Well, it was hilly. There's no getting away from that. Ken could have set a nice flat hash from Smokey Row. But why bother with that when Coombe Hill loomed magnificently in the near distance? Ken explained at the start that there was a short - 3.6 miles, cue groans from the SCS; a medium - 5.7 miles, cue crys of "Medium??!! How long's the long then??"; and a long - 6.2 miles, cue mutters of "wish I'd never asked". There was also an option marked with a C which Ken claimed stood for Coombe Hill but many of us suspected was the first of some letters we would later use to describe Ken.
The start of the hash led us rather bizarrely across two back gardens, one complete with loose puppy - so much banging of gates and yapping of dogs.
On on across the train tracks to join a short stretch of the North Buckinghamshire Way, across some oddly lumpy terrain that Gerry wants me to describe in some archaeological detail but I can't be arsed (something about a medieval double moat, whatEVER, let's get to the funny stuff Jo said). I think it was this point that Jo was explaining that she was a vigorous opponent of no sex before marriage (or some such slip of the tongue, which incidentally is something Jo seems very good at - or so I've heard... anyway back to the hash report)
Crossing the superfast Aylesbury Road, barely pausing to admire the magnificent Church of St Nicholas, we proceeded uphill to work our way, thankfully, around the base of Pulpit Hill, pausing for a hash group photo call as we enjoyed stunning views across the Vales of Oxford & Aylesbury. Past Ellesborough Warren and Cymbeline's Castle (which gave its name to the Kimbles, the name Kimble deriving from the old English words cyne & belle and meaning 'Royal bell-shaped hill' - apparently) we arrived at the Long-Short split, at which point us mad SCBs saw Coombe Hill and thought, "Yeah! We'll have a bit of that!"
To be fair to Ken, he had set a shortcut along the base of the hill, but I don't think anyone was sensible enough to take this option, so it was straight up (and I mean up) the calf-stretching side of Coombe Hill. Helen seemed to gad up and down the track with impunity, but the rest of us were more than happy to take it steadily before finally summiting, at the Boer War Memorial, to the bemusement of the stoner youth indulging in the old Whacky Baccy. What would Kipling or Baden-Powell have made of it?
From the top there was only one way to go, downhill faster than Gordon Brown's hopes of re-election. Through the golf club, doing our best to scuff up the greens on the way (as Mark Twain said, golf is a good walk
ruined) then across the fields behind Butlers Cross to find our way back to the Aylesbury Road, then back through Little Kimble, waving to the waiter at the Ruby Murray house, before a bizarre dog-leg diversion brought us back round to the boozer.
Back at the pub it was Tosca night, but the GM's usual waffle was surpassed beautifully for once by Mike, who was recognised by the barmaid collecting pots as her former drama teacher; to which his response was to say he was glad she remembered him and he hoped he hadn't fondled her! Oh dear, cross another pub off the list...