Between the Bridges

Between the bridges

I’ll admit that I haven’t got far from where I left off walking last time as this walk started in Newport-On-Tay at the fountain – affectionately known as “The Bandstand” to myself and my friends, in spite of the fact that since there’s a fountain already in it there's no way a band could fit under the roof. Unless they were a very small band of mice musicians, but then this would be an entirely different sort of blog, suitable only for cartoon fans. I'll also admit that it's taken almost 3 months for me to write and publish this blog and that my average walking speed along The Path at the moment seems to be a very sedate half mile-per-year.

The view of Newport-On-Tay from our starting point seemed unaffected by time, there was nothing in the view that suggested anything had changed in this small town for the last 200 years. The patchy bright clouds were sun-highlighted and the spike of dark green headland was a sharp contrast to the reflective silver water. The remains of a wooden pier sloped down into the water from the old ferry terminal and the old landing stage was completely submerged. Clearly unused for many years, it gradually dawns on the viewer that Newport-On-Tay’s fortunes have declined and that really, nothing is truly timeless. Walking through the town itself shows how well the Victorian-era grey stone buildings have been cared for. Their front gardens are well-tended, walls re-pointed, fences re-painted and the town seems to have the attitude of an elegant lady who has decided to grow old gracefully.

At the forked junction, where the church glares up the high street towards the garishly painted “Bandstand”, The Path signpost suggests branching to the right to walk along the harbour and promenade, so we obediently headed in that direction but were immediately halted by an incredible sight. There in front of us was a TARDIS. Not the TARDIS you understand, otherwise this would again be a different sort of blog, this time only suitable for science fiction fans. Unmistakably though, it was a large, steel, blue-painted something about the size of an old police box. My friend had brought his two young sons out for a walk and they were fascinated for about 2 minutes in the way that children are. As an adult, I felt the same excitement – Dr Who in Newport! Who’d have thought?! Then the curiosity kicked in. It wasn’t a normal police box as it was made of metal and had no signs but it did have a door with a hatch and on the sides were barred windows, so it wasn’t a storage box. A cage for transporting prisoners? A safe for valuables which could also house guards on the inside? These are both exciting theories and I’m desperate for answers but Google sometimes keeps it’s secrets. If anyone finds out, please let me know! Incidentally, I'd like to offer an apology for the quality of the photos. I have no excuse.

Leaving the TARDIS behind and ignoring the newish built flats to my left, I focused on the old ferry terminal that lay ahead of us. On the side of the building were closed-off doors, no longer in use because the wooden planking they would have led out to was long gone. A walk though one of these doors now would lead to a long fall and a deep splash. So the doors were boarded over and painted but their history and purpose was still visible. To the left of the ferry terminal is a long, single-storey building that was formerly the ticket office and waiting room and it is a beautiful old building. The windows are separated by square columns, and the doorposts are round columns of varying widths with beautifully carved supports for the graceful arches curving over the wood-panelled doors. This has now been lovingly painted and refurbished into the Boat Brae restaurant (offering fine dining with stunning views).

As we were walking through Newport-On-Tay, one of my friend's young sons started asking his dad about the Tay Bridge Disaster. It's astounding to think that a disaster which happened over 140 years ago has left such an deep impression that young children are still taught about it in their history lessons. It was the worst British railway disaster up to that time and understandably the emotional impact in this area is still felt, despite how much time has passed. For those who might not be familiar with the survivor’s accounts of the disaster, it goes like this:

It was a cold, dark Sunday evening in midwinter, a few days after the Christmas of 1879. Fife and Dundee were in the grip of the worst storm to hit the area in over 20 years. The horizontal gale force winds battered the ships in the harbours on both sides of a river that was tumbling and alive with huge grey waves. In the warmth and comfort of their railway carriages, 70 passengers travelled high above the storm-whipped waves; the new bridge to Dundee had been completed the year before and there was no longer any need for their journey to be delayed by ferries which couldn’t weather the storm.

The train reached the high girders of the bridge, travelling faster than the speed limit for the bridge, sparks flying from the wheels as they were pushed by the 80mph winds into contact with the running rail. Suddenly there was a bright flash of light, the bridge gave way and as the signalman later reported “…in an instant, there was total darkness, the tail lamps of the train, the sparks and the flash of light all…disappearing at the same instant.” The train and a huge section of the ironwork of the bridge had plunged into the river and sank immediately. As soon as locals realised what had happened, rescue attempts were launched by captains and crew of ships and boats of all types but these were severely hampered by the storm conditions, most of them not even being able to cast off from the harbours. Not one person was rescued or found alive, and it’s estimated that the loss of life totalled 75, including the passengers and crew of the train.

It was a devastating tragedy, the highest loss of life in a railway accident in Britain at the time. Newspapers across the world carried the story, moving poets and politicians to memorialise the disaster. The inquiry was thorough, and it took 6 months to lay the blame with Sir William Bouch, the engineer who had designed the bridge. He was well known by the railway companies as an ambitious engineer who could produce roll-on, roll-off ferries, viaducts and branch lines at a cut-price cost, allowing the railway companies to build more lines but still make money. The inquiry into the Tay Bridge disaster showed that this time, his cost-cutting had gone too far, blaming the disaster on a three-fold failure of poor design, poor construction and poor maintenance – all of which were his direct responsibility. He was a part-owner of the foundry but in his efforts to save money for himself and the railway company, he had not employed a qualified foreman for the metalwork and abandoned the inexperienced foundrymen to their own devices while they were casting the ironwork (which was later thought to be sub-standard). Of the two engineers he claimed were employed as building inspectors to oversee the concrete casting and bricklaying, one was, in reality, found to be living in Australia and the other was disabled. The actual building supervisor was not an engineer, but a bricklayer with no engineering experience.

Sometimes, following a public inquiry into a disaster, there is a feeling that a scapegoat has been found rather than discovering the root cause of the disaster in order to ensure it never happens again, but in this case, it is difficult to see how any other conclusion could have been reached. Sir William Bouch, knighted by Queen Victoria after she had crossed the Tay Bridge just six months before the disaster, was ruined by the finding. His health “gave way...under the shock and distress of mind” caused by the disaster and inquiry and he died a few months after the inquiry findings were published. Here and now, on an autumn afternoon in 2021, there is not much of the old bridge left to see. The concrete footings of the old bridge are visible at lower tides, sitting to one side of the footings for the new bridge, rebuilt to an improved design in 1887. Not every story has a happy ending, but the lessons learned from the tragedy did change and improve safety on railways. Speed limits were set and enforced, signalling systems were introduced, cheaply built structures (most of them designed and built by Bouch) were demolished, redesigned and rebuilt or structurally improved and these improvements may well have saved many more lives, both in Britain and abroad.

I think if it was the real TARDIS, I would avoid 1879 and choose to travel back in time to 1850 to see the ferry terminal alive with people. In my imagination, I see Victorian ladies and gents being helped over the ferry gang-planks by rough-handed sailors and the river busy with boats and ships with brand new steaming smokestacks and old-fashioned sails draping the harbours. A smell of spices, marmalade and sugar drifts over from Dundee, along with the clattering noise of the jute factories and the hammering of new ships being built. Of course, that’s a romanticised view, not really showing the poverty of the working class, the toil of the children in the factories or the peril of a life at sea. Today, the Tay is calm and quiet, barely a ripple to be seen in the bright silvery water; the only noises are the seagulls and oystercatchers and the only things afloat on the river are kayaks and small yachts. I realise that I’m enjoying the quietness and calmness and think to myself that, although the past would be interesting to visit, I don’t think I’d want to live there.