The Haar Hanger
- Feb 11
- 3 min read
Updated: Feb 16
This small, simple yet fierce hanger is based on Naval originals from the late 17th and early 18th Centuries. With a short, straight, single-edged blade and a low-profile slotted hilt, it is perfect for swift cuts and close fights. Its central pivot lends it a strong presence despite its light weight, while the simple guard allows for a range of grips.
The sword is named for the thick sea fog that affects eastern Scotland and North-Eastern England. Our client requested a "maritime fog feel" to the simple decoration, as the hanger would be used for Naval-type drills, and the Scots word "Haar" felt perfect for the beautifully bleak grey fog that British seafarers often face.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 82cm
Blade length: 66cm from cross
Blade width at widest: 2.5cm
Grip length: 10cm
Grip and pommel: 14.5cm
Grip to guard: 5.5cm
Quillon span: 12cm
Weight: 550g
Point of Balance: 14.5cm from cross
Ambidextrous
Blunt edges & rounded tip
Fencing safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and solid pommel are polished to a satin finish. The simple slotted guard is leaf-shaped, and curves up into a knucklebow. The pommel is a small ovoid shape, with a pronounced collar to the base and a faceted knut to the top. It features hand-carved swirling lines.
The oak grip is carved into a spiral shape, then wrapped in linen thread and smoke-grey kidskin, and finished with a twist of steel wire. The single-edged blade features a saber grind with a second fuller to the spine.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Foggy Feeling ∴
The haar hangs as thick as wet wool, and as close as a fist. The men on deck are growing restless, speaking of ships that entered the mists, never to return. You don't know about that, but you do know that the fog has swallowed the horizon, and even the sound of gulls feels muffled through it.
The frigate drifts under shortened sail, its timbers breathing softly, the sound disconcerting in the featureless grey. Scowling, you tap the binnacle, where the compass arrow spins without sense, dancing madly on its little brass pin.
You'll be damned if this is how you go: becalmed in the silent grey with no sun, no sound of surf on shore, no direction home. Again you tap the compass.
Then you feel a tremor at your side. At first you think it your own pulse, or a spasm of cabin-bound muscles. But as you place your hand on the smoke-grey grip of your sword, you feel a subtle twist between your fingers.
Drawing it, you think yourself half mad, but you could swear that the straight blade pulls your hand after it, pointing off the starboard bow. And squinting down its narrow blade, you see a shape emerging from the grey.
At first you think it the shadow of your own frigate. The same rake of a mast. The same cannons bristling the deck. But as it drifts nearer, it gains a spectral sort of solidity. Indeed, there are figures on the deck, and the muffled light glints milky from a blade that one is holding.
They raise it slowly, and point it directly at you. The compass stops dead in its dance. Your men fall silent.
The stranger does not lower their sword. And neither can you.
