November 1972. A scream tears through the frigid Barrow-in-Furness air, a sharp, piercing sound that cuts through the biting cold. It’s not the wail of a ship’s horn, a sound that usually dominates the docks. This shriek is pure panic, a desperate cry swallowed by the deafening roar of a ravenous inferno. Flames, hungry and orange, lick at the sides of the mill, their crackling and snapping the only sound that matters now. The heat is unbearable, thick, and stifling, as it devours the once-mighty Barrow Steam Corn Mill. The five-storey giant, a symbol of the town’s industrial heart, is collapsing in on itself, consumed by a fire so intense it paints the sky a bruised purple, the orange of the flames contrasting violently against it. #BarrowinFurness #IndustrialFire #LostLandmark
Panic on the Ground Floor.
Inside the burning husk, chaos reigns. The air is thick with the stinging, acrid smoke that sears the eyes and clogs the throat, making it hard to breathe. The warehouse, mostly empty, hides a desperate fight for survival on its ground floor. A.E. Docker and Sons, a local business, face the full fury of the blaze. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of burning rubber and wood, as their vehicles, their livelihood, are trapped in the fiery maw. Every footstep feels like it’s sinking into a burning abyss, with the heat rising in waves, pushing them back.
Sixteen-year-old Philip Docker and his father Albert sprint towards the inferno, the acrid smoke stinging their eyes, their lungs burning with each breath. Heat blasts them like a furnace, relentless and almost suffocating, the air shimmering as the fire roars louder. Debris rains down like a hail of cinders, landing with a loud crackling, each piece of burning wood or metal hissing as it hits the ground. But fear takes a backseat to urgency. Shoulder to shoulder with firefighters, they battle the flames, their goal: save their vehicles. #HeroicRescue #FamilyBusiness #CaughtInTheFire
A Citywide Response.
The fire is a monstrous beast, demanding a massive response. The deafening crackle of burning timbers echoes through the night, while the shrill wail of sirens rises in the distance. Fifty firefighters, heroes clad in yellow, arrive from across the region – Barrow, Coniston, Broughton, Dalton, Ulverston, Grange, Carnforth, even Lancaster. Thirteen fire engines rumble onto the scene, their sirens cutting through the smoke-filled air, a symphony of urgency. The sound of water hissing, as it’s blasted at the flames, mixes with the screams of the fire itself, yet the flames only grow fiercer.
Deputy Chief Fire Officer Ron Fentiman leads the charge, his voice firm as he orders his men, sweat running down his face from the heat of the blaze. But the fire’s ferocity forces a difficult decision. As sections of the building creak and groan, on the brink of collapse, Fentiman prioritises safety, ordering everyone to pull back. The crack of timber is a sound they all fear, each moment growing more tense as the structure weakens.
A Spectacle from Afar.
Fueled by a strong wind, the flames transform into a terrifying spectacle. The roar of the fire is now a constant, as flames leap higher, casting a flickering glow across the town. Spectators at Craven Park, standing in awe, watch in horrified silence, their mouths dry with disbelief as the smoke rolls over, suffocating the air and making it feel heavy. The football pitch and its surroundings disappear under a shroud of black smoke. Meanwhile, dockworkers spring into action, a silent ballet of heroism amidst the chaos. Tugs are manoeuvred away from the inferno, their engines groaning as they push through the thickening smoke, and one tug is even repurposed to assist firefighters, its water hoses a desperate attempt to tame the beast. #CommunityEffort #DockworkersHelping #RaceAgainstTime
Desolation.
The fire finally consumes itself, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation. The air, thick with the acrid tang of ash, replaces the sweet aroma of flour that once clung to the area. The thick smoke still hangs in the air, choking the breath from anyone near. Every surface is coated with a fine layer of dust, like the town has been covered in a blanket of soot. The once-proud mill, a testament to Barrow’s industrial might, is reduced to a smouldering skeleton. The air is thick with the smell of burnt timber, as the remains of the building collapse into the centre, leaving only the stark blackened frame behind. #BarrowHistoryLost #IndustrialDecline #Aftermath