This very first of the ‘Clyde Steamers’ had a top speed of just 5 knots — reduced to almost nothing against wind or tide. She offered accommodation in two classes — ‘Best Cabin’ at 4/- and Second at 3/-. These were astonishingly high fares at that time and there was indeed a small cabin for passengers paying the higher fare, shoe-horned in astern of the engines. The tiny vessel was built at the Port Glasgow yard of John Wood, and launched in July 1812. She gave eight years of generally reliable service before being stranded at Crinan in mid-winter 1820. Just what she was doing up there I do not know. The boat was broken up but her engine was rescued and today sits in the South Kensington Science Museum. Why there instead of Glasgow’s superb Transport Museum I do not know either.
I have cheated shamelessly over the question of the replica for although one was built (by Lithgows Port Glasgow) for the 150th anniversary of 1962, the only manifestation of the little ship which was featured in the otherwise lavish and extensive centenary celebrations in 1912 was the ‘conversion’ into the Comet of one of the town’s electric trams, which ran as an illuminated replica.
35
High Teas on the High Seas
Macphail squeezed into his place at the apex of the triangular table in the forepeak of the fo’c’sle and studied with quite unconcealed disgust the plate which had just been placed before him.
On it a couple of rashers of half-raw streaky bacon sat in a pool of fat next to three black, smoking objects which could with some difficulty be identified as sausages. At the side of the plate two eggs demonstrated their cook’s ability to achieve what most would have deemed impossible: the yolks were startlingly hued in a bilious green and of the consistency of an india-rubber, while the whites were transparent, glutinous and virtually uncooked save for their ragged edges which were charred to an intense black.
With a heavy sigh, the Engineer slowly raised his face from its contemplation of this culinary feast and, with a shake of the head and a prolonged sigh, stared with narrowed and unfriendly eyes at its perpetrator.
The Mate — for he it was — shuffled uncomfortably and avoided the Engineer’s steely stare.
“I’m sorry, Dan,” he said apologetically: “I chust havna got the knack of the stove yet, it’s aalways either too hot or too cold wi’ me: but I wull can only get better.”
“Which is mair than I can say is likely for ony of the rest of us,” said the Engineer unfeelingly. “Whaur the bleezes did you learn tae haundle a frying-pan? The try-hoose on a whaler?”
“Now, Dan,” said Para Handy in a placatory tone, “Poor Dougie iss makin’ the best chob of it he canm in the conditions, for he signed on ass the Mate of the vessel remember, no’ as its heid cook and bottle-washer. He iss chust ass much a victim of the circumstances ass we are.”
The circumstances, in a nutshell, were that the Vital Spark’s cheerful resident chef de cuisine, Sunny Jim, had taken a few days leave of absence to attend a wedding in Kirkcudbright — “a notorious toon for jollification and high-jinks,” he had warned Para Handy: “no weddin’ ever lasts less than three days there so Ah’m likely to be gone a week.” Para Handy’s dismay at this pronouncement was only slightly mollified when Jim added that he had arranged, as replacement, that his cousin Colin Turner, the Tar (he of mixed memory for the crew of the puffer) would officiate as relief deckhand and cook during the week of his absence.
Given the Tar’s past reputation, it was perhaps not altogether surprising (though nonetheless annoying) that, on the morning of the vessel’s scheduled departure from Bowling, he simply failed to appear as promised.
“Whit else wud ye expect frae Colin Turner?” was Macphail’s unsurprised comment: but the patient Captain gave the missing crewman the benefit of the doubt until early afternoon before he accepted that the Tar just was not going to turn up, and gave orders for the puffer to slip her moorings and set off for her destination which, on this occasion, was a forestry pier on the Sound of Mull.
Though the Tar would be sorely missed on their arrival at that pier to take on a cargo of sawn timber — a backbreaking job loading this at any time, but most especially when three-handed instead of fully crewed, and with little help expected from the forestry men — there was a more immediate problem, namely the question of the catering arrangements on board, which must be resolved.
The larder was well-stocked for the outward jorney — Sunny Jim had seen to that before he left: but it would have to be fully replenished, probably at Oban, for the return trip. But even a well-stocked larder requires somebody to prepare its contents for the table and this was the subject of a great debate as the Vital Spark sailed slowly down-river in the late afternoon.
Nobody on board wanted the responsibilities of acting-cook.
Though the argument was debated loud and long for an hour or more, there was really no doubt in the mind of any of the three protagonists, from the very outset, as to what the outcome of it would be.
Para Handy would be able to argue that, as Captain with overall responsibility for the navigation and the general maritime integrity of the vessel, he could not possibly be distracted from those duties by the mundane requirements of making cups of tea or frying sausages — particularly in a location from which he would have no view whatsoever of the outside world and the circumstances and whereabouts of his command.
Macphail would advance similar pleading for his role in the hierarchy of the running and management of the ship, pointing out also that where the Captain and Mate could to a degree be interchangeable in respect of their duties as navigators and helmsmen, nobody on board could deputise for the engineer of the vessel, who must plainly be sidelined totally when it came to a decision on responsibilities for the commisariat.
The engineer also had the distinct advantage of knowing that however much the other two were anxious to avoid the role of ship’s cook for themselves, neither would view with equanimity the prospects of food-preparation being (quite literally) in the hands of somebody who had just finished shovelling a load of nutty slack into the furnace and then topped that activity off with an application of the oil-can and its accompanying oil-rag to a tangle of greasy engine parts.
The unfortunate Mate realised from the very first that he was a doomed man, placed by fate in circumstances over which he could have no control. Though it was with ill-grace, when the debate was at last concluded, that he made his way to the fo’c’sle to study the contents of the larder and plan his menus, it was also with a condemned man’s recognition of the inevitable.
His offering that first evening was mince and tatties.
Unhappily, he was unaware of the important role played in such a delicacy by the introduction of finely-chopped onions to the mince: nor that the best way to cook mince was not to boil it fiercely in a large pan of seawater: nor that potatos required more time to cook through than the few moments it took to bring to boil the pan of water in which they had been placed. Nor did condiments play any part in his cuisine.
Most of what was served to his shipmates on the enamelled metal plates of the puffer’s only dinner-service finished up over the side of the vessel, and Para Handy and Macphail made the best of a meal they could from bread, cheese, and (eaten raw) the onions which the Mate had ommitted from the mince.
The three retired to their bunks, with the Vital Spark moored at Kilchattan Bay, in a frosty silence.
The Mate slept but fitfully: dreams of the acclaim of his shipmates as he served them five-star meals and basked in their warm compliments were interrupted by nightmares in which they rose in horror against the culinary disasters placed before them, and threw their perpetrator over the side of the ship.
He awoke the next morning red-eyed and ill-tempered and began to set out his breakfast ingredients with grim determination.
The results of his early morning endeavours, which have already been described, again finished up overboard and, with no cheese left to quieten the pangs of hunger, Captain and Engineer did what they could with a loaf
of bread, a pack of butter and a tin of orange marmalade.
For the next two days (as the Vital Spark made her passage to the forestry pier, loaded up such a quantity of cut timber that her deck was so heaped with it that the puffer’s rowing-boat had to be unshipped and towed astern, and headed down the Sound of Mull to Oban to replenish food-stocks) a succession of quite appalling meals were served in the fo’c’sle and — more often than not — hurled angrily over the side a few moments later.
When the stocks of bread ran out, and the company was reduced to staving of their growing hunger pains with months-old ship’s biscuit, the Mate began to fear for his safety.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, the Vital Spark tied up at the North Pier in Oban’s capacious harbour. The Captain handed the Mate the ship’s mess-money for the purchase of provisions for the return voyage to Bowling and announced that he and the Engineer were going ashore for a refreshment “to waash the taste of your cookin’ oot” as he very kindly put it: and that when they returned at six o’clock they would expect that the Mate would have spent the money on food that he could cook, and would have an appetising meal on the table for them.
The Mate stood disconsolate on the deck as his shipmates made off, and stared miserably round the harbour. The Vital Spark had the North Pier to herself. Over on the South Pier MacBrayne steamers were loading passengers for the evening services to Tobermory to the west, Fort William to the north.
In that moment, Dougie saw a solution to all his problems.
Para Handy and Macphail returned from the Lorne Bar with heavy hearts, each imagining what horrors might be waiting for them on the mess-table.
To their astonishment, it was neatly laid out with plates of sliced and buttered bread and teacake, pancakes and a selection of fancies — there was even a single rose in a small vase as a centrepiece.
As they seated themselves, the Mate went to the stove and with pride took from its oven three plates of delicious, crisply-battered haddock fillets with golden chips and tastily-minted peas.
Wordlessly, the crew fell to and demolished the delicious food set before them.
“Well, Dougie,” said the Captain, finishing the last morsel of currant-cake and pouring himself another cup of tea, “I don’t know whether to thank the Oban proveesions, or the improvement in your cooking, but that’s the best meal I’ve had for months!”
And even the Engineer grudgingly concurred.
The miracle continued all the way to Glasgow. Breakfast before leaving Oban was a revelation — crisp bacon, golden-yoked eggs and sausages of a spicey perfection. Indeed the Mate insisted on buying fresh provisions that morning, and sent his shipmates for an early constitutional towards Ganavan while he did so.
Lunch at Crinan (where they shared passage through the canal with MacBrayne’s Cygnet), served after the Captain and Engineer, at Dougie’s insistence, had stepped ashore for a refreshment to set their appetites up, comprised roast leg of lamb with mint sauce, new potatos and carrots followed by jam roly-poly with a delicious custard sauce.
They arrived to berth overnight at Tarbert just twenty minutes before MacBrayne’s Iona left for Ardrishaig, there to berth for the night herself. Tea, when Captain and Engineer returned from the Harbour Inn, consisted of cold roast beef with a delicious salad and another fine selection of cakes and pastries.
Breakfast (again at Tarbert) and then lunch at Rothesay, where the Mate insisted on berthing to replenish his supplies, and sent his shipmates up to the Argyll Arms for a drink at his own expense, were again a revelation of their temporary cook’s new-found culinary skills and there was even talk of readjusting the whole duty rota of the Vital Spark on Sunny Jim’s return.
But late supper at Bowling, where they berthed at ten o’clock, was a repeat of the stomach-churning disasters of the outward trip. Greasy bacon, half-raw Lorne sausage, cold tinned beans.
“My Cot, Dougie,” said Para Handy in disgust, pushing his plate away, the food on it virtually untouched. “What on earth went wrong tonight?”
“Simple,” said the Mate, “there’s no MacBrayne shups here.”
“What in bleezes d’you mean?” asked the mystified Captain.
“What d’you think?” replied the Mate: “You surely didna think ony of that good cooking wass mine?
“Wi’ our skiff handy in the watter astern, I’ve been rowing to the MacBrayne boats in Oban and Crinan and Tarbert and Rothesay and buying meals ready-made from the passenger-galley cooks.
“It cost me money oot of my ain pocket, what wi’ the extra for the food, and givin’ you two beer-money to get you oot the way whiles I did ma ‘shopping’: but at least it wass worth it no’ to have your abuse aal the way from Mull to Gleska the way I had it aal the way from Gleska to Mull!”
FACTNOTE
I am not sure what the good folk of Kirkcudbright did to merit Sunny Jim’s observations about the town’s notorious abilities for celebrating a wedding in style!
Shipboard catering — at least in the context of provisions for ocean-going passengers — must always have been fraught with problems in the days before the invention and general use of stabilisers. Early (and not so early) accounts of Transatlantic liner passages tell tales of woe in all classes, for of course sea-sickness is no respecter of persons.
Most poignant perhaps are the stories of society ladies in the first-class acommodations in the luxurious days of White Star and CGT, both expecially renowned for their cuisine, who spent the entire week of the crossing prostrate in their cabins, with the double frustration of failing to make their mark on their fellow-passengers at the elegant functions and soirees, and unable to keep down so much as a cup of bouillon, never mind the caviar and lobster and tournedos and out-of-season fruits.
And of course, for all of this irretrievably lost opportunity and gone-for-ever delights, they had paid handsomely — very handsomely. More than one purser recounts being importuned on arrival at New York for just one jar of caviar to compensate in some way for the outlay which had been lost — overboard.
Catering on the Clyde steamers rarely encountered weather problems and was surprisingly good, most particularly on MacBrayne’s vessels: and even allowing for the horrendous inflation in the generations since, it seems to have offered remarkable value as well. In 1911 MacBrayne’s first class fare from Glasgow to Ardrishaig and return was 6/- or just 30p: while for a mere 4/6 (22p) more, the excursionist could enjoy a package of breakfast, lunch and tea.
In The Victorian Summer of the Clyde Steamers Alan Paterson reprints the day’s menus on one sailing of MacBrayne’s Lord of the Isles. Breakfast offered (among other choices) Salmon, Fresh Herring, Steaks, Ham and Eggs, and a whole range of breads, rolls and trimmings. Dinner included Salmon again, plus Roast Beef, Boiled Mutton, Roast Lamb, Fowl, Tongue, Assorted Sweets, Cheeses. High Tea was a simpler repast of just Fish, Cold Meats, Boiled Eggs, Fancy Breads and Preserves.
And the costs? Breakfast was 2/- (10p) as was High Tea. Dinner was 3/- (15p).
I reckon Dougie did pretty well by his shipmates if that was the kind of fare he was putting on the table!
36
A Stranger in a Foreign Land
Para Handy’s blinkered devotion to the West Coast and its islands is legendary. “Have you never regretted that you didn’t decide to go foreign yourself, Captain?” I asked him one evening as we sat on the pier at Gourock watching the Anchor liner Columbia pass the Tail o’ the Bank at the start of her passage to New York.
“No, not really,” said Para Handy without hesitation. “I would neffer have had the dignity of my own command if I had, for wan o’ the qualifications for bein’ Captain wi’ the likes of the Anchor Line or the Blue Funnel is that you have to pass a wheen o’ examinations in seamanshup and navigation and the like, and I wass neffer a man for examinations.
“Forbye, you canna learn seamanshup oot of a book, whateffer they say, it iss something you either have or you have not, and ass for navigation, weel, my idea
o’ navigatin’ is doon to the Garrioch Heid, first right for Tighnabruaich, second right for Ardrishaig, straight on for Brodick, left for Saltcoats — that kind o’ thing. Aal this business wi’ sextants and chairts and compasses and the rest is way beyond me. It iss wan thing for the men who have the agility for them, like Hurricane Jeck for example — he has a heid for figures and he passed for his Master’s Certificate the fastest effer in the merchant marine.
“It wass a peety he lost it chust aboot ass quick, but ass Jeck himself would say, what’s for you wullna go by you, and what you’re no meant to have you wullna keep.
“The wan thing I disagree wi’ him aboot in sayin’ that iss when it comes to the matter o’ money, for I’m sure that there wass neffer anybody better suited to have it than Jeck. Money could have been invented for him, he spends it wi’ such dignity and style that it is a privilege simply to waatch him doin’ it. But then at the same time, you see, it iss exactly because of that that he can neffer keep it. It chust runs through his hands like watter from a tap.”
I felt it best to offer no opinion on the question of Hurricane Jack’s suitability to be a member of the moneyed classes.
“But I wass abroad myself, chust the wan time” continued the Captain, “and I decided then and there that wance wass enough for me.”
I stared in surprise. “I had no idea,” I said. “When was this, and where to?”
“Luverpool,” said the Captain. “Chust before I got the command o’ the Vital Spark.”
“But Liverpool isn’t abroad, Captain,” I protested. “Liverpool is in England.”
“Weel, if England issna abroad then I would be very pleased if you wud tell me what it iss,” said Para Handy scathingly and with considerable conviction. “They are a very strange sort of a people indeed doon there. They aal taalk a lenguage that you simply canna understand, they dinna drink whusky, their beer iss like watter, not wan o’ them hass so mich as a single word o’ the Gaelic, they canna mak’ a daicent bleck pudding or bit of breid, nor cure bacon, nor catch fush, they’ve neffer even heard o’ Hurricane Jeck, they dinna like the pipes, and instead of amusing themselves wi’ something ceevilised like shinty, they play some sissy game caalled cricket.”
Complete New Tales of Para Handy Page 26