It is 6.50 a.m. myself and Skipper have just returned from our morning walk. Skipper really enjoyed himself this morning because we set off at 6am and had the whole park to ourselves. This meant he could run freely for 45 minutes or so, and how he enjoyed it. We have now returned to the house and enjoyed steak and eggs for breakfast. What better way for man and dog to begin a Sunday morning.

Yesterday I was telling you about the Saturday’s I spent in Liverpool as a school kid. Still in keeping with my box of chocolates theory, if we think of the days of the week as a box of chocolates, these days every chocolate is simply delicious. Back in those school days at the convent, Sunday’s chocolate was absolute dross. It would have been one of those dead hard centres, or possibly even a laxative. The day would begin with compulsory mass at 8am. After breakfast we would have to sit around not taking part in very much activity, as we had to wear our ‘Sunday best’ clothes. After Sunday lunch we would be allowed to dress down but couldn’t wander very far from the convent, as we had to be back for afternoon benediction. Benediction would be followed by evening meal, then 10 decades of the rosary, a couple of hour’s playtime, more prayers, and bed. The Sunday would end with Sister Ann standing at the entrance of the large dormitory shouting at the top of her voice that she was about to turn the lights out. Why they were ever turned on in the first place in a blind school remains a mystery to me. When I was a little older, I would wander off to the docks again and skip benediction. I figured my punishment of several decades of the rosary, dished out to me by the priest in the confessional box as a penance for my bad behaviour, was not too high a price to pay for an afternoon spent down at the Pier Head.

Some things simply never change, they are just meant to be. Later today I will probably slink off down to the harbour and meander along the quayside. I am still very much connected to the sea. I have my own boat of course in Castletown harbour and I also have a house full of model ships. These are models I have collected down through the years. Most of them are in glass cases and adorn various parts of the house. Yet the one that holds pride place for me is not the magnificent model of the Star of India of which the original, built in Ramsey in 1863 and is now fully preserved in San diego USA. Nor is it the model of the Isle of Man Steam Packet vessel, “Ellan Vannin”, lost in Liverpool bay with the loss of all hands in 1909. No, it is an old battered model of the Ramsey steam ship Ben Ain. She is not in a glass case, some of her rails have fallen away, and she is generally on the tatty side, however, I keep her like this because this is how I remember her for real. She used to sail into Castletown with cargos of coal and cement until she was broken up in 1963.

As a kid of about 7 or 8 years old, I recall being lifted from the quayside by my father and down onto the deck of the Ben Ain, during his lunch break when he was discharging her. I loved the feel of her iron deck beneath my feet. Also the hiss of her steam winch as it stood idle for the men’s tea break, her gentle rolling as she either lifted with the tide, or fell away with the ebb. These tiny ships that kept our Island supplied with essentials back in those days, had a sort of magic about them that even the great ocean liners that attracted me to the Pier Head on the Mersey, could never muster.

There were two phrases that were often heard in Castletown in those days. The first one was. “There is a boat at 9 in the morning!” This was usually said to people we referred to as comeovers. They would be people from off the Island who said something we didn’t like. The second phrase was. “There is a boat at 7 in the morning!” These were the words uttered by Nelson Gill, the local stevedore. He would turn up at 8 or 9 at night and bang on our front door to inform dad. “There is a boat at 7 in the morning!” Nelson would walk around the houses until he had gathered up enough men to discharge the boat. It was nearly always the same gang, and you would be paid on the same day. So, as soon as the vessel was emptied you collected your 4 quid.

Discharging a coal boat of 250 tons of coal by shovelling the coal in to steel tubs was extremely hard work. There was one chap who was part of the gang. We will call him J.K.. He was a truly lovely kind man. Well at least to us kids at any rate. Once the boat had been discharged, J.K. would collect his money and head straight to the pub. He had a very large family, probably a dozen kids or more who may or may not have been waiting with eager out stretched hands when he got home. If they were they must have been frequently disappointed. The more J.K. drank, the more generous he became. He simply could not bear to leave the pub with money in his pocket. So, having had his fill of beer, he would spend what was left on bags of nuts and crisps. He would then stagger out of the pub, and as he wobbled along the road he showered any kid he came in to contact with his bounty of nuts and crisps. I can still hear his voice to this day, calling out to me. “Tommy, hold your hands out and have presents from your old friend J.K”

Well folks, I think that is enough for today. I have blathered on for over 1000 words today.

I have enclosed another picture of one of Barbara’s paintings, depicting Castletown Harbour today. The old steamers have gone, but the harbour is more or less the same.

So, until tomorrow then, this is Tom Glassey with News at 8 a.m., on the banks of the Silverburn River.