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Having previously been a plumber's mate and working for the Electric Company, as well as the Merchant Navy and Police Force, Harold Taylor decided on a change of career and in the 1950's, in his early 30's, became a lighthouse keeper. Harold tells us what life used to be like on Hanois.
I got the message to report for duty with an advance for travelling. I made my way to Weymouth, which then was the only port for embarkation and the train from Waterloo arrived with the sleeper passengers. I still had not received my uniform so was in civvies, which included my raincoat and a trilby hat.
I got into conversation with a fellow in Naval type rig - doeskin uniform similar to that I had had in the Merchant Navy and he was wearing one gold braid, I cannot remember now whether it was a thick or thin one. However, he gave some impression that he was a Naval Officer. During our conversation I learned that he, like I, was a lighthouse keeper and on his way to the Casquets Lighthouse. I questioned his quality of uniform and ring, which was much better than I had seen on other keepers.
He alleged that he had been a surgeon in the Royal Navy and therefore he was entitled to continue to wear the ring, and that the uniform was from his naval days.
We did not spend all our time together, I believe he was going to get a berth. I did not realise they were available, but when I went to the rear of the vessel to have a look at the quarters I was not impressed. The entrance to the sleeping deck was just below where all the filthy food smells were emitting from the galley. Within the compartment, one can only describe racks for human bodies.
There were large trays which would give room for about 10 bodies, with no separation. If one booked a sleeping berth, which I think cost 5/-, one was issued with a blanket, a pillow and a numbered space in the trough. The whole area smelled of sea sickness, as did the vessel on the whole. I was, therefore, satisfied to sit on the hard wooden seats all night.
The ship did not sail until 11p.m. and was due in Guernsey about 7 a.m. I stayed on deck late watching the lights and purchasing the cheaper liquor, although my wealth did not go to purchasing duty free to go ashore, not that it was really necessary as Guernsey's own tax was so small it was still considerably cheaper than home.
I met my travelling companion, Ted Whaley; the following morning and we went ashore together. He used the telephone both to find out his next move, which turned out to be to make his way to the airline office in St. Peter Port and thence to the airport for a flight to Alderney. In those days this was done with the old De Haviland Dragonfly.
I used the services of his taxi to get to town before making my contact call. I was advised to go to a certain shop to obtain my groceries, which was where the other keepers were getting theirs, so it was obviously a good choice. The grocer transported me to the Trinity cottages at Pliemont, where I was to meet the keeper who would be going off with me, Charlie Hayward, together with the families of the other keepers - Mrs Cuthbertson, wife of the P.K. and Mrs Packer wife of Dick the junior keeper.
Charlie was a pleasant enough fellow, a bit of a gypsy type, and stated that his trade in the army had been a blacksmith. He could turn his hand to most things, especially a bit of poaching.
The relief was to be carried out by the owner of a local quarry and stonemason. As contractor for several things including the relief of the lighthouse, all his men were usually employed in the quarry or on building, in their spare time they were local fishermen who knew the waters well.
Le Couter, as was the contractor's name, was equipped with a Trinity launch, behind which he towed an equally large whaler in which all our gear was stowed and manned by his crew. We set out in the launch, having waited till the tide was low enough for us to be able to get on the half tide landing stage at the lighthouse.
Despite there being very little wind and an almost perfect sea, Charlie had expressed doubts as to whether the relief would be carried out that day, as the contractor was only inclined to carry out the relief when it suited him. I was to learn more of this as I was to make several visits to the place.
Having weaved our way through the myriad of rocky outcrops we eventually arrived off the landing. I would have expected them to go alongside, but instead the launch was anchored about a quarter of a mile off and we all transferred to the whaler, which was then rowed to the landing. It was now so over laden that we were sitting on the gear loaded in the middle of the boat.
The relief was carried out, Tommy Cuthbertson and Dick went ashore, leaving me with Charlie and Johnny McCarthy, who was keeper in charge. As far as I could make out, he was a Dubliner, who had spent a reasonably pleasant war on Guernsey as a neutral.
Having landed on the rock we now had all the stores to stow. This meant carrying them up to the top landing, then hauling them up by hand winch to a door halfway up the tower. The lighthouse was built on quite a large expanse of rock, which gave one quite a bit of walking space when the tide was out. Here the tide rises something like 35 feet per tide, so at low tide there was a much larger area of rock uncovered.
I found that although there had at sometime been a flush lavatory here, it was no longer in use and one resorted to the Elsan bucket, as on Lundy. I did not enquire at the time as to why it no longer functioned. I supposed it had something to do with the fact that it had been occupied by the enemy during the war, where it was a sort of penal colony and they had about 13 people on it at a time. There was a depression in one of the metal structures, which was alleged to be from a bullet that one occupant had used to kill himself.
I found the existence on a rock very primitive. There was no privacy as there was no light or sanitation, and by virtue of the local contractor, very little water. I do not know what our storage capacity for that commodity was, but I understood that our local man would not deliver more than 100 gallons per month.
We therefore had to make most water serve several purposes. For example, the hot water from the vegetable cooking would be kept to swill off the greasy plates or cooking utensils. Then the washing up water would be kept for wiping over the floor. Very little water was put down the sink, especially greasy water. The waste pipe was of lead, and quite large in diameter, but it sagged between its supports and grease very quickly congealed and could cause a blockage.
Most water was tipped into a slop bucket and either carried down the steps to be cast into the sea, or cast from a doorway into a passing sea at high water. The landing was awash then except on neap tides. From plugged holes in the waste pipe it could be seen that on many occasions neglect had arisen that had caused difficulties.
The Hanois Lighthouse is a very narrow tower, and in consequence the living space is very congested, for instance, if some one wanted to leave the room it meant that a person sitting near the door had to get up for the door to be opened. The room at its widest point was 12 feet and 6 feet at the narrowest. In that space was a Cornish coal burning range, a sink, a table and three chairs. The door opened inwards as did the cupboard door under the stairway. There were two storm-shuttered windows, and a third opposite the door on the landing.
The room below the kitchen/living room was the food store and magazine. Here we kept the explosive charges and detonators for the fog signal. This was operated from the lantern by means of winding a jib apparatus above the lantern roof.
The next floor down was the winch room. In the middle of the floor was the hand winch, which projected out through a doorway for hoisting the provisions, oil and water into the tower. Behind the winch were several tanks for storing oil. Below this floor was a semi-open space, down the centre of which wound a spiral stone staircase to the entrance door, about 20 feet below. On the right as you came down from the main stairway was a ledge on which was mounted a Stuart Turner petrol engine for charging the R/T batteries, it was also used to charge the domestic radio low tension battery.
Further round on this half floor was the coal store, which was filled from the floor above through a manhole. There was, between the engine and the door, an additional oil tank. On the left of the doorway up the tower was the original flush toilet, no longer used, but instead an Elsan cabinet. Down the next flight of stairs led to the entrance door along about a twelve foot tunnel, tucked back under the stairway was yet another additional oil tank.
Going upwards from the kitchen, the next room was the bedroom, this was rather a poor joke. Apparently there used to be a wood lined chamber with built in bunks. After the war and the occupation it is alleged that a visiting mechanic reported finding insects whilst re-establishing the light and other equipment. The resulted in all the panelling being stripped out and the reasonably comfortable bunks were removed and replaced with what I can only describe as A.R.P. stretchers.
These were tubular rectangles with projections at each end for carrying, and covered with a wire mesh to support the mattress. Not being shaped to the tower as the bunks had been, they took up a lot more room. The next floor up was the service room, which contained the I.O.B.s, this being another paraffin vapour light. It also contained the T.V.5 R/T. This room was not very spacious and was more or less a half room. The near vertical stairs leading to the lantern led off from the centre of this room, leaving only sufficient room on one side for the stairs down, and on the other side for the rain water catchment tank.
Going into the lantern, there was a huge lens apparatus, the roller base being at my shoulder height. This was another of the early Fresneau lenses and I believe it was installed in 1865. It was another slow mover on this roller base principal. There were 16 faces and the lens took 12 minutes to revolve. The movement was almost too slow for the keepers to observe that it was moving when looking from below at the rays emitted. Being so, they had suspended a small bell on a piece of wire, which just touched a cog. As the cog rotated a tiny tinkle could be heard down the tower, not enough to keep anyone awake in the bedroom, but enough to be noticeable in the kitchen below, where the watch was mainly kept.
There was another ingenious ancient device, called an air regulator. It was involved with the clock mechanism that controlled the fog bell. On this station, as well as the explosive charge going off every 2½ minutes, we also had a bell which was struck every minute. One is probably familiar with steam engine regulators spinning round. This was nothing like that. It was like two square plates of metal about 6 inches square on a spindle, which rotated. The speed of the rotation could be adjusted by a slight alteration of the angle of the blades. As the clock unwound, so the bell was struck. Within the tower we heard little of the bell, only the thud of the hammer.
The explosive fog signal was another of those old ingenious contraptions, with glass all around the lantern. There was a huge arm that was wound down to hang the explosive on. Then this was wound up to be above the lantern roof for the charge to be exploded. The lantern was about twenty feet high, and the pivot of the arm was at gutter level, at least sixteen foot up. A vertical rod came down from this pivot point which was controlled by a worm gear. The bottom end of the rod had a winding handle. One wound the handle and brought the jib down to waist level.
When the jib was in the down position the ends of this bow piece was opposite two openable ports. In theory one put ones hands through the ports and suspended the quarter pound tonite charges by their detonator on clips of the bow. When this was done the handle was wound and the jib described a large arc until it was vertical above the lantern roof. All this time there was a time clock ticking away, and at the prescribed time a bell would ring, so that you would then press the plunger and detonate the explosive.
Like the flash of the light, these were timed so that no two stations in an area could be confused with another. Usually this meant that you had two detonations before recharging the jib, although some stations did have to explode both charges in sequence. One usually had ones hands full to keep the sequence up, so before going on watch one would go to the magazine to collect enough charges and detonators to see you through your watch. In theory there were supposed to be two keepers on watch when sounding for fog, as the vibration of the explosions would weaken or collapse the mantle of the lamp.
There was another ludicrous piece of equipment, which went not only with explosive, but also air fog signals, which was subsequently abolished. This was the fog clock, a piece of equipment like a barograph, drum clock and graph paper and pen. When one started sounding for fog, you had to start this thing recording in order to claim your pay for the inconvenience at the end of the month. Explosive Stations and Air Stations were paid 2d per hour, but Bell Stations only got 1d.
To overcome this pittance, which stemmed from the navy years before, the lightship people would go aboard and commence immediately sounding the fog horn and at the end of the month claim the money for it. Eventually they were paid a fixed sum of 30/- per month. The lighthouses probably should have acted accordingly, but this happened before I joined. Therefore, because the keepers did not like the noise or the inconvenience, they did not sound as often or as long as they should. Of course this is all debatable.
Eventually Trinity woke up to the fact that they were paying out more for clock repairs than they were in fog money. They therefore decide to take the average payment for fog sounding on each station and make it a permanent payment and save on the repairs to equipment. Here the keepers had hurt themselves. They chose nine years as being the period over which they would base it. This resulted in few stations being awarded more than 1d per day in lieu.
Also by this time, many stations had been converted to electric and because of the ease of control, in actual fact fog signals were being sounded for longer. Despite what was shown in the books as sounding for fog, this was a bit of a miscalculation.
There was a thing known as 'silent fog', which some people worked so as to boost their pay a little. The fog clock worked on the basis of vibration making a blip on the ink line across the paper. Therefore, if you were not sounding and the clock was still running, you banged the table at the correct time intervals and a similar blip would appear. It could be very time consuming and not worth the effort, but when you consider that there was little to pass your time at anyway, what was more profitable than to take a book to the lantern and nudge the clock every time the bell rang?
I disapproved of potentially sounding for fog when visibility was bad and one should have been sounding, but I did not object when the weather in the proximity was clear but occlusions were in the offing.
The pair I was with at the Hanois were not too bad, although John was a bit peculiar, and had a reputation of being so. Before I was to go back again he had married into money and left the service. I met the girl when I came ashore with him at the end of my month's duty, known as quarterly relief duty. She was a strange girl and heir of a large produce nursery. I was to learn a little more about both people from the lodgings I was to have ashore that night.
John had used the place for years as a home from home. In fact from the apparent jealousy of the landlady, I imagine that it was really home with this widow!
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