The Mount Pleasant footbridge featured in my first novel, Plagued, and I often cross it on my walks. Despite recent makeshift repairs, it has become alarmingly rickety of late, so it was no great surprise to learn it was due to be replaced. Precisely what this entailed wasn’t clear, but I’d heard work would begin in February and involved closing the road. So, on 1 February, I went for one last look before it was too late.
The newly built waterside flats beside Northam Bridge turned my mind to all the changes this part of the city has seen. In 1918, the characters in Plagued would have crossed an iron bridge and looked down on a toll house, foundry and logs seasoning in the timber pond. They lifted the tolls on Northam Bridge in 1929. Three years later, J. G. Sprinkernell employed Robert Crombie to design a cinema on the land beside the bridge. Southampton mayor, Fred Wooley, opened the Plaza cinema on 11 October 1932. Looking on the Bright Side, starring Gracie Fields, was the first film shown. The Plaza was more luxurious than other cinemas in town. It had double seats in the back row, a pipe organ with coloured lights, and a large foyer for people to wait in.
The next big change came in 1954 when the current pre-stressed concrete bridge replaced the old iron bridge. As the bridge carries the main road between Southampton and Portsmouth, the old bridge remained standing while they constructed the new one beside it. This meant the layout of the road needed to change. The houses and shops on the west side of Northam Road were demolished, including the fruit shop my grandfather once owned. This was the final nail in the coffin for the poor old Plaza. It had always been too far from town to be profitable, and on 30 November 1957, it closed. The building was converted into new studios for Southern Television. Today, a small park stands where my grandfather once lived above his shop. It has no benches, flower beds or anything else to recommend it, so I always think of it as the desolate park.
Walking along Summers Street, recalled mornings passing the television studios on my way to work on the industrial estate at Mount Pleasant Wharf. The old cinema was long gone by then, replaced by a purpose-built television studio in 1967. The TV studio closed in 2004, and four years later, it too was demolished. Then the company that bought the land for development went into administration. The site remained a rubble-strewn eyesore until 2015, when a new company took over, and new apartments sprang up. Over years of walks, I’d watched the changes, but two things remained constant — the railway footbridge and the long queue of traffic waiting to cross the level crossing.
The railway came to Southampton in 1840, and the footbridge over the railway line has probably been around as long as the track. The Victorians certainly knew a thing or two about building. The brickwork and steps are as sturdy today as they were in the nineteenth century. Of course, there were no yellow metal ramps to help cyclists back then, and there wasn’t as much litter.
The bridge’s longevity gives testament to the workmanship of the men who built it. Like most railway bridges of the time, riveted ironwork spans the brick piers. The paint is peeling, and the ironwork rusty, but a little loving care would soon restore it. The issue is the deck. I suppose four-hundred-and-fifty-nine trains and three and a half thousand cars rattling past, plus four hundred-odd pedestrians clomping across every day, is bound to take a toll on even the most well-built construction. For the life of me, I can’t remember if there were wooden boards, but I recall things feeling wobbly underfoot some time ago.
Late last year, they made a makeshift repair. Frankly, new boards on top of old ones haven’t made things better. As I walked across, my heart was in my mouth. I had the distinct impression that my feet could go through at any moment, and I’d be left dangling above the railway lines clinging to the criss-cross riveted struts. It wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring.
In the past, I’ve lingered waiting for trains to pass and taking photographs. Now, I took one quick snap of the distant gasworks (another local landmark whose days are numbered) and got back to the safety of the brickwork as quickly as possible.
When I reached the top of the steps, I relaxed and took a few photos for posterity. It’s unclear how much of the original structure will survive the upcoming repairs. I’m hoping that they’ll replace the deck with something a touch more sturdy, clean up and repaint the ironwork, and leave everything else alone. I fear I’m wrong, and when I next come this way, I’ll discover the wonderful Victorian brick and ironwork has gone, replaced by some modern monstrosity made of aluminium or plastic.
It may not be the most beautiful bridge, but countless feet have crossed it, including my father, Eric, on his way to and from school each day. I would be sad to see it disappear. If it does, I will have lots of pictures to remind me of what it was like.
I returned home via the boardwalk to see the progress on the last of the TV studio site flats, and for the river views. The boardwalk is a reminder that change doesn’t always have a negative impact. When I worked on the industrial estate in the 1990s, the only way to reach Horseshoe Bridge was a muddy tramp along the shingly shore. Not that I ever tried it myself. They built the boardwalk in 2010 as part of a £50 million project promoted by Sustrans UK, a charity focused on promoting sustainable transport.
The boardwalk opened up an alternative route for cyclists and walkers and made it possible to get from Northam to St Denys without crossing the railway line, risking wet feet, or being cut off by the tide. It also provided staggering riverside views. I would like to see the same between Chessel Bay and Woolston, but, so far, Sustrans and the Council haven’t taken up my repeated suggestions.
When I worked on the industrial estate, my office overlooked the water. A young hippy couple lived on the river in a boat. We would see them going back and forth in a tiny rowing boat with their dog swimming along beside them. My boss, a large, kindhearted dutchman called John, often took them food parcels. There is a wreck near the spot where their boat used to be. I’m not sure if it is actually theirs, but I always think of it as the hippy ship. I haven’t passed this way in a while, and the hippy ship looks rather battered now.
The last of the flats look to have reached full height now. I suppose it won’t be long before they complete the building work. The construction company has tarmacked the end of the footpath nearest Northam bridge, so I’m hoping the rest gets the same care and attention before the builders move out. It would make the walk along the river more inviting, especially in winter, when it can get muddy.
Approaching the bridge, I was reminded of another recent change. Coalporters Rowing Club has blocked off one archway and turned it into a storage room by the looks of it. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a major change, and it doesn’t stop me walking along the footpath, so I can’t complain.
I re-crossed Northam Bridge, pondering the changes I’d seen and wondering about the changes to come. What would my grandfather think if he could see it? His generation saw more changes than mine. He was born one year after Carl Benz patented the first automobile, was sixteen when the Wright brothers made the first flight, lived through two world wars, and saw the town centre bombed beyond recognition. The concrete bridge must have seemed as newfangled to him as the old iron bridge was to the generation before. Even the railway line would have been futuristic to my great-great-grandparents.
On the far side of the bridge, a short stretch of embankment and a stone wall is all that remains of the original Northam Bridge. Looking over the weathered stone wall at the river, it occurred to me that the familiar sights in my life, like the TV studios and the level crossing, had been massive changes for the generations before me, and one day, the things I see as big changes will be someone else’s historic memories.
A hundred years from now, old wrecks, like the skeleton ship, will be long gone. Something new will doubtless replace the fancy apartments, as they replaced the TV studios and old terraced houses. Maybe the bridge will have another incarnation, built of some wondrous new material yet to be discovered. Whatever happens, the river will continue flowing towards the sea, gulls will still squabble, and maybe someone will look at my photographs in wonder, just as I look at historic photos of Southampton now.
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I have just finished the third of you books and have really enjoyed all three thank you so much.
I live at No 28 Mountpleasant Rd from 1963 to 1966, 2nd house west of the crossing,I used to go fishing behind Blocrete and remember when the slam gates were replaced by the barriers, and the shops. Thank you.
I’m so pleased you enjoyed my books. It means a great deal to know that. Thank you.
Hi Marie,
Thanks so much for your story about Mt Pleasant footbridge, it brought back some memories!
In the mid 1960s I used to attend the 25th Sothampton (Northam) Sea Scouts whose headquarters SSS Enterprise used to be in Princes St. In a wooden hut just outside the old margarine factory.
Living in Swaythling, I used to have to cycle past Portswood, past Lodge Road and into Beovis Valley before turning into Mount Pleasant Road to get to Notham. As an aside, there was an old man who had a house in Mounth Pleasant Road who had a fascinating display of big model ships in his front window. I would often stop there to see if he had anything new.
Anyway, down the road, past the school to the gates and the bridge. You’re right, in those days if the gates were closed and you wanted to get across it required the cyclist to lift their machines up those Victorian steps. Nothing, of course, to a growing 10 year old! Quite often though I’d hang around for a little while waiting for a train to go by. I was a mad keen ‘spotter. The crossing was one of the places you could get close to a moving locomotive in relative safety, especially if it was coming up from Central on the outer line. It would pass by doing about 30 or 40mph, thrilling if it were a big “Merchant Navy” or “West Country” Class machine. You were so close, you could feel the heat from the locomotive’s firebox as it passed by.
After the excitement, the gates were opened with a tremendous clash of iron brackets and stoppers and it was on to the TV studios. Sometimes it was worth dismounting while walking past as you might meet a “star” arriving. I remember turning the corner into Summers St and nearly knocking down “Trevor The Weather”, Southern’s resident weather man. Many apologies, but he was very friendly about it. To think I could have injured a much loved TV personality.
After Scouts, it was back to Swaythling. Past the gates (or bridge) and usually a stop at the fish and chip shop or the small general store that was just past the gates. Open all hours, as they say.
Sometimes, if I didn’t feel like walking my bike up Beovis Valley hill, I would cut through the Imperial Road/Empress Road industrial park to get to St Denys station. Believe me, for a young lad it was a scary thing. You really had to steel yourself to get through those dark streets at 10 o’clock at night in winter.
St Denys station was alway a welcoming sight with its little manned booking office, waiting room and gas lights which emitted a gentle hiss with popping sounds as well as a warm, safe glow. Swaythling was only a couple of minutes away by diesel multiple unit to home where my mother would invariably be watching “Peyton Place” on the TV.
All long gone, alas. And very few people documenting it as you are today, Marie. I’m sure that future generations will be extremely grateful for your hard work. I know I am.
Cheers,
Rick
Thank you for sharing your memories Rick. My mum lived in Swaythling, in Carnation Road, and my Dad lived in Northam, so I imagine she made that same journey a few times.