The following extract is taken from Alan Lockett’s history of “Morecambe Bay” which tells the story much better than I ever could.

COCK ‘O’ THE NORTH,

 the Yacht that never sailed and

PLOUGHBOY

 The yacht that never was intended.

The famous boatyard of Crossfields of Arnside has throughout the years built many famous vessels, both yachts and working boats. Here is a story of two of the yachts that were built for the same owner in a space of two years.

 I have made a mention of many of the regattas which were held in the Walney Channel at the turn of the century, the prizes were a silver cup valued at five guineas with five pounds added, three pounds for second prize and so on.

 These races were very popular and several yachts were built to race in these competitions, where a first prize was the equivalent to about five weeks wages and second prize would pay for a new mainsail.

 My John Jackson was a noted Ferryman in the area, pulling a large rowing boat from the village of NorthScale across the Walney Channel to Barrow with passengers paying one halfpenny each way for the trip.

 With several young sons growing up Mr. Jackson decided to take up yacht racing more seriously, and consequently ordered a 32ft yacht from Crossfields, with a view to racing with his sons as crew.

 On December 8^th, 1900, Mr Jackson and three of his sons went across to Arnside to take delivery of their new Yacht Cock ‘O’ the North. She was a typical prawner yacht of the day, based on the famous lines of the Morecambe Bay prawners of which Crossfields were the main builders. Cock of the North would cost about £70 ex sails and would be built of larch planking on oak frames in about siz weeks with four men working.

 The voyage was indeed fateful to the Jackson family because after leaving Arnside in a flat calm a fierce gale sprang up at very short notice. Despite the efforts of Mr. Jackson and his crew who reefed down immediately the wind increased, the double reefed brand new mainsail tore and blew completely to ribbons.

 By the time Cock of the North was practically in the mouth of the Bass Pool (the narrow channel between Piel and Walney Island) and with a strong tide settling against her, and the wind dead ahead, the new vessel was driven backwards towards Hawse Point and out towards Morecambe Bay.

 Two anchors were dropped and held for a time, but as the fresh gale increased to hurricane force the anchors broke free, and the owner with his crew had to jump over board and fight for their lives in order to reach the Walney shore.

 In the gathering gloom the weary men staggered ashore and they took a last look at their stout new boat as she was driven out to sea by the hurricane force winds and enormous waves. Cock of the North was never seen or heard of again.

 The tired and heartbroken survivors were fed and dried out by Mr. Geldart the keeper of Walney lighthouse and slowly wandered home to North Scale to break the news to the rest of the family.

 The misfortune would have deterred many a lesser man, but not Mr. Jackson. He was still determined to own one of the finest yachts in the North West, and a collection was taken by many boatman on the channel to enable Mr. Jackson to buy a new boat. To further this collection a dramatic poem entitled “The loss of the Cock of the North” was composed by some unknown person. This ode was read for many weeks at the local theatre and music hall before passing around the hat for donations towards the new yacht.

 Mr. Jackson being of a proud and independent nature reluctantly accepted the money raised, then commissioned Crossfields to build a new boat, the famous “Ploughboy”.

 It is interesting to note that one part of the contract stipulated that Crossfields would deliver the boat to her home port of North Scale.

 In 1902 Ploughboy arrived at Barrow and was the centre of attraction on the local boating scene. She was 31ft. 6ins. O.A. and with a 26ft. ins waterline length. This yacht sported the finest sails that money could buy. Her varied collection of headsails raised much comment at the time and she also boasted a spinnaker made from the finest Indian silk.

 Ploughboy entered the local racing scene and the story of her having portable side decks (in order to give a better handicap when racing as an open boat) was confirmed by the late Mr. Jimmy Jackson. Apparently if an open boat such as the Knott End to Fleetwood ferry boats, entered a race, she was given a time allowance by the halfdecked prawners and decked yachts. Therefore Ploughboy was fitted with easily removal side decks, which made her eligible to race as an open boat when occasion demanded.

 Ploughboy went on to win the Vickerstown and North Scale Regatta cup outright in 1907, receiving a beautiful silver cup. Ploughboy was always kept in immaculate condition and old Mr Jackson who carried on working as a ferryman for many years; the boat finally being sold in 1914-15.  The boat then passed through several hands and ports on the North West including Haverigg, Fleetwood and Barrow. The last known owner in the early 1970’s was Mr. Gill a master at Rossall School in Fleetwood where the boat was renovated with new oak frames and several planks replaced. He commented “I am now the sole owner of Ploughboy and she is sailing regularly in the waters of Morecambe Bay, with the lads from the school as crew. We have taken her to Solway, and the Isle of Man and two years ago sailed nearly to Oban. We have also visited the Menai Straits where we excited interest amongst the older people. Ploughboy is still a very fine yacht and is a lovely boat to sail. As one would expect, a very fast yacht from Crossfields, based on the lines of the Morecambe Bay prawners, is the ideal type of boat for sailing in the bay and her history is something to be proud of”. 

Cock of the North

Our ship was new and smart and clean,

As nicer craft as e’er was seen,

Built by that company of fame,

Crossfield of Arnside was their name.

 

Our captain scanned his well-built craft,

Marked well her lines both fore and aft,

He looked aloft and along her side,

And with her seem well satisfied.

 

‘Twas one December’s afternoon,

We hoisted sail to bring her home,

And with light airs we sallied forth,

On our good ship Cock of the North.

 

With sail and oar to stem the tide,

We down into bay did glide,

And mid the gathering gloom of night,

The lights of Morecambe came in sight.

 

We shortened sail, stood in for land,

And all night by our ship did stand,

And thro’ the hour of that dark night,

We longed and wished foe the dawning light.

 

Next morn’ long ere at the break of day,

With double reef we were under way,

Down Lune the rollers they ran high,

But our bold Cock kept fine and dry.

 

We ploughed along thro’ wave and foam,

Till clear of Banks we stood for home,

With a sou’west right in our teeth,

Which bade us tighten in our sheet.

 

With many an anxious look at Piel,

Whilst taking soundings ‘neath our keel,

But ere the wind veered round nor’west,

Down on us came a blustering gale,

It stopped our song and split our sail.

 

Then my boy ‘twas touch and go,

And how it was we ne’er shall know,

But guided by some unseen hand,

Our little ship she reached the land.

 

We anchored her with anchors two,

And thought we’d done all we could,

We went aside a little way,

To shelter on that dreadful day.

 

We held her there two full hours or more,

Then we deemed our journey o’er,

When the cry arose “the boats away”,

Which filled our hearts with sore dismay.

 

And for our lives we each did run,

But just too late, the cock was gone,

We watched her with storm-dimmed eye,

The wind blew hard the seas ran high.

 

Till mid the gathering gloom of night,

The cock, she vanished from our sight,

Although our noble ship ill fared,

We thankful to our lives were spared.

 

To lose our noble ship so soon,

And watch her drift out to her doom,

We searched far, we searched near,

But naught of her could see her here.

 

And since that day she dragged from shore,

She’s ne’er been seen or heard of more,

Whether in the quick sands or the deep,

The ocean will it’s secret keep.

 

I’ll ne’er forget that dreadful day,

When the Cock was lost in Morecambe Bay