The years go bye and I’ve now passed my ‘three score years and ten’.
So I sit today, my mind goes back, and I remember when
A callow lad of just fifteen, I first smelt the acrid smoke
From the kipper yards around the Point – the smouldering chips of oak.
The harbour then seemed always filled with boats from near and far,
The ringers brilliant varnished, and the drifters, black as tar.
Their derricks rose above the gulls, the squalling, screaming flock
That fought to catch the herring spills, before they hit the dock.
The BAs, CNs, TTs too, among the OBs lay,
The BFs, FRs and PDs – the herring was their prey.
They all came here with one intent, with but one thing in mind,
To find the silver darlings – to all else they were blind.
The time has flickered past, I fear, since I left the ‘Kipper Town’,
So I came back to reminisce and, as the sun went down
I wandered to the darkening pier, alone and feeling sad,
To see the spaces that were filled, when I was just a lad.
As I sat alone there came a mist, deep lit by ghostly hue,
There’s a figure striding down the pier – first of a silent crew.
Who is that man? I know him well – Black Jim, of that I’m sure.
‘Is that you, Jim, what like?’ I cried, but silence did endure
.
He walked right past, his piercing eyes, beneath that shock of hair,
Were searching still for herring signs, his shoulders strong and square.
But he didn’t seem to notice me as he strode on down the pier,
And I realised that I was making sounds he couldn’t hear.
The basin’s filled with boats, I see; their varnish shining bright.
Their names I scan with raptured eye –it seems no longer night.
And Jary’s Wharf is littered still with ring nets piled on high,
With barrels and with boxes lying scattered all awry.
The pier is growing busy now; the crowds are all around.
But though I sit and listen hard, I cannot hear a sound.
Hey, there’s Big Willie, large as life, and Willum John, I swear.
Auld Petey, aye and Smithy too, now there’s a royal pair.
There’s ‘Porter’ with his rolling gait, the Mallaig Mor his aim.
And Ronnie follows hard behind; his goal is just the same.
And here’s auld Robbie Hepburn; whose guiding hand, I know,
Has helped so many young lads on, and showed the way to go.
There’s Clainey, with his cheery grin, and Charlie Duncan too.
The Martins, and Jimmy Henderson, come striding into view.
That’s old Manson there, I think. He gave this place a start.
He’s at the root of most of this, a Thurso chiel at heart.
Then Jimmy Aitchison comes by, with Ecky at his side,
They’re in a fearful hurry, are they trying to catch the tide?
There’s Alec Duncan too, I see, he’s in an awful state.
Ah, they’re seeking after Black Jim aye, they’re needing lobster bait.
The ghostly mist grew lighter then, the figures ceased to come
And I realised that my visions of the nearby past were done.
Where are these men? Where have they gone? We need them sorely now
To lead us forward. ‘Light your torch! We’ll follow. There’s the lowe.’
It cannot happen; that I know; their time I fear has passed.
The harbour lies near empty now – I cannot see a mast.
The way of life I knew has gone; so many men have died.
I sat alone on Mallaig Pier. I sat alone – and cried.
Thomas Ralston
