Aintree Memories 



" HALF-PAST-SIX, sir " is a crisp accompaniment to a 

 knock on your cabin door. * Thank you, steward," is 

 your insincere reply for his having disturbed your only 

 successful attempt at sleep after a night's futile efforts. 

 The steward's cheery call and knuckle-tap keep repeating 

 along the deck like the long-drawn-out echoes of reveille. 

 Through the porthole one sees the lights of Birkenhead 

 dispelling with their twinkling cheerfulness the grey 

 mistiness of a Mersey dawn. Out on deck the chill, 

 salty tang of March air banishes any remaining drowsi- 

 ness. A ferry-boat, its decks aglow with myriad lights, 

 looks like a glittering toy plucked from some fantastic 

 Christmas-tree. Boats of all kinds, from tiny craft to 

 mighty ocean liners, are going and coming in this hub 

 of the world's shipping. They leave something more 

 than smoke and brown-churned water in their wake. 

 Yes, something in one's heart that even a land-lubber 

 must feel; a sensation awakening a very deep respect 

 for that which sailors endearingly term The Call of the 

 Sea. 



Prince's Dock. Breakfast. Customs; suitcases hur- 

 riedly chalked with weird hieroglyphics; and Liverpool. 

 One cannot help noticing the horse-drawn lorries three 

 horses, one before the other. Unusual in Ireland, save 



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