OUTWARD BOUND FROM PLYMOUTH
Published in Lights and Shadows of Colonial Life by Sarah Courage, 1896


It was on the evening of December 22nd, 1863, that my
husband and myself sailed from Plymouth in the good ship
Frenchman. A very young and lonely couple we were on that
cold and dreary winter's evening. A thick fog hung over every-
thing like a white pall - how well I remember it.' We felt
indeed that we were leaving hope behind with the last glimpse
of our friends' faces, as we stood in the gathering darkness on
the deck of an outward-bound ship, our dear home shores
growing more distant as every minute carried us, as it were,
further into the unknown.

    Our ship was a small one and we had but few passengers,
none of them being very congenial spirits. A sea voyage has
been so often and so well described that the subject has become
somewhat hackneyed, else I would tell of the many petty
squabbles and more discomforts which must be the inevitable
accompaniments of a long (three months) voyage in a small
sailing ship.

    We had very little to vary the monotony of our lives on
board, except the dreadful storm which most people experience
when they 'go down to the sea in ships'. On referring to my
journal (which I have always kept), I see there is mention made
of one storm very terrifying to us at the time, during which
we ladies sat on the saloon table for the greater part of a long
and never-to-be-forgotten night. The saloon and cabins were
filled with water, and we were continually slipping off that
table at every pitch and plunge of the vessel. Then the mast
was carried away - such a crash and roar of waters and wind,
I shall never forget it. In the midst of all the tumult there
was most perfect discipline on deck - no cries or shoutings were
heard to impede or confuse the clear orders given in quick
succession by the captain (and repeated by his officers as
occasion required), himself infusing courage into the minds of
others by his coolness and self-command.

     It was the 24th of March when we arrived at Lyttelton heads,
in the evening. The night was clear and bright, and we could
see the Port Hills, which are high and seemed to us very
imposing, and would be called mountains at home. 'Home',
I will here remark, always means England, for nobody except
a born colonist calls New Zealand 'home', not even those who,
like ourselves, have been here over a quarter of a century-
we always look upon England as a haven of rest. But my pen
is running away with me.

     There were no houses to be seen, for the township was not
visible from where the vessel lay at anchor - that was a treat
reserved for the morrow. It seemed to us as though the peace
of heaven had suddenly fallen upon us as we were anchored in
that calm bay, no sound being heard but the sighing of the
wind and the gentle lap-lapping of the water against the sides,
there being no movement of the ship perceptible. The extreme
silence made the reaction seem greater after the perpetual
heaving and creaking of the ship as she laboured along.
Early next morning the pilot came alongside with Health
and Customs' officers, and we were towed into Lyttelton
Harbour. Everybody was up betimes on that morning, and on
going on deck a beautiful and refreshing sight greeted our
sea-weary eyes.

    The lofty peaks of the Port Hills were bathed in bright sun-
shine, lighting up the valleys. The effects produced by the
lights and shadows resting on the hills and various ridges were
lovely, making the low points to stand out sharply defined.
Then the one-storied houses were objects of beauty; the
verandas covered as they were with bright-coloured creeping
plants; while high up on either side of the hills, gardens were
laid out in square enclosures here and there, green and beauti-
ful. Round the cottages the gardens were glowing with the
gayest flowers, now in their autumnal beauty, which with the
bright sunshine formed a picture not easily forgotten.

    The township of Lyttelton (I may say for the information of
readers of this book in England or elsewhere) is the chief port
of Canterbury; it is situated eight miles from Christchurch
and is a town of some 4000 inhabitants. Lyttelton lies on the
side of what looks like the half of an immense crater. The
houses, which are nearly all built of wood, are dotted over the
sides of the hill, but towards the water they are continuous,
while there are quite a number of imposing looking brick,
stone and concrete buildings, evidently places of business. The
whole gives life and brightness to the sides of the hill. 'It
looks just like a hive with one side knocked clean away.'

     We felt that we were in a new world; yet a very short time
sufficed to show us that people and things generally were much
more home-like than we had anticipated; in fact, we were
agreeably surprised to find everybody and everything so
civilised.

    So our voyage was ended at last; and it was with many
feelings of regret that we - or at least I, for my husband hates
the sea - bade farewell to the good ship which had been our
home for three months and had brought us safely over fifteen
thousand miles to our destination.


Transcribed by Corey Woodw@rd


Did you find this diary using a search engine?
Click here --> New Zealand Yesteryears