Parking was a nightmare for hashers arriving after 10:30 but eventually we all managed somehow and circled up on the green.

  We soon noticed that the hares were absent. But never mind, Bolshie was clutching a note left by the absentees.  After describing the pack as “mature” (I think he meant experienced) the note said that there was no need of a short cut as the “mature” hares had laid a trail to suit them.  Those that thought it too short could simply go round again.

  Off we set eastwards (on time, not a minute early, as Uncle G wasn’t in charge) until a crossing of paths.  Big Foot turned right and after 50 yards ran out of flour.  He turned around and, while his brain said “looking”, his mouth shouted “checking”.  So check we did.  And that’s when Chastity Belt and Petal checked down the in trail and met the hares who told them to f**k o** the other way.  Now abuse from Lady Horse and Mr Dogwalker is to be expected but not from Mrs G and Uncle Gerry.  On second thoughts……….

  The rest of the trail passed in a trice and the front runners returned home in 45 minutes.

  After waiting for the double-looping hasher, we circled up and welcomed Dissa and Tom Boy as returnees. There was cake from Strumpet who’d recently celebrated a birthday.

  Belcher introduced this week’s sinners. Eveready was called in for creating a chicane to be negotiated by later hashers trying to park.  Then Belcher’s mind wandered and he mused that we have AA batteries and AAA batteries but no A batteries. (We also have C cells and D cells but no B batteries either.)  Le Pro was accused of hiding a motorhome under his kilt, Coolbox charged with calling Uncle G an Old G*t and Blue Suit was admonished for calling badly.  Simple was accussed of inventing the call of checking from Big Foot but, as we know, he was RA for two years and doesn’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.

  The it was On on to the Crown.

  On On,
  Simple

And an alternative view from the dreamworld…

How last Sunday really began.

The fierce sun of a midsummers day in Surrey beat down on Capel green as Uncle Gerry checked his watch, it was just a few seconds to twelve. Then, exactly on time, in the far distance, a cry of ‘On On’ was quickly followed by ‘On In!’ as the super fit pack raced past the pond, sprinting towards the beer.  He smiled; clearly his reputation still stood as there were just so many names from the past in the pack today and how young they all looked! Lionel Tye, Tim Walters and Tinny, John Burgess, Andy Robinson, even Jim Raper himself, all were clapping him on the back and congratulating him.  ‘Fantastic trail Gerry’ ‘Truly inspired checks’ ’How did you manage to take the trail round both Rusper and Newdigate, must be at least eight miles, and yet allow us to finish in exactly an hour? Amazing!’ Such praise was itself amazing since he was fairly sure some members of the pack he was talking to were, er, well put it this way, they hadn’t run with Surrey for years. This trail surely was a wake-up call for those lazy young whippersnappers who laid trails these days, yes indeed, a wake-up call, WAKE UP Gerry!’  A sound like coarse sandpaper being dragged over more coarse sandpaper accompanied the cautious opening of his right eye.  A small but incredibly angry woman was shouting at him.  There was something vaguely familiar about her and he opened his left eye too.  ‘Morning Caryl, what’s up?’  ‘I’ll tell you what’s up Gerry, it’s already a quarter to nine on Sunday morning and you haven’t even recced the trail for today!’

 ‘Fear not my love and prepare to behold the Master at work.’ Donning his usual gold lamé dressing gown, he visited the walk-in wardrobe dedicated to SH3 tee shirts then, suitably attired, he grabbed his faithful 1965 Bartholomew’s ‘Motorists route planning map of Southern England’. The one inch to ten miles map didn’t show any footpaths, minor roads or motorways, but as a Master he could still tell, at a glance, where a footpath should be and after years of hashing, the trails he laid using the map were all impeccable and he had never once got lost. Next, he spun the dial on the combination lock for the GM’s Flour Safe. Only flour from Surrey grown organic wheat, hand ground by Surrey artisans would do, but with a shriek of horror he saw the safe was almost empty, only one and a half bags remained. ‘I must have been robbed, most of my special flour is gone!’   ‘Nonsense Gerry, you used it on that last dreadful trail last August and never got any more.  No time to buy more now, this will just have to do.  And, as you slept so late, luckily that means we’ve only time to lay a really, really short trail anyway.’