Drifting for herring Archives

08/09/201706/12/2018

Passage East Fish house

The Passage East fish house stands today as part of the local community centre. It was once the actual centre of the community however, processing at one point over 38,000 herring per day and providing a vital outlet for fishermen and onshore employment too.

As a regular shopper in the Ardkeen stores, I occasionally treat myself to a breakfast of kippers. I grew up with a taste for this nutritious fish, but I have to admit, that I could never eat them in any way other than kippered. In my youth there was many a home had a kippering barrel and the smell of the fish being smoked was almost as memorable as the taste. Of course the technique was long used for fish, and none more so than in my neighbouring village of Passage East.

The story of the Passage East fish house’s origins appears to rest with a man named Kirby. The gentleman wrote to the traders in the Billingsgate market pleading the case for the local fishermen, and explaining that although there were significant catches of fish in the area, there was little by way of a market.

One of those trading merchants, John L Sayers Ltd., dispatched one of their buyers to investigate. Arthur Miller was then employed on the north west coast and was suitably impressed with what he saw, to recommend a fish house be built, specifically to smoke herring (another was built in Dunmore East). Land was leased from the Marquis of Waterford in what was known as the park and a fish house was constructed.

On the death of John L Sayer in 1910, Miller went into business for himself, trading in the kippering business as Arthur Miller Selected Kippers. The products were not limited to kippers however, as red herring, bloaters and cured herring were also processed.

Photo of the women at work in Passage in the 1920s
accessed from the book, Shadows of the Past
with permission of Andy Kelly

The work initially required skilled labour to be employed, and “Herring Lassies” amongst other skills arrived from Scotland to prepare the herring for the process. Many of the families in the Passage and Crooke area to this day are descended from these hard working immigrants. Here’s a 1920’s video of these women at work: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhbtSHfbLYs

The fish house was also used as a trading post for the buying and distribution of other fish including salmon, lobster, mackerel, shellfish and intriguingly, to me anyway, Newfoundland dried cod. Boxes of fish were regularly transported along the road by horse and cart initially, and then truck to Waterford train station and hence to Dublin, London or the continent. The trade continued up to the death of Miller in 1953, and although the family continued with the trade for some more years, tastes and markets changed and the business finally closed.

Today the fish house remains as a reminder of that once busy and lucrative trade that created wealth both onshore and off. Much of the process of smoking is still intact and it would be wonderful to think that at some point in the future it may be rekindled. Of course Ballyhack Smoke House is now operating on the opposite side of the harbour, so at least the techniques are far from extinct.

My blog today is based on details accessed from The Irish Herring Industry – One Family’s Story by Arthur E Neiland, a descendant of Arthur Miller. I accessed the piece in a collection of local information which is based at Dunmore East public library and was donated by the Barony of Gaultier Historical Society.

I publish a blog each Friday. If you like this piece or have an interest in the local history or maritime heritage of Waterford harbour and environs you can email me at russianside@gmail.com to receive the blog every week.

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18/11/201606/12/2018

My first season of herring fishing 1983

I’d imagine that for as long as humans have lived in the harbour of
Waterford, men and women have gone to fish.
Perhaps one of the most common and dependable species was the Herring. My first experience of the fishery was as a
boy washing fish boxes and running errands for the men who salted and barreled
at Cheekpoint quay. But catching them
was an altogether harder job, especially when using a driftnet, something I was first introduced to in the winter
of 1983.

I set out on the Reaper that winter, with Jim and Denis Doherty. The other boats in Cheekpoint village was Robert
Fergusons Boy Alan, Dick Mason skippered the St Agnes, Ned Power had the
Colleen II and Mickey Duffin skippered the Maid of the West.

As the Reaper and the other Cheekpoint boats proceeded downriver, we
were joined by the Passage and Ballyhack men.
I heard family names associated with the boats such as Whitty, Connors,
Pepper and Bolger from Passage and from Ballyhack Foley, Roche and Myler. Together we formed a convoy of decked and
half decked motor boats of varying size and power and a multitude of
colours.

the Cheekpoint fleet from around this time

Photo courtesy of Anthony Rogers

Arriving in the lower harbour, the boats fanned out, hungrily
searching the deep waters for signs of herring shoals. Some boats were
close in to the shore, beneath Loftus Hall and further down towards the Hook. Others
stretched as far as Creaden Head. Boats took various courses,
and many zig zagged amongst each other, keen to “mark” a herring shoal on the
fish finder and establish a pattern of where to “shoot” the nets. Dunmore
boats skippered by Paul Power, Napper Kelly and Mick Sheen would be sounding as
they came across to meet us.

Herring barrels at Cheekpoint in the 1970s
Photo via Tomás Sullivan

As the gloom of the evening gathered and the sun set over the Commeraghs
away to the west, the frenzy grew. Boats were eager to set the nets in
daylight, to better see where others were setting nets, and also because the
herring tended to rise with the dusk and skippers felt they would miss their
chance of a decent haul if they left it too late.

Many a night the shoals could not be found. It was generally
obvious from a lack of bird activity, the tell-tale signs of gulls wheeling
overhead, or divers such as the majestic and gigantic gannets plunging from a hundred feet or more
into the freezing seas and emerging with a beak full of silver meat. On
these nights the boats tended to be well spread out and the VHF radio was
quiet.

Other nights were different, thankfully. The seas were alive with
birds and seals. A slick of oil, released from the herring on the sea
bed, which Denis said you could smell and taste in your mouth, something I
never manged to do. The radio was buzzing with sightings and at times Jim
would call us in to look at the fish finder marking a herring shoal, the extent
of it mapped out on the grey blue paper as a stylus etched the fish below.

Once satisfied that the herring were abundant enough the winkie[1] was turned on and cast
over, followed by the nets. I looked after the lead rope initially, not
trusted as yet with the head rope and ensuring that the cans were paid out
clear of the nets and set to the correct depth[2]. Generally all the
nets were set, but occasionally, Jim might heave too, concerned by the markings
on the fish finder and the extent of the shoal. When you hit the herring
in large quantities a couple of nets could fill the boat, and the last thing
you needed was extra work. Once set, the nets were tied via a hauling
rope to the bow of the boat we hung from them.

This was a signal to get the tea on, and the grub bag out. The kettle was boiled on a gas stove and the tea
bags were added as the kettle started to sing. Hot and sweet, tea with a sandwich never tasted any better.

Hauling was a tough affair when the nets were full. Here’s an interesting
example from Northern Ireland. But at least a net hauler
made the work easier. Generations of fishermen had used their bare
hands. Once ready to commence, the rope
was hauled in to the gunwale and opened from the net. Then the head and
lead ropes were gathered up and placed over the hauler drum. The
hydraulics engaged and the nets were then pulled on and helped in over the
side.

Anthony Rogers photo of the Cheekpoint boats early 1980s

While Jim kept the boat up to the nets, Denis hauled the ropes and I
gathered up the nets as they fell to the deck and dragged them to the stowing
area. When the catch was light this was easy enough, but on nights with a
big catch, this was hard arduous work. The netting coming in over the
drum could be three feet wide and it was all I could do to help Denis and Jim
at the hauler and then stagger away under the weight of the nets to stow them
on the boats deck.

Having hauled a big catch, there was always a sense of euphoria
aboard. Once you had a market, it meant a decent wage that
week, and in the weeks coming up to Christmas, or indeed after it, such a catch
was always welcome. As we headed home, you took a break for a time, but
in truth the nights work was just beginning, the fish had to be cleared, and thereafter
boxed and sold. None of which was
straightforward.

I wrote a series of accounts of the Herring fishing previously. These include

Preparing to go fish

Clearing the fish from the nets

Selling the herring

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[1] A
flashing light that was used to mark the nets.
Battery operated it only worked in the dark, and when not in use it was
unscrewed to break the connection and so keep the batteries.

[2] I
was raised with drift nets, but although we used the same method for herring
fishing, the nets were deeper, longer, with smaller mashes. The other difference was that plastic cans
with a fathom or two of rope was used to allow the nets sink to reach the
herring. The length required was altered
as required.

01/01/201606/12/2018

Enduring “Mal de Mer”

We were based in Dunmore in the winter of
1983 for the Herring fishing but we returned home in the Reaper for Christmas,
and along with all the other half-decker’s, manoeuvred inside Cheekpoint quay,
where they could be moored without any concern for their safety. Once Christmas
came no one wanted to be checking on boats, for the week we’d be off. It
would be over soon enough. Once there was a buyer we would be away fishing
again, and with empty pockets, glad of it.

Cheekpoint village mid 1980’s. MV Reaper at the top of the quay,
Boy Alan and St Agnes amongst others. Photo via Anthony Rogers

That January of 1984 a market came
available on the Sunday after New Year. The weather had been broken, with
gale after gale blowing in off the Atlantic. As we walked onto the quay
that afternoon it was enough to just look at the boats in the harbour of Cheekpoint
to know that the evening wasn’t going to be pleasant. Punts and half deckers
alike were pulling on anchors and ropes, swaying in and out at their moorings,
reflecting the restlessness of the river.

As we set sail there was a low scudding
cloud and a fresh wind from the SW. We were an hour or two from high
water, which would mean a slower trip than usual down against the incoming
tide. At Ballyhack the seas were already a choppy, but by Creaden (the
Waterford side of the harbour mouth) we were pitching and heaving heavily, the
seas breaking in on Broom Hill (Wexford side) looking fairly ominous.

Deep down in my stomach I could feel the
rumblings of upset and my head was starting to pound a little. I had been
there before, and knew that by keeping my head up and staying busy it had
helped. As we kept moving out the harbour I noticed a change for the worst in
the seas. The wind hadn’t altered any but the seas were running higher
and the trough that the Reaper went into became deeper and slower to climb out
of. Standing was difficult, and making your way round the deck took planning, attention and luck.

Although I didn’t realise it at the time,
the tide was now running ebb and with it the change for the worse in the
seas. Try as I might, none of my tried and tested methods of keeping the
sickness at bay would work. Progressively I worsened, just like the seas and
then I started to yawn, deep yawns which seemed to rise out of my belly.
Minutes later I was spewing over the side. Immediately I felt better, and
longed to believe that the worst was over.

There was a small flicker of
hope, maybe we wouldn’t find any fish and we could go in. However
this was dashed when we marked a sizable lump of herring and Jim shouted to set.
I was sick again and then it was time for the nets to go. When we had the
nets out and the tea brewed, I forced a cup of the hot sweet tea down.
Jim said it would help, but Denis was just grinning. I took one look at the
sandwiches and cast them into the sea. Gulls pounced on them immediately,
screeching at each other and tearing away at the bread. How I longed to be like
those birds, with feathered wings to take them above the relentlessly pitching
and heaving seas. A seal came into view, a giant, interested no doubt in
the actions of the birds, and what they had found to eat. If I jumped in
and swam with him, would the cold of the seas and the shock of the water be
enough to relieve me of the horrible sensation that seemed to make every fibre
of my being ache.

I wondered how the other boats were
faring, were others feeling as bad. I also realised my father was nearby in the
Boy Alan. I wondered what he would make of me. I said a quick prayer to our lady, asking for the strength to finish the job, not let myself or my father down. Again the sickness came, but it was a dry wretch, more painful and debilitating.

Tea over, Denis checked the net.
Signs were good. Jim and himself consulted and decided we better start to
haul. As the nets came in so did the herring, pile and pile of them and
the back breaking work of dragging the fish filled nets across the deck, was
like my own cross on Calvary. I have no recollection of how long it took,
but I know that I didn’t have anything left to vomit as we proceeded.
Over and back, stowing them safely, whilst the deck heaved, rolled and pitched
and I staggered like a drunk. At some stage the winkie came into view and
it was like Christmas morning all over to me, to see it advancing towards the
gunwale of the boat.

Once in I loosened to light to stop the
winkie from flashing and last thing I remember was slumping onto the
nets. I awoke at the breakwater at Dunmore East, and was surprised that I
no longer felt sick. But I was worn out, grey in the face, a spent force. We
tied up at the quayside and I started to get the ropes ready for the
shaking. However a wave of relief washed over me when Jim said that we
would go home that night and return in the morning to shake out the nets.

I didn’t sleep well that night. The
sense of shame I felt at and the expectation of the slagging I would get next
day stopped my mind from finding rest. In the morning I strolled over to
the village to get a lift to Dunmore. Calling in to my parents, I found
my father lying on the couch. My guard was up immediately,

“How’re ya today?” he asked.

“I’m grand” I said
“Although I’d be better if we had the nets shook from last night”

“There was a lot of men glad to get
home from Dunmore last night” he said, continuing “that was one of
the roughest nights we had in many a year”

“No one else was sick” I
said,

“Oh they were sick alright” he
countered, “You should have seen the speed of some of them going up the
ladder in Dunmore”

And although I doubted it, I still had a
laugh, and started to feel a little better.

“Did I ever tell ya about the young
scouser that shipped out of Liverpool with us on a trip to Gibraltar” One of my
father’s traditional opening lines to a yarn.

“No” I said, wondering where
this was going

“Ah he was all mouth” he said,
“There was nothing he couldn’t do, or hadn’t seen. We were in the Irish Sea
when he started to grow green. By the time we were in the channel he
couldn’t stand and when we reached Biscay he barricaded himself into his cabin and
refused to stand his watch. The bosun was another scouser and when he
heard of the carry on, he grabbed a fire axe and splintered the cabin door.
He grabbed the young fella by the throat and dragged him to his watch.
By the time they got to Gibraltar the young land scurried down the
gangway and as far as we know took a train home”

From outside I heard a car horn blowing,
it was Robert Ferguson, come to collect me father in his white Hiace van.
I started towards the village via the knock, but as I walked I thought
about my father’s story. Did he just make that up for my benefit, or was
it actually true and if so how did he recall it so fast. Down the years
I’ve often wondered about that ability he had. Maybe now as a father I
can properly understand, we show love in so many different ways, we constantly
worry about and try to protect our children. Just like his ability to soothe
away the blood and pain when we were in a fall, he also done his best to soothe
away the pain of growing into adulthood. Whether the story was true or not, it was a
wonderful ability he had. And it at least meant I could hold my head up
that morning as we journeyed to Dunmore and I continued my journey towards
adulthood.

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18/12/201506/12/2018

East meets West, a Herring Fishermans Christmas

I’ve covered the Herring Drift Net Fishery in several parts these last few weeks, and today in the run up to Christmas, I wanted to recount an incident that made Christmas a little more poignant for me in the mid 1980’s. We were selling directly at the time to Polish luggers that moored off Passage East in the harbour. These were fishing boats themselves and I’ve covered their activities before.

Part of the process of selling to the lugger was that we had to go aboard to agree the tally and get a docket to ensure we got paid. Stepping out of the half decker and onto the ship was entering a very different world. All ships have a similar smell; food, diesel oil, humans living in close contact. They also have a familiar look, bulkheads, narrow passages, small cabins with smaller bunks, men trying to pass each other in close proximity. The first thing I noticed was the solidness of the deck, it felt like land when compared to the half decker.

A squat burly man, the bosun, stepped forward. He had a woollen hat on his head and a padded jacket on against the cold and damp, but no oilskins. He held a tally book in one hand and he extended to other and gave me a firm handshake, then a gesture to follow him, into the superstructure of the vessel.

Once we reached his cabin, he sat down at the table and indicated I do the same. He had a book of dockets, upon which the evenings catch per boat was listed. I wrote the name of the Boy Alan above and he stated the number of cran taken aboard. I was, frankly, bricking it in case t’was a lesser amount than what Robert Ferguson (Skipper of the Boy Alan) had stated. With a wave of relief I agreed with his tally and this was entered into the book. He took out a glass from a shelf, filled it, and his own stained glass, then he beamed at me, toasted me Slainte and we both downed the shots. The rum struck the back of my throat and I could feel the redness in my cheeks. But I managed it without a cough.

As my eyes glanced around the cabin, it was obvious to me that it was its own self contained unit. The table was adjoined to the wall and at its best could seat four, but only if the papers, docket books, glasses, bottle and a number of other nick knacks were tidied away. There was a small wash stand, that doubled for washing drinking glasses and a regular shave, judging by the items set beside it. There was wood panelling around the bunk and I could see some photos within easy sight, as the bosun lay at rest. I could see a family group, but too small to distinguish and some individual photos of children. The porthole was on the outer wall and as the Lugger swung with the tides would have given him a view of the New Line in Passage, or Seedees bank on the Wexford side. Behind me lay a metal bulkhead, grey and unyielding. In all it was probably a ten foot long by five feet wide rectangle and it was the bosun’s only space for privacy. He was luckier than most crew aboard I guess.

The Polish deep sea fleet numbered about 80 vessels at the time and they fished from the North Sea across the Atlantic and as far as Africa. Mackerel was the top catch, followed by Herring and Cod. The fishery was centrally planned by the communist government and was managed by three state run companies Dalmor, Gryf and Odra. The bosun was one of 16,000 employed in the deep sea fishing.

I was still sitting, as he moved to get back on deck, and slightly embarrassed I moved to join him. I’d forgotten how tired I was, it was the first chance I got to sit in hours. He ripped the page he had been scribbling in off the docket book and placed it in my hand. “Good Business” he said and clapped me on the back and pushed me out the door.

Returning to deck was like running a gauntlet. At several cabin doors, seamen were offering produce; fags, spirits, beer or clothing. Each came at a price, but it was buttons compared to what we would normally pay in Irish shops. Half of Cheekpoint, and all the other villages in the harbour were dressed as Poles, drunk on questionable spirits and sweet tasting beer and coughing up tar from foul smelling fags. They traded their eastern European produce, in the hope of making enough western currency to buy sought after goods. These could be then sold at huge profits at home or given as gifts. Levis jeans seemed to be a favourite western purchase, branded jackets, clothes, perfume and watches were also sought after.

The bosun walked me to the ladder, and as I turned towards him to descend onto the halfdeckers below, I wished him a Happy Christmas and said I hope he made it home to his family. He must have grasped what I was saying because he beamed at me, and said yes, but that we needed to bring more fish! There would be no trip home without a full hold. Although Poland was firmly behind the “Iron Curtain” and had been since the end of the second world war, the Communist party had turned a blind eye to the country’s deep religious beliefs. Christmas in Poland was a festival with as much meaning and custom as in Ireland. To be home for Wigilia would be important to any family man.

Heading upriver that evening I realised the Poles who worked so hard both to fill the fish barrels and to trade with us for hard currency were no different to ourselves in the run up to Christmas. Most of them, just like the bosun were probably family men. Working for low pay in a dirty and dangerous job, they wanted no more than ourselves; a few bob in their pockets and some nice gifts for their families once they made it home. I as much as anyone knew what it was like to have my father away. I could appreciate just how hard Christmas was on fishing and sailing families, many of whom, particularly in the previous generations, were lucky to get a parcel with some hand made gifts or foreign purchases and a letter.

We would continue fishing for another few days, and although this was governed as much by the weather, as the market, I was happy for the lugger crew when we were notified that it was time for them to set sail for home. We had whatever we were going to have for Christmas now, and so did the Poles.

In the preceding days I followed the progress of the lugger on her journey home, at least in my minds eye. I wondered would they head up the Irish sea and over Scotland, or go via the English Channel and then slip across the North sea. Days later they would steam over the tip of Denmark and into the Baltic. They would probably welcome the air getting denser and colder and surely their hearts would lift their chests as they slipped into port at Gdansk, Hel or Kolobrzez. They would take a bus or a train home, and arrive into the arms of family and greetings over would unpack their bags and widen the eyes of their children.

At least that’s how I imagined it would be. Free of the routine of fishing, we could turn ourselves now to Christmas shopping, house calling, drinking beer and making merry. Christmas was only starting and it would soon enough pass, and just like the Poles we would grow weary and perhaps even bored of the festive routine, and would long to be back on the water.

Postscript.

The glory years of the Polish Deep sea fishery was coming to an end. 3 factors were crucial in the demise, and even as the luggers bought Herring in Waterford harbour, the storm clouds were upon them. The first impact was the extension of 200 mile limits on national fishing grounds and related restrictions, the second, was the changing of the guard in Poland and the move to private enterprises and finally the third, was joining the EU. From being one of the largest deep sea fishing fleets in the world the Polish fleet is now decimated.

some figures:

in 1988 total catch was 628,000 T approx. in 2008 it was 179,000

in 1990 there were 77 deep sea fishing boats. By 2009 there were 4!

in 1980 there were 16,000 people employed in deep sea fishing alone. by 2008 there were 2991

All the details on the Polish fishery are taken from an EU report on Fisheries in Poland IP/B/PECH/NT/2011_02

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27/11/201506/12/2018

On Cran, Joulters and Luggers

Over the last few weeks I’ve looked back on the Herring Driftnet Fishery of Waterford Harbour and this week I wanted to bring the practical side of it to a close with a look at the selling of fish.

That first year of fishing herring, we had a market in Dunmore East. A family (I think named Kervick) bought the herring from out of the boats on our return, and although I was not aware of it until later, they basically governed if we went to fish or not. Essentially unless they had a market, it was pointless going to fish. Each evening, depending on the weather of course, they would let us know what we could catch, and if I remember it right, we divided the catch amongst the boats.

Basically, they set a quota by which the boats could fish. It they required 200 cran, this was divided between the boats going out to fish. If some boats had a little over their own share, they might take home some, or pass it on to people on the quay. At times a “joulter” might arrive, someone who wanted to buy fish and sell it on themselves. These men tended to be from inland, and next day they would be selling door to door in Tipperarry or Kilkenn

Selling to a joulter was considered to be good business, you might make a few more pound per box, but was totally bad form if you had an unfilled quota, and skippers would be expected to turn them down, in order to fulfil the order from the usual buyer. I remember one skipper from Cheekpoint, who didn’t seem to mind who he put out, once he got to sell his fish, for a few pound more. I remember one altercation, where Robert Ferguson and Dick Mason scandalised him to his face, out of concern that the regular buyer would hear of his dealing with the joulter and pull the market from all the boats. The gentleman wasn’t to be deterred however.

Removing the fish in Dunmore was done by filling fish boxes and then hauling them up out of the boat and stacking them onto the quayside. once stacked up they were removed by forklift. The hauling out was all by hand, and depending on the size of catch, and the state of tide, could be a back breaking activity,

I think it was the next season and we had a market from the luggers of Eastern Europe. Some were Russian, but the more common were boats from Poland, who anchored off Passage East and who bought the herrings from directly out of boats, which tied up alongside. The luggers were nothing more than fishing boats themselves, and because they were from the “eastern bloc” they carried a large crew. It was a time when communism was still the political and economic system of the Europe from East Germany to Alaska and herring played a large role in sustaining the proletariat. Unemployment was supposed to be unknown, hence the large crew.

Typical type of Polish lugger accessed from
http://photos.shetland-museum.org.uk/index.php?a=Collections&WINID=1447749686403

Depending on timing or our catch, we would sometimes tie up
at the lugger to continue shaking the nets, or in other cases head back to
Cheekpoint and once the nets were cleared, come back down to offload. It usually had a lot to do with what boats got
there first, and how long you were likely to wait before you could off load.

Off loading at the luggers was a relatively easy job. Overhead the derrick would swing out from the lugger and a
basket would be lowered into the boat.
Once in, we used shovels to fill the basket, as quick as we could. Once filled it was hoisted onto the deck of
the lugger and then the deckhands worked to salt and barrel the fish. Each basket was the measure of a cran, and the skipper
usually busied himself by counting the baskets, which on deck, or from the wheelhouse,
an opposite, kept a tally for the lugger.
For each basket, a herring was put to one side, to be tallied at the
end. Pen and paper was considered a less
accurate, if not totally impractical measure!

The filling was a hard, hot and relentless job, but at least
once you started to see the deck, you could see yourself making progress. Coming near the end, you had to get into the
nooks and crannies of the boat, ensuring that you made every last one of the
herrings count. Each basket had to be
filled right to the top. When you
thought you could get no more, you generally topped it up with another scoop,
careful, mind you, to smoothen it off. On
deck you were being carefully watched, and at times there was a cat and mouse
game played. Shouts down, urging more
fish per basket, reprimands from the wheelhouse, strange words being bandided
about. You had to be mindful, each basket was more money, but a dissatisfied Pole, might mean hard bargaining at the end.

Hauling a cran of herring ashore. Accessed from
http://fishingnews.co.uk/2015/09/fishmarkets-of-yesteryear-herring/

As each basket was hoisted, it was carefully guided out of the
boat by us crew. Ever mindful that if it
struck the ship it might topple, and with it some of our profit. Up it went over the gunwale of the ship, and
it was only then that we could relax, knowing it was their problem from
then.

It wasn’t often I got to go aboard and take the docket. It tended to be the skippers job. My first occasion was when fishing with
Robert Ferguson and he asked me to hop aboard to lugger as he had to move the
“Boy Alan” away and allow another boat alongside. I’ll return to the event closer to Christmas.

Once emptied the return journey was one of cleaning down the decks, washing scales off every conceivable part of the boat and ourselves and more tall tales and banter. It was never more satisfying than when you had landed a large catch and all the work had been worthwhile, Of course there were many trips when I’m not sure if we even covered the cost of the diesel oil, But even then, for me there was always the river to enjoy, the every changing, always alluring river. The fishing you see, may have been an economic necessity, the work may have been tough, but it was all nothing compared to the sights, sounds, smells and ever changing character of the river and the people who worked it.

My Facebook and Twitter pages are more contemporary and reflect not just heritage

and history but the daily happenings in our beautiful harbour:

F https://www.facebook.com/whtidesntales T https://twitter.com/tidesntales