| Date | Hare | Scribe |
|---|---|---|
| 16 Apr 2023 | Des | Maurice |
This is the first magazine I’ve written as a walker. I should probably just write it slowly, talk a lot to myself, assume Kathy at my shoulder commenting on the grammar, and limit myself to a short article. But I won’t. Walkers deserve better.
This hash went horribly wrong for me. I got to the start too late for the briefing. A DPD delivery van had parked across my driveway, and I couldn’t find the driver. He said he got lost – in a village. Then a mad dash to Wootton Bassett. I thought I knew where the pub was, next door to Tesco. Unfortunately, someone had moved Tesco from the centre of the town to the suburb, so I was very late.
Rocky and I found the first arrow and we were away, total faith in Des to lay a good trail and in the runners to kick out circles. I would easily catch up with the walkers.
I had originally planned to pick up Colin from his house as he can’t drive, but he was called to an eleven o’clock telephone appointment with his consultant. Colin had a “mini stroke” a week ago. If you hadn’t known already, you’ll be aghast at that news. Colin of all people. Colin who runs home from work some days. That’s 24 miles. Colin who doesn’t just do marathons, but 40 miles, and 100 miles, and 24 hour runs. I was in shock myself all week as he is on a very high pedestal for mere marathoners like me. And he’s a special friend.
I was out on a hike on Saturday with a consultant friend from London. I told my friend about Colin. “That’s good news actually,” she said professionally. “It’s a warning that he could have had a major stroke and died. He’ll be monitored and he certainly won’t die from a stroke.” My friend is of the positive variety. When I remonstrated about how fit and healthy he is, her retort was: “If he hadn’t been fit and healthy, it wouldn’t have been a mini stroke and he’d be in a morgue now.” Don’t you just love consultants? I’ll move on, otherwise this will turn into a eulogy.
I like the way a trail that starts in a housing estate suddenly opens into the country. I hadn’t been to this part of Wootton Bassett before, and it was a surprise. Past a kid’s playground, a good path down to the railway bridge, over the canal bridge and left along the canal. Rocky kept teasing me to throw a stick so he could jump in, but I was on a mission to catch the walkers.
We soon came on the short/long. I opted for the long and I’m so glad I did. Walkers actually miss out on so much. I can see why GOM and Mrs GOM do the long walk. I used to think it was so he could miff Mike by being last back, or arrive when everyone else is gathered so we could cheer and clap him in. But no, it’s just that he doesn’t want to miss the good bits of the trail.
The trail went over the grasslands of the Wiltshire Common. I heard skylarks and several tits; a lone blackbird and a buzzard took a closer look at Rocky and decided against. There was plenty of mud about, but it is April. I had a walking stick, so we gaily stomped along. Walkers do have the advantage of sticks and time to stop and look about which runners can’t do in mud. Runners are like ballerinas or ice-skaters. You must see Viv in flight on mud, legs akimbo, arms like propellers while the rest of us sing:
Mud, mud, glorious mud
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood
So follow me, follow
Down to the hollow
And there let us wallow in glorious mud
Put it on your bucket list.
I did go slightly askew after the Common. Later, Des swore there were too three-foot arrows before the exit from the field. Who am I to disagree, but I didn’t see them and ended on the “medium route” which wasn’t advertised.
Back to the canal path. There was a lovely lady there walking slowly along minding her own business. She stopped, clearly to enquire on my business. She tried to befriend Rocky but he sussed that she had no treats. “You should carry treats,” I offered, “dogs are like men, a little treat from a woman gets you a long way.” And she was off.
“I’ve been married three times and I can only agree. Offer a little and get a lot is my view. Only sometimes it can get a tad tedious. I hate a man who begs. Big and bold, I say. Take it or leave it.” The husbands had all died a natural death, so she never needed to divorce.
Luckily, we were interrupted by Jeremy and John strolling along the canal path like it was a nice day in Piccadilly. Strolling? Even slower than walkers? They stopped to chat. They told me they were on a hash. I told them I’d been late as a DPD delivery van blocked me. John went off on one, as is his wont.
“I don’t understand why people are in such a hurry to get their parcels next day. Why can’t they wait, and the drivers wouldn’t have to run around, and anyway it’s a Sunday.”
I’m summarising here as John doesn’t take a breath when he goes off on one. When the breath came after a few paragraphs, I suggested that waiting didn’t appeal to me. Instant satisfaction, I say. Why can’t Amazon deliver on the day I order.
They strolled on and I imagined John’s expectation for his Amazon delivery. A couple of days to get the reading jacket out, tie the cravat, find a comfortable position on the reading chair. Take time to open the parcel, fold the paper. Too much excitement, so take the packaging to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Back to the lounge and take up the book, a sip of Ovaltine, and off he goes.
While we were standing at the canal bridge so the strollers could have a breather, Caroline and Keith came along. They needed a breather as well. Bless.
There was no decorum when they took off. Viv tried jumping to avoid the mud, like a fairy jumping from cow pad to cow pad, the others more like bulls who have had their way and are exhausted. Caroline ran a straight line at least and had a steady pace. Such poise and energy, such pace and style, she would make a younger woman watching her grind her teeth in frustration. She reminded me of when we were all so young.
When I got to the road Des came along in his big Amazon-lookalike van. It was one of those days for delivery van conversations. He was as shocked as I was about Colin. We congratulated ourselves that despite several common friends in Chiseldon having health issues we were still in good nick. He should have left it at that, but he wanted to emphasise how fit and strong we both were, which is a bigger version of good nick. I’m not sure his observations applied to us both. Mind you, there are probably no long mirrors in Des’s house.
I felt at that stage I couldn’t leave him in case something happened to him, so I accepted a lift for a hundred metres to the pub. I got out of the van at the pub and got an unmerciful slagging from the tired walkers and strollers. Nobody would accept I’d walked the medium trail. Honestly, who needs friends.
A good chat in the pub, nice landlady, married only the once, and a big room to ourselves. We all settled down, a few left after half an hour, and on our second round of drinks GOM appeared to much misplaced applause. I surmised that we should be home in time for tea.
GOM thanked Des effusively and it was very well deserved, a great hash. David tried to pour cold water on some wayward flour incident. Des gave him the shorts for being a grouse. Viv said she was looking forward to the next hash as the holes in David’s charity shorts would then be covered up. There was some more abuse and then multiple bowls of chips arrived that David had ordered and everyone settled down. Poor David, he’s such a good soul, so generous, and we do love him dearly.