...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
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Wet, windy, lost and found
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...
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...
Monday, 22 November 2010
A touch of Autumn colour
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!
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!
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.
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