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.