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!
Monday, 22 November 2010
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Riding the Crestuma of a Wave (??)
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.
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.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
One swallow doesn't (quite) make an Indian Summer
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.
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.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Coasting along the coast
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
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
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
There and back (nearly) and there again and back again.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Metro Express
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
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
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