Barrow - Furness Whisper - Page 2

A Groaning Giant Steams into TownImagine the scene: Barrow-in-Furness, 1977. The docks are a symphony of clanging cranes and bellowing smokestacks. But a hush falls over the crowd as a sight unlike any other chugs into view. It’s not your average freighter, mind you, but a titan of a different kind – the mighty Flying

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

Our exploration of the Old School House on Walney Island took a fascinating turn when we discovered Jane Gibson, the artist behind the evocative painting “Michaelson House, Barrow Island.” This single work ignited a quest to learn more about the woman who wielded the brush and the artistic legacy she might have left behind. #BarrowIsland

The icy spray of the North Sea stung George Fox’s face as he stepped onto the rickety dock at North Scale. Visions of a welcoming congregation evaporated like mist in the harsh wind. Instead, a wall of hostile faces greeted him. Worn leathery brows furrowed, and calloused hands tightened around menacing cudgels. Fox, his simple

Imagine the sea breeze tousling your hair as a colossal steamship, a bellowing iron leviathan, slices through the emerald waves towards Walney Island. As you disembark, you’re swept up in the lively din of families chatting and laughing, their voices blending with the sound of waves crashing against the pier. The promenade hums with life,

Aching muscles got you drowning your sorrows in 1924? Forget popping pills (ibuprofen wasn’t even a glimmer in a scientist’s eye!). Back then, the cure for a week’s worth of aches might have been a radical escape – a gigantic saltwater pool so buoyant you’d practically float away from your troubles! Imagine this: It’s 1924.

The wind whispers secrets through the skeletal remains of the Barrow slag heap, its cold fingers brushing the earth. These silent giants of industrial waste stand like forgotten sentinels, guarding the grim history of an era now passed. One particular event seems to echo louder than the rest. On a desolate November 11th in 1938,

Have you ever wandered through Barrow Market and thought, “What stories could these walls tell?” If you have, you’re not alone. There’s something so special about the place—the vibrant colours of fresh produce, the friendly hum of conversation, the warm, inviting scent of freshly baked bread, and the bustle of people moving through. Every time

Step back in time. The brick and mortar stand silent, whispering stories of a town’s evolution. The Abbey Tavern, once a bustling hub, holds within its timeworn walls a forgotten chapter, patiently awaiting rediscovery. Its weathered exterior, now softened by the touch of many seasons, hints at the rich history buried within. A history that