Lune Valley Hash House Harriers

Friday 25th May 2018
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R*n 319 location

R*n 319 started from the On Inn - Engine Inn, Cark.

Who ran 319? - data up to & including this r*n

Hash HandleHareHoundTotal
Master Baker - Hare12106118
Upperskirt - Hare18191209
Forever Blowing33186219
Sir Tom Tom52429

Click the header columns to change the sort order

On Inn - Engine Inn, Cark

Image of Engine Inn, Cark

This was our 1st visit to this On Inn.

Welcome to Our Pub/Restaurant, Where Good Times and Good Food Come Together. The only pub in Cark and Flookburgh not tied to a brewery.

The Engine Inn is in the Good Beer Guide 2010.

We now also stock a large collection of Belgian and monastic bottled beers.


Sunday 11th October 2009 at 11:00am

DaytimeR*n 319 »


I was once on a flight across the Canadian prairies. Virtually all the roads stretched in straight lines to the horizon. The roads must have been straight for dozens and dozens of miles. I did not think such roads existed anywhere else. But Upperskirt and Masterbaker found them in Lune Valley H*shing country!

Speedbump and I set off with oodles of time to spare before the run was due to start, but as usual on our way to LVH3, the warp in the space-time continum that consumes all the time allocated to reaching the venue was encountered, and we arrived the odd second later than we anticipated. We sqeezed our way past the waiting H*shers and parked against a wall. "On, on!" was called in no time and we started climbing with the uphill option being the trail at several checks. we cut off road and reached a village. The trail used the main track through a horse farm, but I missed the opportunity to follow the flour through a tiny hole in hedge. A kilometre across wet boggy grass followed. The signposts for the Cumbrian Coastal Way pointed us under the railway line and out on to tidal ground. We crossed the rising ground of neck of Humphrey Head (would have liked to see Humphrey's eyes; there is cave and a holy well out there, I believe. Is Humphrey crying?), and found a check on tramac. We rounded a corner and a long straight tarmac road disappeared into the distance. And way beyond the distance. Then further still. At slight kink in the road, a junction offered two options for the trail. Bubbles checked a few hundred yards along one of the options and declared that it was not that way. Twisted set off along the other option, across the railway line and way beyond. After she had returned from Newby Bridge or thereabouts reporting no markings in sight, Bubbles's original option was checked again and flour was soon found. The relentless pounding of feet on tarmac resumed as long straight stretch of tarmac suceeded long straight stretch of tarmac.  So what did the hares think ought to be thrown now? A fishhook! So not only can you r*n forwards on tarmac, you can r*n backwards on tarmac and then r*n forwards on tarmac again. Did I mention that we were running on tarmac at this point?

We reached a check at a T junction with road south from Flookburgh. Homage was paid to the sticky toffee pudding factory. Bubbles and Forever Blowing, realising that only just over a kilometre from the On Inn, mutinied and headed straight for beer, food and getting their feet off tarmac. The trail, however, headed directly away from the pub. Another long straight mile (I could let you guess what the r*nning surface was - but I won't - it was tarmac.) took us to a beer stop. Baldbrick brought along a dead pheasant and gave it lessons on how to die properly - not knocked senseless by a car at the side of the road, but drunk senseless with a bottle of beer under your wing.

The trail followed the top of an embankment keeping the sea off farmland. It was one of the most pleasant parts of the run with a sense of space given by views across the sands. And there was grass to run on! With not a chipping of tarmac in sight! Ulverston seemed to get closer and closer. Twisted and Speedbump, leading the depleted pack, which stretched for three quarters of a mile behind them, spotted a fishhook and rubbed it out. Which probably did not surprise anybody. After turning at Cowpren Point the trail continued to follow the Cumbrian Coastal as the path wound along the high tide line towards Cark. We found a couple of checks, crossed the railway line and suddenly we were in Cark and outside the pub. Bubbles and Forever Blowing were about to leave, having prematurely masticated and swallowed their lunch. They declined to come again (into the pub).

The pub had a cavery on. A proper cavery, where you cut or take your own portion of meat. I put a light, limited selection of the fare on offer on my Lilliputian plate and proceeded to delicately pick at it. Upperskirt, amazed that I could contemplate subsisting on such a meagre serving, photographed my snack. I was surprisingly asked if I was going to eat all of my miniscule helping. Puzzled, I replied that naturally I was going to eat it all. Some noted that I did eat everything on my plate. It was curious to be asked such a question. After all, does one get asked if one has finished all of one's canape? Baldbrick thought I was a shining example to the straving Africans; if I could live on such an abnormally low number of calories, so should strarving millions. Or something very close to that.

Thanks to the hares for the run. Looking at the map the way we went was the only feasible route through the area south of Cark. For miles there are no other public paths other than the ones they used.

I enjoyed my lunch.

On, on!


Write up by Dormouse

17th October 2009 at 5:53am