Our family lives Foul Anchor bridge Cambridgeshire
The Bridge That Became One of the Family
When I look back on my life, the old Foul Anchor Bridge in Cambridgeshire isn’t just a landmark—it’s part of my family’s soul. To the world, it’s just another bridge, quietly spanning the River Nene, but for us, it was far more than bricks, gears, and water. It was survival.
Foul Anchor Sluice, Tydd Gote: A Historical Overview
Foul Anchor Sluice, located near the village of Tydd Gote in Cambridgeshire, England, is a significant historical feature of the region's drainage and water management system. Its origins trace back to the 18th century, a period during which the Fenland area, including Tydd Gote, was known for its challenging landscape of marshes and wetlands. To facilitate agricultural development and prevent flooding, extensive drainage schemes were put in place, and sluices like the Foul Anchor became essential in managing the water levels.
A winter’s sunrise
In the early morning light, the Foul Anchor in the Fens feels renewed, inviting exploration of its unusual beauty. Each sunrise is a fresh canvas, showcasing the interplay of light and life. These moments inspire our adventurous spirits. Despite the winter chill, sunrises bring warmth and possibility, encouraging us to embrace life's wildness, whether on a new trail or in stillness.
Feeding a Family of Nine
My grandfather—my mum’s father—lived a hard life. He raised nine children alone after my grandmother passed, and they were just kids themselves. This was the Cambridgeshire Fens, where life was tough, bleak, and unforgiving. There were no luxuries, no shortcuts, and rarely a day when you didn’t feel hunger gnawing at your belly.
The family worked on his allotment—sunrise to sunset, year-round. I remember Mum telling me stories about winters so cold their breath hung in the air like smoke. Summers were no better; they toiled in the sweltering sun, backs bent over the stubborn soil, pulling weeds and growing what little they could. Food wasn’t bought from shops—there was no money. They lived off what the land and the river could give them.
The Foul Anchor Bridge was where the river met our family’s needs. My grandfather, a man of wiry strength and unwavering will, spent hours fishing there. To him, fishing wasn’t sport; it was survival. Eels and flatfish—what we called “butts” or dabs—were staples of our diet. No expensive rods or fancy bait—just a dead line: a simple stick, string, and hook baited with worms or shrimps dug from the riverbank. It worked, though. The river gave just enough to keep them alive.
Where I spent my childhood
That patch of reeds you see was once a flat, muddy area. There was about a 5-foot drop from the bank to the mud. Mum would pass me down to my stepdad, and there we would sit for hours. Sam, Mum’s dad, would fish next to the wall under the tree, about 10 feet away from the tidal doors. With 60 years of fishing experience, he would catch large butts (flatfish). His rod was an old cane type, paired with a very old centerpin reel. He would cast slowly, letting the line widen in. He used a net he made from old onion bags. He started fishing there around 1915 when he was just a youngster.
My First Memories of Foul Anchor
The first time I saw the bridge, I was three years old. It was 1973, and my dad drove us to visit Mum’s father. I still remember the anticipation, pressing my face to the car window as we neared Foul Anchor—that little place in the Cambridgeshire Fens where time seemed to stand still.
Unrecognisable
Foul Anchor River, about a mile long, was once lined with trees. The old bridge that crossed from Wisbech to Sutton Bridge is no longer there. That place was an adventure—wild, untouched. Now, it’s a manicured, lifeless area. Yet, I can still picture it as it once was. I have to, because I can’t bear to see how it looks now!
We’d always find him at the river. I can picture him now—sitting on the muddy riverbank, a worn cap pulled low, his line cast into the water. I would peer over the bridge, straining to spot him. Back then, the riverbanks were alive—lush with trees, bushes, and reeds, a tangle of green that felt wild and free. It was the perfect place for a child to dream.
The old winding gear of Anchor bridge
Still the same as it was in the '70s, the old winding gear that raised the inner doors to control the River Nene remains. The old apple tree still stands, still producing cooking apples, just as it did 80 years ago. We stood on that boarding week in, week out, year after year.
When I turned five, I learned to fish the same way my grandfather did. I’d watch as he cast out the dead line, securing the stick into the ground, and carefully wrapping the fishing line around a twig as a bite indicator. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked. Sometimes the line would twitch, and with a careful pull, we’d drag an eel or a flatfish from the water. There was no greater thrill than pulling in a catch, knowing it would fill someone’s belly that night.
The Bridge and the Hard Years
Life in the village wasn’t kind to anyone, but my grandfather was unshakeable. He didn’t need much. He’d bike for miles at eighty years old—through rain, mud, and biting cold. He cooked his meals on an open fire, gathered wood from the marshes, and lived off what nature provided. He was a man shaped by hardship, the kind of grit you don’t often see anymore.
It wasn’t just the fishing, though. He took me on scrapyard adventures, dug up horseradish for cooking, and taught me the ways of the marshes. It didn’t matter that I was a girl; he shared his life with me freely. Those days were raw and real, nothing like the sanitized life we live today.
Those famous fenland big skies
The Fens is well known for its big skies, thanks to the lack of hills or trees—though there are a few dotted about. The Fens is a grim place, truth be told. It was never really for me, but it taught me the life I lead now.
But the years took their toll. The river changed. Modern drainage techniques ravaged the riverbanks, straightening the natural curves that had given the river its soul. The muddy banks where we fished disappeared, replaced by sterile slopes of dirt. Fishing became harder, the catches fewer. My grandfather still went to the bridge, but he grew quieter. I think he could see the world he knew slipping away.
The Loss of It All
After my grandfather passed in the mid-90s, life at Foul Anchor came to an end. Without him, the bridge lost its magic. The trees and bushes that had lined the riverbank were torn away, replaced with harsh, straight lines. The river—once wild and untamed—now looked like just another Cambridgeshire Fenland drain. Its heart was gone.
I visited less and less as I grew older. The place that had been our salvation now felt empty and unfamiliar. But still, the memories lingered—of my grandfather’s resilience, of the muddy banks where we fished, and of the bridge that had stood witness to it all.
Final Goodbyes
Time has taken much from me. My Aunt Doreen passed in 2020, and my mum followed in 2021. Losing them both within a year felt like the final chapter of a long, hard story. I am now the last survivor of a family who lived off the land and the river, a family who knew what it meant to work hard for every scrap of food.
Sadly missed
Sheila, my mother (in grey), and Doreen, my aunty, we had spent our lives together. Mostly, wherever I went, they would come. Mum took an interest in everything I did, and we would do all kinds of things—meals at posh restaurants, museums, and even driving 155 miles for fish and chips. But it was a relationship built on three people living life—utter madness, never serious, always mucking about and joking. No one really got us because we were so free-thinking. I feel it’s how we were brought up: to fend for ourselves, to make our own way in life.
This photo took over 20 minutes to take because Doreen didn’t know how to use the phone, which had Mum laughing so much that she ended up crying with laughter.
When I stand on the Foul Anchor Bridge today, I see more than just weathered stone and water. I see my family—my grandfather’s rough hands casting a line, my mum as a child working on the allotment, and myself, a little girl learning to fish. The river no longer looks the same, but in my mind, I can still hear the splash of water, the cry of birds, and the creak of the bridge underfoot.
Looking toward the bridge
The River Nene flows towards Wisbech, about 6 miles away if you walk along the riverbank. The Middle Level Main Drain turns right. Along that stretch of the cut, there used to be three very old fishing boats—long gone now. The last time I remember them was in 1988. It’s a bygone area, and not too many people can remember that.
Rest in peace to those who came before me: my grandfather, my mum, my aunt. You shaped me, and you taught me that survival isn’t just about food—it’s about resilience, love, and connection to the land.
The Foul Anchor Bridge in Cambridgeshire will always be more than just a bridge. It was—and always will be—a part of my family.
By Katey Jane Andrews
Website Running Wild Photography
For those who see beauty in the Cambridgeshire Fens and its landscapes, my photographs capture what words cannot.
