Christmas. It's all about being sociable and getting together with friends and family. So I can only assume that's what most of the hash were doing. For us unpopular types though it's all about skidding around the countryside in the freezing cold.
At first I thought Mick had started an early new year’s resolution about being more smartly dressed when hashing, but it turned out that man flu had laid him low and he was disapearing off back home for Lemsip and stale turkey sarnies rather than freezing his giblets in Flackwell Heath.
After a bit of optimistic hanging around in the vain hope we'd not have enough hounds to have to bother, we finally made it into double figures and set off towards the school (yeah that one with the crocodile, comedy bus and odd habit of showing their students the 12 plus paper the week before the actual exam).
It was then up across the Straight Bit (just by the bend) and along the top the golf course before jinking (no really, I jinked even if no one else did) back into the village. Then down towards Treadaway Hill before a left turn into Fennels Wood.
There was a strange message from the 'Neighbourhoods' on the path and then a bit of confusion when some of the flour had been covered up with leaves. Could have been mischievous squirrels I suppose. In true Hash style though we didn't let this faze us and managed to find the trail again by using the cunning trick of looking at the map.
At the end of the wood we turned left and up across the field up to Oak Wood where there was some more mysterious markings. These were from the Shorts though who had kicked out the check the wrong way and tried to correct the mistake using sticks...
At the top of the footpath we met up with the Shorts - most of who then decided to head back to the pub, using the age old excuse of having forgotten their PE kit.
The less intelligent of us headed down the fields back towards Sheepridge Lane. There was a couple of close calls where the on-backs were nearly bigger than the actual number of hashers but we just about squeaked though. At the bottom it was down the lane past the Crooked Billet (pay a visit to the Chair Museum if you don't what it means) and then a long haul up the hill back towards the village.
Back in Frackle we followed the Half Marathon route for a while before cutting down the footpath to bring us back to Chapman Lane where I once had a spectacular crash in the ice. This time though I managed to stay the right way up and we headed back to the pub pausing only marvel at the electricity consumption of some tasteful festive decorations.
Back at the pub we waited patiently for the arrival of some rumoured chips... but none appeared. Mick had obviously decided we didn't need any more calories - either that or he'd taken them all home so wouldn't miss out. Still - he probably deserved them.
