The Old Man And The Sea (and Me)
Travels with my Grandfather
In which an old fart reviews some favourite parts of his childhood.
My Grandfather had been a sailor before WWII – not any kind of officer - just a sailor. He’d finished as a helmsman or coxswain (the guy who steers the ship) for various shipping lines, but by the beginning of the War, he was too old for the sea, and worked for Harland and Woolf, the Birkenhead ship builders and repairers. His job became an eight-to-five job of steering ships between docks or when they were being towed. He loved to be out and about, and active, and remained so until, early in 1963, a fire engine shot though a give-way junction and compressed the car with my father, my Grandfather, and me down to about half its width. This crippled my Grandfather, and his activity became limited to walking to the end of the front path, to hang on the gate and talk to passers-by.
He had a collection of postcards from the various ports he’d been to, and a set of sketches of ships he’d sailed in. I was astonished to see, among the sketches, one of a ship with sails! Yes, he’d served on a steamship with auxiliary sails, right up to the 30’s! A lot of seamen had some sort of art hobby to pass the time, and, along with the sketches of ships, my Granddad used to do fine painting of birds, flowers and fruit on thin-walled shot glasses. Alas, a family quarrel caused me to lose contact with my Grandmother, and the painted glasses, postcards and ship drawings were lost to my side of the family. But the one thing he had left me was a love of the sea and of ships. To this day, I love to look at the water and the ships on it whenever we’re in Cape Town or Durban.
During my primary school days, between the ages of six and eleven, I looked forward to days out with my Granddad. My memory is clouded after so many years, but it seemed to be that we went out about once a month, on either a Saturday or Sunday. One regular day out was to walk a couple of blocks to Linacre Lane, where we’d catch the number 61 bus. This took us on an hour’s drive around some of the old villages that had been absorbed into Liverpool, zigging and zagging around Queen’s Drive, Liverpool’s main outer circular road. It wasn’t until I started, as an adult, getting into some local history, that I fully realised the kind of places we were going through – to a kid, they were just old houses and churches. But the destination!
Sefton Park (nowhere near Sefton itself) had lots of interesting things – but to a small boy, there was only ONE interest – the lake! Because the lake had, in addition to the usual rowing boats, electric motor boats. With a small steering wheel and a sort of accelerator pedal, they were machines that could be driven by a small boy! (At least once we were away from the jetty and the man who enforced the rules). After an hour of pottering around the lake, we’d stop for tea and a bun before catching the 61 bus home.
Ah, but on special days, we’d catch a bus in the other direction, and ride to the Dingle. There, we’d descend into a subterranean station, to catch a (somewhat rattletrap) train deep below the ground. The train, with its wooden seats and smell of tobacco and ‘leaking electricity’, moved off, and clicked through the darkness for a couple of minutes. Then – the surprise! The train shot out of its underground tunnel, from a hole halfway up a cliff face, and on to an elevated track about 10 metres above the ground! Because this was Liverpool’s Overhead Railway, the “Dockers’ Umbrella”, running the length of Liverpool’s docks and providing an unsurpassed view of the river, the docks and their activity! (Stuff about the ‘Overhead’ at
http://www.subbrit.org.uk/sb-sites/sites/l/liverpool_overhead_railway/index.shtml ).
So, as we rode above the docks, my Granddad would point out ships, and tell me their stories. “There’s one from the so-and-so line, probably brought timber from Canada” or “That’s a Fyffes banana boat from the Caribbean”, or “That’s a reefer (refrigerator ship) that’s brought beef from Argentina”. Or, by Gladstone graving (repair) dock: “There’s a destroyer. Wonder what she’s in for?” And so, along the clattering rail, I was learning the ships, and the countries, and the trading. I asked Granddad if he ever saw any of the ships that he’d sailed in, but “they’re all gone now” was his usual reply. We got off at Seaforth Sands station, and caught the 61 bus for the last mile or so home, making a complete round trip.
But other trips were even more exciting, ‘cos we’d go to sea! (Well, estuary anyway).
On some trips, we’d get the 57 ‘bus from the bottom of our road, and ride it to the terminus at the Pier Head. Yes, the three buildings, one with its ‘Liver Birds’ were impressive (that’s L‑eye-ver, not the wobbly stuff!), but the fun was down on the Landing Stage! This was the old original Victorian stage, with glass and lacy ironwork and wooden floors and waiting rooms. There were the old-fashioned slot machines, where, for a mere sixpence, you could get a box with twopence worth of chocolate covered raisins! (Remember, this was in post-war sweet rationing days, and to get sweets without ration coupons was a real treat!). There was a machine on which you could punch out your own aluminium name tag, a speak-your-weight machine, a fortune-telling machine and others that don’t stick in my mind. But the real action was the arrival and departure of the ferries. Every few minutes, a ferry would pull up to the stage and hold its position against the tide, its propellers churning. A seaman on board would throw a huge (to me) rope with a loop to a landing stage worker, who’d drop it over some enormous steel bitts. The ship seaman would then wind the rope tight against the ferry’s bitts. This would take place at both ends of the ship, and then, as the captain, leaning from the bridge wing above, slowed the engines, the ropes would hold the ship with a shuddering of the whole landing stage and a great creaking of the ropes. Then, the gangways would descend to the ship with a crash, and the passengers would flood off and on. (BTW, I think that the modern ferry terminal may still use some of those old gangways! I mean, those Victorians built stuff to last).
My Grandfather had been a sailor before WWII – not any kind of officer - just a sailor. He’d finished as a helmsman or coxswain (the guy who steers the ship) for various shipping lines, but by the beginning of the War, he was too old for the sea, and worked for Harland and Woolf, the Birkenhead ship builders and repairers. His job became an eight-to-five job of steering ships between docks or when they were being towed. He loved to be out and about, and active, and remained so until, early in 1963, a fire engine shot though a give-way junction and compressed the car with my father, my Grandfather, and me down to about half its width. This crippled my Grandfather, and his activity became limited to walking to the end of the front path, to hang on the gate and talk to passers-by.
He had a collection of postcards from the various ports he’d been to, and a set of sketches of ships he’d sailed in. I was astonished to see, among the sketches, one of a ship with sails! Yes, he’d served on a steamship with auxiliary sails, right up to the 30’s! A lot of seamen had some sort of art hobby to pass the time, and, along with the sketches of ships, my Granddad used to do fine painting of birds, flowers and fruit on thin-walled shot glasses. Alas, a family quarrel caused me to lose contact with my Grandmother, and the painted glasses, postcards and ship drawings were lost to my side of the family. But the one thing he had left me was a love of the sea and of ships. To this day, I love to look at the water and the ships on it whenever we’re in Cape Town or Durban.
During my primary school days, between the ages of six and eleven, I looked forward to days out with my Granddad. My memory is clouded after so many years, but it seemed to be that we went out about once a month, on either a Saturday or Sunday. One regular day out was to walk a couple of blocks to Linacre Lane, where we’d catch the number 61 bus. This took us on an hour’s drive around some of the old villages that had been absorbed into Liverpool, zigging and zagging around Queen’s Drive, Liverpool’s main outer circular road. It wasn’t until I started, as an adult, getting into some local history, that I fully realised the kind of places we were going through – to a kid, they were just old houses and churches. But the destination!
Sefton Park (nowhere near Sefton itself) had lots of interesting things – but to a small boy, there was only ONE interest – the lake! Because the lake had, in addition to the usual rowing boats, electric motor boats. With a small steering wheel and a sort of accelerator pedal, they were machines that could be driven by a small boy! (At least once we were away from the jetty and the man who enforced the rules). After an hour of pottering around the lake, we’d stop for tea and a bun before catching the 61 bus home.
Ah, but on special days, we’d catch a bus in the other direction, and ride to the Dingle. There, we’d descend into a subterranean station, to catch a (somewhat rattletrap) train deep below the ground. The train, with its wooden seats and smell of tobacco and ‘leaking electricity’, moved off, and clicked through the darkness for a couple of minutes. Then – the surprise! The train shot out of its underground tunnel, from a hole halfway up a cliff face, and on to an elevated track about 10 metres above the ground! Because this was Liverpool’s Overhead Railway, the “Dockers’ Umbrella”, running the length of Liverpool’s docks and providing an unsurpassed view of the river, the docks and their activity! (Stuff about the ‘Overhead’ at
http://www.subbrit.org.uk/sb-sites/sites/l/liverpool_overhead_railway/index.shtml ).
So, as we rode above the docks, my Granddad would point out ships, and tell me their stories. “There’s one from the so-and-so line, probably brought timber from Canada” or “That’s a Fyffes banana boat from the Caribbean”, or “That’s a reefer (refrigerator ship) that’s brought beef from Argentina”. Or, by Gladstone graving (repair) dock: “There’s a destroyer. Wonder what she’s in for?” And so, along the clattering rail, I was learning the ships, and the countries, and the trading. I asked Granddad if he ever saw any of the ships that he’d sailed in, but “they’re all gone now” was his usual reply. We got off at Seaforth Sands station, and caught the 61 bus for the last mile or so home, making a complete round trip.
But other trips were even more exciting, ‘cos we’d go to sea! (Well, estuary anyway).
On some trips, we’d get the 57 ‘bus from the bottom of our road, and ride it to the terminus at the Pier Head. Yes, the three buildings, one with its ‘Liver Birds’ were impressive (that’s L‑eye-ver, not the wobbly stuff!), but the fun was down on the Landing Stage! This was the old original Victorian stage, with glass and lacy ironwork and wooden floors and waiting rooms. There were the old-fashioned slot machines, where, for a mere sixpence, you could get a box with twopence worth of chocolate covered raisins! (Remember, this was in post-war sweet rationing days, and to get sweets without ration coupons was a real treat!). There was a machine on which you could punch out your own aluminium name tag, a speak-your-weight machine, a fortune-telling machine and others that don’t stick in my mind. But the real action was the arrival and departure of the ferries. Every few minutes, a ferry would pull up to the stage and hold its position against the tide, its propellers churning. A seaman on board would throw a huge (to me) rope with a loop to a landing stage worker, who’d drop it over some enormous steel bitts. The ship seaman would then wind the rope tight against the ferry’s bitts. This would take place at both ends of the ship, and then, as the captain, leaning from the bridge wing above, slowed the engines, the ropes would hold the ship with a shuddering of the whole landing stage and a great creaking of the ropes. Then, the gangways would descend to the ship with a crash, and the passengers would flood off and on. (BTW, I think that the modern ferry terminal may still use some of those old gangways! I mean, those Victorians built stuff to last).
An aside: The old Victorian iron landing stage, that had been in use for nearly 90 years, was replaced with a modern concrete one in 1975. However, after being open for a few weeks, it SANK in a storm! For years, the ferries had to use the liner stage. Eventually, the landing stage was refloated, only to sink again in 2006. The latest landing stage (maybe a little less sinkable) was opened at the end of 2011.
My Granddad would take me across to Birkenhead on the ferry – I’d rush ahead and get to the top deck where I could see – and we’d take the five minute ride across the Mersey estuary. Twopence for adults, a penny for children. Most of the time we’d just stay on board, and pay the seaman who came around with a bus-ticket machine. But if I could convince my Granddad, we’d get off, go up the covered walkway to the quay (sometimes, at low tide, this could be quite steep), and pay our fare at the top. Just being in a different place was quite exciting for a little boy, but to add to this, right next to the ferry terminal was Birkenhead Woodside railway station. (At the time, for a Liverpudlian to get to Wales without having to go through Manchester, he had to get across the river and start his train journey from Woodside). Unlike the busy railway stations of Liverpool (and the modern stations of today), Woodside didn’t have a barrier that closed the non-travelling public away from the trains, so I could walk up a platform with my Granddad, and stand right next to a huge, huffing and steaming locomotive, and maybe even say hello to the driver! Little boy heaven!
The ferry ride was usually the Birkenhead Woodside one, because the Seacombe ferry, although the same distance, was more expensive. But we’d do that ride now and again. But maybe once or twice, my Granddad would take me on a real boat ride – up the mouth of the estuary to New Brighton! Now this trip took nearly half an hour, compared with the five minutes of the Birkenhead or Seacombe trips, and at the end, if you turned your back on Liverpool, all you could see was sea, out to the horizon! From the New Brighton pier, we’d see the ships coming in or out of the Liverpool docks, and since the pier stuck out quite a long way over the Mersey mud, a little boy got quite a sensation of THE SEA.
Just once, we REALLY went to sea! Once a week in summer, the company that ran the Isle of Man ferries took one of the ships used on the overnight Liverpool-Douglas run and did a pleasure cruise, sailing to Llandudno in North Wales, then on to Menai Bridge in Anglesey, where it waited for a while, then returned to Llandudno to pick up the returning passengers. I remember the outward voyage quite clearly. It must have been a very high tide that day, because the captain took the ship on a ‘short cut’, sailing close to the Wirral and Welsh shorelines, instead of heading out to sea to the Bar lightship and turning left. I remember numerous shipwrecks sticking out of the water, and my Granddad told me that they’d been sunk in the War. Much later, I found that these had probably been ships that had been seriously damaged in the many air raids, but had been towed out of the channel to be sunk where they wouldn’t block access to the docks. But sailing, quite close to land, with ships masts and funnels and bits sticking out of the water, is a very definite memory. I ran all over the ship, where permitted and kept going back to Granddad to drag him to something and ask “What’s this for?” Now about the same age, I feel sorry for a 70-year old man, trying to keep up with a little boy! I remember little about Llandudno itself. I seem to remember taking a bus tour around Great Orme head, but any other memories are liable to be confused with later trips. I do remember the sail back, when my Granddad pointed out the Bar lightship, and told me about the men who spend weeks at anchor, just to keep the light that guides ships into Liverpool. (One of the lightships is now on display at the Albert Dock).
As I went to high school, and became swamped with homework and a 6-day week, my travels with my Grandfather ceased. And, after the accident, when he could no longer be active, he just faded away. But the memories of the journeys, and the ships, and especially of the sea, will stay with me forever.
My Granddad would take me across to Birkenhead on the ferry – I’d rush ahead and get to the top deck where I could see – and we’d take the five minute ride across the Mersey estuary. Twopence for adults, a penny for children. Most of the time we’d just stay on board, and pay the seaman who came around with a bus-ticket machine. But if I could convince my Granddad, we’d get off, go up the covered walkway to the quay (sometimes, at low tide, this could be quite steep), and pay our fare at the top. Just being in a different place was quite exciting for a little boy, but to add to this, right next to the ferry terminal was Birkenhead Woodside railway station. (At the time, for a Liverpudlian to get to Wales without having to go through Manchester, he had to get across the river and start his train journey from Woodside). Unlike the busy railway stations of Liverpool (and the modern stations of today), Woodside didn’t have a barrier that closed the non-travelling public away from the trains, so I could walk up a platform with my Granddad, and stand right next to a huge, huffing and steaming locomotive, and maybe even say hello to the driver! Little boy heaven!
The ferry ride was usually the Birkenhead Woodside one, because the Seacombe ferry, although the same distance, was more expensive. But we’d do that ride now and again. But maybe once or twice, my Granddad would take me on a real boat ride – up the mouth of the estuary to New Brighton! Now this trip took nearly half an hour, compared with the five minutes of the Birkenhead or Seacombe trips, and at the end, if you turned your back on Liverpool, all you could see was sea, out to the horizon! From the New Brighton pier, we’d see the ships coming in or out of the Liverpool docks, and since the pier stuck out quite a long way over the Mersey mud, a little boy got quite a sensation of THE SEA.
Just once, we REALLY went to sea! Once a week in summer, the company that ran the Isle of Man ferries took one of the ships used on the overnight Liverpool-Douglas run and did a pleasure cruise, sailing to Llandudno in North Wales, then on to Menai Bridge in Anglesey, where it waited for a while, then returned to Llandudno to pick up the returning passengers. I remember the outward voyage quite clearly. It must have been a very high tide that day, because the captain took the ship on a ‘short cut’, sailing close to the Wirral and Welsh shorelines, instead of heading out to sea to the Bar lightship and turning left. I remember numerous shipwrecks sticking out of the water, and my Granddad told me that they’d been sunk in the War. Much later, I found that these had probably been ships that had been seriously damaged in the many air raids, but had been towed out of the channel to be sunk where they wouldn’t block access to the docks. But sailing, quite close to land, with ships masts and funnels and bits sticking out of the water, is a very definite memory. I ran all over the ship, where permitted and kept going back to Granddad to drag him to something and ask “What’s this for?” Now about the same age, I feel sorry for a 70-year old man, trying to keep up with a little boy! I remember little about Llandudno itself. I seem to remember taking a bus tour around Great Orme head, but any other memories are liable to be confused with later trips. I do remember the sail back, when my Granddad pointed out the Bar lightship, and told me about the men who spend weeks at anchor, just to keep the light that guides ships into Liverpool. (One of the lightships is now on display at the Albert Dock).
As I went to high school, and became swamped with homework and a 6-day week, my travels with my Grandfather ceased. And, after the accident, when he could no longer be active, he just faded away. But the memories of the journeys, and the ships, and especially of the sea, will stay with me forever.