CHRISTMAS wouldn’t be Christmas without a headlong pelt into the deep, dark unknown. The Haldon Hash House Harriers celebrated the festive season by sending us off into the pitch darkness, through ankle-deep mud and straight down an actual waterfall. We wouldn’t have it any other way.
The last hash run before Christmas is traditionally a rather sedate affair, sometimes a short plod through quiet town centre streets, admiring the twinkling lights and ending up in a pub full of tinsel and crackers for a little gentle re-hydration.
This year, however, we found ourselves in Kingswear, under starter’s orders outside the Steam Packet, bouncing up and down and cursing the cold as we awaited the appointed hour to set off. Hashers, as you probably know, follow a trail made up of various symbols, etched in flour on the ground. It is all perfectly environment-friendly, because the flour disappears in the next shower of rain. Some of it does not even survive that long. Somewhere near Brownstone the beam of my head torch picked out the tiny eyes of a mouse eating its way through a blob of flour set down to mark our route.
Fortunately it had left enough for us to find our way. Ernie, a Jack Russell terrier and a supposedly ruthless hunter of all small creatures, took one sideways glance at it and pressed on. He had a beer stop to get to before last orders, after all.
From the village we had climbed out along the coast path, down the steep steps one side of the valley, up the steep steps the other, and out into the dark, dark forest, running on a soft and springy carpet of pine needles in utter darkness, just the little circle of light from the head torch illuminating the way.
Down to our right the waves were crashing in against the rocks, but we had total faith in the hares who had created this late-night labyrinth that they wouldn’t lay a trail that took us over the edge of a precipice and plunging to our certain deaths, so we ploughed on.
A hasher called Windbag took a nasty tumble on the slippery steps. The fall rather took the wind out of his bag, but no lasting damage was done and he was quickly back on the trail.
At the daymark, the tall chimney-like structure at the top of the hill built as a beacon for ships far out at sea, the hares had left a sweetie stop, a tub of festive chocolates whose presence was indicated by a twinkling star propped up against the stonework. It was the best location for a sweetie stop ever. We watched the clouds racing in front of the stars as we ate, looked out at the lights of ships in the Channel and the flashing warning of the buoys marking the mouth of the Dart. What else would you be doing on a cold winter’s night?
Then it was inland to the bona fide waterfall, which may in dryer times be a rocky lane. After a couple of weeks of more or less incessant rain, however, it was a torrent, and it must have been a sight to behold as a long line of figures with little torches on their heads picked and splashed their way down the steep decline.
There was one more long, long climb in the darkness, with the lights of Torbay creating a glow in the sky over the outline of the summit ahead, and then a beer stop.
This is the hashing tradition we like best – a little table set up beside a parked car somewhere in the middle of nowhere, with plastic cups, water, beer and snacks. On this occasion a small snifter of the Famous Grouse was also on the list, and that was very festive indeed. From there on it was all downhill back into Kingswear, where warm, dry cars containing warm, dry clothes waited.
Flim-Flam and Ballyhoo 