Today our guest blog is provided by David Carroll who as a child lived in Dunmore East with his parents; Harbour Master, Captain Desmond Carroll and his Mother Freda. David has written a memoir of his time there, and has kindly entrusted it to me from which I have taken an excerpt. The piece I have selected specifically deals with his experience of Dunmore Harbour and the comings and goings around the Harbour Masters home.
My Father was appointed harbour master of Dunmore East in autumn of 1947, a post he served until he passed away in 1969. Being appointed harbour master at Dunmore East meant taking up the residence provided at Harbour Lodge beside the pier.
David and his Dad, Dunmore 1952
with thanks to Michael Farrell
Dunmore East is located on the County Waterford coastline where the estuary of Waterford harbour forms. People living in Dunmore East tended to drop the ‘East’ part and refer to the village simply as Dunmore. The village itself then divided into two parts: ‘The Dock’ where the harbour and pier were located and then ‘Lower Dunmore’ on the way to the Catholic Church at Killea. A beautiful park, running down to the cliffs separated the two areas. On the opposite side of the park was St. Andrew’s Church of Ireland and a number of large houses including the Haven Hotel, which had originally been called Villa Marina, when it was the home of the Malcomson family. Stretching entirely around Dunmore as a backdrop were the woods which give the entire village a beautiful panoramic view, particularly from the sea. The wood and park had been left in trust to the people of Dunmore for their enjoyment. Reaching Dunmore by sea had the advantage of seeing all the beautiful small coves and beaches stretching around the bay, many of them with colonies of noisy sea birds called kittiwakes. For different reasons, these all became favourite places of mine and I retain fond memories of all of them.
Our house was a particularly cold one. It was partly a one story cottage dating probably from the time in 1814 when Alexander Nimmo, a famous Scottish engineer commenced work on the new harbour at Dunmore to accommodate the packet station for ships, which carried the Royal Mail between England and Ireland. Records tell us that the work consisted mainly of a massive pier or quay with an elegant lighthouse at the end. Nimmo’s original estimate had been £20,000 but at the time of his death in 1832 £93,000 had been spent and the final cost was £108,000. By then (1837)* the harbour had started to silt up, and the arrival of steam meant that the winding river could be negotiated easily, so the packet station was transferred to Waterford.
Dunmore East from the air – circa 1963
With thanks to Michael O’Sullivan Waterford History Group (WHG)
Some additional bedrooms were joined on later at the end of the corridor. Photographs taken around the turn of 20th century show only the old part. It was a very damp house as a result of being so old. In winter my parents overcame this and kept the house as cosy as possible by keeping coal fires lighting all day and having plenty of paraffin heaters in the hallways and bedrooms, which we always called The Aladdin, a trade name for this type of heater. They could be a bit smelly and difficult to maintain but were pretty effective nevertheless.
Our house was at the start of the pier and from my bedroom I could see the lighthouse at the end and all the boats in the harbour and right out across the bay where you could see Lawveesh Rock, a headland with the local red rock and Councillor’s Strand and if looked to the left you could see ‘The Island’ which formed part of the harbour and where kittiwakes lived on the cliffs during summer months. It really was a wonderful view and you could spend hours simply looking out the window. No two days were the same, there was always a new boat sailing into the harbour or departing or moving her berth.
The harbour masters house is in the centre of the photo facing the dock
Via Michael O’Sullivan WHG
My father’s predecessor had been called Major Wilfred Lloyd and he had retired after a long time in the position. He had a son called Llewellyn who I suspected slept in my bedroom a long time previously. A compass had been carved into part of the wooden window frame and we always credited Llewellyn with this. From a very early age I therefore knew where North, South East and West were located and knew if the wind was blowing from the north, it was coming from the direction of Councillor’s Strand and this was the one that was feared as the harbour was unsheltered from this direction.
A south easterly wind or breeze came across from the Hook Head lighthouse located at the other side of the Waterford harbour estuary at the end of the long Hook peninsula. The pier gave shelter to the boats from this direction. Winds, tides, weather forecasts and conditions would form an integral daily part of our lives over the coming years.
There were two distinct users of the harbour and pier and all the facilities provided and these were the fishermen, who made their livelihood and provided for their families by fishing and then there was another diverse group who used the harbour for pleasure in rowing boats, sailing dinghies, yachts and motor boats. In addition visiting yachts came to Dunmore East every summer and this was a big feature in our daily lives. Occasionally there may have been a bit of tension between the two groups. In fact there was a lot more that united than divided them as all shared a great love for Dunmore and its beautiful harbour and of the sea and had the deepest respect for the sea and its power. Everyone was in agreement that the sea was a powerful force and could take your life away whenever it wanted. This was a theme that my parents kept coming back to time again while I was growing up.
A busy fishing harbour with Dutch luggers circa 1950’s early 1960’s
Photo via William Power WHG
If I was asked briefly as to what my father’s core role or job description was, it could be best summed up by saying that his job was to ensure that all users of the harbour was properly looked after. It was important that the fishermen had landing facilities and space to store ropes and nets and mend their nets and lobster pots. The people using the harbour for pleasure required simple access and safe and secure moorings for their boats. By and large, my father, using lifelong maritime skills and knowledge achieved that and was well respected and liked by everyone. The fishermen used the facilities throughout the full year but all sailing and boating came to an end in September. Summer and winter were quite different and even in spring and autumn there was always something new or different happening around the harbour. There was never a dull day!
In addition, my father had other duties, such as record keeping and submitting weekly and monthly data to the Office of Public Work (O.P.W.) in St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin, who were his employers. The O.P.W. was always referred to by everyone in Dunmore as the Board of Works. The O.P.W. had responsibility also for the harbours at Howth and Dun Laoighaire in addition to Dunmore East. Along with Donaghadee in Co. Down, these four harbours had been designated royal harbours and since partition the O.P.W. had administered the harbours in the South. Other ports and harbours around Ireland were administered by harbour commissioners or local authorities.
As soon as I could walk, I would accompany my father up and down the pier each day. Close to our house was a set of steps leading to the top of the pier wall at its starting point near Shannoon, a small clifftop mountain where the Pilot Station stood. On several occasions each day, my father would take his telescope and we would look out across Waterford Harbour mouth towards Hook Head lighthouse, three miles over on the Wexford coast at the end of the Hook Peninsula. Sometimes you could see a strange boat making its way towards the sanctuary of Dunmore. You had to guess where it might have come from and for what reason?
All ships leaving Waterford Harbour or destined for Waterford or New Ross located on the River Barrow would be picked out by father with his telescope and he could identify many of them by various means such as the distinctive painting on their funnels. In the evenings, the Dunmore fishermen would be making for home. The number of seagulls and other birds that swarmed overhead and behind the boats always gave a good indication in advance of a successful and lucrative day’s fishing. No seabirds usually meant no fish!
The porch entrance to our house was a very important part of harbour life. People would come seeking all sorts of information and advice from my father but mainly about the weather forecast. My father would listen each day to the ‘shipping forecast’ on the BBC radio service and would be able to pass this information on, which was vital to anyone putting out to sea. There was a chronometer, which is a ship’s clock, in the porch and this could be seen through the window. It was very accurate and was wound each day with a big brass key.
Another old photo with a view of the cottage, behind the masts and rigging
of old sailing vessels. Via Michael O’Sullivan WHG
The chronometer, which is still in my possession all these years later, was first used in a steamship called the Mary Monica, built in Port Glasgow in 1879 and belonging to my grandfather’s company J.J. Carroll, 38 City Quay, Dublin and was used to supply his coal business in Dublin from Ayr in Scotland. I have an oil painting of that ship in my house showing her in a storm in the Bay of Biscay and a faded date on the painting looks like 1884.
There was also a barometer which was constantly checked as this was an indicator of the predicted weather. When the barometer dropped, it was always a bad sign. All of this took place a long time before weather was forecast by satellite.
There was also a clock with no mechanism but just two hands that my father set manually each day to indicate the time of ‘High Water’. The time of high water and low water was vital to every user of the harbour. There was a small inner harbour called the Dock Strand, which dried out at low water and this is where all boats moved to if the skipper wanted to clean seaweed from the bottom of the boat, paint or carry out any repair or take a fouled rope or net from a propeller, which was a common occurrence. (see first video below) Knowing the tide times and how many hours you had before the boat would be re-floated was of vital importance.
Tides were also important for sailing craft leaving Dunmore East intending to sail up the Co. Wexford coast towards Arklow or Dun Laoghaire. As far as I can recall, the skipper needed to plan his voyage to be some-where around Tuskar Rock near Rosslare when the tide turned to derive maximum benefit from the tide and assist their passage. My father would have advised many a seafarer at Dunmore with this information.
I perceived my father to be the most important person in the harbour and this gave me a certain cockiness at that time as I accompanied him about his business and I probably thought that I was his No.2. My mother told me much later that I used to say to people “My father is the Harbour Master and I am the Harbour Boy”. I did not seem lack any self-confidence in those early years! I really did believe in my own little mind that it was my harbour. Who needed brothers and sisters when you had your own harbour instead?
A two video pieces of the time, to finish. Firstly via a Micheal O’Sullivan WHG and filmed by Daithi O’Gorman
And finally fishing herring at Dunmore in the 60’s via Pathe News
If you would like to read the full piece as penned by David you can email him to request a copy at davidpcarroll1@gmail.com
* Some sources give the date as 1835
My thanks for assistance with the piece to William Power of Dunmore, Michael O’Sullivan Waterford History Group Facebook page and Michael Farrell of the Barony of Gaultier Historical Society.
This is the second guest blog, and the first of 2017. If you would like to contribute a piece, please email me at russianside@gmail.com. The only criteria is that it needs to have a maritime connection to the harbour. I will format, source the photos if required and add in the hyperlinks. Guest blogs will be published on the last Friday of each month. Our next will be a piece on smuggling by James Doherty.
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and history but the daily happenings in our beautiful harbour:
F https://www.facebook.com/whtidesntales T https://twitter.com/tidesntales
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
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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[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.
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
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.
My Facebook and Twitter pages are more contemporary and reflect not just heritage
and history but the daily happenings in our beautiful harbour:
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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.
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.
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.
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
Over the last few weeks I’ve occasionally covered my exploits fishing herring in Waterford harbor. The first week looked at getting prepared, and the second installment looked at the finding of the shoal and the catch. This week I look at the really hard part of the work, what we termed “shaking the herring”, the tried and trusted method traditionally used to clear the fish from the nets.
Every other fish I ever pursued was a joy to take from the nets. Salmon may need to be extricated, sometimes at the cutting of a mesh, eels could be spilled from a pot, bait or bottom fish poured from the cod end of a weir net or trawl, but herring were a different matter entirely.
Although the phrase gill netting is used to describe how fish are caught with a drifting net, the truth is that many fish thus caught, very often don’t actually get meshed by the gills, or if they do, its relatively slight. Salmon for example in Cheekpoint were usually trapped in the bag of the net, only the younger, smaller peal, as we called them tended to be meshed, But herring, truly lived up to the description.
The nets were set on shoals of swimming fish, and the vast majority came into to the boat firmly meshed. Therefore, they needed to be freed from the mesh in order to be sold. Whereas a few salmon might make for easy handling, at least thousands, if not tens of thousands of herring was a totally different matter.
Once the nets were aboard, we usually took a break, waiting to get either into port, if we were heading to Dunmore, or into calm water if we were heading back to Cheekpoint. The nets had to be stretched between the head and the foot rope, the greater the spread the easier the job. Some boats rigged a pole or an oar from gunwale to gunwale, but aboard the Reaper I would take both ropes up and over a beam running from the wheelhouse astern to the gantry. Denis and myself would haul the nets over the beam and towards the stern, shaking the herring as we went along. Once we were tied up, Jim would start be freeing the net from the pile on the deck, considerably lightning our workload.
An old photo from UK, our method was no different
This was always an easier job with “full herring” but spents were a different matter. Spents were herring that had spawned already and spents tended to be narrow fish that when they met the wall of netting pushed through the mesh to their back fin. Spent fish often had to be removed by hand, and in the worst of cases had to be twisted in half to be removed. As we shook, you had to take care to have a good grip. Shaking herrings was a difficult job with gloves, it was easy to loose your grip, but if you tried to do it with your bare hands, the meshes of the net cut into your fingers and your blood mixed with the herring scales, guts and blood of the herring made the stinging and throbbing unbearable.
Many was the night I would be practically crying with the pain, my father standing over me, plunging my hands into scalding hot water with a quarter bottle of dettol for disinfectant. Each cut had to be cleaned, the hangnails thoroughly washed, and all the while the skinned hands redder than if they had been burned in a fire and roasting hot to the touch.
A modern image of Stephen and Tommy Perham, Devon
accessed from
http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/content/articles/2008/11/04/clovelly_herring_feature.shtml
As bad as shaking herrings was on the night of the catch, it was twice as bad the following morning. On occasions we would stop, whether it was too late, or the weather too bad, or maybe it was a Friday night and people had better places to be. The following morning it was pure misery.
Everything was cold and wet, oilskins, boots and worst of all the gloves. The gloves because they were damp with the previous nights sweat, going over the stingily painful fingers. Some mornings the frost was thick on the ground, and those mornings seemed the ad an extra level of pain to those fingers, that is un-describable. In time things warmed up and you’d be fine. However in all the features of the herring fishing I think it was the scales of the herrings that were the worst.
Typically enmeshed Herring, accessed via
http://www.ifish.net/board/showthread.php?t=343319
Herring scales are small in size, huge in quantity, and they got everywhere. How many times I had pulled on the oilskins over my head only to feel the piercing dampness of scales going down my back I can’t say. Scales got everywhere, the oilskins were covered, the gloves, your hat, or hair if you weren’t wearing one, the boat was covered, the deck, anything within 2 meter radius of the boat. Worst I guess was when you got one in the eye. Impossible to see and thus remove, you would endure the agony of it, until you could get to Ardkeen, and then wait in a queue to see a doctor who hadn’t an iota of an idea what you meant be shaking out herrings. The patch over the eye was a common occurrence for me, never lasting more than to the time it was to go fishing again.
Once shook the herring laid on the deck of the boat and it was then time for them to be boxed and sold. A topic I will return to soon.
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.
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
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