Trouble in the Dolls House

Janet and John seem to get all the credit and glory for their sterling work in helping the children of the UK to become literate. In fact they have now been revamped and a series of new books are available deemed relevant in content and language for the 21st Century. I would like to put forward a plea on behalf of the actual pair who encouraged reading, writing and lifestyles amongst the easily influenced under 10's in the 1960's- that dynamic duo Peter and Jane, accompanied by the overactive and bonkers Pat the dog.

I assumed at the time of original reading of the Ladybird books that Peter and Jane were brother and sister. I had no experience of, or exposure to, other alternative relationships beyond a typical and traditional post war family unit. Such was my nice, comfortable and sheltered life. I express complete thanks to my loving parents for this environment to grow up in and thrive.

I took great comfort in the solid ,reliable and family values championed by Peter and Jane. They were always nicely dressed and appropriately so for the many varied activities that they were involved in. Jane had an old face, she was quite mature looking for an under 10, coiffured blonde hair probably a weekly shampoo and set at a High Street Salon and usually a very bright daffodil yellow frock. Peter was a scaled down version of a 40 year old accountant with pullover and large grey school uniform shorts.

The Ladybird format for assisted reading consisted of a page of pastel water colours with a scene from the very busy daily activities of Peter and Jane and with a facing page with a large print sentence describing what they were doing. At the foot of the page was a summary of the key words or phrase from the sentence. In this way there was a reinforcement through repetition but with some interesting and potentially rebellious, subversive and downright dodgy implications. Frankly, and with hindsight Peter and Jane were not really very nice children.

Peter was quite selfish and very dismissive of the fair Jane. He always got to play on the swings first leaving Jane standing around in a rather flirtatious pose. He was also quite an attention seeker always saying 'Look at me'. Jane often had to tag along with Peter and at the seaside had to just look on as he had all the fun in the water and on a conveniently placed and upturned rowing boat. Peter spoke in kinder tones to the dog than to Jane. In the 1960's gender roles were obviously no further on than in the 1930's and 1950's. Jane played the mother role if there was a picnic. I could imagine her burdened down with travel rug and hamper and struggling to find a good place to set up whilst Peter skipped ahead and pulled the wings off insects. He was quite demonstrative and demanding but clever enough to appear polite with an over frequency of please's and thank you's.

Jane got dragged off to spot trains at the station because Peter liked trains, train, trains. He will have had quite a temper if Jane was slow or dim witted in his railway related role playing back at home. Jane however was pliable and easily manipulated by her scheming brother. He even made her ask if she could play. Peter was clear in establishing that it was his train set.

Going to the shops and in particular the pet shop represented another nightmare scenario for Jane. She probably hated rabbits but Peter always got his own way. He was a complete bully to the shopkeeper whose subsequent expression would certainly make him the prime suspect should Peter have gone missing over the ensuing days.

Jane only comes into her own when she is with her Mother but again a throwback to the old regime. She is a good girl but it her desire to help that is so cruelly exploited in that dysfunctional family. Peter is nowhere to be seen when it comes to the chores. He immediately goes to find his Father and washes the car. The father is similarly absent from most of the domestic scenes although as principal breadwinner that was obviously allowed. He was however reckless with the children allowing them to sit up front in the car with no belts or restraints on the road. From memory that was how it was in the 1960's.

Towards the end of the Ladybird book some normality returns to the nuclear family. All is right and rosey. Peter and Jane play in the garden and delight in the large and well tended garden.

It is an idyllic scene but under the surface considerable problems were developing that will keep the respective lawyers of the adult Peter and Jane well and lucratively employed for many, many years. I am pleased only that Pat the dog and various rabbits passed away before the two children reached legal age and thereby escaped the shameful indignities of  a messy custody battle.

Flue Epidemic

This is the story as it was told to me;

The house was of 1930's vintage.

A two storey bay to the front elevation, red oxide painted hung tiles at first floor level and with a white coarse pebbledash to the remainder under a Rosemary tiled roof. Thes traditional and character features had been visually appealing. The property had stood out from the tens and possibly low hundreds scrutinised in the property supplement.

In the process of prospective purchasing categories were set  as "no-hoper", "not sure", "probable" and "worth a closer look". The house had easily qualified for the latter.

When viewed through the local Estate Agent it did not disappoint. A builder had acquired it from a relative only a few short months before and had fully renovated the interior in a tasteful neutral magnolia to accentuate the brand new beech worktop fitted kitchen, stylish white bathroom suite and a full wall to wall array of pine wardrobes to the main front bedroom. The only surviving authentic features were the internal doors, two thirds vertical fluted panelled in dipped and stripped pine and the living room fireplace. This comprised a slate bed mantelpiece and scrolled supports with veneered slate uprights around an open hearth.

The house, in refurbished show home format, had included a bowl of fragranced pine cones in the hearth itself.

The purchase progressed swiftly with no major hiccups or dramas. With keys in hand following legal completion of the transaction the proud new owner had the first proper snoop and look around. Some of the magnolia would have to go of course but otherwise it was perfect. A moving in date was set to coincide with the end of the tenancy on the current residence.

Meanwhile, the family attended and passed judgement. The mother filled up with tears at the sight of a fitted kitchen. Hers had and still consisted of a freestanding pantry cupboard and a belfast glazed sink. The father, expertly kicked the skirting boards and marvelled at the exactly snug mitred joints on the original internal doors- his own father had been a time served  joiner and would , if he had been alive,have appreciated the craftsmanship. Youngest sister opened up all the wardrobe doors in the main bedroom and mentally filled them with her extensive designer accoutrements which was a sure thing as soon as she got a first job. Brother sulked in the garden with a cigarette- life was just not fair and favourite siblings always got everything they wanted. Uncle John, that essential part of any family, speculated that the living room hearth would be fantastic as an operational coal fire. He dashed off to fetch his sectional sweeping brushes which were carefully secreted in his lock-up just for this very eventuality.

On his return he stood in the street and perused the chimney stack. Two clay pots, open mouthed. These corresponded with the living room chimney breast and another in the dining room. The brother, reassured of his usefulness was manhandled onto the opposite pavement with instructions to holler when the brush end emerged triumphantly from , definitely, logically, surely, the front most pot.

Uncle John made a proper performance of presenting the lengths of rods and the dramatic but suspiciously clean brush end. He actually lived in a ground floor council flat with no fireplaces or flues. The sweep set had been an impulsive internet purchase, more for accumulating fees at weddings as a business venture than an actual practical application.

As though a genetic trait Uncle John eyed up the hearth to ceiling height in the living room. The brush head was screwed onto two rod lengths. Mother fussed around with the travel rug from the car draping it on the fireside carpet in anticipation of an avalanche of  soot, bricks, dead birds and charred letters to Santa. With an artisitic fluorish Uncle John shoved the assemblage into the narrow opening above the hearth.

Through the window the brother scuffed the kerb and lit another cigarette whilst looking skyward. The head and first rod were out of sight but resistance was met surprisingly quickly. No matter how frequently and hard the retraction and insertion was repeated there was no vertical progress. Uncle John was frustrated. No one had thought to bring a kettle, tea bags, milk, sugar or, oh yes, cups and saucers so a brew was not on the menu. This only made matters worse.

The flue clogging properties of cheap Polish coal was a matter of discourse between the older members of those assembled, well those who could remember a British mining industry. Thing would never be the same when a nation lost the means to produce its own power. Mother kept quiet after transferring fathers utilities to Energy de France from British Gas.

The party migrated to the kerb. Two fireplaces, two pots. The menfolk instinctively scratched their scalps and balls. The women  waited for some inspired words of wisdom.

Youngest sister meanwhile had continued to create her own Carrie Bradshaw dimension clothes storage facility in the fitted wardrobes of the front bedroom, directly above the living room activity. She insisted that those present come and appreciate her visionary thoughts. Seeking any excuse to escape the impasse over the sweeping Uncle John was the first to ascend the stairs followed by the rest of the real family. He was, after all, a self styled ladies man but not a poof for all that.

All stared at the expanse of open pine doors. There was certainly a vast square footage therein. A proper regular rectangle of storage space that could easily cope with the widest of retro 80's padded shoulder blouses and casual jackets.

Gradually the reality of the situation became apparent. There was no continuation of the chimney breast through the bedroom. Uncle John dashed off to fetch his ladders, another impulsive internet purchase for a ground floor flat dweller.

In the loft there was a sooty outline on the party wall where otherwise there would be a brick encased flue. The builder who had inherited the house had chopped out the bedroom chimney breast after having been impressed by a Phil and Kirsties gushing endorsement that extra storage would not only increase the value of the house but also secure a sale.

The mother was the first to giggle. The father soon joined in followed by the loyal but impressionable family members. Even Uncle John slapped his own bald pate in mock self ridicule. The brother, the hero of the hour returned from the local shop armed with cans of beer, shrink wrapped Cornish pasties, lots of packets of crisps and a rapidly thawing Vienetta.

The impromptu and happy picnic took place around a dusty bowl of pine cones, retrieved from the gas cupboard, which were ceremoniously placed in the gaping, useless hearth.

Blingley

Inspired by the recent repeat TV broadcast of Great Canal Journeys by Timothy West and Prunella Scales

An attendance of 7148 people ,plus dogs, is quite impressive for most events particularly so in late January in this country. Many a lower league football team would consider a crowd of that size, less the dogs, against their statistical data in anticipation of a new record.

The reason for the assembled numbers in this instance was an Open Day at the historic Five Rise Locks at Bingley in West Yorkshire. The Grade 1 Listed locks were constructed from 1760 along the course of the Leeds Liverpool Canal, at that time a major artery for commerce through Yorkshire and Lancashire and the catalyst for the significant contribution of the region within the Industrial Revolution of Britain.

The canal system in Britain served as effectively in its heyday as the motorway system of today given that most roadways were little more than muddy tracks and a major hindrance to the transport of goods.

A milepost at the Locks shows a distance of 16.25 miles to Leeds and 111 miles to Liverpool as an illustration of the sheer scale of the waterway. On a map the route is quite tortuous looping up from Leeds before sweeping down into Lancashire and the major regional cities. The canal was built to take boats of a seven foot width and a length of up to eighty feet therefore capable of carrying substantial bulk cargo. The Five Rise staircase locks provided a solution to an otherwise major physical obstacle of a hill to the course of the navigable channel.

There is a difference of some sixty feet between the lower and upper chambers of the waterway and in the 18th Century the task will have relied upon manual labour throughout making it, arguably, one of the most challenging civil engineering projects of its time.

As part of the current and ongoing major project to replace the huge operating gates it was necessary to drain the basins and fully expose the submerged structure in all its glory. This had not been done for 100 years and in recognition of the rarity of the event and circumstances there was unprecendented public access.

In homage to the original opening of the Five Rise Locks in 1774 when an estimated 30,000 people witnessed the 90 minute passage of narrow boats, the January 2012 turnout was fairly impressive and reflective of the interest in all things historic.

Guided tours were available through the drained basins which at some 23 feet deep had been constructed in substantial hand dressed stone to both hold in the huge volume of water but also retain against the pressures of the hillside. The materials and the construction process were dependant on block and tackle, hoists and pulleys, human effort and horse drawn transport .The current engineering experts on site have expressed awe at the skill and workmanship now clearly exposed for scrutiny.

It can be quite interesting discovering the contents at the bottom of a drained canal, lake or pond but being a well stewarded historic facility to deter fly-tippers and lazy shoppers it would appear that Tesco's were not called to Bingley to recover any of their carts from a watery trolley park resting place.

The British canal system retains its position as a popular holiday activity and the extensive network either preserved from its origins or subsequently restored after lapsing into obsolescence is patronised by many thousands of users through the peak vacation months. As a consequence of frequent use of the Five Rise the bottom of the basin , when drained, revealed oddments of pots and pans from enthusiastic fry-ups and lunches on the go, various mobile phones lost during shouted conversations of "I'M ON A CANAL BOAT!" and unusually a blingy childs tiara.

We did spend a week on a narrow boat on a short section of the Leeds Liverpool canal in 1990 but did not feel confident enough to negotiate the Five Rise inspite of our Captain, George having spent time on board the same vessel on an ascent and subsequent descent of the incline.

Our journey had been from Gargrave just above Skipton up to and through the Foulridge Tunnel before turning around at Wigan. This stretch did pass through the now industrial backwaters of such places as Barnoldswick, well know for the production of Slumberdown Beds, before the dark satanic mills and factories of the Lancashire conurbation came into sight .

In between, the countryside was idyllic with drystone walls, sheep pasture, canalside pubs and most moorings were but a short distance from shops and facilities. Although it did rain persistently for much of the time ,George looked the part in full oilskin wet weather gear at the tiller and we enjoyed the week tremendously.

In the lumpy footsteps of Richard the Third

It felt like the beginning of a great expedition.

It was a thursday, but if you think about it, at least one in every seven of the great adventures of the world must have started on a thursday.

Christopher Columbus may have had a lie in on a wednesday and then it was too late to set off, etc, etc so thursday was best to begin the stumbling upon the Americas, ditto James Cook-  late delivery of ships biscuits on a wednesday night so best to set sail thursday, Cortez had a late swordsmans lesson mid week therefore making thursday the only possible diarised date to begin the exploitation of the native South American peoples.

As I headed away from the Hull urban area it was bright but quite cold out of the direct sun.

There was snow in the fields and hedgerows on the higher ground above Pocklington but not a cloud in the powder blue sky. I felt that it was going to be a good day for exploring and actually acheiving the circumnavigation of York along its magnificent walls.

The walls are the longest and best preserved in England at nearly three miles long.

Their origins are clouded by their substantial reconstruction and renovations in the comparatively modern times since the 19th Century but for authenticity there remains intact a whole stretch of Roman walls including two towers. As with a good proportion of the well planned and executed civil works by the Romans these formed the structural basis for many of the later attempts to form fortifications and monuments by the more civilised and lasting rulers of the country such as the later Norman invaders. Most of the renovated walling is early medieval from around 1250 AD.

My quest was to be clockwise starting from Lendal Bridge, one of the important crossing points of the River Ouse. On this particular thursday the river was manageable and well contained within its banks rather than marauding through the pubs and houses on the embankment which it often does even with modern flood defences in place.

The integrity of the wall beyond Lendal Tower was surely tested in the early to mid 1800's when it was permitted for it to be punched through in the interests of the progression of the steam railway. That George Hudson, the self proclaimed Railway King must have had superb powers of persuasion, significant economic clout or some very incriminating facts about the City elders who had strongly resisted any such travesties in the heritage of York.

The walls had served the City well over the centuries against pillagers and worse and in 1645 a Civil War siege.

Micklegate Bar is first mentioned in the12th Century. A strikingly functional and intimidating building over four storeys in gritstone and magnesian limestone with some nice carved embellishments. The walkway has escaped health and safety measures and the steep drop to the inner bank makes the meeting of those undertaking their own adventure but in an anti-clockwise direction a bit scary particularly if the whole oncoming family insist on walking 5 or 6 abreast.

The Victorian housing in the lee of the wall is in the warm and mellow brick characteristic to York. Certainly some of the most expensive two bedroomed real estate in the City. There is a clump of grassy bank as the wall turns east which is the former Motte of a castle and then it is down the slippery stepped courses off the wall where it ends just behind the warehousing and posh apartments built along the western bank of the river.

I crossed the Skeldergate Bridge which was still busy with tourists although obviously lost and confused by the temporary disppearance of the wall. The consultation by this representation of the United Nations of visitors of their guide maps allows another photo opportunity to be taken.

Along Fishergate the housing just inside the wall is mainly of rather plain and corporate looking flats and  low rise housing. The main road in from Hull along which I had driven earlier in the day halts at a busy traffic light controlled junction in front of the Walmgate Bar. This is well preserved with its 14th Century Barbican now part of the extensive cycle routes around York. On the inner side is a residence dating from the 1580's and must be one of the best and coolest places to live albeit possibly a bit cramped, noisy and draughty. Even following a battering in the Civil War the gateway was carefully restored along with its portcullis.

The wall is lower along this section with a short but steep embankment onto the inner ring road.

Perhaps this was the most vulnerable flank although give that nourishment and longevity were still very poor in the warring years the fortifications would present a formidable obstacle to the sickly, bandy-legged and quite short of stature armed forces of even the most determined and resolute attackers.

As the wall again disappears at the Red Tower, a squat very Romanesque looking citadel but from 1490 there is nothing in sight apart from Waitrose, Morrisons and a Wine Warehouse. There is quite an extensive gap on this eastern edge of the old part of York but to some extent the defences are in the form of a former fishpond now part of a canal waterway. This part of the wall walk is quite demoralising alongside crawling or stationary traffic and with a strange stagnant odour from the grubby canal.

It is good to ascend back up onto the all for the best section by far which takes in Layerthorpe Tower and exposed Roman walling.

Monk Bar is, at four storeys in limestone, a great landmark and many visitors cannot resist the museum to Richard III the infamous hunchback and villanous monarch who was a local lad.

Now travelling broadly north there are good views of York Minster and the gardens and grounds of grand mansions and town houses including the Treasurers House. The steep outer bank here also shows a deep defensive ditch.

Bootham Bar is the next vantage point and occupies the site of the Roman Legionary Fortress but is mainly of 12th century and later construction.  The end of my journey is soon in sight as I again approach Lendal Tower.

It has been a tremendous adventure, I accept probably never more than a few hundred metres from a Starbucks and with no significant danger apart from a temporarily loose shoe lace at one stage on a section of wall with no safety rail.

I did dodge a bit across the gaps in the ramparts to avoid imaginary arrows and projectiles and go through, word for word the dialogue of the French Kerniggets from Monty Python and The Holy Grail but only when I was out of sight and earshot of other visitors.

The circumnavigation provides a good but brief insight into the broad and varied history of York and does serve to get the vascular and respiratory system into operation after quite a long and lazy winter and early spring.

Vicky in the firing line

Even with a rather unflattering traffic cone on her regal head Queen Victoria looks good.

This statue was a gift by one of Hull's well-to-do's in the 1860's and is reputed to be in marble from the same quarry in Italy where Michelangelo sourced the raw materials for his David which now stands, albeit with weak ankles, in the Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence.

Back to Victoria though.

If a contemporary study then the Hull statue will have been of her before her 40th year and sadly only a year or so until the untimely death of her Consort, Albert.



Hers was a momentous reign in terms of the extent of British Empire and global influence but an inevitable consequence would be the making of enemies of the State both, as they say, Commonwealth and Domestic.

It is a little known fact that during Victoria's monarchy there were at least seven assassination attempts or assaults on her life, with or without Albert by her side.

The first was in 1840 when an 18 year old called Edward Oxford fired upon the Queen and Prince as they were leaving Buckingham Palace by carriage to visit the Duchess of Kent. Two shots were heard and Oxford was apprehended by the police and tried under the charge of High Treason. In a not guilty plea the attacker relied upon the defence that, as no actual lead shot was ever found and the sound of shots was merely the gunpowder charge going off, it was not a murder attempt. Oxford was found guilty although of unsound mind and detained at Her Majesty's pleasure.

A strange assassination attempt took place in May 1842. Albert, out in the carriage with Victoria was convinced that he had heard a gunshot but it was not immediately corroborated by any witnesses and attributed to fireworks going off. However it later transpired that a man had been seen to be walking away suspiciously at the time. The Royals showed great courage in retracing their journey the very next day and the gunman, John Francis made his second attempt only to be overpowered by a policeman who forced the gun to go off without injury. Francis was sentenced to death but this was later, at the mercy of the Queen, commuted to transportation to the Colonies.

There will have been security fears of a copycat attack and indeed only two months later a humpbacked figure in a long brown coat emerged out of a crowd as the Royal Carriage passed by and pulled out a pistol. A 16 year old bystander saw this unfolding and seized the perpetrator, William Bean by the wrists and attracted the attention of two on duty police officers. They laughed at his claims, perhaps on the basis of the ridiculous appearance of a boy and a hunchback and did not make any further enquiries. The brave citizen took it upon himself to disarm Bean and was later himself discovered with the offending weapon in Green Park close to Buckingham Palace. It was then that witnesses came forward to support the frustrated lad in his supposedly tall tale. The slackness of the original policemen saw them reprimanded and suspended and Bean was traced and arrested. He gave the reason for his behaviour as a general malaise with his life. He got an 18 months jail sentence.

In 1849 William Hamilton fired at the Royal Carriage as it made its way back to the Palace with just the Queen on board. He claimed it was a mischief rather than anything serious but it cost him a seven year transportation sentence.

The gun incidents will have been premeditated but in 1850 a smartly dressed gentleman, Robert Pate, saw Victoria and three of her children in central London after they had been to an event in Piccadilly. He simply walked up and with a lightweight cane wacked the Queen about the head, He was found guilty but of unsound mind and also found himself exiled for 7 years.

In 1872 a 17 year old boy, Arthur O'Connor ran into the Palace Gardens and accosted Victoria holding a pistol close to her head. The gun was not loaded but it was a stunt by O'Connor to force Victoria to sign a document related to the Irish situation. The Queen is reported to have shown great courage in the face of this adversity. The attacker received 20 strokes with the birch rod and a 12 month prison sentence.

It was another ten years before the final documented gun attack. Roderick McLean lay in wait for Victoria in Windsor Station Yard as she was arriving from Paddington Station to stay at Windsor Castle. He fired off a shot but was quickly seized and detained.

Cooking a Kipper

Following on from goo.gl/UAciph I promised to tell you about how to cook the beautiful Fortunes of Whitby Kippers. 

In my haste to savour the salty smokiness I unfortunately used the least complimentary and definitely the most odour producing method- that being the sticking of them under a double grill. 

I was foolish in the extreme by doing this. 

Like a polythene magic fish that used to be found in Christmas Crackers the direct heat of a radiant grill in just a few minutes caused the Kipper to curl up and immolate. 

I did of course eat it but it was a 50/50 trade off between a good nutritious meal and possibly introducing harmful carcinogenics into my body. 

The lingering fish smell, not just in the kitchen but throughout the house and well into the next couple of days only, served to remind me of my ridiculous urgency. 

It reminded me of a story from my youth when at a family wedding a raw Kipper was hidden on the engine block of the bride’s Fathers car and on the way home after the celebrations everyone on the vehicle was overcome with travel sickness as it slowly cooked to destruction. 

Luckily we had over-shopped at the Fortunes Kipper Shack and so could try out some of the many methods advocated by the Smoke House owners, fish wives, learned cooks and people of a Scottish origin on the four or so pairs still wrapped up in their Yorkshire Post newsprint in the fridge.

I mention the Scottish connection in that up until the beginning of the First World War there was a massive seasonal migration of around 6000 young girls from North of the Border down to the far South West of England as they followed the herring fleet to apply their gutting and dressing skills. 

The fish was referred to as “silver darlings” although this could as easily have applied to the flowers of Scotland so far away from home. 

Steaming is a method of less odour production involving the lining of a colander with tin foil and then placing it with Kipper laid out over a pan of boiling water. This is likely to be the healthiest way of cooking with a piping hot meal after about 5 minutes. 

Baking in a tin foil parcel with a knob of butter can help to contain the distinctive Kipper smell although this process can take up to 15 to 20 minutes. 

Most of us will have just taken out the frying pan and washed the Kipper about in melted butter for a few minutes until it looks heated through. This is not recommended in a confined space or if the over-stove extractor is not working. A Kipper can be a good personal treat but yet the rest of the household are forced to participate if only on the basis of smell in these stove top operations. 

In an uncooked state a Kipper has been described as a poor mans smoked salmon. 

The raw fillet can be marinaded in an oil and lemon dressing and then in thin slices laid onto rye bread with an egg yolk. There is, in some cook books, the option of taking the raw fish with vodka or schnapps although this suggests more of an evening starter than a nourishing breakfast after which you would simply get nothing done.

I will not even bother to cover the subject of the microwaving of a Kipper as I find this upsetting and an insult to the spirit of the great fish. The same goes for "boil in the bag".

The highest level of approval for a cooking method is undoubtedly that of using a tall and squat jug. These were probably pretty common in the kitchens of yesteryear but difficult to find, even in antique or reproduction form, nowadays.

The Kipper can either keep or have its head removed before folding the sides inwards to allow insertion into the neck of the vessel. This is with the exception of the tail - the reason for this being clear later. 

Boiling water is then poured into the jug to envelope the Kipper. 

It is here that opinion differs as to the duration of the submersion. Five minutes is a popular timing although one of the founders of the famous Northumberland Craster Kipper smokers recommends at least six minutes. There is agreement that the jug method should never exceed ten minutes. 

After this virtually odourless process it is by the projecting and cool tails that the fish is removed before laying out ready for eating in a light wash of melted butter and with plenty of rounds of white,crusty bread.

My own attempt at worshipping the Fortunes of Whitby Kipper failed miserably at the first hurdle but I am determined to try and try again until I reach that level of perfection that the proud smoked herring demands.

Seoul Searching

Spoiler Alert. These are my thoughts and reaction to the Hull City of Culture event "One day, maybe" which is being performed in King William House, Lowgate Hull until 1st October 2017.


What , before yesterday evening, did I know about South Korea? 

Not a lot beyond its economic and commercial status through its home grown corporations and companies including Samsung, Hyundai, Korean Air, LG, Kia, Hankook and Korea Electric to name just 8 off the top of my head. 

The war on the Korean Peninsula in the 1950's was before my time and was not considered important enough to be covered in my State Education syllabus. 

Of course the current very fluid political situation involving an aggressive northern neighbour is never far away from the everyday news and is a matter of concern.

My perception of the country and its people was therefore pretty superficial, based on my own consumerism and where I had taken notice of marketing and advertising. 

Then yesterday, the act of standing in the lower level of a city centre multi storey car park, my head bowed away from the penetrating stare of a South Korean Policeman and wondering what would befall me in the following minutes gave me a crash course into the psyche and motivation of the population of that country. 

I had been marched out into the dimly lit space with about twenty others, of whom six had travelled with me from our comfortable homes and lifestyles. 

Within a couple of minutes we had been segregated with hand gestures and shouting into pairs and marched into the derelict building. 

The evening had started off quite light and informal with a Kasang Corporation branded tablet handed out by polite door staff onto which we were asked, very nicely, to provide personal details and take a mug shot type photograph. 

An empty seat in the comfortable lounge type surroundings was taken up by an elderly Korean lady in hat and scarf and pulling a shopping cart. She did not appear to speak any English but we exchanged greetings by reading out our respective names from the tablet screen. 

The room quietened with the arrival of half a dozen representatives of Kasang dressed in unisex corporate outfits who spoke very quickly in their mother tongue before switching effortlessly to English in an accent suggesting American and French residency at some time. 

We were phonetically taught to say "Hello" and "Thank You" in Korean which we were told would be useful in the next couple of hours. 

We were then led, in a long crocodile line out into a room to see a new technology of a hologram of a group of what appeared to be young people, possibly students. They were, it was explained a representation of those who had been killed in the 1980 Gwangju Uprising which was a mass protest against the then military government. 

It was a populist revolt involving around a quarter of a million people. This was brutally oppressed by the authorities with it is thought around 2000 students and civilians killed by riot police and paratroopers. 

Whilst we were taking in this information the hologram group moved and walked amongst us before melting away into the recesses of the building. 

Instantaneously the walls around us fell away and we were surrounded by loud music and the almost funfair scene of shop units trading household goods, clothing, appliances, cosmetics, a fitted kitchen and a virtual reality bicycle ride. 

The Kasang Sales staff encouraged us to move through the shops and make purchases as the products and prices popped up by wi-fi on our personal tablets. It was a consumer wonderland and our on-line baskets bulged with everything on offer. After the solemnity of the Gwangju commemoration I felt disrespectful and a bit uneasy with it all. 

After the frenzy it was time to take on a new video game, Hostage 4 developed by the Corporation. 

Our tablet glowed green to show our individual positions as we made our way through a blacked out labyrinth towards an exit on the other side. There was strict guidance on our walking speed and to avoid security guards whose prowling beats, in Pac-Man style, were depicted as red dots. I narrowly avoided one of them, in reality a stern, no-nonsense military type. 

I am not good at gaming and more by luck than skill or judgement made it through the maze in under two minutes. 

The next task was in an abandoned and semi derelict Police Station in a faded décor and with time sensitive information showing a date in 1980. 

Ten points of interest had to be found which would be uploaded to the tablet with the aim to collect all of them. The points included documents implying collusion between the military and police over crowd control, hints at techniques to elicit intelligence from those arrested and references to approval of such actions by the United States. 

I was close to collecting an eighth point when a female police officer ushered me back from a corridor and in a frightening tone her and around a dozen uniformed and plain clothes colleagues firmly and forcibly corralled our group out into the cold night air. This was the car park that I spoke of earlier.

In small sub groups of two everyone disappeared back into the building. Our original seven strong contingent was split up and I found myself with a complete stranger and one policeman in a cell with a chair, bucket and water. 

I recognised these as instruments of torture. 

It was a stand-off moment and after the sound of a number of slamming doors in the distance there was silence. I could hear my own heart beating in my chest. 

The officer made for the chair and then began a choreographed movement in deliberate sweeping and bowing movements that was melancholy and thoughtful. 

After what was a few minutes but felt like a lifetime we rejoined the group and were directed into the surroundings of a distinctive Korean house. 

It belonged to the old lady who had befriended me and she hosted us all with food and rice wine as we sat on cushions at low tables. In a tea pouring ceremony she was paying tribute to a departed family member. Those who had formed the hologram began to almost float into the room and it was clear that someone close to her had been killed in the repression of the 1980 uprising. 

It was a poignant and moving moment particularly as the lady had been chatty and joyful towards me just a few moments earlier. There were tearful eyes in our group. I was moved and a bit choked with emotion. 

The antidote was of course more consumerism and wearing VR headsets in the next part of the building we could work in a virtual kitchen. Our aptitude for shopping was then displayed on a huge floor to ceiling display of video screens where our photos and data records could be read. 

I had performed well and my data had apparently been sold on to a specific Corporation which was a bit creepy. 

In almost shock therapy this brash high tech environment was replaced by a single large TV screen and a film of the old lady tending a single headstone in an overgrown garden. It was peaceful and a welcome lull in the frenetic events so far.

As the camera moved to a wide angle view the single grave could be seen as just one on a whole hillside of graves. The 1980’s atrocity was now more real than ever in our minds. 

I thought that would be enough of a message of protest and martyrdom but I was wrong. 

The largest room in the building was entered and there were row upon row of plastic chairs, each with a lit candle. There were around 500 of these in memory of those whose lives had been lost in the pursuit of the birth of the modern South Korea. 

As though being ejected from a time machine we found ourselves out in the street of our own home town, by comparison, a safe and complacent place. 

The immersion into South Korean history had been intense and would be a lasting memory to me.

Kipper History

"A combination of smoke, salt, and drying is one of the earliest recorded methods of food preservation. These procedures, loosely known as "Smoking" or

"Smoke Preservation," are successful because they kill food spoilage bacteria

or render them harmless by altering the chemistry of the food these spoilage

organisms need to grow. Smoked food is prepared with two basic procedures. 

One cooks the product (hotsmoking) and the other does not (cold smoking). 

Cold smoking devices have one basic function: to apply smoke to the product. 

Hot smoking devices have the added function of applying heat. 

Because preservation of fish usually requires moisture removal, systems designed for hot 

or cold smoking fish have the added function of dehydration. 

Air movement in a smokehouse is essential to the application of smoke and heat

and the removal of water from the product. Traditional smokehouses used

natural (gravity) convection to circulate air" 

This basic description is taken from an  archived document from Oregon State University dated 1992.

To the population of the Port  City of Hull in East Yorkshire, UK the reality of the fish smoke process looked like this at the end of their streets.

Hull had the largest deep sea fishing fleet in the British Isles in the late 19th century, peaking
in 1897 but maintaining an active presence well into the 1970's before the Icelandic Cod Wars
and EU quotas sounded the death knell  for that industry and the communities it supported.

Dozens of distinctive smoke house buildings could be seen amongst the rooftops of Hull in
the halcyon days of the fishing industry in response to a huge demand for smoked fish not as
the delicacy it is today but because it was a cheap and plentiful source of protein for poorer
families.

The smoke houses were typically brick or timber, pyramid in shape but flat topped
with multiple louvred vents or directional funnels serving as chimney flues to remove the
waste products of the oak and apple wood chippings or shavings which permeated the rows
of dangling haddock and herring kippers in the preserving and flavouring process.

Thousands of Hull residents were employed in the cold, wet and harsh conditions on the quayside and
traditional industrial areas such as Cod Farm and Gispsyville and contributed their
labour and skills to make the fortunes of family firms and entrepreneurs in the area.

The job demanded high speed and precision work in the gutting and filleting of the fish as it was
landed by the home fishing fleet or arrived overland from Norway and Scotland.  In
addition to the main  workers  other job  descriptions included tenterers (a term also found
in the clothing industry) who were  responsible for hanging up the fish in the multiple kilns, a
cutting manager in quality control and the all important role of the "firer out" to keep the
smoke going in what was a largely overnight operation. There were almost as many different
names for the staple haddock such as dannies, chats, gibbers and jumbo's.

The products of  the many companies involved in fish smoking were distributed via the regional rail network to all parts of the Uk as well as exported on a worldwide basis.

There was a brief revival of the industry after the second world war and the Hull skyline retained a presence of the distinctive smoke houses although these came under increasing threat from obsolescence,dereliction and the demolition and clearance of the traditional locations.

Today only around nine smoke houses survive in the almost ghostly form but I am not aware of any being fit for purpose.

One close to the regenerated Fruit Market in Hull has been renovated as commercial space with the funnels picked out in multi-coloured paint.

The example ,left, loomed up at me at the end of an old inner city housing street just today. I have put below it a much earlier photograph to highlight the changes and pressures at play.


Fish smoking continues but on a much smaller almost cottage industry scale.

I hope that the landmarks of this once huge industry can survive to acknowledge the contribution of a whole community in Hull.

A difficult age

At the age of 40, Billy Joel compiled in lyric form a record of headline events over the course of his first four decades.

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray

South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio

Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, television

North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe

Rosenbergs, H-bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom

Brando, "The King and I" and "The Catcher in the Rye"

Eisenhower, vaccine, England's got a new queen

Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye

Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev

Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc

Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron

Dien Bien Phu falls, "Rock Around the Clock"

Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team

Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland

Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Krushchev

Princess Grace, "Peyton Place", trouble in the Suez

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac

Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, "Bridge on the River Kwai"

Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball

Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide

Buddy Holly, "Ben Hur", space monkey, Mafia

Hula hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no-go

U2, Syngman Rhee, payola and Kennedy

Chubby Checker, "Psycho", Belgians in the Congo

Hemingway, Eichmann, "Stranger in a Strange Land"

Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs invasion

"Lawrence of Arabia", British Beatlemania

Ole Miss, John Glenn, Liston beats Patterson

Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British politician sex

JFK, blown away, what else do I have to say

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again

Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock

Begin, Reagan, Palestine, terror on the airline

Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan

"Wheel of Fortune", Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide

Foreign debts, homeless vets, AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz

Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law

Rock and roller cola wars, 

As featured in his US No.1 hit "We didn't start the fire". 


I had to look up the following'

Walter Winchell- reputed to have invented the gossip column
Rosenbergs- couple spying for enemy powere
Panmunjam- Location of truce discussions in the Korean War
Santayana- George, Philosopher dies
Campanella- baseball catcher
Dacron- man made fibre
Starkweather- mass murderer
Edsel- failed car company
Ole Miss- race riot at University of Mississippi
Sally Ride- first American woman in space
Bernie Goetz- shot assailants on the subway

I might have a go at writing lyrics for things that affected /influenced me over the 54 years of my existence.

Pinch of Salt

I have never given it much thought but the wealth and influence of this Nation of ours was as a result of the great endeavours and entrepreneurial flair of many individuals, be they Captains of Industry, Giants of Commerce, Leaders of Men and fearless pioneers in all walks of life and business. 

In today’s global economy fortunes can be made at the click of a computer keyboard or by virtual trading in commodities and monies. 

In the halcyon days of Empire such riches had to be earned by hard graft, prudent investment and above all, doing things on a vast scale. 

Take for example the place that I visited today, Salts Mill in Saltaire, now very much a part of the West Yorkshire conurbation but in the 19^th Century more of a self contained enclave.

In 1853 the industrialist mill owner Titus Salt built it and at the time it was the largest industrial building in the world on the basis of floor area. 

He had earlier rejected a design that would cost £100,000 on the basis that it was “not half large enough” and so you can appreciate the vastness of the completed building that had a workforce of 3000. 

The factory produced 30000 yards of cloth every day from its 1200 looms.

The ornate features disguised the great functionality of its design with the main criteria being that it was of fire-proof construction with cast-iron columns and beams, stone floors on hollow-brick arches, and a cast-iron roof. 

This detail has not been lost and the brick vaulted ceilings of the main floors are retained and continue to support flagstone flooring on which the array of machines will have been positioned. 

The exterior is in hammer-dressed stone with ashlar and rock-faced dressings under a Welsh slate roof. 

The main facade is 60 bays long arranged symmetrically. A prominent feature is the 68 metre high chimney. 

Titus Salt was also a philanthropic industrialist and built a village to house his workers adjacent to the factory with good amenities and facilities. 

The building in a classic Italianate architectural style is still, to this day, strikingly impressive even though after its closure in 1986 it was in very poor condition. 

Its factory floors now provide gallery and display space, a restaurant and niche retail units which attract thousands of visitors annually. 

The site was granted World Heritage status in 2001. 

It is well worth a visit.

David Hockney Salts Mill

Kipper Ties

I might not ever say those same words in the same order ever again. 

It is a quite unique combination of words perhaps muttered by mere mortals on a very rare occasion. 

They were the most apt and explanatory words for what I had to do but nevertheless caused quite a stir amongst my co-workers upon announcing them as the reason for leaving the office this morning. 

“I have to go and deliver some Kippers”. 

I was not being euphemistic, ambiguous or double-entendring  (not sure if that is a real word). My late Father had his own phrase about “going to see a man about a dog” which gradually sank in amongst the rest of the family as meaning that he had to leave and do some errand but with no predetermined timescale. 

I had no intention of developing my own euphemism but “I have to go and deliver some kippers” is as good as any and could cover all manner of trips, jaunts and absences from the office or home. 

In fact I was trying to help out my wife’s Australian cousin, who with his wife is on a visit to the UK after some seven or so years of last being here. 

On his wish list for the 3 week vacation was the purchase of some Kippers- surely everyone knows what these are- wood smoke cured herring. 

There is a good choice of these on any ice packed fish counter at a supermarket and even in the ordinary seafood display down the delicatessen aisle. It is even possible to buy a rather bland and unappetising boil in the bag version. 

However, the best ever kippers are from a specific source in a magical place. 

I am talking about Fortunes in the North Yorkshire coast town of Whitby. 

I had not actually heard of them before but as far away as Australia they were held with some reverence. They regularly featured on those regional food programmes on TV channels where celebrity chefs or just plain celebrities go in search of good, authentic, honest and artisan products. You know the sort of broadcasts where the presenter wears a safari suit, fancy hat and drives around in a classic motor vehicle decrying the globalisation and anonymity of food production. 

There has been a huge emphasis in the media on provenance of food especially after the controversy and public outcry about horse flesh in lasagne and the re-emergence in the food supply chain of previously condemned and supposedly confiscated meat, fruit and vegetables. 

You cannot get any more authentic and pure than a Fortunes Kipper- no, not a slick marketing slogan from a top-notch advertising agency but my own endorsement having been to the Whitby headquarters just yesterday. 

The use of the term HQ is as far from reality as you can get. 

Fortunes premises comprise of a shack of a shop about 5 metres by 3 metres and leaning against the back of it the smokehouse, another shack. 

We could smell the wonderful aroma of the curing smoke from the bottom of the steep 199 steps that snake up the cliffside from Whitby Town to the ruins of the Abbey. The odour reminds me always of the open log and coal fires of rented cottages during a winter weekend or early springbreak along that part of the Yorkshire coastline, Robin Hoods Bay and Staithes in particular which are not far off equidistant from Whitby to the south and north respectively. 

Yesterday was a beautiful late September one after some very mixed and unpredictable weather over the preceding summer months. The town, for a Tuesday and out of season was as busy as ever with the main pedestrian flow being along the narrow harbourside streets and up the ladder-like steps. 

We veered off from the pack following with our noses the smoky air, just visible as a light cloud between the parallel terraced houses of Henrietta Street perched high above the convergence of the River Esk and the North Sea. 

We could not yet see the source of the enticing sight and smell but were pretty close as successive cottages were named along a Kipper theme amongst the usual tributes to Captain Cook and nautical terms. 

A rather weatherbeaten sign on the side of a low single storey building could just be seen bearing the Fortunes name and pedigree of time served Kipper smoking. 

A hand written piece of paper in the squat window said that they were not open until 1.30pm that day, a tantalising 40 minutes ahead. 

A white smoke, a sort of Papal vote hue, was wisping around the top of a hefty door on the outbuilding and was fine enough to squeeze its way seemingly through the roof and every knot hole, nook and cranny of the timber and brick walls. 

Time dragged by even with the purchase of an ice cream and a welcome sit down on a precariously angled timber bench in a warm sunny spot just around the corner. 

At last we retraced our steps along the well worn cobbles where you are never far away from the spirits and lost souls of the historic fishing and whaling community from centuries past. 

As a treat the doors to the smoke house were wide open having been emptied of the tarry racks of aromatic Kippers which now stood on a counter in the shack shop. The floor of the smoke house was strewn with part combusted woodchips and its walls caked in a treacle-like residue from over 140 years of production. 

We were first in a slowly forming queue, a bit like kiddies in a sweet shop and for £3.95 we could have a pair of mellow toned, fine boned Kippers of our very own. 

Six pairs were bought from a recited list of family members to whom had been promised a proper Kipper over the previous few days by our Australian guests. I would be roped into a delivery service in due course.

Wrapped up by, I assume a Mr Fortune, they were whisked away back down the narrow street and held close as though freshly found treasure. 

Tomorrow I will tell you about the cooking of them. 

The Pyjama Game

I went to work in my pyjamas today.

Well, I should qualify that comment before everybody has visual images of smart Paisley pattern two piece sleepwear, a Onesie in Comic Book Superhero guise, a flannelette combination with a flap in the back or just pants.

I do not possess nor actually have access or use of any of the aforementioned night apparel (apart from functional pants) although I admit to being a wee bit envious of those who do and no doubt luxuriate in them before, after and to some extent during their nocturnal hours.

My modest night time wear in which I awoke on this particular morning comprised baggy, soft cotton shorts with a drawstring tie-up and a well worn T shirt bearing the slogan by Holy Moly of "Jack Bauer wouldn't stand for all of this shit".

Only a minority of the global population will have no knowledge of the Bauer character played by Kiefer Sutherland over I think about ten series of the real-time drama "24".

It was an easy decision to leave the house, by car, in my pyjamas.

It was a lovely late September morning and although there was a sharpness in the air there was by 7.30am some background warmth from an enthusiastic sun.

I needed to make a quick trip over the 3 miles to my office in order to drop off some paperwork so that it could be typed up during the following working hours in my absence for a day off hosting relatives of my wife whom were staying with us from Australia.

On a normal weekday I wear a proper business suit, city shoes, crisp shirt and a tie, yes, I insist on a tie which otherwise seems to have been ousted from everyday use in favour of an open necked style.

In anticipation of the day off I was a bit more relaxed about my clothing although I admit to being conflicted over the choice between jim-jams and formal wear even for such a basic chore.

It was an impulsive decision to leap straight out of bed, grab a pile of papers, the keys to the office and then drive off in the car.

I was running a bit of a risk in my appearance if, for example, I had the misfortune of an accident or was seen by someone who knows me through my day to day work.

In 2010 the Tesco Supermarket chain imposed a ban on those customers who turned up to shop in nightwear and bare feet with the main reason cited being that allowing it could upset and offend other customers. Tesco insisted that they were not imposing a dress code but wanted to maintain certain standards. Perhaps they had experienced individuals exploiting the previous lack of rules and turning up in ill fitting, baggy and saggy pyjamas with a risk of indecent exposure when stretching for an item on the upper shelves or bending down to pick up an item on the lower levels.

I admit that my nightwear was somewhat flexible in that the shorts were of a very light cotton and the T shirt perhaps a bit of a snug fit, after all I had owned it for the past decade in which time my body shape has altered to some extent.

I had weighed up the pros and cons of my early morning dash.

a) It was likely that no-one who knew me would see me.
b) My family were still fast asleep and therefore, thankfully, oblivious of my antics.
c) I would only be out of the car for a matter of say a dozen paces to and from the office door to mitigate the risk of a clothing malfunction or flash of bodily flesh.

Sat in the drivers seat I could have been naked from the waist down for all of the interest shown by other motorists over the short, mainly urban commute. The fact that I was in my pyjamas did give me a bit of a thrill, a bit like, as a child, doing something naughty and with a good chance of getting away with it.

The journey was uneventful, similarly the dash across the car park to the office door.

I searched for my set of keys as the cotton shorts, although with a pocket, had enveloped the bunch into its inner folds. The business park surroundings were deserted at that time and so what could have been construed as a frantic fumble to any onlookers was a mere matter of inconvenience to me.

After about ten minutes of sorting out the work for the day and checking my diary appointments for the next it was time to return to the car.

A few conscientious employees of neighbouring businesses were beginning to arrive and so I had to adopt a more furtive stance across the open tarmac to reach the vehicle.

Safely behind the steering wheel I felt a combination of relief and empowerment.

What next?

Perhaps a test of the observational powers of the security staff at the local Tesco in order to secure some breakfast after a busy morning.

The Start of Something

The end of the line, a dead end, you only go to Hull if you have to.......heard it before, heard it today and those who have never visited the great City will continue to say it in the coming years.

Yet, for the estimated 2,200,000 immigrants who passed through Hull on the way to settlement in the United States, Canada and South Africa in the mid to late 19th Century it marked the beginning of the next stage of their arduous journey to find safety from persecution and to earn a living.

Arrival in the port will have brought a graphic realisation that their flight was progressing, particularly after a hellish three to four days of passage across the volatile North Sea from the Baltic Ports. At last, some firm soil under their feet and the prospect of a rapid train transfer across the country to the mass transit hub of Liverpool.

There had been a negligible trickle of migrants, around 1000 a year in the early part of the century. Risking sickness or a perishing at sea these early arrivals mainly settled in the emerging Industrial centres of England and quickly established communities in York, Leeds and Manchester. By the 1840's the transport of emigrants from Norway, Sweden and North Germany was big business for steamship companies who switched fully to passenger cargo or maintained a mix of goods and people. The Wilson Line, a Hull based company, held a virtual monopoly of the routes. The generation of income from frequent crossings was tremendous but at the cost of quality and humane standards. This drew the attention of the Hull Board of Health, who had a running battle with the Wilson Line over poor and unacceptable standards of their passenger vessels. The Steamship Argo was likened to a little better than a cattle ship. Human excrement running down and sticking to the side of the superstructure was cited. The inhumane conditions threatened not only the health and welfare of the poor transportees but also the wider City population.When ships arrivals did not coincide with the running times for ongoing trains the squalid conditions on board persisted with, largely, only the male emigrants allowed to venture out into the city.

Outbreaks of Cholera in most of the European Ports demanded immediate action to prevent an epidemic amongst the local population. The Hull Sanitary Authority was formed in 1851, an early Quango, with responsibility for the wider urban area and the Port. Main embarcation points in the central and eastern docks included the Steam Packet Wharf in the Humber Dock Basin or the Victoria Dock.

The Minerva Hotel on the Dock Basin Quay served as offices for emigrant agents and became established as the hub of the operation. The threat to Health was serious and after 1866 the arrivees at Victoria Dock were not allowed to cross the town on foot and were kettled onto trains on the North Eastern Railway.

Those arriving at the Dock Basin were invariably held on board. A safer option, particularly as confused and disorientated european migrants were at significant risk of exploitation by the inevitable presence of chancers and racketeers in the narrow dockside streets.

A major improvement and recognition of the vast human traffic through Hull was the construction, in 1871, of an Immigrant Waiting Room and allocation of a transit platform just on the southern edge of Paragon Station with a frontage to Anlaby Road. This building still survives as a Bar and Social Club for Hull City football supporters. The building, a long, narrow, low slung brick and slate structure had actual but limited facilities for the comfort and convenience of immigrants. The prospect of a first wash, secure toilet and permanent landside shelter was well overdue. From the building ticket agents could ply their business in a controlled environment against criminal activity.

Once ashore, most passengers were despatched on the next leg of their journey within 24 hours. Those delayed for whatever reason and requiring lodgings had a limited choice evidently a Directive from the authorities to discourage even temporary settlement. Twenty emigrant lodging houses were officially licenced in 1871. These were little more than dormitories accommodating between 20 and 80 people at a time.

The Waiting Room had to be extended within ten years. Arrivals continued to increase up to 1885 and the Hull and Barnsley Railway Company jumped in to capitalise on the trade with a second emigrant platform at their new Alexandra Dock development. The purpose built complex could take the largest of steamships and the prompt transfer of passengers to trains of 17 carriages, the last four being exclusively for baggage. The long trains had priority on the line with a monday morning departure for the 4 hour journey to Liverpool, the gateway to the United States and Canada.

The exodus from Europe was persistent and in 1904 the Wilson Line leased a separate landing station at Island Wharf at the Basin mouth being the fourth such facility across the waterfront. The income from this trade, for the Wilson Line, had made it the largest privately owned shipping line in the world. There was another ten years of peak profits from the transmigration business before the outbreak of the First World War ended the trade overnight.

Hull was the natural stepping stone for those escaping to a better percieved life in the west. Amongst the 2.2 million passing through was a documented, but estimated, 500,000 european Jews and up to 70,000 of Russian and Polish origin. Large numbers of Swedish, Norwegian and Danish migrants, mainly of hardy farming stock , were customers of The Wilson Line for resettlement in North America.

The Island Wharf has a permanent commemorative statue with a family sat amongst suitcases containing their worldly belongings , looking a bit apprehensive about what lies ahead.

This is a repeat of an early blog but representing an issue that is etched into the history and inheritance of Hull and its people.