Lune Valley Hash House Harriers

Monday 20th August 2018
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R*n 313 location

R*n 313 started from bend in the road on Hollinhurst Brow, Ivah. There was no On Inn as this was a picnic r*n.

Who ran 313? - data up to & including this r*n

Hash HandleHareHoundTotal
Bitter - Hare1895113
Twisted - Hare1899117
Forever Blowing33184217
Master Baker11105116
Sir Tom Tom32023

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Sunday 9th August 2009 at 11:00am

DaytimeR*n 313 »

Lowgill - Picnic Run 2009!

Ivah? Never heard of it. Near Lowgill, apparently. As there was not much chance even my highly sophisticated SatNav would find it (I once followed the wretched thing down some god-forsaked track which was so overgrown I had to get out of the car and hack my way through with a machete before I could rejoin civilisation), I was more than happy to accept a ride with our beloved GM in the baldbrickmobile. Big mistake. Having missed the Wray turn-off by a mile, we got to the centre of Hornby before realising we were hopelessly lost. Fortunately our on-sec MB was at hand to guide us in the right direction,otherwise we might be in Scotland by now, or even further south than that!

Anyhow, we made it there eventually to be greeted by two smiling hares (Bitter and Twisted, not a trace of myxomatosis between them) who informed us that Ivah was in fact not a clumsy mis-spelling of a bloke's name, but, well, a sort of bend in the road.

In spite of the fact that putting the word "picnic" on the website virtually guarantees copious amounts of aqueous precipitation (rain to you, Twisted), the weather was good, the turnout was good, and we were ready for off! Well, not quite. There followed the usual intense debate as to whether the 11.03 arrival of Lurch, Morticia and Wednesday constituted 3 minutes late or 27 minutes early. Concern was also expressed that the figure-of-8 configuration of the course with its mid-point crossover might fool the odd late-comer with no sense of direction (you know who you are, Dormouse) into getting locked into an endlessly-repeating 0. Has anyone checked, by the way - he could still be there now. Eagerly awaiting some kind of clue from the hares as to the direction to take, we soon realised that we were just expected to s*d in the general direction of off, which we duly did.

If R*n 311 deserves a place in the Guiness Book Of Records for being the hash with the most checks, then R*n 313 must surely rate inclusion for the steepest hills, biggest number of stiles, and largest number of flies! Steep hills? Listen, at £1 a time, these hashes really are good value. I can think of 09011 phonelines where that amount of heavy breathing would set you back £1 a minute! Stiles? Twisted was a bit concerned that a step-stone on one of them was fashioned from someone's headstone, until we discovered that the carved inscription read "Follow the footpath"! Still, she could have been right. Rest in peace, Mr. F.T.Footpath. Flies? Now this was where I started to get seriously freaked out!

Now, I'm just a normal Joe who, worried by the increasing disappearance of flour from our supermarket shelves due to people abandoning DIY baking in favour of Mr. Kipling, simply likes to get out and about and observe flour in its natural habitat, growing out of cow-pats and sprouting up next to lamp-posts. Some of these hashers, though, are  seriously weird. Take that Twisted, for example. Totally obsessed with the size of flies' genitalia. To us normal mortals, the size of a fly reflects its eating habits; to her, it's a sign of its virility. Seriously deranged? Perhaps. Still, if she's right, she certainly provided an orgy for us today. Thousands of the little b*ggers, and they were even invited to the beer stop.

A little over two hours after the start, out came the folding chairs for the picnic, for which, fortunately, the sun had graced us with its presence. To gain some idea of the debauched nature of the proceedings, you'll have to look at Bitter's photographic record. Suffice it to say that such were the levels of wildness and rumbustiousness exhibited that the Highways felt obliged to set up an alternative camp at a safe distance. Not many takers for the super-strength French ale, though, and I really must have a word with the RA sometime; some of the membership are getting soft and wimpy. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to do down-downs with a milky tea with two sugars and a chocolate digestive. Thin end of the wedge and all that.

On a final note, as we got back to the cars Baldbrick was heard to exclaim: "Flippin' heck, who's put the tubs on top of my bugle?" A music lover, mate. A music lover.

I don't have a bend in the road outside my house. I have a straight bit, called Lancaster Road. If they ever put a bend there, I shall call it Fred.

On On

Sir Tom Tom

Write up by Sir Tom Tom

15th August 2009 at 5:53am