Bells Along The River by Adam Rutter

The Cartway Bridgnorth                                                                          credit: Adam Rutter

1795

I am sailing along the River Severn in a trow: a sail mast, which allows the wind to push the water vessel against strong currents. There are four men on board - Gerald, Solomon, Aled and Richard. My name is Alfred, and my responsibility is to attach the ‘scout boat’ to the trow with a rope, so that it is towed by the vessel. We use the scout in times of emergency and when we are moored on the banks of the river to unload goods. We are transporting rum upstream to be delivered to the warehouses in Bridgnorth, all the way from Bristol.

We set sail at six o’clock this morning, in freezing fog. The fog is so thick, it is impossible to see what lies ahead, making it difficult to spot boats coming in the other direction. I have hung a lantern from the rope mast to warn barges passing. The candle inside the lantern needs to be replaced every so often because the tallow melts after a while. Let's hope we still have plenty of candles before we dock in Bridgnorth because I have a nasty feeling that the fog will be with us for quite some time.

The frustrating thing is that we can never always tell on whether we are in another town in these sort of weather conditions. The one thing we do go by, and that is church bells ringing in the distance, which is a good sign because the bells rung on every church that we pass along the way has its own unique sound. That way, we can tell on whether it's the bells ringing from Gloucester Cathedral or Tewkesbury Abbey. Of course, we have already passed those places, which means we are well on our way to our next port - in Worcester.

The bells of Worcester Cathedral are striking ten. We have been sailing for four hours, and it will take us another hour until we get to Bridgnorth. I hear someone blowing a horn. That means a ferry is about to cross to the other side of the river. The sail is pulled down to slow the trow. The trow is moored to allow the ferry to cross, which is carrying folk from one side to the other. As the ferry draws closer to the jetty, I hear a clonk.  

We set sail once more. We are travelling through Worcester. The bells strike at quarter-past-the-hour, and a bit of daylight struggles to pierce through the fog. The quay is full of trows, barges, fishing boats. You name it. They come downstream all the way from Welshpool back to Bristol. Some go out to sea. The larger vessels go as far away as South America.

“Ahoy,” a man cries.

I look up and down the quay to see who it is. A pair of arms covered in white sleeves wave from another trow moored at the quay.

“’Ow do Charlie,” I say.

“Off to Bewdley, are yer?”

“Nah, goin’ further.”

“Where to Alf?”

“Bridgnorth.”

“You’re stoppin’ there for the night?”

“Aye, got a load to drop off.”

“Which tavern you’re stayin’ in?”

“Same as last time.”

“Tumbling Sailors?”

“The very same.”

“Here, what about The Magpie?”

We keep going. I haven't got time to chat all day. We need to be there for eleven o'clock. We will be lucky if we get to Bridgnorth by half past. Worcester Cathedral is a soft silhouette in the fog. Its quadrilateral bell tower dominates the banks of the river with pinnacles scattered around the edge of the cathedral. We move out of the city, into quiet country.

I jerk as a barge runs into our trow.

“Watch where you’re goin’, you clumsy oaf,” I shout.

The cold air gnaws into my hands. My fingers go numb. A mute swan follows the trow. Does this mean we will soon be in Bewdley?

I hear faint sounds of church bells – a sign that we are almost there. The smell of hemp permeates the still air, which is coming from a stockpile of ropes on the wharf. The smell subsides as we pass through. Three herring gulls are flying above us. They have been with us ever since we left Bristol. A convoy of boats and barges are going the other way. Most are coming from Bridgnorth. The rest from Shrewsbury. Some are carrying coal while others are shuttling wood and pottery.

The silence is punctuated by a body of water swishing against the trow. A flash of metallic blue and scarlet splashes into the river and shoots out with a fish in its beak. The bells of Saint Mary Magdelene’s Church make a loud dong upon the hill. I see lamps giving off a diffused glow in the fog.  A horse whinnies inside the stables. We have arrived.

The quayside is a faint outline in the poor light. I steer the trow to bring it closer to the quayside. I manoeuvre our vessel as gently as I can. The trow docks with a slight bump. We are in a lower part of Bridgnorth, which is known by the locals as ‘the basin of the town’, or ‘Bassa Villa’, as they call it. We unload the rum onto the wharf and go on the arduous walk up the Cartway.

The street is lined with inns and alehouses. We go past The Compasses. I hear a piano tinkling inside. The punters sing off-key while slurring their words. There is cheer and laughter in The Mermaid, and a brawl inside The Britannia. Eight horses haul a stagecoach uphill. The smell of smoke billowing from the chimneys combined with the overwhelming stench of horse manure lingers in the stagnant air. We enter The Tumbling Sailors. Inside is a room full of smoke blowing from the sailors’ pipes. I put my tankard on the bar. I lift the lid open, and the landlord pours ale. I take a sip. Aled taps on my shoulder.

“Here Alf. What's that man got in his mouth?” he asks.

The man is puffing smoke from a thin brown roll.

“Let's go and ask him,” I say.

We go over to him at the other end of the room.

“Excuse me sir? What's that you’re smokin’?” I ask.

“It’s a cigar.”

“I’ve never seen those before. Where did you get it from?”

“Havana.

“Where’s that?”

“Cuba.  I’ve brought a wad back from my voyage. Would you like one?”

“I’ll have one,” says Aled.

The man lights a cigar, and hands it to Aled. He puts it in his mouth and draws in the smoke. He coughs violently. The sailors mock him in the warm comfort of the inn whilst, outside The Tumbling Sailors, the fog creeps up from the river blanketing all of us at rest after a long, hard day.