Torrential rain overnight and right up until the "Off" tried The Hare's ability to "look on the bright side" to the max. A landscape with features that would have been familiar to Noah awaited us initially under a grey and threatening sky.

A grand turnout, almost everyone clad in their favourite little red dresses. Bika with a full length formal creation stole the show, while The Ref had decided to fill out the bodice with some cleavage, "It just doesn't fit right otherwise" he said.

Once called to order, our JM who identifies as male, (short claret skirt and blood red beret at a jaunty angle) addressed us. with a welcome for virgin Sarah, and welcome visitors Dr Pussy and Camping Gaz (Guildford HHH). Historically speaking it was apparently the anniversary of the death (1478) in the Tower Of London of The Duke of Clarence, who died after the TOL HHH nominated him for one too many Down Downs of Malmsey Wine. The pack were paying perfunctory attention to what the Hares had to say until the word "Gin" cropped up, what's that ? ... Gin infusion on trail ... lets get going then!.

Some falsies in the suburbia of Orchard Side gave way to a southerly dash on the footpath just West of Uphill Way to a check at Little Boultons. As promised, the FP was a ribbon of slurry and the check ankle deep, This time we couldn't blame the Hares for not considering the tides, this was beyond their control, but Hey! the sun started coming out now and again and enveloping us in warm embraces. Of the three ways from here Olive Oyl chose the right one on the FP West to the road at Bridge Farm, seemingly making light work of running while wearing a near pencil cut dress.

Round the corner, a short hop to Crosbie Bridge and the well topped up canal. Not being local, Dr Pussy headed off towards The Marina while Sweaty Butterfly, The Ref, Olive Oyl, Kinky and Bambi all found the arrow in the opposite direction and sprinted up the towpath to the site of the old Selsey Tram Drawbridge.

A regroup here, and when Slightly Disappointing arrived, we were not disappointed when he whipped out a flask of the Gin Infusion and a load of shot plastics. The throng swelled gradually and there ensued a great deal of nattering. Overheard by Bambi, something about the Fox Hunting ban, "does my bum look big in this?", "are we nearly there yet?", "there is a geocache here somewhere", etc.

The Hares suggested that some might want to bail out now and go in, because the remainder was going to be really wet, of course this was as good as a red rag to bull, or rather a red dress to a Hasher. For it is common knowledge that while wearing a red dress and stoked up on gin, your Hasher is impervious to pain, invincible and can walk on water.

There was some talk of the Hares "avin us on", because the trail now used perfectly dry pavements to circle round the area behind The Spotted Cow and zero in on Downtown Hunston, and it's red hot financial district namely The Post Office. Then it was suddenly deja vue all over again, yes, run one thousand, the Post Office, we have been here before, we came down Southover Way, lets re-trace our steps, yes flour, On! On!.

At the dead end of the road a broad vista of paddy fields greeted us, the weak winter sun glinting off a surface that was patterned by the regularly planted sprouts of winter wheat.

Now was the time to practice walking on water, as Camping Gaz and The Ref took us over to the copse, discovering on the way that eventually water leaks through the lace holes causing the shoes to loose buoyancy and sink. This is why Slightly was wearing wellies, the buoyancy is retained, enabling him to walk on water.

After a brief regroup at the entrance to the copse, we were treated to a good old false trail runaround in and out of the trees before heading back towards the main road. Here, all the water had gathered in the hollow of the path to form a brown turgid canal, surely we could walk on that?. But no, leaky lace holes again sank our feet to the bottom. A voice from the other side of the fence, "I would't hang about there too long if I were you", "why?", "well that lot has come up through the sewage pipe in my garden." And we thought it was odd to see all those pine cones floating in the trench. Obviously the usual stinky state of your average Hasher had masked the odoriferous emanations from the trench.

All that now remained was a quick loop down to the church and back through the lake that was once a playing field, reaching the ON-IN after just under one hour of trying to walk on water.

Circling up at Hunston Community Club, there were a load of Down Downs, including The Hares (nice to hear the dicky dido), The Virgin, Bika (best dress), The Ref, and Dr Pussy with Sausage Lottery inherited the Hash-It, the reason escapes.

Then it was into the club, where the Hares had spread munchies out on the pool table for us to nibble while nattering over many a noggin.