What Trail?

The RA was out of town. This abject irresponsibility could have only one outcome: it rained. A lot. Hare Golden Jelly set a nice long rambo trail while SP Golden Balls wheezed his way over the wimps, both being caught in thunder and lightning on their respective exposed ridges surrounding the remote Tit Hang valley. So precipitate was the weather that the hare, on needing to “go” atop the hill, dropped her kecks only for a sudden squall to spy its opportunity, rush in and rain on her cheeks horizontally. Lo and behold, when the hares had finished laying trail it had all but disappeared.

A small pack gathered: Dram, Velcro Lips, Eunuch, Mango Groove, Liberace, Jacky Lam, and Catch Of The Day in a white Arctic snow trooper uniform, or was it a biohazard outfit to protect her from GB, only just out of hospital after trying to collect as many lung diseases at one time as he could? And so the briefing was delivered: “We’ve got a nice long rambo trail for you and a pleasant, short wimp. Only trouble is, it’s not there any more. So we’re going to explain to you how to do the wimps. If you see trail and you think the rambos is on, by all means have a go. But we can’t see any trail left. If the wimps is too short you can go round again.

“Out the back of the pigsty, over the bridge and up the hill to the check. You can try solving it but it’s not there. Turn left. Don’t mind the tethered cow blocking the path. It’s not dangerous, just inquisitive. Go out of the farm and along the road until you come to the check back, which isn’t there, then check back to the parked Mercedes and take the trail up the hill through the graves…” And so on.

Off the pack left, immediately splitting into runners (Eunuch, Mango, Liberace, COTD) and walkers (Dram, Velcro, Jacky). The first snafu came when the walkers arrived at the Mercedes and Dram and Velcro decided they’d had enough and went back to the start. Poor Jacky, who speaks less English than a heretic Spaniard who’s had his tongue inquisitioned, stood watching one group bound up the hill and the other group strolling back to the start, and was confused, not really knowing much about how the hash works. So he thought he’d better stick with the walkers and was bitterly disappointed to find himself five minutes later back at the start. For shame! So off he went again, on his own.

Meanwhile, confusion reigned on the hillside. Trail degenerated into shiggy. Mango spied the way but the other three were off beating around in the shiggy until that marvel of orientation, Liberace, called trail and they all charged off until they arrived at – a Mercedes. The recriminations flew. “I told you I was on trail,” whined Mango, and back up the hill they marched like demented Dukes of York. Once again Mango sniffed out the trail and once again the others bashed away in various directions through the shiggy. Eventually all reached the trig point at the top of the hill and solved the check, down a muddy trail, through a pylon, and out on to a road, where the R/W split was still visible, and Jacky was pointing clearly in the direction of the W. Mango sensibly did what he’d been told, but the others decided to try the rambos and charged off again, not along the road in the direction indicated but up the hill on the other side of the road. They were soon back to follow the R arrow but after half a mile without seeing any trail they slunk back to the start with their tails between their legs.

The hares laid on hot dogs with fantastic caramelised onions and baguettes with cheese and tomatoes, the beer and wine flowed and the craic crackled. All good.

Bonus

The GM discusses what Christmas means to him.