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RUN MCCCLXV
Hares
Harley & Farmer
A to B
&AGM
28 September 2008
The day was bright and clear, the bus filled up with gaily caparisoned hashers. After a brief lost trail hiatus in the hinterland en route to Sans O’s, there was another delay in Stoney, to await Numskull, the perennially tardy RA. However, there was a market in Market Square, and several bulging bags of confectionery were purchased.
The journey resumed to the sounds of fudge being guzzled and sugared e-numbers being sucked. On and on we travelled, deep into Mearns Hash country, and beyond. Were we bound for utterly hash free Dundee? But no, we veered off at St Cyrus and parked in the environs of far fabled Steptoe’s Barn Sale, one of the most sparkling gems in the Scottish retail firmament. Trestle tables piled high with hideous tea sets and grotesque glassware glittered in the morning sunshine as far as the eye could see, huge decaying sheds nearby packed with rotting furniture and everywhere piles of broken machinery and bent bikes rusting quietly. Humbled in the presence of such abundance the Hash ambled into a circle. The usual stuff was said and done, and I was given the horn to toot and the scribe to write.
The pack shuffled into motion and set off on a pointless loop, crossing then re-crossing a long footbridge to the beach (such pointless loops being traditional at the start of Harley and Farmer runs) Northward along the coast we went, through the dunes and up and down the sand cliffs, skipping along sandy paths lined with stabbing marram grass. Then up on to the bluffs and a cliff top path, at times precipitous, with stunning views of sweeping bay and sparkling sea. A View check at a ruined castle perched on a ledge, once the lair of a cannibal laird. (The nearby Sheriff’s Kettle once contained ingredients as yet undreamed of, I hope, in Thain’s pies)
The trail visited quaint old fishing communities, and passed by an even quainter caravan site. Cliffs of puddingstone and bright red sandstone we scuttled past, nettles we winced through, till at last we came to a divide in our path, marked W and M (Wimps and Masochists) Down a steep bank to a rocky stream, the freezing water anaesthetised nettle stings and gorse scratches, slippery boulders and deep pools, a bridge arched high above, across which the Wimps pedestrianised. The pools became deeper and the boulders bigger, climbing was required, and a rope was already in place. A rope which Farmer had been fondling, smirking, in the circle. Up we scrambled, with varying degrees of eagerness, grace and elegance.(A protesting Trouser Shredder required gentlemanly encouragement from Nipples.) Once out of the gully it was a short sprint to Benholm Mill and the beer.
After a pleasant reviving pause boozing in the sun, we were bussed back to Sans O’s for excellent soup and carbonised burgers, etc. Presently followed a One Liner conducted circle and a Committee change. RA Numskull was booted upstairs to become GM, Hash Cash Harley resigned from politics (to ‘spend more time with his family’ and ill gotten gains), T-bits to be new cash gatherer, as Head Hare Megane to magnificently carry on, Nipples to be Hash Beer, and so it went on, and on. I forget all the details, but there was one interesting innovation.
Duly appointed Scribes, who had failed to scribe, were obliged to kneel and drink deeply from the Dogbowl of Shame. As almost all of them were engineers there was no surprise at their lack of literary competence - a vague knowledge of the rudiments of basic arithmetic is considered, by some, to be occasionally useful for an engineer, all agree however that literacy is entirely irrelevant.
And so the afternoon wore on till the bus trundled us homeward, led down hill by a furiously pedalling Hippo.
Wotzoff
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