Tag Archives: ESB

The explosives, the Garda and the cows

After hinting at it a few days ago, I thought I’d better write about this before I forget. Ireland’s Electricity Supply Board (ESB), wanted to put the new Moneypoint Power Station into the hillside to make it less obtrusive (did they succeed? I think the chimneys may give it away). To do this the contractors needed to excavate a massive amount of rock. They also needed nice clean-cut sides to the excavation (it was to be like a quarry), and to get those they had to do pre-split blasting, a line of deep drillholes charged with exactly the right amount of a certain kind of explosive, designed to crack the rock suddenly rather than produce tons of gas. The explosives arrived with an impressive escort of armed Irish police (it was the early 1980s). There were about 100 holes, and the Garda stood around for about four hours until all the explosive was in the ground. The stuff that arrived wasn’t the kind of explosive I’d recommended, but after all the hassle of getting it there we had little choice but to go ahead.

We retired to a safe distance (as it used to say on fireworks), the shotfirer carrying his blasting machine and trailing a cable. Safe distance for us meant over a small hill behind the site, as far as we could go before we were stopped by a barbed wire fence. The shotfirer sounded his airhorn, wound the handle on his box and pressed the button. There was a roar and the sky filled with clods of earth, chunks of rock and pieces of turf as all the energy seemed to go skywards rather than into the ground. It shouldn’t have done that, and it looked rather like the photos you see of volcanoes erupting in Iceland, with all the smoke and debris but without the molten lava. Our estimate of how far away to stand was about right, as the largest of the rocks and clods landed some way off. What we hadn’t allowed for was the effect the explosion would have on the herd of cows grazing in the same field, around the hill but safety away from flying debris. Were they unhappy? They came around the hill the way buffalo stampede on the prairie, about fifty of them all heading our way. The barbed wire fence no longer seemed such an impediment to us. It’s amazing how quickly you can move and how high you can vault if you really try.

I learned later that while they were charging the holes with explosives they found there was going to be a lot left over. They couldn’t return it to Dublin because they would need the police escort and also the armoured van, and that had driven away. No brownie points for guessing where they put all the surplus explosive – down the holes.

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Irish Joke

I have just read that a power station site I worked on in Ireland in the early 1980s is getting an environmental retrofit. Retrofit? It only seems like yesterday that I was flying into Shannon Airport, hiring a car and driving the forty miles to Kilrush. The station was to be built on rock, and the firm I worked for was doing the ground investigations for the foundations.

Though I visited the site every few weeks, I can’t remember much about the project (except an incident involving the Irish police, explosives and cows). What I remember more than the technical stuff is the hotel I was booked into each time I went there. At least Basil Fawlty took an interest in the day-to-day running of his hotel, whereas the staff at this Kilrush place seemed to stumble along completely unsupervised. My colleague, a civil engineer, was given a bedroom with a window whose pane of glass had been cut half an inch too short. The window-width gap between the frame and the pane had been packed with tightly folded tissues, presumably not by the staff but by a previous occupant. Kilrush is close to the estuary of the River Shannon and the winds there can be awesome, straight off the North Atlantic. During the night my colleague woke when a gale got up and the tissues blew out. It wasn’t only the wind that got in. He told me next morning that he swung out of bed and placed his feet on a soaking wet rug. ‘It’s for the ventilation, Sor,’ was, in his opinion, an inadequate explanation.

The hotel was full, about twenty people. They were all eating breakfast in the dining room when a guest at one of the tables complained to the waitress about his meal. The argument that followed was straight out of Faulty, with neither party giving way. The waitress stomped off and didn’t come back. The guests waited for a good ten minutes before one of them got up and went to find out what had happened to the breakfast he’d ordered. Except he couldn’t, because the waitress had locked us all in the room and gone home.

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