On the face of it just a grey day in the Downs, the snaps do not hint at the warm humid air and the feeling of impending precipitation as a nice crowd gathered on the rock hard verge opposite Marsh Pond. "Some big fish in there" said Dr Blood, and I noticed a grey heron fly away, disturbed by us no doubt, probably with a belly full of tiddlers.

It was nice to see Slightly Disappointing back after doing something with the canaries in his house, no wait a minute, doing something to his house in The Canaries, that's it. Nappy Rash also joined us after noticing our sign boards on Cocking Causeway, Hash ready at the drop of a hat.

The hares' briefing went on and on and on and on and etc. warnings about this and that, something they called "Silent Checks", what?, like no alcohol pubs, or vegan sausages, or fat free ice cream or decaffeinated coffee. Also they hinted that they had tried to "prune" the trail to it's bare bones, ominous this, for hares that have a penchant for marathon long portions.

With most of the morning now already gone we ushered ourselves out and after a bit of circling around like racing pigeons we settled on a direction, south to St James's church. There was no service in progress, yet there were S checks everywhere here, and hashers were reduced to mimicking Marcel Marceau, you know, the famous French silent hasher.

Ahead of us lay the almost vertical climb up Heyshott Down, but try as we might, to find flour in other directions an inexorable upward trail south, through too ripe wheat, ensued until we had an impromptu regroup at a last chance to avoid having to scale the natural wall of chalk ahead. As we caught our breath, Kinky drew some of the more wayward hashers in our direction with several blows of his horn, he makes it look so easy, lots of hashers would like to blow Kinky's horn but are to afraid to ask, or are scared of horn blower transmitted infections like monkey pox.

Thankfully the path further south was false, however the hares had laid a crafty check here and it took us ages to discover the continuation of our hashing experience east through Manor Farm, more 𝄞ppppp checks and several kennels full of spaniels all eager to join us but unable to break out, "ain't life a bitch" is what their woofs were saying.

We could have continued on the flat, east via Beech Barn to Haylands Farm, but oh! No! the trail trifled with the lower slopes of Gadds Bottom by shimmying up through Mellersh's Copse with a fish hook to boot, which caught Snake Charmer, Slightly, Kinky and Bambi. At Haylands Farm we could have gone directly to Woodcote Farm, but oh! No! we continued east over more hard parched stubble, and the "are we nearly there yet" moaning started. First it was Pocket Rocket, maybe to be expected from a teenager, then it spread genetically to Snake Charmer, then to Splasher, then to ... well you get the drift. I did not have the heart to tell them that we were almost in Graffham and a long long way from the chariots, I would have been lynched while crying out "don't blame the messenger".

At Woodcote we started the return by heading north west through Baxter's Copse and then west at the small pond, here in the trees the humidity was oppressive and there were all sorts of flying critters intent on sampling our flesh and blood.

Nowhere to go now, but take the long slog back to Heyshott via Hoyle lane, of course broken by a fish hook that caught, Bambi, Kinky, Pocket Rocket, Dr Blood (a hare, did he have to?), Popeye and Splasher, although by now everyone was walking, as the hash seemed to go on and on and on, just like this narrative.

Now, it so happens that the trail went right past the Unicorn, and well, you can guess where most of the pack headed, for a "swift half" before strolling back to the On-In at Marsh pond after about one and a half hours of sweaty hashing.

We went straight back to the garden of The Unicorn for the circle, a lovely view towards the edge of The Downs with billowy dark clouds gathering above. Here we learned that Pink Flamingo had just celebrated a birthday (not polite to ask for numerics) and that she thought a nice long Hash would be her treat to us. This was somewhat trumped by Splasher who was celebrating his sixty eighth year on the planet, so we gave him the Hash-It.

The amber nectar and conversation were flowing freely when the wind started to carry a warm persistent shower from the South, and although the meagre umbrellas offered some shelter, most of us received quite a soaking while carrying on regardless.