New Year, New Year

Bow Job and Master Baker were the architects of our New Year cobweb-shaker this year, taking us down to Pacos de Brandao for this one.  The beginning took us swiftly into some dense woodlands from which it seemed for a while we would never emerge.  Most unlike Master Baker, it seemed the hares had been possessed by the spirit of Brunei Babe as we scrambled up and down wooded slopes, tearing our legs through twisted brambles, dodging the thwack of saplings and slap of wet leaves and occasionally breaking into a brief run.  It was too tricky to be easy, but it was a slow start which at least kept everyone in close proximity in this first outing since Christmas.

Eventually we emerged onto the road on which we were parked, prompting one or two rebellious rascals to suggest a quick turn to home but instead now we found ourselves with the more expected running stretches.  The route was a nice mixture of village and semi-rural patches with some lengthy on-ons that made one suffer if checking the wrong way.  It was as well constructed as you would expect and was run in remarkably well behaved fashion.  What is happening to hashers these days?  Where has the stupidity gone?  How can we have a hash with both Walkie Talkie and Mrs Slocombe yet no lunacy?  Deviant was impressive on his first one for a while and Family Jewel managed to last rather longer than he did on the Jingle Bells.  Gaynor was particularly noticeable for her far eastern hash t-shirt that would probably be enough to have you arrested in certain countries.  Evidently not Vietnam, though.

Down-downs were most notable for the naming of Mark Hooley, desperate for something edgy and out-there, badger shagger or big cock, or something.  So we named him Hairy Fairy.  That done, it was off to scoff, a nice boisterous bash in one of the village's few restaurants.   

Jingle Bells Jangled

So, it seems a while ago (there's a reason for that, I suppose), but we finished 2012's hashing in memorable style with a Jingle Bells run that saw the expected array of outlandish and festive costumes being hauled through wind and rain on a day that, under other circumstances, would have been deemed miserable.  There is nothing like a hash though to dispell the miserable and so, albeit with numbers slightly foreshortened on the day, thirty-seven becostumed loons set off in good spirits from a spot around the corner from the Club (well, thirty-six, actually, Mrs Slocombe being so late that he only drove up as we were at the second checkpoint - he later claimed that this constituted being on time).  After some meandering in the vicinity we turned to cross the Arrabida bridge, with driving wind and rain hitting us head-on, and nearly also the traffic, famously safe and reliable, of course, as it hurtled into Porto.  There was not a great deal of stopping to enjoy the view on this occasion. By this stage we had lost one hare (Mega Tongue), three children (hers), and two lazy buggers (Walkie Talkie and Family Jewels), but the remaining thirty-one pressed on.

Once across, amid mutterings about how a return would be effected, given the distances to the other bridges and back, we headed down, via the shopping areas of Arrabida and the hilly back roads, with patches of the remaining greenery (around this time you might have heard, from the lips of older hahsers - let's say Bunbasher, to pluck a name out, something along the lines of 'when I were but a hashing lad, all this were fields and ...' before you ran out of earshot), until we reached the riverside at Afurada.  A quick tour of the village gave the locals something to smile about before we stopped at the quayside to wait for the ferry to Foz.  Eschewing centuries of cultural grooming and proud Porto tradition, the ferryman turned out to be a man keen to keep to timetables so we had to watch him go moments before we arrived and to wait patiently for his return, but when it came it was with Mega Tongue, her children and, most importantly (sorry, but let's be realistic, here!), the pit stop - bubbly and Christmas cake - which was polished off with impressive efficiency on the journey across the river.

Back on the other side, with Mega Tongue's brood now back in our midst, it was a half hour twist and turn back to the start, taking in the ever-hashworthy 'Romantic Routes', and the scenic delights of an on-back at the base of the Arrabida Bridge which was basically an enormous drug users injecting and dumping ground - not a place in which to take a tumble.

After soggy down-downs we repaired to the Club, which enabled a shower and warmth ahead of the excellent bash, complete with quiz and various awards.  Best Costume went to Squirrel and Snorter (at last - all the years of hurt, all the outfits imposed upon her family, all the sewing machine hours had paid off for Squirrel - Greg, it's okay, you don't have to be the snowman again); Hash Moment of the Year for a while was a close run thing, Snorter's facial realignment garnering notable support, but eventually the clear winner was ... Squirrel and Spanker's brush with the law in the arse end of beyond back in the autumn; and finally, Hasher of the Year went two ways, to Spanker and Master Baker for their sterling efforts throughout the year.

Of course, all this was back on the 16th of December, and it has taken me that long to get around to writing about it, which means that tomorrow, as I write, we are back into it once more.  2013 is with us, the 425th weekend on the horizon.  Time, like a naughty hasher, waits for no man.

On, on!

When is a hare not a hare?

When it's a rabbit?  Or when it's Walkie Talkie.

The great, chatty pedestrian had volunteered to co-hare the latest event, with Master Baker after a series of alternatives had come and gone.  All fine and dandy, then, until a series of events that remain somewhat obscure despite lengthy explanation required MB to set the hash - from the outlet centre near Vila Cha - on his own.  Never mind, at least Walkie Talkie would be there on the day; he vaguely knew the route and could trot along at the back picking up the strings, and he had arranged the pit stop.  However, even the greatest of plans can unravel, and, without wishing to be uncharitable, it might be stretching things to include this amongst the greatest of plans, so unravel it did, with remarkable ease. 

Within half an hour or so, he had turned back having lost his car keys.  How they had managed to fall out of the highly secure pocket of those trusty and well-worn jogging bottoms is a mystery, but there you are.  We managed to survive without him for the next forty minutes or so, until, horror of horrors, we arrived at the pit stop cafe only to find that there was no Walkie Talkie with money for finos!  Fortunately, virgin Helen, one of five debutants, had brought some cash with her so the day was saved, but it was tense there for a moment.  The look on Snorter's face...

Anyway, the hash was very nicely put together and covered plenty of new ground considering its location in an area well-trodden in recent years.  It had a good mix of terrain and plenty of lengthy stretches in which to get the lungs going, with some long checks so that the distance was enough to stretch everyone, not least newcomers Francisco and Paula Corte-Real who had turned up dressed perfectly for a gentle stroll along a carefully tended country path but somehow managed to keep up.

With five virgins, one hare, Twirlie's 40th hash birthday (the moment of outrage on the part of a couple of the virgins when I declared that she was 40 without realising I meant in hashes was quite amusing) and the inimitable Walkie-Talkie, there were plenty of down-downs to be had, which stand-in RA, Horny, compounded by giving most of them a second one.  Then it was off to the restaurant in Vila Cha and the moment for Walkie Talkie finally to come good, which he did with aplomb as, despite some rather haphazard service, it was a splendid bash and very good value. 

On to hash 420, and he is having another go.  Good luck, Twirly!

On, on!

Lost and Found. And Lost.

Well, who would have expected such a muddle?  To start from Esposade metro station would be easy, obviously, and make for a nice, prompt start and finish.  Unfortunately, that did not take into account hash pathfinding qualities.  Wrong path-finding, that is.  By the time the car containing Mega Tongue, Judge Red, Droopy and me completed our little tour of the Maia hinterland to reach the station, the hares and respective other halves were already on the phone to Master Baker who had contrived to end up somewhere around the docks, having wisely left the club without any idea of where to go.  Just then I got a call from the absent Hard Drive to inform me that Snorter was lost somewhere and about to give up.  His voice was full of urgent dread, as though Snorter was about to give up life amid the tangle of featureless motorways between Porto and Maia, but it turned out he meant just the hash.  Mind you, without a hash, what kind of life would it be...?

All this delay served to make Mrs Slocombe, when he turned up, appear not to be late.  Clearly shaken by this, he declared that he'd forgotten something.  His dog.  He was only five minutes away, he reliably informed us, and off he went again.  Five minutes, my arse.  This is Mrs Slocombe we are talking about.  Whilst he was away, Snorter finally arrived, then, half an hour later, Mrs Slocombe returned, complete with furry friend, at exactly the same time as Master Baker with the search and rescue team that had been sent out for him.

Right, once all present and correct there was a hash to be run.  Having stood around waiting for more than an hour there was a certain stiffness to be shaken out but the route quickly did the trick.  At least we had finished waiting around for lost hashers to find us.  It was a short run, but found some very nice spots, especially the little park area beside the river Leca at which we stopped for a pit stop.  We got back to Esposade safe and sound in just over an hour, chilled for a while, then proceeded with the down-downs for the hares, Gender Bender and Ladyboy.  There were no birthdays or namings that I was aware of, so it was over to the R.A. for his bit.  R.A.... Um, where is Droopy? someone enquired.  Good question.  It appeared that he had not made it back, but no-one had noticed.  Searchers spread out in various directions.  Snorter drove towards one of the villages, whilst Pimp my Dongle and I checked a few routes without success before heading back to the group.  When we got there after ten minutes or so Droopy had been located, but now we had lost Snorter again.  Of course, this rambling tale had a happy ending and we were all reunited eventually, drinking lager out of piss pots in a cold car park like normal people. 

Somewhere, in a valley far, far from here...

After a three week gap we were at it again last Sunday, with the relatively lengthy drive to Amarante for this outing courtesy of Master Baker and Bow Job, the latter a hare for the first time.  We parked beside the river on the opposite bank from the historic centre and began by making our way along a wooded path just above the water.  It was all terribly picturesque, so naturally we turned away and headed uphill, beneath the concrete bridge carrying the main road tino one end of town and onto the road.  As soon as we began to rise, it became evident that Mrs Slocombe was going to live up to his name in fine style, making us all yearn for the speed of a Walkie-Talkie to hurry things up at the back.  On the end of his lead, Pussy was bored, with the only relief when they eventually crested a hill.  It was a bit like watching a victorian era roller coaster creeping and creaking on cogs to the top of a peak before tumbling down the other side, only to grind to a near halt as it levels into the next incline.

Vinay Prabdhu was back with us after a two year spell in America, where, he revealed, he got into swinging - the conditions over there just leant themselves to it, apparently, and he managed to swing both ways.  How disappointed we all were to discover he was talking about cricket.  After all that, it was remarkable that he managed to get away with the name Dr Know-All at the end.

Also back for a rare visit was Rubber Man, who demonstrated, first his underwear, then some old-fashioned hash rule-breaking with short cuts, ignoring regroups and sundry other crimes for which he was duly punished later on.  By contrast, virgin George, Gnasher's boyfriend over for a visit, showed his military discipline by sticking perfectly yet ludicrously to the snaking ornamental paving on the final run-in.  As he could simply have run in a straight line, he appeared as though he had played one of those drinking games that leaves you looking like a wasp fished out of a pint of beer.

It was beautiful in the centre of town, the autumnal colours reflected exquisitely alongside the old bridge and buildings so photogenically that even a rabble of hashers anticipating alcohol could hardly fail to be impressed, and a wonderful little old watermill, still with working wheel, was a charming little detour, but not for the curmudgeonly Master Baker who had decreed it unworthy of his interest and merely waited for our return with Mrs Slocombe and the not-as-knackered-as-usual Pussy.

After Vinay was named, various people were punished and Spanker celebrated her 240th run, the rain hurried us into the cover of the cars before a pleasant bash in an old tasca overlooking the river, on which a fisherman appeared slowly to be contemplating drifting to his death on the rocks.  Unfortunately for him, the rapids of Amarante are not quite Niagara-esqe so he eventually drifted back, looking even glummer.  Happy days. 

Droopy Draws a Crowd

Well, only a liitle one.  That's the crowd, not Droopy, who was a hare for the first time this decade as he and I put together this run from Santa Maria da Feira.

We knew everyone would be expecting to get to the castle, so we stopped all the speculation by making it the start and finish.  At the start, though, there was little thought of stopping for a spot of sightseeing as the weather was decidedly inclement - cold and very wet, excatly what you don't want at the beginning of a hash.  Another thing you don't want at the beginning of a hash is a long, steep climb.  Shame, that. 

Anyway, soon after the long, steep climb at the beginning of the hash, in the cold, driving rain that had washed away many of the chalk signs, everyone thoroughly enjoying the experience, we headed into woodland.  From that point, I think nobody really knew where we were; as hares, we had headed in a completely different direction when setting than we had intended, but happily the area into which we stumbled was pleasingly rural, so the hash mixed woodland, village and country road quite nicely pretty much all the way back to the cars.  There was the odd little feature of interest, the old, ruined mill complete with antique lorry in the garage being my favourite.

By the time we reached the pit stop the rain had stopped, which seemed to perk people up a bit - I've rarely seen biscuits disappear as rapidly other than from the OBS staff room table, and a mere twelve adults made pretty short work of port bought in the expectation of several more hashers (congratulations due to Mark 'Oh, all right then, give me another glass' Hooley and Droopy for their herioc efforts in this regard). 

Energy might have been restored, but homing devices seemed not to have been as we continued, with front runners repeatedly going the wrong way at checkpoints or ignoring bright, white strings dangling enticingly before their eyes.  Near home, Master Baker had got away from the rest and was way ahead.  He'll find his way back, I thought, until we caught up with him standing like a lost boy at what he assumed to be a checkpoint.  Admittedly, the chalked on-on sign had almost disappeared in the rain, but given that its remnants remained, on the large arrow beneath the word Castelo on a road sign pointing down Rua do Castelo, one thought he might have been able to work it out.

He still got home first, but not before a comic attempt by Mr Hooley at a sprint finish that began about a hundred and fifty yards from the cars and ended about a hundred and twenty yards from the cars as M B, Spanker and I jogged past him.

The sky began to clear as we completed the down-downs, welcoming in the process dubutants Pi Moreira and her daughter, Carmo - who had coped really well considering the conditions and terrain and was about to go into, I understand, a Rip Van Winkle-like sleep (but only after a promised visit to MacDonald's).  Francois Laclomblez had returned to the fold and was named Judge Red before a select group of us repaired to Miramar for a great value bash with roast chicken and fat, juicy panados.  By that time, the sun was out and the sky clear.  As Mrs Slocombe would no doubt say, better late than never.

On, on.

Suspicious minds and ancient finds

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haide, haide!