Sunday
June 15th 2014
Bodrum
Hash House Harriers: Run 155
Site:
Camlik
Number
of attendees: 28
A disparate group of no hopers descended
on the delightful Camlik, sat around chatting, without a care in the world; a
blue cold box was dragged into the assembly area and cries of Vulture Culture
and Virgin have arrived - cold water was guzzled, fees paid and beer coupons
distributed; everyone sat and waited and waited….the two hares (what’s a female
hare? A harem, or maybe harette?) returned, dehydrated and exhausted but as
only harettes can do, were smiling, whilst querying why their water support
team hadn’t arrived. Excuses, excuses before 5 semi dressed men wandered into
the middle of the nearby field; everyone watched…what would happen next? No
feely touchy stuff, just standing there intently discussing serious issues and
then cries of “Circle!” disturbed the quiet chatter. And so a strange assembly
took place with a circle of the no hopers formed around two aged silver foxes
who barked orders; hands were raised for food orders, the harettes explained
where they’d been that afternoon and suddenly a group of five (FRBs) leapt off…
Into the Valley of death strode the
5(00) Hashers, never to be seen (or heard) again, well not until the pack
returned from their exertions.
Dopey and the remaining dwarfs strode
along a dirt track chattering away, noticing the odd traces of chalk; a sharp
right from the dried river bed took us through scrubland, with the inimitable
thorn bushes only found in these parched Mediterranean lands; no snakes of note
were seen; onwards to a short stretch of tarmac leading to a building site and
a selection of directions with opposite pointing arrows neatly dovetailing; a
new dried riverbed, continuing up and up with clear chalk marks all the way;
our virgin hasher soon detected the red ribbon (perhaps the eye operation
wasn’t too successful for our RA?); upwards through the fields across the stone
walls – to another track and a ‘Check!’ – without hesitation our pack of
walkers took the correct direction, stopped to wonder at the stunning panorama,
then meandered down the track; Dopey spied a dead bird sitting on a branch
(presumably it had just flown there?); and onwards, down to another road,
following paper until reaching one of our harettes…’Wow where have you come
from? You’ve just done the FRB’s run!’ she exclaimed, so we wandered on, led by
our Virgin hashette arriving after some 70 minutes; our mute FRBs (even they,
the esteemed ones, lost themselves, presumably in translation, just meters
short of ‘home’) were mingling with the SCBs, duly ignoring the wonderful
achievement of the finely tuned walkers.
And so, with due aplomb, the aged silver
foxes called the assembly together, forming yet another circle. Drinks were
drunk; guests were welcomed; ‘pink’ and ‘dresses’ were punished, the harettes
were praised in typical hash fashion, new shoes infected with athletes foot
were used as a drinking vessel; the silver foxes were duly punished for being
old and silver and forgetful or something along those lines. Food was served.
Our 28 attendees exceeded the expected 22.4467 runners (the average number
since time immemorial), putting pressure on Mehmet and the staff of Sir Sofrasi
– extra sheep were seen, herded into the abattoir, to feed the masses
(relieving the sad looking bedraggled dog who was being fattened with the left
over bones); and so onwards and upwards, some to their homes, others for
further imbibing, the remainder presumably to someone else’s abode; the sunset
on the return journey led to the exclamation ‘what else could anyone want?’ –
Well, perhaps a glass of wine and George Clooney (presumably for the ladies?)
was the retort.
JADIP…
On On
