Midday, Saturday 2nd October 1999, at the Deacon's Arms, Fisherton St, Salisbury Back to Reports
From an unpromising start sprung a day to remember. The vanguard team lead by GM, 5Bar, and On Sec, Miss Whiplash, ably supported by Mudflap & Di, Ermin & Dangerous and the indefatigable MaGoo, promptly discovered the chosen venue, which was also to be their overnight accommodation, to be a little less respectable than they had expected. But it did have the saving grace of being cheap - £12 per night, bring your own soap (to capture the bed bugs). We understand that grim determination and a keen sense of humour helped them make it through the night.
The following morning brought a cavalcade of cars from all corners of the UK as a broad sweep of hashers descended on Salisbury - well twenty five of them as least, with us and the likes of Overners Boots, Mahatma, Supermario, Pixie, Butternose, Centurion et al, representing locals Dorset Hospitality and Haunch of Venison. Penfold and Collie reliably represeting PAD. With a stroke of forward-planning that IronBalls and Portsmouth would have been proud of, the pub from which the run was to start remained determinedly closed until run time "High Noon". Undaunted hashers gathered in nearby, less reticent, hostelries to imbibe pre-run sustenance. One or two of the less hardy even sought tea rooms; although it is rumoured that Squeaker enlivened a somewhat indifferent beverage with something quite lethal that had the would-be tea set reeling long before the off.
It was a fine day though and once the pack had hit the trail and settled into its rhythm there were some early traffic problems to be avoided along with a fine bridge or three to cross, a pause at the Cathedral to admire the scaffolding and a few bemused locals to appease. Then the Hash began in earnest. Tanglefoot's legendary trail-laying skills quickly became evident as she lead the pack on a convoluted tour of the local countryside in what was to most of us,
and most likely Tanglefoot herself, pleasantly unfamiliar territory. A refreshment pause by a babbling brook set the seal on the day and a lined-out bridge some 200yds from the finish ensured that everyone (apart from one or two notable wimps) entered the now reluctantly open pub to the accompaniment of much sloshing in the footwear.
Having decided that we weren't just going to go away, the Landlord, clearly having abandoned caution in favour of a bulging till and more than ably assisted by his delightful daughter, now set about his duties with gusto. The beer was excellent, and not too expensive as I recall, but then that whole area of downtown Salisbury was aswarm with competitive pubs. The afternoon wore on in fine style with the usual perfectly executed set of down downs from MaGoo as a high spot. And a peep beneath the kilt of Stoker as a low spot. Quite why he and Godot were attired as Scotsmen was never fully explained and, no doubt would not have been understood had it been attempted.
Alas, as those with driving duties to attend to became fidgety - some drifting away inevitably began to occur later in the afternoon and accordingly a small contingent of the IOW H3 found itself marooned in Portsmouth. Here they have pubs totally alien to the average IOW drinker. Vast in size and scope the first boasted an array of TVs (all showing some rugby game or other) of which your average Dixons would not have been ashamed. The second was even larger but was mercifully devoid of such techno-intrusivity. I say this with some hypocrisy for it was at this moment my mobile phone rang. A Harriette (one, Kanga) who had recently departed our company in a fine state of alcoholic disrepair, had left her bag in the pub with all the tellies. Bravely Mudflap retrieved it, thus bringing to an end the perfect hashing day in fine shambolic style.
