Hashing in Injun country
Sunday September 4th dawned as one of those marvellous days when you can’t imagine anywhere better to live than Yorkshire – the late summer sun blazed in a hazy blue sky, the spectacular countryside around Hebden Bridge was reminiscent of alpine meadows – a day, in fact, when it was great to be alive. Unfortunately, the good folk of Cragg Vale thought otherwise.
Boghopper claims that he had recceed the trail several times to appease the natives and check our route. Well either he’d pissed everyone off he’d met or he’d missed out a couple of key homesteaders.
Everyone got off to a cracking start, walking. Is there any point in checks any more? Should we become the ramblers association? I can never remember our route because I’m too busy chatting but we only seemed to go downhill for a bit and then climbed up an enormous hill where those of us who didn’t need to adjust our pacemakers enjoyed a stunning view over rolling hills, dotted with picturesque farmhouses. (Get on with it. Ed)
After far too much scraping through nettles, brambles and heather we eventually arrived at a little clearing where an infuriated upper class twit was yelling at Boghopper, accusing him of laying satanic signs, graffiti and criminal damage. Translated, this means that some flour had been left on the corner of his house indicating the right of way leading up by the side of his house. Boghopper was maintaining a restrained and diplomatic silence but it’s a long time since I’ve been told to get back to the sewer where I belong so I politely asked the overweight gobshite to stop being so insulting. Demonstrating his paucity of language he told us to fuck off. A repetition of the request met with the same response. Although saddened at losing the opportunity of seeing a middle aged imbecile implode and have a heart attack on the spot, the hash decided to move on and left him fuming, insults ringing in our ears.
As we trekked up yet another hill we could all think of the one line witty comments we’d like to have made and were somewhat surprised to encounter a similarly irate woman careering out of her farmyard gate shouting to the front of the pack that they were trespassing on her property. Aha, a chance to use our spontaneous reposts.
Sadly by the time the rest of us caught up, the front runners (joke) had calmed her down and she was practically inviting us all in for tea. That is, until FD asked her if she was 67. Thankfully we had no trouble in reassuring the farmer’s wife that FD was mad and we got away in one piece.
From then on it was all downhill and after traversing a raging torrent by way of a plank, we were treated to a beer stop outside a pub. Apparently the pub landlord is a bastard and we couldn’t go in. Now there’s a shock.
After following the course of a river/stream with a rather pretty waterfall, where there had once been a small mill, we happened on the Robin Hood, our starting point.
This is a great pub with loads of character and a wine list for connoisseurs. They made us a Lancashire hotpot and sandwiches, which were delicious. And guess what? The landlord was pleasant, normal, welcoming.
We basked in the summer sun and wished we could drink all afternoon and then Magnum brought the reverie to a close by proposing loads of down downs for spurious reasons (Do I have to note the people?) Wheels presided over a nail biting raffle which is cleverly constructed so people give the prizes back for next time –saving on outgoings and maximising income.
So hats off for a brilliant trail set by Pints and Boghopper. You could never hope to annoy so many people so easily and have such a laugh.
Joan Collins
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