The Hunt for the Haggis

Run Report 782

The Hunt for the Haggis

Padre had no doubt arranged the start point to be the normally empty Intermarche carpark; but he had not known that the pratiquants of the Eglise de la Brocante would be holding their Sunday morning service next door so filling up all available spaces and the hash had to find a small corner in which to congregate. The hashers stayed loyal to the faith but Levrette was said to have sneaked off to see what the new religion was all about. There was some concern that the Religious Advisor was lost but he was just delivering a consignment of haggis to David the chef. Numerous worshippers were wearing liturgical tartan. Farty Bum made the collection and Padre and the RA said the opening prayers.

The hounds were raring to go and the haggis had been seen running thataway! The trail started off through the shopping centre, passing the Miss Coco lingerie shop where Contessa was presumed to be selling knickers and was not hashing today. Off south across a huge field but then a double back north into a yard full of rusty farm machinery.Taking no notice of the danger the hashers had to jump across a ditch into the oncoming traffic on the main road. As I was walking, it was a bit of a surprise to be leading the runners under the electric fences and across another field. A tunnel under the next road was full of slippery mud but no one was injured. At the check on the other side Perpetch’s pair of Black and White dogs ( Perpetch – they were the wrong brand- the whisky bottle has Highland terriers on the label not collies so only half marks for bringing something Scottish ) rejoiced in finding muddy puddles in which to wallow. It would be a good trail for them as they were off the leash most of the time; Dyson had a hard time pulling Prestressed around the trail.

Following a pleasant path along a buried sewer pipe was too easy for Padre; he had found a path or a dry stream bed to scramble up to the next level, this was a mere introduction to the hashers struggling through the bramble strewn undergrowth (said to be the haggis breeding grounds ) up and down the hillside while Padre took a short cut to avoid it all. Part of his careful planning was to arrange the beerstop (after a ninety minute first half) to be at a medical centre in case of anyone needing attention - but it was closed and he had not warned the medical staff they would be required to be on duty. So instead we dowsed our insides with alcohol to heal the wounds.

No haggis caught yet but the trail was still hot. Another death-defying road crossing was the start to the second half which was either a short one or a little bit longer short oneback to the more empty by now car park. The accompanying photos show what a fine sunny day we had, but they do not show that the temperature was just above zero without shelter and considerably colder when the wind chill was taken into account. So the circle was terminated rather early after the normal series of down downs.

Down downs to-

The Hare (Padre),
Birthday Boy (Padre),
Leaving tree trunks across the trail (Padre)
Wearing Tartan (Padre and others)
Too cowardly to nominate a down-down for fear of it back-firing onto himself ( Pilchard)
Learning French (Rosie)
Returners (Faby, Finnish Fly, Marion (after 20 years), Levrette, Skinny A, Pilchard )
Virgins (Polochon, Benjamin, Marc)
Mugless (No Satisfaction)

Shit of the Week nominations
Padre for sloppy haring (leaving a tree lying across the trail), and Cumalot for blasphemy in his “Je suis Charlie’'” run report
Winner: Most likely Prestressed (next run) for demanding that the circle be closed immediately , without the vote taking place, because a few people were cold !!!

Then across the road to Les Terrasses restaurant where haggis , neeps and tatties were prepared by David for us to commemorate the anniversary of a Scottish versifier called Robbie Burns. Below is the famous Address to A Haggis ( with explanatory notes added) recited by Sadist, and to celebrate modern Scottish cuisine the Address to A Deep Fried Mars Bar.

Those who were not there imagine what you have missed.See the photos at

Address To A Haggis

The poet welcomes the haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.
He describes its physical attributes
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o'need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
The haggis is now slashed open
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!
The diners tuck in
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deiltak the hindmost! on they drive,
Tilla' their weel-swall'd kytesbelyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.
The poet scorns foreign muck
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
And its milquetoast eater
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
And praises the strong haggis eater
Butmark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walienieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.
And recommends the haggis on the menu
Ye Pow'rs, whamak mankind your care,
And dish them out their billo' fare,
Auld Scotland wants naeskinkingware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!
Robbie Burns 1759-1796

Address to A Deep Fried Mars Bar

Now is the time for great desserts

Puddings, afters, pastries, sweets,

Tiramisu, Iles flottantes, tartes au citron

Crèmes brulees, mousses au chocolat

And from Caledonia’s shores

Ecclefechan tart, Cranachan, Tipsy Laird

And the Deep Fried Bar of Mars.

The chef has chosen from the bulging shelves

Of sugar loaded candy bars at Tesco, Morrisons and Lidl

A bounty sent from the heavens

(No marathon snickering please)

Wrapped in brown and red, a Martian treat

All made in Slough.

His secret batter he has stirred

With flour, eggs, ale and Scottish malts.

He dips the sweetmeat in the golden soup

And plunging deep in boiling oil

Just one minute to enrobe

With crispness his delight.

Then the gourmand raises to his lips

The carbo loaded confectionery sweet.

The melting choc, the oozing caramel

With glace vanille, and extra chocolate sauce

Infarctus challenging cholesterol for all

A treat to die for!

Ye probably will!