Prologue

  Two hashes, both alike in dignity,
In fair Rowledge, where we lay our scene,
In ancient woods break new harmony,
Where civil hash meets serious runners.
From forth the faltering loins of these two groups
A pair of generous runners offer pre-run goodies;
With port and chocolate, Yellow Peril and Yorkie offer
The assembled throng to send them on their way.
The boggy passage of Bigfoot’s carefully crafted trail,
And the assistance of his offspring’s pals,
With flour in hand, they marked most checks,
So after only one hour in the mist;
Afore we with bated breath attend,
The Anniversary celebration, that Missing in Action would miss, our toil came to an end.

The main Act

  J. Arthur, who is not running trails at present, asked “Is there really a forest here?”, a surprising question, since SH3 have hashed in it more than once, though admittedly not for many years. Our venues fall out of favour and then are found once more. Our hare, acting as RA, was taken aback that another hasher (not I!) knew not only that “holt” means a wood – making a holt forest as absurd as “naan bread”, or “River Avon”,- but also that Alice was the mangled name of an early bishop. The hare, Bigfoot, will have taken comfort in the fact that, though very few from SH3 turned up – perhaps 15? – there were plenty of visitors and extras, so that the pack appeared a normal size at the start. Unfortunately for Surrey regulars, the new faces all belonged to young legs; I am told the youngsters were back in the (unusually potholed) car park 20 minutes before the back markers – SBJ, First On and myself – were also there.

  So, yes, Alice Holt is indeed a forest, and Bigfoot laid a trail there with his accustomed skill, constantly varying our direction; with no sun to orient us, and no landmarks, other than a very attractive lake, follow the flour was all we could do. Well, that and get out of the way of the hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, of much fitter and faster runners from all over Hampshire, on some organised event which put our miniature outing to shame. In places Bigfoot’s trail corresponded to theirs, variously the same or the opposite direction, but fortunately these coincidences were only occasional. What these athletes would have made of “checks” I cannot guess, though at times the real trail seemed to go on for miles, real miles, without a check.
Bigfoot was celebrating a 30th wedding anniversary, and laid on sparkling wine with cakes, though Missing in Action was, well, missing. Their sons were checking chickens, and did an excellent job on a trail rather less than 5 miles. There was a short cut laid in blue, but I am uncertain whether anyone actually took it; we saw where it started but thought “No, white is fine”, given that this was quite early on in the trail. Perhaps the also-rans did take the blue trail, but I suspect they just went quietly back to our car park. Wrecclesham is in Surrey, just; perhaps people’s records of where we ran will establish whether we entered Hampshire.  [Ed: We parked in Surrey then crossed on foot into Hampshire.  The On On was back in Surrey.]

  Football is known as the beautiful game; it is also the only sport in which the supporters of one team are hostile and aggressive towards other teams, and even violent towards opposing supporters. The switch to all-seater stadiums, and very expensive tickets, has reduced hooliganism inside grounds, though the antipathy between rival factions remains. Some people live for, and by, an ethos of Us against Them, as nowadays is only too palpable on the political scene. The worst offenders are young men, and a fair few middle-aged men who have never grown up, though I suppose some girlfriends get dragged into this scene. Naturally hostility is most apparent between neighbouring teams: Arsenal and Tottenham, Everton and Liverpool, City and United, Rangers and Celtic; in two of those pairs religion gets dragged in. What about the summer? Well, nowadays there is almost no summer break, but our thugs do need an outlet: I gather racism is rife in cricket, which seems sad, since people from India and Pakistan take cricket very seriously. (I am old enough to remember when the West Indies were the best in the world.)

On On, FRB

Epilogue

  The athletes that we encountered were the Southern Cross Country League.  It brought back memories to Wally who took part 10 years ago with his little pooch, Toto, (or should that be Tonto & the Lone Ranger?) and has a trophy to prove it.