Fife Regattas

2013 was an interesting year for visitors to the West coast with a number of spectacular events. The best known of these was the skiff world championship week at Ullapool, which you can visit here: skiffieworlds

Not so well known was the fourth Fife Regatta. One way or another I've managed to visit all of these five yearly events for at least a little of the action. The official website is here: www.fiferegatta.com

The first regatta in 1998 was a very emotional affair overshadowed by the loss of Eric Tabarly on his way to the event aboard Pen Duick. There's a detailed article about this disaster that I just discovered when writing this piece, accessible here: www.classicboat.co.uk.  Until now I hadn't realised that there was such accurate information about what had happened, as at the time everyone was pretty much shocked and in the dark. Here is Pen Duick after the survivors arrived at the Largs Marina.

There were only about a dozen Fifes there, resulting in a total complement of not much more than a hundred at the event. The result was in the nature of a private party, many already acquainted at the start and everyone friendly by the end. The opening reception in Kelburne Castle was at the same time intimate and imposing. The ancient Scottish fortified houses were built for practical reasons rather than for show and benefit from that, the romance and history shining through in ways that later displays of ostentation can't replicate. There was a taste of the latter a few days later at Mount Stuart. 

I was privileged to give a little help at the first event, which led to my being signed on in the French merchant marine for a couple of days aboard the old Moonbeam from 1903. On adding my signature I was issued with regulation white boiler suit and two pairs of socks, for light and heavy weather, with Fife dragon thereon. This was a surreal and unforgettable experience which resulted in a lot of respect for the skipper and crew. These big classic racing yachts are quite akin to industrial machines with very little in the way of health and safety. There were some interesting moments, such as the time a dirty squall caught Moonbeam, just she turned into a gybe. As we were closing the Kilcreggan shore at about twelve knots, Skipper Philippe had no choice but to put her round, topsail and all, and it was a relief when it all stayed up. 

In this photograph the hills of Arran provide a dark and romantic backdrop.

Here we are in mid-channel, self trying to remember some French words from school days.

We had the obligatory stunning blonde aboard.

The weather was a bit mixed that week, but we did enjoy at least one day that our visitors found familiar.

Here are some pictures of the Swedish Magda IV, which had sailed up with Pen Duick.

My introduction to the Fife yachts came in 1992 courtesy of Kentra, whose image at the top of this post was taken at Helensburgh this year. It was my professional duty to arrest her and good that she was eventually rehabilitated. Here she is sailing past Gourock on a typical Clyde day in 1998.

Here she is anchored off the Melfort Pier after the event. She was in the same spot again last summer.

And here she is, being lifted out of her legal troubles. The lone figure on deck is the late Harry Spencer, and I recall that it was his seventieth birthday,which places us in September 1995. The crane belonging to Mr Baldwin was believed to be the biggest mobile crane in Scotland at that time. She's being lifted onto a barge at the start of her voyage South and Harry's private tug is visible, standing off.

Pen Duick joined Kentra for a short cruise after the event. Here she is also anchored off the Melfort Pier

Another visitor from France was the beautiful Viola, here seen in 1998

In 2003 I was lucky to sign on as foredeck hand and general dogsbody aboard the Sara Moraea, not of course a Fife but lovely enough to be respectable in such company. This was a much bigger event which threatened to overload the facilities at some of the places we visited. The scene in Rothesay Bay could have been from eighty years earlier, in fact Kentra celebrated her birthday there.

One delight was seeing The Lady Anne reincarnated.

In 1992 I had visited the Hamble and got a picture of her, then ownerless and rather sad.

It was great to see her looking a lot better.

An interesting visitor to the second event was the Sheevra, alias Clio, the personal yacht of William Fife III, brought over from the States by ship for the regatta. Here she is.

Here she is in 1921 enroute to the same port of Rothesay. Aboard are William Fife, William Balderston (standing), Robert Balderston on helm, Archie McMillan Senior and John McMillan also there somewhere.

In 2008 and again in 2013 I managed to visit on one day only and don't have pictures. Last year we went across by ferry to the fantastic marina at Portavadie and it was great to see so many old friends back, also new visitors such as Latifa. Making up for any photographs I could have taken is the film made by Shirley Robertson and her crew from CNN, which can be seen here: CNN Mainsail Programme

I hope the fleet return to our waters in 2018 and that we're all around to watch.

On the Clyde with Spratt and McGlurg - A Story from the Past

Looking back today, with only a few months until with any luck a grateful government will start to pay my pension, 1995 seems like yesterday. It was the year the troops came out of Northern Ireland, Nick Leeson broke the bank (the first of many to do so) and team NZ won the Americas Cup for the first time. In 1962, when the events I'm about to describe took place the main characters Spratt and McGlurg must have had the same feelings about the end of the war in Europe (they always addressed each other and the world by surname only and I will do likewise). To me that was prehistory, my mother having kindly delayed having me until a year or so after my father got back from the Far East.

To the fourteen-year-old me Spratt and McGlurg were human dinosaurs, with their heavy harris tweed jackets, faded checked cotton shirts, the frayed collars held together with thin regimental ties, wide bullet-proof corduroy trousers and ancient brogue shoes. Going sailing the only concessions were the addition of tattered yellow oilskin jackets when the seas started coming over, a yachting cap and of course  the shoes. The latter got changed for faded porous deckshoes with treacherous "non-slip" soles guaranteed to slide you over the side in an instant and moth-eaten uppers bleached through years in the open. As I was to learn, in order to leave all grit and sand behind they only got changed in the tender, a highly varnished clinker-built rather tippy shell, adding an interesting dimension to the risky enough operation of getting aboard. Looking back these survivors from a former age were probably approaching fifty.

I blame my parents for my obsession with boats, as from the earliest age I was deposited at St Abbs for a summer month and there was nothing else to do but go on the water (I was actually there in utero, but recreational options are limited in that soggy environment). It was also one of the tragedies of my early life that my parents quite forgot to manage my condition by acquiring a yacht, or indeed any other kind of floating object. I was reduced to watching with envy as local boys went to sea in their tiny home-built square-riggers, about which I've already written here:- learning-about-sea-at-st-abbs

 

Back home I would scour papers and magazines to find affordable ways of getting afloat, cut out the advertisements and leave them lying around as rather unsubtle hints. One such clipping which depicted an ugly bulbous inflatable contraption made from rubberised canvas with a tiny sail hoisted on an aluminium tripod surrounded by a smiling suntanned superfit family about to climb aboard, photographed on some lake in the Black Forest, was selected only on the basis that it seemed  very affordable. Leaving this out on the kitchen table proved a serious mistake when I got a lecture on how Britain was missing out on the Wirtschaftswunder.

My nagging eventually did get a result. Probably through some business connection of my father's Messrs Spratt and McGlurg got to hear of my existence and must have decided to assess my potential value as an item of foredeck fodder. They were co-owners of a pre-war racing machine, the Griselda, which lay half a mile offshore at the entrance to a sea-loch twenty miles from Glasgow. As they had not tangled with Emperor Hirohito their respective children were a few years older than I was. This had enabled them to stage a mutiny, leaving their fathers somewhat crewless and sparking their interest in me.

Thus early one grey Saturday morning I walked round to McGlurg's grand residence. Soon we left the West End in his Rover, picked up Spratt and travelled westwards, me sitting in the back clutching a luridly bright brand-new pair of navy blue sandshoes with white "non-slip" soles as described above. Plainly my mother wanted me back alive. Apart from this my attire was precisely the same as normal shoreside, namely "short" trousers that descended to just above the knee, fabricated by Mother on her hand-driven Babcock machine from some heavy-duty grey flannel to a prewar pattern, knitted hose rising to the knee, shirt from some similar fabric to the "shorts" but marginally lighter, school tie and sweater. Of course in those days no-one even contemplated wearing any form of buoyancy aid.

During the journey Spratt and McGlurg conversed on sundry matters, ignoring my presence but occasionally referring to me as "the boy". We travelled at great speed, the trip punctuated by near accidents with other vehicles, eliciting occasional outbursts of strong language. (I did discover, however, that McGlurg had learned at some stage not to mess with the Glasgow tramcars, then in their last days. One of those would have made easy meat of the Rover.)

Soon we were parked outside the enormous stone exterior of the Royal Something Yacht Club, home to hundreds of lovely models (of yachts I mean) and oil paintings of past lovelies (more yachts). I got a glimpse into a dark, wood-panelled bar where a couple of denizens were contemplating the day over a post-breakfast gin.

The tender was launched, Spratt took the oars and pulled us out against a stiff easterly setting up a nasty short chop. The shoes were changed, then we climbed aboard the Griselda, a slender rule-beater from the early days. I knew nothing of the history then and no-one enlightened me, she was just a little floating world apart, a living thing still pretty despite her brightwork being not-so-glossy, and her metalwork rather green.

Any interest in the condition of the Griselda or her provenance soon vanished. Spratt and McGlurg were deep in animated conversation about "some ******* fool" who had left the main halyard at the top of the mast and how it could be recovered. Firmly gripping the shrouds it was possible to squint upwards and catch a glimpse of the mast truck swinging widely as the Griselda rolled, every movement at deck level magnified about thirty times at a height of forty feet, the errant shackle flying to and fro in crazy arcs against a backdrop of clouds scudding past. Within a minute or two the discussion turned to "the boy" and my hosts decided send me up for it.

Even bloggers must sometimes tell the truth and I cannot say that this was the day of my self-discovery as a top-mast man. In fairness I did make a few, rather feeble attempts, getting a foot on the boom, but hadn't a clue how to rise further. To make matters worse I was always hopeless at gym and have never had a head for heights. This probably saved my life, because so tragically wanting were my efforts that Spratt and McGlurg were soon discussing alternative plans, including towing the Griselda to a naval base some miles away, where there was a suitable dock.

Then inspiration struck and one of my tormentors announced "Jonny Brinkman will have arrived at the Club by now, let's get one of his boys to fetch it." Off went Spratt in the tender, rowing like an olympian and a little while and doubtless a couple of shoe changes later returned with a boy a couple of years older than me, built like an ape, who heaved himself up like it was part of his normal morning's exercise (and it may have been, for all I know), then sliding back down. When Spragg prised the shackle from his teeth he was able to give me a rather patronising sneer.

By comparison the rest of the day didn't feel too fraught with danger, although it could hardly be described as sedate. It was probably the first time I experienced that mild sense of panic before one gets underway as the sails whip and flap and the wind seems much stronger than it really is. Once freed from her chain the Griselda was off like the old thoroughbred she was, lying over and slicing the waves, spray and occasional lumps of solid sea coming over as the day progressed and the wind got up.

My second and thankfully final terror of the day was being ordered forward to catch the mooring, with a warning as if I needed it that the aforesaid denizens, no doubt now on their twentieth or thirtieth gins and suitably critical, would be watching. Suitably terrified I crawled forward along the foredeck and managed somehow to hang onto both yacht and mooring bridle long enough for Spratt to recover it and bring our adventure to a safe end.

Post Script

Strangely I did get invited back a few times and eventually got to like Spratt and McGlurg quite a lot. Spratt had been to the States a few times in the thirties with the Scottish sixes, but I didn't know that in time to ask him about it. Nor would either ever speak about what he'd done in the War and as they're both long dead now we'll never know. There's a lot of recent history that is in serious danger of being lost for ever if we don't take steps to preserve it, which is one of the reasons for this blog.

The image at the top of this post is by my talented nephew Paul Kennedy, whose website can be visited here, www.paulkennedyart.com

Autumn Visitors

Most of the local boats are laid up now, Stroma included, sitting safely under her winter cover. The moorings are of course still out, so this has always been a good time for hardy souls to do a bit of late-season cruising. Not that the people aboard this lovely stylish motor yacht will exactly be slumming it in the cold and wet.

This interesting and quirky cat came in last night and obviously didn't need to lift a mooring.

A little later ...

Later still. Ladder vital equipment.

Another interesting visitor was the lovely yacht Mat Ali. Her owners, Charlie and Mary, invited me to a day out with them as they neared the end of their first major cruise. They had been living aboard for a month and there are very few boats on which that can be done in comfort.

Mat Ali's origin could have been written by Joseph Conrad. She was commissioned by a veteran of the First World War, who had obtained the grant of a tract of land in Malaysia to operate an oil plantation. There was an enormous tree on the land, of an extremely hard oriental hardwood, which he eventually had cut down and milled to provide his yacht, built in 1935 by a local builder named Mat Ali to a Harrison Butler design. On completion she was shipped to the Mediterranean and then sailed home by her owner to Cornwall, where she remained until recently.

I took these images after we had spent an interesting and educational day. With a wind of Force Four to  Five we ran out through the Dorus Mhor with the tide, then spent the day basically beating back against it. Despite her robust look and at twelve tons a heavy boat for her thirty two foot length this is one fast yacht. In the stronger winds she was easily making seven and a half knots and in five hours we covered twenty six nautical miles through the water, mostly tacking back and forth over the same piece of landscape. It was fascinating to compare our perceptions of where we were heading with our actual track as plotted on the sat-nav. At the end of the day our course was a tangled cats cradle of crossing lines.

My next shot is of a fine wee visitor from the South, an English Nutshell built by her proud owner Tom, who has been a regular visitor here for many years. Like many others he has been appalled by the threat to our local sailing waters from the fish farm menace.

Finally a picture of the Hebridean Princess, which I took from Mat Ali the other day. She had a career as a Calmac ferry until a previous government found an excuse to sell her off, following which she has become an extremely luxurious holiday ship, specialising in short cruises on the West coast. When I took this shot she was on her way to one of her favourite anchoring spots, Port na Moradh, which just happens to be exactly where Lakeland are proposing to establish their massive new industrial fish farm.

It's terribly important that all who care about the threat to our scenic landscape and the local, visitor-dependent, economy should register their views with Argyll & Bute Council. Full details of the campaign, including how to object, are on the dedicated website, http://www.saveseilsound.org.uk.

Another Buchanan and some Olympic Nonsense

 

John Buchanan was born on New Years Day 1884 into a family of fabulous wealth. His father Francis C Buchanan described his employment in the 1891 Census as "living on own means" and at that time the family were living in a seventeen-roomed house in Rhu. Further back in history the family belonged to that elite group of Glasgow merchants whose fortunes were founded on the tobacco trade, slavery, shipping and finance. They lived in a massive townhouse on Blythswood Square opposite the Smith family whose lovely and dangerous daughter Madeline famously charmed a jury of Edinburgh gentlemen. It's possible that Buchanan Street was named after a distant relative. I don't think John would have had to work very hard, if at all, and he certainly devoted most of his life to yachting.

Like his fellow, near namesake but unrelated, yachtsman James Buchanan, John was a joiner, being a member of the Royal Northern, Royal Clyde, Royal Western, Clyde Corinthian Yacht Clubs and the Loch Long Sailing Club.

At the age of twenty four John Buchanan was part of the crew aboard Sir Thomas Glen-Coats' twelve metre yacht Hera taking part in the 1908 Olympics. This yachting event or match, as it was termed, was a little strange because there were only two entries, so everyone was guaranteed a medal, be it gold or silver. Further, both entries were British, so they helped the country's tally regardless of how well they did.

There was a slight international flavour, as the other entry, Mouchette, came from Merseyside, although her owner Charles MacIver was also of Scottish descent. The teams decided not to bother going to the South of England and on the toss of a coin the match took place on the Clyde. Hera duly won, helped a little when Mouchette found the way ahead blocked by the moored steam yacht Hebe.

John Buchanan owned a number of yachts during his sailing career, including the 19/24 Shireen, two big old boats called Llygra and Pallas, then the Fife eight metre Falcon, before buying Stroma from her first owner George Nisbet in 1937.

Hirta, formerly Llygra, in Argyll 2011

In his first season John Buchanan managed only one win out of twenty three starts. He did a bit better in 1938 with three firsts out of a total of ten places, but was plainly disappointed and decided to blame the boat, because at the end of that season he sold Stroma and bought Herbert Thom's old Westra. He did rather worse in 1939, managing just one win and no places at all from 13 starts. He doesn't feature in our story thereafter, because racing stopped for the War and he died at the end of 1943.

Reflections on the Scottish Islanders

Setting out on Shona, image by Richard Pierce

It is unlikely that the current Scottish Islands Class owners will ever recapture the spirit of friendly competition and daring enjoyed by the original bunch, but at least in recent years there have been serious attempts to resurrect the Class and return the surviving boats to their original configuration.

Butterflies on the Clyde, image by Ian G Gilchrist

This process was started by Martyn Webster about twenty years ago when he brought Cara back from Wales and had her professionally restored. Having found a new owner for her he repeated the exercise with Isla and Bernera. During this period David Spy recovered Gigha from the shore at Kings Cross on Arran, where she had lain for many years, and restored her to perfection. My own boat Stroma was on loan to the Scottish Maritime Museum for a time, as she had become unseaworthy and I did not know what to do with her. By 1995 she had deteriorated further and it was clear that the Museum had no resources, so I started what was to become an eight year restoration. Then Paddy Shaw took on Canna and restored her, incredibly, over just one winter. In the meantime Martyn, having sold Isla and Bernera, commissioned a new yacht, Shona, from Richard Pierce, formerly of Windermere and now of Luing. As a result of all this there are now seven boats in Class and the Association has been reformed with a new constitution.

There is an enormous volume of material available to those who wish to undertake yacht restoration. The problem is that much of it is contradictory, being invariably written by persons in one of a number of camps and often with no actual experience of such projects. Some believe that old vessels have a soul that will be destroyed by restoration. They expect their boats to leak through decks and coachroofs, through the hull when at rest but especially if they ever sail in winds above the most gentle. Some will glue a new glass skin to an ill-prepared old hull, stiffen the interior with girders, fit a new, highly-stressed rig and take on the racing circuit. It is very difficult nowadays to find a traditional six metre yacht that has not had this treatment.

A third and very much smaller, but high profile, group believe that restoration must be done precisely in accordance with the original plans and specifications, using original materials and methods. The obvious problem with this approach is the cost involved. Less obvious are the difficulties in complying with modern safety requirements, requiring non-original engines, navigational and safety equipment and so on. Authenticity is fine for those who want and can afford to pay for it, but for most ordinary people it is not an option.

The obsession in much of the yachting press with this last group, typified by the extensive coverage of events in the Mediterranean, only encourages elitism and must frighten off many who would otherwise see the acquisition of a traditional yacht as a viable option.

When I started the restoration of Stroma I had no clear idea about how this should be done. I wanted only to do the best job possible within my means, which did not extend to employing specialist ship-wrights. On the one hand I have always  liked and respected traditional ways. It is reassuring to know that something works and with new methods you can never be sure. On the other hand I had seen yachts beautifully restored using traditional methods that after a couple of years had reverted to their previous condition. This was probably always so, because racing yachts were not built or adequately maintained to last indefinitely.   I think that the expense of maintenance was accepted as a fact of life by owners in former years.

It seemed to me that if the structure could be kept together better and water excluded properly the future costs would be kept down. I had built a few small boats using epoxy saturation techniques and they had held together pretty well. I read a great deal about the various methods and became even more confused.
Some of the literature suggested that it was a bad idea to have a rigid hull structure. On reflection however, the important consideration is to keep flexing within the elastic limit of all the materials and coatings used in the structure, and this vital consideration is well illustrated by the frequent failure along planking lines of the paint on traditionally constructed yachts.  Once the paint skin film breaks, water enters the planking, and a downward spiral of deterioration starts.

I became convinced that the main reason why owners would have William Fife build them a new racing-yacht every year was not just a search for a faster boat, but because a new yacht being stiffer would always beat an old one. When an old vessel with loose fastenings strikes a wave she shudders and slows as the energy dissipates through the structure. After two or three such waves she will have lost a proportion of her kinetic energy.  The stiffer vessel will punch her way through and maintain her speed.

The end result was that Stroma was restored using a mixture of old and new techniques. Woods such as mahogany and teak are too scarce to be used in quantity. Even if they could be sourced it seemed to me that I should have hang-ups about using them in great quantity. To give one example the original transom was hewn from a solid block of mahogany about four feet by eighteen inches and, to get the radius, about six inches thick. To replicate this went quite against my principles, let alone levels of skill. The new transom was laminated from marine plywood over a building jig.

I was lucky that friends gave me wood including an ancient mahogany log and some church pews from which by careful use I was able to make all the visible woodwork around and inside the boat without conscience problems.

I do not regret having sheathed the hull in epoxy/glass internally and externally. When Stroma was relaunched in September 2003 she floated perfectly, disproving at least the moaners who predicted she would be weighed down with all the glue and cloth I had added.  In fact I think the weight added is probably about equal to the weight of the water which she no longer absorbs. She no longer displays cracks between the planks but otherwise looks as she did before.

The project was to consume about five thousand hours of my time. Being spread over eight years the cost was easily affordable and of course I saved the cost of a social life during that period.

Stroma at Crinan, image by Clive Brown

The other restorations have been done in a much more traditional manner and have been entirely successful. Clearly there are various options which will work. There seem to have been no significant differences in boat speed on the occasions when the new and restored boats have met.

Shona, the new boat, is of monocoque woodstrip core epoxy glass construction, which can be quite light.  Because the yacht was required to demonstrate traditional sailing properties Richard Pierce kept the weight distribution as original by increasing the scantlings, which resulted in a massively strong hull. He has confirmed that she took 3400 professional man-hours to plan and build from scratch, excluding spars and rigging. The result is a beautiful powerful boat combining traditional looks and the lack of maintenance of a modern yacht.

The Islanders are now virtually the only surviving indigenous Scottish one design class. I hope that these recent developments show that they remain ideal for their intended purposes of round the buoys racing and occasional short cruises on the West coast. With two or three candidates for restoration still available as well as a set of drawings for new construction there are opportunities for anyone interested.

If  you want to find out more about the Scottish Islanders  please visit my dedicated blog, http://www.scottishislandsclass.blogspot.com, where this post first appeared a year ago.

Sailing to Arinagour

 

In July 1978 Peter and I were at the end of a wet fortnight aboard Stroma, much of which had been spent storm-bound in Mallaig. We had finally left and drifted South, more with the tide than the wind, in a dreich grey day of the sort that makes you wonder why you ever took up sailing. The intention was that if the weather picked up we would sail back to our mooring in Oban via the outside of Mull, such is the optimism of the young. In the event progress was so slow that by early afternoon we were only at the South end of Eigg. As the tide would now set against us it was an easy decision to stop there and spend the rest of the day trying to catch our supper.

We anchored in about two fathoms inside the island that protects the bay. Our efforts at fishing were just as pathetic as our day's sail had been. The fish that swam about under our keel were so small that they had no difficulty in nibbling the bait from our hooks without any risk to themselves. After a walk ashore, when we discovered that at that time there seemed to be no facilities whatsoever on Eigg we turned in for an early night.

At about five in the morning I was woken by Stroma rolling on an Atlantic swell which seemed to be setting in. I took a look out and noticed that there had been a definite change in the weather. We now had a very clear dry summer morning and there was a breeze. By this time Peter was also awake and after some discussion he agreed to assist with getting the anchor and setting sail, provided he could  then return to his bunk to complete his night's repose.

Thus at about 5.45 am Stroma was underway. We slipped out Southwards from the bay and were soon on a close reach in a sparkling fresh Northwesterly breeze. I was pleased that I was alone in the cockpit and could treat the beautiful morning as my very own. Actually I was sharing it with various seabirds and the occasional fishing boat could be spotted far off when we rose on the swell.
           
The Islanders are wonderful boats on a reach, when you really feel the power of the mainsail. Soon Coll started to appear on the horizon and then we were in flatter water as we sailed down the East side of the island to Arinagour.

If you are engineless it is always better to pick a safe spot to anchor where you won't require to get underway during the night. I was glad that Peter was now awake as we had some tight tacking to get into the chosen spot some distance from the steamer pier. By nine thirty we were anchored and ready to spend the rest of a lovely summer day ashore.

After a third of a century Peter is still willing to come sailing with me, but now his son Ken also comes along. You can read about more of our excursions here and here
      
      
 

The Wordies of Glasgow

Alinda V, formerly Fiumara

"Twenty horses in a row
Everyone of Wordie & Co"
William McGonagall

In the course of researching the history of the Scottish Islands Class I am learning about some of the interesting people who sailed these boats eighty or so years ago. The Islanders attracted some quite unusual personalities to their ranks and I have already introduced some of them on http://www.scottishislandsclass.blogspot.com.

The Islander Fidra was commissioned in 1930 by Colonel William Wordie, OBE, TD, MA, who was 46 years old at the time. He was the managing director of William Wordie & Co, the biggest carrier and haulage firm ever to operate in Scotland, which had been founded by his great-grandfather John Wordie in the early Nineteenth Century. The history of the firm gives a fascinating glimpse into social history. 

From humble beginnings as a Stirling carter, carrying among other things illicit mail between Stirling, Glasgow and Edinburgh undercutting and contravening the Royal Mail's monopoly, the firm, consisting of half a dozen horses and carts, passed on John's premature death to his son William.

This first William saw the future of rail transport and in 1851 became the agent for the Caledonian Railway and later for Scottish Central Railway. When he died in 1874 an enormous business passed to his son John, who moved the family to Glasgow, where he built the family home, a substantial property at 52 Cleveden Drive in the West end, around 1880.

The future Colonel Wordie was born in 1884. He attended Glasgow Academy and then obtained a Master of Arts degree at Glasgow University. The 1911 Census shows that by then he had inherited the business and the house, describing him as the head of the house, employer and "railway carrier and marking contractor", aged 26, unmarried and living with a housekeeper, table maid and cook.

He went on to serve in the First World War in the Royal Army Service Corps (Territorial Force) being awarded the Order of the Nile and the OBE.

He had joined the Royal Northern Yacht Club in 1924 and presumably owned a yacht in order to join, but to date I don't have details. Fidra was his first commission for a new boat and he raced her for only two seasons, managing 30 starts in 1930 and 20 in 1931 without much success. He was to own her until 1934, when he sold her to A R Keith Thomson. After forty four years with the Thomson family Fidra passed through a couple of further owners before being acquired by Rick Standley, the double bassist, who still owns her.

In 1932 he commissioned Alfred Mylne to design the eight-metre Froya, which I was delighted to discover is still in existence and sailing on Lake Constance. My guess is that one-design racing didn't appeal to Colonel Wordie, with its focus entirely on the ability of the helmsman and crew. By contrast with a yacht built to one of the metre rules one had a chance of getting a hull that would simply go faster through the water and money was not a problem for him. Also he was probably too busy to spend the time on the water necessary to develop winning skills.

In 1934 Mylne designed and Alexander Stephens built him a massive auxiliary ketch Fiumara, which suggests his interests were moving on from racing. She also survives today as Alinda V and has recently been extensively refitted by Southampton Yacht Services.

In February 1945 Colonel Wordie was appointed a Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Glasgow and shortly thereafter Wordie & Co was nationalised and became part of British Road Services. He died in 1952.

In accordance with the tradition in Scottish families the younger brother James Mann Wordie inherited neither house nor business and had to make his own way in the world, admittedly with a share of the family fortune. After taking degrees at Glasgow and Cambridge, where he studied geology, he had a distinguished and highly productive career. He accompanied Shackleton on the Endurance expedition, returning for war service in the Royal Field Artillery, after which he returned to polar exploration and ran numerous privately-financed Arctic explorations. Throughout his base was St John's College, Cambridge, where he progressed from Fellow to becoming Master in 1952, being knighted in 1957.  He died in 1962.

The family history, progressing from a traditional if slightly illegal trade to business and academic success and respectability within four generations, is typical of the incredible social mobility that was possible in the industrial and commercial melting pot that was the West of Scotland in the Nineteenth Century. Colonel William bequeathed to the World three beautiful yachts, while Sir James left a unique legacy of polar information, publications and inspiration.