonys, Robson and Baker, took us to an obscure area of village, woods and farmland inland from Espinho. It was a good hash, with two namings and a 190th birthday, but I won't dwell on it now - it's all in the hash diary, which comes with me to every hash and bash.

No, enough of talking about other people: let's talk about me. Originally, last week's hash was to be hared by Spanker and me, but my better half couldn't get out of bed on the Saturday morning, so two became one and I set off to set it. The new metro extension was my focus, but as I found out in time, the final station is not exactly where its name would have you believe so I had a bit of a walk before finding a suitable starting point. The slightly convoluted start was echoed on the way to the hash itself, thanks to Hard Drive - who had earlier expressed his mistrust of Google Maps' directions, which I had used - deciding to divert the convoy on a magical mystery tour all of his own creation, for which he later received the requisite down-down.

Eventually, we reached the start. The hills that rise above Valongo had been noted as the cars approached, and, to no-one's great surprise, I think, that was the way we headed. It was a fabulously warm day for March, obviously adding to the joy of the upward paths, but the route meandered rather than took the direct line, so we kept reasonably together and fluid. The views as we ascended were fabulous, stretching down to Gaia, over Porto, the refinery then to Maia and beyond. I knew that once we reached the ridge at the top and headed to the inevitable little chapel, we would be able to take comfort from the café there, so as I brought the tail-enders in to where the rest were enjoying the views and waiting for whatever liquid treat I surely had in store for them, I looked towards the little brick block. That was closed. That was supposed to have been open. Bugger.

Oh well, on, on it is then.

We took another path back along the ridge, gradually veering away from our route out and arriving in the terrain of the paint-ballers. To escape their stray capsules we scrambled down a thickly wooded slope (very Brunei-Babe-friendly) but by this time all my talk of gunfire had rather spooked Alex Mutter, who transformed into the scardiest little hasher for the next few minutes, fearing imminent attack, fearing the downward path we had arrived on, fearing stones and shadows, but, unwisely, failing to fear the increasingly frazzled nerves of his mother.

We got back after about an hour and a half, with plenty of time before the bash, which unfortunately gave time for me to receive multiple down-downs. Excellent chicken and plenty of wine was the order of the day for lunch before we tried to work out how to get home from there. Hard Drive kept quiet.

On, on!
Plunger

The Lurrve Hash

2011-02-22T06:11:00.000-08:00

After all the planning it arrived: the 275th weekend, our first overnighter since the Douro hash last March - far too long, but certainly good for building up anticipation.

On the Friday night, fifteen of us hurried through the monsoon rain to reach Alcobaça for the start of it all. Our nice, little hotel afforded fine views over to the monastery, or, for the Mutters, Horny and children, over a concrete roof and drainpipes, but we weren't there for the rooms and so, once everyone had arrived, it was off to a local café and then to dinner, at a great little place serving copious amounts of good but cheap food and some red wine that was not so much well aged as requiring a zimmer frame and constant reminders. Alex Mutter resisted all attempts by the waiter to tempt, cajole and, finally, bully him into eating his vegetable soup, but by the end of the meal was quiet for probably the only time over the weekend - laid out asleep over a couple of chairs. Outside, we drank beer in the drizzle in front of a buzzing local café bar that played old eighties classics and was so full of smoke that it could have been on fire.

The next morning saw a slow start as we waited for everyone else to arrive. The slow start was welcome for one or two after the night before, and the late congregation in the hotel lobby inevitable for a bunch of hashers. We began without the latest arrivals (would you believe that Walkie-Talkie, Mrs Slocombe and Hot Pants were among these?) and embarked on a walk-quiz around the town, in pairs determined by random allocation of romantic figures (Romeo with Juliet and son on). My partner, Molly Costello, proved somewhat elusive, so I made my own way round, rather haphazardly collecting answers. We all criss-crossed one another, generally going in the right direction. And then there was Titchy Percy and Bunbasher, moving with the co-ordination of a wasp you've just just turfed out of your pint on a summer afternoon. Answers were given before dinner, with the winners being ... well not me, so who cares? Dinner was another pleasant affair, followed by games in the bar led by the young Mutters. Alex's 'Who's in the Bag' efforts were memorable, as was Bunbasher's attempt to discover that he was ?Hello Kitty'.

Eventually, we came to the hash itself. After a bit of a drive, we came to the start point, amidst the rain, which had lessened (and continued so to do) since breakfast, but which had seen of several expected hashers pull out (hang your heads in shame, wimpy hashers!). Soon, we were heading up, and up, through thick, spiky undergrowth ranged on the steep, rocky ground of the big hill above the cars. Alex's regular inquiries as to whether we were nearly at the top failed to bring the top any closer, but did elicit some very un-maternal comments from Horny. His observation that you wouldn't get Anne Widdicombe doing this brought unequivocal agreement: never has a truer, or more random, word been said. When we reached the top, and a path, shrouded in thick mist, we all sighed with relief: now for some running, we all declared, possibly with the exception of Walkie-Talkie. So we ran, to a pit stop of bubbly, strawberries and no view whatsoever, then ran again, for about two minutes until the descent began, through thick, spicy under (and over-)growth ranged on the steep, rocky ground of the big hill above the cars. For a moment there was a path again, and off we scampered, but no! said the hares, we'll have no running here - go through these bushes. Bugger, we all muttered, and went through the bushes. At the end, reaching an on-back replaced from the beginning, the front-runners left for home, leaving those following to compete in a three-legged race home, won by Spanker and Anita.

Before the bash we voted for the most resplendantly pink-bedecked hasher, and despite vaguely obscene efforts from Anita and Tony, this was won by Bunbasher, looking like Just Gay William. His prize was to wear a crown all through the bash, which greatly pleased him.

The bash itself was anexcellent end to an excellent weekend that will live long in the memory (and whose scars have proved fairly resiliant on my legs). Well done to Brunei Babe and Inaction Man for the great deal of organisation and effort that went into it.

Guifoes Gambol

2011-02-11T05:13:00.000-08:00

Gender Bender stepped in at the last moment as a co-hare with Spanker and they took us on the short journey north to Guifoes for this one. We were joined by Hooker, on a weekend visit and looking as sprightly as ever, despite the exertions of the night before at Horny's fortieth birthday bash. The event did take its toll, however, with Horny herself absent and Big Stick and Pretty Vacant appearing somewhat fragile. The urgency of the fragility became apparent when they disappeared up a street as we got out of the cars to start. When BS returned he discretely told everyone that PV required the use of a random stranger's smallest room, so they had knocked on some door and asked to use the toilet.

Eventually, we were all ready, and set off past the eforementioned house, just to cement the bewilderment, no doubt. It was straight into the Sunday morning bustle of the village centre, wary eyes tracking us, cars and buses threatening to squash us over the cobbles before we headed away from the numbers, finding quieter streets, fields and woods. At one point we headed down a hill through some woodland and into a thicket that became increasingly overgrown with hacking brambles, leaving those of us who ventured deepest to emerge with bleeding shins reminiscent of ex-GM, Chalky. When it turned out to be an on-back, Inaction Man, like a tracker, foraging forward, returned to inform the next contingent that our wounds had been sustained in vain. As GM, however, I had to ask where the red string was and, on hearing that it was still in place, I had to instruct IM to go back into the worst of the brambly inferno, never mind the cost to his socks. He knew his duty. Without a word, he went back in.

Crossing the paths of at least three other hashes at various points, we wound a clever course round the area. Near home, Bunbasher headed back on his own route, in customary fashion - it was a case of 'we'll never get him back if he checks that way, so just let him go' - but on the right track Hard Drive was away, flying, a hundred yards ahead of the chasing pack. "Go on, Hard Drive," came Spanker's cry. "You can do it!" The trouble was, he still did not know where he was, even with the cards ahead of him. It was, perhaps, the worst sprint finish in hash history, but at least he could console himself with the sight of Bunbasher making uncomfortable progress over the churned field he had made his own, vastly more difficult, way back. Except he probably didn't see thet, either.

At down-downs it was revealed that this was Bunbasher's 250th, unknowingly marked by his 250th hash t-shirt, or what wasleft of it. Then, following a few beers, it was round to a nearby restaurant for another excellent value bash.

Hashy New Year

2011-01-25T05:39:00.000-08:00

Back after the Christmas break, fifteen hashers assembled in the village of Burgães, near Santo Tirso, for this blow-out, hared by Titchy Percy and me. We were joined by Extremely Green, a visiting hasher from Madrid H3, and were hampered in our explanation of our markings by the fact that the rain that had hit on Friday afternoon and throughout Saturday had been of (cold) monsoon proportions, washing away most of the chalk. Fortunately, we had used a lot of string, so the trail was more or less picked up.

After an on-back within minutes the worst may have been feared, but it was the only one on the largely rural, partly village route and in fact the whole hash took less than an hour and a half, without a pit stop, which I thought was kind of us at this time of year. Our other visitor, Paul, Family Jewel's brother-in-law, with us for the second time, may not have felt us so kind as he managed to check steeply downhill wherever a steep downhill presented itself and was not the right direction. 'All part of the game,' he was heard to mutter through grimly gritted teeth.

Unwittingly, we had set partly on the same course as Big Stick and Snorter not so long back, and they spent the last third of the hash reminding us and anyone else in the area of the fact, knowingly pointing out which direction it could be, couldn't be, was or wasn't. This held us up for a while when they knew absolutely that it was not down a particular cobbled path. Which of course it was. 'Well, this was completely overgrown when we...' grumbled Big Stick as he hauled himself up the old, paved path.

When the end came, it did so suddenly, much to most people's delight. Extremely Green seemed to have enjoyed it and liked the fact that we try to keep everyone together, rather than leave people behind. Mind you, there have been times...

With the usual bash to follow in a friendly little tasca, without Snorter who wanted to rush back to Porto to watch Liverpool lose (when he could have watched Liverpool lose in the restaurant just as miserably), the hashing new year seemed nicely seen in.

Jingle All The Way - a Snorte and Big Stick production

2010-12-23T07:28:00.000-08:00

...And so it is Christmas. Another year of hashing is over, with the usual bang of the Jingle Bells hash and bash to send us into our festive break. Most of the twenty-six runners met at the Club, arrayed in various festive guises, although Tongue Fu seemed somewhat confused as to which festive occasion she was marking, appearing in a bunny outfit ('Could someone help me attach my tail?' or words to that effect she was heard to say; I believe she did not lack volunteers).

Needless to say, we failed to reach the Gaia start point as a complete convoy, Family Jewels having strayed at some point, but when we were together, we set off for a prolonged circuit of the park beside which we had left the cars. Re-emerging at the entrance, debutant Alex Mutter (8), having hurtled about so far, checked whether it had finished already, only for the withering response of big sister, Anna, veteran of one hash, along the lines of 'no, of course not - there's ages to go yet, stupid.'

Well, you can't buy that sort of knowledge, and she was right, and we advanced (pretty slowly, it should be said, and armed with a treasure hunt-style quiz - 'pair up,' said Snorter, 'a briton with a Portuguese', which was tricky given the presence of only about three of the latter) through the east side of Gaia, around the suburban streets, a half-constructed road, probably already tolled, and up a vertiginous slope that appeared to have been constructed out of household rubbish. Nice. At the top we found ourselves in the yard of a block of flats and required to climb over their garage gate to reach the street. All was without incident until Horny had straddled it and a kind resident opened it from above to let us out - and to give Horny a Christmas bonus - the earth really did move for her, she said.

On we went, past El Corte Ingles and into the west side of town, reaching a little park in the middle of which Squirrel and Gnasher awaited with white port, tonic and a selection of nibbles. When we were eventually persuaded to shift ourselves once more, the route, surprisingly, took us away from home and towards the port caves. Okay, we thought, having reached the new Yeatman hotel, it'll be on up here, staying high and heading back, but no, amid much gnashing, wailing and grumbling, we were sent down, and down again, to the river front, and then left, yes, west, in the opposite direction from the cars and with the clock reaching two hours' running time. Past the bars and restaurants of Cais de Gaia we went until rounding the corner to see Squirrel and Gnasher once again, providers of alcoholic sustenance, in this case the down-downs for a linear hash that no-one saw coming.

Snorter received the vote for best costume as King Herod, complete with babies to be decapitated; Horny won the award for most ludicrous moment, having had a particularly stimulating hash; Francois was named Ballswinger after several demonstrations of his favourite sport, which basically consists of, well, swinging his big balls and is, we were assured, highly satisfying; Gender Bender was nominated Hasher of the Year; and the younger Mutters put their mother to shame with their down-down techniques.

Eventually, we repaired to the British Club for Christmas Dinner, plentiful lubrication, the prsentation of awards and Tim Chambers' excellent Christmas quiz (well, not that excellent, actually - rather flawed I felt, with silly questions and stupid aswers. No, I didn't win. I blame it on my team mates).

2011 will begin with Tichy Percy and me shaking off your cobwebs somewhere outside town. See you all then.
On, on,
Mark/Plunger

Wet, windy, lost and found

2010-12-15T05:45:00.000-08:00

It was a miserable enough morning when just a select few turned up for Titchy Percy and Gender Bender's hash in Maciera da Maia, but Mrs Slocombe, running late from the beginning, added to the agony by, courtesy of TP's dubious directions, keeping us waiting in the rain in the village square for almost an hour. Oh well, we all thought, never mind - apparently, the start is just around the corner. All we have to do is follow the hares' car ... oh. Off they sped, leaving two cars to potter into the distance for a couple of kilometres.

In time, though, we re-assembled beside the fast-flowing, swolen Rio Ave and a splendid old stone bridge, watched over at either end by water mills. We headed off beside the river, through sodden fields, an overgrown copse and to a steep, slippery bank which brought us up, in typically pointless hash fashion, to the road we had parked just down from. We crossed the river over a high road bridge before heading into village streets, back alleys, fields and woodland. Amid one of the first woods, I found myself left behind at a checkpoint (okay, I might have taken the opportunity for a quick pee - I think it's safe to own up now) and completely unaware of the direction to take. After some shouting and scrabbling, I followed the trail of Pussy/Oliver's fur on the gorse and brambles (why is he moulting in December? the question was raised; the down-down was awarded) and caught up.

Shortly afterwards, Mrs Slocombe took a mud bath, or at any rate, one leg did; then Spin Doctor ludicrously tried to construct for herself a bridge over a muddy field using a four-inch twig. We pit-stopped beside some surprisingly late fruiting vines, bursting with red grapes, then followed the hares' route the previous day down to the river bank and back up when they could not find a way over the river. A long but satisfying run-in took us back over the old bridge, finishing at around two hours, after some determined running all round for twelve and a half up-and-down kilometres. We were wet, but well set up for the Jingle Bells hash...

2010-12-15T05:39:00.000-08:00

A touch of Autumn colour

2010-11-22T05:45:00.000-08:00

As I look out of the staffroom window I gaze across at bare trees beside those still carrying gold and bronze leaves. The air is crisp, the weather changeable, and the hashing muddy. Autumn has seen some good hashes, excellent for runners, although numbers have been a touch restricted, perhaps a result of the drop in temperatures.

Bunbasher took us for a trot near Serzedo, starting from the gates of the riding stables past which we have run on a few occasions. The first hash was the circuitous route taken to avoid the newly-installed SCUT charges, but eventually we got to do some running, Bunbasher leading us away. As a somewhat impatient hare, he repeatedly called the way before the checkers had doen their job, but it kept things moving, everyone running at a decent pace. We revisited the rather eerie site of a planned but long since abandoned housing estate, running along the cracked and weed-strewn tarmac of its roads and the occasional shell of a building begun but left. We worked through the usual mix of fields, woods and lanes, moving about a very tight area before reaching home only to be so assailed by flies at the down-downs that we moved quickly to the bash without the usual degree of quaffing, but after arriving at the name Spin Doctor for Maria do Carmo.

The next time we were again south of the river, in Aguda, for a Horny/Flasher production that was initially notable for the fact that it featured - for the first time in PH3 history, we think - three generations of one family running, Anna Mutter joing her mum and gran. On a fairly short, urban run, on a bright, cool day, Anna did extremely well, sprinting away to lead us all home at the end. It was almost all done on roads, one short stretch through a patch of unpaved ground having been deemed sufficient 'forest' by Flasher. The sight, later, of a ten year old girl drinking in the middle of a ring of singing, beer-toting adults might have caused some social-service style concern to passers-by, but fortunately the alarms and sirens that sounded seconds later were for the local bombeiros, not an announcement of our imminent arrest.

Most recently, yesterday in fact, Big Stick and Walkie-Talkie took us north, to Labruge, familiar territory for many of us, and the setting for another good run, with all the expected features - sand, fields, brambly woods, country lanes and the well-known castro beside the sea. The weather, which had been so poor, and had nearly removed some of the signs, was good for us, the rain not arriving until we were firmly ensconced in the retaurant. We took a pit stop where the hares had the day before, in a little café, and it was noticeable how the signing deteriorated after what had clearly been a thorough reseaching of the café's ability to host a pit stop. The first checkpoint sign looked like it had been drawn by a two-year old with co-ordination issues, the next one had a smiley face inserted, and thereafter they clearly had decided that signs were an outmoded concept and that a do-it-yourself hash was the way forward. So we did it ourselves, winding up and down from the beach until emerging at the cars for beer in the sunshine and cool sea breeze.

Next up is in December, the first of two before a four-week Christmas break. Hopefully, the numbers will pick up over winter and we can bring them back up to the levels we've seen most of the year.

On, on!

Riding the Crestuma of a Wave (??)

2010-11-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

Excuse the ridiculous heading, but one tries to be creative; likewise a hare, but, as we gathered at the riverside in Crestuma, with the hills of the Douro valley looming behind us, it seemed that Boozy-Woozy and Mrs Slocombe would have to be very creative to avoid a steep climb. Sadly, creativity appears not to be their strength, so up we trudged, and up, and up, running, clambering, scrambling, and - let's be honest - staggering towards a summit that seemed to be moving as we did. Squirrel rather magnificently gave up the ghost about a quarter of a mile from the top and scrambled back down again, possibly a more perilous task than ascending.
There was a good variety of terrain and the fifteen remaining maintained a reasonable pace, albeit drawing into two groups towards the end. In the end, a small group splintered off for a short cut, whilst the rest of us meandred round Crestuma, most spectacularly passing through the abandoned carcass of a huge old, brick-built, factory perched above a rattling stream like something drawn straight from an old school textbook or the pages of a nineteenth century realist novel. The finish came between an hour fifty-five and two hours five (pit-stop-free) and was followed by a bash at the local watersports club.

2010-11-02T06:58:00.000-07:00

One swallow doesn't (quite) make an Indian Summer

2010-10-19T05:58:00.000-07:00

Brunie Babe and Inaction Man returned to haring duty after about a year's gap, and, following the previous hack up the dusty hillsides near Valongo, it was not without trepidation that we got in the cars in the late September sun. We had among us a virgin, David, and his friend, a visiting hasher whose spurs were won in the confines of Hong Kong, named Spit-or-Swallow, understandably abbreviated to SOS.
A roundabout drive - equated to about two curcuits of HK - in time brought us to the familiar environs of Jovim from where we set off, inevitably scrambling through wooded slopes as well as padding through fields and village streets. Droopy had seated himself onthe roadside during the lengthy wait to start and, as I made my way back after checking the wrong way initially, he remained in place, like a leftover, or an artistic installation by someone with a sense of irony, however, I managed to coaxe him into running and we were all off. Later, he was given a down-down for RA-ing like Jack Dee without jokes.
We crossed the route of about five previous hashes on our way, although it was always its own run, but, most amusingly we (unbeknownst to the hares) ran right past Boozy Woozy's house, and round the back, via the picnic and barbecue area due to be used on the following hash. Pit stop was down by the river, with French cider the surprising bevvy of choice, just sugary enough to fuel us back up to the cars by way of the aforementioned casa do BW and some overgrown woodland.
At the down-downs we saluted the birth of Chloe Boogaard, the passing of veteran hash hound, Shagger, to the happy shagging ground in the sky (let's hope he can manage it more successfully there than he did here), and were entertained by SOS's time in the circle. Finding the bash venue took about as long as the hash itself, with the hares last to locate it, but it was a pleasant do in the end.

Coasting along the coast

2010-09-24T05:52:00.000-07:00

This always promised to be an interesting hash, with one prior haring between the three hares, Hot Pants, Flashdancer and Ana Viana, and they did not disappoint. Having to improvise in the absence of strings and chalk, they ingeniously used coloured crayons and wrapping ribbon. Fão and Ofir looked somewhat as though a great, disparate childrens' party had recently taken place: all that was missing were sticky blobs of cake and puddles of sugar-infused vomit. Looking at one or two of the hashers I thought we might get some of the latter anyway, but, fortunately we were spared that delight.
We set off down the river bank before heading through the town and towards Ofir, banging along the boardwalk for a while before passing the shrine of St Michael - otherwise known as Hard Drive's summer house - and hitting the sandy woodland that leads to the centre of Ofir. Obligatory beach work spread us out but gave ample opportunity to disrupt the beachlovers' peace. Soon afterwards, we sort of convened for a pit stop, only moments before some local picknickers made off with the stashed goodies, just to discover that we had no corkscrew with which to open the bottles of vinho verde. Fortunately, half the Minho had decided to have a picnic in that half a square mile of sand and pine trees, so we were able to get some assistance.
The return saw about four different routes taken, three separate ones by the hares themselves, but at least we were there, for leisurely down-downs including one for her 190th birthday.
With trepidation we then acknowledged that the next hash is to be by Brunei Babe and Inaction Man around Valongo again.
Until then,
On, on

There and back (nearly) and there again and back again.

2010-09-08T05:46:00.000-07:00

What can you do? You leave a bunch of hashers alone for five minutes and look what happens...

It was a Friday evening, and a reverse pursuit was the plan - that is, I would set the hash a little bit ahead of time, the group would set off without me and had to try to get round before I caught them up. The trouble is, this is PH3, so there was lateness and people convening in the wrong place to contend with, before everyone rushed past the first checkpoint and the unexpected confusion of some signs left over from June. It all meant that as I headed back to the start, a little on the weary side, who should appear but Horny, the Hot Pants, then Tongue Fu and the rest? Going the wrong way, many leagues from where they should have been at that stage.

Anyway, nearly an hour behind schedule, we were on track, heading through the back streets of Cedofeita and Lapa, a soon strung-out group that took some co-ordinating to keep together. Having re-joined everyone, I had to join them through the stinking, rubbish strewn field behind Lapa metro stop, something I had had no intention of repeating on my catch-up run.

Leaky bladders were a feature of this one, Brunei Babe, Tongue Fu and Wundermuff all stopping for relief on the way round, and Titchy Percy got his titchy percy out with minimum discretion beside the road. Curious old ladies lined the route, but at least they were out of scaring range when we arrived at an OAPs' home for the hash viewpoint (a rather pleasant vista of the Arrabida bridge), which wasn't the case when I had come by earlier. For a moment I had thought I had seen Bunbasher and Wally chewing the fat, but I was mistaken.

Metro Express

2010-08-25T04:28:00.000-07:00

After the short mid-summer break we were back, assembling at ISMAI metro station for the resumption of hashing. Unexpectedly, it was grey and almost drizzly at times, but at least the reduced temperature made things a little easier for those of us coming back from holiday repose (or five weeks of little exercise more strenuous than lifting beer to mouth, as Titchy Percy reported).

It went at a pleasing pace, everyone running hard throughout, meaning that we were at the pit stop a good ten minutes earlier than Spanker and I had anticipated. Fortunately, young Molly had reached the spot at a pond in the Parque São Pedro with the refreshments (and she brought along Pussy Galore for good measure). Shortly having begun, whilst most were waiting at a checkpoint, a car had pulled up and the driver asked, 'Parque São Pedro?' A confused couple of minutes ensued with both she and me (with contributions from other hashers) trying to explain to each other the way to the park, when in fact neither party wanted directions.

Calamity/bravery mention of the day goes to Pretty Vacant's young nephew, Rex, on his virgin hash, who managed to tumble over on a rock-strewn downward path cutting his knees and then, having gritted his teeth, cleaned up the mess quickly and carried on only to fall flat into a barrage of brambles two minutes later. He kept on running, though, determined not to be out-run by his brother, Diggs. I can't move on, mind you, without reference to the highest on-on call this side of Mont Blanc Hash House Harriers.

Shortly afterwards, Droopy and Whippit threatened to roll around in the long grass in mortal combat, Droopy's offence being to nag Whippit about getting on with it only to stand around in front of him admiring the meadow plants. The dopey moment of the hash came from Pretty Vacant, standing on the old railway line that visibly led to the end of the metro line, a view enhanced by a train sitting there with its lights on, saying aloud, 'which way is it? If only we knew where the metro was we could get it. Hmm' before trotting off in another direction.

Down-downs were leisurely thanks to the good time achieved by all (home in an hour and a half plus pit-stop time), something that Spanker took somewhat to heart when doing hers. Deviant celebrated his tenth birthday and Family Jewels nursed his knees. Then it was all off to the marvellously named Mr Churrasco for a good value bash, leaving Droopy and Boozy Woozy in the car park finishing off the crate of beer.

So, we are back into it. Everybody, get volunteering to hare please, as the onus could do with being spread out a bit further. That's not a spelling mistake, by the way.

On, on,

Plunger/Mark

The long short hash!

2010-07-24T01:13:00.000-07:00

Hash No. 360 on Sunday 4^th July

Leca de Palmeira

Hares: Tongue Fu/ Dutch Cap

Proceedings got off to a good start with Dutch Cap arriving 20 minutes late at the Club for her own hash. By this time Droopy and Snorter had just about recovered from the injury caused by forcing down scalding coffee in the Club Bar when Hard Drive insisted everyone was waiting to leave at 10.30am.

Eventually the convoy arrived at the pre-designated start point outside Exponor, and hashers massaged and lubricated themselves with sun oil (calm down, Droopy) as protection against the blistering temperatures forecast for the whole of Portugal – with the exception of Leca, as it turned out, which was favoured by a cool breeze wafted in from the Atlantic, mingled with pungent gas fumes from the Galp Refinery.

The hash got off to an enthusiastic start with Snorter immediately sniffing out the trail and urging the following pack to advance at speed. It was at this point that Tongue Fu interjected “Slow down, Snorter – we will be finished in 40 minutes at this speed!” Needless to say, said Hare received a well deserved down-down later. Debate will rage for years whether the motive was to lengthen the hash or to conserve the worlds dwindling supply of natural resources by a very efficient use of chalk. Whatever the reason, the postage-stamp-sized arrows spaced at one km intervals certainly had the effect of slowing down the hash and turned what would otherwise have been a 40 minute affair into a very respectable 90 minute run. As confusion reigned at every checkpoint, Dutch Cap was heard to malign the hashers for not checking properly!

Despite the difficulty in finding the arrows, the hash progressed rapidly down to the beach, (as hashers rushed to get upwind of the Galp Refinery) and then, more sedately, along the promenade as walkers, skaters and cyclists all dived for cover as the hash pack advanced.

After twisting and turning through the residential streets of Leca, the hash approached the Exponor start point, only to find a sting in the tale in the form of an extended loop through the dockside park. Unfortunately, this was missed by Mrs Slocombe, Pussy and Snorter who, while valiantly checking for miniscule arrows inadvertently became lost, and were very fortunate to stumble across the cars some 10 minutes before the rest of the pack arrived.

There then followed a lengthy circle as down-downs were handed out by RA in celebration of birthdays, initiation of virgins, and in punishment of the many offenders. A show of hands was taken for those attending the bash at OBS which doubled as an American Independence Day Party. Bunbasher was seen to rapidly take his hand down again when it was learned that only soft drinks were being served.

On on!

Snorter

Muff ado about nothing

2010-07-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

It was another bright day when we headed up to Castelo da Paiva on the 20th of June for another collaboration between Walkie-Talkie, Hard Drive and Family Jewels and the party from the club got out in the hot and dusty yard of a derelict factory expecting to be late yet only to find that Walkie-Talkie himself, and those who had made their way up separately were absent. Never mind - we could prepare ourselves for the sweating to come by getting some in early whilst we waited.

Eventually, we set off down a rustic little path that led past HD's in-laws' place at which we pit-stopped the last time we were in these parts. Familiar paths were trod for a while thereafter, but largely in reverse, as we climbed through a wooded hill to emerge onto village lanes. Beyond that it was mainly new territory in and out of the rural margins of the village, with some charming areas and beautiful scenery, not to mention the rather delicious cherries to be plucked. Bunbasher and I felt it to be an opportune moment to allow others to check whilst comparing the relative merits of the red and the black varieties.

As between them, HD and WT appear to have a hold on much of the village, we were able to wander (Sorry, did I write 'wander'? Surely I meant 'bound', 'hurtle', 'power' or some other verb far more fitting to this group of athletes? All right, 'amble' then, or 'pootle') through someone's lovely property to enjoy a pit stop with a view in a quinta whose gates one might more ordinarily drive past sighing.

Virgins Vitor and Laurent acquitted themselves well, although Gabi and Laurent were unfortunate to be sent by W-T to find stray hashers late on, with the only effect being that they became the strays instead and needed to be found. Whether it was my shouts or the smell of my beer that brought them back, I can't say, but I think I can say that they were not entirely unhappy to be lost in the woods together.

Gabi was named during the down-downs. There were only two of Beavis and Butthead, but we had a line of snorting schoolboys who were determined that the word 'muff' was going to feature and nothing was going to get in their way, hence the bizarrely marvellous epithet Wündermuff which which she is now landed. The bash was a wonderful, lazy repast underneath a vine in Walkie-Talkie's quinta with his mother, as ever, a delightful hostess, a great end to another excellent hash supported by another big turn-out.

Unfortunately, I missed the next hash, by Tongue Fu and Dutch Cap, but I hope to get something up in due course. If anyone would like to add their own comments, or posts, whilst I am away, thta would be great.

On, on!

Triple Crown (3)

2010-06-22T05:59:00.001-07:00

On to the final stage of the Triple Crown, and an early start on the second Sunday in order to get up to Póvoa do Lanhoso to begin from Pretty Vacant and Big Stick's great work-in-progress/house. By the time everyone, including Horny's carload, had arrived we were around an hour late, but, well, it was a beautiful day so who cared?

From the start, a checkpoint outside the gates, we spread out and managed to lose Inaction Man immediately; probably his military prowess enabled him to slink away like a panther on the prowl, but whatever it was, Big Stick missed him as he led the assembled throng off in the opposite direction. Down the road we headed, wary of the impending ups and downs, rightly as it turned out as the next move was up, through a field, then down a road, then up another, then down again. And so it continued.

Through wooded paths and fields we moved, at a decent pace. At one point I found myself treacherously tipped over by a mound of earth, for which I was inevitably punished later. The heat began to rise as our sweat began to pour, so it was a relief after another steep climb to find a pit stop with beer, water and white port with tonic, not to mention a fine view of the area. Hard Drive's sorry attempt to look helpful for the video camera involved trotting alongside Big Stick and the cool box waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the handle but he fooled no-one.

The biggest talking point came later, towards the end, when Big Stick decided to short-cut, pragmatically acknowledging that trying to get Snorter to stick to the route at that stage would be a fruitless effort, and taking two-thirds of the hash with him. This left a group of about eight of us - the real men and women, the true hashers, this noble band of ... sorry, I came over all Henry the Fifth for a moment - well it left us to find our own way back, which we did, eventually, and by the correct route I'll have you know. Rather indignantly, but with an air of, shall I say, indomitable superiority, we reached the quinta to find the evil hare and his henchmen sunning themselves with beers in hand.

Down-downs were duly completed, with Guiseppe named Castrato and Irena Flashdancer. The bash was a cracking barbecue punctuated by the unusual feature of sessions of granite-shifting. It was a late arrival back in Porto, but a great way to finish the Triple Crown. Well done everyone on another big turn-out, and especially to those who made all three.

Triple Crown (Part Two)

2010-06-15T00:20:00.000-07:00

So, with less than a week having elapsed we were up and pounding the streets again, this time in town with a hash that began and finished at the Club. It was particularly nice to welcome back Roger and Angela White - Dr T and Lilette - with Calum and Georgina, who were making their hashing debuts. We had another good turn-out, with twenty-three meeting on a warm evening and being asked to get into groups, each of which recieved a sheet of questions to be answered on the way.

Eventually we hit the road, a remarkably prompt mere twenty-five minutes late, turning left out of the Club to the first point at which most groups could miss answers. And did. We wiggled around Massarelos for a while, running behind the Club then back to the Rotunda da Boavista, back to Campo Alegre and, inevitably, down, down the old cobbled lanes and passageways to the river front. Naturally, once there we would have to take the steepest path straight back up, a route that induced some language and sentiments of the sort to make a GM blush. Eventually, via the old back streets of Arrabida, we made it to the Bairro do Aleixo, and, my, wasn't the hash moving quickly at that point! After some surprising little suburban streets, seaside-themed and the cause of some quiz-controversy (I was right!! Anyway, 'who's queen, sorry gm?'), we headed through the pleasant Parque da Pasteleira, to Serralves then back to Campo Alegre and home to the Club, in all a long run, taking two hours for front-runners (without a pit-stop).

I said at the time and I'll say again, by gum, you all ran very well for a bunch of clapped-out hashers. Back at the Club we had draught down-downs on the field with waiter service and went through the answers. Brunei Babe, Inaction Man and virgin Vinay won, impressively getting just one wrong (and it was wrong - we've been through this!). I know with whom I'd want to be stranded in the wilderness. With a bash at local eating icon, Franganito, part two was complete. On line for the Triple Crown were Spanker, Horny, Squirrel, Snorter, Tongue Fu, Mrs Slocombe, Hard Drive and me. Nerves and knees were quivering with excitement.

To be continued...

Triple Crowned

2010-06-11T05:52:00.000-07:00

What a week of hashing - a hashtastic, bash-a-go-go, jog around the clock of a week! The weather was with us (as were the Whites), the numbers were high and the scenery fine. I hope everyone had a suitably good time.

We began with Horny and Spanker's hatted affair up from the river bank near Gondomar. A fine sight we all were, resplendant in bizarre headgear as we assembled at the Club. It was a warm morning, which meant that, after the short drive, the decidedly pungent aroma at the start point was enhanced. Walkie-Talkie swiftly denied having anything to do with it, pointing instead to the sewage centre beside which we had brilliantly parked, but I wasn't so sure.

The hash was a good old slog up and around the semi-urban areas looking down over the river, with a remarkable pit-stop on the first floor of a three-quarters built house, with white port and tonic (and a sprig of mint plucked from one of the pleasant fields through which we had just come) the beverage of choice. Full marks for the pit stop, but a D for the French grammar!

To be continued...

Blog Off!

2010-05-17T05:39:00.001-07:00

No, despite appearances, the blog is not off, it is very much still on. I've found myself rather busy of late, but let's see what has gone on over the last few weeks.

Well, we had a nice little jaunt around Afurada with Squirrel and Snorter. It was interesting going through the old bacalhão factory (again, for those with hash memories that extendback some nine years), but by that time we had already had the big drama of the day when Hard Drive launched himself at the Afurada pavement in a flagrant attempt to draw attention to himself; not that I knew anything about it - I was waiting at the next checkpoint huffing and tutting impatiently. On a warm day, the long run-in was heralded by a splash through the sea's edge - like 'Chariots of Fire' Spanker rather optimistically observed. The bash was great as well; just as well the booked restaurant had not bothered keeping us a table and showed no inclination to find one - the alternative we found served wonderful vats of fish stew.

The next one I missed in favour of football, but I gather that Bunbasher and Walkie Talkie's Ancara hash was well worth the journey up the coast, with beautiful scenery, and even a clean river, something PH3 doesn't get to see very often! Mark Macedo's name of Gump appears to have pleasingly annoyed him - he'd have preferred the alternative of Pole Dancer.

Then we came to hash 355, hared by Titchy Percy and Tongue Fu. It was a gorgeous day and we set off from Mindelo metro stop on a wide loop through the villages, woods and fields, down to the seafront for a chilled pit stop, along the boardwalk and back into the villages, woods and fields. It was a good running hash, with some long stretches finished off by a great bash. It was good to see Dutch Cap back, and surely no-one will forget her Dutch hashing outfit - top to toe fashiontastic! Poppycock, too was back for the first time since Christmas, which was good to see.

So, on to the Triple Crown - three in a week, beginning with Horny and Spanker's hash on Sunday the 30th and followed by Friday the 4th and Sunday the 6th. I am trying to get t-shirts done in time, and if I do, anyone who does all three will receive one free.

The first of them will be themed: hats. We will be Porto Hat House Harriers for one day - headgear is mandatory, and the most imaginative/interesting will win a prize. So, on, on!

Hashes 351 & 2

2010-04-16T05:36:00.000-07:00

Ooh la la, je suis desolée! Spanker and I spending the time between hashes 351 and 352 en Provence has caused a long delay in blog production. Quel horreur! Okay, enough of the schoolboy French.

On the 28th of March, Mrs Slocombe and Gender Bender (on her first haring) took us to the margins of Maia on a good length run that was part suburban, part rural. On the initial stages we kept together, which was as well when we crossed a field to find the way out, through a gate, was locked, requiring a fair detour. This came shortly after Horny had had a moment with her invisible friends, who appeared to number in their thousands as she raised her arms in salute, like Paula Radcliffe finishing a marathon, the only, slight difference being that she had gone off checking a hundred yards down a road from a checkpoint and in fact she was saluting (or airing her armpits, perhaps?) a couple of old women and a scabby dog.

By the end, it had become two groups, with the runners getting in at the end of a long run-in after a couple of hours and a small group (who had spent far too much time walking!!!!) skulking back some time later. At down-downs, Dave Noon was awarded the fabulous name of Titchy-Percy for reasons into which I will not go here.

Next stop was Campanhã for hash 352, which I set shortly before we ran it. Lengthwise, it was one of the shortest hashes I've set, at about an hour and a quarter, but for a hard-running, up-and-down run around the city it seemed about right. We had an almost-complete Donnelly contingent (come on Squirrel, get your kit out!) for this one even though Gnasher and Tintin nearly fell off the end.
The bash was memorable for Liverpool's thrashing of Benfica, to Snorter's delight, and the menacing moustache of a rather aggressive Benfica fan seated alongside us. Oh, and the company of course - you're all wonderful, marvellous people.
On, on to 353.

PH3 get taken up the Douro

2010-03-25T07:02:00.000-07:00

The long-awaited 350th weekend was met with wonderful weather to complement the fantastic scenery. In the end, fewer than expected made it, but numbers were healthy nonetheless and for those who were there it was certainly memorable.

A small group made it to Sabrosa on Friday afternoon, with time to relax in the very pleasant hotel. Sadly, Inaction Man and Brunei Babe had had to cancel Friday and would be up the next morning. It was noted that hash accommodation has definitely moved up-market in the past couple of years. There was time to wander around the village (not difficult, really, as the time required was little more than five minutes), drink a coffee (yes, coffee - restrained bunch, we are), then get the beers in (ah, that's more like it), before realising that we had little time left for a shower before re-assembling to go to dinner. That was in a tiny tasca, in a village to which we would return the next day, but whose name I have temporarily forgotten, with a kitchen so small that, as Andy pointed out, you genuinely would struggle with the cat-swinging, were you so inclined. After a cracking meal we headed back to the hotel to test the bar and pool facilities - all in the name of quality control for the benefit of those coming the next day. After the slowest game of doubles pool this country has probably ever seen, featuring me, Never-a-Fokker, Whippit and Dave, everyone had lost the will, if not to live then to remain awake. So we went to bed.

The next morning afforded a leisurely rising, breakfast and various means of whiling away the time before everyone else arrived and we set off for the walk. Once complete, give or take a Big Stick or two, we drove off amid stunning scenery, to Quinta Nova, on the banks of the Douro about a winding hour away. Sadly, Inaction Man and Brunei Babe had had to cancel this part, and would join us later. Getting out at the Quinta we were reminded that Andy had suggested we be discrete with our packed lunches whilst there, as the owners had wanted us to eat in their restaurant. It was then interesting to hear the history of the place from one of the owners as we chomped on sandwiches before setting off on the marked trail. We got about half a mile and decided we'd found an ideal place to eat after so much hard work. Half an hour later we hauled ourselves up and carried on, up and down the terraced hills until we were faced with the dilemma of 'that way for half an hour more walking' or 'this way for five minutes more walking and on to port tasting'.

Half an hour later we arrived at a fabulous old solar for port tasting. Sadly, Inaction Man and Brunei Babe had to cancel this part and would see us for dinner later. The house, owned by an old friend of Walkie-Talkie's late father, was like a museum piece, a wonderful old place, colder than a witch's whatsits, and with a room laid with home-made meats and nibbles to accompany the wine. Dodger and Whippit led procedings and we all followed enthusiastically, supping our way through a range of fine ports from Nieport (thanks, Nick), Taylor's and Graham's. We listened dilligently to the expert information, wafted, sniffed, gazed sipped and rolled it over the tongue, then guzzled merrily. Those who wished to taste but not drink it all had a jug into which the dregs could be collected. At the end I poured it all into a bottle, which Liam, Monica and Allan (yes, he'd managed to make it for the booze) tucked into, sagely expounding its balanced qualities. What remained became the GMs Blend, for use at down-downs the next day.

We met for dinner a few (very few) hours later. Sadly, Brunei Babe had to cancel dinner, but would no doubt see us the next day, but Inaction Man appeared (hooray!). Dinner was another pleasant affair, and the rather unfocussed pool afterwards a highlight for those able to remember it. Several hashers burnt the midnight candle to its end, although, once again, my pool was the cue (sorry) to retire sometime before the hard-core.

The next day we emerged at the frighteningly early time of nine-thirty to leave for the main event, the hash (remember that?). Sadly, Inaction Man and Brunei Babe had to cancel and they would no doubt see us at some indeterminate time in the future. Squirrel was discouraged in her theory that Inaction Man had secretly 'done away with' BB whom we would actually never see again. Down we wound once more round the curves and contours of the valley, driving towards the Douro beside which we were to start.

Eventually, after the inevitable Varanda-related delays, we set off from the river beach at Pinhão, on a sometimes challenging but beautiful run/clamber that took us through the town and quintas, with fine views, steep ascents and descents, stories of fearsome dogs and a pit-stop for port and tonic at a chapel clearly reserved for hashers in distress. Running up and down schist paths proved quite tricky at times and more than one person felt glad to be doing it now rather than at the height of summer. When we made it back, after a good long run-in, Squirrel, in her car the whole time, awoke in time for down-downs that saw Harry Davis named Gender-Bender. We also said goodbye to Alan Never-a-Fokker Roberts, returning to the UK almost immediately. Your hash avoidance down-down is in storage, N-A-F.

After a bash at the local fire brigade headquarters (sadly, Inact - oh, you know what I'm going to say?) it was (for some of us) a sleepy journey back. Big thanks to all those involved in the organisation, and, if you weren't there, well at least you can buy the t-shirt!

On, on!

Images from the 350th weekend (Saturday walking and port tasting

2010-03-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

Snorter's back like the wind

2010-03-05T05:47:00.000-08:00

As the country huddled away to avoid the wind and the rain last Saturday, Snorter and Hot Pants were getting lost - sorry, temporarily misplaced due to the GPS - in Serzedo, laying out the trail for Sunday's hash. As we arrived at the starting point, the wind having dropped overnight but the cold, slicing rain beginning to come down heavily, we were startled to see the roundabout at the end of the muddy track being used as a racetrack/skid course for the local special needs school (I may have made that last bit up - they did not look that bright).
"Honestly." Tongue Fu and I rolled eyes at one another, tutting. "Ridiculous." The rain began to drip from my eyebrows as my feet sunk into the mud. Far better to do something mature and sensible, like us.
We set off at a clip, following Snorter's encouraging "0n, on" only to be called back after a hundred yards. Apparently, "on, on" meant "checkpoint" and in the end we headed in the opposite direction. It was a tight course, winding round and around the area, crossing itself a couple of times and showing Snorter's experienced touch. It was running at pleasing pace, without the need for a single re-group, and we made it back, after a wet pit stop, in about an hour and a half.
Having managed to lose Hot Pants and Hard Drive - and thosae following them - when they followed Monica back to her house on the way to the start, they managed heroically to repeat the feat on the way to the bash, at Monica and Liam's regular chicken place. This came after incurring the mandatory down-down for the crime, after Snorter had been recognised for his 170th.
So, now we get ready for the big one - the 350th. Let's all take it up the Douro!
On, on!

2010-02-10T05:48:00.000-08:00

Down-downs: Squirrel, Walkie-Talkie & Big Stick

Boozy-Woozy & Plunger

Inês, Zé Miguel & Volker

2010-02-10T05:39:00.000-08:00

Spanker on the piste.

By 'Eck, it's cold out East

2010-02-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

So, last weekend saw the first away hash of the year, up in the chilly environs of Pinhel, near Guarda and the Serra da Estrela. It was a great weekend, as I am sure all present would attest, even if memories might be somewhat hazy in one or two cases.
When Spanker and I arrived, with Dave and Harry, after a circuitous approach due to the hotel's own sat-nav co-ordinates which took us to a field on the edge of a desolate village about twenty-five kilometres from Guarda, we were impressed by the room and facilities. After a beer in the bar, we set off for the city only to discover that there were no taxis after eight o' clock, there or back. Anyway, we had a good meal and brought back a substantial quantity of rustic wine from a bar which we worked on back at the hotel. Mrs Slocombe's non-appearance the next day was firmly blamed on 'the quality of the wine, not the quantity, honest guv.'
Spanker and I involuntarily opted to eschew breakfast the next morning in favour of sleep, and were woken by Boozy Woozy on the internal phone. The only one I could find to answer was beside the toilet - I had always wondered why they put phones there. He informed me that everyone bar Sanath had gone in search of snow so we got ourselves going and set off as well.
After an hour or so we reached Torre in the Serra da Estrella, and found it covered in snow, with loads of people skiing and snow boarding, and, more interestingly, falling off the chair lifts. Repeatedly. The sky was clear and the sun out - all most pleasant. Then came the phne call from Monica and Allan, who had just arrived.
"Are you coming?"
"We'll check into the hotel first."
"Okay."
Later: "Hi, are you on your way?"
"Well, no, we're having lunch in Guarda."
"Okay - see you for tennis, later?"
"Um, possibly not. We've just ordered a litre of wine."
Later: "Ello. Are you back from the snow?"
"We're on the way."
"We're on our third Maciera!"
"See you later, then."
"We'll just have another l'il drink first."
At about six fifteen we came in from the tennis court, via the bar, to find them there, to our surprise. Monica was grinning, telling us about the five, or was it six Macieras, and Allan was trying to tell the local barman that he lived in the Dão region, not Beira Interior, and so he wanted a Dão wine. The wine was the crucial thing, though, and we went up to have a shower and brief lie down with them declaring the sleep was for wimps and that hashers are not what they used to be.
An hour and a half later, we returned to find Basil Fawlty and Joan Rivers at the bar.
Eventually we got them into dinner, and food seemed to have a calming effect. Eventually.
After a cracking repast and more wine at the bar we all headed to our rooms rather early for a hash weekend, but it was all for the best as it meant that everyone was up and ready for a ten o'clock (yes, in the morning) hash start the next day. We gathered outside the lobby, which doubled up as the first checkpoint, in the chill morning air, before heading swiftly out into the hills and fields nearby. It was akin to moorland at times, ribbed with black skeletons of trees and bushes that left their mark on your clothes and skin. The harsh hillsides merged into small fields and winding lanes crossed here and there. At one point we descended a frighteningly steep slope and gathered at the bottom waiting for the back markers speculating on what would happen were it to be an on-back. Then it was pointed out that so far back were Walkie-Talkie and friends that had the rest of us run down then back up they would be none the wiser. They in turn were (apparently) peeved to find, having put in a spurt at the bottom to join us running when they rounded the last corner, that we had all gone anyway.
Steve - Dodger - Rogerson, on his return after three and a half years, zipped about in spurts as of old, and led us all home, on an hour and three-quarters after an invigorating - if shockingly pit-stop-free - run. Mrs Slocombe, it was pointed out, runs at a rather more sedate pace without his Pussy pulling him by the wrist.
After down-downs and the luxury of a shower, we headed to Guarda for the bash, before a dozy (for non-drivers) return to Porto. Well done Boozy-Woozy and Mrs Slocombe for a great weekend.
On, on.

Doh!

2010-01-25T06:11:00.000-08:00

I must have eaten something odd. Or had my hair turned blond for the day? I don't know, but the erratum last time referred to me suddenly thinking that Nick's comment after the Jingle Bells report was written by Adrian Wilkinson, who had just contacted me. I didn't think to check anything, so corrected what was actually right in the first place. Sorry, Nick, Adrian and anyone else (Spanker, in advance, perhaps, for next time I have cause to apologise?).
Anyway, on to the last hash. What a splendid one it was, too, around the dunes and woodland of Furadouro, thanks to Spanker and Tongue Fu, rain-free and lengthy. Measured by GPS at seventeen kilometres, it was a fair distance, and run at a reasonable clip, without even any hashing moaning - what is happening to PH3? It would have been different if Snorter had not been taken out with an overnight bug - he knows how to hash-grumble all right. I think, though, all agreed that it was a cracker, made all the better by the port and home-baked biscuits beside the marina two-thirds of the way through. The bash - ultra-cheap rodizio served by men in cowboy hats for some reason - was equally good, if unusually sober (perhaps reflecting the lack of Snorter again - just a thought!).
So, this weekend we have our first away weekend of the year. I'm excited already, waiting for the Friday afternoon bell to go and it's only Monday. We should be able to give Miguel Pais Clemente his virgin's induction this time, after he was forced to retire early last time out, heading back when he realised we were turning away from the cars again and he would be likely to be late for work (on a Sunday afternoon!). The arrangements appear impressive and I know that Mrs Slocombe and Boozy-Woozy are hoping for snow, if only for sadistic reasons. I will report in due course, complete with photos, hopefully.
On, on!
Plunger/Mark

erratum

2010-01-11T00:30:00.000-08:00

Well done everyone who noticed the minor error in the last post. All is suitably amended.
On, on!

Happy, Creaky New Year!

2010-01-06T05:30:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, hashers. I trust everyone had a suitably unhealthy break.
Fifteen of us managed to haul our festively full carcasses out on Sunday, for Hard Drive and Walkie-Talkie's cobweb-blower round Lavra. Given the amount of torrential rain I believe Portugal was blessed with over the Christmas period, we did pretty well to get a clear and even occasionally sunny day. Naturally, the beach featured, for which we were, of course, hugely grateful. It was possibly the first time a hasher has made his virgin appearance after being a co-hare, although Mrs Slocombe and Boozy Woozy rasied eyebrows at Anthony's description of himself in that way. It was good to welcome a visiting hasher, Tom (Sperm-something or other - sorry, I can't remember the full hash name) all the way from Beijing. He made the mistake of telling us what beer monsters the Beijing hashers are, thus bringing on a double down-down.
It was good to hear from one of the first GMs, Creamy (see the comment attached to the previous post), known to many of you in civilian life as Adrian Wilkinson. He makes a very valid point about our new superman, Mark Macedo! Perhaps we need to think of extra ways to help him get rid of all the excess energy he appears to have.
Don't forget to reply quickly to Sanath about the weekend away at the end of this month. It should be an ideal warm-up for the 350th.
In the meantime, I am looking into the possibility of an away hash in the Netherlands, courtesy of Ryanair. If it works, perhaps we can look at other ways to make use of some of the cheap flights we can get from here these days.
Hope to see loads of you for the next one.
On, on,
Plunger/Mark

Maia in Christmas Hashing Frenzy!

2009-12-17T05:50:00.000-08:00

by our special correspondent, A. Nonny-Mouse.

Maia residents reported strange occurances last Sunday throughout the town and its rural margins. Thirty-two sweaty individuals, many dressed in lurid, seasonal costumes were seen charging round the streets and heading into any remnant of countryside that could be found. In particular, it was noted that rival gangs of pirates were roaming around, led by rival Peter Pans, one of whom was spotted clutching a horde of coloured baubles, clearly booty plundered on her nefarious journey.
Terrified locals complained of the group's blood-curdling cries of 'OOOONN, OOOONN!!', the gaudy fright-sight in a nightdress of one known ominously as the 'Bunbasher', a wild-looking, red-headed, mother-christmas figure who was reported to 'love sausage', and a babe from Brunei wearing trousers that no innocent person should ever have to witness, particularly at this time of goodwill.
We caught up with these interlocuters at their portal, where demonic 'down-down' rituals are enacted, fuelled by alcohol. We learnt that they had possessed a local house, owned by a Mark and Anna Duffy, for yet more of this obscene mulled-wine and seasonal nibble abuse. The unfortunate victims were later lured to the group's place of 'bash' at which no fewer than thirty-nine people viciously crammed into a restaurant for reckless abandon, and Picanha, clear and disturbing evidence of the cult's growing popularity.
After feasting, certain reprobates were singled out, recognised for standing out even amongst such a crowd: a 'Rhythm Stick' was considered to have come up with the best disguise, or 'costume' as it was euphamistically named; a member of the youth wing, a certain 'Banana Split' was given a prize for collecting the greatest amount of glittering booty along the way, followed by a shady figure known simply as ... Dave; then a certain 'Spanker' was rewarded for the top moment of this invidious collection's year - ''chasing after the gypsies in Tui". This individual, dazed by her success, or perhaps a gallon of vinho verde, was heard to splutter, "it's not like it sounds", leaving us only able to speculate how evil the reality must have been. To finish it off, a godfather-like figure, whom they called, the 'Tim', asked a series of questions to test the level of his minions' depravity, or general knowledge.
Everyone left in fine fettle, one the secretive, 'Dutch Cap' to spread this filth in the untainted environs of the Netherlands. One can only hope that such scenes are never again seen, in 2009. I believe their intention is to reconvene for more, this time, cunningly, without costumes on January the 3rd, where they plan to 'shake off the Christmas torpor'.

December's hashes

2009-12-02T04:45:00.001-08:00

Don't forget that we have two successive hashes coming up: this Sunday (the 6th) hared by Andy (Whippit) and Alan (Never-a-Fokker), which should be a treat, and which will feature the fleeting return of old stalwarts, AJ and Diane Jeronimo (Last Stand and Lady Godiva).
Then it is Jingle Bells time, with me and Spanker, complete with prizes for costumes, various awards and a special Christmas quiz at the bash.
Make sure you vote here for your hash highlight of 2009 - the results will be revealed at the bash.
Let's have some bumper turn-outs for these two!
On, on,
Mark/Plunger

Puppy Love

2009-12-02T04:26:00.000-08:00

So, off we went again, on the 22nd of November, around the village of Laundos, close to Rates, where we did Hash 240. This time Big Stick and Pretty Vacant were the hares, having taken a drenching setting it the day before.
Seventeen turned out, plus three dogs, of whom more later. It was a predominantly rural affair, through fields, woods and very muddy trails much of the time and up one or two severe slopes (somewhat to the disgruntlement of Dutch Cap: "There's no pit stop, it's all uphill and we've been going over two hours," she complained at one point, with a face like the clouds threatening from the Atlantic.). There was many a bloodied leg, and some rank trainers by the end, after we had descended from the local hill atop of which sits some pretty little windmills, the inevitable chapel (São Félix, in this instance) and which commanded spectacular views up and down the coast. Mathematical saddos Hard Drive and Firkin Ell then proceded to discuss exactly how many steps were on the descent to the cars before the down-downs.
Oh yes, the dogs: I don't know what Sanath is feeding Oliver at the moment, but his dander seems to be up. Spurned repeatedly by Batwoman's Pushka (stop sniggering at the back there, Droopy!), he turned his attention to Pretty Vacant and seemed decidedly keen to express his luurve. Her attempt to copy Pushka's 'bugger off!' bark, only served to highten Oliver's ardour - something on the lines of, 'well, I'm up for it.'

Villages, Rivers and Hills

2009-11-18T05:38:00.000-08:00

After two legs of our three-on-the-trot hash programme we can sit back and reflect on being fairly lucky with the weather and running through some pleasant rural locales.
On the 8th, Matt and Lynn (Rhythm Stick and Yankee Doodler), expertly mentored by the old hand of Sue/Horny, took us to the village of Rates, a lovely little place in nice countryside that seems to be particularly well looked after by its council, which has placed information boards and walking route markers around its historical features. Unnoticed by all bar Bunbasher, the walking route provided the framework of the hash. At one point, Alan 'Never-a-Fokker' Roberts turned to me and said, "You know, he's amazing. He has an uncanny instinct for the right direction." Well, not necessarily - he's just observant.
This was one on which I hobbled slowly with what turned out to be an abdominal muscle strain that steadily grew worse. The drizzle was light but fairly persistent, although it let up for the pit stop, which was in an old, cobbled lane beside a water pump that somehow kept half the hashers happy for ten minutes or so, bless them. The rain started to increase just after we finished, but, unknowingly, the hares had provided shelter and nice, clean toilets for the down-downs and changing for lunch. This was the moment for Sandra to be named, as she duly was, as Poppycock.
Then last Sunday we headed up the Douro for another three-hared hash, with two first-time hares, Wim (Family Jewels) and Poppycock (spelled Poopycock all week in Hard Drive's e-mails), supported by Mrs Slocombe, whose thirtieth birthday it also happened to be. The rain that lashed down virtually all night and day held off completely whilst we hashed and down-downed, which was nice. Wim proved to be a slow learner when he trotted off in the right direction immediately at the first checkpoint (reminiscent of Matt checking the wrong way mid-way round his own hash the previous week). String-thieves proved a blight on this one, also given character by probably the first hash done in green wellies (Sandra!). It was a very nice area, again, despite the hills, and a scramble or two.
Next week the Hills take us. Hopefully we will get a big turn out.
On, on.

The season of chilly hashes

2009-11-03T06:17:00.000-08:00

The weather seems to have changed, and we appear to be in the season of blustery running, when you relish that change into warm clothes and bundling into cosy restaurants for the bash. Plunger and I got back from our little half-term trip to Andalucia to find that Halloween seemed to have frightened off the hares, so there was no hash last week. Sitting in our damp, smelly flat on Sunday (no that wasn't just our hasing trainers hanging around - we got back from our trip to find that we had had three thousand litres of water flood it the week before), with no hash to do, we twiddled our restless thumbs and thought about what we might do for the Jingle Bells in a few weeks' time.
We've now got three hashes in three weeks, after a three week gap. I'm hoping we get some good turnouts; numbers have been pretty healthy this year, although the last one was reduced to just nine. It certainly makes a hare feel that the effort is worth it when there are good numbers.
On, on!

Broken bones and hurried hashes

2009-10-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

Hello hashers,
Well, last weekend took an unexpected and unwelcome turn, with Flasher/Dot falling and breaking her upper arm so severely that she required an operation and stay in hospital. Obviously, we all send our best wishes and hope that she makes a quick recovery. Even more painful, surely, though, must have been the knowledge that she would be unable to set the hash with Horny (to celebrate her birthday, what's more).
In the event, I took over, and, with little time to prepare, decided to go out on Sunday morning, set it, and then hare it. In the event, I didn't get back to the start until about forty minutes after the hash had begun, so had to catch everyone up. It's certainly the first time I've done two hashes without stopping (other than to wonder where they had parked, given that it was not at the designated start point). I suppose it is inevitable that I got two down-downs as a result.
Well done to the little band of hashers who made it despite all the things conspiring against us last week.
The previous hash was a beauty, set by Boozy Woozy and Mrs Slocombe in the beautiful and little-touched estuary area of Murtosa, near Aveiro. It was a lovely day and a well-constructed run, with a pit-stop in a tasca that resembled an East Anglian pub, but with chilled port instead of real ale.
The weather shows signs of changing now, so it'll be on with the winter warmers and ... on, on!

PH3 Summer

2009-08-27T04:51:00.000-07:00

The title of my earlier post was meant to refer to the super, soaraway, Summer sensation of PH3 continuing through late July and August. Well done to everyone involved, especially the hares, and Hard Drive, who from what I could judge, really drove it all.

Summer Sensation!!!

2009-08-27T03:58:00.000-07:00

Well, Spanker and I are back after our Summer jaunt and looking forward to this Sunday's hash hared by Brunei Babe and Inaction Man. I see they have picked somewhere near Valongo for this one, so we'll all know what sort of terrain to expect, and given the hares we can expect a fair bit of scrambling through undergrowth.
Having recently hashed in territory BB would be familiar with, Sp. and I have now something of an insight into how she views the ideal hash. We were in the town of Miri, in Sarawak (Borneo), sipping a beer in a café, when we noticed hash t-shirts and badges adorning the walls. Next thing we knew we were being invited on the Miri hash by a legend of South-East Asian hashing, known to everyone as Big Spender. So, two days later, as we returned from a day trekking in the jungle, we found ourselves turning straight round to head off back in the direction from which we'd come for a prompt six pm start somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The number of cars parked at the start point, and the amount of people standing round ready to go staggered us - there had to be a hundred-plus hashers. Without any apparant ceremony, the hash then began.
We had noticed that, ominously, most of the hashers wore moulded football boots, or similar, which seemed strange, but certainly didn't intimate they were expecting a great deal of road running. And so it proved, as we plunged straight into a hole in the jungle and down a slope, crashing through the creepers, plants and trees of the dense forest. This was proper jungle, not cut trails or anything, and we followed a trail marked entirely by strips of paper, at intervals of at most ten yards. Down, and up, down, up, up, down, up, down, up, up, up, down and up we went - I'm sure you get the picture. Without grips at all on her trainers, Spanker was slipping and sliding, whilst I have never felt so shagged on a hash as I scrabbled through the under (and over-)-growth. To look at us you would have thought we had stood under a full shower fully clothed (or perhaps a full shower that also drops mud). Thank goodness for checkpoints, eh? Well, no, actually - there was one that I noticed, but as everyone was spread out it was simply a case of guessing for oneself and carrying on. After about fifty minutes/an hour we reached a patch of flattish, cleared ground that indicated we were almost home, so, to keep the Porto flag flying we girded our loins and ran the final quarter mile or so in. Already there were at least fifty others back, some already tucking into the barbecues that were being prepared in the boots of various four-by-fours. It was only about now that Spanker remembered her arachnaphobia - there's no time for worrying about what might lurk where you are putting your hand on a jungle sramble like this.
There were some seriously fit buggers there (and some not so - not just us). There were also some really nice people and we just found ourselves chatting effortlessly to people around us. For your hash fee you received two cans of Malaysia's life-saving (literally, but that's another story that Spanker may tell for a small price) energy drink, 100-Plus, and a coupon for three cans of lager (if you wanted more you had to buy another coupon - don't worry, Droopy, I am not planning to introduce this with PH3). The bash was happening there and then (the barby), with down-downs (the circle) coming only after that. It was rather fragmented compared to ours and was clearly going to go on for a long time after we left, and as we did three people were writhing disturbingly in ice and mud simulating the sort of thing for which you could be prosecuted in many countries (possibly including Malaysia!). Before we did so, naturally, we had to do down-downs with a specific twist as visiting hashers.
The next day, back in the café, to round things off we were presented with Miri HHH t-shirts. What a great bunch of people. If you find yourself in northern Sarawak, head to Ming café in Miri and see if there's one going on soon.
Later, in Melaka, in the south-west of peninsular Malaysia, once again we bumped into some local hashers. We mentioned that we had done the Miri hash. Oh, had we met Big Spender? Her fame is great in those parts. Next thing we know we've ben presented with two Melaka HHH t-shirts from the run the evening before that we'd just missed. There was to be another the next day (whoever looks at me doubtfully when we run on successive weekends, take note!), but it was to be all-male. I don't know why they do that. The next Singapore one, which looked quite good and was due when we were to be there, was the same.
Never mind, PH3 was beckoning again at this stage. Let's see if we can't give BB and IM a taste of the orient, as I bet they'll do it to us!
This is the second successive summer in which we have hashed in other countries, and it is interesting to see the differences and to talk to people. Has anyone else got stories to tell about hashing elsewhere? Post them as comments on this post, or add your own new post. What different things have you seen that you'd like to try with PH3? What would you not dream of introducing?
On, on,
Plunger

2009-07-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

There's been plenty to report but little time in which to do it, hence the long delay since the last post. The last post nearly had to be sounded on the last hash, Mike Boogaard and Mrs Slocombe's slog about the hills and more hills near Jovim along the Douro in the searing heat nearly finished off one or two hashers, most notably Squirrel. Fortunately, a fag and a beer restored her to health in time for the International Picnic.
That was a great event, and well done to all of you who brought food along - it was most impressive.
There have been a number of memorable hashes of late, with healthy numbers (the last ones have had 19, 14, 15, 13, 22, 15, 19 & 21 hashers), but we could do with a few more hares. You'll soon get bored of me doing them! As we hit the school holiday there'll need to be some more whilst we are away.
Tonight we have an evening pursuit hash. Given my current state of knackeredness you should be able to catch me if you don't hang around. We'll see.
Have a top summer everyone. Please post your comments about hashes, hashers, the meaning of life, etc.

2009-03-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

More Hashers Enshrined in Literature (from Spanker)

I have been concerned of late that fatherhood is starting to take its toll on one of our nippier hashers, and imagine my surprise to find this concern echoed in Dog Owners Monthly:
"For the sporting Whippet I should be inclined to pick the rough-haired variety...one with a grizzled face and a fairly dense coat."
For those of a delicate constitution read no further, for ahead lie some rather personal details about our GM, which are perhaps a little too intimate for comfort:
"To use the Plunger...push slowly down, and pull quickly up to engage the suction. Repeat several times until...you get tired and have to stop."
Well, I did warn you.

2009-03-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

A few more for the literary ones.....

1. How does this count as Classic Literature? “Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Golden Plunger Awards” – available from Powell’s Books!

2. Here’s a nouveau-classic that we trust will NOT happen this weekend: Wallace and Gromit: The Whippet Vanishes (Paperback)!!

3. In 1952, he may have been a different man! Caballero Droopy (1952) Resumé: Droopy is on his way to woo his lovely senorita when he is waylayed by a wolf intent on winning the fair lass. But the wolf wasn't counting on Droopy's uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time...!! (Fortunately, we now have GPS assistance).

OnOn
Brunei Babe / Pink Panther!

2009-03-27T03:23:00.000-07:00

2009-03-27T03:12:00.000-07:00

Porto hashers in Literature

2009-03-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

As I was reading 'On the Black Hill' by Bruce Chatwin the other day (a fine novel, by the way - I'd recommend it), lo-and-behold I came upon this reference to one of our most prolific hashers and ex-GM:
'A mare came on heat around the end of May, and waited for the visit of ... a magnificent animal called Spanker who made a tour of the hill-farms with his master, Merlin Evans ... People said he had sired a good few more offspring than Spanker.'
So surprised was I to find the great Spanker immortalised in a classic work of literature (albeit with some gender confusion!), it set me to thinking: this can't be the only example.
Indeed, look at this metaphysical delight from George Eliot's 'Middlemarch':
'If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and Squirrel's heartbeat, and we should all die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.'
So, my challenge is: go out, hashers, and find me the literary hash references.
Prizes may be awarded for the best at the Tui weekend.

More Hashers in Literature (from Spanker)

I have been concerned of late that fatherhood is starting to take its toll on one of our nippier hashers, and imagine my surprise to find this concern echoed in Dog Owners Monthly:
"For the sporting Whippet I should be inclined to pick the one with a grizzled face and a fairly dense coat".
For those of a delicate nature, read no further for ahead lie some personal details about our GM, which are perhaps a little too close to home for comfort:
"To use the Plunger...push slowly down, and pull quickly up to engage suction. Repeat several times until...you get tired and have to stop".
Well, I did warn you.

hashes 321,2 &3

2009-03-10T05:56:00.000-07:00

Hello hashers,
As I have been incpacitated (or airborne) for the last three hashes I can't very well comment on them. So, who will? What happened that we should all know about?
Let me have your comments.

325th Weekend in Tui

2009-03-10T05:52:00.000-07:00

Well, preparations are underway for the 325th hash in Tui on the 27th-29th of March. If you haven't indicated whether or not you ca go, please try to asap. A weekend of tapas, walking, drinking, dining, quizzing and most of all, of course, hashing promises to be one not to miss. T-shirts will be available to buy at a no-doubt bargain price. If you want to look at the hotel, it is the Hotel Colón, Tui, Galicia, and is easily found on the web.

Next Hash: 15th Feb.

2009-02-02T07:56:00.001-08:00

details to follow

2009-02-02T07:52:00.001-08:00

Hash 321, February 1st, 2009
Area: Muro, nr. Maia Hares: Dutch Cap & Huge Relief
Roll Call: Dutch Cap, Huge Relief, Spanker, Mrs Slocombe (& Pussy), Droopy, Big Stick, Pretty Vacant (not running - Plunger, Squirrel)

report to follow

Welcome to the new PH3 blog

2009-02-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

Welcome Hashers,
This is the first post of the new blog. We'll try this for a while and see how we all like it. I'll try to keep it updated with reports, news and pictures, to complement the greater sophistication of the website. Let me know how you find it. Add anything you feel like adding.
On, on,
Plunger/Mark