In this post I feature (eventually) the engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel's best bridge: the noble Royal Albert Railway Bridge that crosses the River Tamar at Saltash in Cornwall. I went to see it up close in late afternoon on 17th September.
On 17th September I was still pitched in South Devon, near Modbury, and my approach was via Plymouth, a big, busy, sprawling maritime city with plenty of history, a great sea front, pretty decent shops, but not much charm. Here's a map to show the general area.
I skipped the main city centre and headed for the Torpoint Ferry. Before the Tamar Road Bridge was opened in 1962, the only ways into Cornwall hereabouts were (a) by train over Brunel's Royal Albert Bridge, or (b) by queuing for the Torpoint Ferry, which was a 'floating bridge' - a large floating platform shuttling between each side of the river, secured by fixed chains which it uses to haul itself along. There are several floating bridges around the UK coast. I have ridden some of them. But I'd never before even seen the Torpoint Ferry.
Let me backtrack a bit. The day had begun mild but overcast and damp, threatening heavy rain. I nearly didn't bother. I tested the air by driving into nearby Modbury, an attractive small inland town in the South Hams, and here's myself making my mind up about how to spend the day. Wearing the 'old' glasses, of course. I'm making the point that though it was damp, it wasn't windy, and no coat or jacket was needed (at least not inland), and that it was showing signs of brightening up. East to Totnes, or west to Torpoint and Saltash? Ah, Totnes could wait. West into Cornwall for me!
At length, after negotiating a not-very-clear route through the city, I arrived at the Torpoint Ferry. Another map:
I was expecting a rather small affair, a solid queue, and a long wait to get across. Not so. This floating bridge was really big, and had plenty of capacity. And - if going westward into Cornwall - there was nothing to pay!
Once over, I parked Fiona and walked back to take some shots of the eastbound Ferry (you do pay on that, although it isn't much). I caught the next one departing.
Torpoint itself seemed quite pleasant, a peaceful haven quite distinct from Plymouth, and yet linked the city by that Ferry, which operated all day and all night.
It was brightening up! I decided to leave Saltash for later on, and meanwhile look at Rame Head, another place I'd never visited before. The map suggested spectacular cliffs and wide views, and there was an intriguing Chapel marked:
Up on the Head was a Lookout, crewed by experienced uniformed volunteers, who were very ready to chat.
Apparently it was a quiet day. They urged me to see the Chapel. It was a bit of a climb to get to it, but worth the effort. And despite its half-ruined state, and the steep access path, services were held there now and then. I promised to go and see. It didn't look all that hard.
And it wasn't, if you took a short rest to get your breath back halfway up.
The Chapel was an ancient stone building. On the seaward side was a World War Two gun platform. The metalwork had long gone, of course, but the platform was still in fair condition. On a sunny day like this, the views were amazing; but it would be a pretty cold and windy place in winter. Brrr!
It was now past mid-afternoon, and I was in need of refreshment. Time to drive on to Saltash. I went to one of Saltash's major attractions: the Waitrose store. Now why would John Lewis put a Waitrose here, you might ask. But it's a cunning choice. Like the Waitrose stores at Holsworthy in North West Devon, and Okehampton in Mid Devon, the Saltash Waitrose serves a large hinterland full of well-heeled people who can easily afford the upmarket prices. Well, I knew it would have a decent café. I enjoyed a life-saving pot of tea and some cake, before getting some food to take back to the caravan.
Now, the Bridge. I worked my way through attractive residential streets to a place to park up on the hill, but within a few hundred yards of the Bridge and the Quay adjacent to it. This map will give the lie of the land:
I left Fiona not far from Saltash station, which I'd pass on the way down. I wondered whether one could get a shot of the Bridge from the station, but it was out of sight around a curve: you could only see the road bridge. Serendipitously, however, two trains arrived from opposite directions while I was standing there.
The show over, I went on down a very steep hill, a proper view of the railway bridge gradually opening up. Trains rumbled across.
I bore left at the bottom in order to walk under the massive stone piers that supported the iron girders above. (If you want a comprehensive description of the Bridge, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Albert_Bridge) Looking up from this worm's-eye position, it was all very impressive indeed. Good old Brunel.
How nice that the railway bridge was catching the late-afternoon sun! It was a pity that the road bridge was so close, but it was a fine sight in its own right...
...and the two bridges made a great photo when side-by-side in the same picture.
But back to the main item of interest.
I'm thinking that only the Forth Rail Bridge compares with this!
How tiny the trains seem.
Well, I was delighted to get such pictures, and in bright sunshine too. Look at me smiling:
The person in the blue jacket in the background was a thirty-something chap on a Wallace Arnold coach tour of the South West. We got into conversation. He'd wanted to see these bridges for ages past, and like me was thrilled to get some good pictures. He didn't say very much about himself, although I gathered that he was on his own and that a coach holiday suited him. It wouldn't appeal to me: I wouldn't like living out of a suitcase, not having long at each place, and not being able to see things off the itinerary. There was an interesting-looking pub nearby, painted with all kinds of mural, and I wondered if he was going to suggest a quick drink. (My Waitrose purchases were in a freezer bag, and would be fine for a while ahead) But he didn't. Hey ho.
Still, before we parted, we did stroll in the direction of the pub. On the way was a statue of Brunel, complete with signature cigar and stovepipe hat.
'Ah, the Great Man!' I cried, then realised that a passing elderly bearded chappie with a dog had thought I was addressing him. I hastened to make myself clear. 'Oh, I meant Mr Brunel here, not you!' The poor fellow looked crestfallen, if not seriously disappointed. Whoops. My talking-to-men technique clearly isn't much good. Or perhaps he was teasing me?
Alone now, I contemplated the pub's murals. The whole of one side was a big Union Jack, which must be clearly visible from the Plymouth side of the river. But there were other murals too, packed with lots and lots of people all having a jolly good time - obviously typical local characters from yesteryear. I decided to join them.
Saltash struck me as a place definitely worth another look!
