They say that eskimos have fifty different phrases to describe snow, including the well known advice "dont eat the yellow snow !". We need only one phrase to describe the rain last sunday morning.
An early arrival at the start was a police patrol car, apparently looking for some shady characters that had nicked a Jaguar Sovereign , the identikit images looked vaugely familiar.
We had guest appearances from our walking wounded, Spiderman eager to show us the scar from his hip op and Humble Scribe whos Achillies thingy is still no better, also I have learned that The Gnu is in a wheelchair with a cracked pelvis after falling off her bike!.
Initially we swam around in the southeast corner of the wood finding some quite large dolups of dough and no surprises, eventualy we fetched up at the seven way signpost on Stane Street and joined a large group of hikers sheltering under the tree. Finding a way out proved hard work with our joint master being taken in by the old "trail on the right, falsie on the left" ploy.
Eventualy the shoal found its way out into North Wood heading west for the first time, with The Ref being one more to fall for the same previously mentioned ploy.
The finale of the swim came a little further west at the Bermuda Triangle of Eartham where the trail and Frances dissapeared silently for some minutes before being rediscovered amongst the trees above. From thence we swam with the southerly currents back to our longboats.
Ceremonies were a bit disjointed with the Master's entourage changing into dry clothes while the rest of the shoal milled around Treefeller's magnificent umbrella. Nominated were, Panda for coming out and getting her nose wet, the hares for the old left-left-right ploy, Hairbrush for holding his own wet teeshirt contest, but the Hash-it was awared to Canman and Buster (retrospectively) for their adventures on run 607.
Libations were consumed as usual at the George where an optimistic chef had a barbecue hissing away under a windswept gazebo.