The Low Road in Barrow-in-Furness wasn’t always just a flat stretch of asphalt, grey and unremarkable under the often-leaden sky. In its prime, it was a proud railway bridge, a towering iron giant striding across the landscape, carrying the lifeblood of industry with a rhythmic clang and clatter of wheels on tracks. The air would thrum with the vibrations of the steam engines, their whistles echoing across the town as they hauled their heavy loads, the scent of coal smoke mingling with the salty tang of the sea breeze. But progress, like the relentless tide that gnawed at the nearby coast, had other plans. The bridge, with its rivets groaning under the strain and flakes of rust falling like bitter tears, was eventually deemed obsolete, demolished in a shower of sparks and the deafening roar of collapsing metal. The railway line it carried was ripped out, leaving a scar on the land, a raw gash of churned earth and scattered stones.
The name “Low Road”, however, stuck around like a stubborn limpet clinging to a weathered rock. Though the actual low road, the bridge itself, vanished, the levelled area became a convenient spot for parking – especially for the workers of VSEL, the mighty shipyard that dominated the town. Old timers, their faces weathered like the sea walls and hands roughened by years of hard graft, will tell you tales of a different kind of “Low Road” experience, their voices gravelly with age and the memories of damp winters. Back in the day, when heavy rains lashed down, turning the sky into a swirling grey canvas and the air thick with the scent of brine and wet earth, the levelled area wouldn’t drain properly. Cars parked there would slowly sink into a watery abyss, the murky water creeping up their wheels with a sucking sound, swallowing them whole, leaving behind a comical scene – a sea of rooftops where a row of vehicles once stood, rain drumming a steady beat on their metal skins.
Imagine the sight! A weary shipyard worker, returning after a long shift spent amongst the towering cranes and the echoing clang of metal on metal, would find only the bobbing roof of his car – a Morris Minor perhaps, its once-proud paintwork now streaked with grime, or a trusty Ford Cortina, its chrome glinting mockingly in the weak sunlight. These unfortunate souls, their work boots squelching in the mud and the cold water seeping through their socks, would need a friendly tug from a passing Land Rover (piloted by someone who knew the Low Road’s watery secret and the gurgling sound of a submerged engine), its powerful engine roaring defiance at the elements, to retrieve their submerged chariot. The smell of damp wool, engine oil, and the sea would fill the air as the rescued car, dripping and forlorn, was finally pulled free.
The “Low Road submarine tours”, as they were jokingly called, became a local legend, whispered in pubs over pints of bitter, the condensation from the glasses cold against your palm, and recounted with a chuckle around crackling fires, the scent of woodsmoke filling the room. Today, the drainage is likely better, the tarmac firm beneath your feet, but the memory of those submerged cars lives on, a ghostly echo of a bygone era. So, the next time you find yourself in Barrow-in-Furness and see a seemingly unremarkable stretch of road, perhaps lined with bustling shops or echoing with the calls of seagulls, remember, it might have a hidden history. The Low Road, though no longer a bridge, lives on as part of the town’s road network, possibly even incorporated into the access road for the Tesco store, where the beeping of tills and the rustling of plastic bags have replaced the rumble of trains and the shouts of shipyard workers. While the “submarine tours” are likely a thing of the past
thanks to improved drainage, the legend serves as a reminder of the town’s ever-evolving landscape. The Low Road may be flat now, but its past ripples just beneath the surface, like the currents of the Walney Channel, waiting to be discovered.
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