At 7.42 there were just six people in the pub car park – which is not totally surprising as the temperature, along with Hash morale, had reached a new and impressive low of -9C! Which is, officially, the lowest temperature we have ever run in – lower even than the run in a blizzard which had to be cancelled at the last minute as only four of us made it to the pub and the hare was snowed in at home!
However, as the minutes ticked by more people drifted – or should I say skidded as conditions were treacherously icy – into the Pub’s car park. At precisely 7.50 the hare explained the new rules. Instead of flour on the white snow he had, somewhat creatively, carved arrows and circles in the snow. Surprisingly it actually worked. Unfortunately Matt and Roz arrived at this point and it wasn’t until 8.00 that we left – and even then they had to catch us up!
There were three new instructions. All based on the fact that Dick said he could whistle loudly. Naturally we asked him to prove it – well the result almost literally blew us away (don’t ask him to demonstrate if you are in an enclosed space!) One whistle meant four back, two whistles meant re-group and three whistles meant he had mucked up and become hopelessly lost. So, helpfully informed, off we went.
The route took us along the road through the village, it was originally going to take a short detour around the church. We missed the loop partly ‘cos the conditions were treacherous, and partly as we didn’t want to loose the latecomers, (OK mainly ‘cos it was perishingly cold and we wanted to short cut).
After a swift left at the junction, then a right, we were in a field heading straight towards the sewage works. It was stunningly beautiful (No, NOT the sewage but the snow covered fields and hedges). OK the beautiful bit was the snow, the stunning bit was that the ground was frozen absolutely solid (as was the snow on top of it), it was rutted, dangerous and very slippery in places.
A left and right around the sewage and we headed off in the general direction of Horsenden.
“What's an ig?” asked one jovial hasher “An Eskimo’s home without a loo!”
Through Horsenden and along the footpath outside JK’s house (he didn’t invite us in) and we slid into Roundabout Wood, cleverly bypassing Nut Walks – or Nuts Run as it should really be called on a night like that. Soon, but not soon enough, the welcoming lights of Saunderton came into view and we arrived at the long-short split. Now the long run was six miles and we had been told took us to a high viewpoint at the top of the huge hill overlooking the pub, the short run (still a healthy 4.25 miles) was completely flat.
Naturally all of the long runners were keen and eager to run the extra two miles, especially with the prospect of a dirty great hill, all in record low temperatures. Sadly there was a lonesome voice of a sad short cutter and we nobly decided that it might be dangerous for him to run back alone. (Aside for people actually on the run, well that’s the way I remember it and I am telling the story.) So, sadly putting our eagerness to face an extra thirty minutes of blazing cold aside, we did our duty and safeguarded him back to the pub.
A left at the crossroads took us down to Frogmore Farm and a footpath led the way across a pristine and gleamingly white field - with frozen cow pats cunningly hidden just under the snow.
Only getting lost once on a footpath with no junctions, we headed back to the Bledlow Ridge Way from where it was just a short hop, slip and a slide through the village and back to the pub.
I have to admit I made a mistake. I thought I would try out my brand new battery-powered electric heated, thermally insulated gloves. I had heard that the batteries only lasted about 45 minutes so I decided to wait awhile to be sure of getting back with my hands really toasty. Ratts! my hands were so cold I couldn’t switch the tiny delicate toggle to the on position and had to run around with cold fingers like usual! Then a battery fell out and, as I couldn't undo my zip pocket, I had to grasp on it all the way back to the pub.
Still the hash was enchantingly beautiful, the stars glistened over a countryside blanketed in deep shades of purest white. Crystal trees silhouetted the moon across a far horizon. Shame it was brass monkeys!