My memory has never been great, and age isn’t exactly a miracle cure. Being told it was my turn to do the write-up halfway through the circle on the only day the Beer Master decided not to bring alcohol free was either a recipe for disaster or, as I prefer to see it, a golden opportunity to tell the truth without any pesky consequences.

  We were late to the start, which is a surprise to exactly no one. I’m no Atalanta, and for those of you scrolling to the end to see who wrote this before you read it, I see you.  We have set our own hash from here before—and recceed another which we promptly failed to set so we were entitled to know it all.  Anyway, who listens to instructions, right?  I finally caught up to the pack after some confusion over an early runner/walker split.  I never saw the walkers again until the very end, where the beer was.  What a coincidence.

  From there, the trail took us into uncharted territory.  We hit some asphalt with a check, which I dread for Spuddy’s paws.  But these days, he’s more savvy about petrol hazards than some of the hashers I could mention.  We then wound through some unlikely single-track paths, through farms, past some angry estate dwellers, and even straight through a golf course.  The players never even paused their swings, apparently believing that a group of sweaty runners in bizarre shorts [Ed: speak for yourself!] was just a new, highly competitive form of caddy.

  Back to the run: Once I found myself leading, I struggled to find flour but saw some rogue blue arrows.  “What do those mean?” I wondered.  “Do they belong to us?”  Nobody knew, so we did the most logical thing we could think of: we ignored them and carried on.  We eventually hit a dead end with a check.  A hasher leaned over and whispered to the hare, “I saw a blob.  Could it be ours?”  The hare simply looked back at him with a blank expression, and we all moved on.

  At that point, my old-age pains kicked in, and I started walking, staring at the rear ends in front of me. [Is this Flash writing?]  And no, I’m not a pervert!  Some hashers do have some interesting shorts.  One was guarded by teeth (presumably a dog), another was covered in flies (no comment), and I was told mine were badly torn and even offered new ones.  The fashion police were out in full force.

  I finished the hash with Le Pro, who was not exactly in the “Pro” form he’s known for.  He suggested we just ignore some white arrows and find our own way, which we did and only got back because of the recce done years ago, or so I like to believe.  Petal eventually joined us, explaining he’d gone in a completely different direction, never saw any flour after the initial four blobs, and was eager to show everyone his off-track record on his phone.  It was impressive, if not completely baffling.

  The Circle: Belcher stepped in to lead. I got the distinct impression he had his act ready for last week but was never called upon.  That didn’t stop him.  He went through all the charges, but with a hilarious twist: none of the sinners were present.  Some had left for a better Sunday roast, others we simply don’t know.  The circle was full of stand-ins, and he told a new first joke, which was… well, it was a joke.  It’s the effort that counts, right?

  …And so, our grand adventure concluded where all great adventures should: in the pub.  Especially for those who, despite all evidence to the contrary, believed they hadn’t had enough beer yet.  It was the perfect day to sit outside, except that we were just as spread out as we were during the run.  While others socialized and gave their own, likely more coherent, versions of the hash—beating this write-up to the punch—this account will stand as the official record.  Consider it the definitive, if not entirely factual, history of the most beautiful hash of the summer of ’25.

  On On,

  Stevie Blunder

The hares