THE HOUSE OF ARCHER

by Henry Irving

Most Wyvern sailors will be familiar with Reedham Ferry - a delightful, low-slung old pub which has long purveyed the better kinds of beer even in the dark days when such fare was rare. Most will have at some stage crouched over the low bar trying to attract the attention of harassed bar staff too busy with steaming plates of scampi and chips to be able to devote precious time to pulling Adnams beer. Many will have spent some time gazing at the antediluvian mechanism of the chain ferry as it plies its expensive course across the Yare. Some may realise that the owner of the pub, Mr Archer, is also the owner of the ferry. A few will remember that the same Mr Archer is the son of another Mr Archer - also landlord of the pub and owner of the ferry.

One Easter cruise in the late fifties had been plagued by severe weather and one day saw the fleets "stormbound' at Reedham Ferry. The stormbinding had in fact set in on the previous day with battered crews calling a halt after a hectic morning, devoting the rest of the day to beer, lunch, cards, sleep, much more beer and much more sleep. Jaded heads poked through awnings on the morning of the day in question and there was little acrimony in the ensuing discussion which resulted in abandonment of plans for a lunchtime in Yarmouth and an evening at Thurne. We were formally declared "stormbound" and suitable activities for the day were planned. The senior skippers around - Nev Smith, George Matthews, Tony Tomkins and others - decided that their writ had run in the House of Archer and that they would spread the social and financial load by walking along the willow-strewn road to Reedham to give mates the opportunity to shop and to give themselves more social variety by inspecting the hospitality at the Railway, the Nelson and the Ship. Beer quality was uncertain but Bass was guaranteed at the end of the line. Boys were invited to accompany, to look at Reedham, but there was tacit encouragement for them to stay put and play cards. I, as junior skipper, drew the short straw and was left in charge of ten small boys and a bedraggled fleet of seven boats. I consoled myself with the thought that I would at least have some guaranteed beer quality and that I would save myself for the inevitably raucous return of my colleagues. It was not to be thus.

Immediately upstream of the ferry ramp lay Vanessa with two Moons rafted alongside, bows to the rushing ebb and the westerly gale. Standards of seamanship in the Wyverns were then not up to those of the present and the Moons were without land lines, simply tied up to the vessel inside. Standards of cordage in the prepolyester days were not so clever either, and the consequence was more or less inevitable. The headline of Vanessa parted and the raft of three yachts swung rapidly around on the ebb and wind, hanging heavily on Vanessa's stern line and jammed across the ramp of the ferry berth. I had not time to reflect whether or not we were lucky that the ferry was at the other side of the river for with a rattle of ancient diesel the ramp began to rise behind the solitary Morris Oxford that was on board on that fateful voyage. With my handsome features wracked with frenzy I hollered at the wall-eyed ferry-man to keep his bloody ferry on that side of the river whilst I mustered boys to hand-haul the yachts off the ramp and back into position.

 The ferry-man ignored me. The chains started to rise and I quickly realised that there were about thirty seconds before the chains would start to rise under Vanessa and the Moons. There was no chance that the forlorn group of boys standing open-mouthed around me would be able to act usefully in that time, given wind and tide. I spun around frantically and traced the line of the chains. They led to an ancient chain gypsy device a few feet up the ramp so I tore the iron top off it to reveal a handle, a ratchet and a pin bolt in the bitter ends of the chains - all the wherewithal for quick release. To this day I maintain that my mind did not pursue the consequences of my actions; I simply acted to prevent the chains ripping the three yachts in half.

Sparklet at Reedham Ferry

 In a flash the chains were gone - wriggling into the water beneath the nearest benighted Moon. It was only a matter of a few more seconds before I had a second look at those chain ends - flowing fast through the ferry's winding mechanism as its wall-eyed custodian fought to control them. Some device finally blocked them with a tremendous crash and the ferry came to a shuddering halt slightly more than a river's width downstream, chains straining to prevent it from resuming its giddy voyage towards Reedham. In this position it remained, almost exactly framed in the small window of the pub, with Morris owners gesticulating wildly at the hicolic ferry-man.

Now at the time I did not know that Mr Archer owned the ferry. It did not occur to me as I walked around the pub corner to reach the public phone that the landlord's exuberant behaviour, as he rushed out of the pub door was anything more than excitement and public-spirited concern for the scene that confronted him. He did not see me, and I had more important matters on my mind. Nev had left me with the telephone number of the Ship at Reedham so it was only four big pennies and a Button A before I was relating the situation to him. He was slightly drunk and at something of a loss over the best course of action when his voice was replaced on the other end of the telephone by Jack Hunt, river inspector, who was standing near to Nev listening to his incredulous responses to my report. Jack advised me to stand by and prevent anyone from doing anything until he got there in his launch.

 Rarely has such apparently mature and responsible advice been so inappropriate to a situation. To have prevented Archer from doing anything in those circumstances would have necessitated a Roman legion. As I returned to the scene of the action I saw him dancing with upraised arms, his face contorted with rage. I slipped past him and began to mobilise the boys into hauling the yachts off the ferry ramp. Tide and wind seemed to have moderated sufficiently to permit this course of action but half way through its execution Archer seemed to put two and two together and make four. He rounded on me but, mindful of Jack Hunt's advice, I ignored him and continued the task until it was completed to my satisfaction. The invective, including threats of police involvement and prosecution, was too lively to be faithfully translated into reported speech after 35 years, so I shall leave it to gestate in the reader's imagination.

 At that moment, around the corner came Jack Hunt's river launch with Neil Scot on the bows acting as crew and boatman. Their attempts to pull the ferry against the ebb proved futile so they brought a heavy line over and it was made fast to await the turn of the tide and arrival of people. Archer had retreated to his pub to telephone police, local council, Port and Haven and God knows who else in the persecution stakes. I was about to sneak into the pub with Jack Hunt and Neil Scott to attempt a well-needed pint when around the corner came Nev and a few of the more athletic of the Reedham revellers. The ensuing mayhem has gone down in Club legend. Suffice it to say that I did not get my pint. Nor did any other Green Wyvern for ten whole years unless someone slipped in dressed as something other than a yachtsman. The old man eventually died and the GW were grudgingly re-admitted by his son. The House of Archer still stands but some of its most interesting features are ghosts and memories.
 

Footnote: A few weeks ago I noticed that the chain ends are now encapsulated in a bank-safe like device. Should the same thing happen again, another solution must be sought.

Henry taking it easy on Sparklet.