The Arctic Corsair

The city of Hull stands on the Humber estuary, in a forgotten corner of England; even its full name is largely forgotten, Kingston-upon-Hull. To all intents and purposes, it’s off the beaten track. Tentacles of motorways approach it from the west, and a magnificent suspension bridge spans the river, but they are largely empty of traffic. It was built as a port, and successively became a centre for whaling and then deep sea trawling but, when the bottom fell out of the fishing business, prosperity was succeeded by decline.

Yet Hull has the essential ingredient for an attractive city, its river. The yawning expanse of the Humber isn’t so much a river as an estuary, fed by the Ouse and Trent rivers, and emptying into the North Sea. It’s grey and bleak, with flat featureless banks, and brushed by an east wind that howls in from the sea. But where there were once docks, there’s now a marina, with yellow brick walkways and triple swags of chain link fencing bordering the water’s edge. Packed like sardines, an inevitable collection of yachts and cruisers jostle for position, the skyline punctuated by their matchstick masts.
Beyond the marina, the River Hull bisects the city. Here, blackened plank boardwalks edge the water where a smattering of working boats replace the pleasure craft. Moored alongside renovated warehouses is a jewel in the tourism crown, the Arctic Corsair.



The Arctic Corsair is a deep sea trawler. Designed to handle the harsh conditions of the Icelandic waters, she has literally taken a battering. During 1970s, British and Icelandic fishing boats came to blows over the right to fish in the North Atlantic. An Icelandic boat tried repeatedly to cut the Arctic Corsair’s nets, there was a collision, and the Corsair was holed below the waterline. She survived to tell the tale, but didn’t survive subsequent cutbacks in the fishing industry, and is now reincarnated as a museum ship.

Wandering around the ship, below decks, everything seems quite cosy. There are quarters for the officers and crew, with ridge sided tables to keep your dinner off the floor in rough weather, and a neat little galley. But deep in the hold, reality strikes home. Here, in literally freezing conditions, mountains of fish were sorted ready for despatch on reaching land. Hauling in the catch must have been difficult enough, but the bone chilling work of sorting all those fish meant there was no respite when the fish were on board.

Times change. Hull remains as a port, though not for fishing, and there have been stop go initiatives to regenerate the city. At night, the city closes early. Expect to eat in a pub after 8 o’clock and you’ll go hungry. But the teenage kids know where to go. Teetering along on high heels, with no coat – or very little else for that matter – they’re oblivious to the biting cold. Maybe it’s something in the blood, an inheritance from all those generations of whalers and trawlermen.