IN SEARCH OF ROMANCE

Hokitika Guardian, 19 December 1931, Page 6

IN SEARCH OF ROMANCE

FROM DOCK QUAY TO TROPIC ISLE. EAST MEETS WEST BY THE RIVERSIDE. (By L. M. Bates in P.L.A. monthly-) When one crosses the Pyrenees into Spain j a continent different from the rest of Europe in all hut name and geographical demarcation is discovered. Almost the same can be said of London’s Port—a town within a town. Its workers and their work, its transport and machinery, even its names and languages, are all different from those of the town without its gates. Those who hold that steam ousted both sail and romance are confounded within the walls of this very home of romance. Consider, first,, the ships. As one approaches Dockland, the mighty bows of dignified liners can be seen towering over the roofs ol the neighbouring houses. The dowdy tramp steamers with square nose and bulging sides appear like disreputable old men beside them, whilst tiny coasters are little larger than the tugs attendant on their lordly brethren. None of them has the trim lines and graceful figure-heads of the old sailingships, but one and all brave the same dangers of sudden storm and hidden reef to which the barque and the clipper were exposed. The liner transports steel and statesmen mails, and millionaires, to some great port known to the dullest school-boy. The tramp noses its avaricious way impartially into big port and mangrove-sheltered river, carrying in its hold as assorted a cargo as erer sailed through the Golden Gate on an author’s 'pen. The coaster plies its trade “just round the corner.” Add a .multitude of bhrges, launches, tugs and other craft, and there is a scene to appeal to the most ambitious film producer.

Explore the quays, and the smells alone will waft away work-a-day London. Sandalwood, spices, herbs, and essential oils valiantly combat the aroma of undressed hides and chemicals. Dyes and patent manures are on speaking terms with redolent casks and empty carboys. Above all hangs 1 the indescribable shipboard odour of tar, salt, and hot oil. Examine the huge hogsheads and bales of tobbacco, and weave romance from such names as Nyasasland, Virginia, and Borneo. Watch carcasses of frozen meat being stowed into trucks by complicated machinery, and ruminate on sheep farms of New Zealland. This mundane bale of wool has had as romantic a journey from some lonely Australian station as any old-time prairie schooner across the American plains. Besides the more familiar household commodities, all the varied backgrounds of popular romance can be found here: redwcod, ivory, pearls, and rubber—all banished from their mountains, dark forests, limpid seas, and fierce suns- A very earnest seeker of romance who can brave the smell will even find copra—the key which throws open the magic gate of the South Seas to the lowest imagination. , Many Londoners are apt to forget that the Port has had as romantic and ancient an origin as any medieval town appearing on the itinerary of a tourist agent. Dowgate Dock and Billingsgate were here before the Romans came. Queonhithe was built by the Saxons. Deptford Dock was founded by . Henry VIII. Many Thames wharves still flourishing, had their origin in the Middle Ages. The Port has sheltered every type of ship; the longboat, the galley, the frigate, and the clipper to the modern warship and liner. Such names as Gallions, Headman's Dock, Hole Haven, and Mucking Flats positively smack of romance and mystery. If romance of a later era is sought, call at St. Katherine Dock House — surely the last place to tolerate romance within its severe and frowning walls. It was here, however, that the crews of the old-time sailing-vessels were signed on, and many a man went to a foreign port through the “Chain Locker” as it was then called. There, too, officers in “sail” sat for their certificates, taking bearings of the adjacent warehouse roofs as part of the examination. It has been suggested that the late Joseph Conrad, the famous author, obtained his master’s certificate in this building. Return to the docks, and study humanity. Here is Jacobs’ “Night Watchman.” Moored to a jetty is a travel-stained Japanese liner, her crew busy chipping' off the corroding effects of half of a world of son.. Two of her almond eyed officers are practising baseball on the quay—a sure indication that East has at last met West. Coming down the ladder of this Swedish timber vessel is a Herculean yellow-haired seaman— a Viking in all but clothes. This blackfunnelled P. and 0. liner sends ashore a crew of chatttering, Lascars shivering in a. climate vastly different from that of their native land. There is the übiquitous Chinese cook, apprehensively watching a case of Californian fruits swinging over his head. Come to the lock gates and wa*eh the helmeted diver disappear under water to repair some minor defect. His work is rendered no easier by mud, eddies, pipes, and girders.

Singapore, Marseilles, and San Francisco have, too long-been the favourite backgrounds for cosmopolitan romance. In .London's Port all races meet and the strangest things happen. • ’