On the Ice Dock
Ardglass - Tuesday 25th July
As before, we tried to contact the Harbour Master but there was no reply, so instead we rang the marina. It is often the case that old fishing villages build a marina to bring in more income and the two functions don't usually work well together. The yachties was clean, quiet and pictureque and the fishermen want "10 tons of ice down the chute right now, we're loading at 3am and leaving the harbour at full chat so eat my wake." In fact, most fishermen have little time for anyone who puts to sea without being paid for it, so marinas and fish-docks have an uneasy co-existence.
Anyway, when the marina answered, I explaned to the girl (the marina owner's daughter as it turned out) that we are a decommissioned trawler, 21 m long ("what's that in feet?") and that we wanted a berth for the night. Now, we really only phoned them because we thought they would refuse us but give us the number for the harbour master, but she was adamant that we would be fine to come it and she would direct us. The harbour looked excitingly small and bijou on the chart and when we got in it felt like we were on a model boat pond, the spaces were tiny and we had to reverse up and down to avoid large rocks. Also there cardinal mark in the middle of the channel into the marina that says that the danger is to the East, and seeing as the entry to the Marina is from the East it seems a bit daft. When we mentioned this to the marina, they said that oh yes, lots of people comment about it...
We moored onto a flimsy pontoon with cute little aluminium bollards ("cleats" apparently) about the size of a door handle, and had just put the kettle on when the marina owner himself came running to tell us we could not stay. I took a pinch of umbrage at this because I thought it was because we were old and dirty, but the pontoons would only take 30 tons of boat, and we are more like three times that. Someone is not going to get any pocket-money this week.
We untied and set off round to the fish-dock next door.
We felt that we were going to be much at home moored against a 20 feet high concrete wall with smelly nets and old creels and bits of wire when we were met by a frowning chap with large jeans and an over-extended set of braces who asked us what we were doing. It turns out that all the harbours on this coast are plagued by abandoned boats and until he found out we were on our way to Scotland he was very unwelcoming. This initial hostility made his complete change of expression all the more charming when he found out that we were on holiday and would be there for only one night and he and his three harbour mates came on board for "the chat".
The food in Eire has been wonderful. Today I have eaten dulse, which is very salty (but would be great in an omelette or with rice and chicken) and potted herring - delicately sharpened with a touch of vinegar, sweetened with caramelised onions and warmed with all-spice. All for £1.75. Sold to me by a large enigmatic man with a waist length rippling dark beard and hair shot with silver, black eyes and walnut skin who appeared out of nowhere behind a counter in the corner shop, surely Merlin reborn. He certainly does magic with herrings...The fish went perfectly with some Irish wheaten bread, a sort of wholemeal soda bread it seems, spread with "I Can't Believe It's Not Transfats".
Ardglass is a perfect fishing port, lots of action and Dublin Bay prawns coming in, how many did I eat? None. Missed the market (where they are all sold to France, Spain and Portugal) and the boats were unloaded before we got there and had gone out again during the night. I wish we could have stayed a week. Despite what the clean and pleasant people staying in the marina might think, the best place to see the village is from the ice station on the fish dock, a sweep of rocky beach, backed by trees and small houses, rising up a wooded and craggy hill-side and a chunky bit of castle over the pub for glamour.
Fishermen being what they are, there was 150 tons of boat tugging on our mooring lines and what should have been a peaceful calm night for the Skipper was fraught with worry about us all drifting onto the rocks if our mooring lines had broken.
The picture shows three other fishing boats "rafted up". This is common practice and means that all the fishermen can come and have a chat about the boat. One chap in particular had wanted to buy Heroine when she was at Kilkeel (a new one to us) and was quite disappointed to find out that we had cut off the shelterdeck and were planning to use her to live on. He thought it a waste of a good fishing boat, but I think it was sour grapes.
As before, we tried to contact the Harbour Master but there was no reply, so instead we rang the marina. It is often the case that old fishing villages build a marina to bring in more income and the two functions don't usually work well together. The yachties was clean, quiet and pictureque and the fishermen want "10 tons of ice down the chute right now, we're loading at 3am and leaving the harbour at full chat so eat my wake." In fact, most fishermen have little time for anyone who puts to sea without being paid for it, so marinas and fish-docks have an uneasy co-existence.
Anyway, when the marina answered, I explaned to the girl (the marina owner's daughter as it turned out) that we are a decommissioned trawler, 21 m long ("what's that in feet?") and that we wanted a berth for the night. Now, we really only phoned them because we thought they would refuse us but give us the number for the harbour master, but she was adamant that we would be fine to come it and she would direct us. The harbour looked excitingly small and bijou on the chart and when we got in it felt like we were on a model boat pond, the spaces were tiny and we had to reverse up and down to avoid large rocks. Also there cardinal mark in the middle of the channel into the marina that says that the danger is to the East, and seeing as the entry to the Marina is from the East it seems a bit daft. When we mentioned this to the marina, they said that oh yes, lots of people comment about it...
We moored onto a flimsy pontoon with cute little aluminium bollards ("cleats" apparently) about the size of a door handle, and had just put the kettle on when the marina owner himself came running to tell us we could not stay. I took a pinch of umbrage at this because I thought it was because we were old and dirty, but the pontoons would only take 30 tons of boat, and we are more like three times that. Someone is not going to get any pocket-money this week.
We untied and set off round to the fish-dock next door.
We felt that we were going to be much at home moored against a 20 feet high concrete wall with smelly nets and old creels and bits of wire when we were met by a frowning chap with large jeans and an over-extended set of braces who asked us what we were doing. It turns out that all the harbours on this coast are plagued by abandoned boats and until he found out we were on our way to Scotland he was very unwelcoming. This initial hostility made his complete change of expression all the more charming when he found out that we were on holiday and would be there for only one night and he and his three harbour mates came on board for "the chat".
The food in Eire has been wonderful. Today I have eaten dulse, which is very salty (but would be great in an omelette or with rice and chicken) and potted herring - delicately sharpened with a touch of vinegar, sweetened with caramelised onions and warmed with all-spice. All for £1.75. Sold to me by a large enigmatic man with a waist length rippling dark beard and hair shot with silver, black eyes and walnut skin who appeared out of nowhere behind a counter in the corner shop, surely Merlin reborn. He certainly does magic with herrings...The fish went perfectly with some Irish wheaten bread, a sort of wholemeal soda bread it seems, spread with "I Can't Believe It's Not Transfats".
Ardglass is a perfect fishing port, lots of action and Dublin Bay prawns coming in, how many did I eat? None. Missed the market (where they are all sold to France, Spain and Portugal) and the boats were unloaded before we got there and had gone out again during the night. I wish we could have stayed a week. Despite what the clean and pleasant people staying in the marina might think, the best place to see the village is from the ice station on the fish dock, a sweep of rocky beach, backed by trees and small houses, rising up a wooded and craggy hill-side and a chunky bit of castle over the pub for glamour.
Fishermen being what they are, there was 150 tons of boat tugging on our mooring lines and what should have been a peaceful calm night for the Skipper was fraught with worry about us all drifting onto the rocks if our mooring lines had broken.
The picture shows three other fishing boats "rafted up". This is common practice and means that all the fishermen can come and have a chat about the boat. One chap in particular had wanted to buy Heroine when she was at Kilkeel (a new one to us) and was quite disappointed to find out that we had cut off the shelterdeck and were planning to use her to live on. He thought it a waste of a good fishing boat, but I think it was sour grapes.
posted by Pomme at 8:57 pm
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