VENUE: Silver Sands, Christ Church
DATE: 2 nd July, 2005
HARES: Kevin “Full Monty” Harrison & Damian “Dr Dish” Pike
SCRIBE: Cat Woman
With the sun still high in the sky we gathered together beside where the bar was being set up. A magnificent view over glistening crystal waters and bright white sand spread out beneath us on the aptly named Silver Sands beach.
As more and more joined the throng, we struggled to maintain our spot in the shade, under the trees. Amidst the jostling I heard one hasher (namely George Medford) remark; “I’m starting to sweat before we’ve even begun!” he wasn’t the last to be affected by the rays of the sun either.
At shortly after four we were called to attention by the hares and along with the usual formalities came a couple of announcements (note: I find myself much more inclined to listen whilst holding a cold beer in hand rather than with the sun pounding down on my head). And ON we went in the direction of the car park past some rather innocuous looking toilets. Incidentally, I was later informed that these were “special toilets” which naturally pique my curiosity and sent my imagination into overdrive expecting tales of naughtiness and scandal. Alas, I have a young but filthy mind! I was still a little shocked, however, to hear something about the minister of housing for Barbados having spent somewhere in the region of $300 000 in the construction of said lavatories!! (And no, they do not have gold-plated seats which heat up when you sit your behind on them!)
Anyway, back to business, no not the toilet business…
Once out of the car park we encountered the first check point almost immediately. The sun was beating down and at once the effects of the heat were immediately obvious. Normally upstanding (when not drunk of course) and veteran hashers suddenly transformed themselves into snipping, irritable and grumpy old men. (You know who you are)
A sarcastic cry of, “Hello, you there, do you know the rules?!” “Well yes thanks, I do” I replied innocently and with a smile, thinking hemust have mistaken me for a virgin.
“So what was that for a call…‘There’s one…’ “ he said. (In what I might add was a very poor imitation of my midlands-twinged accent.)
Well, excuse me (!) for answering a walker’s question. I never realized we had to holler every conversation we had so everybody could hear and it wasn’t as if I’d located the on-on.
And so progressed the hash, proceeding in a wonderful zigzag movement and making excellent use of the only real hill we happened upon. Up and down we went. Then up again and down again until we were positively nauseous, terrific!
Then we once more found ourselves on the unforgiving burning surface of the road. Just before the halfway point, through the sweltering heat given off by the tarmac two figures loomed before our eyes, standing in front of a rum shop. A mirage? No. Just Kevin and Damien, kicking back in the shade, with a couple of cold ones no less! And there was I without a dime. As I carried on, just one word kept repeating itself in my head over and over – bastards!
ON and onwards we continued, led by Jean Claude at the front and a little further back encouraged by a dog. Are dogs allowed on the hash? If so, I may have a suggestion… Could we train him to go off in search of the crosses and dead ends in order to save the diligent Brian Stanley the trouble? If I’m not mistaken the faithful hound (that’s Brian, not the dog) went off in the wrong direction at every check!!!
At long last we neared the lighthouse and were hit by a very welcome sea breeze. Mutterings of “not far now” and “bring on the beer” could be heard throughout. Across some ankle-twisting rockery and then a good solid run along a virtually empty beach, just as the sun was beginning to dip. Finally, for the runners, a climb up some dodgy, sharp rocks in a last ditch attempt to loose a couple of tired hashers, and hence free up more beer,then ON-IN to the bar.
Finally, before signing off, a warm welcome back to Campbell, the prodigal son. A little birdie told me it’s been awhile. Wildcat.
