The hash gathered outside The Crown in Hazlemere last Tuesday evening.
This pub has its own cark park, which can be more convenient for the Hash Hush ceremony or you can use the car park opposite, intended for the more devout of the population. This latter usually has more spaces and possibly accrues bonus points when you come to make that last great journey to the Pearly Gate retirement home, but I have no way to confirm this. It does, however, increase the chance of making that last great journey ahead of your scheduled time because of the A404. I know that there is a light controlled crossing some 30 metres up the road towards Amersham, but that is for woosies and we are Hashers. Hashers are daring creatures and take (un) calculated risks, such as dashing across the A404, eyes wide shut, to get to the Hash RV. This Hash RV was notable for a number of reasons:
The hare was naked below her shorts' hem, which is a first for this year. One felt a sense of trepidation knowing that the nights were closing in and that autumnal storms were just a cosmic blink away.
The hare for next week's hash was absent. Why, I hear you ask? Gerry found out the next day when this “excuse” arrived. "Apologies for neither of us being there tonight - Dan is shooting things and I got minor whiplash whilst sneezing on last week's Hash". Hmmm. More like an excuse for an excuse. When my grandfather served in the army, not even a bullet in the head would stop him turning up for duty the next day.
As no one (else) had gone AWOL while crossing the road, we set off in good order towards Hazlemere cross roads. En route I performed a good deed. There was a wheel trim in the road that was being tossed into the air every time a car passed by. The health and safety sub committee happened to be present and quorate. It mandated that a hero retrieve the offending object and place it where it could not used as evidence by a claims lawyer. Our resident super-hero was occupied elsewhere so the task was delegated to a mere hero, moi-meme. With the assistance of some kindly car drivers I dashed into the road, picked up the trim (Peugeot. Why are they always Peugeot?) and deposited it into a nearby hedge, so reducing the competition for best kept village by one.
On down the Holmer Green Road. There were no more loose wheel trims here. I don't think Peugeots go down this road.
That was the end of the tarmac stuff, thankfully. A sharp left took us into the woods behind Mary's Mead and back up the hill and past the local scout hut. The denizens were outside playing football but on seeing us they took fright and rushed back into the Scout hut and started building fires, to calm their nerves. 1 mile gone.
Up on the heath land, we pretended we could see Helen's house, just to pass the time before running around the edge. The hare's route feinted this way, then that, always threatening to venture into the wild heartland but at the last minute shying away and staying close to house and civilisation. At one point we came very close to being able to see the pub and so invoke the early bath hash rule, but there were just too many houses in the way, so carried on running.
At mile 2.5, at Terriers, the very, very, very short cutters had an option to short cut, but even they declined. So across the A404 we all went, through a hole in the hedge by the side of the pub car park that could not possibly be a public right of way, but not being public, we made it our right of way and sallied forth along the edge of Kings Wood.
Mile 3 saw us gather at the back of Rushbrook Close, shorts to the left, longs to the right. It is only when you see Kings Wood on the map that you realise just how big it is, and just how hard it is to find a policeman doing overtime, even when the wood is crawling with them.
Mile 3.5 and path lead east. At least we were going to be spared the long haul down to Micklefield (and more to the point, the long haul back). Down into the valley, across the dry stream bed and up the other side to Kingswood Road. Here, at least, Ade could irritate the “richer among rich” with his loud calls and make it all worth while.
At Manor Road, Chris rightly guessed the next direction of travel which fortuitously happened to be towards the pub. The only hazard on Manor Road, apart from yummy mummies in their 4x4s are the sleeping policemen, which lull you into a false sense of security before tripping you up.
There was a trick in the tail. The hare knew that some hashers who have a high power to weight ratio still had plenty of fuel left in the tank, so instead of the flat route back to the pub, led us left down Hearn Close which meant of course, a lovely jubbly run back up a hill. Jo, that is favouritism. The rest of us low PtWR folk had to follow suit.
No matter, mile 5 and the pub hove to.
Many thanks Jo. Just the right length to run before the chips go cold.