"Morning Departure"

Dawn had broken about half an hour ago. It was five o'clock. Only the continuous throbbing from the engines broke the silence which lay over the river and sleeping York. A clear sky, a gentle but nipping breeze, rippling water—a hideous and deafening shriek tore the silence, and the peaceful illusion vanished. The captain released his hold on the tug's buzzer. The throbbing of the engines increased, the bows swung round to point downstream, the vessel moved forward. The journey had begun.

I was standing by the skipper on the bridge of a tug bound for Hull, and as we passed through Skeldergate Bridge, the reason for that rending shriek became apparent when the bows of a powerless barge nosed their way into the Ouse from the small tributary, the Foss. We stopped and took her in tow. She was empty, and was going to Hull to load up with fibre for furniture-making. It seems that by far the greater part of the Ouse trade comes from Hull, since the only noteworthy cargo from York is cocoa residue. Hull sends a whole lot of goods upstream, including cocoa-beans, sugar, flour, wood, tinned milk, glue, and custom's surplus.

It felt good to be up at that time of the morning. The fresh and 1 invigorating air 'brushing past the cheeks, the rising sun resting on the horizon, the rabbits and hares scampering away, the heron standing in the water, the 'budding willows—how pleasant ! how satisfying !

It took us half an hour to get through Naburn Locks, and from there the river is tidal. By starting off early, we had caught the helpful ebb tide. Just below Naburn, I saw two men walking along the bank , and pulling a boat, laden with nets, through the water. "They're the . salmon fishers", the captain explained. "They've most likely been working all night. You see, they catch the salmon by dragging their net against the incoming tide, and the tide's always changing, so you see they're for ever on the go." There was a glinting in the bottom of the boat. So Old Man Ouse keeps salmon, does he !

At 7-30 a.m. Selby was springing to life—mill girls were making their way to work, barges were being unloaded, and the sound of hammers resounded from the shipyards where some of the finest trawlers in the world are built. After we had safely passed through the two bridges with the funnel lowered, the barge was firmly lashed onto the tug's port quarter, and in that position she did not need anybody to steer her.

Time passed quickly as I chatted to the crew. The tug carried a skipper, a mate, and an engineer, and the barge was managed by two other men. Like all barge people, they all got on very well together, they were good humoured, and really enjoyed their work--they like their job best of all when summer comes—and they appreciate it, too; as one of them said, "Some people would give thousands to come down 26

this river in summer-time". Most of them had been on the barges ever since they left school, and were following in their fathers' footsteps. One of them had turned bargee after serving through both World 'Wars in the Merchant Navy. The skipper—a vigorous, wellknit man, a little on the small side, about thirty, had left the barges when war broke out to serve in the Royal Navy, where he rose to be a Petty Officer. Their company was lively and pleasant.

After Goole, the river widens out. To see a large expanse of clear and shining water gradually darken, and then change into land is a little awe-inspiring for the uninitiated ! The helmsman kept his eyes on the sighting-posts which are placed alternately on either bank, and the tug zig-zagged its way down the ever widening stream. Below the confluence of the Ouse and the Trent it becomes so wide that the navigable channel has to be marked with buoys, and it is here that the Whitton Sands begin, and ships often go aground here. Because the sands are constantly shifting, the channel changes almost day to day, and the buoys have to be re-moored accordingly. Although high tide had begun to come in about eleven the sounding-pole recorded a depth of only nine to ten feet as we passed these Sands.

About 11-30 a.m. we passed the first barge we had seen going upstream, and then we passed another, and another. Soon we could see a whole procession of tugs and heavily-laden barges stretching right to the horizon, and diminishing into little tiny blobs. Obedient to the mighty stream, and not daring to ignore the gracious assistance of its incoming tide, there they were, meekly chugging upstream, one after another, as they headed for Goole, York, Leeds, Lincoln, Newark, and even as far as Nottingham and Tamworth.

Approaching Hull, we kept to the Yorkshire side of the river, and here the stream was nearly four miles across. On a windy day the water becomes very rough, making barge navigation difficult. All of a sudden it began to snow, and I hurried to take refuge in the living quarters of the tug, which are found right aft. They consisted of a room about two yards square, complete with a very hot cooking stove, three bunks, cupboards, a wireless, a carpet, and a whole lot of little gadgets. It would, indeed, be difficult to find such a small and compact place more cosy or comfortable than this.

Soon we were approaching the Fish Dock, the first of Hull's eight miles of docks. They were all full of shipping, and the shouting of men, the movement of tugs, the swinging of the cranes, the shunting of trucks, the bumping of cargo, and the hurrying of scores of dockers, presented a picture of intense activity. As the tug reached King George V Dock—which was the barge's destination—I climbed onto the barge, for it was at this point that the tug let loose, and allowed us to drift into the dock through the lock channel. We tied up to the quay, and climbed ashore. The time was one o'clock—eight hours from York.

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