R*n 270: Scorton

A sullen leaden sky relented its watery assault on the Bowland Fells shortly before the Adams family arrival at the Priory – the inn, not the church - a few moments shy of seven o'clock on time yet too late as the hash circle was already full-formed. I spied strangers in our circle, oriental hashers guided by Bubbles and a lady from Shanghai (?).

LVH3 made a hesitant start up the hill road heading over the motorway, three of us broke into a slow run but too fast for me, Minor Tw*t's secret training obviously working, but not enough for either of us to keep up with our visitor up the hill. Eventually the hill relented and we could start catching up.

Despite being holiday season, the evening was quite dark under trees, but it was warm enough. The FRBs alternated as right or wrong choices were made and uncertainties resolved by Twisted for whom merely setting a run is not challenge enough.

Bitter waited at the end of a lane with refreshments and we waited... and waited ... and waited. A quad bike arrived and loitered, then a livestock trailer. Were these rustlers or legit? No sooner had the knitting circle and the Yapps (our oriental visitors) arrived, we were off again and there would be no rewards for guessing where – the trig point on the top of Nicky Nook and torture – a fish hook at the hill's crest. Young Daniel, fit as a fiddle, roared up, down and up again. How I resent youth at times!

The 360 degree view would have been even better had not that sullen, leaden sky descended to meet us just as we climbed up to the summit. We did not tarry and it was a slippery charge downhill again until a meeting of roads was reached. Rambos headed off along the road contouring the hill whilst Wimps took the on-inn route. On we went, and then some more, until a junction with neither flour nor chalk.

Wearily we retraced our steps until the last flour was found, but where from there? We awaited the arrival of Twisted, who led us to a private road where all signs of trail had been obliterated and a resident attempted to repulse us. Silken-tongued (for a scouser), Twisted negotiated our passage from private road onto the path. Across a field, down a steep dark sylvan path, mud, a stream to wash the mud off, climb back-up and then rejoin the outward path.

No circle, just into the pub for food and drinks.