Sticky Shaft, Stables bar, Monsal Head
Everyone loves an adventure (and a good horror film) and everyone admires a tenacious spirit, someone who never gives up and keeps on trying. Well this week’s hash delivered on all fronts in spades!
Like a general election, Sticky Shaft’s turn to weave a route through the Peak District came around rather sooner than expected. On the drive to Monsal Head, through the pouring rain, conversation about whether or not we should invite a journalist to join the hash one evening, soon turned to the elephant in the room (car): would Sticky Shaft get us lost? We consoled ourselves that he now subscribed to military grade satellite navigation systems, and (like a downed pilot) he even carries a silk map as a back-up. No, we’d be fine. At that point, Soggy Bottom had taken a wrong turn and as if the car was trying to tell us something, we were headed back to Sheffield. Could this have been an omen of things to come?
Eventually we found ourselves parked outside the agreed plan B starting location. With ten hardy hashers lined up and ready to go, and fast getting wetter, there was no holding us back. We were off. Well, we would have been but we couldn’t even find the check in the pub’s car park! Eager not to die a wet hypothermic death there was much enthusiastic searching for any sign of some flour, any flour. After a good half an hour it occurred to us that maybe we were not even at one and the same pub as the hare – so we then checked that Sticky’s car was there. It was.
By about the time we decided to call Sticky for some assistance, Fast Eddy had already clocked up a mile and my head torch had died a death. Soggy Bottom went to find a spare torch from her car, except with all the running around she couldn’t remember where it was now, such was her disorientation.
Pearls of wisdom from the hare and at last we were off. “On on!” There was indeed some flour on the side of the road – silly us for having looked along the pavement on the other side – tsk! Shortly we came to our first ring of flour (brilliant) and spirits had lifted. Search parties headed off along roads and across fields shrouded in mist and rain.
Hashers’ dark backs turned to head torches returning, with no trail found. Come on we can do better! Let’s try again. Extended lines were formed and like the police on a forensic search, we slowly scanned the ground in front of us looking for any sign that the hare may have laid a trail. No, can’t find it. (My 7yo lad looking for his book-bag in the morning came to mind). A council of the elders and it was agreed to head for the Monsal Trail anyway – and so once again we were off!
Ah ha – there is a trail – once again evidence that we were indeed on a hash presented itself and so we found ourselves at another check, now on the Monsal Trail. Off scattered racing snakes in all directions seeking the flour. Silence. More silence – only interrupted by what sounded like manic laughing of children playing (on a night Iike this!?). What super-natural games were afoot we wondered? And then, like a scene from the Blair Witch Project, we realised we were a hasher down; Crystal Tips had mysteriously disappeared. The silence was broken, was that a call?
We didn’t know, so called "on on" anyway, and ran in the direction for the first darkened tunnel ahead.
Soggy Bottom found a standing wind-up talking guide which she turned in the hope of eliciting some information, some clue, some divine message to help us on our way. Instead we got the Monsal Trail Blues which seemed rather appropriate and now joined by Squiggle the pair started dancing.
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| Soggy Bottom dancing to the Monsal Blues |
The tunnel spat us out and within moments we turned left off the trail, taking our way up a slippery limestone path. Conversation became slightly surreal while we discussed whether or not this would be harder than running in sand and an exploration of the permutations of the weather came into play.
Further searching for checks and trails (was our hare still using ration books for purchasing flour?) ensued. But gradually we were getting used to the style of this hash. Up and down hills along good trails through what must have been superb countryside. This route was actually turning out rather well.
Shortly we came to our hash snacks which, only for the torture of Captain Morgan, can not be disclosed, but they were small and mostly sweet and definitely appreciated.
With calories on board, we found our way back to the Monsal Trail. For the first time that night, the hare’s chosen trail was abundantly clear, but alas it wasn’t the way we wanted to go. Hash mutiny was the order of the day, it had never been a question of if, but when. With a show of hands which possibly outnumbered those at the Labour Party conference that same day, it was unanimously voted to head swiftly back for the pub.
A final twist and our hare was not to be found in the aforementioned agreed pub. Wow, this really was something. By the time we’d finally found our way back, the staff at the Stables had wanted to go to bed. Amazingly, Sticky, like Joseph and Mary from a nativity scene had found us a warm stable to drink in at the nearby Pack Horse Inn which actually proved to be a great venue from which to consider our evening’s adventure. And with endorphins now buzzing, we agreed it had indeed been a great night out!
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| The survivors! |
On on!
Monty's Batman
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