When I was at school I was taught how to read an Ordnance Survey map and honed my skills orienteering across the Three Peaks, though I have to admit that the first day of the Pennine Way in 1961 didn’t go too well, as descending down from a very misty Kinder Scout and finding ourselves in Hayfield instead of the Youth Hostel that used to be at Crowden on the Woodhead Pass was a bit of a faux pas - other than that OS has served me well and since I entered the digital world the app is now on my smart phone, along with Google Maps and Waze, so what more could I want?

So why did some clever so and so have to invent ‘What Three Words’, which LVH3 have hastily adopted but I haven’t, cos it’s yet another navigation app. After all, if I put three words like ‘The Station, Caton’ into Google maps, low and behold that’s where I end up, so why do I need anything else to find the start of a run?

Which is why I found myself in Bull Beck Car park last Monday evening looking for a group of Hashers that weren't there, surveyed by a gaggle of dodgy and expectant looking single men all in vans and so time marching on I beat a hasty retreat towards Lancaster. How was I to know that an obviously too wealthy fishing club owned not just a car park but also a big shed at the bottom of Holme Lane? So heading down the A683 I could hardly believe my eyes when I spotted a circle of people being harangued by a person who appeared to be no less than Father Christmas - such an odd sight indicating that they could indeed be Hashers! Turning quickly into the lane and parking the car I donned my head torch, which seems to be the de rigeur accessory for a Full Mooner, though the promised latter celestial object was conspicuous by its absence, but said torch but would have been better utilised for spotting Russian spy planes in the sky, since I’d got it on upside down! So checking that no fire, pointy hats or chanting were apparent in the circle, I breathed a sigh of relief when I approachedand deduced from the reflective jackets and abundance of lycra (not a sartorial style I’ve yet adopted as I feel some dignity has to be preserved in old age) that the Circle was indeed comprised of Hashers and yes, a ‘real’ Father Christmas, aka Baldbrick. Unable to ask the question as to whether he was late or early as it seemed an odd time for FC to be making an appearance, such questioning was forestalled by the Haresjumping into the circle and asking us all to b****r off and cross the road to the old railway track and head towards Lancaster, which will all duly did at such a brisk pace, I couldn’t conclude whether we were meant to be Wimbos or Ramps, there being no split on this trail!

The trouble with being dobbed in to be scribe by Late Cummer at the very end of proceedings when several alcoholic beverages had been consumed rather than at the start meant that I did not pay much attention to the route we followed, but we turned off the track somewhere, went along the A683 and turned into Quernmore Road for a short distance, then went through many side streets and back passages in Caton and in my case local born Baldbrick (I realised then he must be in disguise so no locals would recognise him, but I did not want to know his murky past) gave me a running commentary as which of his past relatives lived in most of the houses we passed, so much so that if I ever want to write a history of Caton I am well prepared, though it’s not yet gone on to my list of ‘Things to do in my Spare Time’. So somehow the 24 of us carried on to Brookhouse and found ourselves turning into Holme Lane, we proceeded back down the hill to the start, passing our prospective supper hosts' residence en-route. Down-downs were duly carried out, but apart from the Hares, I can’t remember the other miscreants. Altogether a very sociable R*n with plenty of chatter, no shiggy in complete contrast to the previous run and though no full moon appeared, fine weather for this time of year.

Those of us who marched back up the hill to the Hare’s house (by this time I was starting to feel like the old Duke of Yorks troopers (no, not the present Duke of York, who’s lost all his troopers to his chagrin, or more pointedly, due to illicit shaggin’ {allegedly}) enjoyed a superb supper, OHT being apparently a dab hand at producing a load of Cobblers, which topped a very appetising stew sort of thing - sorry, I’m not renowned for my culinary knowledge and I’ve forgotten what WN told me it was, but it was very tasty and welcome and accompanied by sufficient drinks, so I’m sure we all thank our Hares for a very sociable evening.

And somehow I found my way back to Bentham without Three b****Words!