All language subtitles for puorGVM.CAA.462x.VTDH.p0801.egdirB.liaR.htroF.ehT.6fo1.1.seireS.segdirB.tsetaerG.sniatirB

Britain's iconic bridges,

spanning our most
dramatic landscapes,

have not only linked our island,
but made it great.

These are the bridges
that are known around the world,

built by visionaries
like Stevenson and Brunel,

who are famous even today.

Look at this!

From the banks of the Tyne
to the mighty Thames,

from the Firth of Forth,
to the Menai Strait...

I'm on a journey to discover
how those great bridges were built.

Here we go.

And the sweat and sacrifice
that went into their construction.

Stopping traffic.

I'll uncover the huge egos,
flawed geniuses and jealous rivalries

behind their creation.

It's as if he'd been airbrushed
from the whole story.

These are Britain's Greatest Bridges.

The Forth Bridge -

a mile and a half long, 361 feet high

and more than 125 years old.

Weighing over 50,000 tonnes

and sitting on
640,000 cubic feet of granite,

it dominates the skyline,

as it marches across one of
the deepest estuaries in Scotland,

the Firth of Forth.

It is, without doubt, one of
the most iconic bridges ever built,

but there's one view that very few
people ever get the chance to see.

Here we go.

Look at that!

You look down the middle from here,

it's this endless crisscross
of steel all of the way along.

This is amazing.

Yes!

The amount of bracing's incredible.

That was absolutely brilliant.

For over 1,000 years,

bridging this body of water
was considered an impossible dream,

until a team of Victorian visionaries
came up with an audacious plan.

When it opened in 1890,

it was one of the longest bridges
in the world.

It pushed the boundaries
of technology

and changed the way
we build bridges forever.

But it almost didn't happen.

The journey from the centre
of Edinburgh, here,

across to Fife, on the far side,
the north side, of the river,

takes about half an hour these days,

thanks to the Forth Rail Bridge.

But if I'd have been attempting
that journey back in the 1870s,

it would have been
a very different story.

Back then, railway-mania
was sweeping the country,

with lines spreading

the length and breadth of Britain.

By 1850, there was a fast connection
to Edinburgh from London,

more than 350 miles to the south.

But Edinburgh was where it stopped.

Anyone wanting to go further north
from here faced a problem.

Well, two problems, actually.

Firstly, the Firth of Forth
out there -

an enormous river estuary,

over 60 metres deep in places.

That's deeper than many parts
of the North Sea.

And then, about 50 kilometres
further up the line,

a second huge estuary,

the Firth of Tay.

Both these firths

have been stumbling blocks
for travellers for centuries.

For over 900 years, this is the only
way people could cross the Firth -

in a sailboat,
if they could afford it,

or a rowing boat, if they couldn't.

Twice a week, a team of locals
take to the water

to carry on the traditions
of the ferrymen.

They've agreed to take me out
for a little pleasure cruise -

well, pleasurable for them, anyway.

I mean, this is
absolutely spectacular.

And because I'm in a rowboat,

it feels almost more intimate,
more personal,

this experience I'm having
with the bridge here, now.

And it feels so close,

but at the same time,
very, very far away at the top.

Wow!

This is the only way
to see this bridge!

Len Saunders, a local engineer,

has been rowing these waters
for over 30 years.

So, Len, we're doing well today

because the weather gods
are very much with us.

But it's not always
as plain sailing as this, is it?

You have to remember
the tides here are very strong.

You get strong winds.

If you get the wind
against the tide,

you can get very large,
difficult waves.

But... but people would still do it,
would they, in all conditions?

Well, it depends
how desperate they were.

Right.

If you had to make a journey,

could you afford to go by road,
60 miles round,

or did you risk it on the ferry?

And, of course, there was not only
the weather to worry about.

Yeah? But the actual ferrymen.

They were a bunch of rogues,

and they would threaten to land you
on the Island of Inchgarvie,

if you didn't cough up
more money for the fare.

So, when the train companies decided

it was time to bridge the firths,

the locals assumed it would be
the answer they'd been waiting for.

Little did they realise
it would soon turn into a nightmare.

In 1871, Thomas Bouch,

one of the most successful
and renowned engineers of the time,

started construction on a bridge

across the first of
the great firths, the Tay.

It took seven years,

but by 1878, the bridge was complete.

It was a slim, elegant,
largely cast-iron bridge,

almost two miles long,

towering 88 feet above the water

and carrying a single railway track.

It was such a success,

Queen Victoria made the journey
up from London

to witness the bridge for herself.

And she must have been impressed

because Bouch was awarded
a knighthood for his efforts.

But more importantly,

he was given the chance to take on
an even bigger challenge -

to cross the Firth of Forth.

If he succeeded, it would be
the pinnacle of his career.

Plans were drawn up

and a year after
the Tay Bridge opened,

construction started right here.

In fact, this wee lighthouse

sits on one of the foundations
built to hold Bouch's bridge.

It was supposed to support a giant
tower for a huge suspension bridge,

but they never got past that point

because a month after construction
started, disaster struck.

On the night of
the 28th of December, 1879,

a fierce storm raged
over the Firth of Tay.

At approximately 7:15 that evening,

a train set out
along Bouch's new Tay Bridge,

heading north, to Dundee.

The bridge collapsed, and the train,
along with all its passengers,

was sent plummeting into
the dark icy waters beneath.

It wasn't until daylight
the next morning

that the true extent of the disaster

became clear for all to see.

Part of the bridge
had literally disappeared.

The Tay Bridge disaster
shocked the world

and its ramifications
can still be felt today.

In the McManus Galleries, in Dundee,

they have a chilling reminder
of that fateful moment.

I'm very fortunate -
I've been granted access, here,

into the archives of the museum,

to see some items
related to the bridge disaster

that aren't normally on display.

And a lot of these here were found
on the beaches of the Tay -

items that were washed up
after the disaster -

and one, in particular, of note.

It's at the back here,
it's a pocket watch

from one of the firemen
in the locomotive on the train,

and it's stopped at the time of
7:31 and 37 seconds,

a few moments after
the bridge went down.

It's a real marker
for a moment in time.

At least 74 people died that night,

but as there was no accurate record

of the number of passengers
on the train,

the true number will never be known.

Designer Thomas Bouch
blamed the train,

saying it must have derailed

and as it veered off the side,
it pulled the bridge down with it.

The official inquiry
into the disaster blamed Bouch,

saying he hadn't designed the bridge
sufficiently

to withstand those gale-force winds
that blew that night.

Unfortunately, we'll never know
the exact cause,

but everyone agrees
one thing made it worse -

this.

Cast iron.

Bouch's Tay Bridge was designed

so the entire structure rested on
a series of slender pillars,

each one made of cast iron -

a material he was going to use
on his Forth rail bridge too.

Nobody suspected
that the very metal itself

would prove to be
the bridge's downfall.

Today, all that remains
of the original Tay Bridge

are a few foundations in the shadow
of the bridge built to replace it.

Because of his perceived failure,
here on the Tay Bridge,

Thomas Bouch was sacked
by the railway,

work on his Forth bridge
was abandoned

and less than a year later,
he died, a broken man.

It looked like rail passengers

were going to be stuck with
the dreaded old ferry from now on.

But back in London,
two engineers had come up with

a new and daring plan
to cross the Firth of Forth -

a design so radical
and at a scale so large,

it had never been tried
anywhere in the world.

If it worked, it would change
the way we build bridges forever.

This is one of the truly great
engineering wonders of the world,

the Forth Bridge.

It's actually quite intimidating,
being stood under here.

I'm so close, under all
these thousands of tonnes

of steel girders and truss work
and all the rivets.

And looking along, it's just
a real mishmash of steel everywhere.

I'm about to go through this gate,

and I'm very privileged
to be doing so

because normally,
this area is restricted

to maintenance crews only.

Standing here, you get the feeling
that this is a bridge like no other -

a bridge that flaunts its strength
in a thousand beams and girders.

It's actually hard
to make sense of it all.

So, why does this bridge have such
an incredibly complicated structure?

Well, to answer that,
I need to get a different view -

from right on top.

It's a 361-foot ride
up the north tower, to the top.

My guide, Colin Hardie, is charged
with maintenance on the bridge,

and gets to go up every day.

But for me,
it's a chance of a lifetime.

Look at this!

The views from up here
are absolutely stunning.

I mean, you've got...

You've got the city of Edinburgh
just behind us, there,

and then you're just heading up,

straight out,
into the mountains, up here.

You've even got snow
on some of the mountains up here.

And you can see the other bridges
right beneath us,

where it feels like
you're on top of the world, up here.

It's magical.

As Colin gets on with making sure

the bridge is still here
for another 125 years,

I get to take a look at
this amazing structure

from a totally unique perspective.

I'm stood now, looking down
from the top of the bridge.

All of that intricate,
cross-bracing metalwork

starts to make a bit more sense.

There's a... there's a lot of order
and form to it.

This is built to be strong,
it's built to last.

The rail track below me
is hanging off these flat girders

that run between the top
of the towers,

like a huge rollercoaster,

taking the weight
as the trains roll through.

The towers carry the weight

down to the masonry piers,

which hold the whole bridge up.

All those small ties

basically prevent the whole thing
pulling apart

but, at the same time,
they add stiffness

so it doesn't twist in the wind.

It seems almost too complicated,

with its strange angles

and different interconnecting parts.

A more pared-down structure
would have made more sense.

So, why did they design
and build it like this?

The reason it seems
so over-engineered

is because, well, it is,

and for one simple reason -

the Tay Bridge disaster.

The memory of that tragedy is encoded
into the DNA of this bridge.

The design, the materials, even
the methods they used to build it,

were seen as a reaction
to that tragedy.

This bridge not only had to
physically stand up to

whatever the world could throw at it,

it had to make people
believe it could do so.

It was designed to combat fear.

To help counter this fear

and settle the nerves
of a shocked public,

the decision was taken to build
the new bridge across the Forth

out of a completely different
material to the Tay Bridge -

steel.

To help understand the advantages
of steel over cast iron,

I've travelled to London,

to one of the last traditional
cast-iron makers.

The Tay Bridge wasn't the only bridge
to be made out of cast iron,

but it was the bridge that clearly
and tragically demonstrated

why it's the wrong material

to build such large
supporting structures from.

Cast iron is a very strong material.

If I take this spindle here,
this cast-iron spindle,

and use it as a pillar -

just rest it up there -

I can apply huge amount of force

on the top of there...

I could be hitting that all day long.

It's not gonna buckle,
it's not gonna break,

when I'm applying a force
in that direction.

But try and bend it

by hitting it like this and...

That went through really easily.

And it's that fundamental weakness
that was blamed, in part,

for the failure of the supports
on the Tay Bridge.

Now, if we look at steel,
by comparison,

it's relatively strong
in every direction.

So, nice steel beam there.

Admittedly, that's a slightly
thicker steel beam,

but... I've got a much bigger hammer.

That's done absolutely
nothing at all to that,

and that's why they built
the Forth Bridge out of steel.

Steel is basically iron

which has had its impurities,
like carbon, reduced,

making it stronger and less brittle.

It had always been
prohibitively expensive

to use on such a large scale.

But in 1856, a new discovery -

blowing air through the molten iron
to burn off the impurities -

meant that they could now produce
vast amounts

of high-quality steel cheaply,

making it the perfect material
for building the Forth Bridge.

But using steel
didn't solve everything.

The bridge still had to overcome
some major problems -

firstly, the great distance
from shore to shore,

over a mile and a half,

the incredible depth,
sinking down almost 100 feet,

and, of course, they had to
come up with a solution

for the Scottish weather,

one that could cope with winds
that can easily top 90 miles an hour,

whipped in from the North Sea.

The normal Victorian solution

of a viaduct running low
across the water

could solve all of these issues.

But there was another problem.

The Firth of Forth was, and is,
a major shipping channel,

so the bridge would have to be
tall enough

to allow ships to pass underneath.

The Tay Bridge fell apart

trying to overcome
this exact problem.

Each of its piers were too tall

and the middle spans were too long.

So, what form
should this new bridge take?

Thomas Bouch,
designer of the Tay Bridge,

had actually planned to build
a huge cast-iron suspension bridge,

a bit like the Forth Road Bridge
just along the river.

Technically, it was possible,

but no-one had ever built

a suspension bridge
of that length before.

And many people thought a design
like that would just be too flimsy

and, more importantly,
it would LOOK too flimsy,

so that idea was ruled out too.

The solution for bridging the Forth

was to be found at 350 miles away,
in London.

Scotland boasts a long line
of famous engineers -

Thomas Telford, James Watt,
John McAdam, to name but a few.

So, it's perhaps ironic

that the country's greatest
engineering landmark

was designed by two Englishmen -

Sir John Fowler and Benjamin Baker.

This is a portrait of Fowler,

the youngest ever president
of this place,

the Institution of Civil Engineers.

And Baker, the other half of
the engineering partnership,

can be found in the institution's
main library,

hanging just behind me.

To bridge the seemingly unbridgeable
gap across the Firth of Forth,

Baker and Fowler came up with
a radical new concept,

and these are some of the original
blueprints that were drawn up

of their design.

Instead of a suspension bridge
or a viaduct,

they had decided to build
a cantilever bridge.

So, what is a cantilever?

Very simply, it's a structure
that's only attached at one end,

while the other end
extends out into space.

Cantilevers are everywhere.

Aeroplane wings, awnings,
diving boards,

even some chairs are cantilevers.

To build a cantilever bridge,
you actually need two cantilevers,

often called arms.

One on each side of the water,
reaching out towards each other.

And then, if necessary,
any gap in the middle is closed

using a third section
suspended between the other two.

Baker and Fowler
didn't invent the cantilever bridge.

It's been used all over the world
for hundreds of years,

but never on the scale
they envisioned.

One of the biggest advantages
of this type of bridge design

is that you can build outwards
from each bank,

without having to face
the difficulties or the dangers

of erecting temporary scaffolding
in deep or fast-flowing waters.

So, in 1883,

four years after work stopped
on Bouch's suspension bridge,

they finally had a solution
for crossing the Firth of Forth.

Massive granite piers,
71 feet across,

would be secured on the riverbed,

supporting three
giant 361-feet towers.

The towers would support
immense cantilever arms,

connected by short bridging sections.

The ends would connect
to two smaller viaducts,

either side of the bridge.

When finished, the bridge would be
over 8,000 feet long,

weigh over 50,000 tonnes

and be held together
by 6.5 million rivets.

To prove to the world

that their solution would work,

they created this
extraordinary demonstration,

a human cantilever.

That's Baker on the left,

Fowler on the right,

and in between them, their Japanese
engineering student, Kaichi Watanabe.

This famous picture

convinced the railway company
and the public

that this bridge
would stand the test of time.

Now, there's no magical trickery
involved in this demonstration.

It's just simple physics.

And I'll show you,
by sitting on this platform, here.

Now, if this goes well,
this should take my weight.

Everyone alright?

That's taking my full weight, there.

So, let me explain what's happening.

The two gents on the end
are representing

the anchor, the ballast points.

And my two colleagues here

are representing the towers
of the bridge.

Now, their arms

act like the top cantilevers
of the bridge.

Now, they're in tension

when I put my weight on here.

There we go.

And our wooden poles here,

they represent the bottom cantilevers
to the bridge.

They're in compression,
they're being squeezed

and when I put the weight
on this middle platform here,

that's suspended between the two,

all of my weight is being transferred
between those members

and down through the legs
of the chair.

And on the bridge,
that's the weight being transferred

down through the towers
and into the masonry piers.

And that is my full weight
being sat there.

It works!

Cracking the design challenges
was one thing,

but realising this dream

would not only push the boundaries
of technology,

but take a gruelling eight years

and cost many lives.

Now, imagine you're an engineer
in 1883.

You've got a brilliant plan
to cross this huge span of water.

But how do you turn this...

into this?

It was an undertaking
unlike anything ever attempted.

55,000 tonnes of steel,
3.5 million cubic feet of masonry,

and more than 6.5 million rivets.

As everyone knows, if you've got
a massive building project,

you need a brilliant builder,

and that's exactly what civil engineers John
Fowler and Benjamin Baker needed in 1883.

And they found one
in William Arrol.

Arrol's skills as a metalworker
were obvious from an early age.

Having started as
a blacksmith apprentice at 13,

he rose quickly in the trade,

and by the age of 30,
he'd opened his own ironworks.

It was this mastery of metal that
gave Arrol the edge over his peers.

Not only would he take on and build
these giant projects,

but he'd create machines and tools
to speed up the process,

allowing him to cut labour costs
and increase productivity.

Arrol's stroke of brilliance

was to turn north and south
Queensferry into giant factories.

There were sheds and drill roads
for fabricating parts,

offices and studios

for the engineers to prepare plans,

and yards to marshal the hundreds
of thousands of tonnes of material

that flowed through the area.

With such a massive project,

there's no room for mistakes,

and Arrol had a trick up his sleeve
to make sure there weren't any.

What few people realise

is that the Forth Rail Bridge
was actually built twice.

Every part was fabricated on dry land

and then bolted together
to make sure it would fit.

Only then was it dismantled

and taken out onto the Forth itself.

Above all, there were men,
or 'briggers', as they became known -

over 4,000 of them in total,

working 24 hours a day,
in all weathers.

Some say the whole endeavour

was similar to putting a man
on the Moon in the 1960s,

and it's a pretty good analogy -

a seemingly impossible task

overcome by engineering brilliance,
sheer hard work

and a vast sum of money.

In 1890, the bridge cost
£3 million to build,

an eye-watering sum of money
in those days.

Today, its price tag
would be billions.

The briggers' first job

was to build firm foundations
for the massive towers,

but there was a huge obstacle
they'd have to overcome -

the Forth itself.

Over here, on the north side,

building the piers
was relatively straightforward.

Two of them are here on dry land
so, no problem.

And the other two are out here,
between the tide lines -

on dry land at low tide,
underwater at high tide.

A bit more tricky.

But on the south side,
the piers are right out here,

in the middle of the firth.

Now, the riverbed is 70 foot
beneath me at this point.

And that presents
a serious challenge.

So, how did they do it?

The answer is that they used

an underwater building chamber -

a caisson.

A caisson is essentially
an incredibly large tin can

that's sunk
to the bottom of the river.

Now, this tub of water

is representing the Forth,

and the bottom of the tub here

is the riverbed.

So, what they'd do,

they would lower the caisson

down into the water.

Now, because that bottom chamber
is full of air,

it would float.

There it is, floating.

And that would enable them
to float it

into the position they'd need it,

where, using rubble and water,

they would fill the top compartment.

Steel... hook, there.

There we go.
That is well weighted down now.

Now, here comes the clever bit -
using compressed air,

they would pump air
down into the bottom compartment.

You can see the water level
slowly going down

as I pump in the compressed air.

And there we have it.

A fully airtight air pocket

at the bottom of the riverbed,

for the men to work in.

Before they could sink the caissons,

they needed to position each one
with pinpoint accuracy.

Just a few feet out of line

and the whole bridge
could come tumbling down.

A team of surveyors spent months
on a specially-built raft

to determine the correct positions.

Only then could they sink them
to the bottom of the firth.

Of course, when your caisson
is 70 feet wide

and weighs in excess of 400 tonnes,

it's easier said than done.

Once the caissons were in place,
the really hard labour began.

Working in an air chamber
just over two metres high,

they'd dig down through
tonnes and tonnes of tough clay,

hauling it up, one bucket at a time,
through small air locks.

These rare pictures
show this hidden sub-sea world.

The huge spades the men are holding
is a new kind of jackhammer,

invented personally by their boss,
William Arrol, to speed up the work.

But even with Arrol's new tools,
this was dangerous work.

As they dug down,

the caisson would sink further
into the riverbed,

with the constant fear
that the edge of the caisson

would hit a soft patch of clay,
sink too quickly,

and crush the men inside,

or that the compressed air pumps
might fail,

flooding the air chamber
and drowning the men.

Only when they reached
the solid bedrock could they stop.

They would then fill the caissons
with rubble and concrete

to create the solid foundations
the towers needed.

Even if all went well down there,

these briggers could still suffer
permanent disability

or an agonising death

from what they called
'caisson disease'

and what we call, today, 'the bends'.

One man named George Fowler
did die from caisson disease

but, incredibly, there were
few other casualties.

125 years later,

similar building techniques
are still being used,

albeit with a little bit more
health and safety.

On the water behind me here,
being built,

is the new Queensferry Crossing,

a £1.3 billion project that's due
to be completed by the end of 2016.

Now, at first glance,
it may look a lot like

the old grey road bridge just
behind it, that it's due to replace.

But, in fact, it's got a lot more
in common with the Forth Rail Bridge,

because they're both
cantilever bridges.

And that's not the only similarity
with the rail bridge.

In fact, they both used caissons

to dig the foundation
in the deep waters of the Forth.

Where are we right now?

Well, we're standing on the top of
the south tower caisson,

to the Forth replacement crossing.

You've got a vast amount of concrete,
there, before the tower.

So, what actually goes down
beyond what we can see?

Below the tower, you can see
the top of the foundation.

That's an 11-metre-deep reinforced
concrete foundation.

OK.

And then below that, we've got
the mass concrete

that goes down to the bedrock.

It's incredible
that similar caisson technology

that was used to build
the Forth Rail Bridge

is still being used today -

the only difference being
that in the 1880s,

they had to climb into the caisson
and dig on the riverbed,

whilst nowadays, they dig from above,
using barges and cranes.

Digging from above
is obviously a lot safer.

But 125 years ago, on the Forth
Bridge, that wasn't an option.

By 1886, after almost three years
of hazardous, dirty work,

the bridge had a solid foundation,

and it was time for the work
on the superstructure above the Forth

to begin.

And, once again, they used a method

that the new road-bridge builders
are still using today.

It's a really clever
construction technique -

something called being
self-supported.

Starting from the main towers,
the briggers would build outwards.

Every day, they'd add a new section
onto the bridge.

They'd build that by standing on

the section they'd built
the day before,

that, itself, they would have built

standing on the section
they'd built the day before that,

and so on and so on.

The bridge expanded outwards.

As long as you keep adding sections
to both sides simultaneously,

the bridge remains balanced.

Everything the briggers needed -
scaffolding, tools, huge cranes,

even a stove to heat their lunch
and a canteen to eat it in -

was hanging off the bridge itself.

There were dozens of trades employed
to build the bridge -

labourers, draftsmen, boilermakers,

carpenters and even cooks.

But it didn't really matter
what trade you were in,

because when you're 360 feet in
the air, it's a dangerous business.

Jenny Meldrum is part of a group
of local historians

who campaigned to have a memorial
built for the briggers who died.

So, how many men do we think died,
building the bridge?

At least 70 that we've uncovered
with the research.

The ages, I can see on here,
vary quite a bit.

You've got Thomas Birrell, 59,
labourer.

This one sticks out -
David Clark, 13.

Yes, he was actually the youngest
casualty of the bridge.

Do we know what happened
to David Clark?

David Clark, I think, fell from
a height on the bridge.

And falling off the bridge -
I imagine, he wasn't the only one

to have lost his life that way?

No, no.

Occasionally, people were
picked up from the water

but generally, it was a fatal fall,
especially at height.

Was that common, then,
for kids to be labourers?

The riveters tended to work
in teams of four,

so very often, it was,
if you like, a family affair.

You would have a family unit
working,

doing the riveting on the bridge.

Now, this is a steel rivet head.

It used to be somewhere up there,

but it was replaced a few years ago,
during renovation work.

They're kind of a glue that hold
the whole bridge together.

And up there, there are at least
6 million of them.

With so many rivets,

William Arrol came up with
a time-saving invention

to speed up the process.

He created this machine
to drive the rivets home.

It used pneumatic pressure
to squeeze the rivets together,

saving time and money on the bridge.

By March 1890,
the bridge was all but complete.

The Prince of Wales,
the future King Edward VII,

used a specially adapted
Arrol riveting machine

to force the last rivet home,

assisted by William Arrol himself.

Despite the enormous achievement
this structure represents,

some people weren't sure about it
at all.

They weren't sure
they liked the look of

this great hulking piece of red steel

stretching out across the landscape.

But more importantly,
they weren't sure it was safe.

So, the rail companies decided

to try and change people's attitude
towards the bridge

by staging the ultimate PR stunt.

On the 21st of January, 1890,

two steam trains stood side by side,
on the tracks just above my head.

It was the first major test
of the new Forth Bridge.

The trains were arranged to see

just how much strain
the bridge could take.

Each one had two locomotives,
followed by 50 wagons,

each containing 13 tonnes of gravel,

and they had an extra,
third locomotive at the back,

just for good measure.

Inch by inch, they crept out
across the water,

as the nervous designers looked on.

The bridge did its job.

Not only did it take the strain
of the massive load,

but it convinced a sceptical public

that the bridge was fit for purpose.

For the first time, a passenger
could board a train in London

and arrive, in comfort, at Aberdeen,
eight hours later,

cutting an incredible five hours
off the journey.

But even though they'd proven
it was safe and slashed travel times,

there was one controversy
that wouldn't go away.

Many leading lights
of Victorian society

thought it was just plain ugly.

One New York newspaper said it was

simply the ugliest thing
in the world

and the only way to improve it

was to hang the designers from
the highest girder and dynamite it.

But the designers knew it wasn't
beautiful. It wasn't meant to be.

It was meant to be solid
and it was meant to be strong.

They didn't care
what it looked like.

In fact, despite the criticism
over the bridge's looks,

it became an instant
tourist attraction.

Baker, Fowler and Arrol had done it.

They had bridged
the unbridgeable Forth,

convinced a sceptical public
that it was safe,

and had opened up
the north of Scotland

for trade and passengers alike.

The bridge wasn't going anywhere.

Its iconic structure
quickly became a symbol of Scotland

and as the years went by, it became
a much-loved neighbour and friend.

But fame has a downside.

When the Second World War broke out,

the Forth Bridge
became something new -

it became a target.

The Forth Bridge
took eight years to build

and cost the equivalent
of billions today.

But in 1890, the largest cantilever
bridge in the world was finished

and over 125 years later,
it's still standing.

This amazing bridge

has carried millions of passengers
across the Forth.

But the truth is we're incredibly
lucky it's still here at all.

On the 6th of October, 1939,

Britain had been at war
for just six weeks

and, at that stage, it was an affair
taking place far from these shores.

But on that morning,
something appeared

out of the skies from the east.

It was the first bombing raid
on British soil,

the primary target
being the Royal Navy fleet

anchored out in the Forth.

But the bridge
was a secondary target,

and the Luftwaffe used it
as a navigational marker

for their bombing runs.

Richard Demarco was just
nine years old back then.

He was playing on the beach a few
miles downstream from the bridge,

where he witnessed
one of the first bombing raids

of the Second World War.

It was October,

a beautiful day, cloudless sky,

and then, suddenly, I noticed
little white clouds appearing,

that were accompanied by
a dull thud.

That was the sound
of the shell exploding.

Anyway, I wasn't worried, but I
thought how beautiful they were.

But I was slightly more worried

with the sound of the Spitfire,
that I couldn't see, on the tail.

So, try to imagine,
that's the bomber, right?

OK.

And here is the Spitfire,
but you can't see the Spitfire,

and I'm down there...

Down there. OK.
..with my little brother.

And the Spitfire is firing
all its guns...

Brrrrrrrr!

At the bomber.

They were so close, within inches,

it was no effort at all

for me to bend down and pick up
the bullets, still warm.

These bullets were not
German bullets!

They were British bullets.

So, I would've been killed by
what is called now 'friendly fire'.

And did you see what happened
to that German bomber...

Yes... That was on its way down?

I saw it go like that and then I
could see the Spitfire behind it,

still firing at it,

and smoke coming from the engine.

I knew it was going to crash.

And it, crashed,
killing the two young men.

The German airmen were given
a full military funeral,

their coffins carried by the British
pilots that shot them down.

Movietone News reported the fact

that these young airmen had fought
bravely for their country.

Their coffins were draped
in swastikas.

Britain knows how to respect the
courage of these enemy airmen

who fell in the execution
of their duties.

Towards such there can no more
be hostility or hatred.

It was the first time Spitfires
were in action.

They were scrambled after the attack
was already under way,

but they still shot down
three of the 12 Ju 88 bombers.

It proved the RAF's new fighter plane

could successfully
fend off the Luftwaffe.

The bridge survived its encounter
with the Luftwaffe.

It's survived numerous collisions
with ships over the years.

It's survived 200 trains a day
rumbling back and forth.

But if there's one thing
that presents

a greater threat than anything else,

it's the Scottish weather.

Now, there's only really one way

to protect a steel structure
like this from the elements,

and that's by painting
the Forth Bridge -

a process which started

in the final months of construction,
back in 1890,

and hasn't really stopped ever since.

And it's not really surprising
we've all heard the phrase,

"It's like painting
the Forth Bridge",

as there's over 2.5 million
square feet to cover.

The painting was so relentless,

the owners of the Forth Bridge have
maintained a full-time paint crew

since it opened in 1890,

topping up the famous red paint
of the Forth wherever it was needed,

whatever the weather.

And to be fair, they must have
got something right

because the bridge is still here.

By the start of the 21st century,

110 years worth of wind and rain,

pollution from steam
and then diesel engines,

combined with
layer upon layer of paint,

started to take its toll.

People on both sides of the river

complained that occasionally,
pieces of bridge

would actually rain down
on their cars.

The sheer cost of maintaining it

threatened to overwhelm
the bridge's owners, Network Rail,

and people began to think
the unthinkable -

was it time for
the grand old lady to retire?

In 2001, Network Rail
took the decision

to try and save the bridge

by, you guessed it, painting it.

But not just with any old paint.

This time they decided to use
a new epoxy glass coating,

which should last for 25 to 35 years.

It was developed for
the North Sea rigs,

and I suppose the Forth Bridge

is about as close as you can get
to the North Sea

without actually being in it.

And it's not just the paint
that was improved.

The system for applying it
has been modernised as well.

The whole bridge
is now spray-painted.

Working in sections,
the old paint was sandblasted off,

and the new coating was then sprayed
onto the raw steel.

But there's a key component
that's refused to be modernised -

the rivets.

To get the perfect seal,
these still need to be hand-painted,

all 6.5 million of them.

Sometimes, you just can't beat
the old methods.

In 2015, the bridge's future
was made even more secure

when UNESCO, the United Nations
Scientific and Cultural Organization,

declared the Forth Bridge
a World Heritage site.

As long as there are people here
to cross this waterway,

this groundbreaking, historic bridge

will now be protected
and preserved indefinitely.

The United Nations itself agrees,

the Forth Bridge is an important
and unique structure,

not just to the history of Scotland,
not to the UK,

but to the entire world.

They declared the Forth Bridge

as a masterpiece of
human creative genius.

And you know what?
I couldn't have put it better myself.

Captions by Ericsson Access Services
SBS Australia 2017