Adrian Morgan
CRAFTSMANSHIP
CLASSIC BOAT SEPTEMBER 2016 39‘T
hen, of course, there’s the synagogue...” and
for a while I fell for it until they in turn fell
about laughing; ‘they’ being my fellow boat
builders at the long-lamented Ullapool yard.
This was a few years back, during the early days of
my so-called mid-life apprenticeship – more a mid-life
crisis – and it began around the woodburner of a cold
winter’s afternoon, where all good discussions
originated, when I asked innocently how many churches
the little village of Ullapool possessed.
To date I had discovered the imposing Church of
Scotland, set prominently on the main road heading
north; the Free Church (Wee Frees), on Quay Street near
the supermarket; the Free Presbyterian (Wee Wee Frees),
an austere building in the heart of the village; the
Episcopalian Church or Piskies, in what looked like a
nondescript whitewashed house, and now a synagogue,
and situated right next door, would you believe. You can
see the star on the front wall, they said. Sure enough,
there it was. No sign, just a star. Discreet. Well I never...
Then there was the day I managed to spile, cut and
thickness two of the planks on the 14ft loch boat I was
building, quite an achievement for me at the time,
although it was past 6 o’clock when I knocked off. Next
morning, no planks to be found, I asked Mark* if he had
seen them. Yes he had, and very nice too. So he’d be
using them himself. As chief shipwright, it was tradition
that he had first pick of any planks, a kind of droit de
seigneur. Ah well, so be it, and I set about spiling twomore... when they all fell about
laughing (again).
This came back to me when one of
those falling about arrived in the village
after some years building boats in
Bristol: the tricks he said they played on
apprentices, sent around the
ironmongers and chandlers to fetch a
long weight, like bubbles for spirit levels
or green oil for starboard navigation
lights, an old naval fool’s errand (along
with relative bearing grease for the
compass and a binnacle alignment tool).
I suppose I got off lightly,
considering the noise, mess and dust I
made. But first, let me tell you about
my first encounter with what used to be
called Ullapool Boatbuilders. A truly
professional bunch, was my impression
the day I turned up to have a look
around. Everyone on best behaviour.
Everywhere industry and quiet
dedication. A plank being trued by
hand plane, the swish of a finely honed
iron; a mast being varnished by Gill**
and on the long bench by the window a
belt sander, expertly applied to fair an
oak thwart by a fellow in a thick
sweater. I remember that sweater clearly. And what was
left of the sleeve after it had been subsumed by the
sanding belt, which slammed to a halt as quickly as my
impressions of effortless craftsmanship evaporated at the
sight of an electric sander attempting to swallow a
sweater. I left, leaving Tim (for that was his name***)
extracting the woolly remnants from the Makita’s
internals. So much for first impressions.
What was the impression I must have given?
Untrained, undisciplined, unaware of the chaos of dust
and noise I created, is the answer. Witness the day they
pulled the main power switch on me, the only way to
stop the hideous screeching of the angle grinder I was
using to fair a stem. They were outside when I joined
them (you couldn’t breathe inside). “Power cut” was all
they said, in unison, deadpan. And I believed them, just
as I believed the synagogue story. And the star of David
on the wall? Less a star of David, than the emblem of the
fisherman whose house it formerly was and whose boat
bore the name Star of the Hebrides, or some such.* Mark Stockl, Ullapool’s long-established resident
boatbuilder.
** Gill Wilson, administrator, finance and marketing
director at International Boatbuilding Training College
in Porstmouth.
*** Tim Loftus, builder of the plank on frame, 34ft Ed
Burnett-designed sloop Thembi, designer and lately re-
established in Ullapool with Dan Johnson.Paying my yard dues
There’s a rite of passage before you’re a real boatbuilder
“Power
cut, was all
they said,
in unison,
deadpan.
And I
believed
them...”CHARLOTTE WATTERS