Roz and I, and her friend Christine, who was the cause of my unusual inverted tardiness, arrived at the Pink & Lily with 15 minutes to spare. Yet, the car park was already thrumming (thrumming is a cross between throbbing and humming, which, I am told, is quite common after a wedding).
What with the clement weather and school holidays being in full how-do-I-amuse-the-children swing, the car park filled up quickly with the young, and those that can barely remember being young, and those in between. Filling up lead to full up and then overspill.
Virgin hashers came from as far afield as Amersham (it appears that Christine is M+J's next door neighbour. In fact, there was a degree of recrimination from M that she hadn't got his permission to attend, in advance). Amersham was trumped by David from South Africa. Then SA was trumped by Clare (sister of the hare) who now hails from Australia.
The hare gave a whistle with one hand to bring to order (that compared very favourably with the best I can muster with two (you can tell me your theories why next week)) and proudly proclaimed the record for the greatest number of relatives at a Hash. Congratulations to all you Berry-Cope-Staines. In fact, the number of hashers (55) is only 1 shy of the record back in July 2008.
As we trotted off into Hillock Wood, in the vague direction of Risborough, Yob turned up, all hot and sticky, and porting a rucksack. Seems he had run up from his hotel in Risborough without realising how far away, and above, his destination was.
Anyway, we sashayed on dry ground through the woods to Redland End. So far, so good, so flat, as promised. A little prompting by the hare was needed to get us to go into Monkton Wood, where the going got interesting. It appears that the local landowner, who we think lives in Coppice House, has got fed up with walkers missing the footpath and walking along his drive and through his garden. His solution is to create a significant diversion around his property. As this is work in progress through virgin rainforest, it meant the hash slowed to a snail's pace as it climbed over felled trees (BH3 style).
Eventually we regained our original path and pace. But not for long, as Highwood Bottom was horribly overgrown with brambles, nettles and roses. That was why the hare was wearing leggings. Lucky him. Lucky shorts, as they took the clear route back. I was bringing up rear, wearing my lucky leather glove and snipping away merrily with my secateurs. It didn't benefit the hash, but it did make me feel better, even if I was a long way behind. I resorted to jogging (shock/horror) through cow laden fields to finally catch up, just as the longs fell off the cliff at Looseley Row. Sayonara.
Where they went is anyone's guess (cue, see Hashalator). My informants tell me they went up and down an evil false trail, avoiding (or not) bulls, sheep and cow pats.
Whereas I took the flat road to the Whip and right along the Chiltern Way, catching Aaron up somewhere near Lily Bank Farm, still wielding my trusty secs. From there it was a breeze back to the P&L. I have to say that the hare did a grand job of clearly marking the trail, even if the distances predicted were a bit vague, as his electronic thingy was playing up.
Back in the car park, H/B, Nicky and Paul performed a press-up challenge, for reasons that were never made clear. However, the target is to repeat the challenge every Tuesday for the next year, increasing the number of press-ups by one each week. I look forward to filming them.
And if you are interested, ask Helen/Aaron what they saw in the woods near Marlow at the weekend. A well spoken man, sartorially impaired, and definitely caught short. Teacher at a private school?
The chips were very good. The Doom Bar ran dry, but the black-coloured brew was pretty tasty. Thank you Dick. Great hash. Congratulations from us all on your new-found married status.