Forever Blowing and Bubbles diligently drove their car to Gressingham and set perhaps the greatest hash run ever back to their refuge in Caton Green.  Alas events conspired such that we will never know.

Hounds gathered at the Caton Green refuge, pockets a-jangle with formidable quantities of coins to feed the insatiable appetite of Stagecoach shareholders and the Magic Bus that was to take us to Gressingham and re-unite hares with car and more importantly the hash bucket.

An ominous thunderclap foretold of tribulations ahead. Hares and hounds felt the first fat drops of rain as they waited nervously looking skywards at the leaden clouds. The rain became a torrent and, monkey like, the pack melted into the trees seeking the cover of the branches.  Soon it was not so much hash hounds, rather it was drowned hash rats.  The shelter might have worked if the Magic Bus deigned to arrive at the alloted hour, but the minutes ticked by and the cold wet rain seeped in.  The hares wisely announced Plan B.

Plan B was yours truly, Lurch, leading the pack around the river to the Crook of Lune in a short, fast, heat generating burst.  Three hundred yards on and the Magic Bus hove into view, but by now the drowned rats wanted to run.  We ran, that is apart from STT and Minor Twat.

The rain eased, the sun re-appeared, and its light reflected, refracted from the fleeing raindrops produced the most spectacular rainbows to delight us.

We looped around the river and then extended the run to avoid the river bank and the road hence returned around Annas Ghyl.

Back at the refuge, Bubbles and Forever Blowing treated us most royally to excellent food and beer. Top marks hares: thank you.