There was one, and perhaps the only one, occasion where Captain Leighton Edelsten did misjudge the weather, and it left him even more prudent in the future, though he was never over cautious, always treading that fine line between doing his duty to the Service and avoiding danger. However, he was not the only one to misjudge the weather   that night, which entered our verbal history as “The Night of the Nafsiporos “

Memory is a false friend at times, and tales change, as the yarn is spun over and over again. No doubt the facts are all on record, and presumably the Met Office has the weather archives. I write from memory, some forty years later.   I think we were working off Amlwch, in the day time, when the weather deteriorated, and Capt Edelsten decided to go round to Moelfre to pick up the Sea Hands off the early evening train. This was, I think 1^st December 1966 . Once on board, we would then work off Moelfre, as we had quite a few ships due to board, so we steamed round the corner past Point Lynas and got tucked in to Moelfre Bay and waited for the men.

There was no direct  contact between pilots and Pilot Boats then , so the men usually made a link call via Anglesey Radio from one of the local pubs , possibly the “Bull “.The ever reliable Trevor Roberts of Trevor’s Taxis usually made contact earlier to see if it was to be Amlwch or Moelfre for the men. Having established an ETA , No 1 maintained position off the bay , with the Lifeboat slip  in view ,and the dark fields , whose sole occupants were the Christmas Geese , making a clear visual border to the weakly lit cottages and the lane down to the slip. The headlights came in view, and flashed. Coxswain Evans had already opened up the door to the lifeboat slip, and the first men could be seen walking down .The boat came closer in ,made a starboard lee , we lads lowered the starboard punt and picked the first load off the slip. I was winch man , I think and  I think we had drifted down wind by that time, but can’t remember if we lifted the punt and steamed back in , or just towed the boat back in again to get closer . However we did make at least one more run and came back with a full punt. So , by the early evening of 1^st December , No 1Pilot Boat was in Moelfre Bay with a full crew of 2 Masters, Leighton Edelsten and  Patrick Fergus Kelly,2 Engineers, 8 Boathands,1Cook ,1 Steward, at least 1 Greaser possibly 2,and a large complement of Pilots , at least a dozen.

The weather situation was going from bad to worse. Barometer was falling rapidly, wind veering to the North of North West, heavy squalls. The Pilots crowded into the wheelhouse to try to find out the news, keen to board their ships whilst the weather permitted , but were met with talk about going to the Isle of Man. Some of the men picked a fore and aft bunk and made an immediate retreat to that safe haven, others accepted a glass of scotch off Paddy Kelly in the saloon, and had a gloomy conversation round the table. Have the deck logs survived for that night? I doubt it .Corporate bankruptcy and subsequent shifts of Head quarters are very dangerous events for the storage of archives. Possibly, we did manage to board a ship, one which had followed us round the corner from Lynas, and stuck close enough to the Boat to make a decent lee to the east of Moelfre Island and get his Pilot. I seem to remember that, and a difficult time lifting the punt. Entering the sacred saloon to take names of Pilots and tally off bedrooms, I detected a general air of gloom , and comments like “Why on earth were we sent down here anyway ?The weather’s obviously too bad “

The wind had veered another point, to NW XN , increased to Force  9, and a heavy sea was running from almost dead ahead of us.

  Capt Edelsten decided to steam to the Isle of Man, and informed Anglesey Radio, who put out an Off Station broadcast,  “Liverpool Lynas Pilots Proceeding to Douglas Bay, Isle of Man “and Mersey Radio , who informed all ships bound for the Mersey  from Liverpool Bay, and , most importantly , all outward bound vessels with Pilots on board, who were all facing a difficult situation. Should they request their master to divert to the north and proceed to Douglas Bay? , or just stick with their vessel and go with it to its next destination, or some other port to the west where it might be possible  

to disembark? There were havens in Ireland, but after that New York was the next stop, or Swansea was a possibility .No doubt many conversations were being held on many ships that night. Also, communications were not so advanced in the 1960’s.Man had yet to  set foot on the moon, the mobile phone not yet invented, the world wide web was for catching cod and ship to shore communication was expensive and under the control of the ships Master. The carried away Pilot was in a difficult position, especially without a Passport, something which few, if any Pilots carried.

Such thoughts were not uppermost in my mind as I went below to our mess room down aft. The boat was already pitching violently into the heavy sea and swell from the norard, and Moelfre Light was flashing on the port beam. The Bosun, Bernie Dabner and a Senior  Lad made a final check of the boat deck, made sure everything was lashed down, and we fell into our usual watches. I cannot now remember who was in the Crew, but think it would have been Alan Green, David Temple, Bernie Dabner, Charlie Mc Kenzie , Ronnie Bradford, Alan Davis, and Geoffrey Ledgard.

At midnight, after an uncomfortable watch below, I was called to the wheel, and instructed to keep inside the accommodation and not go on deck, which meant going through the Saloon, usually out of bounds to us. The Pilots Saloon was empty of Pilots, who had all turned in, and the Steward had made a brave attempt to stow everything securely .Bracing myself against the pitching, I struggled up the stairs and entered the wheelhouse .It was very dark. The Second Master, Paddy Kelly, was holding on to the starboard side of the Binnacle and shining the ships torch onto the compass card for the wheelman to steer by. It was a yellow torch in a robust plastic tube with fluted sides and “Made in the USA “to a very high quality,the  standard issue torches at sea at that time .We were glad of it that night. Paddy told me to try to steer North North West, and keep the sea one point on the port bow. He was managing to keep his false teeth in , and being so short, his face was not that far away from the compass rose, so that the torch also lit up his features , coarse , rugged , genial , very Irish, with a resolute expression as he concentrated on shining the light for me to steer by .Someone explained that we had shipped a “green one “, and the binnacle lights were out, and I took over the wheel.

It was only then that I realised just how bad the weather was. Despite the darkness, and the spray covering windows and wheelhouse, it was possible to make out the mountainous bulk of waves as they came pounding onto us in broken ranks. Huge ,and menacing they posed an obvious threat to our boat, and it was vital that we rode out each and every one, without broaching to , that is letting the ships head fall off down wind and the boat drop into a trough .Strangely , I was not frightened, but rather exhilarated , and just concentrated on holding onto the spokes of the wooden wheel and keeping her head to wind. Lynas light was not far abaft the beam when I came on watch, but when I was relieved it had dropped a little astern.  In the radio room, just abaft the wheel, the RT was crackling away, and the VHF giving out its steady background chat. The first Distress Call came just as I was going below, a vessel with timber cargo which was starting to shift. I asked Paddy Kelly if we should call Capt. Edelsten , but he said no , it was too far away towards Ireland, and there was nothing we could do to help. We would have to look after ourselves. Down aft, the other apprentices were very interested, real Distress Calls of commercial vessels being very rare.

The night passed in the routine which runs every vessel on earth, as we handed over the wheel, changed watches and continued riding up huge waves and plunging down troughs to seemingly bottomless pits beneath, before starting the process once again. At some early stage in the night , I first heard the name “Nafsiporos “ .A Greek cargo ship was in trouble somewhere off Douglas Bay , the area we were aiming for , if the weather would just let us get there. No one was particularly concerned, after all, Douglas was a sheltered area, a relative Shangri la , and she would obviously sort herself out. Other ships seemed to be in worse trouble, with a string of Distress Calls , some over on the Irish side , but others closer to home. I believe we tallied half a dozen Distress messages, all co ordinate by Anglesey Radio, good old Golf Lima Victor (its call sign was GLV )

The Senior Lad kept on putting a position on the chart, but it was mostly guesswork, probably based on the optimistic hope that we were making more or less five knots in the right direction. The situation on the Nafsiporos continued to unfold, as she established contact with a Russian ship, whose name I forget .The Soviet vessel offered to put a line on board, but the Nafsiporos, refused at first, and then changed his mind, and I think accepted a line. However, this was only the start , as both Masters got involved in a legal dispute , all taking place on the air , on 2182 the international listening frequency. The dispute centred on money, of course, and the place for Arbitration.  We were relieved to hear that a powerful Smits Tug , a true salvage tug if ever there was one , had left Cork Harbour and was proceeding to the Irish Sea. Help was on its way.

The Russian , a conscientious example of Homo sovieticus wanted Arbitration Moscow .The Nafsiporos  wanted Arbitration Piraeus .To us, on our Pilot  boat fighting its way north towards them , the situation was incredible, beyond  belief .Someone muttered something about Llloyds Open Agreement, a widely accepted agreement in Marine Insurance, which had apparently stood the test of time .What was obviously needed was for the Nafsiporos to get her anchor down , repair engines , then get into a safer anchorage inshore. Still the two vessels continued haggling, clogging up 2182 with their problems .At some stage , the line between the two was lost , and the Nafsiporos started to drift south .During the night we must have passed her , but never made visual nor radar contact as we went our different ways .The Isle of Man , and its welcome shelter awaited us, the rocks of northern Anglesey awaited her.

As the night passed , and day broke, we got the never failing boost of being able to see the waves, and a few Pilots started to appear in the wheelhouse , some “Good Skins “ even took a turn on the wheel .Old men to us , it is hard to realise that many were  only in their thirties, with families at home.

 Moelfre is a small fishing village on the North East corner of the island of Anglesey or Ynys Mon ,in Welsh , (except there should be a circumflex over the o, which I have not yet learnt how to put on with my lap top. Welsh speakers please forgive me.)

I had vaguely heard of Moelfre from bird watchers on Merseyside, perhaps it got a mention in an MNA Bird Report. However it was not one of the frequently mentioned spots for Natural History on the Island, these being; South Stack, the Inland Sea, Church Bay, Rhosneigr, Malltraeth Cob, Llandwyn Island and Newborough Warren.

However, when I joined the Liverpool pilot Service in July 1963, I soon started to hear the name of Moelfre .It sounded a little ominous.

“If it gets up much more, we’ll be going round the corner to Moelfre.  “ ( it being the wind “ )

“Once it gets round anything North of West, Harry will have us round the corner “

“Bit of luck we’ll put the pick down and get some peace “

“That’s what the “Hind Lea “thought, and look what happened to her. “

The Hind Lea was a small German coaster which got wrecked in a storm close north of Moelfre Island, only a few years previously. The tale of the “Hind Lea “ was then retold by a group of seasoned Boathands , all under 21 , and none present at the time .

”Left it too late “

“Should have got the anchor up earlier “

“Should have got up to windward “

“Fancy getting caught on a lee shore like that “

“Least he was handy for the lifeboat.”

“They did well to get them off “

“No one lost. Not like when Triggy put the  boat ashore .”

An apprentice had been killed trying to launch the lifeboat in that otherwise minor mishap. The mess room fell silent.  

“Why, what happened?” I naively asked, and got glowered at. An ancient mariner of 18 later took me to one side and told me the story of how one of the Skippers took the corner too close and grounded on a ledge. In the panic , he decided to launch a lifeboat .These were much bigger than the working punts, and much heavier .Also, they were very seldom launched to the water , but were lowered to boarding position at Boat Drill. On giving the order   “Lower Away” , one of the davits stuck , the boat swung inboard ,and a young apprentice was crushed to death.

“Could easily happen .The life boats don’t get enough work, something always gets stuck “

“Punt’s your best bet “Indeed that was surely true. The punts were in constant use and very well maintained.

“That’s what they thought on No 1 “

Another silence .Then “Yes its always No 1 .An unlucky number is no 1.Christ no, don’t ever go on No 1, if  you can help it .And that miserable Edelsten .no days off on that boat.”

But Harry Littler did not take us round the corner that day, and Moelfre remained unvisited, and Captain Edelsten only a name with a miserable reputation on a boat with a unlucky number.

 

Eventually, the Corpie built a new block of shops for the growing population of Croxteth. Michael and Dennie got rid of their vans, and joined forces as M and D store, selling groceries and household goods. A newsagent opened up, Dad bought his Manchester Guardian there, Mum her cigarettes .Her brand was Kensitas , which lured people to smoke more by giving out coupons which could be redeemed for luxury items, like tea trays .How proud I was to go to the shops to buy Mums cigarettes, and return with the change. Little did I think that every cigarette was ruining her health, because that was not known back then .

A new fish and chip shop was of course a roaring success, and was run by a Greek Cypriot family. One day the frying fat caught fire, and the fire brigade had to put it out. Such excitement! The owners stood disconsolate in a soot covered shop, black from floor to ceiling.  However , their women folk galvanised them into action ,in a chorus of chattering Hellenic encouragement. The men soon cleaned it up , and business was resumed.

 The first Little Gull which I ever saw was an immature bird at Shotton Range Pools. It was a long staying bird and I was pleased to see such a rare species. It flew up and down the pools , catching insects I think , and landed on the “muddy margins “ where the cattle grazed and drank. It was sometime before I saw another one, as I do not remember them from deep sea, and they were hard to see in the 1960,s.

However , one afternoon  on No 1 Pilot Boat in late summer , the Master on watch decided to come up the channel to pick up the men off the outward bound tender launch , either the “Puffin “ or the “Petrel “  The wind was fresh Westerly ,and bright sunshine ,and we turned around Crosby Light Float to make a lee for the launch to come alongside. It was my job to open the gates on the lee side embayments, and pull the wooden steps inboard, to avoid them being crushed by the launches, which were much bigger than the boat’s punts. Once the steps slithered on the deck, I fitted stanchions, and grasped one firmly myself, no one would wish to fall over the side in such weather. To my amazement, close to us, a tiny Gull appeared in view, following the boat, and overtaking it. With dark underwings, buoyant flight, and all dark head, it was without doubt an adult Little Gull. It was not alone. More Little Gulls appeared, mostly immatures, and a Black Tern or two.

The launch appeared, pitching and rolling in the weather, and drew alongside, bouncing heavily. The launch sailor was first to take position , and then the Pilots appeared one by one , and made their jump at the crest of the wave .I grabbed each man’s arm as he came in range , whilst the skipper looked down anxiously from the bridge wing.  “All aboard sir “ I shouted up , and I heard “Full ahead “ being shouted to the wheelhouse. The launch skipper turned the wheel away from the boat, spoke on his VHF to the boat ,and we broke contact, the boat heading out to the Bar Station and the launch to Princes Landing Stage. A routine transfer for the Liverpool Pilot Service had taken place safely.

But my life had changed. Once the boat docked , I phoned Eric Hardy and Rob Cockbain of the sightings , and they explained that the books were a bit out of date , and that Little Gulls seemed to be getting more frequent .Andrew Lassey had started sea watching from the dunes  at Formby , and with Malcolm Greenhalgh had published a short note in the Yorkshire Naturalists’ journal .I resolved to follow this species with great care ,and carefully noted every sighting, date , place , time , nos and weather. The timing was opportune , for this species was undergoing a big expansion in Europe , and its status in Liverpool Bay was changing dramatically. By the mid  1970,s I had gathered a lot of data, and decided to try to analyse it.

There  were no computers available then , so I decided to divide the passage from Lynas to the Eastham /Garston line into seven mile sections , more or less identifiable by local Navigation marks. We even had a North West Light Float at that time , conveniently seven miles west of the Bar .this was written up into a paper, and published in the SeaBird Group Bulletin in1976 .The timing was also fortunate , in that data gathering had been dependent on the Pilot’s work cycle .this work cycle was about to undergo major changes in 1976 , which would make valid year on year changes difficult to monitor. Thus, the publication was timely , and just caught the early changes in status of this delightful bird.  

  

The trams in Liverpool were painted green , the municipal colour of the city, any connection with Ireland being purely coincidental, of course. These were impressive vehicles, which ran on rails set in the middle of the road, and were powered by electricity from overhead gantries. The No 19 route ran up Everton Brow then out towards the East Lancs Road and Gillmoss, and continued to the Kirby Industrial Estate. One of the draw backs to the trams was that they often stopped in the wide central reservation of the broad arterial boulevards .Passengers then had to cross a busy road to reach the footpath. However, they carried more passengers than a bus.

Sometimes Dad took his boys to watch Everton play at Goodison Park .The crowds in the 1950,s were truly enormous, far bigger than today, and made a big impression on me. Equally amazing was the long rank of trams waiting outside the ground to rapidly whisk supporters away in several directions, down to Scottie Road, or for us east towards Gillmoss. Each tram would swallow up a hundred plus passengers, totally ignoring the restrictions on numbers, and rattle off home. Of course, being electric powered, trams did not emit any smoke, and none of us connected the smoke from Clarence dock Power Station with electricity, that being part and parcel of the all pervasive murk which steadily drifted east on the prevailing winds.

The seats on the trams were of wooden slats, and reversible. At the end of the line, the conductor changed the seats, and the driver shifted from one cab to the other end. Small boys used to delight in making a clattering noise by pulling the seats back and forwards, until told off by the conductor. We were no exceptions. The 19 ran empty on Saturdays towards the industrial estate , and being light , rattled tremendously once at a good speed .One autumn day , Dad took us to gather blackberries on the vast bramble jungles which proliferated on the former blast protection earth walls of the former munition works. The violent motion of the tram caused us to start giggling, and eventually we were overwhelmed by the sheer fun of it. We collapsed off the tram in a fit of hysterics. Such fun for a few coppers. Fortunately, the tram back was much more sedate, having passengers into town, and we did not spill our precious berries, needed for Mum’s bramble pies.

There was a family history with trams, one of our ancestors having invented a sort of suspension system for early trams, which avoided the need for a turntable at the end of the route. He lived in respectable prosperity on the proceeds of his inventiveness in Victorian Manchester, owning a tram related engineering business.One autumn day, an unusual apparatus appeared at Gillmoss, when a gent in the inevitable long gabardine coat set up an enormous wooden tripod and mounted a cine camera. Such a thing was unprecedented for Gillmoss , and we boys went rushing up “What you doing Mister ? “ we quizzed him .Puffing on his pipe ,he explained that he was taking pictures  as a record .”These are the last working farm horses in the City “ he said , pointing to the “shire “ horses which were ploughing a field on the Corpie Farm. “And this is one of the last tram routes”, pointing to an unremarkable 19 tram.”Soon they will both be finished and I want to take some shots of the horses and trams in the same view “ He was patient , and got his shots. I have never seen these images, but perhaps they exist somewhere in an archive? Perhaps there is a picture of me and my playmates aged ten or so with horses, trams and the mighty English Electric, a moment captured in time?  

If you want to buy a wreck , buy a Ford

Four Buckled Wheels on a board

A biscuit tin to keep the engine in

If you want to buy a wreck buy a Ford

Childrens song , 1950,s Liverpool.( author unknown .Possibly a General Motors sales executive ?)

Perhaps  the most banal measurement of life’s voyage is that of car ownership ,so at the risk of utter banality, here are details of cars which

I have owned or been involved with.

View of MGTD from front bedroom window. Panels on front lawn  are inside trim panels during clean up .

.

Phil

Phil in driving seat .Crantock Close, Liverpool. Photo  P.LEades. View of MGTD from front bedroom window. Panels on front lawn  are inside trim panels during clean up .Note lack of cars in the Close.

MG TD .Registration LOJ 587 .Colour Red. Bought for £50 from the Liverpool Echo .The owner was a young couple in Formby. The young wife had become a young Mother, and had scratched the head of her baby on the folding tonneau roof, so the car had to go .When Phil and I visited to inspect , the car would not start ,but Phil was convinced it only needed the battery charging up , so we got a reduction in price , and somehow towed it away. Phil was still a schoolboy and I was a young apprentice , so we managed to insure it under Dad’s name as a second car .We kept the car in a lock up garage on the Kirby industrial estate at the foundry premises of one of Dad’ s contacts , a Bill Gregson who was the backer of Skelmersdale Amateur Football Club, and got his team to Wembley .We restored the car  there .Phil did the engines and mechanics .I repainted it by hand brush to a surprisingly half decent finish , and did the fabric with some sort of man made vinyl covering , which also looked reasonable , if not the plushest of leathers. Phil drove the car to the very top of Scotland using General Wade’s military roads, passing places galore and got it back safely .One needed to learn the technique of double de clutching to change gears, but it was fun to drive. For some reason, it attracted more than its’ fair share of attention from the Police .Probably the combination of bright red colour and very young drivers was irresistible to any patrolling Police Man. After less than and a year, and without any claims made, the Norwich Union Insurance became suspicious of Dad’s new vehicle , and put the premium up .I was still a learner driver , and Phil had no money , so we decided to sell. It was soon sold for £120, more than double our purchase price, and after expenses we were without wheels, but did have more money than when we started .This is the only car which I have ever sold for a profit.  

I was without a car for most of my apprenticeship, but Dad sometimes lent me his VW Beetle, the one in which he had taught me to drive, and I managed not to crash it. I tried to save up from my weekly wage packet off the Dock Board. Although only six pounds or so, I was fed and watered at sea, but paid Mum for my keep during the week in dock. Car hire was a popular option amongst Merchant Navy officers and some crew , and I did hire cars sometimes, but the costs were high, as we were not considered a good risk. There was somewhere in  Birkenhead an entrepreneur who actually lent out cars to Boathands , though we self promoted ourselves to the ranks of Apprentice Pilots for hire purposes .These were painted black, and rather battered , and went by the generic name of “ Jonies “. Presumably the owner was a Mr Jones. I never hired a “Jonie “ , but went out on several sprees in one with fellow Boathands , and we managed without seriously crashing one, apart from the odd hedge and ditch problem.

On Number One there was quite an interest in British sports cars .David Hodgson was interested in mechanics and spent hours studying the theory of gas flow in the overhead cylinders of the internal combustion engine, and how to improve the performance. His ambition was, I think to improve the performance of an MG TC .Knowing vaguely how much time the team of engineers at Napier’s spent designing the Deltic Engine ,I did not think  a group of Boathands out in Liverpool Bay stood much chance of improving on MG,s work down in Oxford, but he tried, and was a very good with engines. Number Three was the boat for American Automobiles, mostly in the realm of fantasy, with the mess room piled high with magazines on that theme, and trips out to Burtonwood Base to admire Buicks from afar. Bill Range (Moose “) and Bob Swift ( “Swallie “) were the high priests of this cult, with several acolytes .Number Two was the boat for “Jonies” . However, there was quite a lot of interchange of ideas and gossip at change over days on Thursdays, and when lads traveled out on a different boat or went on courses, car ownership was a staple of conversation.

Nonetheless, it was possible for me, with thrift, to have a foreign holiday most years, but that prevented me buying a car. I never made car ownership a priority until forced to by deteriorations in public transport.  It was Texaco Tankships with their good salary who gave me a decent Civil War pay off from the when I flew home from Lagos. Texaco and the Dock Board also paid me study leave which saw me up to Norway for the summer. Back in Blighty and skint I got my head down and studied hard .Once I passed my second Mate’s “ticket” the Dock Board put me on a higher pay band, just over £1000 per year. In this way, I managed to save enough to buy my next car.

I kept looking in adverts in the Echo, and dealer’s forecourts, such terrible places, almost as unbearable as dentists, and almost bought a second hand VW Passat estate from a private seller, but thought it expensive. I kept on hiring cars as and when one was needed, and made a few birding trips in hired vehicles, becoming a regular customer at a Jewish firm off Whitechapel. I sometimes took other bird watchers, as we called ourselves in those days, and they would chip in for petrol, which kept costs down. Not that fuel prices were excessive. There was a small garage on County Road Liverpool, which sold cheaper petrol than the big companies, called Jet, though not of course the real Avgas which we carried in Texaco. Having seen what happened in the retail fuel industry during my spell in tankers, where my ship would load a full cargo of Texaco motor spirit at a refinery and discharge it into road tankers of various different brands, I was convinced all fuel was the same, and bought the cheapest. Let it be stated, that the County Road garage sold petrol at just under four shillings per gallon in 1970, three shillings and eleven pence to be exact, or just under 25p per gallon, which I calculate at 6p per litre.  I was disgusted when they put the price up to four shillings per gallon, but stuck with them as they remained the cheapest in my area.

One week in dock, I made a cannon netting trip up to Morecambe Bay, and hired a small car for the purpose .Some passengers came with me, and we loaded up our gear, cannons, and projectiles in the boot. This meant that the net sat on the back seat, in place of one passenger, and filled the car completely .It should be explained that a cannon net for bird catching is a bulky object when dry. It is made of an artificial fibre with a mesh of   4 cms, and edged with nylon rope, all folded up and stowed carefully in a hop sack scrounged from the brewing trade somewherel. We fired the net, and made a catch of birds for ringing, which did not always happen. The net became filed with seaside debris , bits of seaweed ,moulted carapaces of crabs, shells of cockles , bits of seaweed ,small pieces of drift wood, and of course , millions of grains of sand. Once all the birds had been ringed and released, we cleaned up the net as best as we could, shook it free of sand, and reloaded it into its sack. There was some danger in those sort of trips, with very long hours driving , stalking the birds , setting the nets ,making a catch , ringing the birds and taking biometric data, all sustained by adrenaline and caffeine . The real danger was falling asleep on the way back and crashing the car. It was one that I managed to avoid, and we got back to Liverpool safely .My plan was to clean the hire car out in the morning and return it. Then meet Captain Whiteside on No1 at Collingwood Dock for post cruise inspection .Sadly , I overslept, and drove the car to Liverpool in great haste , with a perfunctory sweep out of debris.

The car hire firm was on Renshaw Street , I think , and I arrived to find the suited owner pacing up and down anxiously. The car was delivered late , according to him, and I handed him the keys , and we walked round the car from the outside. A mechanic drove off , and we started to do the paperwork with a girl at the counter. The manager returned, his face flushed with anger, and he started to harangue me. Never in all his years in the motor trade had he been treated in this manner .The car was filthy, another customer was waiting to pick it up .It stank of seaweed. What on earth had I done with it? It was full of sand! There was a dead star fish in the boot !!  My deposit was forfeit. He would sue me for breach of contract! I was banned from the company for ever. Never darken his doors again. Having endured the wrath of Abraham , I left with my driving licence, bade him farewell and got a taxi to Collingwood Dock. There I met Captain Whiteside , pacing the deck. He was also furious. I was late for the debrief. What was I playing at ?He had a good mind to report me to Captain Smith, the Superintendent of Pilotage.I tried to explain , but he was in no mood for excuses. However, we inspected the boat, I reported minor defects and the need for more stores, especially paint, which was always in short supply due to rising costs.

With hindsight, everyone in the Dock Board was worried for their jobs and pensions following the Board’s financial collapse that year. Also with hindsight, I marvel at the capacity of young people to do so many activities simultaneously. I was doing a full time job, engaged in environmental activism, courting Val, doing amateur scientific research, studying professionally and also languages for fun .Scarce wonder that time ran out occasionally. However, motor cars were neither a priority nor a problem. The city was full of car hire firms, all eager to hire out their vehicles to a young, highly responsible (??) Officer with the Dock Board and a clean driving licence. So, hire I did, with a variety of motor cars. I liked Fords the best, and my mind was made up. One day, I would buy a Ford.

 

The City Fathers , in their wisdom, decided to block the  entrance to Croxteth after the Dog and Gun by a roundabout. This slowed down the traffic, especially the buses, and must have been a problem for goods vehicles , known universally as lorries at that time. One day there was a hullabaloo , women and children pouring towards the Dog and Gun in great agitation. I followed the throng , all talking excitedly about butter.  For some reason , a lorry loaded with butter had decided to enter the estate , and must have taken the roundabout too fast. There it was, lying on its side , unable to move , its wheels pointing horizontally with no grip to the tarmac. The poor thing looked so sad, like a beached whale, and I instinctively felt sorry for it, though no thought of the driver entered my head .

However, the spectacle of the vehicle was put into perspective by the butter , which lay in abundance and  profusion , all over the road and pavements .Wherever one looked, packs of Anchor butter were strewn. And how the good ladies and infants and infants of Croxteth had responded to this sad situation in their midst. Swarming like ants, with makeshift bags, shopping bags and prams , they were   loading up Anchor butter like people possessed .All this in full view of the Police Station .Gripped by the frenzy, I stuffed Anchor butter into some sort of container , and heeding the muttered warnings “Quick , lar, Bizzies , ll be ere soon .” ,scurried home to Crantock Close with my booty , proud of an opportunity seized. Mum was horrified. No one had a right to purloin butter like that. It was practically stealing , she was ashamed of me. I protested “Everyone is doing it.” Which got the response “Typical !” However , I was able to clinch that with the practical observation “Its all melting anyway “ Mum relented , and put the guilty butter at the back of our recently acquired English Electric fridge. It tasted good on toast. Clearly , the morality of misplaced property differed between Liverpool and Audenshaw.

At the far end of the row of shops, Liverpool City Council, built a brand new library .The opening
ceremony was impressive , with a large crowd watching the event .A local naturalist cut the ribbon , and
I believe he was Norman Ellison, who wrote under the pen name of “ Nomad “and lived on the Wirral
.It was only small, but all the books were new, and it contained a children’s section. The librarians were
very friendly and helpful, and the Library, became very important to me. I soon read all the children’s
books of interest and moved onto the adult books, soon becoming quite well read. For some reason, the
writings of Arthur Ransome did not appeal to me, and I have never yet read any of his work. In the
1960,s a man librarian called Alan Baldridge was in charge. He was very interested in birds, as was I, and
we got on fine. He had explored Europe by motor bike, travelling to the Camargue and to the north of
Norway. He was a great inspiration, and later emigrated to the USA where he rose to head a large
library.
Without any doubt, Croxteth Library was a big factor in my life, and I owe it a great debt. Sadly, I believe
it has now closed as part of financial cuts to help pay for the renewed Central Library. In my view this is a
mistaken policy, because public transport is so expensive that few young people in Croxteth will now
have access to books and literature.

 

At the same time as the shops were built , so was the Croxteth Community Centre .It occupied the end of the new shops nearest to our house in Crantock Close, that is the eastern end of the brick building , and had a large room upstairs. In the absence of any Church for the Protestant section of the community , church services were held here on Sundays .I used to attend regularly , but do not know what denomination it was , possibly Church of England.

Of greater interest was the Saturday morning matinee film show for children. This involved a projectionist fitting a spool of film to a projector , and the picture being shown on a small screen. The projectionist was very nervous, and before turning of the lights and starting the show, gave a serious talk to the excited children .This was to emphasise the great cost of the screen, and that on no account was any child to throw anything at the screen .Failure to obey would mean the cancellation of the show. For a brief period, we children were subdued, and sucked our toffees with anticipation .The lights went out , and the silver screen lit up .

The first film we watched was called “Joe Macbeth” .This involved the downfall of a hero Joe Macbeth who ran a group of gangsters in an un named American city. Joe had a “moll” of course, a scheming  , manipulative woman who caused trouble with Joe,s sidekick and lieutenant. There was lots of soppy stuff , kissing , really boring to us kids .The film reached a climax with a shoot out at the gangsters head quarters and dead bodies everywhere. This was the best bit , but the film did not really fire the imagination of us Liverpool youngsters .It was only years later, when studying Shakespeare for English Literature that the penny dropped. We had been watching an American version of “Macbeth “.Once again the internet readily provides the answer. “Joe Macbeth “ was released in ..and starred ….The showing of this boring movie without incidents  lulled our projectionist into a dangerous sense of security.

The next film to be shown was a Batman movie.

Batman had started! Every Saturday morning we saw a fresh spool of a Batman movie. This picture was about a group of sinister Chinese men , who were involved in some mysterious criminal organisation under the streets of Gotham City .A small train ran under ground , and Batman and his side kick Robin were engaged in a life and death struggle against the villains. The tension rose as Batman and Robin were taken prisoner and tied to some structure to meet a terrible end .This was too much for the boys of Croxteth who rose as one to defend their heroes, throwing toffees and ice creams at the silver screen , aiming at the baddies. The projector was switched off, the lights came on and the projectionist marched on the stage, wiping goo off the precious fabric. He announced to a stunned audience that this was the end as far as he was concerned, he was taking his projector home , and we could all clear off. We filed out in silence, ashamed and embarrassed .Thus ended the experiment to bring cinema to Croxteth.

Some fifty years later, watching daytime TV on a ship, what should come on but an old black and white Batman movie. There was the underground train, the sinister Chinese and the climactic strung up scene .So , I did eventually find out what had happened , and I can honestly say , it was rubbish.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton