100 Local Heroes E-Book

Adam Hart-Davis

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1999

Beschreibung

For more than five years, Adam Hart-Davis travelled the length and breadth of Britain, bringing to life in his TV series, "Local Heroes", pioneers of science, invention and technology. This book presents 100 of the best stories: ingenious or odd, different or daft, but always entertaining.

Leseprobe

ADAM HART-DAVIS presents Local Heroes. A freelance writer and television presenter since 1994, he previously worked for YTV as a researcher and producer, devising both Scientific Eye, the most successful school science series on television, and Mathematical Eye (1989–92), as well as five programmes on Loch Ness for the Discovery Channel (1993). He is also a science photographer, and his photographs have appeared in a wide selection of publications. He has written eleven books, including Thunder, Flush and Thomas Crapper (1997), The Local Heroes Book of British Ingenuity (1997) and Amazing Math Puzzles (1998). He lives in Bristol, and travels by bicycle. . . .

PAUL BADER is the owner and managing director of Screenhouse Productions Limited, a television company which specialises in popular science programmes, and is producer and director of Local Heroes. He previously worked for YTV, producing medical, health and science programmes for the ITV network and for Channel 4. Among other programmes, he has worked on Discovery, The Buckman Treatment, The Halley’s Comet Show and On the Edge. He lives in Leeds, and travels by car.

fromAdam Hart-DavisandPaul Bader

First published as The Local Heroes Book of British Ingenuity and More Local Heroes in 1997 and 1998 by Sutton Publishing Limited

This combined, revised edition first published in 1999 by Sutton Publishing Limited

Reprinted 2000, 2001

The History Press The Mill, Brimscombe Port Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QGwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2013

All rights reserved © Adam Hart-Davis and Paul Bader, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2013

The right of Adam Hart-Davis and Paul Bader, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 9475 3

Original typesetting by The History Press

Preface

The television series Local Heroes started on 7 August 1990, when Adam Hart-Davis, then working as a producer of science programmes at Yorkshire Television, decided he was getting too old and fat to play squash. In an effort to get fit and thin he bought himself a mountain bike, deliberately choosing pink and yellow for both bike and clothes in order to be bright and so stay alive on the roads. He still wears pink and yellow, and he is still alive!

Riding to work one day, he noticed, as he toiled up the long hill from Birstall to Drighlington, that on the old farmhouse now poised above the M62 there was a blue plaque, which he decided to read, because any excuse was good enough to take a rest. It said that Joseph Priestley had been born there at Fieldhead Farm. Ten minutes’ research revealed that Joseph had spent his teenage years living in the Old Hall in Heckmondwike (Adam’s local pub) and had discovered oxygen in Leeds as a result of watching the beer being made in the Yorkshire Squares at the Meadow Lane Brewery. Here were a farm, a pub, and a brewery, all linked by a bike ride and the discovery of oxygen – there must be a story to tell. Adam has been telling these stories ever since, and this book contains a hundred of his favourites. Perhaps the most dramatic story of all is that of Henry Winstanley, joker, engraver and builder of the world’s first offshore lighthouse. The most surprising? Perhaps Alexander Bain and the fax machine, invented in 1843 – 30 years before the telephone. The most scientific? Try Isaac Newton and the incredible ideas he dreamed up in 1666. The most down-to-earth? Probably the lawnmower, invented in 1830 by Edwin Budding, and made in the same building as this book!

The stories are arranged alphabetically by hero; so finding the heroes is easy. In the index you can easily look up any invention that takes your fancy. But why not simply open the book at random and see what you find?

Adam Hart-Davis and Paul Bader June 1999

Puzzle 1: You have to cross a river, taking with you a wolf, a goat and a cabbage. You have a boat, but in it you can carry only one of these at a time. The problem is that if you take the wolf, then while you are away the goat will eat the cabbage. However, if you take the cabbage, then the wolf will eat the goat! The puzzle is, how can you get them all across the river safely?

This puzzle was written down as one of a collection of ‘problems to sharpen the young’ by an English scholar called Flaccus Albinus Alcuinus, or Alcuin, as he is generally remembered.

Alcuin was born in York about AD 735, went to Rome in 780, became Abbot of Tours, and settled in Aachen as what would now be Minister of Education for the European Community, but was then a close adviser to Charlemagne, who became Holy Roman Emperor on Christmas Day in the year 800.

Some of Alcuin’s Propositiones ad acuendos juvenes are fairly trivial, but among the river-crossing puzzles are some really tricky ones. Try this on your friends:

Puzzle 2: Mum and dad and two children have to cross a river. The boat will hold only one adult or two children; not even one adult and one child. How do they get across?

And if they manage that, here’s a really tough one:

Puzzle 3: Three married couples have to cross a river, and for religious reasons no woman must be left with a man unless her husband is there. The boat will carry only two. How do they all cross?

What is fascinating about these puzzles is not just that they are good puzzles – they challenge the mind, they seem impossible, and then when you work one out you get a sense of achievement – but that they are 1,200 years old, and still as good as new.

The solution to Puzzle 1, in case you are still suffering, is to take the goat across, leave it, return for either the wolf or the cabbage, take it across, bring the goat back, take the cabbage or the wolf, and finally return for the goat.

St Peter’s School, Clifton, York, claims to have been founded by Alcuin, and a college at York University, 4 miles to the south-east, is named after him.

Modern science does not seem to have much room for the amateur, a trend already established in the late nineteenth century. Dr Tempest Anderson (1846–1913), an eye surgeon from York who described himself as an ‘amateur of limited leisure’, was looking for a suitable scientific pastime. Curiously, he hit upon vulcanology – the study of volcanoes – because it offered ‘exercise in the open air, often in districts remote and picturesque’. He intended to combine his new hobby with his other great love, photography. The result was a stunning record of dramatic eruptions from all over the world, and a new understanding of the destructive force of volcanoes.

Stonegate, one of the main streets of ancient York, is now filled with shops and tourists, but the elegant black and gold plaque outside no. 23 has survived: ‘T. Anderson, Surgeon’. This is where Anderson practised as an ophthalmic surgeon, and is only yards from the house where he was born, at no. 17. But with a name like Tempest, he was never going to settle quietly. He used to keep two travel bags permanently packed, one for hot climates and one for cold. When word came of an eruption, he was off on the first available ship. There is no record of what happened to the patients in his waiting-room.

The idea of going to an erupting volcano by ship seems a bit daft: surely by the time news reached York, and Anderson had reached the volcano, it would all be over? In fact Anderson captured many eruptions on film, but his pictures of the aftermath of eruptions are just as powerful. The pictures are especially impressive when you consider the extraordinary lengths photographers routinely went to in those days. Wet plates, where you had to sensitise the glass photographic plate immediately before exposure by dipping it into silver-nitrate solution, had begun to disappear in 1874, the year after Anderson qualified as an MD, so he would have used dry plates for most of his work. But he would have taken hundreds of these glass plates with him on an expedition, together with several wooden cameras, many of which he made himself. Not only would he have to haul the cameras, lenses and plates up mountains in dangerous and inhospitable circumstances, but once on location the plates would have to be loaded, inside a light-proof bag, into ‘dark slides’ to hold them in the camera. It is a tribute to the pioneers of photography that early pictures progressed beyond posed studio shots. Anderson was clearly a genial chap, who made friends wherever he went. His new friends are recorded on his glass negatives and lantern slides, which feature many pictures of young women. As well as recording them playing cricket on board ship and so on, Anderson photographed many of these women up the mountain, posed in ridiculously unsuitable gear with an erupting volcano in the background.

Having fun was clearly part of the point, and Anderson brought back many rather non-PC stories from his travels. One picture records the famous ‘Fainting Dog of Vulcano’. Several times a day this unfortunate beast was led into a cavern with a layer of heavy volcanic gases near the floor. To the apparent amusement of the tourists, it would faint, only to revive again when carried outside. Anderson also visited Yellowstone in the USA to photograph the geysers, and was amused by a tale of an unfortunate Chinaman. The enterprising chap had set up a laundry in a hut on a hot spring. When he tipped in his soap powder, it set off the dormant geyser, which exploded into life, taking the hut with it.

However, Anderson’s purpose was serious, and he became a respected authority. He made a thorough and systematic study of volcanoes, calling it a ‘clinical or bedside study’. He was especially impressed by the destructive power of volcanoes, and by a paradox that reminded him of the Alps. A keen alpinist and member of the Alpine Club, Anderson had examined trees felled by avalanches. He found that those furthest from the origin of the avalanche had only a light sprinkling of snow. He concluded that they had been knocked over not by the rush of snow, but by the powerful wind the avalanche creates. He arrived at the same conclusion when considering the devastating eruptions on Martinique. The eruption of Mont Pelée had destroyed the town of Saint-Pierre in 1902. When Anderson arrived, the scene was one of complete destruction. The only building left standing was part of the bank, the only survivor a man incarcerated in the underground cells of the jail. Yet, as his photographs show, there was not much ash or lava in the town itself.

The ‘ground surge’, as he called it, seems to precede the main eruption, and as its name implies it hugs the slopes of the volcano, destroying buildings and trees in its path with more than hurricane force. Sometimes the ground surge contains small rock particles as well as hot gas, and is also known as a ‘pyroclastic flow’.

Anderson’s pictures are all preserved at the Yorkshire Museum in York. There are over five thousand negatives and slides, some of which were published in Anderson’s book Volcanic Studies in Many Lands. Sadly the museum is not able to display them at present, which is a pity, because the photography is superb and the collection includes many self portraits of the bearded Anderson clearly enjoying himself. Although Anderson found much of science closed to amateurs, he was part of a long tradition of amateur science in York, where the Literary and Philosophical Society, of which Anderson became president, was perhaps the greatest scientific society in Britain; in 1831 its members had founded the British Association for the Advancement of Science.

Because he was a scientific photographer, Tempest Anderson was keen to use only standard lenses, which have an angle of view the same as that of the human eye, rather than telephoto lenses that would produce an odd perspective. This meant, of course, that he had to get closer to the eruption he was photographing – which increased the risk. A friend said, ‘you know, Anderson, you are sure to be killed, but it will be such a very great satisfaction to you afterwards to think that it was in the cause of science’. Tempest Anderson died of fever in 1913, crossing the Red Sea on the way back from the Philippines, and is buried at Suez.

Tempest Anderson’s home was at 17 Stonegate, York, with his surgery just up the road at no. 23; there is still a plaque on a pillar.

In the centre of Lyme Bay lies the attractive town of Lyme Regis, its tiny harbour protected by the great curving rock wall known as the Cobb, made famous in Jane Austen’s Persuasion and John Fowles’s The French Lieutenant’s Woman. For hundreds of years Lyme Regis has been famous for what used to be called ‘curiosities’. We know them as fossils, and they are found in the Blue Lias in the cliffs on either side of the town. Walk along the beach and you can see how the cliffs are gradually eroding and tumbling into the sea. Each time a slab falls off it brings with it nodules of grey rock containing fossils – the remnants of the rich life in the warm muddy sea that swirled there two hundred million years ago. Fossil-hunters are out in force each time the tide goes out, especially when the cliffs are washed down with heavy rain. They seek out new nodules and crack them open with hammers, looking for the fossils that may lie within.

Mary Anning was born in Lyme Regis in 1799. At the age of fifteen months she survived a lightning strike which killed the three women she was with. Family legend has it that she had been a dull child before, but after this accident she became lively and intelligent, and grew up so. Mary’s father Richard was a carpenter, but he used to supplement his income by selling curiosities, and following his death when she was twelve, Mary did the same. But if fossils had been a sideline for Richard, they became Mary’s life, and she became the greatest fossil-hunter of the age. She was poor, and had little formal education; yet she helped to bring about one of the truly great scientific revolutions, which overturned our view of the history of the world and the origins of life.

Her astonishing success began one day in 1811, the year after her father’s death, when Mary and her brother Joseph were looking for curiosities somewhere under Black Ven, the hill half a mile east of the town. Scraping around in the muddy rock, they found the skull of what looked like a crocodile. The following year Mary returned and extracted the body – an amazing feat, because the creature was 30 feet long and entirely encased in rock! In fact she had to hire a gang of men to help her. The skeleton turned out to be not a crocodile, but one of the finest specimens of the recently discovered icthyosaurus.

The icthyosaurus was sold for £23, a tidy sum for a very poor family, and Mary’s mother encouraged the girl to look for other specimens. In 1823 she found the first ever plesiosaur fossil, and in 1828 the first pterodactyl. In the intervening years, she found several examples of each, in addition to coprolites, a cephalopod and a fossil fish called Squaloraja. All of these she extracted, prepared and reassembled with incredible skill – so much so that Lady Silvester wrote on 17 September 1824: ‘The extraordinary thing in this young woman is that she has made herself so thoroughly acquainted with the science that the moment she finds any bones she knows to what tribe they belong.’

The Philpot Museum stands above the sea at the very centre of Lyme Regis, where the road, after plunging down the hill, turns sharply back up the other side. It was named after a family Mary knew; the three Philpot daughters were well-known fossil-collectors, and may have inspired her in her work. However, they were young ladies; Mary lived a very different life. The house where she lived and worked was on the same site – it was pulled down to make room for the museum. Outside was a table where she showed off and sold her latest specimens, and down below was the basement workshop where Mary brought the raw specimens from the cliff to be ‘developed’.

Developing a specimen means separating it from the surrounding rock – fantastically delicate work, especially with an unknown species where you don’t know what it is supposed to look like. Mary was a brilliant developer. She also understood anatomy enough to get her specimens assembled correctly, and of course she had the amazing ability to find them in the first place. A poem was written about her in 1884:

Miss Anning, as a child, ne’er passed A pin upon the ground But picked it up; and so at last An icthyosaurus found.

Mary Anning was born in the right place at the right time. Philosophers were just beginning to think about what fossils meant. Until that time they were regarded simply as curiosities, because they didn’t fit into the history of the world as portrayed in the Bible. The Earth was supposed to be only a few thousand years old, and the fossils were reckoned by many to have been in the rocks from the start – perhaps put there by God as a test of faith.

Mary Anning’s skill meant that fossils of real scientific value were available to scientists like William Buckland (seepage 97), who were formulating a new history of the earth that led eventually to the idea of evolution. Mary was well known to scientists and fossil-collectors. Some said she became a little arrogant, and she seems to have been a tough, slightly difficult character. Anna Maria Pinney wrote in her journal on 25 October 1831: ‘Went out at 11 o’clock fossilising with Mary Anning . . . She has been noticed by all the cleverest men in England, who have her to stay at their houses, correspond with her on geology etc. This has completely turned her head, and she has the proudest and most unyielding spirit I have ever met with . . . She glories in being afraid of no one and in saying everything she pleases.’

But if she was temporarily famous, she certainly wasn’t rich; the family still teetered on the brink of poverty. On one occasion they hadn’t had a really good fossil find for over a year, and were selling their furniture to pay the rent; a kind collector sold his collection to save them. Mary’s specimens were all sold to collectors, but when they ended up in museums they bore the names of the men who had bought them, rather than the woman who had discovered them.

If Mary Anning had been an educated man, and so able to publish her own scientific papers, she might now be seriously famous. How unfair that most people have never heard of the carpenter’s teenage daughter who helped to unravel the history of life on earth.

The Philpot Museum in Lyme Regis, on the site of Mary Anning’s house, has a collection of memorabilia.

There are plenty of candidates for the invention that powered the industrial revolution. But what would all these engines drive? Sir Richard Arkwright (1732–92) built the first machine that could accurately reproduce the actions of a skilled manual worker – but he went much further. One of his ‘water-frames’ could replace not one but nearly one hundred workers; and Arkwright was a businessman with the vision to see that these new machines would allow him to organise labour in more efficient ways, opening up what was probably the world’s first single-purpose factory. Arkwright was compared by Sir Robert Peel to Nelson and Wellington, and yet this industrial hero had a very modest start in life.

Richard’s father was a peruke or wig-maker in Preston, Lancashire, and as the youngest of thirteen children Richard was last in line for the education his brothers received. Instead he, too, was apprenticed as a hairdresser and earned a living as a wigmaker, basing himself in Bolton from about 1750. Not much is known about Arkwright’s early life, but a letter about the great man’s time in Bolton written in 1799 concludes: ‘He was always thought to be clever in his peruke making business and very capital in Bleeding and toothdrawing and allowed by all in his acquaintance to be [a] very ingenious man.’ The account may benefit from hindsight, because we know of no Arkwright inventions from this time. As well as a barber, Arkwright became publican of the Black Boy Inn.

In Bolton, as in much of Lancashire, the textile trade was growing fast, fuelled in part by new technology. The fly shuttle had been patented by John Kay in 1733, and greatly speeded up the operation of the hand-loom while making it possible for one person to operate it. This increased the demand for thread and in about 1738 Lewis Paul, son of a French refugee, invented a mechanical process which he failed to make work, but which formed the basis for Arkwright’s invention. Spinning thread on a spinning wheel is a skilled manual job. The cotton (or wool) has already been combed or carded to untangle and roughly align the fibres, but to the untutored eye it looks like cotton wool. The spinster, as the female spinners were known, holds a handful of the raw cotton and lets it tease out through her fingers as it is wound on to a bobbin. So the first part of the process is teasing, which reduces the handful to the number of fibres needed in the thread. As the teased fibres are wound on to the bobbin, they are given a twist which locks the fibres together and tightens or hardens the thread. It was the finger-tip control of the spinsters that Paul and Arkwright would try to mimic, and to multiply.

The spinning wheel already inserted twist as it wound the thread. The challenge was to tease the cotton mechanically. Arkwright hit upon the same idea as Lewis Paul – roller spinning. The carded cotton is fed through two or more sets of rollers which pinch it tightly. But the second set of rollers goes faster than the first, and thus stretches or teases out the thread. Further sets of rollers can be used to tease the cotton further. But making this work in practice was another matter, and while Paul’s business gradually failed, Arkwright used roller-spinning to found an empire. Arkwright teamed up with a watchmaker called John Kay (though not the man of the same name who had invented the flying shuttle). Kay was to help him build his machine, which was completed in about 1767. They had moved to Preston where Arkwright maintained the deceit that the machine was for calculating longitude. Preston is also the location for the story about ‘strange noises’ in the night as the men worked on the machine, forcing the neighbours to conclude that this was ‘the devil tuning his bagpipes’. This seems so unlikely that it must have been made up – there are similar stories accompanying other inventions. Despite the strange noises, the men had made the machine work. In particular, Arkwright had worked out how the distances between rollers and the force with which they were squeezed together could be used to mimic the control of the skilled spinsters.

The following year Arkwright and Kay took the invention to Nottingham, then the centre of the cotton stocking trade. At about this time another invention, the famous ‘Spinning Jenny’, was put into operation in Nottingham by James Hargreaves. This too could produce cotton thread, but only for the ‘weft’, the threads that run along the length of a cloth. Arkwright’s invention could produce thread for the warp as well.

The first ‘spinning-frame’ was driven by horses, but this proved both inconvenient and uneconomical. He had patented his invention in 1769, the year James Watt took out his master patent for improving steam engines, and no doubt the idea of motive power for industry was in the air. Arkwright settled on water power, and teamed up with Mr Need of Nottingham and Mr Strutt of Derby, who had the patents for the manufacture of ribbed stockings, and set up his spinning-frame at Cromford in Derbyshire. The area is famed for its spring water, and it was the same water that drew Arkwright there. Cromford was served by a warm spring that never froze even in the coldest winter. It was the ideal place for the world’s first factory.

A single spinster could spin a single thread. A Spinning Jenny could produce perhaps twenty threads at a time. But in its final form Arkwright’s machine, now called the ‘water-frame’ thanks to its new motive power, could spin ninety-six threads at the same time using just one unskilled operator. Arkwright had made cotton spinning into child’s play. So, of course, he needed children to operate it.

He advertised for workers with large families, all of whom could be employed. Arkwright seems to have supported the idea of child labour because it took such a long time to learn the trade that if ‘they were not to go until they were twelve or thirteen they would be leaving when they became useful’. He favoured a minimum age no higher then ten. But for the time, conditions at Cromford were extremely good. Decent houses were built for the mill workers, and also for the weavers and the others who supported or were fed by the water-frame. Although he used children, they were not admitted until they could read, and he made sure that there was schooling for all. Indeed it was pressure from the parents that made sure plenty of children were available. Profits from the mill were so great that it was kept working twenty-three hours a day, with an hour for oiling and cleaning the machines.

Arkwright’s thread was better than any cotton thread then available in Britain. The only full cotton fabric had come from India, the locally produced cloth being a mixture of cotton and flax because the British cotton thread was not hard enough. This caused an anomaly because cotton cloth was subject to duty, supposedly because it was imported. An Act of Parliament put the matter right and allowed Arkwright to reap the rewards of his invention. His empire expanded into mills all over the country.

He also sold and licensed the machines to others, raking in a vast income for himself but stoking up resentment at his stranglehold on the industry. There were many attempts to use the technology – both the water-frame and later a very successful carding machine – without paying the inventor. The matter came to a head in a series of trials in which Arkwright attempted to prosecute those who had tried to ‘steal’ his patented machines – but the result was not as he had hoped. In 1781 before the King’s Bench, Arkwright’s case against Charles Lewis Mordaunt was heard before Lord Mansfield. Surprisingly, Mordaunt did not deny that he had infringed the patent. Rather, he argued, the patent itself was not valid. The court found in Mordaunt’s favour, agreeing that Arkwright had not fully revealed the specification as a patentee is required to do, but ‘did all he could to hide and secrete it’. In the subsequent trial of 1785, it was suggested that the invention was not new, having been secretly stolen and passed to Arkwright by John Kay, the man who helped him build the prototype spinning machine. James Watt himself had been called as a witness and wrote, ‘Though I do not love Arkwright, I don’t like the precedent of setting aside patents . . . I fear for our own.’

Despite the loss of his patents, it is difficult to feel sorry for Sir Richard Arkwright. The invention was merely the starting point for the real revolution – the organisation of mills along factory lines. Arkwright was so brilliant a businessman that by the time he died in 1792 he had amassed £500,000, worth perhaps £200 million today. There is a wonderful description of the great man by Carlyle: ‘A plain, almost gross, bag-cheeked, potbellied Lancashire man, with the air of painful reflection, yet also of copious free digestion.’ Not a conventional hero, then, but he changed the face of British industry.

The mill at Cromford in Derbyshire is being restored, and is open to the public. There is an original water-frame in the Helmshore Textile Museum in Rossendale (01706 226459).

Portland cement is one of the most important raw materials in the building trade. Hardly a building goes up in the industrialised countries of the world without its share of Portland cement, and sometimes vast structures are made entirely of cement, with merely some sand and gravel aggregate to turn it into concrete, and some reinforcing rods to add tensile strength. By one of those delightful quirks of fate, Portland cement was invented as the result of a careless mistake by a bricklayer in Leeds.

Concrete has a long history: it was used for the floors of huts on the banks of the Danube in about 5600 BC; in the construction of the Great Pyramid of Giza in 2500 BC; and spectacularly by the Romans. They found they could make strong cements by using volcanic ash from Vesuvius. The dome of the Pantheon in Rome is almost 50 yards across, and is made of a lightweight concrete using pumice stone as aggregate; this dome inspired Christopher Wren when he came to design St Paul’s Cathedral. Similarly, the Pont du Gard aqueduct and Hadrian’s Wall were held together with concrete.

John Smeaton, commissioned in 1756 to build the third Eddystone Lighthouse, experimented with types of concrete that would set under water, and eventually produced a complex mixture of burnt Aberthaw blue lias (Welsh limestone) and Italian pozzolana, which was the best cement produced since the Romans left – and Smeaton’s Stump still stands on the Eddystone rocks to prove it! Because Portland stone had an excellent reputation as a building material, Smeaton set out to make a cement that would not only look as good but also be as strong as Portland stone, and he called it Portland cement. But the most important advance in technology came seventy years later, in a grubby back yard in Yorkshire.

On Christmas Day 1778, Thomas Aspdin, a bricklayer of Hunslet near Leeds, celebrated when his wife produced a son, whom they called Joseph. He followed in his father’s footsteps and became a bricklayer, too. In 1817 he decided to cut out one of the middlemen and make his own cement, so he moved into Leeds and bought an old glassworks in Slip-in Yard, Back of Shambles, off Briggate. This was where his chemistry went wrong.

Simple lime mortars are made from chalk, limestone or shells, which are all forms of calcium carbonate (CaCO3). Heating this in an oven at about 1000°C drives off carbon dioxide to produce quicklime (CaO). Adding water to quicklime makes slaked lime (Ca(OH)2), which will mix with more water to make a smooth paste of lime mortar. This mortar is easy to work with, and it sticks bricks together slowly but effectively, because although it does not set on its own, it reacts very slowly with the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to make calcium carbonate, which is hard. Adding a little clay to the lime makes the cement harder, and it sets more strongly, although too much clay makes the mortar difficult to use.

Apparently Joseph Aspdin used a mixture of one part of clay to three parts of limestone, and he melted them together. Had he been using a lime kiln at around 1000°C that would have been fine, and he would have made conventional lime mortar. But his glass furnace was designed to reach higher temperatures, and probably by mistake he heated his mixture to about 1300°C. When he cooled it down again he found the furnace was full of lumps of clinker, so hard they were difficult to get out of the furnace. When he did get them out he had tremendous trouble grinding them into powder and his investment in the furnace must have seemed rather dubious. And when he found that the powder would not even slake properly, as lime should when mixed with water, he must have come close to abandoning the whole enterprise.

But then he discovered that this new powder behaved strangely with water. Instead of just getting wet it reacted slowly to make a solid and insoluble mass: an incredibly strong artificial stone. Here at last was the product that everyone wanted – a cement that would set hard throughout its bulk, not merely on the surface. It would even set like a rock under water; John Smeaton would have been delighted. And when Aspdin applied for his patent in 1824, he followed Smeaton’s example and called his new product Portland cement. He outgrew his little factory in Leeds, moved to larger premises in Wakefield, and made both cement and money.

The high temperature in the furnace was critical, for it causes the chalk and the clay to react together to produce a new compound: calcium silicate. This is the rock-like mass on which most of the world’s buildings now stand. In fact, Joe Aspdin never really understood the potential of his creation. He thought of it merely as a material for facing brick buildings, to make them look like stone. He died on 20 March 1855, and was buried at St John’s Chapel in Wakefield. He would have been amazed at a typical modern cement works, using huge rotating kilns to melt together a 3:1 mixture of chalk and clay at 1450°C, and producing 3,000 tonnes of Portland cement every day. And all because the brickie from Hunslet had bought a second-hand glassworks. . . .

There remains one building still faced with Aspdin’s original artificial stone – the Wakefield Arms pub, beside Kirkgate station in Wakefield. The smooth facing of the pub is a testimony to the quality of his product, and the lunch in the pub isn’t bad either! A curious memorial is the Ship-on-Shore pub at Sheerness, which is made entirely from solidified barrels of cement. These were being transported down the Thames when the ship ran aground; local people thought the barrels contained whisky and quickly hauled them ashore, only to find they were full of rapidly hardening cement, so they turned the barrels into a pub!

In the early stages of the First World War, hundreds of thousands of soldiers were pinned in trenches by the machine-gun bullets whizzing overhead. To begin with, the commanders thought they could silence the machine-guns by bombardment with heavy artillery. They were wrong. On the first day of the battle of the Somme, when the troops went ‘over the top’ in the ‘great push’, struggling with the mud and the barbed wire, twenty thousand men died, probably within a couple of hours.

In the first six months of the battle, neither side advanced more than half a mile. The way forward eventually was found, in the shape of the tank, but meanwhile both sides looked for ways to kill the enemy where they were. They were dug down out of the reach of bullets, but they could still be reached by poison gas.

Thousands of artillery shells were filled with liquid gas; these exploded on impact and spread the gas. But probably more lethal were the cylinders stored in the front line. On suitable days, when the wind was blowing gently towards the enemy lines, the stopcocks were opened, and poison gas was allowed to roll silently across no-man’s-land and into the enemy trenches, ravaging the unsuspecting troops. There was no warning – just a sudden curious smell, a choking sensation, and sometimes streaming eyes.

Many types of gas were tried. Chlorine, now used in very dilute form for disinfecting swimming pools, caused choking and lung damage. Mustard gas caused terrible irritation of the eyes; the soldiers could not see, and the skin often blistered. One of the most deadly was phosgene, with a sweet smell of new-mown hay, but lethal after-effects.

Troops were issued with gas-masks, but wearing them all the time was impossible; what was needed was a way to get the gas out of the trenches when it had drifted in. The solution was the Ayrton Fan.

Phoebe Sarah Marks was born on 28 April 1854, one of eight children of Alice and Levi Marks, a clockmaker. Later, in her teens, she changed her name to Hertha. Fascinated by science, she went to Cambridge and on to Finsbury Technical College, where she assisted Professor William Ayrton in his research with arc lamps. She did well; not only did she work out what made arc lamps so noisy; she also married the Professor in 1885, becoming Hertha Ayrton. In 1899 she became the first woman member of the Institute of Electrical Engineers, as a result of her arc-lamp work. In 1902 she was proposed for election to the Royal Society, but was rejected because they had no legal charter to elect a married woman as a Fellow. Her breakthrough came in 1901, when she spent the autumn in Margate. The wide curving beach below the town is a lovely place to walk, and at low tide presents a fascinating array of ripples in the sand. To her sharp scientific mind they presented a challenging question – how and why were ripples formed?

One afternoon Hertha shocked her landlady when she returned from her walk and declared, ‘I will have my bath in the sitting room after tea, please.’ Hertha used the galvanised tub to perform the first of many experiments on sand ripples. She had already realised, from her observations on the shore, that ripples are not formed by waves crashing on the beach. So presumably they can be formed in deep water by the back and forth movement of the water above. If you look closely at the sand near a small bump, you can see that the water swirls over it and eddies back toward the bump. This swirl, or vortex, carries sand with it, makes the bump a bit bigger, and starts to make a trough where it took the sand from. When the water flows back the other way, the same thing happens on the other side of the bump. As the water ebbs and flows, each vortex takes more sand from the trough and dumps it on the bump. So the bump becomes a ripple. Back in London Hertha started serious research on ripples, which was to last for many years. In 1904 she became the first woman to read a paper to the Royal Society; needless to say it was about the origin and growth of ripples.

In 1915 the troops in the trenches in northern France were dying in huge numbers from the effects of poison gas. Like everyone else in Britain, Hertha Ayrton was worrying about them when she went to the Royal Society on 6 May. On her way home in a taxi – she lived at 41 Norfolk Square, near Paddington, London – she had a brainwave. If a flow of water can create vortices, then the opposite should also be true: the right type of vortex should be able to create a flow of air, which could drive back the gas.

She walked into her house and told her maid she was not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Then she set about testing her idea by means of a table-top experiment. She built a small-scale parapet with little sand bags, and flapped a postcard on her ‘sandbags’ to create a local vortex, hoping it would generate a flow of air along the table. Then she made some smoke to monitor the flow of air. If a postcard could drive away the oncoming smoke, then perhaps a full-size fan would be able to drive poison gas out of a trench. Her results were so astonishing that she ‘laughed aloud at the simplicity of the solution’. It turned out to be so effective that a close friend of Hertha’s, Mr Greenslade, used to demonstrate its use in training trenches in 1916 using cyanide gas – without a gas-mask! As a direct result of her scientific curiosity and intuition, the Ayrton Fan was developed, and 104,000 were sent to the trenches to save the soldiers from the lethal drifting gas.

There is an original Ayrton Fan at the Imperial War Museum. Hertha lived at 41 Norfolk Square, near Paddington station.

Francis Bacon was the sixth child of Sir Nicholas Bacon, Keeper of the Great Seal at the court of Elizabeth I. He was born into a position of great privilege, but no money – he was too far down the line to inherit anything. So he turned to the law, and was a professional lawyer all his life. He lived in St Albans, once the Roman town of Verulamium, and celebrated both those names because he became Viscount St Albans and Baron Verulam. He reached the highest office in the land, but seriously fell out with two monarchs; in his spare time, he laid the foundations for modern science – and died inventing the frozen chicken.

Despite his family connections, he had difficulty getting into court. He insisted on offering advice to Queen Elizabeth, and supported laws she didn’t like, so it’s not surprising he was less than popular. He found himself in the tricky position of having to support the execution for treason of a good friend of his, the Earl of Essex. When James I took over things looked up, and Bacon’s brilliant legal mind was rewarded with a succession of posts, culminating in his becoming Keeper of the Great Seal, as his father had been, and Lord Chancellor of England, the most powerful minister in the land. In 1621 he was created Viscount St Albans. But just five days later it all went horribly wrong when he was charged with bribery. The House of Lords fined him £40,000 and banished him from the ‘verge of court’ – which meant he had to stay 12 miles away from the King at all times, which is a tricky navigational problem. Although the King later did away with the fine and the sentence, this was the end of Bacon’s public life and he retired to Gorhambury, his fine Tudor house, to concentrate on his writing.

What really interested him was truth, and in particular scientific truth. He was worried that a lot of supposedly scientific ideas were simply made up. In particular, he was disturbed to find that Tudor science was based largely on the ideas of Aristotle, who had died in 322 BC. Aristotle, tutor to Alexander the Great, had tried to show how knowledge could be obtained. Many of his conclusions – the earth at the centre of the universe, species of animals never changing – have been overturned. But what Bacon objected to was his method – the idea that scientific truth could be found by authority and argument. If you had clever enough men and they discussed something for long enough, the truth would result. Bacon went out of favour in the late nineteenth century because people said he hadn’t fully developed the scientific method, but he it was who suggested that evidence, rather than imagination, should be the basis for scientific truth.

Bacon parodied these ‘authorities’ as spiders – spinning webs from their own substance. What you needed, he said, was evidence from the real world. He set out ways in which you could accumulate evidence, and one of these was by experiment. Suppose you wanted to investigate gravity, and whether something falls because it is pulled by the earth, or has its own tendency to move downward – which was the old Aristotelian idea. He suggested using two clocks, one regulated by springs, the other by weights. Take them to the top of the highest church, and down the deepest mine. If gravity is a property of the weight itself, the clocks won’t be affected, but if it comes somehow from the earth, then the weight-driven clock will speed up or slow down as you go closer to or further from the centre of the earth. This is a neat example of the ‘Scientific Method’, where you test a theory by a controlled experiment. In this case the ‘control’ is the spring-driven clock, which should always run at the same speed.

He summed up his idea neatly: ‘Whether or no anything can be known, can be settled not by arguing, but by trying.’ In his spare time he began publishing his new ideas. The frontispiece of his book Novum Organum shows the Pillars of Hercules, symbolising in the ancient world the limit of man’s knowledge, and a ship sailing through into the modern world of knowledge Bacon dreamed of. The Latin inscription means: ‘Many shall sail through and knowledge shall be increased.’

Francis Bacon recorded a curious phenomenon; he said that hot water freezes more quickly than cold water. He did not claim this was his discovery; indeed he said it had been known for a long time. However, it’s a claim that you can easily test with your own experiments; fill one glass or ice-cube tray with water from the cold tap and an identical one with water from the hot tap, put both in the freezer, and see which is frozen solid first. Why hot water might freeze first is a bit of a mystery. One possibility is that if your freezer is frosted up, the warm glass melts through the frost and gets better contact; another is that a thin ‘lid’ of ice forms quickly on the cold water, which actually helps to keep some of the heat in by stopping convection currents in the water. But does it depend on the container? It’s certainly a fascinating phenomenon, and an example of something you probably wouldn’t have discovered simply by argument. Bacon suggested that as well as doing experiments, scientists should rigorously collect and organise data from the natural world, to make sure their ideas match what really goes on.

There are quite a few odd theories surrounding Bacon. Some people think he is the author of Shakespeare’s plays – because a mere actor like William Shakespeare couldn’t possibly have done it. Others believe that he was in fact a son of Queen Elizabeth herself. I doubt if either theory would stand up to scientific investigation by Bacon himself.

One snowy day in early April 1626, Bacon was travelling through Highgate, then outside London, when he was seized by a sudden scientific impulse. At the foot of Highgate Hill he obtained a chicken from a peasant. He had a life-long interest in heat and cold, and wanted to find out whether cold could be used to preserve meat. So he stuffed the chicken with snow, which was conveniently lying about on the ground. But while he was doing this, he was suddenly taken ill. He was taken to his friend Lord Arundel’s place, which was just round the corner. In the carriage he suffered a fit of ‘casting’ or vomiting, and had to go to bed as soon as he reached the house. And having invented the frozen chicken, he died a few days later on 9 April.

Gorhambury House was demolished in the eighteenth century to make a picturesque ruin for the new mansion that was being built, but the remains are still visible on the Gorhambury Estate in St Albans. Bacon died in the Old Hall on the corner of The Grove and Bacon Lane, at the top of Highgate Hill.

Sir Donald Coleman Bailey’s invention was hardly glamorous. Indeed it was so simple and unassuming that at first it was ignored in favour of more complicated designs. But in the end, his revolutionary bridge proved to be a vital link in the road to victory in Europe in 1944 and 1945.

Bailey came from Rotherham, went to Sheffield University and got his first job with Rowntree in York, before joining the Military Engineering Experimental Establishment in 1928 as a civil engineering designer. The problem he was to solve so spectacularly well was familiar from many military campaigns. In retreat, as the Allies had been, you cut communications and blow bridges to hold up the progress of the enemy. But what happens when the tables are turned and you need to invade? The tactics that had been so sensible in retreat make an attack almost impossible. In the Second World War the problem was worse than in any preceding conflict because aerial bombing had been able to destroy an amazingly high proportion of bridges. Bailey had in fact dreamed up the design for a bridge as early as 1936, but the War Office wasn’t interested. Bailey must have been sure his design was right, because he kept working at it in his own time.