Being Highway's 13th run on Sunday 13th there had to be some bad luck today - but there was none. The sun shone from a cloudless sky on another bright frosty morning with perfect views of distant hills, coastlines, power stations and even Blackpool Tower across the gleaming mud-banks of Grange-over-Grass. The only bad luck was being chosen as scribe!

12 happy hashers and 2 virgins set off across the railway to the edge of the quicksands, looking for flour but fortunately it had been washed into the sea, so we all followed a false trail through the station and the gardens where the only hazards were attacks from petrol monsters.

The first Rambo split was the same length as the Wimps but diverted through the flower beds - or perhaps R stands for the Roses which were being smelt and watered by Rufus?

More petrol hazards through the town where the hare was seen standing nonchalantly at the roadside. We never found out if he'd found his chalant.

Soon the shouts were of 'On Up' as the trail climbed steeply through the streets.

Highway had the rare pleasure of being a front runner on the next Rambo Split - or so he thought. Little did he know that Gary and No More Cum were breaking all hash rules by racing ahead and by not calling at all. They were next seen at the beer stop, complaining that after such a long wait there was no beer left!

The trail led inexorably upwards through woods and farms until it emerged on the slopes of the biggest hill hereabouts - was it Scafell? Was it Helvellyn?

No it was Hampsfell, famous for limestone pavements and a stone hut built right on the summit with a telescope on the roof and poetry on all four walls. We all memorised the lines for the hares promised flash test but he failed to live up to his word, so now we have "The Hospice of Hampsfell" imprinted on our brains for ever.

After a long beer stop with no beer on this summit, the pack reluctantly picked up the trail back through more woods and more suburbs to reach the station again.

With no trail home, the clever hashers remembered the route along the promenade even though the sands had been cunningly disguised by a cover of water since we'd last seen them.

Unfortunately some poor hashers and one dog were not so clever and never arrived home at all. They are still to this day wandering the streets of Grange looking for flour!

Those who got home reached the circle where down-downs were given to:

• Virgin Gary from Loughborough for being a Hash Crash Front Running Bastard
• No More Cum for being a Silent Front Running Bastard
• Wendy for losing her dog Rufus (in her absence)

The hare was regaled for having a very poor run with no shiggy, no mist or fog, no rain and no quicksand. We almost died of boredom!

Gary from Loughborough will never hash again as he took all the rude comments seriously - more fool him!