Lucky Poet wrote:
Note to self: check the tide times...
Well I did, even if two years later, and I can confirm that tide tables actually do work:
Cramond Island is tiny but neat, and while certainly not hidden in any way, the Second World War remains are (given the area) plentiful. First is the giant Toblerone:
It was, in case you don't know, a war-time anti-shipping barrier, and the slots in the sides of the pyramids used to hold reinforced concrete panels, now gone after so many tides and storms. It turns out that the reason they seem to be in two parts is because they are - according to a contribution to the RCAHMS entry, they were increased in height in 1946, with a presumably very thick steel cable run across the tops.
At the other end of the causeway, this is the first thing you go by, being a gun emplacement to cover the barrier, alongside a searchlight mount (plus in the end block of the barrier, two very sturdy hoops to hold the end of the cable):
You could also get those Leith Western Harbour flats from here, if only the gun was still there:
Anyway, further north, and up a wee hill:
Round the corner and down, after almost getting lost (no mean feat on an island about the size of a respectable dining table), there is a thing:
A thing carrying evidence of much punk and punk-related activity (along with a bit of musical disagreement):
This was a generator house, as it turns out (according to the ever-faithful RCAHMS), and inside, the plinths are still largely (well, partly) intact:
I rather liked the many years' graffiti inside. And this, presumably related to some party (non-punk) that was apparently on later:
Also this, belonging either to somebody there early for the party, or in for an unpleasant surprise:Anyway
, a wee bit further on, and on the north-east coast of the island, here are a few of the searchlight mounts, for which the generator house was put up:
These were intended to guard against air raids on the Forth Bridge and Rosyth, to be used alongside a similar set on Inchmickery, a few miles to the north-east and deeper into the Firth.
Along with their generator house, there is very little of anything other than atmospheric graffiti inside where the operators sheltered:
On a closing note, rounding the island's tiny wee coast, and just for the hell of it, here's a sort of table with an incongruous pot, and the rather old looking remains of a jetty behind:
Ok, it's not the French Riviera, but it's no bad:
No morris dancers this time, I'm happy to report.
Ymaelodi Â'r Ymylon.