December 2019

1166. 2nd December - Mincer, Yorkshire Bridge inn, Bamford. Please park on street, NOT in the carpark.
1167. 9th December - Smittie, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Castleton
1168. 16th December - Christmas hash, Captain Morgan and Fast Eddie, Sheffield Tap. 7.15 for 7.35 start. Curry at Butler's Balti. Fancy dress theme is 'Hash pubs'.
1169. 23rd December - Bonus hash! Monty's Batman, Crookes
30th December - No run

#1167 Conned in Castleton

Mr and Mrs Smith - Ye Olde Chesire Cheese, Castleton

Conned in Castleton! A falsely advertised Full Moon Hash, when it was merely a ‘waxing gibbous’ was anyhow well attended, 19 by my estimate, 17 by C’tain Morgan, so a median average of 18 attendees, late comers and hounds not even counted. New comer Seth joined us, self inflicted and not under any form of duress - his promise to come again was well witnessed.

Hash Stasher and Squiggler extraordinaire brought her father, complete with his own hash handle ‘Easy Access’. He was clearly more interested in the English Beer as he mutinied from the car park straight to the venue. He could hardly be blamed though as the pub looked very inviting and it took us some time to drag ourselves to the trail, we finally did and after a bit of weaving we found ourselves in more open country side and heading in the vague direction of Hope (the village not the aspiration).

The first major check back sucked in at least 40% of the runners and there was some sniggering on the part of the mediocracy who’s low will / low skill had saved them at least 500 metres. So far so low, could Smittie have spared us the climbing this fine eve?

Ugly man and prof showed up skid-mark-ably late and caught us well before the summit. It was inevitable that there would be a hill and we began to head up it. For a short wee while I accompanied trunks who appeared to be taking us in the wrong direction, I Think I would have followed him at least 5 miles just for the satisfaction of saying it can happen to the best of us :) Alas Copper Job spotted the trail and we were on on up.

A few hashers had held on for us stragglers and we met them half way up. It was at this point that the evening really began to present itself in all its stunning glory. Head torches were hardly required, such was the brightness of the ‘waxing gibbous’...cheers Google!

No name Jon was given the task of photographing us with the moon in the background, his enthusiasm was boundless, but unfortunately his angle of attack meant he only snapped us and the Breedon concrete works.
An impressive moon...and concrete works
Atop the hill it was Jelly babies and take 2 on the photography, cheers Debbie!! The view from the top was great Barber Booth one side and Castleton the other, both bathed in Moonlight.

The way down was tricky, the frost had not fully taken care of the recent rain and it was a fairly treacherous descent. As well as the false trails many a false hint was dropped about next week’s fancy dress run. At the bottom another falsey assisted the slower descenders then we were on over the great planes of Castleton. Monty seemed to have got the hang of the Hash and lead us to Hash Rest 2. The site of this rest was historical, some said for mining, others suggested an alter of sacrifice, more likely history will remember it as the site of an unprecedented double dose of Jelly Babies, CM was delirious.

Sugared up we knew we were homeward bound and at a fair old clip we headed back towards the Festive scene of Castleton.

The pub was welcoming and it occurred to me that country folk seem to love a Monday night in the pub, and they were out in their masses this fine evening. The landlord had put on a buffet, which would have cost a tenner a head in town , we made the most of it!

Our hare brought his missus, a mackem, no less, Match days chez Smittie must be a thing of wonder! Donkey’s arse made an appearance in the pub after been injured for a while - training for the Christmas hash no doubt!

Great run, food and company, on on!
Sticky Shaft

PS: there are still tickets left for the unsanctioned hash on the 23rd December, book now (read: turn up at the allotted pub as normal) to avoid disappointment.

PPS: on the subject of hash handles two of the disciples ‘Mathew’ and ‘Jo[h]n’ are still to be named, we could wait for a Luke and Mark to turn up and collectively name them, but that may take time, any ideas??

#1165 The One with the Mud

Jon and Pingu - Sir William, Grindleford

In the absence of our esteemed scribe, Dr Sticky Shaft DLitt FSA, I am taking to the airwaves again to record the events of the 25th November 2019, a night that will live long in the memories of those who haven’t forgotten it already.

Despite the persistence of the autumn monsoon we gathered in reasonable numbers (some say 19, some 20) in the car park of the Sir William on the side of the hill that bears his name to celebrate the rituals of the hash. Someone said Sir William Hill was the patron saint of bookmakers but then someone else said “on on” and paradoxically we were off.

The first stretch was easy – once we turned off the b****y hill, that is, and onto the lane. A quick turn around a field, through a stile, some more mud and then back to the pub car park. A sense of relief swept through me – at last a hash of a sensible length and in the pub for 8 o’clock. But, oh no, one of those keen young things, Labradoodle perhaps, or maybe Shunter, spots some more flour, calls “on on”, and leads us pell-mell down a narrow snickleway towards the river.

Now, you can guess the rest. Mud. Mud everywhere. Across a boating lake of a field and into Horse Hay Coppice, now doing a very fair impersonation of the Mekong Delta. We wander around in there for a while, crossing and re-crossing tributaries of the Nile until Desperado (I’m guessing – I was a long way back by now) spots the back to check or check back or blank cheque or whatever and the whole circus heads uphill towards Hay Wood. On the way up Copper Job is spotted making a guest appearance but for those who had a small wager on Skid Marks turning up again there is only disappointment.

The ascent to the top is treacherous and narrow, fraught with dangers of slipping and punctuated by profanities. Fortunately the Apprentice shields his mother’s ears and Soggy Bottom is spared the worst of it. “Isn’t that the Grouse, over there?” asks Gwilym, emerging from behind a freshly watered wall. By this stage they have been some tumbles, no names, no pack drills but Squiggle Queen, you know who you are, and nobody much cares. It’s closed on Mondays anyway.

Eventually we emerge onto some decent pasture with half-drained paths and the mood, if not the sky, lightens. Our hares have thoughtfully provided photographic evidence in advance of the existence of the hash treats and soon enough we are upon them (the treats that is, not the hares; Jon and Pingu have long since escaped and evaded). Delicious oatie cookies and home baked too; but as your correspondent notes, very little sign of the jelly baby, now regarded by many as a signature of the Hash. Someone from the Hellarewe tribe asks our location and Crystal Tips – the sole representative tonight of the once mighty Hathersage Massive – informs us we are on Tumbling Hill. “Not a place you can get to, easily,” she adds somewhat mysteriously and many of the mud encrusted, heaving mass around her reflect on the wisdom of this comment.

Just time for a spooky photograph to be taken...
Spooky hash rest!
...and we’re off again. Racing across Longshaw’s icy wastes Monty’s Batman realises that he hasn’t seen his faithful hound for some time; and so overjoyed is he when Monty emerges from the distance that he slips over in celebration; Trunks, never one to be out-tumbled, joins in. What larks! 

Now we are down in Padley Gorge and even the members of the knitting circle are putting on a fair head of speed mainly because Smittie has reminded us that the pub is due to close at ten and it’s now a quarter to. Yes sir, making the run to Gladewater (in-joke for Michelle Shocked fans).

So, by and by, we are back in the cheerfully appointed Sir William. Impressively, Uglyman manages to persuade the landlady to rustle up an after-hours chip butty for his delight. More impressively, perhaps, he manages to persuade me to pay for it. But Karma rules; and out comes the kindly tapster again with a large bowl of chips this time for the many not the few. There’s a jolly bonhomie around and among us, and much laughter; and I am reminded why, despite the mud and the rain and the gut wrenching climbs, we all love the hash so much.

On on,
Captain Morgan

#1164 The one with three hares...

Captain Colon, Bull's Head, Ashford in the water

It would be no exaggeration to say that the glitterati of Sheffield Hashing were out in force on this frosty but thankfully dry evening; Hash Elders, Hathersagers, Ex Patriots, Siblings, Hubbies, No Namers, Habadashers, OMM Jacket wearers, the whole ensemble made an appearance to form a cast of roughly 21 + Monty. Furthermore we were treated to a Hash set by Captain Colon, his new recruit Nigel and Pippa, who sadly missed the after party in the Bull’s Head.

Ashford on the Water had not seen so many visitors since records began, especially in monsoon season, there was even talk of tourist office being established. But for now let’s concentrate on the run.

‘Tonight’s Hash is a relatively easy run of about 9km’ forewarned Captain Colon, mmm…no one really fell for it and within a few strides we had come across a CB or B2C or whatever it was, frontrunners returned with wry smiles on their faces. On to CB so to speak, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice…Then there was a third, will the front runners ever learn?

Monty and Monty’s Batman caught up around this point, first of the surprise arrivals. From there we legged it pretty much unhindered towards the Monsal trail, where it would surely be one way or t’other and of course it was t’other. Just as we were beginning to despair about the amount of checking required who should appear but our bare legged warrior from Norway, Skidmarks! He made some excuse about having to be back for work, but we all knew that he had missed us so much that he had hopped on a flight at the first opportunity.

CC cleverly took us off the Monsal trail then doubled back and took us over the trail again and north towards Grand Longst’n, as the locals don’t call it. We messed about in the suburbs for a bit, checking in all directions, Mincer finally lead us past the road workers who were fixing a gas main, the smell of gas was particularly pungent and there ensued a struggle as to who could get furthest away and fastest.

Where should we go now? Back to the Monsal Trail of course! Monty searched desperately for a stick and someone to play the game of throw me the stick and I’ll just keep hold of it for the rest of the evening. Some serious jogging took place on this stretch of the trail and Hashers of all abilities secretly begged for a check and a chance to chat.

Soon enough one appeared and we were on on up the hill, another fairly long stretch of plodding took place until we reached the highest point on the trail. Soon enough the magic HR letters appeared and we gathered around to share the Jelly Babies - Captain Morgan was thrilled! The night was clear and many heads turned towards the stars, there was some confusion as to whether the stars would be more easily seen if we turned off our head torches or kept deathly silent, we did both to be sure. Dubious claims of seeing shooting stars were abound, there was also some p**s taking of the brave souls who had entered the Boston Mountain Marathon, oh how I miss the supportive crowd of the park run!

As Hypothermia began to set in, a collective decision was taken to set off or be forever left on the hill like the cast of Frozen, so on on up we went and over the peak. We eventually hit the treeline and followed a precarious hilly path that ran alongside Bakewell Industrial zone which, for trivia’s sake, included Thornbridge brewery. The woods, led to the mud, which led to the hill*, which lead to the dreaded farm.

*Where the bloody hell did he find that muddy, waterfall like hill?

We had been given instructions to bunch up before the farm, turn the head torches off and tip toe through. We bunched up to some extent and discussed for a while the best way to approach this potential trespass (there was a public footpath and gate through the farm - fact). In true hash honour we decided to leave the stragglers and send those who were there through. Head torches off we began the tiptoe, the cows began to shuffle in their barn, one even mooed, we were halfway there. In what can only be described as the observation of the evening, possibly the 2019 Hash series, Skidmarks remarked that it was the tidiest farm he had ever seen. There was even some admiration from Uglyman for the neatly stacked Timber, 10 out of 10 for house keeping!

Anyway back to the avoidance of the farmer, we could see the gate and an ‘every person for themselves’ mentality kicked in. Most worrying was the mobile home which could have contained armed guards. As it turned out it was just an empty mobile home parked up. As we made it through the gate head torches began to re illuminate and a steady stream of hashers began plodding across the field. Special mention to Ali Bongo who had the best tiptoeing skills and obvious experience of this kind of special operation.

At the end of the road there was a sharp right back towards home and soon enough we were stripping in the streets, readying ourselves for the pub. We fair filled the place and surrounded a triumphant Captain Colon and Nigel to congratulate them on a Hash well set.

Questions were asked about outfits for the Christmas do but little information was traded.

Further orders for Hash Shirts were given and subsequently further transactions on Monzo will need to be made.

In a break from tradition there was talk of an unsanctioned Hash on the 23rd of December, so far we have a hare and a hasher, so any others welcome!

Otherwise, one could almost hear the jingle bells of the Christmas Hash in the air!

On On,
Sticky Shaft

PS Regarding the run reports, if anyone would like to take a turn to write one, then please just give me a nudge after the run on Monday, I am more than happy to give my writing ‘skills’ a rest when the opportunity arises.
Otherwise if anyone has pictures or anecdotes that they would like to be weaved into the report then please send a message to the appointed writer for that week on whatsapp.

#1163 Crown & Glove

#1163 Crown & Glove, Stannington; Fast Eddie

It might have been a Full Moon but we departed in a flurry of sleet. It was not a night for the  fainthearted but we had assembled a Dirty Dozen including guest, DJ Shorty, aka Little Smittie. The trail was picked up heading downhill towards Nethergate and Rivelin Valley and a path that your scribe had not seen before, coming out at the bottom of Coppice Lane. Inevitably the trail disappeared up this mountain pass and back within spitting distance of the pub before heading west towards Rails. At this point Shunter noticed some bizarre mincing from the guest DJ whom he anointed as Riverdance, a most appropriate handle forthwith.

Soon we were plodging through the sort of mud that has become familiar during our current “wet season”, heading over the top then down past the former Dyson Brickworks, now an incongruous looking estate of posh houses plonked in the Green Belt . Did anyone notice that the stream of water running down our trail was coming from the gaping mouth of the old ganister mine which once supplied the brickworks? Did anyone care? Hard to tell, as the main pack was already waiting at the top of Brookside Bank. Just as well, because this gave the late-arriving Tideswell Two, Hannah and Chris, time to catch up. Then we found the real Hash Rest in what appeared to be someone’s back garden; another first for the Hash?

By now the front runners were convinced that this was this going to be a road run so they all ignored the track through Our Cow Molly. Did the hare arrange a welcoming party with ice creams all round in the Ironman spirit? Such light hearted thoughts were soon abandoned in favour of those about what happened to Molly in later life? Our Beefburger Molly perhaps? A cavalry charge across open ground was led by the Apprentice and brought us to the familiar downwards slope of Storrs Lane. Looking up you could see the new street lights along Stopes Road like a string of pearls, a highway engineers dream to serve the new blot on the landscape at the former brickworks.

But you had to get there first and then up the further slope and across the field to the Hash Home, which is how Madge and Sticky Shaft somehow contrived to prove the biblical expression that The First Shall Be Last.

An 8.6 K run which is 5.3 straight bananas. Back at the pub by 9.10 PM. And to all you stay at home hashers the rain stopped just long enough for the job to be done, as normal. Ideal hashing. N.B.

On on

#1162 - On Familiar Ground

November 4th - Norfolk Arms, Shunter

T’was the night before Guy Fawkes’ and a pea soup fog engulfed the city as the committed made their way to the Norfolk Arms. Shunter was our man on point this evening, which begged the question of who would do the checking now that Skidmarks had left us?

Attendees of note included Captain Colon and his mate Nigel (potential new recruit), Search and rescue, long time no see and Pingu aka the Frog - all will be revealed later.

Fast Eddie’s realisation that he had forgotten his torch coincided with the arrival or Search & Rescue - problem solved!

A multitude of possibilities presented themselves at the first check, North, South, East, West, NE, SE, NW, SW, SN, EW, endless choices! As it was we crossed the road onto Sheephill road and found a nice path to follow - all very civilized so far!

Shunter then decided to test our grips and ankles and took us down a boggy staircase, being hashers there were no fatalities but there were nearly a couple of croppers on the bridge. We continued to head down stream towards Whirlow Brook, a good 100m of descent according to my map reading skills ☺. Squiggle Queen Ph.D. (of newly acquired Hash Stash Fame) surmised that we would also have to go up at some point and sure enough that point came.

At the turn Desperado decided he didn’t want to take the path and led a party of two, including himself, into the woods. Not soon enough did we exit the woods onto flatter plains. Whilst the lie of the land was easy going the stiles were abit slippy and one or two succumbed to the hazard. Thus far the general consensus was that it was a great run but the little piles of flour hidden behind posts, leaves and cow muck were annoying - it was easy to picture Shunter sniggering to himself as he placed his little piles.

The trail took us back to Ringinglow Road - mutiny anyone? Nope, checking ensued, flour was found, off we headed down the track towards the scout centre. A hash rest appeared somewhere around here and we were not disappointed by Shunter’s baking skills. Refreshed and regrouped we set off across Ivy cottage lane toward bluebell wood - the scene of past stumbles over tree roots. Around this point Captain Colon decided to head home and cheekily kicked out a few checks out on his way back.

Inevitably the Porter Brook came into play and the pace quickened for the end was nigh. A few of us at the front used our instincts and wit to get us to Forge dam Café and the same instincts and wit to ignore the check and carry on regardless. Fortunately CC was still about and lit the way for us to get back on trail.

We headed up quiet lane and left at the animal sanctuary, we surprised a couple of horses in the field who were having an evening natter about the foul state of the weather. Unlike the cows our equine friends had little interest in our antics and largely ignore us.

Soon enough we were back down to porter brook and talk of scaling Jacob’s ladder began, this proved not too impossible a task and pretty soon a line of head torches was snaking its way up the ladder towards the pub car park.

In the pub Captain Morgan made a run-less appearance, presumably to retrieve his stray glove. Shunter started to recruit for the Boston (Lincs) marathon and to date has signed two fools up. CC’s friend Nigel seemed fairly positive about making another appearance, so it was not goodbye but au revoir to him. The diary performed its usual tour of futility. Otherwise, drinks were had, crisps were shared, another fun Monday night was had!!

On on,
Sticky Shaft

#1161 A time to skid-daddle

Prof, The Crispin, Great Longstone

I had high hopes for this hash, great location, solid run, no messing about, a good chance to download Skidmark’s mountain bike trail knowledge before he departed, a good chat with all the other hashers….

It started well, a few car loads arrived timely at The Crispin, a tired looking Monty soon perked up when Lunar, the object of his desires, arrived. An accurate headcount was performed, 13 runners, 2 dogs, counted again to be sure.

Smitty circled us up to give a farewell speech to Skidmarks, although my only memories of that speech were the word ‘gobshite’ being repeated several times and then we were off…left up the hill, left onto a path, street lights finished as we turned offroad, turn on head torch…I said turn on head torch….nowt happening. Without Search and Rescue there was absolutely no chance of anyone having spare batteries, so I thought, but then good old Bolving Champion Labradoodle, with a magician’s slite of hand produced 3 batteries and I was back in the race.

Up the hill we continued, it took its toll on Smitty, Trunks and Myself and we found ourselves at the back, not to worry we could still hear shouts and see torch lights ahead. It was actually quite nice to have a tiddle in peace without the risk of other Hashers running past, besides what was the rush, we’d catch them at the check…yes the check that led us left over the stile…yes that’s the one!!

Only there were other plans afoot that evening, with Trunks not being assertive enough and Smitty too willing to follow a known ‘get-lost-setting-and-or- running-a trail-er’ we were doomed. Faint voices in the distance further encouraged me down the wrong path in life and still Smitty and Trunks followed. Needless to say the way through never materialized and we had to rely on navigating the trail in the way god intended i.e. following the flour.

Admitting one is wrong is painful enough, but being subjected to the contemptuous silence of Trunks and Smitty was truly torturous and if things couldn’t get worse I was subjected to a lesson in how to spot and read kicked out checks by Trunks.

Dignity not restored we carried on up the hill, and up the hill and up the hill, it never ended. We finally came to a check which presented 3 possibilities left right or straight on, still indebted to Trunks I checked for 200m straight on rather than perform my usual token glance, Trunks went right and Smitty went left. Now hitherto I might not have been the greatestHasher but I tried my best to remain with the others, given that there was just 3 of us. Good old Smitty, on the other hand, was clearly in race mode and as soon as he called on on he was off off, with a comfortable lead. Now we were down to 2.

I need to note a couple of points here:
  • That Check had not been kicked out, which resulted in double-checking further compounding our inability to catch the pack.
  • You can only have the discussion about Prof not doing check backs or providing treats a couple of times before everyone is absolutely clear on this.
  • The ditch that the trail went down was a very creative section
  • Did I mention that the check had not being kicked out??
And so the run continued, no treats, no check backs, no sign of the others. Anger towards me had somewhat subsided and Trunks pointed out a few pleasant features of the landscape. A dodgy looking car was parked down a lane, but they had obviously just finished what they were doing when we got there as they drove off.

Smittie called the end of the run correctly, through the Church yard and on home.

In other news I learnt the word ‘clemmy’ meant a stone in the shoe.

Upon returning to the pub, we were greeted by the pack who appropriately feigned concern and told of their 10 minute waits for us, the word gob shite sprang to mind again.

If anyone wants to see the wrong turn we took, it is forever immortalized on Strava, it’s fairly close to the beginning of the run and looks like a triangle that doesn’t fit anywhere.

With that drinks were had, the Christmas Hash was discussed and goodbyes were said to Skid Marks, although we were all sure we will see him again from time to time.

On On
Sticky Shaft

PS I do feel that as a true tribute to Skidmarks, one of the other Hashers should write an accompanying piece to let us know how the other half lived that evening.

Christmas Hash

The Christmas hash will be starting from the Sheffield Tap (at the station) and stumbling across one or two (or three or...) watering holes, before ending at Butlers Balti. (Amigos, plan A, was closed sorry)

Put your name down on this list by midday Tuesday 19 Nov so we can book a big enough table!