After the Silence Atalanta said “We usually start from here by using the railway bridge”, and so it was.  Last week’s trail and this had us start and finish at a railway bridge.  Speaking of the Silence, do you suppose Wally finds those 2 minutes the most difficult of the year?  Today, as ever, he was vocal about Surrey’s calling; he cannot grasp that when everyone can see where to go, calling is needless. 

Well, the trail did indeed begin with a check in the usual place, with the usual solution (found by a speedy visitor today), but thereafter we were in territory new to me, an original and entertaining trail.  We checked for a long time outside a stately home, where Popeye joined us from heaven knows where.  He said that if I could solve the check he would eat his hat, and indeed the solution took us briefly in a direction we all knew to be the wrong way; very ingenious. Popeye’s hat goes uneaten.

  So, a right-hander, although the start for a while suggested the reverse, with plenty of new scenery, and changes of direction.  We had a fair turn-out: Birthing Blanket had feared too many of us would be with Old Coulsdon.  CL and I chose New Road to park, but most preferred to spend £3-50 at the station.  When we got back J. Arthur had to admit he had left the key to the beer with Dr Death, which seems strange: J. Arthur is one of our fastest hashers, and though Dr Death strides along rapidly, he makes a point of never running.   

Atalanta was first in; RHUM and Popeye were not that far behind.  Speedy Humper keeps up very well.  But I am probably omitting other stalwarts, glimpsing those ahead of me only occasionally.

  The latter part of the trail had very few checks, though earlier there had been plenty, including a hair-pin back check just where the shiggy was at its most moist.  Rain had been threatened, but held off; altogether a very pleasant morning, with three or four visitors discovering how SH3 takes its pleasures. 

As usual the visitors tended to be younger, fitter and faster than we are: we need more such if Surrey is to survive as a hash, and I here acknowledge the excellent contribution to our future made by those who invite or encourage visitors.

  It was disconcerting to find even among Surrey hashers, though very sensibly anonymous, someone subscribing to the Braverman and Express approach to the distressed who reach our shores.  It is true even recent arrivals here become critical of those following them in; Bangladeshis for instance were hostile to Somali arrivals in Whitechapel. 

  Not one of us is descended from the earliest inhabitants of these lands.  Immigrants should be welcome in any community.  They are generally young, active, eager to work, and a blessing to our economy.  Care homes in Surrey are staffed almost exclusively by incomers (often Filipino); they accept the minimum wage, which the locals reject.  As I wrote earlier, illegal boat landings would stop overnight if Home Office staff scrutinised at Calais those without passports; it is true they would have to be faster, more efficient, than their colleagues here.  Hostility to foreigners who arrive here is nothing new, I admit; Gilbert and Sullivan satirised this attitude long ago (“He remained an Englishman!”)  Where we do well is in marriages between races: there are far more such unions here than in most countries, and especially when compared to the USA.

  On On, FRB