#1170 The End of a Decade

The Apprentice Debut Run with Soggy Bottom; Norfolk Arms, Ringinglow

Recalling that the last time a run was set between Christmas and New Year, when only the hare turned up, there was some doubt about the prospects for this run. Maybe it was the balmy weather or the barmy hashers but a respectable egg box-sized pack assembled; namely, Labradoodle, Sticky Shaft, Captain Morgan, Trunks and Smittie. The newly monikored Jon Peatman, whose handle still escapes me, came up fast all the way from Guildford, or somewhere more impressive for the distance than the location. Once Capt. Morgan had attended to his toilet we were off towards Houndkirk, turning into Lady Canning’s Plantation. A slight feeling of guilt overcame your scribe at the thought we hadn’t sought permission from the City Council for this “eventuality”. Anyway, the struggle up the main path through the woods, direction Ox Stones, was proving a moving experience for the Captain who was spotted doing an impersonation of the Congleton Bear. Dodgy turkey leftovers?

Some of us had only turned out on the assumption this was going to be an excuse to put the repeats of Death in Paradise behind us, with a gentle stroll up to Ox Stones, a hidden bottle of whisky and a return to cheap ale in t’ pub and a chortling review of the past year of hashing. When we crested Brown Edge Quarry and descended to the farm disabuse was setting in. A glance back spotted a flash of light and the eerie sense of being watched began to creep in.

Hound spotlighted by cunning Hare

Captain Morgan’s plight was getting worse as he pulled a fetlock and had to retire from the proceedings whilst the rest of us charged manfully (there being no women present!) up towards Rud Hill and a checkback . Returning sheepishly to Fulwood Lane we realised that, had Captain Morgan found a trail heading back to the pub he would have called us (but then again?). True enough, we were still heading in the general direction of Carlisle and it wasn’t long before we had plunged down from Knoll Top towards Lodge Moor. Cue lots of milling around in a field before a circle appeared by the Conduit. So a swift jog to Fulwood and across Mayfield back to the pub was in prospect?

No. It was up the conduit past the incongruous sight of a row of caravans and into the woods above Wyming Brook. A welcome Hash Rest saw delicious sticky crispy things consumed and the current score of 6kms was announced. Maybe it was the cakes but the, by now, totally disabused rabble was speculating on how far we could be going. Labradoodle copped a sly glance at his new Christmas present and laid a heavy bet on Stanage Pole, others opted for a circumnavigation of Redmires. Our cunning hares put a twist in the tale by doubling up to Fulwood Head via the bottom resser. Enough flour to summon a posse of Park Wardens out of Moorfoot provided reassurance that the trail was indeed re-tracing steps all the way to Brown Edge Farm. So that mysterious light was indeed our hares tracking our every movement. Just as well Capt. Morgan had retired early.

Turning to admire the crisp clear views across South Yorkshire we thought we had come under fire from an irate farmer as a series of shots were fired in our direction. Then the source, a dazzling array of fireworks, was spotted in the far distance. Seemingly Grenoside was getting ahead of Sydney in the race to celebrate the New Year. Another “source” of bemusement followed with Stanley Livingstone Trunks pointing to the origins of the mighty Porter seemingly oblivious to the torrent of running water above him. Jacob’s Ladder beckoned as we stumbled down Porter Valley but were relieved instead to be taken back up to the Alpaca Farm and On Home back at the pub by 9.35. It had been an excellent way to see out the old year and a great first hash by the Apprentice, ably assisted by his Mam. With Monty’s Batman’s run the week before, perhaps the establishment of a new tradition of hashing over the festive period?

Back in the pub Soggy Bottom revealed that she had scouted the path up the side of the reservoirs and back over White Stones but it was too boggy. For that we were truly grateful, even Labradoodle.

A hounds-eye view of the route

On On, Smittie