The Hares watched the weather forecast unfold with weak knees and hollow hearts. Torrential rain forecast for 48 hours, pre/during AND post hash. Bugger! Skidmark made the executive decision to watch the home fires. G-String made the executive decision to get drunk, rope Bell End in, and leave it all to the vagaries of 'live haring'!

The plan worked well. Bell End was duly enticed with the promise of a square meal, a bed for the night and 4 bottles of wine, (did anyone notice that it took him a while to get into the beer on Sunday?)

Saturday evening eventually ended on Sunday morning and, after a few hours sleep, it was bacon butties and a quick jog over to Henlow to start laying the run.

There isn't much to remark about the live haring as there's only so much that can be written about dropping flour whilst chewing on bits of regurgitated bacon that are tainted with the previous evening's wine.

Come 10:30 the hares lay in wait for the pack, expecting to see them making their way up to Clifton. 10:45 and the hares were still waiting for the pack to make their way to Clifton. G-String grew nervous, fearing lost hashers, a grumbling GM and families torn asunder. Bell End grew cold. In the end, after the briefest of debates, Bell End won out and the hares headed for the pub.

Intrigue! On the way to lay the On Inn, the pack were heard coming up a (substantial) false trail that they should have encountered 20 minutes previously. Tardy hashing, I say. Worried about the possibility of being spotted, the hares dropped to the ground and hid in Henlow's equivalent of elephant grass. More a sort of Yorkshire Terrier grass really. Incredibly the hash passed right past, not noticing the two brightly coloured berks crouching to all of 3 foot lumps behind 1 foot of cover. It was illuminating to hear the calls of "T" and "falsie", closely followed by the GM lamely barking "check it out!" Oh GM! Is this the leadership that made Britain's navy the most feared on the high seas?

The poor pack not only missed the carefully crafted trail around Clifton duck pond, but also "the 50 metres of gnashing, wolfdog death". A shame really because the hares thought the prospect of the pooch-pushing hashers encountering this hideously vicious beast an absolute pant wetter.

The GM can, however, be hailed for fine executive leadership in that, by missing out the beauty that is old Clifton, the pack actually arrived back at the pub with 2 minutes to opening time. Not bad, eh?

So, On Inn m'hearties. On Inn to a beer festival. Not just any old beer festival, but an Engineer's Arms beer festival! Wahey!! Cue an afternoon/evening of fine ales, corking conversation and falling asleep on the living room floor! Technically, G-String slept for 13 hours on Sunday/Monday but strangely woke up feeling hardly refreshed at all.

Down downs were awarded to the hares, to somebody for forgetfulness, to Chrispy & Mrs P for returning, to Pooper for something else, and so on. Oh yes, the hashit went to Big Blouse (after a detour). Life does get a bit vague in the immediate aftermath of an Engineer's Arms beer festival.

Not quite Mrs Slocombe's pussy, but late stragglers/hard core engineers/carpet eating snorers were treated to It's Smegmerlda's terrier to round off the evening. Ruff!

On On.

G-String and Bell End.