Dearest wife
Work continues into this frosty night on the pumphouse at Starcross for South Devon Railways. If we hold to our schedule we will test Messieurs Clegg and Samuda’s patented ingenious vacuum traction this summer. No more will the railway passenger endure choking smoke and smuts on the face and hands. Static pump houses at two mile intervals on the line to Newton Abbot will create a vacuum in the pipe between the rails to suck the locomotive forward with an impressive and irresistible force.
This endeavour shall sink or swim on the efficacy of the valves, which maintain the integrity of the vacuum. To think those humble pieces of leather, well lubricated in natural oils and no more than 15 inches in diameter on the flats, shall dictate whether my atmospheric railways is one of history’s great innovations or a Messieur I K Brunel patented castle in the air. I hear a storm in these parts in 1824 rose the Exe, carried off sheep and cattle on both sides of the estuary and there were several breaches in the wall which protects Starcross village. I fear another such inundation would drench the leather valves and leave them vulnerable to decay when the water freezes. But that’s between you and I my sweet. As far as my investors are concerned the great isambard Kingdom Brunel knows no fear.
I shall not want firmness in my resolve, not least because this very landscape speaks of generations of men who have dreamt and won. Powderham Castle retains a fine tower first started in 1390 by Sir Phillip Courtenay and not completed till 60 years later. How my deficient quarrelsome character would have struggled with such delay! And yet said tower became the basis for many fine future additions rendering the Devon Earls’ grand seat the very backdrop of English history, from the War of the Roses to the Civil War. Both pivotal events were witnessed by the castle’s stalwart and enduring ramparts.
So I shall not want resolve. I shall defy the prognoses of phrenologists and prove myself unchangeable in my vision. Indeed the locals exhort me to consistency. A devilish saucy Starcross maiden bearing a basket of violets today accosted me, asking if she were to deduce from my stove pipe hat that I was the great Isambard Kingdom Brunel. When I concurred she bid me waste no time in completing my “little railway project” as it will greatly improve the marriage prospects of herself and her sisters, of whom she has seven, much to her father’s chagrin.
Oh Mary, how those sweet violets reminded me of you and the fresh nose gay you presented for my button hole when first we were acquainted. To think I had deemed my profession my only fit wife, and my supreme comfort a superior canaster cigar. And now the thought of you and our sweet children in Westminster brings so much comfort.
But still, I will just calm my nerves before retiring for the night by cleaning and arranging my electrum tools and electrum 4 inch pocket Sextant. I recently procured a most excellent protractor and sliding compass which fit with most satisfying ease into the leather loops of my portmanteau.
Yours, passionately,
Isambard

The Courtenay Arms Hotel, Starcross
22nd August 1846

Dearest Mary,

Rain, rain, and yet more rain. I begin to understand why the fields are so verdant green either side of this Devonish estuary.
Four days ago the locals celebrated their regatta, quite oblivious to the torrential downpour. There were four man gigs navigating the choppy waters, inebriated crowds cheering them on to the oom pa pa of the Dawlish Band, but a man called Thomas beat them all in his punt, thereby winning the lavish £1 prize. Perhaps I should press him for some small scale investment…
Of course the press was quite deaf to the hilarity I witnessed all around. The Western Times wasted no time reporting how the “iron barrier” of my newly finished atmospheric railway cuts the villagers off from their ancient waterway and the spectacle of the battling boats.
Among the hub bub I was happy to espie one villager whose contentment I had by no means destroyed. It was the saucy violet seller I was acquainted with earlier this year, in the arms of an Exeter clerk, day tripping, I later heard with the help of my locomotive. She strode up to me, gave a most appreciative smile and pushed a sprig of complimentary violets into my button hole. I will not expect the same gratitude from the ill-educated violet growers sons who glower into their beers on either side of me.
If only this blasted rain would stop. I will recommend that the leather valves are coated with animal tallow to prevent their being compromised. You see my dear Mary, your husband, like the spirited man Thomas, is beset by briny waves but soon, by means of ingenuity and forbearance, crests the next and the next till victory greets him on dry land. You get my drift. Perhaps my analogies indicate I have taken a little too much of this excellent local ale.
Adieu dear wife. Yours affectionately,
Isambard

Brunel  – September 1848

The Pump House, Starcross, 10th September 1848

Dearest Mary,

Rats, rats, rats.
I speak not in expletives but refer to the scuttering oily-tailed beasts who have thwarted the hopes of better Englishmen than I. Was it not the black rat who brought the terrible plague to this land, decimating our population, their infected legions only to be vanquished by the Great Fire of London, and now they feast on the tallow with which my leather valves are coated, and this pump house in which I stand, can pump with all its might but no vacuum or locomotion is created.

It will cost £25,000 to replace the damaged valves and I find my investors would sooner dine on these blessed vermin than fork out thousands to furnish them with a second meal.

I have written to Messieurs Clegg and Samuda to enquire if they had anticipated this turn of events when selling their patent to South Devon Railway but find them strangely uncommunicative.

The rolling stock which built this railway cost £465, 300 and I shall be lucky to break it up and sell it for £50, 000. To cap it all I saw the violet seller in the Courtenay Arms yesterday. She was sinking a tot of whisky, had screaming triplets strapped to her breast, their father nowhere in sight, and gave me a most withering look.

It is exceedingly vexing to imagine the great pistons at my side standing silent and dusty, some future monument to an engineer’s hubris, a passing joke in a music hall performance about the history of Starcross. To compound my agitation, a local upstart, Captain Peacock, has successfully invented a rotating maritime device called “the propeller” and the villagers will not desist from reminding me that it actually creates forward propulsion.

My one consolation is that at least one of my creations from this last year, our little daughter Florence Mary, thrives and goes from strength to strength…though I suppose I must attribute some credit to yourself.
Adieu patient wife, pat Isambard Junior, and Henry Marc on the head for me, and warn them castles in the air do not always resolve to be as solid as Powderham.

Yours morosely,
Isambard