Fânzeres Frolics

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

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

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

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

...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

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...