Traces of the Industrial Revolution
By daytime, the Sustrans path between Paisley, Elderslie, Johnstone and Linwood is busy with cyclists, ramblers and dog-walkers.
Hawthorn shrubs canopy the trail, while vegetational-veiled cuttings reveal the long-abandoned Victorian canal route between Glasgow and Johnstone.
Remnants of a bulrush-mantled pond mark Broomward Wharf, where canal boats loaded and emptied merchandise.
Here, too, the waterway veered south, past Broomward Farm, towards the canal basin at Thorn Brae, Johnstone, where it terminated.
Broomward, or Ritchie’s Farm, stood between Elderslie and Johnstone, close to where Broomward Cemetery is now located.
Every year, Mr Ritchie provided a field for members of Elderslie West Church Sunday School to enjoy their annual sports evening.
This was always keenly-contested Derek Parker knew many of Paisley’s secrets – the grimy and the good.
He wandered every corner in search of the clues that would unlock Renfrewshire’s rich history.
These tales were shared with readers in his hugely popular Parker’s Way column.
We’ve opened our vault to handpick our favourites for you.
This article was first published on February, 2014.
and I remember taking part in foot, egg-and-spoon, sack and beanbagon-one’s head races.
Broomward Farm was a familiar landmark on the footpath between King George V Playing Field, with its swingpark, and a ladeside track walked by hundreds of workers at Watson’s paper mill and Reid Gear engineering factory, in Linwood.
Sadly, the gloomy lade was the scene of many drownings as men returning home from late-night shifts stumbled down the steep embankment into its watery depths and couldn’t clamber back out.
Its remnants are still visible, along with vestiges of locks, sluices and weirs diverting water from the River Black Cart into the long-demolished Linwood Cotton-Spinning Mill at Bridge Street.
Broomward Farm is long buried beneath the bricks and mortar of Ritchie Park private housing estate.
But still remaining are traces of old quarries that were once part of Bridgend and Cartside ironstone mines.
I’ve always found them places of wonder and mystery, despite their aura of dereliction and devastation.
It’s worthwhile remembering that brave miners working there used picks, shovels, buckets and explosives to excavate mineral ore, whose iron built gates, fences, factories, engines, machinery and vehicles.
These powered the Industrial
Mine of information
Revolution and made Britain the leader of the manufacturing world during Victorian times.
Often, when I cycle along the constellation-canopied path when it’s dark at night, I hear blood-curdling screams and screeches echoing among the derelict mines.
It’s only the mating cries of dog foxes and vixens in springtime or their fullygrown cubs in autumn.
But, as scintillating stars sparkle in the skies overhead, it’s easy to imagine these eerie eruptions are phantom voices from beyond the grave of longdead communities who lived, worked, played and died beside the canal route in days gone by.