The week had begun so well. Tuesday February 24th. Hash in Chesham. Warm clement weather. Dry run. Then on the eighth day, it all went awry. Tuesday March 3rd. Hash in Seer Green. Weather wet, windy, worse to come.
I had said to Mike (the hare) that if you want dry weather, set your hash in Chesham. But did he listen? No. Seer Green it must be. This is the Seer Green that is second only to Seathwaite in the Lake District in the annual rainfall league table.
No matter. Hashers are made of the “right stuff”, are they not? To prove the point, no fewer than 19 people and 3 dogs braved the elements made it to “The Jolly Cricketers” in the end. Well, braved is too strong a term to describe our body language at the beginning, as we found the hare inside the pub, huddled over a roaring fire, very reluctant to move.
But move we eventually did, to the first check a little way down the road. There, the hare broke the news to us gently. He had made 3 maps. He had assiduously secreted them inside sealable, transparent and weatherproof plastic bags so that we could find our way in the absence of any trail marks. Best of all, he had left them in the boot of his car. And, HE WASN’T GOING BACK FOR THEM.
Faced with such assertiveness, we meekly ran down to Wilton Lane. I didn’t see what happened next, partly due to sleet whipping into my eyes, but when I next checked our numbers, we were significantly reduced. Anyhow, the hare did not seem unduly concerned, so neither was I.
Up the hill we went, for some diversion, once around Crutches Wood and then waited outside the Jordan’s estate office. We seemed light in numbers, so Gerry ran back to find our reluctant rear runners. Gerry was gone a while, so Ade ran back to find Gerry. Then Dan ran back to find Ade. We were about to send out another to find Dan when the hare arrived, so we waited. And huddled. And froze. Eventually, Dan and Ade returned. No sign of Gerry. He must have been abducted by aliens, we decided, so we ran on, assuming he would fall from the sky at an earlier or later time.
We crossed Twitchells Lane and headed towards Siberia, skirting Jordan’s en route. I only know this because I now own one of the dry maps, assiduously sealed in a plastic bag. On the ground, I could see very little because bits of Siberia were flying into my eyes. We passed the local greyhound training track, but Twist was not interested. Sheep good, dogs bah! We crossed the local golf course and 105m above sea level. What an exciting life we lead.
At Three households (now bred out of single digits), the hare pleaded with us to follow the road left, Newbarn Lane, as it lead straight to the pub and avoided some boring fields and woods. Only Des took up the offer, the rest of us ploughed across the road. I could see the hare was beginning to wonder if he was going to get his just chips back in the pub.
Up and down. Up and down. Just how many stiles are there in Butlers Cross? Trip over the water pipe carefully placed across the track. Horsey people really do not care for any other creatures’ well being. Hodgemoor wood appeared on our radar and then disappeared behind us. We then bade farewell to the hare, although we did not know it was such at the time. “Run up the hill”, he said, “then you will see the sign”. So we did. However, we ran to the top of the hill. What the hare didn’t say was run half way up the hill and turn right.
At the top of the hill was a check that looked familiar, but we checked it out all the same, while the remainder of our group ran straight on (and that was the last we saw of them). Phil C called us left which we duly heeded until we met the water pipe across the track again and realised what we had done. We returned back to the check while Phil C ran on (and that was the last we saw of him).
What to do? If in doubt, run on. At Newbarn Lane there was no sign of the first group. If we had turned right, we would have been back at the pub in 10 minutes, so we turned left instead. It was at this point that I was appointed leader on a show of hands. Not that I could see this, of course, as I was out front. I think I won this appointment because I was leading at the time and my band of merry followers thought that I was suitably blameworthy.
Mile 5 flew by, then a sign I recognised, Jordans (1 mile). Mile 6 flew by. There was the sound of choking behind me. I suspect that was because my followers could not decide whether to mutter, curse or breathe, wanting of course to do all three, without realising that these actions were mutually exclusive.
At last, two signs. Seer Green Lane and a man with a dog. The man confirmed that Seer Green Lane did indeed lead directly to Seer Green, as we suspected. (Aside. Phil C stopped a car in Newbarn Lane to find his way back). We were on a roll. Mile 7 did not seem so far after all.
Then we were home and dry. Except that the heavens opened just as I put on my change of (dry) clothing and threw my heavy (sodden) fleece into the car. So I was wet again. And the chips had been finished. But no one was lost.
The barmaid was wearing a T shirt saying “The Cricketers” on the back. “What happened to the Jolly?” said I. “Oh, there wasn’t room”. Being a devotee of lateral thinking, I thought: If the T shirt was worn back to front, there wouldn’t be a problem.
Thank you Mike, for actions beyond the call of duty, namely setting the run in the rain, then actually running with the FRBS.