River Ouse Bargeman

by Lewis, David;

  ‘When I was on leave from the Navy in 1942. I went to the Blackburn’s of Brough dance at the Beverley Road baths with my mate Jim Hiley who was on the same landing craft as me. We went with his wife Lil and her sister Marian. That’s where Marian and I first met.’

  Courting whilst you were in the services was hard, only being able to meet up when you were on leave. One leave saw Laurie in Marian’s bad books.

  ‘One time I was on leave and I didn’t get round to seeing Marian till the day before I was due back. I called round her house on Rose Street, knocked on the door, and her mam came out. She looked me up and down and said, “I don’t think you’re welcome here. You’ve not come round to see Marian and she’s turned your picture on the mantelpiece to face the wall.”‘

  That scrape got sorted out, but being young lads, Laurie and his mates naturally had an eye for a girl. Sadly, sometimes they mixed their beaux up with their barge. Both had curvaceous qualities, but trouble arose if they confused the two.

  Laurie and Marian Dews on their wedding day, 28 December 1946. (Laurie Dews)

  ‘Barges built at Thorne were a bit rounder in the rear than those built at Beverley. Sometimes we’d look at a lass and say to each other – “By, she’s Thorne built.” If a girlfriend who knew us heard us say something like that we’d get a sharp poke in the ribs.’

  Happily, all went well with Laurie and Marian.

  ‘I got demobbed in 1946, but I always say that pretty soon I joined up again ‘cos I got married. Between Christmas 1946 and New Year 1947, on 28 December, Marian and I wed in Hull. The ceremony was at St Silas, but that’s been demolished now. Our reception was above the Regal Cinema and the honeymoon was two days in Blackpool.’

  Saint Silas was a companion of Saint Paul on his missionary journeys throughout the Middle East. In the gospels, he is often referred to as ‘Silvanus’. The church was in Barmston Street, Sculcoates, about half a mile from the Docks.

  ‘Marian was a “Hullie”, and we worked a few trips together. We didn’t have a place to call our own, so some of the time we stayed at Marian’s parents in Hull, and sometimes with my parents in Selby. The barges were working non-stop, so I used to spend a lot of time away from home. Raymond, our eldest son, was born in 1947, but it wasn’t until five years later in 1952 we finally got a new council house in Selby, down Petre Avenue.’

  March 1947 brought some of the largest floods in living memory to the Ouse catchment. High water levels and strong currents made navigation almost impossible. The OCO factory at Barlby was flooded to a depth of several feet, and so its workings were greatly reduced. Near Selby where the banks were breached, old barges were used to form the core of an emergency replacement bank.

  Soldiers rescuing inhabitants from Millgate, central Selby, following the flooding of March 1947. (Author)

  Army DUKW vehicle moving along Barlby Road, with the Olympia Hotel in the background, in the wake of the Selby floods of March 1947. (Author)

  An extract from the Selby Times describing how the floods affected the area of the Barlby factory. (Author)

  Selby Times headline concerning flooding in Selby, March 1947. (Author)

  ‘When Sam retired in 1953, I left the Castor and took over my father’s barge the Taurus.’

  Dumb barges were coming to the end of their useful working life of almost forty years; for instance, the Castor had been launched in 1915 and was still going strong in 1952, but shortly after OCO became BOCM in 1951, the company showed confidence in the future of river-borne transport by investing in a new fleet of motorized barges. By using motorized barges, the need for a tug was removed and also many of the skills needed in handling dumb barges were no longer needed. The new barges also brought a fresh degree of creature comfort, as well as increased safety and a reduced dependence on the state of the tides. Each barge had a new brass bell indicating its date of launch.

  ‘In 1954 at the age of 32, I became skipper of the new motor barge Selby Corrie, which could carry 200 tons, like the dumb barges.’

  BOCM’s decision to make this investment in a fleet of commercial barges was the last of its kind in the UK. Richard Dunston of Thorne were contracted to build eighteen craft between 1953 and 1962. The cost of each vessel was about £15,000 (perhaps £300,000 today) but as the value of each full cargo load could easily top £1,000, the barges were good value. The Corrie might have been a new, motorized barge, but there was still plenty of old-fashioned hard work. The lighting was still by oil lamp, and before it got dark every night, the crew had to make sure all the lights were well fettled. The drill was: open up the light and clean the glass with newspaper; trim the wick to make it short and level so that there wasn’t too yellow a flame that would smoke the glass; fill up with paraffin; light the wick and finally close down the glass.

  The bell from the Selby Tony, one of the members of the BOCM fleet. (York Artsbarge)

  That had to be done for each of the navigation lights on the barge – the masthead, the port and starboard lamps and the stern chase – the light to the rear. Light was also needed in the cabin and also in the engine room. That’s six lights in all – a good hour’s work every night.

  The later motorized barges were fitted with electric lights, which was a great boon. An hour of fiddly and smelly work banished, and strong, steady light at the flick of a switch. Sailing without lights was an offence however. When the lights fused on Laurie’s barge when he was docking in 1980, a policeman spotted him, reported him to the authorities and a £50 fine ensued.

  ‘If you had any problems cleaning out the engine filters that all had to be done by oil light, and what a fiddle that was. Just getting a match stalk in the filters could stop the Lister 60hp engine. And what a smell in the engine room to start it. Paraffin fumes from the lamp and the smell of commercial diesel as you had to pump up the compressor and swing the flywheel to start the engine up!’

  Trade was very busy throughout the 1950s.

  ‘We were running up and down the river day and night and the normal payload was to bring 200 tons of seed upriver from Hull and take 150 tons of soya meal back to BOCM mill at Hull. The company continued to invest in their craft and in 1959 I went to Thorne to take charge of a new, more powerful motor barge, the Selby Martin that carried 250 tons. Finally, in 1960, I went to Thorne again and took charge of yet another new barge, the Selby Michael.

  Launch of the Selby Michael at Thorne, 1960. (Laurie Dews)

  ‘I spent many happy hours’ as skipper of the Michael. As well as working the Ouse, we did a few trips up the River Trent running to Spillers’ mill at Gainsborough with soya meal from Selby.’

  The era from the introduction of the motorized barges throughout the 1950s until the coming of motorways, heavy-duty lorries and containerization in the late 1970s could be seen as a golden era for barge traffic on the Ouse.

  Chapter 9

  THE JOURNEY UPRIVER FROM HULL

  In a similar way that London cabbies have the ‘Knowledge’, a bargeman gained and applied his understanding of the river over a lifetime voyaging between Hull and Selby. Whether as mate, skipper of a dumb barge or a motorized one, as a bargeman learnt his trade he became familiar with the topography of the river. He came to know about the dangers of bends and shallows; sand banks and nesses; weather and tides. He recognized the importance of various buoys, riverbank features and landmarks. He gained an understanding of the tricks of the trade and of the tales of incidents and accidents that occurred along the way. The maps feature many of the places that Laurie mentions.

  Map of the river journey from Hull to Barton. (Alice Prince)

  Diagram of the towing formation for OCO barges being pulled upstream. (Alice Prince)

  ‘Leaving Alexandra Dock, Hull, we navigated upstream, passing the Lower West Middle red light buoy on our port side and then Victoria Dock to starboard with all the ships riding at anchor, loaded with timber and pit props waiting to enter the dock to discharge.’

  The convoy craft onc
e in the river saw the tug with two barges on both port and starboard sides, as in this diagram.

  ‘Then past Old Harbour and the River Hull with Sammy Point at the entrance where years ago there used to be a garrison. Moored at the double-decker pier would be the paddle steamer Lincoln Castle, one of a fleet of three that ferried passengers and cars across the river to New Holland in Lincolnshire. Sammy Point got its name from a chap who used to own a windlass there in the days when sailing ships needed assistance to get into Old Harbour.

  ‘Flashing on our port side was Upper West Middle gas buoy, then past Albert Dock with its famous clock tower and Riverside Quay where ships moored alongside. Fruit-carrying ships unloaded here as well as the ‘Abbey’ ships that sailed regularly to Rotterdam.

  ‘There were more vessels riding off Albert Dock such as trawlers loaded with fish waiting to pass into the Fish Dock, otherwise known as St Andrew’s Dock. There was an “insurance marker” buoy here. These were buoys placed in potentially hazardous sites in an attempt to avoid accidents. Ships were warned not to anchor west of this as some trawlers had come to grief when they had done just that.’

  One was the Hull trawler Edgar Wallace which had been involved in a widely reported tragedy on 9 January 1935. Fifteen lives were lost from a crew of eighteen when the vessel foundered. She was within sight of home when she foundered, having steamed nearly 1,400 miles with a cargo of fish from Bear Island in the Arctic. She arrived off the Fish Dock abreast of four or five other vessels but could not get clear of them, and bumped twice on the Hessle sand bar, making the vessel list to port. Water rushing in along with the movement of a full cargo of fish meant that she could not right herself. Many of those who died were trapped below decks. Two of the three survivors were picked up having clung onto the wireless mast before it snapped. In Laurie’s early days, this part of the river was unremarkable but in 1972, construction of the mighty suspension bridge linking the northern and southern banks of the Humber near Hessle was begun. Some forty or so years in planning, the crossing opened in 1981. As Laurie regularly passed the construction site, he was able to take pictures of the work as it proceeded.

  View taken from the River Ouse of the Humber bridge under construction. (Laurie Dews)

  View from the River Ouse of the Humber bridge under construction. (Laurie Dews)

  He was also able to marvel at the balancing skills of the workmen.

  ‘Sometimes we’d look up at the lads working on the bridge – just seeming to walk along the suspension cables without a care in the world – or a safety net! They’d sometimes wave at us as we passed by on the river.’

  Tacking across the river to find the navigation channel was a constant challenge.

  ‘The next buoy was 26A, a red flashing buoy and after that came the light from Hessle. Passing Hessle, we headed across the river towards Barton Ness buoy to the south of Read’s Island.’

  Leaving aside any dredging that may have gone on, the position of the deep water channel depended on the tides and the time of year. Generally speaking, there were summer and winter channels. In a tidal river like the Humber or Ouse, in wintertime, the volume of water coming downstream on the ebb tide generally had more force than the inrushing flood caused by the tide. The situation would be reversed in summer. This would make no difference along a rack, but coming round a hoop or a bight, the favoured course would constantly alter. Those in charge of the river navigation monitored the situation regularly and changed the positions of buoys accordingly. A particular example occurred at Read's Island.

  ‘Read’s Island had just one house on and a few sheep. They say it was created by a galleon sinking there hundreds of years ago and the sand and silt built up all round it making the island as it is today.’

  The 1734 Customs Map of the Humber shows a sandbank in the area called Old Warp. Villagers later sank a ship to allow silt to build up around the wreck to increase the size of the island and protect the riverbank around South Ferriby. Other sources describe it as being made of ‘Pudding Pie Sand’ and that it took its name from Mr Read of Burton Stather on the south bank. At Spring Tides, it was possible for cattle to walk across the island. Permanent residence ceased around 1989. The navigation channel is normally to the north of the island, but occasionally the conditions in the river create a navigable course in the narrow straight between the island and the south bank of the Humber.

  ‘On the port side we pass South Ferriby with its sluice and Eastwood’s cement works. Also at South Ferriby are a lock and the entrance to the River Ancholme. On we go past Wintringham Haven, passing Lower Whitton and across to Brough, passing Oyster Ness buoy. Passing Brough Aerodrome we can see the slipway where they used to launch the seaplanes and the black mooring buoy they used to moor to.’

  Brough Aerodrome was originally owned by the Blackburn Aeroplane and Motor Company, and tested seaplanes during the First World War. Over the next half century or so, many designs of aircraft were built and tested here, until the firm ultimately became part of British Aerospace. During the 1950s, the perimeter track was used for motor racing, and Stirling Moss won one of his first races there.

  ‘Passing on our port side is Middle Whitton light ship, followed by Upper Whitton light ship. Each of the Whitton ships were manned by two men one week on and a week off.’

  A similar light ship to this – the one from Spurn – is now moored in Hull Marina.

  Upper Whitton lightship (above) as in service in the 1950s and (lower) in Grimsby dock, 1997. There were three Whitton lightships: Upper, Middle and Lower. Two crew used to live aboard each. Laurie recalls that as it was a lonely job, if conditions were favourable, the bargemen would circle one of the ships and pass the men a Sunday newspaper to keep them occupied during quiet times. (Laurie Dews)

  ‘The Whitton Sands are very dangerous sands, similar to the Goodwin Sands in the English Channel. If a boat grounded on them when the tide was ebbing, the sand would whittle away from underneath the ship and if she was loaded, might break her back. Many craft have come to grief on Whitton Sands. The Lower lightship was by far the hardest to work on. A whirlpool effect caused by the tides was so strong there that the vessel was constantly being pulled in different directions on its anchor, meaning little rest for the crew.’

  One such sloop was the Masterman which turned over on Whitton Sands. As Laurie remembers it, the story had a happy ending.

  ‘The captain’s wife and two children were locked in the cabin and when they cut a hole in the barge, they found the woman alive, holding the baby in her arms. She had been in an air pocket.’

  However, according to local newspaper reports, the outcome was somewhat more unfortunate and the Whitton village website has the full detail:

  ‘On the morning of the 26 June 1906 the sight of a wreck, the sloop Masterman, presented itself close to the foreshore, embedded in Whitton Sand. A telegram was sent to Brough and it was learned that the crew had managed to escape and had landed there, but that five women had been trapped below, in the cabin and had drowned. They were Mary Ann Barr (46) of Hull and her four daughters Emily Eastwood (20), Frances Barr (15), Jane Barr (9) and Joy Barr (7). The bodies were never recovered but the emotion in the village was so strong that the vicar decided to hold a funeral service for them. Their names were entered in Whitton’s burial Register, but the funeral rites on Friday, 27 July 1906 were held, not in the Church, but in a boat moored in the River Humber above the wreck “where they are, in a manner, buried” wrote Rev. Benjamin Hunter in the Register.’

  The Humber and the Ouse were notorious for having shallows in their course as they meandered. Bargemen had a dilemma. The deeper and safer channel often followed the twists of the river – but to follow such a course was time consuming. They wanted to get upriver with their cargo as quickly as possible, but didn’t want to ground on a sandbank. Whilst today mariners can use echo sounders to get an accurate reading of the water’s depth, on the dumb barges, there were no such luxuries. They had to use the �
��sounding rod’. Laurie explains its use:

  Model of the Selby Michael, as made by Laurie Dews, showing the sounding rod. (Author)

  ‘We had a sounding rod – it was a long pole painted black and white. It was about ten foot long, with a black line at about eight foot. We’d push the rod over the side of the bow of the barge, and if we didn’t feel anything by the time the black marker went under, we’d know there was at least eight foot of water, so we’d shout “Deep!”

  ‘If it just hit we’d shout “eight foot”. If we kept going and the rod grounded before the black marker got wet, we’d yell “seven foot and shordnin’”. Then we’d take it careful like over the shallows and when more of the rod started to submerge we’d be able to cry out “eight foot and deepnin’”. Then you’d know your barge had crossed the worst of the shallows and you could go ahead with confidence. Possibly as much as thirty minutes saved.’

  Wise bargemen also knew to look out for tell tales on the riverbank. By experience, they’d know that a certain mark on a wall or branch on a tree indicated a certain depth of water in the channel. By comparing the bankside tell-tales with the reading from the sounding rod, they could get an idea of the gradation in the depth, and pass that information onto others.

  ‘We’d look out and see maybe nine foot on Barton depth gauge, but we’d only read seven foot on the sounding rod. So we’d know it was two foot worse than Barton Board over the shallows before the tide came up and we could tell pilots and other barges about that.’

  When motorized barges came into service, the canny skipper had another trick. Surfing.

  ‘If you knew you were coming up to a shallows, there was a way over it. You’d run up to the shallows at full speed and then when you got to the start of the shallows, you’d cut your engine to half. Because the stern was lower than the rest of the barge, you’d be building up a wash so when you cut engine speed, the wave you’d built up would sweep forward and carry you over the sandbar. If you’d tried to go at it all full speed, you’d have grounded.’