Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria, England, boasts a unique story of transformation, where a place associated with hardship evolved into one of healing. This fascinating chapter of local history began in 1876 when the town established its own Poor Law Parish and Workhouse. Imagine the imposing brick façade of the workhouse looming against the grey Barrow sky, its windows like watchful eyes. Inside, bare whitewashed walls and long, bleak corridors echoed with the rhythmic thud of the stone-breaker’s hammer, a constant reminder of the inmates’ harsh reality. This institution, established under the stringent Poor Laws, aimed to deter pauperism by providing basic accommodation and forcing inmates to perform unpleasant tasks like stone-breaking and oakum picking in exchange for their keep. The air would have been thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and disinfectant, a stark contrast to the fresh sea air just beyond the workhouse walls. Families were often separated, and life
inside was governed by strict rules and harsh discipline.
However, by the late 19th century, a positive shift occurred. Barrow’s workhouse transitioned into Roose Hospital sometime between 1878 and 1879. This marked a significant change, with Roose Hospital offering medical care to the entire community. Sunlight streamed through the windows of the hospital wards, perhaps with colourful flowers on the bedside tables, offering a sense of cheer and hope that was absent in its previous incarnation. It even went further by providing specialised services, including care for the mentally ill and a dedicated ward for expectant mothers. The gentle murmur of conversations between patients and visitors, the clinking of teacups in the day room, and the reassuring beeping of medical equipment replaced the harsh sounds of the workhouse.
Despite the hospital’s positive impact on the community, the decision was made to close Roose Hospital in 1993. This led to a determined campaign by staff, patients, and local residents to keep the hospital open. They organised protests and petitions in a desperate attempt to reverse the decision. The community rallied around their hospital in numerous ways. In 1991, Barrow’s Marks and Spencer store held a fundraising drive that raised around £1,700 for Roose. Local businesses also contributed to the hospital’s upkeep, with one heart warming instance seeing Barrow’s Norweb shop manager Wendy McPheely presenting a new microwave to staff member Beth Hodges.
The staff’s dedication to their patients was evident in their actions. Nurses were even photographed discussing the hospital’s possible closure with local councillor Steve Smart after disrupting a meeting on budget cuts. Their determination to fight for the hospital’s survival highlighted the strong bond between the staff and the community they served.
Though the campaign to save Roose was ultimately unsuccessful, the hospital’s final days were marked by a poignant celebration. There were balloons and festivities for staff, patients, and relatives at the party to mark the end of an era. It was a time to acknowledge the hospital’s long history of service and the impact it had on the lives of so many.
The buildings were demolished a few years later, erasing a tangible link to this important past. While the physical structure no longer stands, the story of Roose Hospital serves as a reminder of the evolution of social welfare and healthcare in England, and the enduring legacy of those who fought to preserve it.