Tay Bridge Disaster still haunts the Firth of Tay in more ways than one. On the anniversary of the collapse, locals and travellers have reported seeing a phantom steam train crossing the modern bridge. According to accounts, it appears out of the darkness, carriage lights glowing, steam trailing behind. Then, halfway across, it vanishes to the sound of screaming people and screeching metal. The sighting always occurs on the night of 28 December, the same night that, in 1879, a real passenger train from Burntisland to Dundee fell through the iron girders into the black water below.
Some dismiss the stories as folklore or tricks of the light, while others are less certain. The Firth of Tay is a place of shifting mists and long reflections. On a winter night, with the wind funnelling down the estuary, it is easy to imagine shapes in the darkness. Yet the reports persist. Witnesses describe the same details: the glow of the firebox, the rhythm of the wheels, the sudden silence when the train disappears.
Whether or not you believe in ghosts, the Tay Bridge Disaster left a mark on this place that has never quite faded. Stand on the waterfront at Dundee or Wormit now, and you can see the modern bridge humming with life. Next to it, the ruined stumps of the first bridge still march across the riverbed. These broken columns poke from the tide like grave markers. On the anniversary, when the ghost train is said to appear, you begin to understand why the memory of that night remains so vivid.
The real disaster: 28 December 1879
The phantom train echoes a genuine tragedy. On the storm‑ravaged evening of Sunday, 28 December 1879, a passenger train from Burntisland to Dundee began to cross the first Tay Rail Bridge. Within minutes, the central “high girder” section of the bridge was gone and with it, the train, the ironwork, and everyone on board.
We still do not know the exact number of dead. Contemporary estimates spoke of about 75 lives lost—however, careful modern work points to 59 victims. The Tay does not give up its secrets easily. What is certain is that there were no survivors. Consequently, the Tay Bridge Disaster became one of the worst railway tragedies in British history.
Pride on the Firth of Tay
When the first Tay Bridge opened in 1878, it was hailed as a modern wonder. Two miles long and carried on dozens of iron spans, it was then the longest railway bridge in the world. It slashed the journey time to Dundee and the north. Furthermore, it spared travellers the delay of the ferry. It became a bold symbol of Victorian ambition.
The engineer behind it, Sir Thomas Bouch, had made his name with lighter, cheaper railway structures. The Tay was meant to be his greatest triumph. Queen Victoria crossed the bridge in 1879 and later knighted him. Newspapers called it “the greatest modern triumph of engineering” and “the pride of the country”.
Cracks beneath the celebration
Beneath the praise, however, the bridge had problems. Much of the ironwork had been poorly cast and erected in a rush. This was driven by a desire to finish quickly and impress. The piers were slender, the bracing light, and the workmanship often rough. In theory, a 25 mph speed limit protected the structure. In practice, trains did not always keep to it.
Men who worked on the bridge felt it sway. Painters spoke of a shudder as engines roared past. Passengers noticed an odd sideways motion when a train ran fast through the high girders. As the Daily Telegraph later wrote, “in some quarters… there had been a suspicion against the stability of the structure”. Those suspicions were talked about in quiet corners, then set aside. The bridge was new, official, and celebrated. Trains kept running. Pride, habit and the timetable marched on towards the Tay Bridge Disaster.
A Scottish storm gathers: a prelude to the Tay Bridge Disaster
On the night of the Tay Bridge Disaster, a tremendous storm was blowing across Scotland. Along the estuary, locals who had lived by the river for decades said they had seen nothing like it. A gale blew almost at right angles to the bridge. It screamed through the iron lattice and drove spray over the piers. Windows rattled ashore. Roofs creaked. The river boiled white in the darkness.
In streets and warm parlours, people heard the storm and worried for ships at sea. Few thought to fear the bridge. It had survived earlier gales.
The last train from Burntisland
At around 7 p.m., the Burntisland–Dundee train approached the southern end of the bridge. Only one train was allowed on the bridge at any time. The driver slowed and collected the wooden baton from the Signal Box, giving him authority to cross. He took his engine and six carriages out over the water into the dark.
A friend of the signalman stood at the window. He watched the carriage lights push into the storm. About 200 yards onto the bridge, he saw something unsettling. A stream of sparks flew from the wheels on the east side. He had seen the same thing with the previous train. It was as if the wind were pressing the metal hard against the rails.
The train moved into the high‑girder section. This was a narrow iron tunnel high above the Firth. Between the rain, spray and shrieking wind, the bridge reached its limit.
Flashes in the darkness
Witnesses on both banks later tried to describe what they had seen. A sudden bright flash lit the darkness where the high girders stood. Some spoke of one flash, others of several. One man remembered a brief blaze, then darkness. Then, a great splash threw columns of spray into the air.
A former provost of Newport‑on‑Tay watched from his house. He saw the train’s lights, then two huge plumes of water flung into the air. These were briefly lit, then gone. To him, it looked as if part of the bridge had simply toppled over.
In the south signal box, the signalman had turned away. He was making entries in his book and tending the small stove. He did not see the flashes. Only when the expected “line clear” signal failed to come did he try to send a telegraph. The wire was dead. Outside, the gale howled on. No one on land heard the iron fall.
“The most appalling railway disaster”
Dawn revealed the truth. Where the high‑girder section had stood, there was now a raw gap. Around a dozen great spans were gone in what once represented roughly 3,000 feet of bridge. Only the low‑level approaches and the “gigantic piers” at the ends remained standing like broken ribs.
Journalists rushed to the scene. The next morning’s Dundee Advertiser called it “the most appalling railway disaster that ever occurred in the world”. It described how “about a third had been swept away”. The Liverpool Echo also gave a full account. It quoted the Daily Telegraph, which told readers that “all the thirteen great girders were involved in the ruin”.
It summed up the horror in a single image. “A terrific gust swept the valley… and proved sufficient to hurl girders and train into the river.” The pride of the country had been utterly swept away.
Counting the missing from the Tay Bridge Disaster
There were only fragments to recover after the Tay Bridge Disaster. Divers later found the locomotive tangled in the fallen girders on the riverbed. Some bodies washed ashore in the days that followed. Others never appeared at all.
Soon, lists of the missing began to circulate. They named railway staff, local workers, commercial travellers, and families. These were people who had left home for ordinary reasons.
But the disaster was not just a local calamity. It shocked the whole of Britain. This structure had been hailed as modern technology at its best. What had once been praised as an engineering triumph, was torn apart in a few minutes of wild weather. If a bridge like that could fail, what else might fall?
Inquiry into the Tay Bridge Disaster
The Board of Trade launched a formal inquiry almost at once. People wanted answers. Was the Tay Bridge Disaster simply an “act of God”? Or was something more uncomfortable at work?
The Commissioners’ report was delivered in the summer of 1880. It did not comfort those who had trusted the bridge. The Shields Daily Gazette noted the findings were “much more startling than such reports usually are”. Many had thought the wind alone was enough to explain the failure. The inquiry “dissipated this comfortable notion”. Instead, it spoke of “one of the most disgraceful as well as most fatal engineering episodes of modern times”.
The disaster occurred because the iron piers were not substantial enough, the cross‑bracing was too weak, and the workmanship was poor. Accounts described a frantic desire to put the bridge up quickly. This was done “without seeing whether it was properly executed or not”. The bridge was now an emblem of negligence.
The fall of Sir Thomas Bouch
On 10 July 1880 the Banffshire Reporter summarised the mood. The report was “very unfavourable”. It condemned the engineer, the contractors, and the company. At the centre of that condemnation stood Sir Thomas Bouch.
The Tay Bridge Disaster destroyed his reputation. His ambitious design for a great bridge over the Forth was abandoned. One newspaper said it would be “some reassurance to the public” to know that Bouch would not rebuild the Tay. Less than a year after the collapse, in October 1880, Bouch died, succumbing to anxiety and disgrace. The man once knighted for conquering the Tay was broken by it.
A second Tay Bridge rises
The Tay did not remain bridgeless for long. The railway company needed its route to Dundee and the north. Therefore, a new bridge was authorised. This second crossing was built with heavier masonry and steel. Opened in 1887, the new Tay Bridge still carries trains today. It sits a little upstream from the line of the first. Some of the low‑level girders from the original bridge were reused.
The locomotive from the tragedy, North British Railway No. 224, was eventually hauled from the river. It was repaired and returned to service, where it was in use for several years afterwards under the nickname “The Diver”.
The engine was finally withdrawn in 1919. Its recovery and continued use became a well-known part of the bridge’s history. While the passengers were lost, the engine remained a physical link to that night. It serves as a reminder of how deeply the Tay Bridge Disaster cut into the history of the Scottish railways.
Stone, stories and the haunted river
Today, the Tay Bridge Disaster lives on in stone and in print. On both banks, granite memorials list the names of those known to have died. They are stark, simple slabs facing the estuary. They acknowledge the workers, families and children who never made it home.
After the disaster, the events were recorded in both poem and song. William McGonagall’s poem “The Tay Bridge Disaster” may be clumsy, but it fixed the event in the popular mind. The German writer Theodor Fontane also wrote a ballad about the fall.
The river remembers
The most powerful memorial is the river itself. The Firth of Tay is wide and changeable. Even after more than a hundred years have passed, at low tide you can see the old pier stumps clearly.
On a winter night, the Tay Bridge Disaster feels very close. The modern bridge stands because lessons were finally learned. It is stronger and safer because of that night. Still, every crossing is a quiet act of trust.
As you watch the tide race between ruined piers, it is easy to imagine the darkness of 1879. Perhaps that is why the ghost train is seen on the anniversary. The river remembers. In the restless waters of the Tay, the ghosts of the high girders have not quite gone.