The oldest One Design in the World (and a chance to buy her)

 

Avid readers of this blog (you know who you are, I don’t) know how I love a good mystery. If you guddle through my earlier posts from 2010 onwards you’ll find my attempts to trace the histories of long-disappeared yachts and their owners, which have resulted in occasional successes and one or two tales of maritime adventure and even espionage. On reflection it’s actually quite surprising that so many old craft, built as they were in an impermanent medium and often used hard in rough conditions actually survived, the more so when one reflects on the habits of the early owners of racing craft who cannibalised an older boat for rig and fittings for the new one.

Occasionally the hours spent originally in libraries when I started out in a pre-internet age and now done online from a remote corner of Scotland produced real and very satisfying results. Earliest was the discovery that the Scottie survived as she approached her first century, still making ripples on the Wansee.Read that post here:- Scottie, a tale of espionage

More recently I posted on the one-designs of George Lennox Watson here:- The Clyde 17/19 foot Class 

The Master in his prime

I suggested that his nineteen foot lugsail boats created for the Clyde Canoe Club in 1886 were possibly the oldest one-design class in the World. I had to be tentative, as I knew that the Dublin Waterwags of the same year make this claim, supported by the advertisement placed in the Irish Times of 18 September 1886 by their founder Thomas B Middleton, which started off

“It is proposed to establish in Kingstown a class of sailing punts, with centreboards all built and rigged the same, so that an even harbour race may be had with a light rowing and generally useful boat…..” 

Waterwag at Dalkey

At that time I didn’t have a precise date for the Watson boats and also didn’t want to upset the Irish friends whom I meet mostly in cyberspace but sometimes also along our shores, but help has now arrived in the form of Martin Black’s masterpiece “The Art and Science of Yacht Design” which arrived here recently and has put paid to all work around the house for the time being and coincidentally published by some of those Irish friends. Martin records the Dumbarton Herald of 18 August 1886 reporting 

“Early in the present season the Clyde Canoe Club ….. resolved to add to their fleet of lugsail craft, three lugsail boats…. and on Saturday last, 14 August, the three left the Leven for Gareloch…”

The first boats of both classes were built by R McAlister & Son of Dumbarton. It would be fascinating to read any surviving correspondence among the promoters of the two, as we know there were very close family and sporting connections across the Irish Sea at that time.

So there we have it, nearly a dead heat and certainly a victory for the Celts, as both classes beat the Solent by a couple of years.

In my original post I recorded three more boats built in 1887 and a final one in 1888. Martin reports a total of nine, the first three named Red, White and Blue, three more built by McAlisters in 1887 for the Royal Clyde YC, which he doesn’t name and a final three in 1891 by Paul Jones of Gourock, also unnamed.

So what about my 1888 boat? I was thinking about the Banshee, which the Watson design list published in Martin’s book describes (design no 149) as a “Clyde 17/19 ft”, 2.5 tons and built by A McLaren at Kilcreggan. Incidentally Martin also lists the Nell (design no 156) as a “Clyde 19ft”, also 2.5 tons and built by J Adam of Gourock.

Confusion is caused by the emergence of another class hot on the heals of the first one, the 17/19s, about which we know quite a bit. To which class did Banshee and Nell belong?

In my post I wrote that we didn’t have photographs of the earlier boats and posted the lines and sailplans, copied here:-

  Here is a half model of Red, which is just a wee bit clearer than the above.

But I have now learned that one of them, Banshee, still exists. Not only that, she’s for sale, via Gareth Worters of the Dauntless boatyard. Contact details are posted below.  To me she looks like one of the original boats and not a 17/19, which generally weighed in at 3 tons and seem to have much deeper keels.

She’s had a very thorough professional restoration, including making and fitting a new stem, stern post, lots of planking repairs and reframing and an entire new deck structure. From the photos below it seems she’ll need very little, apart from a final coat of paint, to get her sailing again. Gareth tells me that there’s a good set of spars, finished to a high standard and a suit of sails.

As visitors will know this blog is unmonetised and totally non-commercial and I want to keep it that way, but I am happy to help friends in the world of old boats. If you want to pursue the Banshee further you can find Gareth on garethdauntless (at) aol.co.uk.

And if you miss out on the Banshee, don’t forget that Hubert Stagnol is building and has maybe finished (I haven’t heard from him for a while) another of the original design in France, about which I posted here:- Red lives again

Cool Colonsay

 

I'm just back from an interesting trip to Colonsay. Over the years I've often had a glimpse of this island, visible far out to sea from the pre-historic lookout post of Dun Fada round the corner from Degnish Point, but thoughts of the great Atlantic swells always put me off visiting by boat. Better to travel on board the good ship Isle of Mull, above, where good conversation and fine strong coffee can be found.

An invitation  to take part in a discussion about the proposed fish farm stirred me from winter lethargy into three days on this magical island on the edge of the world. 

What follows is a little photo-essay of my visit, without the polemic, which I will save for a more political forum.

Well, maybe not entirely politics-free, because what on earth is the Icebeam doing in Oban? She's been here for months, a Swedish research ship equipped with state of the art under-water survey equipment. She's been seen as far afield as Ardnamurchan, as reported by the Kilchoan Blogger.

McCaig's Folly

And I can't resist a poke at the PC Brigade, who insist on calling it a tower, when everyone knows its real name. Here goes with the essay.

Leaving the Sound of Kerrera, Mull in the distance.

On arriving there was time for  quick drive round the island before dark.

The Strand, between Colonsay and Oronsay

It has to be called Hangman's Rock

Loch Fada

First view of Traigh Ban

Day Two dawned cold and bright and I decided to do a gentle stroll from Scalasaig to the north of the island.

Scalasaig

Leaving Scalasaig one soon comes to an interesting wee haven.

After a little while I came to the Colonsay House estate and took a detour through.

A case for the WD40

Traigh Ban again, from under Carnan Eoin

Raised beach

The Old Man of Balnahard

The way back is always longer

 

 

On Day Three I had time to explore south from Scalasaig and walked over towards Queens Bay, where there are signs of old cultivation.

 

From the high ground one gets a good view of the Scalasaig Kirk.

And finally a view of the route home, with Jura stretching north on the left and Scarba just visible beyond.

The Art of the Progue, a Galloway Whisky Galore and a naturalist Welsh Monk

The recent storms haven't all been doom and gloom for some of the local characters around here. Our shores have been recipients of huge quantities of debris of all sorts, including a few thousand tons of gravel that miraculously appeared after the storm on Christmas Eve, a fine present all neatly washed and graded. It's amazing what an angry sea can do and I've just read that all the sand at Ganavan disappeared in the same storm. Well, it's not ended up here and if anyone is missing some gravel, they're not getting it back.

An old local eccentric, sometimes known as Hairy Pete and by those who don't know his name just as the Old Logman has been down on the shore recovering sodden timber which may eventually dry out enough to keep him warm later this century. There's been enough black plastic stuff, curiously-shaped objects never seen before, enormous black barrels and bits of broken rope to start a small fish farm. A great length of heavy duty pipe also washed up and was hauled with great difficulty to the roadside by Hairy Pete to await later collection once his friends recovered from their revelries enough to help him, but had disappeared by the time they did. We have to guess that its owner, possible a hedge fund in Kazakhstan, has arranged for its recovery to go back to its function of feeding caged salmon.

In parts of the country where they have traditionally received such bounty from the sea, the locals have special names for it. The occasional fine sailing ship never made it out of the approaches to Firth of Clyde, coming to grief on Corsewall Point, a sticky-out bit of land at the top of the South-west tip of Scotland, where the tides are strong and the winds changeable. Around Stranraer and in the tiny settlements facing the Irish Sea and Luce Bay, havens for generations of smugglers, the harvesting of this material became known as "proguing" and the product as "the progue."

It always beats me why ship-owners didn't see the sense in having their precious vessels towed well clear of these dangerous waters. Ferdinand Laeisz kept a special fleet of steam tugs to tow his P-ships the whole way from Hamburg until they cleared the English Channel, where they were set free in the open sea and the tug would wait for the next incoming member of his fleet.

Typical of what happened in Galloway was the fate of the Firth of Cromarty, picture above, which thankfully was not shared by her complement.

On 26th August 1898 she and her tug anchored for the night in Rothesay Bay. We can guess that her master and crew enjoyed a few fairweel swallies in the watering-holes of the lovely Royal Burgh before setting off for the long trip to New South Wales.

About 6 a.m. the next day the tug pulled the Firth of Cromarty out into the Firth, past the south end of Arran, and about 7.30 p.m. she had Ailsa Craig on the port beam. The weather was described as hazy, with passing showers, and the sea was getting up. About 8.30 p.m. sail was made to topsails and foresail and the tug cast off, the ship standing on the starboard tack and continuing full and by on that tack, doing about four knots with the wind W.N.W at that point. Land was in view at all times and she was closing it, with the wind shifting from W.N.W. to W.S.W. as darkness began to fall. The subsequent inquiry notes 

"At 9 o'clock the light on Corsewall Point was made, bearing about south, and at an estimated distance of nine miles, but it is to be noted that neither at this time, nor at any subsequent period, did the master think it necessary to seek for corroboration of his assumptions as to distances by having recourse to the lead. The dangerous nature of this neglect, and of trusting implicitly to the eye for judging distances, is shown by the fact that at 11 o'clock, only 20 minutes before the ship stranded, the master judged he was eight miles from the light which was then bearing S.E., while, as a matter of fact, he was so close to the shore that when, a quarter of an hour later, he attempted to wear ship she was brought up by the rocks.....at a place locally known as Bloody Point, about half a mile to the southward of the lighthouse, and ultimately she became a total wreck. (my comment- so he's been doing four knots for two hours and thinks he's gone one mile over the ground???) Next morning the mate and nine hands, in one of the ship's lifeboats, landed in Loch Ryan, and the remainder of the crew was rescued by the rocket apparatus."

I hesitate to suggest that the delights of the Rothesay hostelries had anything to do with the disaster, but the aftermath would certainly have given the Galloway proguers some sore heads.

The cargo included a huge quantity of very fine malt whisky, placing the event at the very pinnacle of the art of the progue. Bottles were being recovered by divers quite recently, three selling at auction in 1991 for about £1,000 each.

We had no such luck here, but the local progue did include one biological curiosity. A local proguer came across part of a bucket that had been at sea long enough to acquire its own population of barnacles, but these were not your ordinary barnacles, they were goose barnacles, a species found only in far-away places.

It seems these creatures got their name thanks to one Gerald of Wales, a celebrated monk, politician and naturalist from the time of Henry II of England. As Wikipedia reports, 

"In the days before it was realised that birds migrate it was thought that barnacle geese, Branta leucopsis, developed from this crustacean, since they were never seen to nest in temperate England hence the English names "goose barnacle", "barnacle goose" and the scientific name Lepas Anserifera. The confusion was prompted by the similarities in colour and shape. Because they were often found on driftwood it was assumed that the barnacles were attached to branches before they fell in the water. The Welsh monk, Gerald (Giraldus Cambrensis), made this claim in his Topographia Hiberniae.  Since barnacle geese were thought to be "neither flesh, nor born of flesh", they were allowed to be eaten on days when eating meat was forbidden by religion."

The Goose Barnacle Tree

A little research on the great Gerald suggests that he should have perhaps stuck to the politics, as he developed a number of other theories, including the idea that an osprey has one webbed foot, which are unlikely to have been based on observation. Certainly our local osprey, who visits daily in summer, flies so high that I haven't been able to inspect his feet. It's always possible, of course, that Gerald himself had indulged in a bit of twelfth century proguing and had found a bottle of something that had addled his brain.

Easy to see how Giraldus got confused

Will the salmon share Betty's luck?

As I write this several hundred thousand mature salmon are making their reluctant way across the North Sea aboard about a dozen enormous circular cages, almost unnoticed in the mainland press. When last spotted two days ago they were fortyfive miles South-east of Whalsay Isle in the Shetlands. The Viktoria Viking got a line aboard, but gave up after an hour as she was making no headway, and since has been out looking for them without success, as has a plane from the Fisheries Protection. For reasons that will no doubt become clear in time the powerful tug stationed in the Shetlands to deal with emergencies, but under threat from the Westminster Government, who have withdrawn support, has not been called upon.

With a Force Nine wind promised it's anyone's guess where the fish, who officially number 300,000 will end up. To get this into perspective total annual catch of wild salmon and seatrout by all means including netting is between 80,000 and 85,000. If only a fraction of the escapees make it to the valuable East coast salmon rivers the consequences could be disastrous.

I am utterly shocked that what could be a massive environmental disaster is happening virtually unnoticed in the press, outwith the Shetland Isles themselves, True, the story has made it onto the BBC website, but only as local Orkney and Shetland news.

The story can also be followed on  www.shetland-news.co.uk and there are interesting exchanges on the local website www.shetlink.com

Here is a flavour:-

"Da SIC want tae spend £thoosands subsidsing Nortlink tae hire a boat fur da Orkney folk tae cross da Firt athoot spewing dir muggies yit dey coodna send a tug fae SellieNess tae mitten youn cages - na, I firgat , youn tugs canna steer a coorse.

Yun caiges wir sed ta be 30 odd be aest Onst twa daes eftir Yul, (dir laeklee rikkin aboot da ootlyers o' Norrwa be noo, sam is auld Bettie Moad...), ower far fur yun bits a Sulim tinnies ta geen I doot....Dey canna geen ta da sea appairentlee....ur so dey sae.

Auld Yoals an smaaer gud fardir, an tocht hit owerweel....Sae muckle fur so caaed "progris"...."

 Presumed all dead is what I heard on the news. Also apparently two of the cages have sank.

"cood dey no sweem?"

It remains to be seen whether or not the salmon have the same luck that Betty Mouat (mentioned above) had in 1886, when she survived a similar unorthodox trip.

This astonishingly robust lady had already endured sufficient misery and hardship, not to speak of some accidents that would have felled lesser folk, when she set off on her solitary voyage on 30 January of that year. Six months after she was born at Levenwick in 1825 her father, by trade a shoemaker, decided to give up his usual summer job on a herring boat and sign onto a whaling ship, which vanished without trace.

A few years later Betty's mother married a local crofter and after they both died she helped his brother to run the small farm, facing the icy winds in all weather and knitting stockings during the dark winter months for sale in Lerwick. At the age of eighteen she was trying to recover an escaped sheep, when she got accidentally shot by a man out hunting with a shotgun. The local doctor managed to remove one pellet, but decided the others too dangerous and were left in her head. Many years later she was run over by her cart when the pony bolted. When she was fifty six Betty suffered a stroke, which left her partly disabled. A few years later she decided to travel to Lerwick to seek better medical help than was available on the small island where she lived.

Betty duly set off as the sole passenger on the Columbine for the short sea trip, taking a quart of milk and two biscuits for sustenance. The weather was atrocious and when the fifty foot smack was still in view of those on shore she was seen to come head to wind, fall off, then luff up again, all the while drawing further away from land. After an hour or so the smack's boat emerged through the spray and came ashore, with two of the exhausted crew. They reported that the mainsheet had parted shortly after they set out and the skipper had fallen overboard. They had set off in the boat to rescue him, but he had drowned and getting back onboard had proved impossible. Betty was on her own.

The following Saturday, 7 February, Betty and the Columbine fetched up on the island of Lepsoe, twelve miles North of Aalesund, a fishing town in Norway. Knut Veblungsnes, a young fisherman, spotted Betty and called for help. He waded out to the smack and managed to fasten a rope to the Columbine, by which the locals pulled the smack closer to shore. He then tied another rope around Betty's waist and she made her way, hand over hand, to shore. Astonishingly she survived her experience to live another thirty two years.

Festive Greetings to one and all

A Happy Christmas, Merry Solstice or whatever to everyone who bothers to read this stuff,or happens to stumble on it in a forage through the blogosphere.

It's pretty wet and miserable in Argyll today and I wonder how the ancestors coped, kippering themselves with peatsmoke, maybe just a cow or a few pigs to keep them warm, or perhaps just the heat of a doctrinal discussion. As an old professor said, the Scots like philosophy because it's free and heats you up in a metaphysical sort of way. But then there's the cratur too, and that was free too, if you had a wee copper still hidden away.

Right now it's hard to believe that the above image is from around here, actually it's of Erraid taken more years ago than I'd like to work out.

And that reminds me, given that the papers are full of highfallutin books to read, there should be a recommendation for holiday reading, so scottishboating recommends RLS's Kidnapped and Catriona. If you haven't read them shame on you and if you have, well, read them again. The ship went down just outside this island.

The magical Isle of Gigha, nice memories for horrid winter days

My log for 1979 contains the following entries for the Glasgow Fair Weekend:-

"Self and PS

Saturday July 14 HW Oban 09.42 BST, pressure 1030, cloudy, rainy wind S force 2

Departed Ardfern 09.00 wind increased to SW 4/5 had quick beat down to Craighouse. Becalmed off Nine Foot Rock and had slow sail through Small Isles Bay. Got anchor down at 18.00.

Sunday 15 July, pressure 1035, bright, light W wind

Departed Craighouse 08.45 wind backed SW force 3 had pleasant reach across to Gigha, anchored in 11/2 fathoms in Ardminish Bay (white sandy bottom) at 12.20.

Monday 16 July HW Oban 11.21 BST North going stream in Sound of Gigha starts 02.44.

Departed Ardminish 05.20, visibility very bad, pouring rain. Wind SW 5/6. Tied in one reef as didn't know what seas would be like outside.

At McCormaig Isles wind moderated, day cleared, shook out reef. Had very fast reach and kept tide till past Crinan. On mooring Ardfern 13.20."

In a typical Fair Weekend (i.e. rain and wind) we had sailed about 80 sea miles, allowing for tacking, in just over 20 hours.

Peter sent me this post card to celebrate our trip, he does this sort of thing.

 

My memories of Gigha were of a fairy tale island blessed with exotic plants, incredible white sand and a tide that moved fast but didn't seem to go in or out. It was also an incredibly quiet place with the large old-fashioned hotel the only place to visit and no other facilities.

Since 1979 the island had suffered under various somewhat colourful owners before being taken into community ownership. By 2009 I was keen to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the trip, but the attempt ended when we were becalmed in thick fog and it became dangerous to go on. After an anxious hour or so the weather cleared enough for us to feel our way into Crinan.

Stroma and Peigi

 Just before midsummer 2010 we had better luck. Peter couldn't make the trip, but his son Ken (not born in 1979) came with me and our old friend Ken Campbell, who often sailed with us in the 1970s. The only lesson from the trip was that if you don't want everything done twice don't sail with two men of the same name.

The problem with this trip is that you have much less tide going South, as it turns progressively earlier the further you go, for example Gigha is three and a half hours ahead of Oban. Coming back North the opposite is true, so timing doesn't matter so much.

To avoid an unseemly early start we set off from Kilmelford on the Friday evening, June, and sailed round to  Toberonochy.

Kilchattan Bay is a favourite spot of mine, soaked in history. King Alexander II anchored his fleet there on the  night of 7 July 1249 on his way to meet with Ewen of Argyll, who controlled the inner isles at that time. Ewen had been pursuing a diplomatic balancing act between the Scottish and Norwegian crowns for some years  and had been trying to persuade Alexander that it was possible to owe allegiance to two masters. The King was not buying this and set off with his fleet.

Alexander's trip was not a great success, as he was stood up. Ewen of Argyll had gone to Stornoway, taking with him the ten year old prince of the Isle of Man, for the boy's protection and also no doubt as a bargaining counter. The following day Alexander died at Horsehoe Bay on Kerrera, leaving his kingdom to his own ten year old son, who became Alexander III. I have read a lot about this period and have never come across any suggestion of foul play, so it seems likely that Alexander II was already stricken with some deadly illness and made his trip in an attempt to obtain some control for his successors over this part of what he claimed as his realm. His son was crowned just a week or so later at Perth, which suggests that the Court had the arrangements already in hand. Of course the Western Isles weren't to come under the control of the Scottish kings for many years after that.

The walls of the old kirk at Kilchattan bear graffiti that may have been done by Alexander's marines during their visit. We can tell that the graffiti depicts Scottish ships as they have rudders. The graffiti doesn't photograph well, so here is an image from a tomb slab showing the typical shape of a Scottish vessel.

 

She has short ends and a centrally hung rudder, as opposed to the Viking ships, which had the long ends suited to open water passages, but required a steering oar, slung of course over the starboard side. This difference would have given the Scots an advantage in our narrow inshore passages subject to strong tides and the Vikings an advantage offshore.

Luing is full of haunting reminders of an industrious and sometimes turbulent past, when the islands were the centres of all sorts of activity. Visitors will find everything apart from shops, including prehistoric duns, an old water mill haunted by elves, who demand a hair as a tribute, curious religious messages carved by a madman whose hobby was making his own gravestones, and the scars left behind by the unremitting slog of the slate industry. They will also find a population of more hares (the other type) than humans, a special herd of cattle and a landscape like that of the Outer Hebrides.

We set off from Kilchattan Bay the following morning with about three hours of tide against us, to get the best use out of the South-going ebb later, carrying one reef in the main, destination Ardminish if the wind held and Craighouse if it didn't. We were lucky that a Westerly Force 3 to 4 held all day with bright sun. For hour after hour Stroma reached along, as always light on the helm, at maximum hull speed. Passing Skerryvore we decided to go for Gigha as we still had a few hours of tide with us. We were anchored in Ardminish by late afternoon, about seven and a half hours after setting off.

The following day there was a yachtsman's gale from the North, so we had a day to explore Gigha and for the older Ken to re-discover his childhood haunts from holidays in John McMillan's cottage more than fifty years ago.

The Isle of Gigha today, after several years of community ownership, has to be the finest example of what wonders can be achieved once the iron grip of the traditional Highland landowner is broken.

For a start the visitor moorings were all occupied, mainly by visiting Irish boats, for whom Gigha is an easy destination, but also at least one by a crew from across the Atlantic.

On shore there is a welcoming quayside restaurant, the hotel is jumping (well, not lierally, but we were by 3 am) and there are various craft and other attractions to be added to the famous Achamore gardens.

There is a lot of building activity, in an attractive style that respects our traditions, while maximising solar gain and modern materials. There is an element of uniformity that I found pleasing.

In summary, what was virtually an economic basket case has become a vibrant, self-sustaining community with a great sense of purpose. The Isle of Gigha Heritage Trust website can be viewed here:- www.gigha.org.uk

We left early on the Sunday morning with the wind still a strong Northerly and after a few hours of being flung around in the lumpy seas thrown up by wind against tide we decided not to go on and settled for a fast, bumpy reach across to Craighouse, where it was a relief to hook up to a visitor mooring.

We didn't see much of Craighouse, as we had an early start next day, but there seems to be a big contrast between Gigha and Jura, the latter not having moved on very much in thirty years and still belonging to a few rich owners.

The next morning we got away very early, in very little wind, with the younger Ken towing us out behind the trusty Peigi, which went with us everywhere this Summer. You won't see yachts being towed by their crews very much these days, but it was common a hundred years ago and is much more reliable than having an engine.

Outside the Small Isles we picked up a gentle Westerly, which came and went all day, part sailing, part drifting on the tide, until we just got past Crinan. As the tide started to turn against us we picked up a new wind from the North west, which gave us a fetch to Asknish Point and then a reach home.

We had covered about 90 sea miles in about 28 hours under sail, a slightly slower average speed than I managed in the same boat over thirty years earlier, but then we're both getting older.

Tramp Steamers

SS Harmodious by John Gardner

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

  Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

  With a cargo of Tyne coal,

  Road-rails, pig-lead,

  Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. 

(John Masefield, 1902) 

The tramp steamers are mostly no longer around, at least in British waters, but in their day they encapsulated a type of romance of the sea that led countless youngsters to seek adventure, see the world (or maybe just a wee bit of it) and generally escape from the threatened drudgery of work in an office or factory. The reality was a life of extreme boredom seasoned with occasional terrifying incidents, and an ever-present risk of injury or death. Despite or maybe because of these conditions lifelong friendships were formed among the seamen and many developed loyalties to the company under whose flag they sailed, despite the eccentricities of penny-pinching managements.

An old friend, who did his time in the immediate post-War period, recalls going off duty with the ship steaming into the teeth of a Mediterranean gale and returning on deck eight hours later to find that she was now several miles behind where she had been when he went off.

And, trawling online in the course of my researches I found this quote from a Scottish old-timer,

“joined the Blairspey on Saturday 14th July 1956 as a catering boy at Northfleet Paper Mills, done three trips in her, to Seven Isles in Canada, loading pulp. Most of the deck cargo was washed overboard on the trip home. I can’t be quite sure but I think it was either the Queen Mary, or the Queen Elizabeth, passed us three times on the last outward trip that I made in her with a message, ‘Keep Going Blairspey You Will Make It’. That last trip the outward voyage was rough as the best she could do was two knots backwards…..”

I’m sorry he hid behind an online alias, as I would like to thank him for his contribution.

The late Nineteenth century and the first half of the Twentieth were amazingly profitable times for those adventurous enough to become involved in shipping, provided of course you stayed off the actual ships and confined your efforts to buying them, dealing in them or just managing them. The Blairspey was part of the Blair line founded by George Nisbet, with whom I share an affinity, as he was the first owner of Stroma and I am the ?th.

The story of the Nisbets is very typical of many of the period and illustrates the great social mobility that resulted from the rapid development of Glasgow as a major industrial centre. Around 1843 John Nisbet and his wife Patricia left Ireland and came to Glasgow, where he established himself as a baker in Bridgeton. His son James followed him in the trade and moved into Tradeston, then a mixed area of factories and housing, to a flat in Gloucester Street, where as it happens my ancestors also lived at the same time. James and his wife Ann had about eleven children, of whom George was one of the youngest, born in 1876.


Our next sign of George is in the 1901 Census, where we find that he is now a ship broker, aged 25, the owner of a substantial house in Maxwell Road, Pollokshields, living there with his now widowed mother, four brothers and sisters and some domestic servants.

In 1905 George Nisbet and John Calder went into partnership and bought a second hand tramp steamer, the Greatham, joined in 1907 by the Etona and in 1909 by the Benedick. At the end of April 1913 the partnership dissolved and George continued on his own, operating as an owner and broker under the names Clydesdale Navigation Company Limited and George Nisbet & Co Limited, by which time the ships were being given "Blair" names.

George Nisbet was a fairly active buyer and seller of ships during the First World War, a period when losses were extreme and prices escalated, luckily managing to sell most of his ships before they were torpedoed. At the end of the war he owned only one ship, the first Blairmore, which he sold in 1919. He then took a few years out before going on a massive buying spree from 1922 with Blairadam, Blairbeg, Blairlogie, Blairholm and Blaircree, then commissioning his first new-build, the ill-fated Blairgowrie, followed by many others and an occasional second-hand purchase. 

The loss of the Blairgowrie in February 1935 must have been a shattering blow to the reputation of the company, who were extremely lucky to have the Board of Trade find that "no wrongful act or default" was shown. The report is available online and I warn readers that it is one of the saddest and most distressing things I have read in a long while,

Report of the Board of Trade Inquiry 

By the start of the Second World War the fleet comprised nine ships, which went into war service and to which the government added another eight for the company to manage, eleven of the total being lost. George Nisbet himself died during the war and  the company was run thereafter by Douglas R Nisbet, who eventually sold the fleet and wound up the companies in 1961.