Lucy Melford: Smeaton's Tower

It was mid-September, and I was in Plymouth for the day. One of the things I'd never done was to climb Smeaton's Tower on the Hoe.

The Hoe is a high-up green space on Plymouth's waterfront with a view out to the open sea, and I suppose on a clear day you can spy the present lighthouse on the distant Eddystone Rocks, which used to claim many a sailing ship over the centuries. Eventually, to help avoid so many shipwrecks, a lighthouse was built on those rocks, the first of four, and Smeaton's was the third of these. It was replaced only because it was too small for more modern needs, and because its rocky foundations, pounded by waves, developed a weakness. The present lighthouse was built on another rock close by, and Smeaton's was dismantled and re-erected on the Hoe.

Since then it has been a must-see tourist attraction, as well as being a proud landmark - the Ocean City's best symbol. As emphasised in this poster at Plymouth station, which I saw in 2015:

It's very distinctive with its red and white stripes. And the poster isn't fanciful. Smeaton's Tower really looks similar to this is real life. I took a couple of half-decent shots of it with the little Leica D-Lux 4 back in July 2009:

It was a cloudy day, but bright and warm, and I remember that I got rather hot tramping around the city centre in jacket, skirt and tights. (Tights in July? Was I mad?) Not to say footsore. The next time I came to Plymouth was in March 2015, on a cold, windy day. It was all rather bleak and cheerless, as you can see in this picture:

I was there on a kind of mission - a lady in Canada (who read my blog) had wanted to know whether the house her father lodged in before emigrating could still be located. It was apparently an old house in New Street that the Pilgrim Fathers had occupied before embarking on the Mayflower. So I spent well over an hour exploring the Barbican area down by Sutton Harbour and eventually wrote a post about what I found (see Plymouth, on 7th April 2015). On that occasion I'd come by train, and couldn't linger if I wanted to catch the right train back. So I could only look wistfully at the top of Smeaton's Tower as I passed the Hoe:

Roll forward six years. A newer Leica: Lili, my recently-acquired X-U. A warmer, sunnier late-summer day. And no train timetable to keep to. I'd parked Fiona at Sutton Harbour, and was working my way westwards along the waterfront, at the foot of the Royal Citadel. And there it was, looking splendid in the sunshine. Smeaton's Tower.

And it looked at good as ever as I got closer.

Gosh, it was tall close up - and I'm not good with heights! But I was determined to get to the top. At the entrance was a nice guy, whose colleague had dropped by with coffee and something to eat for lunch.

They were chatty, and so was I. We soon got talking. They were on the staff of the main Plymouth museum, lately rebuilt and known as The Box. Smeaton's Tower was 'detached duty' during the summer months. They urged me to see The Box as well, but I had to explain that I couldn't make the time for it on this visit to Plymouth. However, I'd be in Devon the following Spring, and promised to see it then. And I do keep my promises. So I'll look out for them.

The admission charge wasn't outrageous: only £2.50 with an age concession. I flashed my phone, paid, and started to climb the spiral staircase to the upper floors.

One thing that struck me immediately was how small and poky the interior of the lighthouse was. I've been to several lighthouses in my time, and some have seemed very spacious. For example, the old Dungeness lighthouse in Kent, which is actually hollow for most of the way up, the staircase spiralling upwards on the inside wall, with a disconcerting void to contend with as you ascend. And even when the floors begin, and you can look down without contemplating a big drop, the staircase still seems to cling to mostly empty space. The reason for this emptiness is that no residential accommodation was required within the tower itself. The lighthousemen (and their families) lived in quarters on the ground, and only upper storage floors, and the equipment in them, were needed to keep the light shining. As in these shots at Dungeness, mostly from 2012:

Smeaton's Tower was quite different. You ascended inside a confined spiral staircase, and it was like climbing steps deep within a thick castle wall - albeit without the gloominess, and nicely painted.

Further up, there were steps like substantial ladders, with handrails - fairly steep, but not at all difficult to use, although you had to mind your head.

I wondered what bodily contortions those big burly lighthousemen had to adopt in order to squeeze their way onto each next floor, without getting stuck or braining themselves. Definitely a case of 'duck or grouse'! But I suppose there was never a great need to rush up and down those stairs in day-to-day lighthouse life, when you were spending a month or whatever on an isolated rock far out to sea, and your life was ruled by a strict but leisurely routine. Here's me (definitely not a big burly lighthouseman) narrowly avoiding a head-banging as I emerge onto another floor:

As Smeaton's Tower was far out at sea, and inaccessible by boat in rough weather, the 'crew' had to be self-sufficient. So they had living space, including floors for cooking, sleeping and passing the time in between spells of duty. But make no mistake, it was all very basic, judging by the fittings preserved for the modern visitor to see. The floor for the kitchen, for instance, with its little stove:

No luxury mod cons there! Mind you, it might have been cosy in the winter, with that stove perpetually alight. The floor for sleeping was equally devoid of luxury. Each lighthouseman had a cupboard to sleep in, or should I say a big wardrobe, curved to fit the interior wall. Inside it, the man would have had a degree of privacy, and might have been comfortable enough on his mattress, and with sufficient blankets. But it was all a far cry from modern notions of crew accommodation, however utilitarian:

On each floor were explanatory boards with information, all most helpful. A selection:

I wasn't of course the only person visiting the lighthouse, and the guys at the bottom had to limit how many people could go up at any one time. We select few made a merry bunch, and had to, as we were to some extent dancing around each other on each floor, such was the small extent of usable floor space. Again, I wondered how those big burly lighthousemen of yore had managed. I supposed they flitted around each other like ballerinas, even if carrying oil cans or fresh wicks for the light.

Time for the final stage, which would take me up to where the light had once been, and - if I dared - out onto the open-air platform. Before I made that last-stage ascent, I got two other visitors to pose for me, looking upwards. Unfortunately, in my haste I forgot to adjust the exposure to compensate for the backlighting, and so it's a poorish picture even after remedial doctoring on the laptop. But never mind, here it is:

The final ladder upward was the steepest yet, with the narrowest opening.

Now for the ultimate personal test. Through the door, out onto the balcony, and walk all the way around, taking pictures of course to prove that I'd done it.