‘[….] this wasn’t magic, neither was it brute strength, it was, in fact, ingenuity. Coal and metal and water and steam and smoke, in one glorious harmony.’
Raising Steam, Sir Terry Pratchett, 2013.
Half a dozen miles north of Hastings, near the charmingly named village of Cackle Street (one of several similarly named hamlets thereabouts) lies the source of much of the town’s water supply, the aquifers under the Brede river valley. Down a lane off the A28, the modern pumping station sits alongside a couple of fine old buildings, in Art Deco and Victorian Baroque styles, which house a pair of huge, steam-powered, water pumps – the so-called Giants of Brede.
On the first Saturday of the month and on Bank Holidays the site is open to visitors, with the Giants, and many other gleaming, intricate machines, operating. As well as the engines themselves there is a large collection of artefacts and machinery, plenty of hands-on stuff and explanatory exhibits about steam and pumping, a cafe/tea room and a surprise from the darkest days of the Cold War; not to mention as fine a collection of friendly and knowledgeable, greasy-overalled enthusiasts as you could hope to find.
You can walk among the engines and venture up along the walkways and down into the basement where the pumping takes place. All the delights of steam power are here; metal crafted to fine tolerances, a visible mechanism that also embodies scientific principles – the Laws of Thermodynamics and the Gas Laws – great power harnessed to useful purpose, and something else, an almost elemental combination of fire, water and metal, that has a romance and animation all its own.
The two magnificent engines represent both the culmination and the end of a technology (The Worthington-Simpson engine was the last of its type ever made). Great machines of iron and brass, they embody the romance and wonder of the Steam Age and are truly a joy to watch. Both are triple-expansion types, and can raise millions of litres of water a day as their pistons plunge up and down. The ornate ironwork around the engines frames the mechanism, and the great flywheels turn, and crankshafts and connecting rods both control and drive the three massive pistons that do the actual pumping.
These are utilitarian, working machines, but they have a beauty and simplicity of design that transcends the purely functional. You can see every detail of the mechanism, and know that every rivet, nut, bolt and bearing was clearly designed with pride in practical workmanship and engineering. You just know that behind the apparent simplicity lies a wealth of technical detail, intricate engineering skills, craftsmanship and knowledge.
Underneath all that lies the science, the numbers that give a true understanding, beyond our intuitions. These are triple-expansion engines, designed to extract as much energy as possible from the steam. The stored energy of sunlight that shone millions of years ago has been mined from deep within the Earth and is released to raise the temperature and pressure of water. Some of that energy ‘disappears’ into the latent heat of evaporation and ‘reappears’ in the triple condensation. If it is true that ‘Science owes more to the steam engine than the steam engine owes to Science.’ (L. J. Henderson, 1917), then it can be seen here. Once the technology began to be utilised, the twin forces of science and engineering drove each other in a symbiotic relationship that assisted both to reach even greater heights.
But, for me, though, it was something unexpected that really caught my imagination. Temporarily powered by compressed air (with the promise of a return to steam power in the future) these huge engines, with their massive wheels, shafts and pistons, move so quietly and smoothly it is easy to forget that whats moving are great lumps of heavy metal. A gentle susurration from the valves and a soft, rhythmic sighing from the pistons combine with a quiet low frequency rumble from the flywheels to produce a sound that is calm and soothing, like the breathing of some great sleeping beast. The smooth motion of these intricate, precise mechanisms is also both rhythmic and hypnotic. Then I stood with my eyes closed, just letting the sound wash over me, and noticing how relaxing it felt. Never mind whale song, here was a soundtrack to meditate or relax to; as calming and reassuring as a mother’s heartbeat is to a baby. I have often remarked upon the way that steam power inspires (!) comparison with some great beast. I suppose that we associate the cycle of compression and expansion with breathing and, with steam – unlike the frantic buzzing of insect wings of an internal combustion engine – the frequency is more like that of a mammal’s breathing. When I emerged from my reverie I caught the eye of one of the bearded and overalled (and slightly oil-stained) enthusiasts who maintain the Giants. He smiled and nodded, and, for a moment, we both shared our appreciation for this wonderful music.
A Darker Side To The Use Of Technology – An Outpost Of The Cold War
Just behind the main buildings, an ugly concrete doorway is set into the hillside. This too is a memorial to past times, because it is an old nuclear bunker, built as a shelter during the Cold War. Unused today, except for a group of amateur radio enthusiasts, its bleak, empty rooms are an evocative reminder of an ugly and brutal time when, having barely survived the perils and deprivations of WW II, we stood on the very brink of annihilation by nuclear war.
As you pass through the massive concrete and steel blast doors you can see the valves for equalising pressure in the airlock, as well as the showers for decontaminating anyone coming from outside. Inside, a network of spartan chambers is a depressing portent of what life would be like after armageddon.
Inside the bunker is a room fitted out as a Faraday Cage. This was used to protect electronic equipment (communications etc.) from the Electromagnetic Pulse of a nuclear explosion. I couldn’t help imagining how I would feel, sitting in this grim and dreary metal box, listening in as the last radio stations fell silent and the world died.
Why was a bunker built out here? Probably not for the protection of the staff at the waterworks. After all, how long could the station have kept operating without a supply of electricity, and surely no one could have expected that to survive? Perhaps it was a convenient place to build a Regional Seat of Government – an RSG? These were shelters for the authorities and military, so they could continue to rule, even after Armageddon.
Whatever, it is abandoned now, never having been used. I wonder if, in a hundred years or more, groups of enthusiasts will lovingly maintain and restore the nuclear technology? I’ve visited nuclear power plants and research reactors, and they were fascinating and exciting places to visit, but they were working, vital places, where people strove for knowledge or to keep the lights from going out. The bunker has no such soul but, given the number of enthusiasts for military history and technology, I can see this somewhat neglected piece of history being restored and exhibited. But I cannot imagine it ever having the grace and beauty, the uplifting romance, of the Giants.
A Bit Of Folklore
The huge steam-powered pumps are known as the Giants of Brede. I added the ‘Whispering’ in reference to both the wonderful susurration they make as they operate, and as a nod to another, slightly later, significant triumph of British engineering, the Bristol Britannia (1952), which shared the name ‘Whispering Giant’. It also appears that the Giants also share their name with the central character in a local folktale, ‘The Giant of Brede’. In the tale, an extremely uncouth giant who eats children, as well as indulging in nose-picking, arse-scratching, burping and farting and other revolting habits beloved by children, is tricked into eating and drinking himself into a stupor, after which teams of children from East and West Sussex use a tree-saw to cut him into pieces at the Groaning Bridge down nearby Stubb Lane. It may well be that the whole tale was invented to blacken the name and politics/class/religion of a local landowner, Sir Goddard Oxenbridge (d. 1537), who is buried in St George’s Church at the top of the lane leading to the Giants. He was said to be of great stature and apparently was nicknamed the Giant of Brede. Of course, as well as being a cautionary tale to delight and discipline children. A locally-popular rumour has it that the grisly supernatural superstition was invented and promulgated, Scooby-Doo fashion, by ‘owlers’, i.e. smugglers, who were very common in the Weald, in order to discourage the inquisitive. Whatever the mythology, if you do visit the Whispering Giants it is well worth stopping at the church (parts date back to c1200 CE) and its graveyard for a quick look around including Sir Goddard’s ornamental, but not giant, tomb. (And don’t forget to enjoy the lovely views over the Brede river valley as you go down the lane.)
Practical
Best reached by car, but buses from Hastings take approximately 45 minutes and run hourly except on Sundays or Bank Holidays, tell the driver where you are headed, then a 10-minute walk from the main road down a lane past the church. Alternatively, get off at The Red Lion pub in Brede and walk up the hill.
See Stagecoach website stagecoachbus.com for timetables.
Entry to the site and exhibitions, guides, free (donations appreciated) Enjoy tea, cakes and snacks at the on-site Tea Room. (Really more of a stall with seating.)
Website at Brede Steam Giants
Southern Water also have a page about the Giants