The Cunning Linguist had a cunning plan. He would offer to set the short cut and then get lost. The poor old Tosspot would get to the trail’s divide, realize that he was on his own, panic, and then have to set the rest of the trail himself.  Sure enough, when he came to the agreed check, there was no sign of the cunning Cunning Linguist.  The old Tosspot set off in search of flat terrain, but he searched in vain as there was none.

  The hardy hashers can attest to this.  Mrs Robinson complained that it was ALL uphill.  It certainly felt like it.  As you can see we spent much more time going up than down!

  Bonn Bugle thought she was in Middle Earth.

  We soon happened upon the infamous short cut, the scene of the Great Desertion, but fortunately most of us turned left to sample Tosser’s expertly crafted trail.  Hopefully the short cut took in the waterfall as compensation for it being rather short.  The hare had forwarned the GM most diplomatically:

  In the likely event that I / we are not back for the start of the run [Ed: i.e. at least one of us is going to get lost] you might care to tell the assembled hordes that the run is about 4 1/4 miles [it was more, but we’re not complaining]. Some small undulations may be noticed. This is quite natural and should not cause alarm

  There will be a short cut which will cut the run to about 2 miles. The beginning and the end will be marked but maybe not the bit in the middle [I can’t rely on my co-hare].  Just keep going in a straight line until you see the next blob.

  Feet forward for a superlative run of the year.  [Hashers are well-known for their modesty.]

By and large the checks did a good job in keeping the pack together, as did the uneven terrain, which made it difficult to break into a trot, so Tosser deserves a pat on the back, or perhaps we put it down to age and experience!

  Guest RA today was Hash Flash, who pulled in several harriettes whilst actually revealing that he is a serial voyeur of females who crouch behind bushes for a certain type of relief.  I’ll save their blushes, although the photographs of the circle might give you some clues!

  Ms Bean was sporting a very strange tail, which gave new meaning to the RA’s habit of  term “chasing tail”.

  We retired to the Wotton Hatch where the landlady made us very welcome.  We shall be back!

On On, Petal