I temporally approached Tuesday evening with a degree of trepidation.
Reasons to be (not) cheerful? In no particular order:
1) The shower that had begun just after my Hash a week ago was falling as fitfully as ever.
Like water on mating dogs’, a Hasher’s ardour and desire can be sometimes quenched, which translates as a concern about anyone or no-one turning up.
2) The owners of the The Plough do not give the appearance of subscribing to the notion that “mi casa es su casa” , more like “mi casa es mi casa” if you have muddy shoes, make lots of noise and just want to drink beer. Would we be banished to the smoking shed again?
3) The Hare considers the area around Cadsden as his fiefdom. Anyone that ventures therein has to run up and down the steepest slopes known to man as forfeit.
So it was pleasant surprise to see so many that evening. Twentysomething fortysomethings (except those who aren’t) to be precise. Oh dear. New potential problemette. The car park was filling up with non-foody cars. Was this going to be the spark that set off the landlords’ ire? !***-em seemed to be the consensus opinion.
At tensomething minutes before the hour we gathered together then bounded off. Even Mick who was just back from an energetic holiday visiting vineyards and looking as brown as a black grape.
For a short distance that is, until we hit the slopes and our progress slowed pitifully as we lost traction on the chalky mudslides.
However, once we hit the local golf course (strangely no putters in sight) things improved as the track became firmer and the shorts split off for their short (ha-ha) run.
As we had the Hare with us he considerately led us along smooth, albeit steep, trails towards our goal of Whiteleaf.
Somewhere around here Aaron made the first of several confessions.
He had moosed spectacularly and had the scars to prove it, but he steadfastly refused to replay the action.
The second was advice on the best way to keep your woman. This requires you to knock her chimney down and then take forever to rebuild it. As you are the cheapest builder around she will not look anywhere else.
The road out of Monk’s Risborough was as steep as it was last time we ran (walked) up it, which didn’t come as any surprise.
Thence into The Hangings where my map becomes a little ambiguous. Needless to say we went down the steepest path in these parts. This made a pleasant change as normally we go up it.
Catching up on the latest news:
Helen told Jo that she might get a job at London Zoo. Jo got terribly excited, jumped up and down and waved her arms about in the air. Seems Jo likes zoos and what she was imitating was a giraffe (her fave) scratching an ear on its knee. OK. Let’s change the subject. Jo is going to live in sin this week. It says so in the contract, lashings of sin. Good topic. She has forgotten about imitating giraffes and it is safe to run by.
And then we were back at the pub.
Where were the shorts? We started to organise a search party, to look under nearby dock leaves and other obvious places when some shorts dribbled in, clearly exhausted.
Our hare had joined that elite club, previously consisting of 1 member, of hares who have set a shorter long run than the short run. Mike C will enjoy the company.
But best of all, we got to sit in the pub afterwards. I know the Tosca award (went to the Grimsdales) was the quietest on record but perhaps you appreciated that.
Thank you Rob for making the effort on two miserable-weather days.
Roger, age 43 1/2 + 8+