So we gathered at Sedgwick, where the gunpowder works used to be.  I believe in all its years it never blew up.  My great granddad worked there and stayed behind to dismantle it when many left for the new works in Ayrshire.  I'm told there's a region in Ayrshire now where they speak with Kendal accents.  But my great granddad stayed and that's why I'm here, not there.  He never blew up either.  That's another reason why I'm here.  All in all, fate plays a tricky hand when it comes to being where you are.

I had my suspicions that Lurcio and Septio had set a run each, not one combined, so I was looking forward to a r*n twice as long as just one.  As it turned out it wasn't half as long as I expected but it was nearly twice as long than usual, so I was more than half pleased.

We Rambolios had a fine stretch across ploughed fields, railways lines and narrow lanes.  Cunning haring put the Wimpos ahead.  Curiously I'd been given two hooters, I guess because you knew only I could play them in accompaniment to nature's rippling symphony.  I tooted merrily to keep the pack on track.  Actually I filled the hooters with water at the ford, to use as water pistols, and they went a bit wheezy but when we met for the first beer stop they were restored to their fine timber, er, timbre.  Certainly they sounded even better at the mouth of the Hincaster canal tunnel, built to reach the gunpowder works apparently.  (I wonder if it was my great, great, great granddad dug that?  And I know another granddad ran the pub in Burneside.  When you think about it my granddads probably did a right lot for the Kendal area and made it what it is today.  So okay, even the pub's disused now, but you know, in it's prime...)

I found my hooting encouraged the others to keep going, certainly they shouted in encouragement at me (I think) in response to my tooting but I couldn't hear them for my tooting and hooting.  We descended along the splendid avenue in the park at Levens, the day staying fresh and bright, excellent for fine running.  Thunder, Bedside, Antiseptico, Twisted, all were in super form and more than equal to the deer who I reckon had slunk off hearing my toots and seeing the nimble limbs of our pack.

Sat on the wall at Sedgwick, where I noticed there was absolutely no evidence of a gunpowder works at all and wondered just how my great granddad dismantled it, we sang merry tunes to the disgraced hashers and watched canoeists plop over a waterfall into a deep pool, maybe a crater made by explosion perhaps...

Note: Read about the Cumbrian Gunpowder Industry