There are times when one forgets just how big a county Surrey is until you come to have to drive across it. I was slapped down pretty smart by The Tub for commenting on that with his observation that he and Marion had to do that just about every week. Anyway, it seemed that a number of other hashers felt the same way since it was a relatively small pack that assembled in the Sidney Wood car park on a blustery Sunday morning. And that on a morning with an extra hour’s sleep.

  The hares did not have a great deal to say about the run other than that we would be traversing a field with horses and that there was a short cut before setting us off in an easterly direction towards the Merchant Navy residential home, the Care Ashore. Not the normal direction at all. In fact, I don’t remember ever having been there before. I think I’ll have to see if I qualify. The accommodation looked great and it has its own model boat pond where I could stand in my uniform and navigate my boat around. Better than charging willy nilly around the countryside on Sundays.

  But I digress. Back to the backstory going forward.

  Navigating our way through Care Ashore into open fields, wide open to the ravages of gale force winds on the fringes of Storm Bolero, impacting the grass and forcing a bent posture to battle through the elements. In the distant middle, at a crossroad, Atalanta off to the left 7/8ths of the way to nowhere. To the right, Bigfoot, 3/4ths of the way to nowhere. In the middle, Belcher, who disappeared in a puff of gas leaving his fellow hashers to fend for themselves.

  By the time Machinist and I arrived at the check, Belcher was long gone but we were able to point Atalanta and Bigfoot in the right direction. The last we saw of any living hasher on that trail.

  We progressed on to Turtle Farm. Odd name for a landlocked establishment if you think about it. And here the Landed Gentry appeared. Interrupting a deep conversation between Machinist and myself about the superiority of the orbital gearing on the Toyota Yaris, he reached out to us to enquire whether he might be of assistance in directing us off his lawn. A glance around us showed that meadow had given way to a rather more manicured setting although the nearest residence seemed several hundred yards away in the distance.

  After some tugging of forelocks and explanations from us about a missing group of runners, he told us he had seen a group of people crossing a distant field and explained the best way we might follow to remove ourselves to a public right of way.

  I was greatly heartened by this incident. Real class. None of the crude ‘Get off my F’ing land’, just a courteous ‘You belong over there’. Thank goodness we still have an Upper Crust.

  The pack, of course, had long gone but, arriving at Rosemary Lane, it was clear that the hares were going to subject them to the hazards of the woodlands off to the left. Howling gale, the ever present danger of falling branches and crashing trees not to mention a stretch of tarmac. Balanced against that, a path straight ahead leading almost straight back to the car park, the other end of The Tub’s short cut. That brought us onto the In Trail just as the front runners were arriving back about 12.15

  Clearly a run of two halves with an even split between meadow and wood but it all worked. The sun shone, nobody got blown away or crushed by falling timber and a good length. The tarmac stretch was discreetly left until the second half where the absent GM and those of similar prowess were unlikely to reach and criticise.

  The official GM being absent having a day in bed, Ms Bean took over, awarded the hares their due desserts and handed over to the RA.

  Belcher kept his sinner list short, the miscreants now unfortunately just a shadow at the back of my memory. His joke was also mercifully short, but it got a laugh probably one of relief. However, his own failures were not to go unpunished when Atalanta and Bigfoot claimed victims rights and got Belcher in for a Down Down; failure to stand by his comrade hashers and call them on!

  Then off to the pub. Miniscule but the beer was good and it was interesting to see who was sitting on who’s knee. And it was the nearest surviving pub with the Three Compasses having closed its doors.

  On On,
  Tosser