Stories from the stores

No sooner do I write a blog about the symbolism of Waterloo’s station clock than it gets taken out of service for a refurbishment!

Waterloo station clock under repair, London, 25 March 2010 (David Rooney)

The concourse underneath the Waterloo clock has become an iconic meeting-place, a focal point amidst the hurry of the station, as shown in Terence Cuneo’s dramatic painting:

Waterloo station, 1967 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Now, for a few weeks, time stands still for the station’s passengers.

Waiting under the Waterloo station clock, 25 March 2010 (David Rooney)

Railways run on time. In the early days, time was a life-saver – literally – as trains used the tracks on a time-share arrangement. The wrong time on the guard’s watch could kill.

Railway guard's watch and railway timetable, 19th century (NRM / Science & Society)

Nowadays, the railways get their time from a constellation of US military satellites (the same ones that tell you where to go while driving), or through a radio signal broadcast from Anthorn, a remote spit of land on the Cumbria coast.

The Cumbrian signal is Britain’s official national time signal. It’s called MSF and it’s run for the UK’s National Physical Laboratory by VT Communications, part of a firm that used to be called Vosper Thornycroft. I’ve mentioned them before. They’ve a long history of shipbuilding.

And they’ve just merged with Babcock, a company that started life making marine steam boilers. The MSF time signal and its predecessors began as an Admiralty service for British naval officers to check their chronometers at sea.

Transport and time – two stories intertwined. But I recommend you take your own watch to Waterloo for the next few weeks…

So, what’s the connection between contact lenses and rocket engines? The answer, I probably don’t hear you cry, is hydrogen peroxide and cleanliness.

Blown glass contact lens, 1930s (Science useum/Science & Society)

The lens holder includes a small piece of material (I have yet to identify it) that catalyses the decomposition of the peroxide solution. If it didn’t then the peroxide would remain and, having successfully killed the bugs on your lenses, then do its best to kill the cells of your cornea too. And this is where the rocket engine connection comes in.

The reaction that decomposes the peroxide also produces oxygen – you can see it bubbling off the catalytic material. That same type of reaction, albeit using extremely concentrated hydrogen peroxide, was exploited in the engines of Britain’s Black Arrow space rocket to launch the Prospero satellite into orbit in 1971.

Uprated Black Arrow rocket engine, c. 1970 (Science Museum/Science & Society)

The catalyst used was silver metal gauze and it decomposed the peroxide violently into oxygen and steam, which then ignited kerosene fuel, and so provided thrust to lift the rocket. In fact, earlier rocket engines dispensed with fuel altogether and replied on the thrust of the decomposing peroxide alone.

Oh, and the cleanliness connection? Well, peroxide rocket engines are considered ‘clean’ or green as their exhaust, after all, contains little more than oxygen and steam.

It looks like spring is finally here.   

Daffodils (Anvica)

 About time too, after the coldest UK winter for over 30 years.  The figures are in, and this year the mean temperature for 1 December – 24 February was just 1.51 °C, compared to a long-term average of 3.7 °C.

But if you think that’s bad, cast your mind back to The Big Freeze of 1962/63, when parts of Wales and the South West were buried under snowdrifts six metres high, the Thames froze, and over 400 Football League and Cup games had to be cancelled. 

Ice under Windsor Bridge, January 1963 (Image: TheRoyalWindsorWebsite.com)

That year the UK’s mean winter temperature was a bone-chilling -o.18 °C, making it the coldest since 1740.     

Coincidentally, it was around 1740 that the Swedish natural philosopher Anders Celsius began conducting experiments aimed at devising a scientific, international temperature scale.   

Anders Celsius, c. 1730s (Science Museum / Science & Society)

At the start of the 1700s, temperature was measured in inches of mercury or alcohol, up and down from arbitrary zero points. In 1724 the German natural philosopher Daniel Fahrenheit proposed a scale based on three points, which set the melting point of water at 32 degrees. A number of  rival scales also came into use. 

This alcohol thermometer was marked with Florentine and Fahrenheit scales c. 1720-1750 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Celsius recognised that a common, international temperature scale would be useful for scientific purposes. He first conducted experiments to confirm how the freezing and boiling points of water varied with latitude and altitude. He then selected these as his fixed reference points and placed 100 gradations between them. A little known fact: in 1742 Celsius originally defined zero degrees on his Centigrade scale as the boiling point of water and 100 degrees as freezing point. The scale was reversed a few years later – but if it hadn’t been then we would have recorded this winter’s average temperature as 98.49 °C. 

An inscription on this mercury thermometer, c. 1790, notes that the original scale has been reversed to place freezing point at zero degrees (Science Museum / Science & Society)

An article in the Guardian last week reported that the tens of thousands of autorickshaws on the streets of India’s capital city, New Delhi, might be phased out, replaced (perhaps) by electric vehicles.

I mentioned autorickshaws a while ago. We have a very nice example, by major Indian maker Bajaj, in our store at Wroughton: 

Bajaj autorickshaw, 1982 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

These vehicles have a long history, being based on motor scooters introduced by makers such as Piaggio in the 1940s and 50s. This scene on our Making the Modern World learning website has more.

The scooter’s integrated motor and drive train, linked directly to the back wheel, lent itself readily to conversion into the stretched three-wheel autorickshaw, with this early Piaggio ‘Vespa’, on show in our Making the Modern World gallery, showing the simplicity of the design:

Piaggio 'Vespa', 1948 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Autorickshaws fill an important gap in the urban vehicle mix, between two-wheelers (nimble, but not ideal for carrying goods) and small cars or vans (better carrying-capacity but bigger, heavier and thirstier). Autorickshaws can haul a surprising amount, but without the footprint of bigger vehicles.

These small, simple motorized three-wheelers, often simply called ’autos’, give mobility to countless people, as well as offering earning opportunities to some of the world’s poor.

Any withdrawal would have to be phased over a long period, as currently there doesn’t seem to be a viable alternative. It will be interesting to see how the Delhi situation develops.

Lots of talk about the budget this week – and science funding is still uncertain. But as these examples from our Cosmos & Culture exhibition show, astronomers have always had to rely on a combination of persuasion, impressive results and skilled PR to keep their work funded.

Tycho Brahe's Stjerneborg observatory (Science Museum)

Tycho Brahe’s observations of the ‘new star’ of 1572 (a supernova explosion) impressed the Danish King Frederick II. He subsidised Tycho’s research by building the finest astronomical observatory of the times. The next King stopped the subsidy, so Tycho left for Prague to work for the German emperor Rudolf II – an early example of the ‘brain drain’.

1:200 scale model of the Lovell radio telescope at Jodrell Bank (Science Museum)

It’s one of Britain’s most striking landmarks, but Jodrell Bank’s giant Lovell Telescope almost didn’t make it. In the 1950s, under a Government investigation into the spiralling costs of construction, it seemed that it would be abandoned. But it turned out that the telescope could track the newly-launched Soviet satellites, and it became strategically important. In 2008, the telescope again faced losing funding. One joker put it up for sale on eBay. It was given a reprieve, and continues to be used for important research.

Hubble Space Telescope after assembly, 1980s (NASA / Science & Society)

Hubble is probably the most famous telescope ever – but it took many years to get off the ground. Work began in the 1970s. The US Congress insisted that NASA’s plans be scaled back, and the telescope had to be down-sized. But astronomers lobbied for funds, the European Space Agency came on board, and a 1986 launch looked possible. Then, the Space Shuttle fleet was grounded after the Challenger explosion. Hubble had to wait in clean storage, with costs mounting, until 1990. But since then, with five servicing missions to keep it upgraded, it’s been a huge success. You can follow the story of the last servicing mission in our new IMAX movie.

Exciting news for transport enthusiasts. As part of its Easter events programme, the Science Museum will be offering rides on a full-size working reproduction of its world-famous steam locomotive, Stephenson’s Rocket, on a specially-laid track in Kensington Gardens, near the museum.

Reproduction of Stephenson's 'Rocket', 1979 (NRM / Science & Society)

The original Rocket, built by Robert Stephenson in 1829, is on permanent display in the museum’s Making the Modern World gallery. It marked a turning point in locomotive design:

Stephenson's 'Rocket', 1829 (NRM / Science & Society)

Modifications over its working life dramatically changed Rocket’s appearance. Nearby is a model as it originally looked:

Model of Stephenson's 'Rocket', 1909 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Michael Bailey and John Glithero’s book on Rocket is superb.

You can also see Puffing Billy, the oldest surviving steam locomotive in the world, built in about 1814 by William Hedley to haul coal from Wylam Colliery to the nearby river:

Hedley's 'Puffing Billy', c.1814 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Also in the gallery are two remarkable models. The first was built by Richard Trevithick in 1797 to test ideas that led to the world’s first steam railway locomotive, which he built in 1804:

Trevithick's test model, 1797 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

The second model, on the gallery’s upper walkway, was built in 1812 by Puffing Billy’s William Hedley to test the adhesion of smooth wheels on rails:

Hedley's adhesion model, 1812 (NRM / Science & Society)

Our reproduction Rocket rides will be running daily from 31 March to 18 April. Adult tickets cost a fiver, with kids going half-price. Everyone gets a souvenir goody bag, and admission to the museum itself to see the historic machines is free.

I was inspecting the Science Museum’s shipping collections at our Blythe House store a few months ago, and came across this model of the oil tanker World Progress, built in 1973.

Model of 'World Progress' oil tanker (Science Museum / Science & Society)

She was classed a ‘Very Large Crude Carrier’, and with a carrying capacity of nearly quarter of a million tonnes, she was certainly well described. But she carries oil no more. According to the website of supertanker enthusiast Auke Visser, she was scrapped on the beaches of Chittagong back in 1996.

Chittagong has been in the news recently as the venue for the Bangladesh-England first test in the cricket. But in the transport world, Chittagong is well-known for its coastline of very shallow, muddy beaches which has become a worldwide centre for shipbreaking (as is Alang in the Gujarat state of neighbouring India).

This isn’t high-tech shipbreaking. That takes place elsewhere in the world, and costs far more. On the beaches of Bangladesh, huge oil tankers are torn apart by hand, using hammers, chisels, cutting torches, rudimentary diesel winches and a great deal of brute force and ingenuity.

One absorbing book I’ve read recently, Breaking Ships by BBC South Asia correspondent Roland Buerk, highlights some of the stark realities of the Chittagong industry, and what the alternatives might be. I certainly don’t know enough about this complex matter to pass any judgement myself.

Google Maps gives us the fascinating opportunity to look down on the beaches of Chittagong. The scale of the industry can be clearly seen. Zoom right in - the detail’s remarkable…

A few days ago, I told you about riverfront industry in Greenwich. I recently made another Thames-side discovery.

Just by Masthouse Terrace pier on the Isle of Dogs, you can see the original launching slip for the record-breaking ship, the Great Eastern.

Great Eastern launching slip, Isle of Dogs (David Rooney)

Close by is the frontage of its manufacturer, John Scott Russell.

John Scott Russell building, Isle of Dogs (David Rooney)

The Great Eastern was huge. Designed by Brunel and built by Russell, when launched in 1858 she was by far the largest ship ever built. In fact, she was called Leviathan (huge or powerful thing) during construction.

'The Great Eastern on the Stocks', 1850s (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Despite several launch attempts, she refused to budge, and had to be pushed into the Thames using hydraulic jacks built by the Tangye company.

Richard Tangye with the 'Great Eastern', Millwall, 1850s (Science Museum / Science & Society)

This commission was the making of Tangye, who later advertised, ‘we launched the Great Eastern, the Great Eastern launched us.’ We’ve quite a few Tangye items in our collections – browse here. (PS. Tangye’s great-great-granddaughter, Charlotte, is a friend of mine!)

By this time, satirists were questioning the use of this monster. This cartoon from our archives suggests ‘what to do with her now you’ve got her off’…

'A Suggestion: The Leviathan, what to do with her now you've got her off', 1858 (Science Museum / Science & Society)

The ship, scrapped in the 1880s, may seem like a distant memory, but it’s surprising what can still be found on the streets, by the river, and tucked away in museums…

In my last post I told you about my weekend of London tunnel visits, culminating in an exceedingly rare chance to walk through Brunel’s Thames Tunnel from Rotherhithe to Wapping.

Well, to help acclimatise to the underground world of Rotherhithe, my friends and I had spent the morning in training, by walking through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

Entrance to the Rotherhithe Tunnel, 2010 (David Rooney)

Unlike its 1840s counterpart a shade further west, built for pedestrians and taken over by the railway, the Rotherhithe Tunnel, opened in 1908, was originally for horse-drawn traffic but soon overrun with motor vehicles. But pedestrians have always been allowed through.

In the Rotherhithe Tunnel, 2010 (David Rooney)

To be honest, our walk was pretty hard work. The pavements are narrow, the vehicles many, the air fume-laden and the noise infernal. We really had to keep our wits about us. But it was well worth it, just to experience another historic Thames tunnel.

And historic it really is. When I got home, I looked to see what our collections hold on the tunnel, and what I discovered blew me away. Buried in our stores is a set of 56 original photographic prints depicting the construction of the tunnel.

Here’s a tiny taster of what I found:

Construction of the Rotherhithe Tunnel (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Construction of the Rotherhithe Tunnel (Science Museum / Science & Society)

Construction of the Rotherhithe Tunnel (Science Museum / Science & Society)

How’s that for a bit of London history! If you want to see all 56 in all their glory, go to our picture library website and type ‘Rotherhithe Tunnel’ into the search box. And keep these remarkable pictures in mind next time you’re stuck in traffic down the Rotherhithe Tunnel…

As today is St Patrick’s Day and I’m of the Paddy persuasion myself, here are a few objects with Irish links in our astronomy collection.

Rowley's original orrery, 1712 (Science Museum)

This is one of the earliest mechanical models of the Solar System, on display in Science in the 18th Century. It was made for the 4th Earl of Orrery, Charles Boyle. His County Cork title gave its name to subsequent planetary models.

Another Irish peer with a keen interest in astronomy was William Parsons, the 3rd Earl of Rosse.  He built several telescopes at his castle in County Offaly. The largest, known as the Leviathan of Parsonstown, was the world’s biggest telescope for over 70 years. You can see its six-foot  mirror in Cosmos & Culture, or visit the reconstructed telescope at Birr Castle.

The Rosse Mirror, 1842-45 (Science Museum)

There’s one big snag with building a telescope in Ireland – rain. Lots of it. Many of Lord Rosse’s visitors moaned about ruined observing nights. But during some rare breaks in the clouds, Rosse was able to observe nebulae, hazy patches of sky that had been puzzling astronomers for years. Thanks to the great mirror’s light-gathering power, he could see that some had spiral structures. We now know they are galaxies beyond our own. (Today, ‘nebula’ has a different meaning in astronomy).

Another telescope used to study nebulae was Isaac Roberts’ twin equatorial telescope. Its 20-inch reflecting telescope and stand were made by Grubb of Dublin.

Twin equatorial telescope, 1885 (Science Museum)

And finally, since it’s customary to celebrate Paddy’s Day with a drop of the black stuff, here’s a  photo of the black drop effect. Sláinte!

The black drop effect is sometimes seen when Venus transits the Sun. (Statis Kalyvas and VT-2004, used with permission)