Gathering round at the Greyhound, Eton Wick, we found ourselves only marginally outside the 10-mile radius of High Wycombe (according to Sooper’s map) for another of Doormat’s “recycled” runs, he being a committed advocate of the doubtless environmentally-sustainable practice of recycling trails previously used by Berkshire H3 for HWH3, and vice versa. It certainly makes for effortless planning the second time around.
Hare Doormat promised a “billiard-table” flat run but caused a degree of bewilderment as he explained that the Long Trail was in places marked with an “S” and the Short with an “L” (together with turnback arrows, it should be added, in Matt’s defence). Perhaps it was the confusion thus engendered which caused the pack to go running off into the very first field we came to, and on and on, and on, on a route entirely devoid of flour; perhaps it was just the usual level of hasher incompetence. Either way, co-hare Happy Feet was seen scratching her head muttering, “I’m sure Matt didn’t take the trail that way, he wasn’t planning to, maybe he’s done a short-cut he didn’t tell me about, I’m blowed if I know” (or words to that effect). After some considerable time the true trail was called from way (way!) in the rear, and the pack came all the way back whence it had gone.
The remainder of the trail (i.e. all of the actual trail) went off much more smoothly. Through remote fields inhabited only by cattle and horses we toured the Thames flood-plain, with fine views of the big house on the hill across the river, but not so much as a slight incline in our path (could this really be a Wycombe Hash I allowed myself to wonder?).
Under the railway viaduct, and on, across the playing fields of Eton and through the College grounds, where Matt had laid a fine trail, having (mostly) managed deftly to dodge the security guards.
Across the High Street and out onto the Brocas, heading for home we went – but no! Another loop back onto to Eton High Street followed, and the trail soon reached what was arguably its climax (altitudinally, that is), with a regroup/viewpoint at the centre of Windsor Bridge. I need hardly add that Moose was convinced he could see his boat from there. Liquid refreshment was available at this point, from the nearby Waterman’s Arms, but it’s doubtful whether anyone partook…
My memory of the rest of the trail is lost in a slight alcoholic haze, but it was across the Brocas, away from the river, then back to and along it, and eventually across an endless ploughed field to the welcome sight of Eton Wick and The Greyhound, a proper pub where the landlady was welcoming and the Windsor & Eton Knight of the Garter was on good form. Roger said a few words, largely to defer the Toscas/Magneto until next week for reasons which escape me.
Thanks Doormat & Happy Feet!