Atmospheric Railway

Following a patent in 1839 Samuel Clegg and the Samuda brothers set up a demonstration of an atmospheric railway at Wormwood Scrubs in England. The directors of the Dublin and Kingstown Railway were impressed by the system and determined it would be a suitable means to extend their existing line from Kingstown (Dun Laoghaire) to Dalkey. James Pim (Junior), the treasurer of the Dublin and Kingstown Railway, became an enthusiastic supporter of the atmospheric system and began preparations to extend the service to Dalkey using it.

In 1841 he sent a letter to Viscount Morpeth indicating the expected cost of the work to be £15,000, with William Dargan as contractor and Charles Vignoles as engineer. The Harbour Commissioners granted land for the project which adjoined the line known as The Metals. It got its name from the haulage of granite from the Dalkey quarries down the steep hill for the building of the Dun Laoghaire piers. The line was opened in July 1844, with trains leaving every thirty minutes from 8am to 6pm.

Atmospheric traction was only used for the climb to Dalkey where there were no buffer stops, and trains sometimes ran right through the station and off the rails! Gravity, however, took charge of the downhill journey, and when the train slowed before the station the unfortunate third-class passengers had to push while the others walked.

In August 1844 the line was visited by the great engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel and other representatives of the Great Western Railway. They subsequently constructed the 20 mile (32 km) South Devon Railway which operated with atmospheric propulsion.

However, maintaining proper atmospheric conditions was no easy task. The leather flaps, which were an integral part of keeping the system air-tight and operating at its best, were covered in grease and this became a problem. The smell attracted rats that gnawed at them, rendering them not only expensive to repair but hindering performance. The last Atmospheric Train ran on Wednesday 12^th April 1854.

William Dargan

William Dargan, one of Ireland’s most important engineers of the 19^th century, was born on the 28^th February 1799 in County Carlow. He attended local school where he excelled at mathematics, before getting a position in a surveyor’s office in Carlow. By 1819, and with the help of local MP Henry Purcell, he was working with the renowned engineer Thomas Telford on the important Holyhead to London road. In 1824, and back in Ireland, he assisted Telford on extending the Howth Road from Raheny to Sutton, leading Parnell to describe the road as “a model for other roads in the vicinity of Dublin”. He also was assistant manager for three years on the Birmingham & Liverpool Junction Canal, as well as adding more roads in Dublin, Carlow and Louth.

William Dargan

Busy as he was he did find time to marry Jane Arkinstall on the 13^th October 1828 in the Church of St Michael & All Angels, Adbaston, Staffordshire, but they had no children.

In 1825 when the Irish parliament decided to construct a railway from Dublin to Kingstown – DKR (now Dun Laoghaire) he became committed to setting it up, and along with the engineer, Charles Vignoles, they designed the route and the line was opened on the 17^th December 1834. It was very successful, and it was the earliest dedicated commuter in the world. Other lines were completed: Dublin to Drogheda, and the Great Southern and Western Railway. He contributed nearly eight hundred miles of track to the rail network and was rightly called the ‘Founder of Railways in Ireland’. He also designed the Ulster Canal, connecting Lough Erne and Belfast, which was a difficult but brilliantly handled project.

Dargan Bridge, Dundrum, Dublin

In 1853 he was the lead promoter for the Great Exhibition that was held on the lawns of Leinster House. Afterwards, he was involved in the creation of the National Gallery of Ireland on the same site, and a statue to him stands outside the main entrance.

He died on the 7^th February 1867, and was buried in Glasnevin cemetery.

Teacher Hooked

Hook you like…

It was a bitterly cold day shortly before Christmas and the class was restless. The room was packed as we prepared for English, which was always one of the most enjoyable classes. The teacher, Mr. Stores, or Dick as he was commonly known, was considered to be one of the best in the school and, although not a pushover, we could get on pretty well with him. This was important as most of the other teachers were much older than Dick and we had little or nothing in common with them. He was like an older brother, and we felt an affinity that was to our mutual benefit.
That was until one fateful day.
On that particularly sharp and windy morning Dick came into the class, took off his coat and cast his eyes about for a spare hook. When he could not find one he proceeded to remove coats from a hook near the lectern and let them fall to the floor. Then he placed his coat on the now free hook and, tapping its pockets to ensure that nothing was left in them, started the class by asking ‘Well, class, what do we think of Shakespeare’s use of irony?’

The class was distracted and barely paid attention to his question after this unbelievably, crass act. It was a bad moment, and to use one of his pet phrases ‘a Rubicon had been crossed’. Furtive glances were exchanged and heads were shaken in disbelief as thoughts of revenge silently grew. We soon focussed on the lesson, while conjuring up all sorts of cruel punishments for Dick’s despicable behaviour.
Over the next few days many suggestions were offered ranging from the diabolic to the downright inventive, all generating much mirth. It was no surprise that the most colourful suggestions were thought up by someone who has since become a leading politician. A talent for deception and the ability to laugh at another’s misfortune is an essential for such a career, and Kelly had it in spades. When I think about it now I’m sure that he was must have been emotionally damaged at an early age, or maybe he was just nasty git. The best suggestions came from those in the back row, always a source of nefarious thinking, and, appropriately, the winning idea came from one of the boys whose coat Dick had dropped onto the floor. And, like all great endeavours it was deceptively simple, but it needed careful preparation.

And above all, timing.

Gummed up

The plan called for a nice, shiny new hook to be made available to Dick at the start of our next English class. Unbeknownst to him we had removed the screws from a hook and substituted them with a large blob of wet, sticky chewing gum. This mouth-watering work of adhesive genius took five of us an entire lunch-hour to prepare and our jaws were sore from all the chewing. Mine were numb and I thought that I had had a rough time at the dentist. My face as red as a cardinals hat when I finished and offered my blob to one of the ‘engineers’. Murphy’s job was to join all the blobs and have a trial run. He did it with great commitment as coats were hung and the resistance factor calculated. After stringent testing he decided that more gum was needed and Connolly was sent to the local shop for supplies.
When the final solution was prepared and tested, under the watchful eyes of the entire class, the shiny hook was pressed into position and fingers were crossed in anticipation. ‘Well done, Murph,’ someone shouted and we all cheered. The engineer smiled, took a bow and slipped casually into his desk.
There had been many pranks played on teachers over the years and our magnum opus would definitely to be remembered. The story would go around the school like wildfire, and with everything in place we waited in scholarly silence for the coat tosser to get his comeuppance.

Ring-a-ding-ding

Shortly after the school bell rang we heard the sound of Dick’s steel-tipped shoes coming down the corridor, and the tension in the classroom rose a notch. ‘All things come to those who wait,’ whispered Doyle conspiratorially into my ear as he leaned over from the desk behind. I grinned and followed the other thirty pair of eyes as the door opened and the lamb walked easily to a silent, sticky slaughter.
Dick put his case down and, as usual, looked about for a spare hook. His eyes moved along the line of coats before landing on the shining beacon that almost cried out for his attention. ‘I’m free,’ it seemed to say and he grinned in surprise at his good fortune. He walked across the front of the class, took off his coat and, as the moment of truth was reached, carefully placed it on the hook. It held, thank God, and we collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

The class started with a discussion on the merits of the sonnet form but our attention was elsewhere. It was difficult not to keep an eye on Dick’s coat but nothing happened for the first ten minutes or so. As time passed without incident we begrudgingly cursed Murphy for his obvious brilliance as an engineer. Dick moved about the room, as was his style, asking questions and developing an argument that was informative and lively. I made a contribution and sat back, as the first movement of the Dick’s coat was spotted.
All eyes darted to and from the hook as its adhesive support began to stretch like only quality gum can. It moved slowly, like a river of pink lava against the wooden panelled wall. I looked at Dick and wondered about his possible reaction when he realised what had happened. ‘It might turn nasty,’ had been the general opinion, and we were about to find out.
Dick continued to walk about as his overcoat continued its inexorable, downward slide. It was a wonderful sight and it killed off all the idle chatter in the room. The quiet was bordering on the religious as the thick, pink line began to unravel and fray.
‘There she goes,’ Doyle sniggered under his breath.
Dick turned abruptly and asked. ‘Well, Doyle, have you got something to share with us?’ He raised his brow waiting for an answer, but none came.
There was total silence in the room as the gum, having performed beyond all expectations, its elasticity stretched to the maximum, finally and gloriously broke.
We all turned to see Dick’s coat lying on the floor below the thin strip of glistening, pink gum that was about three feet long.
Dick was furious, and he snatched his coat up and roughly brushed it before tossing it over the back of his chair. Breathing hard and staring at us with fire in his eyes we braced ourselves for the inevitable explosion. To our surprise, though, he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and uttered just one word. ‘Sorry.’ It was a comment that earned him a round of applause and cemented our new, mutual understanding.

Scene of the crime