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...
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| 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
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