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!



   

In Pursuit of the Hooley Male

We set off for Furadouro in torrential rain, a proper Porto monsoon, which continued until we had parked and remained in the cars for a minute or so, decidedly reluctant to venture out.  Once it stopped, though, it remained clear until we were in the restaurant, most conveniently.
 
This was, of course, a pursuit hash, hared by Master Baker and Mark Hooley.  They set off five minnutes before us and headed through the town.  It was easy to follow them at first, but we contrived to miss the fourth or fifth checkpoint and delayed ourselves for a good five minutes, thereby pretty well ensuring that they would not be caught. 

There was a good deal of running to be done as we wound round the town and its sandy wooded margins and we were quite a stretched line of hashers in the second half.  As we headed into the woods, Snorter was the surprising back marker.  He loped along, occasionally coming into view if you were hanging back to look for him (which, to be fair, nobody was, except me; Big Stick's claim that he was at the back simply in order to wait for Snorter should be taken with a healthy dose of salt).  Once in sight, he would raise an arm and give a limp wave in the manner of a legionairre in the desert saying go on without me, I'll just slow you down.  So we did. 

Somehow, though, he caught us up, probably helped by the inevitable slowness of some of the checking - a pursuit hash can be like that unless someone gets on a lucky roll or really snifs out the direction.  That did eventually happen, with Pimp My Dongle finding the route so successfully that most of the hashers did not experience another checkpoint for the final half hour or so.  Perhaps that explains why two thirds chose to shortcut the ending.  No, I think that it was more in line with Snorter's sentiment beside a sign taking us away from home near the end:  F*** that, I'm going this way.

At down downs, Miguel Mendes was named Cock Plucker, in reference to a hobby he is known to have, then it was off to the bash at a seafront cafe.  It was a good hash, quite demanding, especially on the sand of the forest, but we have yet to catch a hare on a pusuit hash.

On, on.

Up hill and down dale. And up hill again.

What a picturesque hash, full of magnificent views.  That is, of course, euphamistic for 'we've just climbed another bloody hill, so we might as well have a look around before we descend again.'

No, really, this one did afford some fine vistas from either side of the river, beginning with one of the best, from Gaia's monastery high above Ponte Dom Luis.  Heading up the slope towards it there were two distinct groups:  those, like Spanker and I, running with resignation to a spot from which we knew there was only one way down, and those, surprisingly in the majority, blissfully unaware that all their effort was just for a steep on-back, particularly as the hares ruthlessly chased everyone back down quickly, allowing a mere glimpse of the view for those who were quick enough up.

After a couple of twists and turns we crossed the top of the bridge, passing a group who happened to be hashers elsewhere, at least one of them known to Extremely Grimm, visiting us for the second time from Madrid H3.  The tourists were out in force, especially around the cathedral when we arrived at a checkpoint there to provide some local colour probably not mentioned in their guide books.  We made our way down through the tumbling alleys below the bridge.  Master Baker at the front thought he had seen a very large checkpoint sign on the ground at the end of one stretch, but no.  It was one of a pair of swastikas painted on the flagstones.  Hmm, nice.  I'd like to think they were there for local buddhists, but ... never mind, move on.

Having come over the top of the bridge it was obvious that we would return via the lower level, so when we got to the junction at its end there was really only one way to check if you were first there.  And of course the route was along the river.  By the time I managed to catch everyone up they were ascending the slope of doom, up which we gone a few times before, bringing us to the car park beneath the new road bridge.  When I have set hashes up there, I have always put a checkpoint half way, but then I'm just too nice, I suppose, unlike Deep Throat and Miguel who heartlessly made us take it in one go.

When we got back over to Gaia we were swiftly taken down to the river front again, just to make sure we could have another climb, but we were compensated by a beer at a cafe on the cais.  It was brief relief (now there's a hash name for the future!), as the next stage was up the hill past Taylor's and The Yeatman, underneath the railway line to the top.  To be fair, there was remarkably little moaning, even with Snorter and Big Stick there, although that might have been because they just couldn't speak.

We reached home in about an hour and eight minutes (running time), the shortness of the time surprising several, including Big Stick, who felt he had been out for twice that time.  So, short but strenuous enough to push people was the verdict, a good run.  An equally good bash followed back down at the Cais de Gaia.

We have since had a note from Extremely Grimm complementing the hares (incidently, this was Miguel's fourth hash, three of which he has hared - something for possible consideration when he comes to be named, hopefully soon) and expressing his enjoyment of PH3 once again.  Most importantly, he has also sampled Lisbon H3 and is in no doubt about which of us is the better hash!

On, on to two in a row on the 22nd and 29th, the second of which will see a visit from Chalky and Hooker.       

Back again

So, after a lengthy summer break, I am back.  It seems ages since a good crowd of us made our way to Guimaraes to bid farewell to seven leavers.  It was a memorable run around the city and its margins and I think we added nicely to the sights on view for the considerable numbers of tourists out on a sunny Sunday. 

Nothing, however, stands still in hashing (except, of course, for Mrs Slocombe at a checkpoint) and so here we are again, welcoming newcomers and pounding the streets and tracks as though we had never stopped.  Last night we assembled at a previous starting point, at the back of Campanha station.  Confusingly, Mrs Slocombe arrived on time, whilst Hard Drive was thirty five minutes late, but this role reversal did not continue and normality was soon restored, the former resolutely avioding checking and the latter swiftly into Ancient Mariner mode, with GTA (Greg) his first victim.

Handily, everyone ran pretty fluently, with plentiful checkpoints enabling it all to keep together, so we made our way round in good time.  A good deal of it was on well-trodden ground, but there always seems to be, even in a city as relatively small as Porto, somewhere new to discover and so it was with this one.  It was designed to give a reasonable view of real Porto for the newcomers, so we headed into the centre, crossing Santa Catarina twice, passing a sign from a year ago en route, gave the shoppers something to stare at  gaze at admiringly, and got as far as Aliados before effectively turning back. 

Special mention must go to Francois for getting lost.  He found that, in trying to find us again, people were able to remember seeing us pass by.  Funny, that.  He also was named, after lengthy deliberations that seemed all to be focused on the idea of pimp, Pimp my Dongle.  Titchy Percy had a down-down to mark being eighty (his knee, meanwhile, is a hundred and sixty) and then we repaired across town for the bash at the end of which we marked Bunbasher's actual birthday.

So, an hour and a quarter (ha, those who doubted my ability to keep the length down, ha and ha, I say!) of jogging about alarming the good people of Porto, beer in piss-pots and tuneless singing.  Hashing is back; and a jolly good job.

On, on.