99

days to Athletics Varsity

September 2004: Wet, wet, wet

By Andy Bell

'Twas the night before training camp.
All through the house,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a mouse.

... Actually, Ben was making strange grunting noises in his sleep, but apparently that's normal.

And I was very excited. Not just because I was sharing Ben's room for the night, not just because distant party-tunes from Matt Hallissey's pad were wafting gently in through the window. But because tomorrow would be the start of a Great Expedition. A daring adventure in the wild lands of Cumbria. The Hare & Hounds summer training camp 2004.

Sunday

A prelude to our northern voyage was the Chariots of Fire relay competition. Held in honour of the famous 1924 "Chariots of Fire" Olympics, this 6-leg road race around Cambridge town centre has been won by the Hare & Hounds every year since its inauguration. And with this in mind, a rather cocky-looking team swaggered up to the start line at 9:30, chests puffed proudly out under their light blue vests. How much would they win by this time?

Well, once the race got underway it became clear that they wouldn't win at all. Hunts A.C. opened out a terrifying lead early on and ended up smashing the course record by two and a half minutes, with the Cambridge men trailing into second position. It was a near case of Egg-On-Face for Captain Hope, who had been engaged in some brash banter with the local press leading up to race day.

Luckily, Hunts man Neil Speaight had been spotted running two legs in the relay, and the self-proclaimed "Green Machine" was disqualified at the last minute. And so it was that the lads conjured up a dirrrty victory to keep their unbeaten record intact. To cap off the morning, Cambridge ladies (Jules, Sophie, Alice, Lucy, Karen and Claire) won the women's race as well, but in a far less controversial manner... that is, they ran faster than everyone else.

Shortly after the presentation (which most of the men's team managed to avoid), an enthused gathering of thirty Haries sprouted on Selwyn's front court. They were joined by a minibus, two cars and an oversized coach that claimed to be a people-carrier. Engines were revved, kerbs were clipped and cars were stalled four times in embarrassing situations... but eventually we all made it safely onto the motorway and began our northward journey.

To say that the trip to Rydal was uneventful would be... an outright lie. Moments after setting off, the camper convoy ploughed into a swarm of roadworks and diversions. Confusion was rife, with signs pointing this way and that, and at one stage it seemed Alex McIntosh's brain would melt with the stress. Some creative navigating by Rob Darvill saw one dinky Nissan Micra embarking on a quaint - but perhaps unnecessary - tour of St. Ives, closely followed by the Harris bus of lurrve, before escaping onto the M6.

Several hours later, Neil "boy racer" Mathur screeched home with a minibus full of traumatised energetic passengers, eager to leap into action for a cheeky run before anyone else arrived. Rob Harris soon followed with his bloated people-carrier, while Andy Bell's car was mistakenly directed to a social event at the nearby home of Sir William Wordsworth.

Ben and Alex, meanwhile, were wand'ring lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once they saw a...
... sign that said "Rydal Hall". So they followed it.

The latecomers were shocked and appalled to discover that there were no beds left in the lads' dorm., and it was with Tremendous Reluctance that they skipped merrily into the girls' room for a rousing night's sleep. And there ends Day One.

... I think. Or did something controversial happen later in the night? Oh well...

Monday

It was on the next day that we realised what we were in for. The morning run started off well enough: lolloping down the hill, trotting over the road, and scampering gaily over the damp grass. Then dampness turned to sogginess, sogginess turned to sloshiness, and sloshiness went on to become full-on splashtastic submersion. The fun really started when our track actually plunged into Rydal Water, with Emma "Julie Pooley" Pooley and Jose following suit. The saner among us headed for high ground and tried to think dry thoughts.

Somewhere along the way Flynn took an embarrassing tumble and ended up joining the injured ranks. Alongside fellow invalid Jeff, he was forced to miss the rest of the week's running and resorted to venting his frustration on a large novelty piece of rubber. Whatever floats your boat...

In the gloomy wake of lunch the skies darkened, the rain thickened, and the lakes soon began calling out to us again. There was a general and irrepressible urge to wear indecent clothing. So on came the "porno-shorts" and the skimpy vests, and before we knew it several groups were headed into the wilderness for some leg-pumping action. Ten fearsome fellows were driven to Grisedale Forest for a swift reconnaissance mission, and soon found themselves enduring a rampant fifty-minute tempo run over some voluptuous terrain. Apparently Ben wanted to 'stretch his legs', having just recovered from a bout of injury - you know the story.

Pursued by raging treefolk with gargantuan axes, the squad was lucky not to get lost, but instead followed a guaranteed route all the way back to the lake-cum-car-park. And it was wet.

The day's exertions were rewarded later on that evening, with a nice bit of percentage cooking from our resident culinary experts. Sumptuous pasta bake was followed by a hearty helping of 'Gunge & Sponge' cake, a gooey treat from Ben "the Dessertmaster" Hope and his little helper Abubakiki. The sugar rush triggered a surge in competitive spirit, which could only be contained by a fierce table tennis tournament in the Games room. But once surprise guest Ed Hayles had established himself as Unbeatable Champion, we began to lose interest and soon stumbled off into Ambleside to watch the footy.

Clearly inspired by the previous day's relay drama, Man U squeezed out a contentious victory, and the Harey troupe ponced down to Sporties Disco to celebrate. That is, until one sozzled native squeezed out a contentious fluid over the dance floor and reasons of hygiene compelled us to leave. Tom Coats, who had been considering a bold act of public obscenity just to get in the report, came close when he struck up an intimate parting dance with a burly Cumbrian gentleman, who has asked not to be named. Sadly, he was dragged away before the relationship could develop further.

... And so to bed. With the arrival of numerous new faces earlier in the day, sleeping arrangements were getting - for want of a better word - tight, and Alice was not willing to share her bed for a second time. So Emma and Mark graciously unfurled their tent and joined the sheep for a soggy night's sleep in the open air. Maybe they were the lucky ones... in the Dorm. of Trouser those odd grunting noises had started up again, while a certain Mr. McIntosh had unleashed his startling nocturnal habit of 'sleep-belching' on the ladies.

Delightful.

Tuesday

After the obligatory helping of porridge (thank you, Mother Willer!), Tuesday morning witnessed a mass migration of Haries back to Grisedale Forest, this time for long reps. Woo hoo. There followed half an hour's worth of raging along narrow country paths (occasionally hurdling a well-placed car park barrier), and the tourist-trampling frenzy worked up such a sweat that many were lured into the local Lake for a cheeky warm-down dip. Indeed, Emma and Si were so enamoured of their aquatic adventure that they later probed the depths of Rydal Water. Despite being firmly zipped into his wetsuit, Mr. Rutherford was somewhat overwhelmed by the arctic temperatures and briefly forgot who he was. We reminded him when he got back.

As the afternoon unravelled, a surprise was sprung on those present by Matt Sims. He ripped open his secret Kit Sec. satchel and produced a trendy Hare & Hounds Hoody. The crowds went wild, and he was swept away in a sea of screaming fans, as almost twenty of the furry fellows were ordered that day.

With Jeff napping away and Rich Apps pushing back the boundaries of science from a cosy spot on his bed, the majority of the posse then turned their attention to some core stability. A classic mix of grunting, wheezing and flailing was coordinated by the Dessertmaster, pictured below in the advanced "Hitler's Dog" position (a new addition to the C.U.H.&H. repertoire). Apparently all this sounded very suspect from the Drying Room downstairs...

After several long minutes of recovery the old endorphin buzz had faded, and some of the more animalistic folk were getting edgy again. There could be no substitute for more exercise! So Rich Hewitt threw on his Sherpa gear and led an invasion of the local countryside, followed by a small yet fearsome militia. Circling the lake, they paused briefly to investigate a murky hillside cavern, but were soon spurred on by the lingering threat of badgers and arrived home at a galloping pace. A beeline was made for the shower room, which had already been visited by another - slightly quicker - group of runners, and much fast frigid washing ensued. The plumbing issue continued to impose itself on various hapless Haries throughout the week, despite wide- eyed talk of the "second shower room", a mythical chamber supposedly flowing with boundless hot water and silky soap suds.

...Meanwhile, Tosh could be seen standing to attention in the plunge pool, an agonised look of pride etched on his face. Pioneered by such courageous gentlemen, the 'plunge pool treatment' was rapidly becoming popular as a masochistic warm-down therapy, and a growing flock of thighs was being submersed in the icy water each day. Though most people chose to scamper back into the warm after a few minutes of numbness, hard-as-nails Tosh was determined to prove himself King of Cold and frequently remained in the pool for up to half an hour. He even teased the crowds with a daring exhibition of 'dipping', which is rumoured to have caused permanent anatomical shrinkage. Perhaps it's time to change the subject...

Ah yes - the 'points competition' must be mentioned. A firm training camp favourite, this scheme involves awarding points for all the essential endeavours that make up Hare & Hounds life. That is, 1 point per mile run and 1 point per pint guzzled. By Tuesday evening the challenge was well underway, and a cheeky check of the leader board revealed that Neil, Phil and Jose were flying out in front, due to some secret mileage on Sunday night and excessive abuse of the liver. Would the 100-point target be reached before the end of the camp? It seemed a tantalising possibility.

Similarly tantalising was the challenge dreamed up by an ambitious squad of wannabe mountaineers that night. Fuelled equally by a flash flood of testosterone and a glorious ice cream/crumblecake/apple pie dessert concoction, five macho lads were growing rather keen on the idea of conquering Scafell Pike, England's lofty peak of peaks. But hill-walking would be just too easy! Even my Grandma could do that! So they proudly announced their intention to run, yes RUN, all of the 978 vertical metres to the summit. "I can run an 800 in less than 2 minutes," said Dan Chambers, "and another 200m or so can't be that hard." Guaranteed.

Dan's partners in crime included Matt Hallissey (navigator), Andy Bell (driver), Matt Sims (pack-horse) and Rob Darvill (beautiful assistant). Edd Collins was keen for a piece of the action too, but found himself housebound the next day after one attempt to leap joyfully out of his bunk was complicated by a nearby wall.

In celebration of the expedition, Richard Ward surprised his compatriots by spontaneously downing four pints of water. When everyone had finished goggling at his bloated belly, he rushed off for some important business and - after the brief sound of retching - reappeared looking somewhat slimmer. The Machine had spoken.

Wednesday

As the sun rose on Wednesday morning, Camp Rydal saw itself consumed by a flurry of activity. The Scafell Squad allowed themselves a quick, manly breakfast before gathering their mountaineering kit and bundling into Mr. Bell's beautiful car. In the blink of an eye they had arrived at Seathwaite, a quaint little village at the foot of the Pike, and were ready to begin their epic journey. Unfortunately, several details had been overlooked while planning the trek...

1. It was wet, and f***ing cold. In fact, Seathwaite holds the record for being England's rainiest inhabited resort.
2. The aforementioned "mountaineering kit" consisted of singlets and porno-shorts, with the odd fell shoe thrown in for good measure. It was later realised that this was inappropriate mountain clothing.
3. Scafell Pike is pretty steep.
4. You can't run on rubble.
5. They had entrusted Matt Hallissey with the map. This was a mistake.

After walking around on the misty scree slopes for an hour, long since having forgotten their original mission, the group espied a hobbit scampering towards them. A harey hobbit. 'Twas Emma Pooley, and close behind her followed Claire and Uncle Bas. The trio had set off on a longer, flatter ascent of Scafell that very same morning and, quite importantly, seemed to know where they were going! Graciously escorting our feckless fivesome to the summit, they seized the navigational reins and ensured a safe - though at stages slippery - descent to Seathwaite. Along the way Emma shared some words of wisdom with the clan, most memorably: "Look out for cairns... and don't walk off any cliffs."

Back in Rainyville, large portions of tasty stodge were consumed at the local café, and a plan was hatched to head off in the direction of the swimming baths for a leisurely warm-down. So this is exactly what Emma, Claire and Bas did... With Messieurs Bell and Hallissey 'in control' of the other vehicle, navigational issues were almost inevitable, and by the time they managed to locate the pool it had closed. Mildly annoyed, but quite glad to be alive after some outrageous A-road manoeuvring, the lads finally decided that retiring to Rydal was their safest option.

There they were reunited with the rest of the campers, who it seems had also experienced some swimming pool action that afternoon, after a swift gallop around Derwent Water. Splitting into two groups and blasting round the lake in opposite directions, the bounophobic masses had found their route rather on the moist side and almost succumbed to a premature swimming sesh there and then. I'm told Alex McIntosh was so enraged by the damp that he lost control of his gearstick and let rip a blazing tempo burst, much to the collective desperation of his running buddies.

Having suffered the terrible squelch of Derwent Water, a therapeutic dip in the local baths seemed more than inviting, and everyone was glad of the chance to relax after a hard day's work. Cue the inevitable raucous game of water polo, in which Edd Collins leaps onto a small defenceless child in his thrashing fervour, and within a matter of moments the whole Harey crew had been kicked out of the pool by a furious lifeguard. Hanging their heads in shame, they trotted back to Rydal for some lovin'.

And lovin' was duly dished out, in the form of protein shakes (endless, towering mountains of the stuff, which Ben had shipped in at vast personal expense), scrambled egg on toast (cooked up by the great Uncle Bas) and a time-warped motivational video about some chaps called Seb and Steve... chess- players, I think.

At eight o'clock, with Jeff snugly tucked into bed and sleeping like a large American baby, the scattered pleasures of the night began to surface. The point-merchants went out for another run, flaunting their careless disregard for the limits of human endurance, while Mr. Apps and Mr. Bown got their teeth stuck into a mammoth crossword, flaunting their careless disregard for the limits of anti-social behaviour. A fierce cracker-munching competition was won by dark horse 'Double-D' Edd, who devoured 3 of the torrid devils in 1 minute 11 seconds. And then a brutal insecticide campaign was mounted by Richard Ward and his sidekick Dastardly Darvill. The violence nearly traumatised Catharine Wood, whose 'sheltered upbringing' had kept her well clear of dangerous things like wasps.

To avoid further bloodshed, we were quickmarched down to Ambleside and detained in an alehouse for several hours, therein nourished by fine liquors, monosodium glutamate additives and various disturbed topics of conversation ("Does it also work if you put babies in freezers?" - Matt Sims). A failed attempt to access Sporties Disco, which provoked bitter anti-Cumbrian tirades from the otherwise reticent Miss Wood, and it was time for the posse to join Jeffrey in slumberland.

Night night x

Thursday

When the sun began to stir on Thursday morning and people started slinking dozily out of their bunks, there was but a single, unspoken thought on the collective mind of C.U.H.&H.: fartlek!! That's right - it was time for the funnest and most electrifying session of them all, in which each group of runners would play 'follow the leader' to a designated pace-setter for 3 gut -busting minutes... And once their time was up, the spotlight would fall on each new leader in turn, affording them the same 180-second reign of power.

Needless to say, the sovereignty went to certain people's heads (mentioning no Tom Coats names) and resulted in some seriously hardcore stretches of running. Others preferred to adopt a more novel approach, with Matt Hallissey's hyper-acceleration bursts a particular fan favourite, and Rich Apps's "Let's-just-nail-the-first-3-minutes-and-go-from-there" strategy proving a tad reckless.

After 24 minutes of top-gear action, the battered and broken bodies were dragged back to Rydal for another chilling plunge-pool rendezvous, and a close encounter of the VAT kind courtesy of Matt "schoolboy error" Sims.

The afternoon was set aside for quiet repose and that all-important feature of a successful training regime - recovery. In other words, we all went out running again (well, all except Jeff, obviously, who was snoozing between the cosy folds of his duvet). Richard Ward led a crack squad around Rydal Water, astounding his disciples with the impossible pace of that trademark pygmy shuffle, and all the while preaching his doctrine of 'Natural Wastage'. Alex McIntosh very nearly fell foul of this principle as he stopped to deal with some natural wastage of his own, but luckily those ice-bathed legs brought him back up to speed in no time, and he was prancing merrily along with the rest of the band as they returned to the Hare & Hounds hovel.

A chilly shower later and it was time to go out once more, as the end-of- camp nostalgia coupled with kitchen laziness and a mysterious stench in the girls' dorm impelled us to descend on the pub for a finale meal. And, in spite of the publican's fearsome pet badger (which, though stuffed, showed undue aggression towards a terrified Catharine Wood), the night was a roaring success. Awash with candlelight, gramophone music and a week's worth of endorphins, we dined like kings and indulged the many pleasures of the tongue.

It was a fitting occasion to say farewell to Bas and Jose, two of the club's most lovable young gentlemen, whose days in Cambridge had sadly come to an end. Jose was determined to leave his mark on those present with an astounding display of bar sport performances after the meal, including a beer-mat-tossing victory over Daz and Phil, and an awe-quaffing leg in the subsequent 'pint relay'. He was joined in this endeavour by Rob, the Great Dave, Daz, Phil and Wardy Wardy Woohoo...

After a hearty round of such exuberance - and a prolonged discussion on the cuteness of pigs - it was nearing Flynn's bedtime. So we necked our pints and staggered cheerfully home to the Den, all the while pondering deep issues such as: "Are raptors scarier than badgers?", "Are raptors scarier than badgers armed with clubs?", "Why did the waitress mistake Alice for an ice cream?" and even "Does Andy need a haircut?"

Topped up with 5 pints and wearing a devilish grin, Dan Chambers quickly decided that the answer to the latter question was "yes", and proceeded to address the issue personally. The hours of barbering butchery that followed seem to have been blotted out of my memory, but copious camera footage of the event has survived to tell the tale.

See here for the haircut tale.

(For the record: Dan's hairdressing skills were actually quite impressive, executed with sustained concentration and tireless camp chat for the duration of a 3-hour session!)

Friday

Our last day at Rydal Hall was packed with desperate activity. Even before breakfast, a troupe of fishy individuals had been out to the local swimming pool for some lane-churning exercise. And once they'd been whisked safely home, dripping and exhausted, it was time for a spontaneous Hare & Hounds committee meeting.

We dawdled from place to place looking for a suitable venue, from the sunny surrounds of the front lawn ("It's too cold" - Catharine Wood) to the cosy interior of a nearby coffee shop ("It's too small" - Ben Hope), finally settling on the luxurious backdrop of the Games Room ("It's just right" - Goldilocks). Rob Harris was disgusted, remarking that he'd "never been in a society with so much faffing", and threatened to whip out his Anti-faff Cannon there and then. Luckily it was not needed, as we'd finally managed to get our brains in focus and address the serious matters on the agenda.

I forget exactly what was discussed (possibly due to a seven-month delay in writing this report!!), although three important topics do stand out:

1) Women - Matt Hallissey insisted on having a rant about the fairer sex following his disrupted lie-in that morning. Apparently there had been extended, shrill discussion along the lines of: "Oooh, shall we go swimming?" "I don't know, shall we?" "I like swimming." "Do you like swimming?" "Shall we all go swimming then?" Matt, whose interest in swimming had been minimal, was not amused.

2) Pants - You know those shorts you can buy that have an inner lining? Would you wear pants underneath? Well, Messieurs Bell and Chambers confessed that they would feel naked otherwise, while Rob Harris and Edd Collins proudly represented the other camp.

3) The Spice Girls - A long debate ensued - who is the best Spice Girl? No conclusion was reached.

Exasperated by the intellectual strain, and eager to bash out a cheeky bit of mileage before luncheon, the crew could not resist the call of the wild... so on came the porno-shorts, on came those squelching fell shoes, and out they dashed into the countryside. Matt Sims led a fellowship of nine into the hills, hunting for an elusive trig point which he'd gleefully identified on the map, while other expeditions were mounted hither and thither.

Yet the morning stretched on relentlessly, and even after conquering the local hillocks was there time for more sinew-stretching shenanigans. Flynn offered his services as CUAC muscle-bound circuit-trainer, and was followed onto a sunny patch of lawn by several interested parties. There he found Ms. Tozer, reclining in the summer sun, and apparently fully clad...

... Which is more than can be said for the fine young gentleman we know as Wardy. I'm not sure quite what possessed him, but the rampant stallion attempted Flynn's circuit session in nothing but a - rather revealingly loose - pair of boxer shorts. Though Flynn was obviously impressed, advocating an immediate 'strip circuits' rule, his compatriots struggled to swallow back their vomit and insisted on returning to a less harrowing state of affairs. Rich Apps expressed his unbridled fury at the display by introducing everyone to extreme pain later in the session, a devilish press-up regime his weapon of depredation.

A short dip in the plunge pool, a spot of bombing by fearless Flynn, and a nondescript nutritious lunch followed.

Come siesta time, while Jeff was snoring away in his blankety den, a few of the keen college footballers among us had started to suffer withdrawal symptoms. Ed Brady was shaking and sweating, Rich Apps had a rigid, faraway look in his eyes, and Catharine Wood was bubbling over with unharnessed energy. They needed help, and fast... Thankfully someone had brought along a suitable pig's bladder, so we piled outside and started kicking the thing around gaily. All the while keeping half an eye out for stray killer chickens.

A combination of high spirits, the exhilarating sight of Ed Brady topless, and the frustratingly brilliant footwork of Dan Chambers encouraged some increasingly 'creative' tackling across the pitch. On one occasion Matt Sims was rudely grounded and became entangled with Andy Bell's flailing limbs, while Rich Apps's reputation had become so terrifying that he managed to dispossess Catharine of the ball simply by glaring at her. And as for that slapping incident, well...

Play was almost abandoned when one of bad-boy Brady's thunderbolts steered itself into the river, but the good Lady was smiling down on us once more: Colonel Kelly and Lieutenant Hewitt had soon devised a watertight military strategy to locate and recover the target. Their mission was completed with minimal civilian casualties, and in a matter of moments we were frolicking once more.

Though in most cases they caused a kind of happy, delusional exhaustion, the rigours of the match seemed to instil Dan with yet more energy, and afterwards he gambolled off into the wilderness to complete a day's half- marathon of training. The remaining players waddled indoors for a well-earned rest.

By this stage in the week everyone was pretty knackered. The girls were fed up with doing all the cooking and, as dinner-time approached, a vacant kitchen replaced the usual hive of activity. Having sensed the impending disaster, Catharine Wood rounded up a herd of slovenly males and whip-cracked them into action, supervising the culinary circus as it gathered momentum. Matt Sims took charge of the veggie dish, Ed Brady engaged in some Freudian carrot-chopping, and Andy Bell pondered the size of his garlic. Somehow, albeit slightly behind schedule, a vat of mouth-watering swill was produced and proudly ladled out among the masses. The taste was unforgettable.

After everyone had eaten (or died trying), Lucy donned her jester's hat to present the camp prizes. All manner of foolish and amusing episodes were rewarded, from a certain Scafell trek to Catharine's badger attack, and the love in the room blossomed like a wild flower. Of the two vaguely serious awards, Jose was proclaimed Animal Of The Camp and Neil underlined his all- round ferocity by winning the Points competition (though tragically falling short of that much-anticipated century).

A violent bout of washing-up ensued, with Catherine Hanna inflicting some vicious wounds on Diieuurghjyarkllloghmuiryd O'Schealljrhyhhghochuurdha (pronounced "Durmud O'Shay"). He was rushed down to the pub immediately for medical attention, and most of the happy campers followed, hungry to satisfy their now raging MSG addictions with salted peanuts. Ben stayed behind to grate some lemon...

... And sprinkle it on the sculpted masterpiece of a cheesecake he'd just created. The Dessertmaster's final effort of camp was much appreciated by his comrades, who cunningly returned from the saloon before he'd had a chance to gobble it all himself.

The evening faded in a spinning maelstrom of lemony pleasure, as we staggered blissfully bedward.

Saturday

On the last morning of camp, a leisurely breakfast was followed by horrendous quantities of faff. It was clean-up time! While a small minority* had secretly been looking forward to this moment all week, it was received with general grumbling reluctance and anxiety. Even Captain Hope was scared, issuing a half-hearted call to arms in his usual politically correct way**. But everyone gritted their teeth to tackle this, the hardest session of the week, and by 10:30 the place was looking darned spotless.

Choking back the tears we gathered our belongings and bade Rydal farewell, before revving up the Hare & Hounds convoy and chugging south to the fair land of Frodsham.

It took a few attempts and a few more 'phone calls to find the right hotel, but eventually the full complement of Haries had arrived to meet their hosts for the day, Cheshire Tallyho Hare & Hounds. The Ho had invited us to take part in their annual Frodsham trail, an 8-mile jaunt in the countryside... but with a twist! These guys take their title literally, and send out a husk of 'hares' before each race in order to set the course, laying sawdust markers as they go. When the 'hounds' are subsequently released, they must sniff out the markers and chase those hares like there's no tomorrow. Just to throw caution to the wind, the hounds are set off with staggered handicaps as well - now that's excitement!

For Rich Apps, the pre-race tension proved fairly bowel-loosening, and there was a shared feeling of relief when we had escaped from the changing room and could start breathing again.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Edd Collins was out in full colour-coordinated plumage. A fine day for a run in the country, what. The Haries were all to be hounds for the day, bolting off into the lush yonder at regular intervals and prancing blithely between the hedgerows in their hunt for the little heaps of sawdust.

It soon became clear, however, that we'd underestimated the orienteering skill required for this task. As the mounds became smaller and ever more obscurely positioned, progress petered out dramatically. Ed Brady, leading the last pack of runners and determined to flash some pacy running, was thwarted time and again by the dubious marking. On one occasion he ended up running laps round a field, scouring the perimeter for clues to the intended route, and later on forfeited an impressive lead over his fellow trekkers through a blunder of misdirection.

When the course detoured through a small bungalow our frustration melted into helpless amusement and baffled mirth... Luckily one of the Cheshire hares had doubled back by this stage and taken to cycling alongside us, shouting directions, so further calamities were avoided.

Hmmm, except for the Tallyho chap who tripped and broke his nose!

As a paper-chasing virgin, the fixture was a bit of a novelty for me, but the chance to indulge in our dear sport's traditions while skipping freely through the untamed rustic jungle of Frodsham was very much appreciated. A full account of the day's exertions, told from a Tallyho perspective, can be found online, under Reports (Frodsham I).

And I'm pleased to say that our stay with the Ho did not end there. No siree!! After scraping the mud from our various nooks and crannies, we were treated to the resplendent facilities of the hotel - swimming pool, jacuzzi, sauna, spa... even a Eucalyptus Steam Room! A whole world of pleasure enveloped the tired folk, as aching limbs sizzled and glowed their way to recovery.

A slothful departure from the pool was followed by another round of pampering, this time in the realm of gastronomy. We gulped down a tasty three-course meal with the Tallyhost and took delight in hearing Ben flex his public-speaking muscles, before diving down to the hotel lobby for a coffeetastic finale. Once the designated drivers had been dosed up on caffeine, and Rich Apps had been rescued from the clutching talons of Natural Wastage, we bundled into the menagerie of vehicles outside, wound down the windows, cranked up the bass, and roared out onto the open road.

In the hours that followed, a vast ocean of motorways, service stations and tarmac mileage drifted past...

...The sky grew darker and the roads emptier...

...The conversation slurred...

...The drivers weary...

...And finally, in the dead of night, we were floating down those old Cambridge streets once more.

The late hour called for emergency sleeping arrangements, and Edd Collins bravely opened his room up. Somehow Dan coaxed his parents into driving all the way from Watford to collect him... that boy could charm the hind legs off a donkey!

My final night was spent sprawled on Ben's cosy floor, dreaming the dreams of adventures past. In the silence of the night, punctuated only by those wheezy grunts and the occasional fire alarm, I drifted peacefully into the murky subconscious depths of Slumber Valley. And there I met Ed Brady...

To Be Continued

Many Thanks To:

* Alice and Claire later confessed to suffering from a weird kind of 'cleaning compulsion'... And Ulrich was way too happy scrubbing those toilets. No one really minded though.

** I believe the precise wording was: "Many girls make light work."