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.