Once again, we three way summer challenge between 41 Club, Table and F.A.R.T.
And, again, we’re at Beck Hole, near Goathland. Map from the quoits website below.
Do remember to allow plenty of traveling time to get there for a 6pm start.
As last year, the quoits people at Beck Hole ask for £5 per head which they then donate to their nominated charity. This year it is, again, Yorkshire Air Ambulance. A worthy cause and good value, I hope you agree.
The pub is alerted to our visit and it is the same as last year: great value pies, sarnies and great beer. You can buy your own food during the course of the evening, or at the end of the match when we have the prize-giving.
To plan, we need to get a good idea of names and numbers by the previous Sunday, 19 July.
This is an opt-in meeting so please use the form below to notify me of your attendance or otherwise.
To repeat, it is 6pm start, but we can accommodate some late arrivals – and it is easier if I am informed of your late arrival.
See you in Goathland! The honour of 41 Club is at stake after last year’s defeat!
David
… but when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest 41 Clubbers.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in Scarb’rough, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Richard, 41 Club, and Saint George!’
