A Visit to Shields...and a step back in time

The Customs House at Mill Dam, South Shields

I’m up in Newcastle. The idea was to do some research and remove myself from the distractions of London life. So far so good…

I’ve been staying in the Turnbull Building, an imposing converted Victorian warehouse, oddly reminiscent of Disney’s Tower of Terror, perched above the Quayside. Scenes from Get Carter were filmed here! How cool. Thank you, Airbnb. 

In between reading through more of my great-grandfather’s stories about Geordie and his time aboard ship learning the ropes (literally), transcribing his letters to his wife and brother from 1918, and becoming a modern day expert in sea shanties - and of course finding some distractions here (Newcastle’s 3-0 stunner at St. James Park!)…I spent yesterday in South Shields delving into the local history. 

I started my day at the famous Mill Dam where my great-grandfather would go regularly to see whether ships were taking on sailors. He talks about this place frequently in his journals, and in all my years visiting Shields I don't think I had ever made it here. I met local legend Janis Blower at the Customs House. Janis worked at the Shields Gazette for 44 years and has a deep knowledge of and connection to local seafaring history. I picked up a copy of her book at the Customs House, which has been an informative read. 

View of the Tyne along the waterfront at South Shields

After leaving the Customs House I took a wind-swept stroll along the river front to the location of the original town. Today all that’s left of this once bustling site is a series of small warehouses, workshops and a museum wedged tightly up against the waterfront. On the other side of Wapping Street, the main thoroughfare, is a steep hill. Later at the Library as I was reading about the old town’s appalling housing conditions - conditions that saw outbreaks of cholera and smallpox in the mid to late-1800s -  I wondered how so many people and houses had fit in such a narrow space.

After this I walked back up to Kings Street. I stopped in at the Museum to see an installation on Shield in the post-WWI period and headed on to the Central Library. Here I picked up a copy of George B. Hodgson’s The Borough of South Shields. Hodgson confirmed what I had always known - that “Shields folk [are] a race apart” with their own distinctive customs and speech. Indeed, as a child I remember my granddad explaining to me the differences between the “divvents” and the “dean’ts” and the differences in dialect between north and south Tyneside.  

The period in which my great-grandfather sailed from Shields coincided with a period of great prosperity and growth, fuelled by demand for coal and other commodities:  

• During the census period 1881-1891, shortly after my great-grandfather was born, the population grew by 38% - second only to Cardiff. In the period 1891-1901 it grew by 24%. 
• By the end of the 19th century almost half a million tons of shipping was clearing through Shields, compared with 87,000-tons 30 years earlier.
• Coal shipments from the Tyne between 1885 and 1914 rose from 9.84m to 20.3m tons  

This period was marked by the establishment of the Customs House, Mercantile Marine Office, Tyne River Police office and other major town developments. However the period ends with great losses of lives in both Great Wars, what are thought to be the first ‘race riots’ in Britain between Arab and white seamen competing for jobs, and general economic decline. According to Janis in the 1950s ship building and repair remained strong in the Tyne; however by the 1970s most of this had been lost to foreign competition.  

At the library I was also shown census records and national archive listings for my great-grandfather and a map of the area in which he lived from the 1850s. Princes Street in the Leygate area of town no longer exists as the area under went major redevelopment in the ‘60s - but Alice Street remains. 

Today, the centre of gravity of the town has shifted to the seafront at Little Haven. As I walked along the promenade, I was reminded of something my great-grandad wrote in one of his books:

• “My boy, wonderful happenings are recorded in books. That’s so. But, I think more wonderful are the happenings that are not recorded in them; things known, very often to no-account folk. Sailors, firemen and rovers in general.”

My great-grandfather’s insights are but a small drop in the ocean of memory and experience. Exploring and highlighting these are my small contribution to giving these no-account folk a voice - and to the town which has played such a large role in my life.

So for now, with my appetite for Minchella's, stotties and family history sated, back to London I go…

Mariner's Tale Theme Tune: Toiler on the Sea

We all went to see The Stranglers at Brixton Academy a few weeks ago and roundly agreed that this tune should be in the running for Mariners Tale theme tune:

The Stranglers - Toiler on the Sea

What is Time?

One of the most rewarding things about going through my great-grandfather's journals has been the personal discovery of learning a little more about who I am and where I come from. I have always been slightly obsessed with imagery around time, flight and travel - latching on to passages from T.S. Eliot about measuring time in coffee spoons - and they litter Myles's writings. Even the little things: he signs off letters 'Au revoir' or 'Bon nuit' and throws in gratuitous foreign words to describe what he and his shipmates are doing or seeing. I am occasionally guilty of the same.

I see in much of what he writes my own thinking - which has made me wonder whether the ideas that resonate most strongly with a person are innate or whether you learn to examine and explore certain themes through regular exposure within your family.

Rifling through some loose leaf papers, I came across this poem. Over the years I had heard my grandfather recite it to my sisters and I many a time, but never fully appreciated where it had come from. For your reading pleasure....

---

What is Time? – Lines to an Inquirer

Time is the ever present now

Man measures by a clock

That keeps coy hands before its face

While its in’ads laugh. Tick Tock.

By solar time as east to west

The sun it seems to go

Though learned he knows quite well

Of course it is not so.

He’s sure a very clever chap

Whose thoughts seek the sublime

Yet thinks to make a longer day

With his clock pushed summer time

Time flies and on its wing

We are borne along.

Amid life’s cloud and sunshine

Pray friend, our hold be strong.

Past, present and the future

That stupendous trinity

makes humble as we ponder

dim-visioned, on its unity

Yet with the grade of God to guide us

As we sing aloud “Credo”

In our hearts we find the answer

To all we wish to know.

Written in 1957 by great-grandfather

Myles Toale

True British Sailors

To be known as a sailor in the old days was a true mark of pride, as Geordie describes as he continues his story below. This is the final instalment of the story as it was printed in the shields Gazette. 

--

A Real Sailor

            “A few like myself with no great desire to be other than what was once our ideal have stuck to the deck and the fo’c’sle but we are thinning in numbers.

            “Last time at home I passed by a ‘pub’ –  yes, you hobos – I passed by a ‘pub’ – I do sometimes; it was near a dry dock. I saw a gang of chaps having a pow-wow, ‘chewing the rag’ you know. As I went by one of them grabbed my by the arm and in excitedly anxious tones, mellowed by a few pints of beer, entreated me to tell the rest that he was a sailor.

            “You know me Geordie – I’m a sailor ain’t I – tell them I’m a sailor,”

            “I looked. Sure enough he was one o the sea lads I knew. Crippled on a government trawler in the war he was; now not able to go to sea for a living.

            “’You bet you are, Fred,’ I said and he looked triumphantly at the crowd.

            “The old spirit lived. To be known as a sailor was his greatest pride.  

            “That pride was held of course by all the old mates and skippers, in fact they sometimes claimed a monopoly of it. There’s a yarn about a lady visitin’ to a ship that will show you whiat I mean.

            “She was very inquisitive keeping her officer friends busy passing along information. Noticing some of the crew working aloft, she asked –

            “’Are those the sailors?’”

            “’Oh no,’ she was informed by the mate, pointing to his pals of the afterguard, ‘We are the sailors – They are the roustabouts.’

            “You see although most of the old forecastle hands were full of this pride of craft, they were seldom given credit for it, and often treated as though they knew it not.

Changing Times

            “Times have changed and many things are in a state of transition. It can’t be expected of an old timer to see eye to eye with everything new. Changes are not always for the best.” So you will understand some old Lord Nelson – as Bill remarked – moaning about the passing of the spirit that animated him; he wonders – are even the officers losing it.

            “In my last ship the second mate was a smart young chap who got his ticket at his first attempt becoming second mate of the same ship in which he served his time. Always in uniform he was modern – natty and scholarly – a real good sort but – this is what he said to me at the wheel when the mate – an elderly man who had been officer in sail – had left the bridge after a wrangle about the ship’s position. ‘You know Brown we’ve got a mate on this ship but he’s simply a sailor’. – What did he mean?

            “There’s a change alright boys. Of late when ever I take a pasear to the old hunting grounds, I find little trace of the old type. A few riggers and sailors still haunt the Market Cross, but in King Street – the one-time parade of the ‘crowds’ from the sailing coasters – Whitstable men, Channel Islanders, Newhaven men, Devon men, to say nothing of Geordies and Scotties – an unforgettable lot to those that knew them, with their velvet collared coats, silver earrings, and unmistakeable sailor air – there is no sign they were ever there.

           

Old Spirit Survives

            “In Ocean Road brassbounders bound no more, not roll gunnels under. They have sailed away, leaving one or two old locals with a lot to think about as they wander aimlessly, lost among the crowds of pleasure seekers making for the beach – the Ocean roaders – “

            Here Geordie stopped overcome with emotion.

            Bill, ever ready, filled the gap, saying, “Never mind old hoss – old sailors never die – you – well they’ll have to hang you – and don’t you worry about the sea spirit. What about your young townie, the ordinary and the apprentice; I’m damned sure they are full of it. What do you say, hombres?”

            “Regular young sea dogs,” was the opinion of the ‘hombres’. That given to show them they were also, they sang with no uncertain voices a verse of

            “We’ll rant and we’ll roar

            “Like true British sailors.”

Call of the Sea

Part 2 of the Bygone Days of the Tyne as published in the Shields Gazette (date unknown). Geordie continues to wax lyrical about the old sailor spirit and describes the scene on the Ocean Road. 

Ocean Road in 1923

--

Call of the Sea

            “There was no such thing as signing ‘sailor’ and getting an A.B.’s pay. No, they had such a tough time for a year or two – sure thing – Anyhow, go to sea they would, even if they started as the cabin boy, messroom ‘fat’ or deck-boy.

            “When a few of them boys met at home, well, it was – “Clear out you small swells and make room for the big sea’ –

             “Down Ocean Road they went arm in arm, and with no policeman in sight they probably sang “No more I’ll go aroving” – keeping in mind the order at starting ‘Now then boys, all roll together’.

            “I can see them now, each rigged out with a ‘Second mate’s bad discharge’; a bright leather peaked cap, its strap pulled over the top – worn cock-billed on three hairs.

            “Those with square cut jacket, over their guernseys, back silk mufflers round their necks – the knots canted to port shoulders, were the schoonermen.

“The ‘Yanks’ wore no waistcoat, so as to expose a fancy shirt bought in the ‘States’ and a flowing tie. Of course those guys kept their pants up with the aid of a nice buckled belt.

            “The messroom fats – regular sea swells – wore linen collars and flash white silk mufflers, the ends tucked in their vests well down. 

Looking the Part

            “Pants were semi-bell-bottomed and shoes high heeled, though it the weather was wet Wellington sea boots were the fashion. Oh, they dressed sailor and were proud of it. Nowadays you can’t tell a sailor from an insurance collector.

            “Leaving the ‘bob’ side of the road they would invade the ‘two shilling side’ where they swanks fancied they held right-of-way; I mean the sailing ship apprentice in his smart uniform; the Brassbounder he was called, and between you and me he was far too successful with the lasses to please the ‘locals’.

            “However they tried to get their own back by a scornfully uttered ‘Light the binnacle boy.’ Rivals in love, both parties had a sneaking regards for one another. Really the locals had great respect for the brass-buttoned sailing ship apprentice, who might – if he hadn’t been a young sport – bring up ‘all standing’ some of them, perhaps truthfully with the paralysing phrase then still in use ‘Steamboat sailor!’ 

            “Steamboat sailor or not the spirit was there, and although some of the locals became skippers, I know their greatest pride is in the name of sailor. Even those that became cooks and stewards, firemen or donkeymen as fortune willed, were at heart and will remain while they last – sailors."

Bygone days of the Tyne

Myles serialised some of his journeys for the Shields Gazette later in life. Here is the beginning of one of his stories.

Sea-Dog of Days That Are Gone

By A.B.

(M.Toale)

Old Geordie sang as he stowed away his tea gear in the locker. When he finished singing, by way of apology for his outbursts, he remarked to his mates –

            “That’s one of the ditties all us young fellow-me-lads years ago delighted in. When the sea spirit was strong and we thought sailor, talked sailor, lived in a sailor atmosphere, with sailor notions – some of them Yankee ones – that I'm afraid have now reached vanishing point.”

            “Listen to Lord Nelson moaning,” cried Bill the expert leg-puller. “I supposed the young-uns today haven’t got the right spirit. What cheer and Bristol fashion like eh? In your day they were real sons of the sea – but go ahead and tell us of our loss.”

Scenting a cuffer, the rest prepared for it. Lighting their ‘dudeens’ or newly rolled fags, they puffed away in dignified respectful silence – artists in appreciation.

            “Righto young Sarcasticus,” replied Geordie casting a withering glance on the smiling Bill. “Other days – other ways I know, but the lads I knew had great pride in their calling; to them a sailorman, were he A.B. or skipper, was the real he-man, the master man to whom they rendered homage; where he went they went, following in his wake – they simply had to – not aboard yachts, big liners, or fancy craft, but on brigs, schooners, deep-watermen, ironoremen, across the ‘Westard’, Black Sea tramps, colliers and ‘scuffers’; a hard school, but the harder the better, they meant to be sailors, glorying in their hardships for A.B.’s weren’t made in a dog-watch then.

A Love Poem to his Lady

Myles's journals and letters speak clearly of his love for his wife Teresa and the desire to be back at her side whilst he is away. In one letter from 1917 he chides himself for getting soppy after saying "Teresa dear I miss you very much this time and I cant help thinking about you and I long for a feel of your arms and a taste of your sweet lips." He is worried that someone beside her or the "censorman", who would have reviewed all correspondence from sailors on Admiralty commission at that time, would see the lines.  

In honour of the Valentine's Day just passed, here is a poem he penned from a rambler to his dearest wife...

--

Tuesday 19^th May, 1914

S.S. Welbury Algiers, Algeria a.m.

Dear Teresa,

Arrived here 7 a.m. and I received your letter of the 16^th May. I was very pleased to do so. You say that you have sent me more than four. I am sorry to have been worrying you in my letters about the strayed correspondences. I feel a bit of a beast after reading this letter of yours here. This is the second one I have got. Please forgive me. We are taking 250 tons of bunker coal. Will leave about noon. The address is M Toale S.S. Welbury c/o Herm, Daulsberg Esq, Ship’s Agent, Bremenhaven, Germany.

Hope you enjoyed your last social.

--

I need no verse of learned prose

My hopes, ambitions, to disclose

And tell of love more pure than gold.

I pen one word and all is told

Teresa

--

It took me a whole hour to compose the above yet it only faintly conveys the sentiment I feel.

Be good. I conclude with the best of love,

xxx Your loving husband, xxx

xxxx Myles xxxx

xxxxxx

Antwerp and Home 1912

Daniela and I visited Antwerp last week on the Mariner's Tale trail. Here are some of Myles's accounts of his journey to the City.  

--

Wednesday 24^th January, 1912 - Odessa 

Mild weather today. Scraping and painted over the side all our working hours.

The forecastle were searched by Custom officials for contraband. They are very strict. My two packs of playing cards were took aft and sealed up, so there will be no more ‘poker’ while we are in this port. More Russian officials came aboard and mustered all hands on the poop. They called for Jacobsen the Finn who is a Russian subject. He went down the cabin to undergo a gruelling questioning. The trouble was, he could not speak Russian, nor the Russians speak Finnish or English. However he made out they wanted to see his passport. He had none to show he having lost it years ago. Because he was an elderly man, I suppose they let him off. The rest of us were not troubled.

In the afternoon we shifted to the breakwater mooring stern on whit the cable our for’ard. We will remain here for several days, our cargo, which rumour says we shall take to Antwerp, not being ready for us. The playing cards sealed up, poker was out of the question, therefore to while away the time we spun yarns, 'cuffers' we call them. At the start they were mostly of the sea and shipping, but somehow or other the recounting of schoolday incidents came uppermost. Schooldays, how dear they seem as we grow older. How we remember the most trivial items of those bygone days. With what gusto we relate them, and in the relating become boys again. Tempus Fugit! A few more years of toil, and all is over. Now Myles – steady there, you are only a common Jack. Sentimentality and the finer feelings are not for such as you.  Come hail, come shine, you must meet either smilingly and thankfully. I write this sitting up in my bunk. The watchman has just come along and told me its 10 o'clock so I will clew up, put my scribbling tackle on the shelf and have my usual smoke-o before sleeping the sleep of just, just so.

Bon nuit.

---

Monday 26th February, 1912 - Antwerp bound

Fine weather continues making the slant a thing of actuality, not of hope. Wind S.W. Meeting a lot of traffic. Homeward and outward bounders. Work today consisted of blackening winches, using a wad and black paint. Very few men like to clean or paint winches, too many corners, nuts and sharp edges to be pleasant.

Ushant abeam 7:30pm. My wheel 8 to 10 steering up Channel E. by N½N.

Soon we’ll be in Antwerp. Go ahead old steamboat.

Wednesday 28th February, 1912 - Arriving in Antwerp

Middle watch on deck.

Hoisted two red lights well up the main rigging the signal for the Antwerp pilot. Sighted the cutter (schooner) at little to the Eastward of Dungeness 2:30am. Underway with pilot aboard by 6 bells. Below 4 to 8. On coming on watch at 8 found we were in North Sea. Ship in charge of pilot. Wind favourable. Reaching Flushing this afternoon. Changed pilots and proceeded up the Scheldt [River]. Ship stopped at 8pm to pass, or rather, be passed by the Port doctor. At 9 o'clock anchor was dropped (35 fathoms of cable in the water) just below the city to await the tide. Made a move again at 10 past 10. By 12:30am (Thursday) we were moored securely in berth 76. Siberia Dock.

..

Commenced discharging Friday March the first.

 

During our stay in port I had a good tour round and of course that included Skippers Straat a locality well know to seamen. This place – like others of a similiar kind – is not what it used to be. At least that is what the older salts say, and I believe with some truth. With the disappearing of the windjammer a lot of things are changing. I vow.

Paid off aboard ship Sat 9^th March and was sent home, passenger.

Glorious finish. All hands for’ard preferred that to making a passage light ship across the Western Ocean. Who would not.

The Men that don't fit in

Clippings of Myles's stories from the Shields Gazette

The Men that don’t fit in

Myles Toale AB

date unknown

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in

A race that can’t stay still;

So they break the hearth of kith and kin

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove in flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest;

Their’s is the curse of the gipsy blood

And they don’t know how to rest

--

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

With a brilliant, fitful pace

It’s the steady, quiet plodding ones

Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled

Forgets that his prime is past

Till he stands one day with a hope that dead

In the glare of the truth at last.

--

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

He has just done things by half.

Life’s been a jolly good joke on him

And now is the time to laugh

Ha! Ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

He was never meant to win.

He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred on the bone

He’s a man who won’t fit in.

A Regular Low Quarter

Amsterdam is a city known for many things, including its infamous red light district. Now predominantly China Town and a hub for design concept shops, Daniela and I went for a stroll down Zeedijk almost 120 years after our great-grandfather - 19 years old at the time - described one of his first visits to the city with his shipmates.

---

Some time in March, 1897

...A very nice city is Amsterdam only too many confounded canals cutting it, some canal sides are without railings and I shouldn’t like to be drunk coming along them.

Was in a street called Zeedijk, or something like that name, a regular low quarter, with almost every house a dancing and drinking saloon. But 8 o'clock at night the music begins, and from the street you hear an awful conglomeration of sounds, fiddles, drums, concertinas, drums, triangles and heavens tenous what not all on the go. One house is playing Daisy Bell, another After the Ball, another The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo. A dutch tune on some other house and so on. The hour never stopping but going on incessantly. Most lovely as is the music, the greater attraction is the women that now and again come to the door, to look for fresh victims. These are the dancing ladies, some dressed commonplace. While others are dressed most gorgeous in the Music Hall style short frocks, bare arms and a wondrous display of ribbons, all complete of their marvellous beauty the least said the better.

With some fireman and sailors I was in this street, standing hesitatingly, in doubt, where to go, when up comes some of the foresaid beauties, saying in English. "You want sweetheart, Johnny." "Yes, I’ll be your sweetheart any time", say a sailor named Peter, and after a little palavar we all marched in. It was a rather flash house called the Hamburgh. You can dance with these ladies if you like and stand them as many drinks as you like. They’ll sap them.

Being teetotal I took cigar instead of drink. I could say much about these houses and dancing women. The ladies are not shy or bashful, but a “leetle” too gay for me. Their way of living makes them old and haggard looking before they are much over 20. I will say no more about them t’were better far.  From the Hamburgh we were in about half dozen of the bars, which have all English names such as the “Liverpool” “ City of London” Man at the Wheel etc.

After going round we went aboard. One night I stayed aboard, it was dark about 9pm, when someone hail the ship from the quay. The watch man was going to scull the small boat ashore to see who it was and I said to him, "I’ll sail if you don’t mind." "All right", replied he, for he was not anxious about sculling the boat out at all. So I goes down the ladder at the ships side on to a light which was moored longside. The boat was made fast to the lighter. I made one step as I thought in the right direction when flop. I walked into the water, but in falling I luckily grasped a rope and saved myself from being submerged all over. I scrambled on the lighter. I made my way to the small boat, lighted a lantern marked the place were it was, unfastened the painter and sculled to the quay stains. It was a note from the ship chandler’s for the skipper, gave it to the watchmen to give the captain when he came aboard. This little incident made me vow to let watchmen scull their own boats at night time. I bought a pair of fancy slippers for my sister.

From Amsterdam we went to Blyth arriving there on a Sunday afternoon, went home to South Shields by 6:28 train and got in Shield about 9 o'clock.

A Turn from a Tar

This evening I've been asked to bring a turn to a Burns Night supper on a boat in Springfield Marina. The following was written by Myles on October 28th, 1917 and set to Father Dourney at St. Bede's Church in South Shields.

--

Stella Maris - A Sailor's hymn

Myles Toale

AB

When sombre shades of nightmare falling

Falling oer the troubled sea

When the gale with strength increasing

Strikes my bark with fiendish glee

When the storm clouds fast are flying

And in darkness must we steer

Then to guide us Stella Maris

Let thy light shine bright and clear

Stella Maris, Stella Maris

Guiding light from realms of bliss

When night shades spread oer the sea

Stella Maris shine for me

On through the night and all its perils

Sails my bark unto its goal

Oer monstrous seas that would engulf us

Past the reef and shifting shoal

Safe on we sail O sweet Protectress

For our prayers are not in vain

There in the sky shines Stella Maris

Until the light of day again

- -

Stella Maris

Guiding light from realms of bliss

When night shades

Spread oer the sea

Stella Maris

Shine for me

--

P.S. For all poverty of rhyme metre and spelling in poetic effort please make the allowance due to the not sufficiently educated.

Father Dourney

St. Bede Church

South Shields

England

Oct 28^th

^{Civita Vecchia}

Odessa in Imperial Russia

Sailing back across to Ardrossan Harbour today, I couldn't help but think what it would have been like to arrive in Odessa in Imperial Russia in 1912 - a far cry from the Odessa today affected by the pro-Russia conflict in Ukraine. Myles describes the finery and the entertainment of the city and Sailor Town. What I found most striking his acute sense of his place in the world when confronted with the ladies and gentlemen of the theatre...

Here are some excerpts from his time there: 

Sunday 28th January, 1912

...Odessa is a fine city, throngs of well dressed and stylish citizens filling its thoroughfares. Three years ago when I was here last I had a good look round the city, which I like well. Down outside the dock gates I found changes, that is, as regards the pubs where seamen used to congregate. I looked for the Main Top. A bar is still there but the inscriptions outside are all in Russian, the Main Top has gone. I looked for the Grosvenor; a like fate had befallen it. There was still the London Bar, kept by a Greek, but it was not the place of old. Eventually we entered the American Bar a place well heated inside and very comfortable. We stayed there quite a while and those who drank it found the beer good. Beer costs 10 kopeeks a glass, lemonade, (my drink) 15 kopeeks. Our wants were attended to by a German waitress who speaks a little English. Trinks and the donkeyman talked to her in German, becoming rivals – fluent ones indeed – for her favours. The other seamen present were German, Scandinavian, and a few young men apeing Yanks. Pennsylvania Dutchmen I guess.

About 8:30 Hansen and I left Trinks, Gowans, the donkey and the Swedish firemen to their beers and the German girl; they were anchored for the night.     
...
Wednesday 31st January, 1912

Busy this morning clearing deck of snow. A very cold day but no snow fell.

Tonight went to the Seamen's Institute. I had three games of billiards, 50 up, with an elderly gentleman (the chief engineer of some ship) I winning two of the games. He insisted on paying so I let him. 

Along with our ship’s messroom boy I enjoyed a stroll through the city. The streets of Odessa are broad and there is plenty of room on the sidewalks. These had been well cleared of snow. Smart strapping men in military garb, as well as smart dressed civilians, promenade with stylishly dressed ladies of pleasing features. A fine set of folk to my way of thinking. Still, there is the ever present poor looking miserable in their rags. Russia has its share of poor people, seemingly unnoticed by the well off. Outside of a well lighted picture hall stood a little ragged girl selling papers. Accosting us she held out one of them for us to buy. Of course we did not understand what she saying though we knew the meaning her action conveyed. I gave her ten kopeek piece for her paper. After glancing at a few illustrations I returned it to her. The light in her eyes was good to see, it was worth 10 kopeeks. The sleighs, of which there are a great number are drawn by wiry horses, driver by quaintly dressed drivers, who stand in front while the fares sit behind them covered up with rugs. Sleighs carry two passengers. An electric car service is also running. 

...

Sunday 4th February, 1912

...

The day is bright and clear, but a strong northerly wind makes it extremely cold, too cold indeed to go walking in. So stayed in my ‘cart’ all day. Not in a satisfied way, for I would have liked to have had a good stroll. I will make it a point to remember, never come to the Black Sea again at this time of the year. Though all the crowd are fine men, sociable and so on, as I am the only non-drinker, my position among them is a somewhat isolated one and I find myself at a loss for a suitable companion.

Of course the boys go where a welcome is extended to them; consequently that takes them into peculiar society. The low down drinking dives, the house of prostitution which is ubiquitous (and iniquitous), that part of a port know as Sailor Town, these extend their not altogether disinterested welcomes, to simple sailor men hungering for a little sympathy and thirsty for a good time. “Don’t forget the Eldorado” (-The Antwerp Bar’ – the Sunderland Bridge or whatever they call their den) “Come on jack, nice girls in my house” “Do you want a tailor. Everything cheap”

Such questions and invitation assail their ears as they wander through Sailor Town, tolerant of the smiles of shore sharks. They are smiles anyhow. The boys go ashore to spend their few shillings, and are not to particular where or how, so long as they can forget for a few wild hours their weary life on the ship board. And who else extends a welcome? The Seamens Missions do. Oh yes. But there the boys too often find a distinction made between the officers and men. The officers’ room with the big billiards table and decent fitting, then men’s whit ‘draughts’ (various) a few newspapers and bagatelle boards, as well as other little things not liked make seamen touchy. Thus, many don’t visit them very often. True it is, a lot do, passing pleasant evening; concerts and social gathering being held. Nevertheless a good many people would be astonished to head the criticisms of sailors and firemen, (men who know these institutions all over the world) and learn the Sunday names given to those who conduct them.

...

Thursday 8th February, 1912

...The Mission man today invited us to a theatrical performance, an invitation extended to all the crews of the English shops. Entry free. As per agreement several from our ship went to the ‘Institute’ at 7:30pm.

There we found a large gathering of men from other steamers, all anxious to see the play, an amateur effort got up by the British residents. About 8 oclock we left the Institute (near a hundred of us) headed by two Russian boys to show us the way to the theatre where the play was to be performed.

Before setting out we were warned to be very orderly going though the streets, and not to make any noise or stir on the way as the Russian police are strict and always on the alert from a disturbance of any sort. It would not be the first time a crowd of seamen had been arrested and imprisoned said the Mission man. He hoped it would not happen to us. It did not, for we were well behaved; nevertheless the sight of a long string of unmistakably foreign seamen marching through the streets caused a mild sensation among the citizens. Many were the glances of curiosity levelled at us.

On arriving at the theatre we were shown up a long flight of stairs that brought us to a gallery from where, a good view was obtained of a very pretty interior. Down in the auditorium (big word) the seats (cane bottomed chairs) were empty, the spectators having not yet arrives. The hall was pleasantly heated and perfumed.

Soon the place began to fill with well dressed folk. Gentlemen perfect and ladies charming, the latter in dreams of dresses as the womenfolk say. A few of them, just a few, deigned to glance our way with a sort of well bred curiosity. To the most of them, we were not there. As I looked down on that scene of fine feathers, noticed the bowing and seraping and salam samming, the kissing of ladies hands I felt as one gazing on another world, as one allowed to catch a glimpse, to be on the fringe but not permitted to come nearer.

However, up in the gallery we had the attention of two fine strapping armed policemen, who were there to see we were good boys and kept order. Our behaviour was excellent so they had a good job. Until the performance started at 9 oclock we were all engrossed in watching the well-dressed throngs below, and indulging in good-natured criticism anent the same, we actually looked down on them, perforce.

An apprentice and I enjoyed ourselves immensely watching the antics of a long lean curate with a big nose that was surmounted by a pair of specs. The giddy curate of stage life he was, and a wonder of wonders, here he was in real life. With hands clasped breast high, he hopped about among the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat, bowing here, bowing there, continually bowing in (to us) the most comical fashion in the world. From side to side went his head, while the grin (we hesitate to write smile) never left his face. How he buzzed round the ladies; they claimed his greatest attention, and he seemed to be acquainted with a lot. We had a hearty laugh over that gentleman who, maybe, is not so silly as he looks.

At 9 oclock the piece entitled – The strange adventure of Miss Brown – and produced by Mr Leslie Waller, commenced. There were three acts, all of which went along splendidly, amateur effort though it was. All the characters were well acted, especially so the schoolmistress of Mrs Leslie Waller and the Sergeant Tanner of Scotland Yard, played by Mr George Robson, a Lloyd’s surveyor.

It was a great success; every seaman there enjoying it. Through the generosity of Mr T. Robson, the seamen present were given ‘ free beer’ between the acts, a very thoughtful and much appreciated action. Good old Robson. Here’s wishing you luck!

At 15 to 12 the play was ended, so down the stairs we went, away from the brilliantly lighted, warmed and scented hall to the darkness and cold of the night outside. Motorcars and droskys quite a lot of them, were waiting there to take the ladies and gentlemen home. Us seamen, in little batches, walked, finding our way back to our ships, as best we could. The air was chilly, the rain drizzling and the streets were dirty underfoot. 

Snow and ice in the Black Sea

On Sunday morning I made my way up to snowy Scotland. Tucked up in my fire-warmed cottage, I can't help but think of the chilly journey taken by the crew from a snow-covered 'Constant' to the frozen harbour of Odessa. Here are some excerpts from the journey...

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Wednesday 17th January, 1912 

Morning. Among the Greek Islands.

Fore noon watch on deck. Wind ahead, and icy. The hills are fairly well covered with snow, so no wonder the wind is cold. Noon – Entered the Dardanelles. I have been several times through here, but never at this time of year. Did not think so much snow would be seen here as I hitherto have always seen its sunny with the land pleasantly green, in the good old summer time.

Stopped at Chanak [Çanakkale], as all ships must, then satisfying the Turkish officials, and taking a pilot aboard, proceeded on our way. This was about 3:30pm. When I came on deck at 4pm the town was hidden round a bend astern. I saw three or four Turkish men-o-war at anchor, all ready for the action with the Italians if need be. May be.

The Banks of the channel were white with snow, a little of which was falling, the first I have seen this winter.

At 4:30 it was quiet dark and I had to go on the lookout – we passed a good many steamers in the night watch. Another day for King George and ¾d for me that being the princely sum our wages amount to a day. Midnight – In the Sea of Marmor.

Thursday 18^th January, 1912

Middle watch below. On deck again at 4am straight from the warm fo’c’stle to the cold wheel. One minute in your bunk, the next, on deck.

Steering Easterly with the coldest wind imaginable from the Nor’rad. Our bridge is about the most desolate and wretched place that ever a poor seaman did his two hours on. Notwithstanding the fact that I was well bundled up with clothes and with socks over my mitts. (The wheel is a brass one).

I was soon chilled. Very glad was I to be relieved at 5 o clock for coffee. ‘Twas a few minutes respite in which the hot coffee cheered me up.

Relieved at 6. Went for’ard, had a smoke and then onto the lookout as it was not quite light and traffic was plentiful. We were nearing Constantinople….

Did not stop at Constant’ but steamed right on through the Bosphorus. On either hand a covering of snow lay everywhere. Mosques, minarets and palaces looked lost looking, seemingly out of place and pining for the sunshine and more verdant surroundings. What a contrasts to the same locality in the summer when to journey through is a delightful experience.

Just after 8 bells the anchors was dropped off Kavak Quarantine Station at the Black Seas end of the Bosphorus, 65 fathoms of chains being run out. Swinging to the tide the shift nearly fouled another anchored steamer. For safety, our cable was shortened. As a breeze was blowing and the ship yawing about, to make things more secure the other cable was run out. The other ships anchored near were a source of worry. We must not foul them at all costs. Our jolly boat was lowered after breakfast, four hands taking the Captain and pilot ashore. There was no orders for the ship so the captain returned aboard.

This afternoon we were put three in a watch again the shifting boards being all up. Good. At 10 o clock our watch took the Old Man and two quarantine men ashore to the Office of Sante. Three other ships boats were there. After 10 minutes wait the Old Man returned with the orders. Back to the ship, we hoisted up the boat then weighed anchor. Trinks and I having the job to stow the chains in a locker. We are bound to Odessa. On passing the bluff near Kavak we found ourselves in the Black Sea facing a headwind and swell while overhead scowled a snow laden sky, chilling, fit companion for the icy breeze.

Course N.E. Ship making 5 knots and driving a lot of piles. As she is light she lifts a lot, then, down with a bang comes her forefoot on the swell causing her whole structure to shake and rattle. Pile driving that’s the name for it, though the boys say now and again, when an extra big thump wakens up their interest in where they are “That’s another mile stone.” The night is very dark.

Friday 19th January, 1912

Middle watch on deck. My two middle hours look out. A dirty raw night with a slight snowfall. Wind still ahead but abated somewhat. Ship rolling a little.

What a blessing is the clanging of 8 bells to the watch on deck on a dirty night. “God bless your iron tongue! Say the tars on the deck as he thinks of the red hot stove in the fo’c’stle.

‘Blankety! Blank! Blank!” growls the watch below. ‘The darned thins’ always striking infernal noise!” Then they muffled up with all the gear they can put on, step mournfully on deck to relieve their shipmates. But a quick relieve is given, as the same is expected. That is a rigid if unwritten law among seamen. The man who breaks it, will hear something. He should.

On deck at 8am. Wheel 8 to 10.

Afterwards down the bunkers, sweeping and caulking limber boards with oakum in order to prevent grain getting in limbers when loaded. This bunker hold is just abaft No. 2 a thwartship wooden bulkhead dividing them. It extends to the stoke hold bulkhead (steel) and will be filled with grain.

In the 6 to 8 dog watch the second mate was for’ard with a ‘manifesto’, a paper whereon was written the quantity and description of each mans dutiable possessions, as required by the Russian customs. The articles included: - soap, matches, tobacco, playing cards, revolvers, new clothes, clocks and watches.

Saturday 20^th January, 1912 

My wheel 6 to 8 am. Weather intensely cold, freezing in fact, this my moustache proved for it was soon frozen stiff. The coldest day we have had. Spread mats in all the holds thus completing preparations for the cargo.

Shortly after dinner we ran into a soft thin ice. Soon, as far as we could see all round the compass was ice. I thought it interesting, even though it certainly was not pleasant. One good thing is, the fact that the wind has gone down. I could see the red-lead at the ships waterline was staining the edge of the ice, as we steamed through it. It will clean her bottom I reckon. About 4 oclock we could see Odessa, but the ‘old man’ did not seem inclined to make for the entrance, we kept dodging about, round and round. He must have thought the ice too thick closer in, and (of course) he saw the darkness gathering.

I went to the wheel at 6 oclock and steered E by S. ½S. for a while and then due E.

At half past 6 the engines were stopped, the anchor let go, the cable run our until there was 45 fathoms in the waters, so we lay snug-o just outside the thick ice.

The lamp trimmer is watchman for the night, he having been below since dinner time watch and watch being suspended the rest of us can have a good lay back till daylight that is, after this game of poker is finished.