Bloom in June
No Mow May is not always a universal favourite.
Terroir south has many neighbours with knee-deep, shaggy, floriferous and colourful vegetation, where once was neat lawn. But others see this land- or garden-scape as long, unkempt and weedy. They bemoan the loss of the great British lawn: green, stripy, easy on the eye, wonderful to sit on and relatively free of fauna which bite or sting. Which side of the garden fence are you on?
But there’s the thing. There is no need for any fencing in this debate. In any garden, public park, common or road verge, there is room for both types of grassland, and for a great deal more in between. It need not be a cultural debate between, on the one hand, the traditional British lawn, parkland or sports pitch (dare we say it, symptomatic of control, status, high maintenance and (deservedly) great pride in horticultural skill) and, on the other hand, the contemporary, species rich, climate change aware, low input, meadow. Historically, both have been with us for centuries, although we would venture to say that the economically valuable hay meadow has probably been around longer than the manicured lawn, or the extensive grass-scape of the English Landscape Park.
Probably the least understood aspect of this debate is maintenance and long term management. Not cutting the grass in spring is a huge attraction which encourages many to start on the road of No Mow May. But the slogan implies that it is OK to start mowing again in June. This is a shame as many meadow-loving flowers bloom in June, July, or August or … . Why restrict ourselves to the flowery beauty of spring alone? Need somewhere to sip that glass of Prosecco or read a book? Cut yourself a sitting space and access path and revel in the summer blooms while you sip and scrutinise your screen. Watch the activities of a whole host of other creatures which also benefit from that ‘relaxed’ attitude to mowing. Know that you are contributing to a healthier planet. Know that varied garden habitats are as crucial to biodiversity as they are in a nature reserve.
But it is also true to say that mowing a short grass lawn is a lot less effort that cutting back something that has been growing unmolested since late winter. Ideally, wildflower meadows need anything between one and three cuts a year, depending on how you want it to develop. In theory, Terroir’s meadows get cut in August/September and possibly again in February, but they are very forgiving if the cuts are late or, occasionally, non-existent. But if you want a bloomin’ meadow, rather than scrubby glades, then at least an annual cut is fairly essential. Holly and oak are particularly invasive in le jardin de Terroir.
So it’s a balance: a quick-ish cut every week or so for that green lawn, or a major hay harvest in late summer. Don’t forget to leave the hay in situ for two or three days, to allow all the seeds to drop back into the sward to enhance next year’s display. Finally, remove the hay to stop it enriching your meadow. Grass loves rich pickings in the soil department so if you want your flowers to get a root-hold, then keep the meadow on a low fertility diet. What to do with the hay? Find someone with guinea pigs or rabbits!
What follows is a tale of three meadows. Two were intentional, but were created in different ways. One is a more rural, recovery area.
Meadow 1 – Terroir’s Mini Meadow
Terroir’s first meadow was created over 20 years ago and although it kept the guinea pigs in hay for many months each year, in other ways it has been somewhat disappointing. We removed the topsoil over the majority of the area and sowed what, at the time, was felt to be a reliable wildflower seed mix. Germination was poor and we probably broadcast the seed too thickly.
As you can see (above right) grasses now dominate, so only the most invasive herbaceous plants can get a foothold – common sorrel (Rumex acetosa) and ribwort plantain (Plantago lanceolate) do well, as do a small selection of garden escapes including a purple cranesbill, lungwort (Pulmonaria, probably officinalis) and lady’s mantle (Alchemilla). Bugle (Ajuga reptans) and ox-eye daisy (Chrysanthemum leucanthemum) come and go, and this year some ragwort (Senecio jacobaea) has established, but as yet without Cinnabar moth caterpillars to strip it bare. Past highlights have included a hub of ground nesting bees – quite a shock at harvest time and left severely alone once discovered.
In springtime, however, primroses throng a bank under an apple tree and fritillary bulbs, planted around the tree’s trunk, have finally come good with stunning displays before the grasses get too overpowering.
Bizarrely, a persistent specimen of ling (Calluna Vulgaris) clings on from an earlier planting, and colour coordinated Betony (Betonica officinalis) has now colonised this area and spreads each year (both left). The first outliers of the latter have finally reached the main meadow, No. 2.
So Meadow 1 looks fabulous in spring, is good on biomass, but is somewhat underwhelming on biodiversity. Probably time for a change in management.
Meadow 2 – Terroir’s ‘lawn’ conversion
Meadow 2 is only a few year’s old. There was never a classic English lawn here; more a patch of grass which, once no longer required for football and cricket practice, was mown irregularly to maintain some sort of short sward of grass (and moss) for sitting out when the weather allowed. As it is not immediately adjacent to the house, there was no great demand for tables and chairs, Pimms and picnics in this location.
We started the meadow creation by leaving an unmown margin. This was quickly taken over by primroses and bluebells, loving the shady edges on three sides.
Three years ago, we stopped mowing altogether, apart from the creation of some necessary pathways from house to corner seat and from compost heap to a couple of small fruit trees. These routes vary year on year.
The results have been spectacular. The overture is an abundance of massed primroses around the edges, followed by a fanfare of bluebells and an aria of fresh spring green from the grasses. Sidling though the stems is the pale pink of lady’s smock or cuckoo flower, (Cardamine pratensis), then the pert stars of lesser stitchwort (Stellaria gramniea). Soon the plantains begin to provide texture and height as their spear-like flowers raise their heads above the grass parapet. Terroir loves a mixed metaphor.
If you had mowed on the first of June, however, you would have missed so much: the massed displays of ox-eye daisy, the purples of betony and self-heal (Prunella vulgaris), assorted red and white clovers, the yellows of ragwort, nipple-wort (Lantana communis) and cat’s-ear (Hypochoeris radicata), and the delicate white of a young umbellifer, probably wild carrot (Daucus carota).
By now the plaintains are on the march, swaying in the wind like drunken Cossacks or guardsmen, who have exchanged their spears for a slimline version of their traditional headgear of wolf or bearskins.
A new and rather experimental extension to the meadow was seeded last autumn, at the bottom of a slope. This shady area was largely seeded with a woodland/shade mix but the sunny spots received an eclectic mix of all the little packets and bags of assorted ‘wild’ flower seeds which came from everyone’s Christmas stockings over the last two years. The results to date have been a gaudy display of red and yellow: chamomiles, poppies, marigolds and what appears to be scarlet flax (Linum rubrum) (below left).
But it’s not just about gardens. Here is a dispatch from a rural area just north of Wrexham (a place which no longer needs any explanation as to its whereabouts…).
Meadow 3 – ‘just a field’
David writes: 2021/22 saw us with a tenant whose horses were in for somewhat random and, at times, inappropriate periods. The first autumn, they were in for several very wet weeks. As they were both shod, the field soon looked like a WW1 battlefield. Then, when the weather dried for a spell, they were taken off for several more weeks so the lumpiness set solid. However, thank goodness for earthworms etc and my amble today (22nd June) was reasonably smooth.
Late last year the horses were sold and we decided it would be good to let the field have a rest for a couple of years. The motivation for today’s walk was to see if some orchids had survived the equine depredation. They had indeed, though I got the feeling they would have preferred a little less grass. They still seem fairly widespread though and, with the denseness of the grasses, impossible to see except at close quarters.
There are a good variety of grasses and I always think the umbellifers (below left) look like patches of mist amongst the taller grasses.
There was a fair amount of yellow rattle about too (below right). Not much yellow left but plenty of rattle. I gather its hemi-parasitism is useful for weakening the grasses and thus encouraging more flowering plants to grow.
I think the element of my amble that you might have enjoyed the most though was the sheer number of, mostly, Meadow browns. Great crowds of them rising up with every few steps I took. A couple might have been Gatekeepers as there seemed to be a little more orange but that might just have been my eyes and the angle of the sun. I've never seen such a host of butterflies. There were lots of other little flying people but they were bees and, maybe, small moths.
My final pause came as I reached our back hedge gate. I wonder if the old holly berry saw is still valid because, if so, we may have a bad winter ahead.
Thank you David. Terroir suspects, unromantically, that the early mass of holly berries is due to the weather we have just had, rather than what we might expect in the autumn/winter! But your ’just a field’ report is very timely and very cheering.
Postcards from Sicily
It was the size of a grapefruit!
Just as bumps and lumps tend to be described in terms of fruit, so the proportions of geographical areas always seem to be compared with the size of Wales. For some reason, Sicily was bigger than Terroir expected, so we did a few of the obvious comparisons. Sicily just out ranks Sardinia in extent but is three times the size of Corsica. Compared to Wales? Sicily is 20% bigger. Who knew?
Just as Terroir has found it impossible to categorise Wales in a couple of blogs, so limiting ourselves to a few meagre words on a sodden Sicily is also very difficult. Regarding the adjective ‘sodden’, please see our previous post for details of recent Italian rainfall. And again, as per our last post, we are once more sending you a small selection of postcards. We will, however, preface the Sicilian ones with a curtsey to Mount Etna, Sicily’s iconic volcano.
Mount Etna, featured at the top of this post, can be a mighty smoking goddess or utterly hidden under an invisibility cloak of cloud. We were amused, therefore, by an interpretation board which included the rather esoteric comment illustrated right. The references to “between hell and paradise” and “a difficult challenge for the writers” struck home after our personal experiences, whilst standing on Etna’s volcanic slopes, of snow, torrential rain and no views! Admire the Valle del Bove? Huh.
Greetings from the Parco Florence Trevelyan, aka the English Garden, Taormina
Taormina, as many of you will know, is a popular ‘chic resort town’ [Lonely Planet’s description] which clings to the eastern coast of Sicily, providing wonderful views of both the Ionian sea and, in good weather, of Mount Etna. When the tourist bustle becomes too much, a quiet stroll around a spectacularly sited public park can bring welcome relief.
The eponymous Florence Trevelyan seems to be a slightly shadowy Victorian lady who may have needed to escape her native Northumberland after a dalliance with the Prince of Wales, later Edward VII. Arriving in Taormina in the 1880s, she created a number of gardens, and married a local doctor.
The Parco FT is a delight even when it’s raining but is spectacular when the sun comes out after a shower. The planting is a mixture of tropical and Mediterranean species including some fine specimens of olive, pine and cypress, underpinned with a variety of shrubs and hedges, herbaceous plants, tranquil open spaces and Victorian follies (the latter inaccessible and hard to photograph). A mix of local lava stone and brick creates whimsical structures and handsome surfaces although the latter can get a tad slippery in the wet.
Florence appears to have been a member of the Northumberland Trevelyan family (think BBC reporter Laura Trevelyan) who, records now reveal, were 19th century plantation owners in the Caribbean. Unsurprisingly, these holdings contributed greatly to Trevelyan fortunes and earlier this year the family apologised to the people of Granada and are, apparently, establishing a community fund for economic development on the island. It is doubtful whether this Victorian aspect of family life prompted Florence’s escape to Sicily but we would suggest that her life and garden design skills are worthy of further research.
Life in Ruins
We mentioned the association between archaeology and wildlife in our previous blog (the postcard from Pompeii). It is perhaps rather unoriginal of us to feature this again, but for once, the ruins, the weather, and the wildlife were all co-operating to create a very memorable Sicilian experience.
The Parco Archaeologic della Neapolis, in Siracusa, is stuffed with interest. We will spare you details of the Latomia del Pardiso (a historic space with catacombs and traces of classical prisoners of war, located in a gigantic former limestone quarry, below left) and will pause only briefly at one of the two amphitheatres which also occupy the site. The Teatro Greco (below right) is transformed each year into a modern theatrical space for classical Greek theatre productions and the infrastructure of modern technology robbed the space of any ancient atmosphere.
Further on however, is the Anfiteatro Romano, pictured on the ‘post card’ above, which creates a very different ambience, one of historical drama (literally and metaphorically), visual pleasure and wildlife interest.
Sicilian Souvenirs
Sicilian ceramics are striking, colourful and bold. The tradition is said to be very old, probably imported from North Africa, perhaps around 10,000 BCE. Various websites describe the process of drying followed by low temperature baking/firing, to create earthenware which is then painted with tin oxide colours to create a majolica style ceramic. The motifs are clearly influenced by the Sicilian landscape and culture; these days, we presume, that ‘culture’ also requires a huge increase in ceramic production to meet the demands of the modern tourist economy.
A remarkable variety of ceramic heads (right) are on sale everywhere and, in Terroir’s view, are an unappealing part of the offer; we just couldn’t live with one or two of these staring at us. One website suggested they portray the heads of two illicit lovers; when the girl discovers that her night time visitor already has a wife and children, she decapitates the boyfriend and uses his head as a flowerpot. At least this form of recycling shows an admirable imagination and love of plants, but it’s still a ‘no’ as a souvenir purchase.
Terroir is susceptible to shopping for ceramics, however, so while in Palermo, we made our way to an establishment which had been recommended to us. Talk about a kid in a sweet shop. The photos below demonstarte the vibrancy and celebration of design and decoration. Below left, you can see a variety of creamic blue pine cones, another motif which is typical of Sicily both in terms of ceramics and landscape.
The recommendation to visit this shop was a good one. We were talked through the origins of many of the designs and shown pictures of much earlier interpretations of the two patterns we chose. Below (top row) shows a traditional pomegranate design (from the 16th century) with the modern plate on the right and, in the lower row, an even older fish representation from the 12th century. Again, the modern plate is on the right.
We are pleased to report that both dishes arrived home undamaged.
Postcards from Italy
The key to Italy this spring was Climate Change. Climate Change in the form of water. You may have read about it on-line, seen it on television, heard about it on the radio. Some of you may still be enjoying your news stories in print, through the medium of daily papers or magazines. However you choose to take your news, in Italy this spring, it was taken with water. In some areas, the equivalent of over half the annual rainfall descended in just two days. Flooding and mud slides caused catastrophic damage, thousands were forced to leave their homes and at least 13 people died. The Irish Times of 23rd May, put it succinctly: “They [the floods] are a warning too for other Europeans that potentially catastrophic climate change induced by human action is here to stay on the continent.”(https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/editorials/2023/05/23/the-irish-times-view-on-the-aftermath-of-the-italian-floods-a-warning-for-europe/). Will we never heed these warnings?
Terroir visited la bella Italia last month, although we were well south of the worst hit areas in the centre of the country. Thankful as we were to miss the flooding, being rained on everyday does drive home the climate change message. The picture at the top of this post was one of the best views we managed from Mount Vesuvius: a quick click of the camera as the clouds parted for just a few seconds.
But there were some more photographic friendly moments, so we are sending you four picture postcards from Southern Italy.
Greetings from the National Railway Museum of Pietrarsa.
Located between Naples and Portici, this museum is pretty much the perfect place to spend a wet morning and a damp lunch time.
The buildings represent the pinnacle of railway locomotive engineering ambition of the Bourbon King Ferdinand II, King of the two Sicilies. Aiming to promote home grown Italian industry and technology, the new railway works commenced in 1842 and became the Swindon of Italy, employing 1,100 workers by the middle of the 19th century (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Railway_Museum_of_Pietrarsa). 5 pavilions dedicated to engineering lie on the very edge of the Bay of Naples. We’ll take a look outside when it stops raining.
Inside the ‘Cathedral Pavilion’ (below centre) lies a collection of steam powered beauties, all painted black and all polished to perfection. And, apparently, all constructed prior to 1930. Where’s the newer stuff? Apparently there isn’t much as the, by now unified, Italy started on electrification much earlier than Britain. We assumed this was due to less coal and oil but significant early hydroelectric generation.
We’re hungry and it’s stopped raining. The walk to the café (housed in a different pavilion) is full of surprises, not least the scenic location and the presence of a ‘botanic garden’. Something for everyone, including architecture, horticulture, coastal engineering and coffee.
Coudn’t read the plant labels as treading on the grass is forbidden.
Welcome to Pompeii in the spring
How often do you see an internationally famous archaeological site smothered in wildflowers? Visiting in May obviously ups your chances but we did wonder if the visual feast we encountered would scare the life out of some British archaeologists. Spring time fields of ‘Tuscan’ poppies (they probably came originally from North Africa) are a feature of the Italian landscape and we assume that Pompeii’s contribution is also the Tuscan variety. To Terroir, however, poppies suggest regularly disturbed ground so, yes, this spectacular display did leave an archeologically worrying after taste.
We were also travelling without an Italian flora (why, oh why?) so help, please, in identifying the crevice loving ‘snapdragon’ (below left and centre): garden escape? Sicilian snapdragon? Comments in the box below or by email please.
Oh, and bottom right, that’s a Wall butterfly, on a wall.
Impossible to sum up Pompeii in a few words, but brick loving Terroir revelled in some of the construction and design details, and the wall art was unbelievably impressive. And the gardens, and the amphitheatre, and the town planning and the occasional glimpse of Vesuvius’ foothills (right), once the early morning rain had stopped.
Views of Vesuvius - the Vanishing Volcano
The nearest active volcano to, say, London is probably Öraefajökull in Iceland. But the second nearest appears to be Vesuvius, the monster which made Pompeii and Herculaneum famous. It is scarily easy for Brits to get close up and personal with a smoking volcanic mass.
Image left: this is what it looks like on a good day.
As it happened, we also visited Etna but it rained so hard when we got there that we had to retreat. Etna’s snowline had advanced downhill between our arrival and our departure. It was the 16th of May.
Back on Vesuvius, the famous Bay of Naples view was totally obscured.
But we could see the track under our feet and could follow the gradation of vegetation colonising the lava slopes. No doubt the colour of the lava, elevation, aspect and degree of shelter make a difference, but a pattern is clearly defined. In the most inhospitable areas the lichens and mosses start off the process of plant colonisation and soil making.
Next come the tough, clump forming, herbaceous invaders, where the substrate is less vertiginous and the lava is more like gravel than bare rock. Here are docks, artemisia/wormwood, red valerian and chamomile (botanists - do correct me if I’m wrong!)
Finally as the pioneer species begin to create more recognisable ‘soil’ the plants begin to coalesce and become more varied, until shrubs such as broom can get a toe hold and a scrub and young woodland habitat starts to form.
Further down the slopes, where you would expect woodland, something else has been going on. Wildfires have always been a presence but it seems their number and impact (world wide) has been increasing, probably due to human impact (intentionally or unintentionally), exacerbated by climate change. A big fire affected these slopes of Vesuvious in the last few years. The ground flora and broom has grown back under the woody skeletons but other shrubs and trees are taking longer to establish.
Not the Boat Train but the Train Boat!
Remember when trains went on boats? One of Team Terroir can remember travelling on the ‘Night Ferry’, an iconic train which ran from London Victoria to Dover, then by ferry to Dunkirk and finally on to Paris Gare du Nord. The service was axed in 1980, but other European train ferries continued to function. Today, only two remain in Europe, a freight line from Germany to Sweden and a passenger train from the toe of Italy to Messina in Sicily.
It’s a captivating experience: a combination of the excitement at using a piece of working heritage with all the fun of playing with a giant model train set.
Here Be Dragons II
In their previous Dragon post, Terroir North Wales considered symbols of Welsh-ness and debunked a few myths about daffodils, mountains and coal mines. The Welsh dragon, symbol of strength and courage was, however, shown to be a consistent symbol of Welsh identity. So let’s take a closer look.
Welsh dragons populate all parts of the Principality, in a multitude of locations and venues and in all shapes and sizes. Some are traditional, some fierce, some apparently friendly, some are caricatures or abstract and some are just plainly and intentionally comical.
For example the Welsh Government logo (image right) is a traditional dragon whereas the erstwhile Countryside for Wales (now part of Natural Resources Wales) (below left) used a much more abstract version and the National Botanic Garden (below right) uses a vertical interpretation (with a fern frond sprouting out of its back).
So what is the background to this mythical beast in Welsh culture?
As an emblem, the red Dragon of Wales has reputedly been used since the reign of Cadwaladr, the seventh century King of Gwynedd (you will recall that we met him earlier whilst on the subject of leeks). Leaders of the ancient Celtic Britons are often referred to as dragons (including the eponymous Owain Glyndwr, left).
Of course, there are many versions of the legends and stories relating to the adoption of the dragon as a symbol of Wales but the over-arching theme is that our trusty Welsh dragon was basically one of the ‘good guys’ favouring the Welsh, and so it was logical to adopt it as an icon of power, strength and Welsh-ness.
Image © Hefin Owen https://www.flickr.com/photos/47515486@N05/50587033677/
In the Mabinogion, for example, (the first written collection of ancient Welsh tales and folklore), the Welsh dragon appears in a story of the brothers Lludd and Llefelys. Our dragon is battling with an invading white dragon (English of course) at Dinas Emrys, an area that we now know as Beddgelert in north west Wales. Gwytheyrn, a fifth century King of the Britons, tries to build a fortress here (it’s a long story), but a little lad named Emrys, popularly thought to be the juvenile Merlin of Arthurian fame and fortuitously present at the time (maybe on holiday from the eighth century version of Hogwarts), advises him to dig up the squabbling dragons which are below the proposed fortress site. Gwytheyrn does the digging and is able to witness the red dragon defeat the white dragon, which is summarily despatched back whence it came. Presumably it skulked off with the dragon version of its tail between its legs, no doubt intent on wreaking havoc in some part of England instead.
Now dragons are found everywhere. Apart from on the ubiquitous buses, shops and road signs, dragons have appeared in a multitude of other places. A train which shuttled between Rhyl and Llandudno for many years was known as the Red Dragon and proudly displayed a headboard to confirm its identity (see previous post) .
There were the council officials tasked with creating a name for the new bridge which spans the harbour at Rhyl (image left). And what did they come up with? Dragon Bridge (Pont y Ddraig).
Image © Richard Hoare
There are Dragon Roads in many places, including Holyhead and Llanelli and Coed y Ddraig (Dragon Wood) near Tregaron. A massive stone edged dragon was constructed on the side of the main road entering Wales at Deeside though that has since disappeared into a mass of overgrown vegetation. But it was the thought that counted even though it was constructed facing the wrong way. Generally the Welsh dragon should always face to the left. This one faced to the right. Maybe that’s why it was abandoned so soon after being constructed!
Welsh War memorials also feature the courageous dragon. The Memorial Park in Ypres has a large dragon (below left) as its focal point, standing proudly on a Celtic style cromlech, in memory of Welsh soldiers and members of Welsh regiments who lost their lives in World War One. At Mametz Wood (nrthern France), David Petersen’s sculpture (below right) stands on a stone plinth, clutching barbed wire, in memory of the 38th (Welsh) Division during the first Battle of the Somme.
Image left: © Llywelyn2000 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Red_Dragon_of_Wales_at_the_Welsh_Memorial_Park_Ieper_%28Ypres%29_Parc_Coffa%27r_Cymry,_Gwlad_Belg_31.jpg
Image right: © The First World War poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford
And, on a completely different level, there is all the dragon-embossed merchandise found in every souvenir shop the length and breadth of the country; cuddly toys, ceramics, key rings, fridge magnets, pens, rulers, and a whole variety of tacky gifts.
© https://www.flickr.com/photos/worldofoddy/
In modern times there remain good and bad dragons. The classic baddie to end all baddies must be the dreaded Smaug from Tolkien’s The Hobbit. This really was a nasty specimen given to mass destruction on an unparalleled scale.
At the other end of the dragon spectrum is the lovable Idris and his family (partner Olwen, and their adorable children Blodwen and Gaian) who feature in the delightful stories of Ivor the Engine. Whilst primarily a series of children’s books, Ivor and his friends have a massive adult fan club. Ivor, his driver Jones the Steam and the stationmaster Dai Station, all reside at the fictitious Merioneth and Llantisilly Rail Traction Company which, as the books point out, is located in the top left hand corner of Wales.
Thanks to Messrs Postgate and Firmin
Briefly, Idris hatched from an egg placed in Ivor’s firebox and later resides in an extinct volcano on Smoke Mountain. The books follow Idris’s adventures as well as those of Ivor, Jones, Dai and a whole host of other wonderful characters. Now these really are the sort of dragons that we would all love to have living in our multifuel stoves or centrally heated sheds.
But surely dragons are fictitious, like unicorns, the Loch Ness Monster, the Abominable Snowman or Bigfoot? Or are they? If you’ve ever ventured into a woodland at dusk and heard a vixen’s eerie call, the bark of a roe deer or muntjac or, indeed, the grunts and creaks of two old trees rubbing together in the wind, then you will know how easy it is to be spooked by these things, and how your imagination can carry you away into another world of strange creatures.
Dead and broken trees, branches and stumps can also assume remarkably convincing shapes of dragons or other mythical beasts. Up in the mountains of Snowdonia (now officially known as Eryri by the way) the wind and the cloud and maybe the failing light can deceive your logic with a host of strange noises and movement. Suddenly a rock can assume the form of a dragon and the swirling mist and low cloud can exacerbate that impression. But, of course dragons don’t really exist …. or do they?
Footnote:
Medieval mapmakers supposedly inscribed the phrase ‘Here be Dragons’ on maps showing unknown regions of the world. What does that say about Wales?
All images © T Thompson unless otherwise stated.
Here Be Dragons
Part 1
A little while ago, two members of the Terroir North Wales team had cause to travel regularly from the Vale of Clwyd in the north of Wales to near Llandeilo in the south. Those familiar with the geography of Wales will instantly recognise that this was going to be a slow and circuitous journey whichever route the Terroir team chose. The eastern route generally passes through lower lying and more undulating country whilst the western passes largely through more mountainous terrain.
We had to invent something to pass the time. Perhaps a simple game of I Spy might have worked, but M for mountain, F for field, S for sheep, DSW for dry stone wall and TJ for Traffic Jam (and yes, we do occasionally have those in Wales), would get very repetitious. Coloured cars was a bit too infantile and railway bridges disappointing; guaranteed never to exceed low single figures.
So what do you think we settled on? Well, dragons of course. Considering that most people consider dragons to be a figment of imagination, their images are omnipresent throughout Wales. No, not great scary fire breathing reptiles, lurking behind boulders or under river bridges, but red, Welsh dragon images in all their forms.
Image right: straight on for Wales and non scary dragons, left to England for scary Daleks and a variety of transport options.
And goodness, how very many forms there were: pictures and caricatures on buses, taxis, shopfronts, delivery vans, road signs and so on.
So many in fact that the game later evolved into categories – acceptable/valid images such as found on, say, Dragon Taxis, Dragon Auto Parts or patriotically flown Welsh flags (see top of this post), and unacceptable/inane dragon images, found on something having no real Welsh connection or relevance, eg some shopfronts, some buses and quite a lot of lorries. Of course this latter classification in itself caused debate, with points being awarded or lost depending on whether the opponent agreed or disagreed with the dragon spotter. Needless to say it created a fun activity to lessen the tedium of such a long and regular round trip.
Up to you to decide which category the following imges fall into.
The above are pretty easy to judge on the ‘valid or ‘inane’ decision, but why does the CCGC/CCW dragon (above centre) face the ‘wrong’ way?
Who decides which language should come first?
Welsh transport - old and new-ish.
Welsh groceries.
This led us to a discussion along the lines of ‘what would you get if a Welsh person asked a group of English people what they think typifies Wales, in one or two words (we are assuming that the English people have never, or rarely, visited the Principality)?
What would our blog readers suggest? We guessed that some of the more likely responses (in no particular order of course) would include mountains, coal mines, daffodils, leeks, rugby, unpronounceable place names (ok that’s three words) and, yes, dragons. So let’s have a look at these a bit more closely.
Mountains – yes plenty of those but contrary to popular belief, Wales has substantial areas of low lying land, especially in the east and parts of the south and south west. For example most of Pembrokeshire is very low lying and so is Anglesey of course.
Coal Mines – probably one of the most common myths is that Wales has or had wall to wall coal mines, interspersed with happy miners singing their socks off in every valley. Of course the mining areas were largely confined to the valleys of south and south east Wales and to a lesser extent in the north east around Wrexham and Deeside.
Image above: the Rhondda Valley’s Glamorgan Colliery c 1920 © Terroir
In between those two areas there were positively no coal mines (though incidentally tiny coal mines did once exist, for a very brief period, in Pembrokeshire and on Anglesey).
Little trace remains today; the mines are all closed and the tips removed or regraded. The rows of terraced houses and the odd preserved headgear are all that reminds us of this industry.
Above: images of South Wales mining taken at the Blaenavon Big Pit National Coal Museum. ‘National’ means ‘Wales’ in this context. Note the red dragon flying proudly from the preserved pit head gear (above left). Images © Terroir
Daffodils – here with Welsh Border Collie - are found everywhere but are not specifically Welsh, of course. The wild daffodils in the Lake District which so enthused Wordsworth are not to be found in Wales in such abundance, although they do occur in small numbers in many places.
The daffodil seems to be a relatively late addition to Welsh symbolism and the precise reason for its adoption remains unclear. Maybe its Welsh name Cenhinen bedr (Peter’s leek) may have some bearing in so far as it has, to some extent, superseded the leek as an emblem of Wales. And, of course, it is somewhat easier to wear as a buttonhole, and considerably less pungent than the leek. Also the fact that by St David’s Day (1st March) there should be plenty of daffodils in flower, makes it easier to gather for the many events that take place on that day.
Leeks – legend claims that Cadwaladr, a seventh century king of Gwynedd, ordered his men to fasten a leek onto their armour to help to identify them in battle. The tradition of the leek as a symbol of Welsh-ness has persisted, albeit in modern times in less combative activities. But, it remains rather odoriferous and is now very much subservient to the daffodil.
Rugby – is very much a south Wales sport and garners relatively little participation or interest north thereof. So hardly an all embracing emblem of Wales.
Place Names – with a little bit of effort and a basic understanding of the Welsh alphabet (which has only a few differences from the English one) it is usually quite easy to correctly pronounce place names and, in almost all cases they are pronounced phonetically making it even simpler.
Longest village name in UK (and probably Europe). Usually referred to as LlanfairPG for obvious reasons.
Place names tend to be strongly descriptive, based on history and/or topography, thus making it easier to understand their meaning.
Note from the only all-English member of Team Terroir: from the English perspective, I wish to challlenge the above. Depending on how you define a ‘letter’, the Welsh alphabet has 29 options of which, arguably, only 19 are in common with the English alphabet. As an English speaker not resident in Wales or the borders, and schooled in Latin, French and German, I can assure you that it is hard work to learn Welsh phonetics, alphabet and place names, however logical that pronounciation may be! Also, If you have never learnt any Welsh, having place names which are descriptive is no help whatsoever! Assistance is not always constructive: if I was to pronounce Llanfair PG as suggested by the transliteration given on the sign above I would be banned from crossing the border for ever more. Oh and the pronounciation differs between north and south…
Terroir North Wales continues: a Welsh person in England could be forgiven [really?] for struggling with English place names, as they often are not phonetic, or are pronounced differently to how they read, or include silent letters. [Do the Welsh forgive the English for mis-pronounciation of Welsh place names?] By way of example, how about Happisburgh in Norfolk (pronounced Hazeburgh), Cholmondeley (Chumley), Horsted Keynes (Horsted Kanes) but Milton Keynes is – well – Milton Keynes, Kirkby is Kirby and Norwich is Norich. I rest my case! [But not even the English can pronounce these. Well, most of us can manage Norich].
Dragons – and finally we reach that most Welsh of all Welsh symbols immortalised for ever on the Welsh flag as a spectacular and rather fearsome looking bright red creature (in Welsh – y Ddraig Goch), rampant on a white and green background. Never mind boring stripes and coloured bands found on most country’s flags - this is a serious and instantly recognisable national banner and one of only three in the world to incorporate a dragon (and in case you ask - the others are Bhutan and Malta). It is found everywhere as a symbol of Welsh patriotism and will be seen fluttering from public buildings, private houses and gardens – in fact anywhere it can be displayed – with an exponential increase in use when a major Welsh event is taking place in the locality (such as an Eisteddfod).
We’ll look more closely at the Welsh Dragon in the next post, but we leave you now with a Welsh and English take on the Dragon myth.
All images © T Thompson unless otherwise stated.
Still Tumbling In
In 1919, the church of All Saints (the last remnant of the Suffolk coastal city of Dunwich), finally fell into the sea. Dunwich probably started as a Roman fort, became a Saxon settlement and, by 1086, was one of the ten largest towns or cities in England, despite having already lost a significant acreage to coastal erosion (http://www.dunwich.org.uk/history/). Major storms continued to eat away at the coast line such that, by 1602, the city was reduced to around a quarter of its former size. Storms in 1740 flattened what was left, leaving only the church to survive into the 20th century.
Image right: Dunwich Beach in June 2009 © ADE46 (link at end of blog post)
Further north on the East Anglian coast lies the star of our previous post: the village of Happisburgh (pronounced Hazeborough, of course). Around 50 miles up the coast from the lost city of Dunwich (pronounced Dunnidge), Happisburgh is described as the ‘Village Falling into the Sea’. Coastal erosion is, once again, the culprit. The present tense is still applicable to Happisbugh, but for how much longer will this be the case?
Image right: Happisburgh beach backed by those crumbling cliffs
Happisburgh, it seems, was never of the size or substance of Dunwich. But appearances can be deceptive, and human activity left its mark on the area long, long before the Romans ever eyeballed its Suffolk neighbour as a site for a coastal fort. It’s hard to get your head around the archaeological and geological history of the area, but it seems to go something like this:
It’s the early Pleistocene – maybe 2 million years ago and the ‘Ancestral’ River Thames probably rises in or around Wales and flows to the sea in the Happisburgh area. The Solent, the Seine and the Somme all seem to be in fairly familiar positions but, shock horror, the British land mass is part of the European continent, joined at the hip from, say Portsmouth to north Suffolk.
It’s getting chilly. Ice ages are rolling in. Ice diverts the Thames southwards (think Vale of St Albans, Richmond, Walthamstow and finally all points east). Pesky glaciers dump glacial till in the Happisburgh area. Fast forward to maybe 800,000 years ago and human-like figures are roaming East Anglia, dropping axes and who knows what other bits and bobs. We’ll come back to that later.
Forward again, into historical times. That soft East Anglian geology is now on the coast of an enlarged North Sea. Britain has become the British Isles. The shoreline is littered with crumbling cliffs, and coastal erosion becomes a physical reality. Communities build or farm close to the coastline and, whoa, suddenly, coastal erosion has become, not just a physical phenomenon, but a social, economic, political and frightening ‘thing’.
So where does that leave Happisburgh now? It leaves the village, where it has been for centuries: erratically and irregularly ‘Tumbling in’ to the sea. The village website (http://happisburgh.org.uk/history/sea/coastal-erosion/) provides sobering evidence. The neighbouring parish of Whimpwell had vanished completely by 1183. 19th century evidence for Happisburgh records a newly drilled field of wheat disappearing overnight (1845); Whites’ 1854 Directory suggests a coastline retreat of 250 yards in the previous 70 years; a set of farm buildings goes over the edge in 1855. The epic storm of 1953 caused unimaginable damage with 7 fatalities and horror stories such as “A bungalow … which at teatime on Saturday stood 15 feet from the cliff, was hanging over the cliff edge on Sunday morning”. There is more and it is uncomfortable reading.
The map evidence is equally dramatic. The image, left, shows Happisburgh in 1885. Note the square of roads which used to link the Coastguard Station, the Hill Hotel and the village centre before turning south and then east to complete the circuit and link with the coast road to the Low Lighthouse (located at the bottom right of the image). The north east corner of the road square has already gone over the cliff edge and the lighthouse, now also at risk from erosion, is recorded as having been closed in 1883.
In the 1930s, a ribbon development of cliff top dwellings has been constructed, despite the fact that the north east corner of our square of village roads has tumbled even further into the sea.
A mere twenty years later, some of these houses have aleady gone (the writing no longer on the wall, but on the beach?) but the coast road still appears to be functioning.
Map images all © and reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Today, all the houses as well as the coast road have gone and a more westerly track which has replaced the road is already close to succumbing to the same fate. The process is clearly illustrated by the following images of active coatal erosion, all taken in March 2023.
Attempting to secure or protect the coast is costly and/or short term. ‘Hard’ reinforcements, such as groynes, energy absorbing rock barriers or concrete defences merely move the problem further up or down the coast, and require constant and expensive maintenance. Soft solutions such as ‘sandscaping’ or ‘nourishing’ the beach with sand have been tried, for instance on the coast between the Bacton Gas Terminal and Walcott, a few miles north of Happisburgh. Fuel security has obviously been the key to this scheme but Terroir suspects the works are too recent to provide significant results or reassurances. https://www.north-norfolk.gov.uk/sandscaping#:~:text=The%20Sandscaping%20scheme%20is%20based%20on%20a%20Dutch,erosion%20and%20flood%20protection%20to%20Bacton%20and%20Walcott
Hard defences have been constructed on Happisburgh Beach. Groynes were built in the 1950s. Part of a wooden beach revetment to the south of the village was washed away in 1990; the subsequent rate of erosion is said to have increased.
On the cliff top to the south of the Low Lighthouse site there is another row of homes or holiday cottages, some of which still survive. On the beach below is a stretch of concrete and rock armour, begun in 2002, presumably to buy time to allow for appropriate planning before ‘managed realignment’ allows the inevitable to happen.
But island Britain cannot afford to defend any more than a tiny proportion of its eroding coastline. In the past, the economic value which could be attributed to the works was probably more important than the emotional or financial needs of residents about to lose their homes. Today, managed realignment, coastal adaptation, improving coastal resilience are catch phrases of the moment, but if your house is perched perilously close to a rapidly moving cliff edge, this may not be much comfort. Also there is no single approved process for compensating for the loss of private property or land caused by coastal erosion in England. Schemes of compensation appear to be very variable in terms of approach, scope and financial aid.
Coincidentally, a BBC Radio 4 episode of ‘Costing the Earth’ was broadcast on April 18th, soon after Terroir’s visit to Happisburgh. Entitled ‘Losing our History’ (you can listen to it on BBC Sounds) the broadcast looked at the impact of coastal erosion in three very different parts of the world – Ghana, Bangladesh and – yes – Happisburgh. Specifically, the programme asks if we all need to prepare for the emotional impact of climate change, and calls for the inclusion of the community and of local skills and knowledge in planning the managed retreat process. Well done to ‘Costing the Earth’ for championing these aspects of managing coastal erosion and to the BBC website, which has some exceptionally moving eye witness accounts of the Happisburgh experience.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-norfolk-63822899
But Terroir wishes to end this blog on a more cheerful note by looking at something positive which can result from coastal erosion. Remember those lost pick axes and wandering figures who were strolling about during the Pleistocene? Coastal erosion can undermine houses, fields and livelihoods, but it can also reveal surfaces which may have been buried beneath glacial deposits for thousands of years.
In 2000, a dog walker (that may be apocryphal) found a flint axe head in muddy sediments under the sands of Happisburgh beach. There seems to have been some debate on its age: 100,000 years old? 200,000 years old?
But this was just the warm up act. In May 2013 the Happisburgh Footprints were revealed: hominid prints embedded in newly uncovered sediment, and partially covered by beach sand. Lying below the high tide mark, tidal erosion could reveal but also destroy, but thankfully they were photographed and recorded before the prints were washed away - in less than two weeks. The footprints revealed a family group of perhaps five people, walking upstream on the mudflats of the Ancestral Thames estuary.
The following year, the footprints had been dated to perhaps a massive 800,000 years ago, making then the earliest known human type footprints to be found outside of Africa. The axe head has since been re-dated to a similar period.
Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Happisburgh_footprints) suggests coastal erosion has been revealing new material at Happisburgh since at least the 1820s and knowledge of the environment of this early family seems to be increasing all the time. Sometimes coastal erosion gives, as well as takes away.
Ade46 link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/ade46/3642316814/in/photolist-6xRPTL-6xME9V-coPuSU-fejf1H-z5QhAV-59LQ7F-T6TRjW-WeBRzK-iVorx-2nQBKMV-59LTRF-YgW5o-2tXhZg-YgWGS-2tXhYK-2tXhYx-xdYdxM-4avYrS-2nRqSuc-54NSgE-4arKeR-6xRMXC-Ee7J9-fh4kwv-tgwewo-2tXhZK-fh4krD-fdBDkL-2bA5goF-2bA5feg-fdBC6L-2bA5gY8-2bA5gG6-gWEy2i-2on7LSs-9d8Gxx-2nRxqTv-4arvAV-2bA5fJ4-4arTNt-2mhan11-4avzoE-2bA5fYx-4fUVai-zqWDnj-4arHwP-4aw3js-54NSwE-oJhhHs-26nq5xm
Tumbling-In
Welcome to the land of linguistic challenges, crumbling coastlines and flinty facades. Yes, we are in North Norfolk where village names such as Cley-next-the-Sea, Happisburgh, Hunstanton, or Stiffkey are not what they seem.
‘Happisburg’ (pronounced ‘Haseboro’ or ‘Haseborough’ depending on your spelling preference), lies on – and in – the sea, about 14 miles south of Cromer (pronounced Cromer). First impressions reveal a distinctive vernacular architecture, based on a surprising variety of local materials. Let’s take a stroll.
To start with, it’s not just one material or style or shape which makes the village so easy on the eye: colour, texture and pattern all play a signifcant part in the Happisburgh village-scape. A palette of warm orange-reds and flecked greys is complemented with textures, forms, design and details created by the building materials themselves and how they’re put together. Two materials are key: clay and flint.
Anyone from southern England will be familiar with flint as a building material but Norfolk takes it to another level. Combined with the county’s remarkable range of orange, smoky red and buff bricks - mottled or plain, new or weathered - the results are at once striking, heart-warming and distinctive. Every building is an individual and yet all are of a kind, created from local resources through the agency of craftsmen who fashioned the materials and constructed the buildings.
Flint can provide a satisfying and unifying theme, but brick, in particular, lends itself to creativity. Use of different bonds, or different colours to create wall patterns, or different bricks for specific purposes (eg red brick for chimneys) gives individuality which is often lacking in more modern constructions. ‘Tumbling-in’ brickwork, which was probably used for practical construction purposes, becomes more of an art form in Happisburgh.
Below left: detail from Happisburgh Manor (of which more later) with bricks ‘tumbling-in’ from either side above the window Below right: tumbling-in on gable end
Clay is also used for roofs. In Norfolk, plain tiles are often replaced by the larger, curved pantiles, and glazed pantiles are a county speciality (below right).
Roofs also bring in a third vernacular material - thatch made from Norfolk reed.
But even in rural North Norfolk, there is no avoiding the ubiquitous Welsh slate (below left) or, indeed, that staple of British agriculture, the corrugated iron roof.
Unsurprisingly, a number of buildings in and around Happisburgh are listed by Historic England, but only one manages to pull off Grade I status. This, of course, is the Church of St Mary, perched on a knoll above the village. The first church on the site was probably of late 11th century Norman construction, but the current classic - so typical of Norfolk with its tall but sturdy tower and substantial nave, aisles and chancel - was constructed in the 15C, restored in the 19th and again in the 20th century, following damage during WWII. https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1169843?section=official-list-entry
Even to the casual observer the building is obviously of flint construction although Historic England does mention the use of some brick. However, that casual observer would need to lift their eyes unto the heavans to note that most of the roof is actually, yes, slate, although the chancel is, apparently, roofed with lead.
The tower is thought to have been an important landmark for mariners but the need for something more visible at night became pressing and the lighthouse – illustrated at the top of this post - was constructed in 1790.
Sadly, neither church nor lighthouse tower was able to prevent the loss of HMS Invincible in 1801. Invincible was on her way to join Nelson in what was to become the Battle of Copenhagen when she hit the treacherous sand banks off Happisburg and went down the following morning with serious loss of life. This stone (right) on the seaward side of the church yard, marks the mass grave of 119 members of the crew.
Had we been invited, our visit to Happisburgh’s newest piece of heritage would have been approached through a gateway in a fine, curving flint wall, past a magnificent, Grade II listed red brick and thatch stable block and on into the grounds of Happisburgh Manor. As befits our humble origins, and thanks to England’s excellent system of public rights of way, we took an alternative route via a public footpath which provided us with fine views of this extraordinary example of very early 20th century design.
The house design is credited to Arts and Craft architect Detmar Blow (although other(s) may have been involved), is based on an unusual butterfly or X-plan, and uses Norfolk vernacular materials throughout; apparently only the window glass came from outside the county. The client was Albemarle Cator, one of Blow’s many aristocratic clients.
Blow, the Manor House and its Grade II Registered Park all deserve blogs in their own right, but for now, we hope you can enjoy a few images of this remarkable building. The words affixed to the two gables visible from the footpath, read ‘Stella’ and ‘Maris’.
Our next post will explore a much more literal take on ‘Tumbling-in’.
Naval Gazing
What do you expect from a heritage museum landscape? Beautiful gardens and architecture? Symbols of power and wealth? Apologies for former lifestyles? Sculpture and fine art? Industrial or transport heritage?
You may be rather nonplussed, therefore, when you pass through the gateway of the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard.
Arrive by train and, yes, you do get an eyeful of anticipatory delight. (right)
Walking to the entrance (below) also raises expectations. Here is power and money in spades - well, bricks.
But once you are through these gates and past the now inevitable and, in this case, un-prepossessing bag search facility, you are confronted – perhaps affronted – by a wide, windswept and uncompromising open space. No wonder Terroir took refuge in the Porter’s Garden, just visible to our right and sheltering behind that massive dockyard wall.
Here is classic and comfortable heritage restoration. An 18th century garden, both planted and paved over for three centuries. The present design was created as part of the Renaissance of Portsmouth Harbour Millennium Scheme. ‘Flower beds follow the principles of 18th century design’ with medicinal herbs ‘linking the garden to Mary Rose and HMS Victory’. This is just what we want and expect to see.
Here is respite, shelter, beauty, form and colour. Here also are the emblems of power, wealth, protection, sovereignty and social hierarchies.
The Porter’s job was actually to secure the dockyard from theft (and perhaps espionage?), to mark working hours by ringing a bell, and to close the gate against late comers. As the link between town and dockyard, porters must have been grateful for any garden down-time they could get.
But we must not linger longer in this small oasis of comfort; we must pass back into the windswept spaces. In contrast to the garden, this entrance area seems stark, exposed and unwelcoming; over large, over hard (such an assortment of levels and surfaces) and under interpreted. Why is it here? What was it used for: a parade ground? An unloading area? Was there a building here which has been demolished? We could forgive much if we were told its history, what purpose it served and why it is here.
A few items of interest are dotted around this area. The view of the aircraft carrier, HMS Queen Elizabeth, is an accidental bonus, highly visible just beyond the Historic Dockyard fence. More permanent, internal dockyard residents include Vice Admiral Benbow (left) who looks saddened and bemused by his environment, or Admiral Nelson (right) who just looks cross.
The Dockyard website doesn’t help either. It’s opening page majors on car parking and our search for a digital map or plan of the museum was a futile exercise.
But here is the ultimate, if heavily disguised, apology. It stands near the dockyard entrance and we just didn’t get it… until we had walked a good five minutes via a circuitous access route to reach the Mary Rose herself. Yep, another extraordinary selection of surfaces and fences with not a hint of interesting interpretation or helpful signs like ‘you’re nearly there’.
At least we had a good, if ironic, giggle about this sign when we got there.
This little tableau (right) made us laugh too.
When you do arrive, and have moved through the standard gift shop area, you soon realise that the Mary Rose Museum is a completely different kettle of fish. The technological innovations required to both conserve the ship, and make it accessible to the public, are mind-blowing. The research into the stories behind the rescued artefacts is gripping. And it’s hard to hurry your first visit; we ran out of time and stamina after three galleries but were able to return the next day to complete the tour.
The ‘expererience’ starts with a little scene setting. You’ll meet Henry VIII again. You’ll go on board a virtual Mary Rose. No spoilers about that experience, but they do mention, before-hand, that the floor doesn’t move and you won’t get shot.
Finally, you are released into the chamber of wonders. Galleries reveal extraordinary stories of Tudor life, based on analysis of surviving evidence of life on board, of the crew’s personal belongings, even of some DNA.
Between galleries, you take a walk through the darkened, below-decks world of a virtual version of the ship. Between these imagined glimpses of life on board, you can turn aside to view to the reality of the actual wreck. It can be an intense, evocative, and shocking experiece. It can be hard work but we suggest it’s worth the effort.
Emerging into what is now clearly an underwhelming gift shop, you take your post Mary Rose exhaustion to the cafe for a restorative cuppa and an attempt to process it all.
Despite our initial disorientation in those windswept expanses, we did have a grand day out. We had bought the ‘access all areas for a year’ ticket and went back the next day to experience the Mary Rose galleries which we hadn’t had the time or energy for on the previous day. We will go back yet again, to visit HMS Victory (below left) and HMS Warrior (below right) when both are more accessible (assuming we can remember where we put the tickets).
We’ll also take you for a spin around the drier bits of Old Portsmouth, sometime soon.
Y’Got Mail
To be honest, Terroir has never given much thought to letter boxes and mail boxes. Red pillar boxes? Of course. Thank Rowland Hill and Anthony Trollope for the mass invasion of these red, metal, hollow, columns with a slot somewhere near the top. Very collectable, and now with knitted or crotcheted hats. Worthy of a blog in their own right, these ‘toppers’, bonnets (or berets as Terroir likes to think of them) have been appearing since at least the beginning of the decade.
Above: the traditional pillar box - the perfect shape for modelling 21st century woollen whimsy.
Other designs of street letter boxes are available:
But letter slots on doors? Just part of normal UK door design, surely?
Wikipedia describes this sort of letter box as ‘A slot in a wall or door through which mail is delivered’ (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letter_box). Succint and to the point. But we seldom take notice of these slots. Look again: they are a characterful, attractive and revealing feature of city, suburban and rural door design.
Although they seem to have been about for ever, letter slots are, of course, only as old as the postal delivery services themselves. Key dates appear to be:
1793 - first uniformed postmen hit the streets
1837 - invention of the adhesive postal stamp (Rowland Hill, of course)
1852 – first pillar boxes
https://www.thehistorypress.co.uk/articles/a-short-history-of-the-post-office/
So, one can assume that letter slots in doors became a ‘must have’ artefact around the middle of the 19th century.
But it’s not just about letter boxes in doors. How else does mail get to the appropriate person? Banks of mail boxes are now common in blocks of flats or at key points serving rural communities. Terroir finds it hard to get excited about these.
Right: the multi box - a key and underwhelming white fronted box per flat. The biggy on the bottom right is marked, rather ominously, ‘Management’
Poste Restante was once a romantic ingredient of overseas travel. Apparently it still exists. At home, the PO Box also offers an alternative to those who wish to collect their mail. None of these come free, of course, and involve a daily walk to the nearest facility but in Terroir’s experience, a chat with a friendly postal worker makes it worthwhile.
But there is another icon we must look at. To the British, the term ‘mail box’ probably conjures up images of the iconic American box-on-a-post at the edge of an enormous suburban garden or end of a rural road.
These seem to have become a standard part of the North American rural and urban streetscape in the early 20th century. Red flag up means ‘you got mail’. In some cases it could also mean that you had left mail there for the postie to collect. This functional box has spread around the world. Designs vary but most are basically a metal box, a curved roof and signal flag.
Until you get to Australia of course. On a recent trip, a corresponding member of Team Terroir sent the following photographs, taken while cycling across Tasmania.
Right: Courrier maritime?
You can see even more on the Wilmot Novelty Letter Box Trail. https://www.discovertasmania.com.au/things-to-do/heritage-and-history/wilmotnoveltyletterboxtrail/
Got more or better? Please send them to us via the comment box below (click on ‘read more’ at the end of the blog post).
Dear Fencing
As rural stock fencing goes, deer fencing is dear fencing.
Deer are intelligent animals, and very good at jumping over things. In Britain, if you really need to keep deer where you want them, then fences need to be at least 1.5m (c 5’) high or, for bigger beasts like Red deer, over 1.8 m (at least 6’). That’s a lot of wire and posts.
Cattle, on the other hand, can be corralled by a fence of not much more than a metre high (say just under 4‘); definitely cheaper.
Fences are built to keep things either in or out. This may seem self-evident but there is a difference between ‘in’ and ‘out’. Terroir particularly likes the American situation. Apparently, in America prior to the mid-20th century, the law required those living in most of the western, or ‘open range’, states to fence out their neighbours livestock, while land owners in eastern and mid-western states had to fence in their flocks and herds. It’s a subtle but important weighting of agricultural priorities (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agricultural_fencing).
In Britain, most people are probably fencing to keep deer out - of gardens, allotments, motorways or young woodland planting. But the British love of hunting means that sometimes it is perceived as necessary to fence deer in.
Take the example of Penmon, a limestone promontory on the easternmost extremity of Anglesey, with views across the Menai Straits to Llanfairfechan, Penmaenmawr. Llandudno and (image right) to the Great Orme.
This historic landscape is full of stories and bears witness to a whole variety of communities and lifestyles. Many visitors come here, despite the continued existence of a toll on the access road to some of the best bits. Penmon was also the backdrop to a February reunion of Terroirs North and South. But using local knowledge, we walked over from the village, toll-free.
Let’s start with a little tour and work around to the deer issue. Penmon Lighthouse, one of five working lights around the coast of Angelsey, is a good place to start.
Image left: Penmon lighthouse with Puffin Island (left) and the Great Orme (behind)
As befits a hinterland of rocky limestone, the shore is stony but it’s a great place for dog walkers, big and little kids and beach combers. It’s a good place for watching seabirds, if only they would stay still long enough to be identified. We’ve also seen dolphins here but nothing doing today.
Far, far older than the lighthouse, however, and a little further down the coast, is the big draw at Penmon: the cluster of medieval ecclesiastical buildings around St Seiriol’s church.
Although there is earlier, archaeological, evidence of human activity here (from flint tools to Romano-British field banks), it is the tangible, stone, medieval solidity of the church and associated buildings which forms the historic core of this landscape. With an associate foundation on Puffin Island, the monastic centre at Penmon appears to once have been of great significance in the area. Two unusual 10th or 11th century decorated crosses now shelter in the church, and it is thought that there may once have been others. The church itself was rebuilt, in stone, in the 12th century, and included some very fine Romanesque detailing. In the 12th/13th centuries, monastic reform led to significant additional building as well as the transfer of the order to the Augustinians.
Inevitably, Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries ended the ecclesiastic tradition at Penmon and, by 1565, the estate was leased by one Sir Richard Bulkley. The church was retained as a parish church, and further buildings added, including the very splendid dovecote (see view pictured earlier) which is thought to date to around 1600.
The dovecot contains an unusual central, stepped pillar (below right), and someone has counted all those nesting holes: it’s reckoned to be around 930. Terroir has no wish to challenge that count.
The peninsula which is Penmon is nothing if not varied in landuse, so the widespread and long term occurrence of limestone quarrying comes as no surprise. Although those sheep do look a little puzzled, as though someone removed the rest of their field only yesterday.
The quarries were once extensive and the stone was shipped out by boat; the infrastructure of quarry buildings, inclined planes, a steam powered mill and a pier, is still visible. The stone was used to produce, amongst other things, lime, flux for steel production and ‘Anglesey Marble’ (as witnessed by the image below left). Quoi? Some basic internet research reveals that the latter is, yes, made from polished Anglesey limestone, and produces a decorative leopard skin pattern. Thanks to https://historypoints.org/index.php?page=former-limestone-quarries-penmon for explaining that little conundrum.
But not all the limestone was exported.
What do you do if you have recently acquired an estate made available thanks to King Henry’s views on religion? You enjoy your new acquisition. You probably show off a little and have extravagant social gatherings. These would probably include hunting parties and the creation of a new deer park. The park is big, probably more than 400 acres (over 160 ha). But you need to ensure that there are plenty of deer present at all times (can’t have them wandering off your land, or swimming over to Puffin island just as all your influential friends turn up). So, yes, you need to fence it.
We rounded a corner, and this is what we saw: the most monumental deer fence/wall that Terroir South has ever seen. Even if you have your own limestone quarry, you have to wonder how much that cost to erect. No surprise that, today, much of it is in a poor state of repair.
Six foot of post and wire just doesn’t have the same cachet.
With thanks to http://www.heneb.co.uk/hlc/penmon/penmon4.html for such an informative Historic Landscape Characterisation report.
Brunel’s Mid Point
Part 2 - A Place to Work
January’s Swindon story was interrupted by a trip to Swansea, the discovery of another purpose-built workers’ village and Terroir succumbing to the cliché of celebrating 100 blogs.
But now, as promised, we return to Wiltshire, and Brunel’s Great Western Railway, to take a look at where the inhabitants of Swindon’s ‘new town’ actually worked.
I K Brunel and Daniel Gooch (Brunel’s Superintendent of Locomotive Engines) were responsible for a mixed bag of broad gauge (7 ft ¼ inch) steam locomotives. Many of these early locos do not appear to have been particularly reliable, and a very necessary repair and maintenance depot, which Brunel sited at his perceived ‘mid-point’ between London and Bristol, opened in 1843 - vital to keep the project on the rails.
The works swiftly moved on, with GWR’s first purpose-built locomotive completed in 1846 and first standard gauge (4 ft 8 ½ inch) engine in 1855. Production of rails followed in 1861 and a carriage and wagon works was opened in 1867. 1892 saw the final conversion from broad to standard gauge and a massive engineering frenzy of line laying and rolling-stock conversion (or sidings full of wagons waiting for destruction). By 1900, the Swindon works employed 20,000 people and, at its peak in the 1930s, covered 120 ha (300 acres).
Following WWII and nationalisation, the works declined and finally closed in 1986. The site was purchased by a developer and redeveloped for commercial and residential uses. The extraordinary land use changes which have occurred since are illustrated by the two maps below.
Above: the Swindon railway works at their height.
Below: the site today.
Imagery © 2023 CNES/Airbus, Getmapping plc. Infoterra Ltd & Bluesky, Maxar Technologies,
Terroir’s straw poll on ‘three words associated with Swindon’ gave interesting results on the ‘Swindon today’ topic. The railway museum (outlined in red on the plan) did get quite a few mentions but only two responses saw fit to note the presence of the National Trust HQ and archive. Nobody mentioned English Heritage/Historic England’s appearance in the mix and – unsurprisingly - nobody highlighted the car parks and 20th /21st century residential housing development. But to our amazement only one person came up with the Designer Outlet which, with the railway museum, now dominates the southern part of the works area.
The actual popularity of the ‘outlet’ is reflected by its enormous car park and the need to arrive early if you don’t want to spend hours queueing to get in. The alternative popularity of the ‘outlet’, for a perhaps small minority, is based on the fact that the shopping element is encased in a number of the other sort of ‘shops’ (ie work-shops) which once made up the engineering heart of the Swindon Railway works.
We walked round twice and did do some shopping on the second cicuit. But, the first time, we thought we were going for a quick stroll, probably just looking at the ceiling, to search out any remnants of the industrial heritage. We discovered that the conversion to retail heaven has, in fact, left a surprising number of features which are of great interest to those who have a penchant for heritage, engineering, railways and architecture. Yes, you definitely need to look up, but there is also plenty at ground level too, which was a great relief to our aching necks.
There is also some interesting interpretation and information, if you care to look for it. We hope that the following photographic tour can give you a flavour of how retail and heavy engineering have been blended to create an unusual shopping venue with a - very sanitised - hint at what went on here in earlier years.
Staring at the ceiling did reveal a lot, particularly of the technology required to support - and lift - heavy engineering. Or support Christmas wreaths.
There was also lifting gear at ground level. The walking crane, now fenced in like some inoffensive animal in a zoo, it’s dignity further diminished by an ill-placed litter bin, was a novelty to non-engineering types such as Terroir.
Staring at the ceiling also made us realise that staring at the walls was a worthwhile exercise as well. The variety of brick types and detail created constant variety in the shopping environment. The arch was the basic element, with the exception of the huge rectangular openings (bottom right) which enabled locomotives and rolling stock to be brought right into the works.
A variety of individual artefacts, although now bereft of their original environment, do add variety and a serendipty element to the shopping experience. And they probably keep the kids going for just that little bit longer.
The most sobering element of the Outlet experience is the number of WWI war memorials, dedicated to the workers in individual shops, who left to fight the Great War but did not return. These - extremely varied - plaques are also witness to the enormous workforce which was required to make this giant engineering facility function.
Of course two key elements of the engineering environment, which were an integral part of working here, are impossibe to recreate (although the adjacent museum works hard to hint at these). The first is the noise, the heat, the dirt and the danger of employment here. The second is the human elements of a large workforce: the camaraderie, the petty rivalries, the pride in skilled work, the need for unions and for welfare, and the benefits and irritations of being part of a huge community. The images below are very alien to the work force of the 21st century.
Swindon railway works. From this:
To this:
Centenary Serendipity
By the time you read this, Terroir will have posted 100 blogs on landscape, townscape and environmental matters.
Why do we love to celebrate anniversaries which end in zero? To anyone born into a metric system of measurement, based on the magic number ‘10’, it may seem obvious. But there are many of us who still understand UK imperial measurements. Yet, in our pre-decimal school tests we aimed at getting ’10 out of 10’ or, in exams, as near as we possibly could to 100%. There are 10 years to the decade and 100 years to the century. Presumably the Romans did do something for us after all.
The British Imperial system seems to love the number four (16 ounces to the pound, 12 inches to the foot, 4 quarts to a gallon) but is delightfully inconsistent (3 feet to the yard!) It does, however, probably reflect our post Roman history. Take the furlong for example (combination of furrow and long according to https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/furlong ). Now standardised as 22 yards long, it once delineated a rather variable agricultural acre which, we were always told, was the area that an ox team could plough in a day (no doubt influenced by soil, topography, latitude, breed of ox, skill of driver and many other factors relating to Terroir).
So, we are celebrating a Roman 100 but we should point out that it is also divisible by 4.
The ‘serendipity’ angle is a feature of Terroir which we know appeals to many of you. In the last 15 months we have visited, and blogged about, France, Albania and Kyrgyzstan. We have been to Wales many times and Scotland twice. In England we have frequently featured Surrey and London but also looked at the terroir of the Cotswolds, the Peak District, Offa’s Dyke and the South Downs Way. We have offered you Sussex, Shropshire, Yorkshire, Northumberland, Wiltshire and Cornwall.
You have probably noticed us beating the sustainability and climate change drum, but we have also looked at habitat conservation, protected species, rural architecture, hedges, wheelie bins, walls as habitat and walls as art, signal boxes, orchards, vineyards, landscape paintings, the impact of mining, the passing of the seasons, and support for Ukraine.
But to finish this 100th blog we will take you on a short trip to South Wales, now in a northern suburb of Swansea but which was once an industrial village in rural Glamorgan. The location is a new one for Terroir, but the topic is the third in an accidental series on workers’ villages. We’ve been to Saltaire and to Swindon, so now it’s the turn of Swansea or, to be more accurate but lacking alliteration, the little known village of Morriston, about three miles to the north of Swansea centre.
The Lower Swansea Valley was once one of the most heavily industrialised places on the planet. (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morriston#). In the 18th century, copper and tinplate industries were established close to the River Tawe, and the Swansea Canal was constructed in the late 1790s to carry coal, limestone, tin and copper, amongst other goods, down to Swansea Port. Life was, inevitably, tough for the working population and, in the early part of the 19th century, Sir John Morris Bt laid out an industrial village to house the workers. It was called Morris Town in English and Treforys in Welsh (tre = town and forys = morris), but the English speakers quickly shortened it to Morriston.
Morriston was designed by one William Edwards, a stonemason, architect, bridge engineer – and Methodist Minister. Unsurprisingly he adopted a grid pattern layout, which you can still see today. The 19th century maps below illustrate the basic grid, laid out very close to the industrial works, the River Tawe, the canal and the railway.
Above: Morriston in 1876/7. Below Morriston in 1897.
Both images reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland' https://maps.nls.uk/index.html
Today, there are perhaps four or five key landmarks which make Moriston an interesting place for a visit.
Here’s a sample of the early 19th century workers cottages, now struggling with cars and parking on their neary straight grid pattern streets.
But the really big thing about Morriston, both literally and metaphorically, are its churches and chapels. The one below, known unsurprisingly as the ‘church in the middle of the road’ as it stands on a roundabout (you can see it’s location on the maps above) is now closed (love those slate roofs) …
… but the real stunner is the Grade 1 listed Tabernacle Chapel, described as the ‘non-conformist Cathedral of Wales’ or, by Anthony Jones in his 1996 book ‘Welsh Chapels’, as ‘The largest, grandest and most expensive chapel built in Wales". Its size makes it pretty hard to photograph.
Number 4 landmark is Danbert House, built in the 1880’s as a magnificent, ‘statement’, town house by Daniel Edwards, a steel and tinplate magnate, but now a spooky, Dickensian ruin. Grade II* listed but on the ‘at risk’ register, and no one seems willing to take it on.
Our final landmarks are associated with satisfying the inner blogger. The Crown has long since stopped serving but the Rane Bengal, further down the street, gave us an excellent Indian meal - just buy your alcohol at the convenince store next door.
Here’s to the next 100 blogs.
Brunel’s Mid Point
Part 1 - A Place to Live
Back in the 20teens, it was fashionable to talk of ‘pre-Christmas pressures’ and the need to ‘escape’ to some continental city’s Christmas market for a weekend break. The lights seemed brighter, the Christmas trees more original, the glühwein more authentic, and the snow genuine. Although the Christmas trees often came up with the goods (see, for instance, ‘Season’s Greetings’ Blog 9), the rest quickly began to pall and merge into one pan European collection of little wooden huts selling woolly mittens and candles. By the end of the decade, Terroir’s pre-Christmas travels had changed focus completely and consisted of Australia (2018) and Portugal (2019). Breakfasts featuring avocado or custard tarts provided welcome alternative entertainment.
We all know what happened next but by winter 2021 we felt the need to take a break – this time from the, by now over-familiar, domestic environment. We chose Bradford. Our friends looked puzzled, and thought we were mad. I guess cabin fever is a kind of madness but the resulting blog (‘Briefly Bradford’ Blog 60) went down OK.
Below: Bradford old and new
This year, we chose Swindon. Friends just laughed. We really had lost the plot this time. Why on earth would you choose to go there? So one of us asked 21 contacts which three words came to mind when ‘Swindon’ was mentioned. The results (below) were not always predictable but, as you can probably imagine, neither was the sample particularly random! Thank you so much to all who took part. Numbers refer to the frequency of mentions.
Swine 1
Railways, trains, steam, works, Great Western Railway, railway junction, railway town, railway museum, locomotive, Brunel, Michael Portillo 12
National Trust Archives/HQ 2
Wiltshire 1
Avebury 1
Betjeman 1
Outlet 1
Swindon Town Football Club 1
Travelodge 1
Helen&Mike 1
Avoid, never been there, sounds boring, good bypass 1 each
The railway village 0, nil, nowt
Why did we go there? Railway and architectural heritage. Railway, yes, I hear you say, but architectual heritage? Where we disappointed? Read on.
It seems that people have been pottering on and around Swindon Hill - farming and quarrying, making things and loosing things - since prehistoric times.
Image right: view of Swindon Old Town from Lydiard Park
Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Swindon) suggests that the earliest archaeological finds are Bronze Age and Iron Age, but it must have been quite a jolt to the local inhabitants to find themselves at the cross roads of two Roman highways.
Anglo Saxons took over from the Romans and may have been responsible for naming the hill top settlement and, as one of our correspondents surmised, many think the name is connected in some way with pigs. Swindon pops up in the Domesday Book, but you get the feeling that nothing much happened beyond agriculture, quarrying and trading for a very long time.
The next big thing was the 19th century technology and transport boom. The Wiltshire and Berkshire Canal was built in 1810, but before you could say ‘narrow boat’, railways arrived and the waterways were fighting for survival. Isambard K Brunel discovered that Swindon was about halfway between London and Bristol and, therefore, the perfect place to locate his new railway’s maintenance depot. The Great Western Railway (aka the GWR or God’s Wonderful Railway) arrived at the foot of the town’s hill in 1840 and the adjacent maintenance works opened 1843. The new town had arrived. A new world had arrived. Swindon was on the map.
The railway maintenance depot was initially designed to repair GWR’s motley collection of steam locomotives. Swindon’s tiny agricultural and quarrying workforce was not skilled in the trades required for this type of engineering and workers had to be attracted from other areas. The initial work force was measured in the low hundreds but they still needed somewhere to live. The railway was at the bottom of Swindon Hill, nearly a mile from the hill top town centre. The station and the works had to be near the railway, of course, and so the people hired to work there needed to be there too.
Thus, as early as 1842, the construction of a small railway workers’ village was commenced, located beside the railway line, at the bottom of the hill. It was completed around 1847, and made good use of Swindon’s Purbeck stone quarries. As the number of workers grew, so construction of accommodation continued in neighbouring areas, but it was this original workers’ village which Terroir had come to see.
The Railway Village predates other, perhaps better known, Victorian workers’ villages, such as Saltaire near Bradford, (see blog 60), Port Sunlight on the Wirral and Cadbury’s Bourneville estate in Birmingham. As with all these villages, intentions were good, although the company’s needs may have been at least as important as those of the tenants.
The pioneer status of the Swindon village may, perhaps, account for some of the initial problems. Today, the houses are sought after, well cared for and provided with modern amenities. In the early days, at least, this was not the case. The nearest shops were a muddy walk away, up the hillside to Swindon Old Town. Initially, the houses had no kitchens, forcing the women to attempt cooking meals on the fire in the back room. Houses were often overcrowded, as the work force increased faster than accommoddation provision, and the lack of fresh water created serious health problems.
Houses were typically two up/two down. The back room was the main living room and opened onto the paved back yard which contained the privy and basic washing facilities. The front door opened into the what would have been the ‘best room’ or parlour. Perfect for special celebrations or courting couples. The central picture above shows how two front doors were squeezed into the available space in a pair of these small terraced cottages with no internal hallways.
A small number of the houses were bigger; these were the foremans’ cottages. The front door led into a narrow hall which also gave access to the staircase. Upstairs were three bedrooms, the third often occupied by a lodger. Single men were offered accommodation in a lodging house, nicknamed the Barracks. Life here did not appeal to many, and the men missed the company and cooking of family life. It was the norm, therefore, for those with a spare room to take in lodgers and boost the family income.
One foreman’s house has been preserved by the Mechanics’ Trust and was open for a special Christmas weekend when we were there. Check their website for open days (https://mechanics-trust.org.uk/railway-village-museum/) as it’s well worth a visit.
As time progressed, many amenities were provided. Lean-to kitchens were built on the backs of the cottages, fresh water was piped in, shops were opened, a school provided (with reduced fees for GWR employees), a Mechanics’ Institute constructed and a new church (St Mark’s) consecrated. By 1851, there were even two pubs.
Non-existent health provision was quickly tackled by residents through creation of a ‘sick club’, with members’ contributions paying for their medical bills. By 1847, management was successfully petitioned to fund a doctor via a regular contribution to be taken from wages. The GWR Medical Fund Society went on to establish a village hospital (above right), dispensary and baths.
In 1844, additional land was purchased to extend the village but also to provide other amenities, including a cricket ground. By 1871, the sports ground was being transformed into a public park with all the necessary Victorian accessories: a park keeper’s lodge, glass houses, fountains and formal gardens. Sufficient space was retained to support not just cricket, but rugby, athletics and cycling. Perhaps with a touch of jingoism, a drill hall was also constructed for the 11th (Wilts) New Swindon Rifle Corps. A pavilion and later a bandstand were also added.
Sadly, the park was neglected after WWII, but is now being rejuvenated and refreshed with a new Masterplan.
How could we write a whole blog on the Great Western Railway with hardly a mention of Brunel and the mighty Swindon Railway Works? Fear not; the next blog will concentrate on the architecture of railway engineering and on ‘STEAM’ – The Museum of the Great Western Railway. For readers who are less passionate about railways in general, and steam engines in particular, don’t worry, the experience turmed out to be really rather good.
On the Edge
Happy New Year to all our readers, from Terroir North and South!
Our Christmas blog (no. 97 on Christmas landscapes) gave thanks to our forebears for creating a mid-winter festival which broke the monotony of cold and darkness and created hope by welcoming the return of the sun. But why, for much of the world, does the first day of the New Year follow so closely on Christmas celebrations?
For the western world it seems that we can blame the pre-Christian Romans when they overhauled their ten month calendar to be more in tune with the 12 lunar cycles in the solar year. January and February were added and the former, of course, was named after Janus (right), the god of doorways and beginnings. It must have seemed apt, therefore, to move the start of their new calendar year from the vernal equinox in March, to the beginning of January, a portal which was under Janus’ bi-directional supervision.
Less than a thousand years later, the Romans converted to Christianity and December 25th became a significant religious festival. Some Christian countries reverted back to a March New Year, which seems eminently sensible, but many continued with the big winter combo.
As a child, Terroir remembers a clear separation between the excitement of Christmas and the start of the new year. This slack period was a time when fathers went back to work and mothers did their best to entertain offspring before school re-started in early January. Banished to bed long before midnight, the line between the years was something we crossed in our sleep. We went to bed in one year and woke up in another; that was about as exciting as it got. New Year’s Day in England and Wales wasn’t even promoted to bank holiday status until 1974. But today, many Brits consider Christmas-and-New-Year as one extended mid-winter break.
As we manoeuvred ourselves through that colourful, expensive, highly-decorated, time-consuming, alcohol-fuelled, exciting, exhausting and anticipatory period which is known as ‘the-run-up-to-Christmas’ (aka Advent), Terroir started thinking about the very different festival geography of New Year’s Eve. This has a much shorter lead time and is over in the pop of a prosecco bottle as we all cross the temporal line from one year to the next in a geographical sequence westwards from the Pacific Ocean.
Time takes us to the edge of one year and pushes us over to the edge of the next. But, while the seasons march on, the world is full of other lines, edges and boundaries.
Here are some of the edges we spotted over the last 12 months.
And, at the far edge between an extraordinary 2022, we wish you a happy, healthy, stimulating and fulfilling 2023.
Christmas Landscape Design: Landscapes of Hope
Will Christmas 2022 be the death knell of the Christmas card? We – Terroir - discuss this every year and so far we have always received a satisfying number of cheerful, picturesque and, occasionally, totally tasteless greetings which warm our hearts and decorate our living room. But we wouldn’t like you to think that the demise of the cardboard Christmas greeting is the only topic of discussion chez nous.
2022 has been an extraordinary year. We hoped that 2022 would see the significant diminution of Covid. Wrong. The vaccine seems to reduce many of the symptoms, but the infection rate is still high. We hoped that 2022 would see the start of overseas travel again. It has, but many of us have come back with Covid. We hoped for the 2021 Christmas wishes of ‘peace to all’ would be realised, but didn’t take into account Russian ambition. We hoped that 2022 would improve conditions in many other countries but the flow of migrants around the world, seeking physical shelter and intellectual freedom, continues. We hoped that this year would bring political stability. We were so wrong on that one that you couldn’t make it up. We hoped that action on climate change and the impact of Cop 27 would be significantly increased. Again we were disappointed. We also failed to anticipate inflation, fuel and food poverty and a multitude of strikes expressing widespread concern over quality of life and infrastructure.
So, our social, political, economic and physical landscape looks pretty grim. Thankfully our forebears created the concept of a mid-winter festival, to banish the gloom of the cold and dark and to welcome back hope, with the return of the sun.
It is with enthusiasm, therefore, that we can report that the Christmas card may be reduced in numbers but it is far from dead.
How does the Christmas card cheer us up? What landscape does it portray? What does it say about symbolism and society? Here is Terroir’s take on the cardboard landscape of Christmas.
Although the Christmas holidays are celebrated by all religions and none, an obvious theme for Christmas cards is the birth of Christ and the hope that that event has brought to many over the centuries. Cribs, stables, star(s), the holy family, candles, angels, shepherds and wise men have all been portrayed over the centuries in a variety of settings, landscapes and climate conditions. Christmas cards have reproduced these art works, or enthusiastically reinterpreted these symbols in more modern designs. Snow is not usually a feature.
Thanks to various 19th century developments, including the invention of the Christmas card itself (see, for instance, the Postal Museum for further information https://www.postalmuseum.org/collections/first-christmas-card/ ), alternative themes began to develop. Snow became a compulsory feature, architecture sometimes took on a northern or central European look and conifer trees, including the Christmas tree itself, became more frequent. No, the British Forestry Commission wasn’t founded until 1919, but yes, we did have a heavily German-influenced royal family and travel abroad was also much easier for the moneyed classes and their servants.
Certain secular symbols have become particularly representative of Christmas cheer. The Christmas tree of course, is a popular theme but the highly visible robin-in-winter is a clear favourite for decorating Christmas greetings.
More recently, other animals have become symbolic of a merry Yuletide. The blackbird can sometime be seen to replace or reinforce the robin, but mammals have really taken the card designers’ world by storm. Fox, deer, and domestic dogs and cats are frequently portrayed.
But the big Christmas motif is now the hare, for reasons which escape Terroir. Perhaps you know better? Why not stoats in their ermine glory? It’s good enough for the House of Lords. But then the House of Lords may no longer be good enough for us.
These days the cute/humourous Christmas card is also very popular. This genre has adopted new icons and symbols. Penguins, bears, sheep and Christmas puddings are now firm favourites. Even that mythical creature, the hare-rabbit, has gone cute.
But, whatever your taste in Christmas greetings, digital or hard copy, wordy or pictorial, a round robin letter or a phone call on Christmas day (if you can get through, of course) or just a ‘Bah, Humbug’ silence, Terroir wishes you all
a Happy Christmas
and a New Year which is slightly more tolerable than 2022.
Watch out for those hares!
Harvest Home
The ‘Apple People’, aka Terroir North, have splendid ideas on using apples:
Inevitably in most years we end up with rather a lot of fruit and that means swinging into gathering, storing and using modes. Generally the fruit harvest breaks down into five end uses; pies and cakes, stewing and freezing, juice, family and friends and birds. The first is obvious but uses relatively little fruit, the second uses a bit more fruit but is limited to space in the freezers, juicing uses large numbers of apples of which more anon, distribution to family and friends is self explanatory and many apples end up as bird food for distribution throughout the winter. Redwings, fieldfares and blackbirds pile in through the autumn and winter months to peck happily at the remnants of the harvest. And when the windfalls and reject apples finally disappear there is a large bin containing their rations for later in the season when several apples will be put out each day.
Despite the many end uses (and users) the largest part of the crop goes into making juice. Not the anaemic looking and often tasteless stuff found in supermarkets but a full bodied, rich and seriously strong juice. Juicing is a brilliant way of utilising lots of the smaller, mis-shapen and slightly damaged apples. It’s a simple process, though but can be a tad time consuming.
What you need is a fruit chopper, a sharp knife, several buckets, a large pan, a rolling pin with one handle missing (be patient and the purpose of this little oddity will become clear), a crusher, a moderate amount of strength, a sieve and plenty of (mainly plastic) bottles. Oh and space in a freezer is pretty essential too. Thus suitably armed here is what you do to get that brilliant fresh apple juice that will ensure you never buy the shop stuff again!
Once gathered it’s wise to get on with the juicing as soon as possible. Apples bruise easily and the decay spreads rapidly. We would recommend giving the apples a good wash to remove things like mud, cobwebs, bits of grass and any invertebrates that might still want to claim the fruit as their home.
Carry said apples to the chopper, which, as you can see from the photo (below left) is basically a hopper box with chunky teeth at the base and a big wheel which rotates and chops the loaded apples into a pulpy pile. Here’s the slow bit. Each apple needs to be cut into two or three chunks and any rotten or bruised bits cut out and thrown away (below right, bruised bits waiting to become bird food). That way they will happily go through the chopper whereas whole apples will not (they just bounce about annoyingly). That’s where the sharp knife comes in.
Gather the pulp in a bucket until more or less filled. Grab the single handled rolling pin and boldly and unhesitatingly pulverise the pulp in the bucket. This may seem a bit drastic but what it actually achieves is a further breakdown of the pulp and a greater release of the juice. At last we come to the actual crushing process. We use a relatively small crusher which is ideal for home use. Larger ones are available and one can get electric choppers. But this suits us.
The pulverised mush is dropped into the crusher and an assortment of wooden bits are assembled on top and a solid iron block is wound down the central spindle. The more this bears down on the fruit the greater the flow of juice out through the sides of the closely spaced oak slats and the greater the satisfying sound of apple juice pouring into your pan placed below. As the pulp compacts the pressure required to extract the maximum juice increases until such time as you concede defeat and stop for a breather (hence the moderate strength in the list of requirements!).
By now you should have a pan full of lovely apple juice and all that remains (and this really is the most satisfying and rewarding bit) is to sieve the juice to remove any bits of pulp that might have fallen in, and decant into bottles. For immediate use, glass bottles filled to the top are fine. In the fridge they will stay fresh for a few days. To freeze, decant into plastic bottles to about two thirds full (allow for expansion of course) and pop in the freezer. They will keep for ages that way and what a delight to bring out a bottle or two at Christmas, or whenever else you feel like it. Once defrosted, we find they keep chilled for at least two weeks.
One question we get asked frequently is ‘do you make cider?’ Well, we love cider very much and yes we did try, but despite our best endeavours and a promising start, it eventually went horribly wrong and a lot of effort and apple juice ended up down the drain. We would never discourage would-be cider makers but would caution that great care and not a little skill is needed. Maybe it’s not quite as easy as the books suggest.
One other thing about the fruit trees is the beauty of the blossom in spring. Each variety and fruit type flowers at a slightly different time. We so much look forward to blossom time which spans several weeks in the spring and then, of course to autumn to harvest and enjoying all the tasty produce which derives from the plums, damsons, pears and, most of all, the apples in all their shapes, sizes and colours. And to conclude with a couple of lines from Keats again:
‘To bend with apples the moss’d cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;’
All images © T Thompson
Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness
Dispatches from the North West
“Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness”: so goes the well known first line of John Keats’ poem ‘To Autumn’. A little over 200 years since that poem was written we still marvel at the wonders and beauty of the season. Here in the Vale of Clwyd in the far north of Wales mists are rarely seen – in fact Team Terroir Gogledd Cymru/North Wales find it difficult to recall the last time it was truly misty or foggy in the Vale. To the east over the mountain range where north east Wales meets the Cheshire Plain the towns, villages and countryside are frequently shrouded in mist at this time of year but the fresh winds blowing across the Vale from the moors and mountains to the west ensure that any would-be mists are rapidly dispersed.
But fruitfulness we have in abundance. And not just fruit but also seeds and berries in profusion. It can be said that the autumn of 2022 has been truly bountiful, more so than for many years. The hedgerows are filled with blackberries, sloes, bullace (the latter two excellent for fruit gin connoisseurs), hips and haws. The trees are laden with acorns, rowan berries, crabapples, beech mast and chestnuts. Similarly the trees in our orchard have produced most plentifully and the fruit harvest has kept this part of Team Terroir fully occupied throughout much of October.
Orchards are not a dominant feature of the landscape of north Wales (unlike the vast areas of fruit trees in some English counties) but they do, in a quiet and discrete way, occur frequently in association with many farms and smallholdings. Small is beautiful as they say. Typically an orchard here can range from just five or six trees up to maybe a dozen or more but rarely larger. The small vernacular cottages may only have the space for one tree but growing fruit for self-sufficiency rather than any commercial reason is very much the tradition here. This is reflected in the fairly frequent occurrence of the Welsh word Perllan, often mutated to Berllan, in local farm and other place names. Examples include Ty’n y Berllan (house in the orchard), Cae Berllan (orchard field) or even Berllan Surgery in Denbigh suggesting it’s on an old orchard site.
Sadly many of these orchards are in serious decline with numerous dead and dying trees. Their contribution to biodiversity has been recognised for some time and traditional orchards were given priority Biodiversity Action Plan (BAP) status in 2007. Much more information can be found in the Traditional Orchard Habitat Inventory of Wales produced by Natural Resources Wales (https://cdn.cyfoethnaturiol.cymru/media/685908/eng-report-018-traditional-orchard-habitat-inventory-of-wales-2014.pdf).
Our original orchard (see images above), which we think dates from around 1900, contained five apples, three pears and two plums. A typical mixture. What is of particular interest, of course, is the composition of types. Two of the apples are straight forward gnarled old Bramleys. One consistently crops heavily whilst it’s equally healthy immediate neighbour normally refuses to produce a single apple – this year being no exception. Very occasionally it concedes and yields maybe 10 or so fruits and then reverts to its intransigent state of fruitlessness. One apple tree succumbed to Armillaria (honey fungus) at an early stage and two of the remaining apples are of unknown varieties. Very productive they are too but we can only guess at their origin. With that in mind and aware of the need to conserve heritage varieties we have taken cuttings and grafted them onto rootstock. The other trees are a couple of pear varieties, a yellow plum which died recently and a Denbigh plum which is slowly disintegrating with each successive storm. The latter is of great interest though as it is the only plum variety native to Wales and now enjoys Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) status. It therefore stands alongside such wonders as Cornish Clotted Cream, Jersey Royal Potatoes and West Wales Coracle-caught Salmon! (https://businesswales.gov.wales/foodanddrink/how-we-can-help/new-uk-geographical-indication-gi-schemes-0/vale-clwyd-denbigh-plum-pdo). There are now a number of projects the length and breadth of Wales aimed at identifying and propagating heritage varieties of all fruit trees and encouraging the establishment and restoration of orchards.
To these trees we have added a couple of damsons and two more Denbigh plums as our original tree is in rapid decline. Anxious to ensure long term continuity we found a small area in the old paddock to plant more fruit trees.So the ‘new orchard’ was born (images above). Starting in 2008 with around 15 trees, mainly apple (including Worcester Permain, Cox, Red Falstaff, Russetts, and James Grieve) but also a plum and three Morello cherries (the latter having been disappointingly unsuccessful) the growth rate was phenomenal and most started to yield within a couple of years.
Above left and centre: Red Falstaff - small tree but consistently big crop Above right: Russett - all round versatile favourite
Two trees are of special note being North Wales heritage varieties. The first is the Enlli or Bardsey apple originating from a single tree on Ynys Enlli/Bardsey Island off the extreme North West tip of the Welsh mainland. More on this at www.bardsey.org which describes how the apple came to be ‘found’ as well as lots about this fascinating but remote island. The other tree of note is the Anglesey Pig’s Snout/Trwyn Mochyn Ynys Mon. So called because of its tapered and angular shape broadly reminiscent of a pig’s snout albeit rather greener! There is more on this at https://treborth.bangor.ac.uk/welsh-orchard.php.en along with descriptions of other Welsh heritage varieties growing at the Bangor University botanic gardens.
Above left: a cluster of Enlli/Bardesy apples Above right: the distinctively shaped Trwyn Mochyn Ynys Mon/Anglesea Pig’s Snout - crops late, keeps well, excellent baked or in pies
Fast forward nine years and the North Wales Wildlife Trust have embarked on a project to propagate and establish heritage fruit trees. We referred earlier to the typical farm orchard so often in decline. This project attempts to reduce that decline and foster better care and management of orchards and the attendant biodiversity value.
The Trust collected cuttings from unusual, maybe unique, varieties and grew them on. In many cases they didn’t know the names of the varieties so developed their own nomenclature. This consisted of a series of traditional Welsh girls’ names. Then, with the Trust overburdened with little trees needing secure homes, we were duly offered a number of young plants. So we acquired Myfanwy, Catrin, Angharad, another Enlli, several Denbigh plums and, slightly bizarrely, a Warner’s King (right) whose origins are in Kent. www.gardenappleid.co.uk
The importance of fruit trees and orchards for their wildlife value cannot be over-stated. Not just the trees themselves but their flowers for early pollinators, buds for finches, fruit for birds and butterflies (red admirals love fallen fruit) and the tall vegetation beneath. One tree or many trees – they all contribute significantly to biodiversity.
Next week is all about consuming fruit!
All images © T Thompson
Creel House Tribulations
Two weeks ago, we were reunited with artist and vernacular architect, Rob Thompson. Terroir first spoke to him in his native North Wales (see Cynefin, Blog 18, February 2021) but last summer we discovered him in Glencoe, having been working on the construction of a historic form of dwelling, called a Creel or Turf House. During our last blog, we quizzed Rob on Creel House basics – the ‘what is it’ and the ‘why on earth build one’ sort of question. Today we’re getting in much, much deeper to the practicalities, and uncovering some surprising stories.
Terroir: Rob – you said that this sort of vernacular architecture used local materials. So where did you get your timber, turf and heather?
RT: on the whole the timber was sourced locally from within Glencoe.
Turf is more tricky, however. It comes in many different types, usually clay, silt, or peat based. Clay and silt rich turf shrink back the least, and are the best choice when building a structure that would suffer if a turf with high shrinkage was to be used.
Peat based turfs are lighter in weight and hold more air. They are used where a high level of insulation is required, as is the case in Glencoe. They do however shrink back the most and this can be a problem if the building’s design does not allow for this to happen.
The turf for the walls at Glencoe was sourced from directly next to the site. The blocks were produced with a diagonal cut, and carried over to the site. I think it is an especially important aspect of the build that the walls, which are unlikely to outlive other parts of the structure, have come from, and can be returned back to, the ground in close proximity to the building.
The walls are up to a metre deep in places and of solid turf block laid in herringbone course.
As the peat rich turf slowly shrinks as it dries out, the joints should close up. Additional height was added to the walls, to compensate for the loss of height due to the shrinkage of the turf. The walls are angled with a batter. This allows the load to spread, reducing the risk of collapse. The batter has also caused some issues, though, as its projection acts as an extended area for rain to hit.
Image above: the turf house steams gently in a brief sunny interval
Terroir: did you say there was turf on the roof as well?
RT: yes, it’s called a turf divot, a layer of thin turf used as an insulation layer. It sits on the cabers (the roof timbers) allowing a levelled off area for the heather thatch to sit on. The thatch is then attached to the divots using hazel staples and spars. The divot also absorbs moisture so acts as a second line of defence against wind and rain.
Above: turf divots being covered by heather thatch
Although we managed to source the wall turf locally, there was not enough left to line the roof as well. This is where the 21st century began to impact on the build. A turf cutting area of sufficient size could not be found in Glencoe due to the glen’s protected status as a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI).
Eventually the turf was cut from the National Trust for Scotland (NTS) site at Kintail approximately two hours north of Glencoe. The cutting site was a flat meadow field close to the road. The cutting process was a difficult thing to get right.
A day was spent attempting to cut turf with a double width machine, the Turfaway 600, which looked an impressive lump of an American machine. It proved to be useless for this work, however, as the blades were unable to stay in the ground long enough to cut any decent turf. A replacement, older and heavier machine arrived several days later together with a mechanical wheelbarrow to pull it!
The turf was cut and stacked ready for the collection. The staff at the National Trust and the crafts people used a trailer and Land Rover to take it back to the creel house site - some 8 trips were needed.
Terroir: no local sourcing there, then. What about the heather for the roof? No shortage presumably?
RT: hah!
Terroir: pardon?
RT: you would think it would be easy, wouldn’t you?
The heather required for thatching is the common native heather (Calluna vulgaris) which thrives on poor acid soil found in the highlands of Scotland. The original intention was to gather heather from the NTS’s Mar Lodge estate, but due to nesting birds, it was not feasible and in the end, it was gathered from the neighbouring Invercauld estate.
The picking of heather suggests the idea of walking through an open field, picking flowers with ease. Heather picking is far from this, requiring the plant to be physically pulled out of the ground, roots and all. It’s hard manual labour with wildlife hazards: adders, clegs (horse flies), midges and ticks all need to be dodged, swatted or removed.
Once pulled, heather is bundled. A bundle size is a tight, ‘oversize hug’ ie a ‘hug’ plus about a foot between each hand. The material is pulled in, and when no more can be hugged it is ready to be stringed together. The twine is tied tightly around each end straightening the bundle out. This process often involves a bit of wrestling with the heather to get it compressed to a point where it is feasible to tie the string around. A length of string is about one stretch of an arm.
For the purposes of the project, 1,000 bundles of heather had to be transported from Braemar to Glencoe - carried by a huge articulated lorry.
15 people took part in the heather gather over 10 days. There was one afternoon off, one visit to the pub, three swims in a river, and one end of gather party! The accommodation was a bunkhouse in Braemar.
Image © Mark Thacker
Terroir: and you still haven’t started thatching!
RT: thank goodness the traditional craft of thatching is still alive and well. Working from the base of the roof, around three layers of heather were fixed with a spar, then another three layers and so on to the roof ridge. The intention was to thatch the ridge but suitable lengths of heather were limited. A decision was made to do a turf ridge instead which is seen on many examples of heather roofs, including the township at the Highland Folk Museum.
A daub coating was added to seal the heather on the final layer. It was a hot period and the daub baked dry in the sun. Turf divots were then used to form the ridge, one layer pegged grass side down, and a second layer, overlapping the joints in the lower layer, placed and pegged grass side up. It is thought that this will last up to two years before it will require replacement. Maintaining this will involve very little; if it required a trim a rabbit on a lead could be used!
Image left: the daubing process Image right: the creel house with the ridge sporting a neat, turf mohican
Terroir: it all sounds a bit short term. Does it really work as a form of dwelling?
RT: I know what you mean. I have always associated turf wall construction with that of the Ty Unnos tradition in Wales. Here it was often used as a quick temporary building method, before a more long term method would be applied to replace it at a later date, such as stone or Clom (compressed earth similar to Cob in England).
Turf has a relatively short life expectancy before it breaks down. Roots that bind the turf slowly rot, and the turf degrades. It is interesting when looking at accounts of the creel/turf houses of Scotland that they were rebuilt very often. There would often be two sites that a dweller would rotate between, taking the valuable parts of the building with them, and allow the walls, and roof to rot away back into the ground. Often the building would become a cattle shed, then as it collapsed, a Kale yard. It is evident that the building went through a variety of uses before finally returning to the earth again. It seems like a very sustainable way of building!
The life-cycle of a creel house
All images © R J Thompson unless otherwise stated
The Creel House
No, not the name of a pub, nor a seaside shed for storing fishermen’s baskets. The Creel House in question is located in Glencoe, some 35 miles from the Port of Oban (the ‘seafood capital of Scotland’) and well over a mile from the nearest Inn.
But before we explain, let Terroir take you back to February 2021, when we posted a blog (entitled ‘Cynefin’) featuring Rob Thompson, a young Welsh vernacular architect and artist. At the time he was firmly located in his Welsh homeland, sketching and painting traditional Welsh cottages, houses and barns, all constructed from local material.
Derelict crog loft cottage, Anglesey © R J Thompson
In the summer of 2022, we tracked him down again, now living in Glencoe, and finishing off the construction of a Scottish Creel House, located at the National Trust for Scotland’s Glencoe Visitor Centre.
So, what is a creel house?
RT: The Creel house, sometimes also called a turf house, is basically a very large basket, like a coracle, or log basket. A timber cruck frame holds up the main structure and roof, with basket (creel) panels between the frame. The one at Glencoe is a rather over-engineered version, and the originals would have relied more on the creel aspect with a much skinnier timber frame.
The non-load bearing turf walls form a wind brake around the perimeter. A creel house would have been an especially common structure in the west of Britain where there was plenty of hazel in the warm damp conditions of the western seaboard.
Above left: the cruck frame, creel walls and timber roof lining
Above right: herringbone turf outer walls, with tiny window, under turf and heather thatched roof
Terroir: Who lived in them?
RT: Creel houses would have been the homes of those who dwellt in townships (villages) in this part of Scotland. The type of building housed a range of social classes within the township. People would live at one end and animals at the other. The animals would help to keep the building warm. This was once a common living arrangement, and seen in similar types of buildings such as the longhouse in Wales and western England.
Creel houses were located all over Scotland and were the predecessors of the later stone built homes. Evidence shows they existed anywhere where hazel or timber was obtainable.
Terroir: probably a silly question, by why aren’t there any left?
No original Creel houses exist today. Due to the very organic nature of the materials used in their construction they had a very limited life expectancy. They are described as pre-improvement dwellings. Landowners discouraged the use of turf as a building material in the earlier part of the 18th century, to prevent large areas of potentially fertile land being stripped. The use of stone was encouraged as a building material instead.
Many people felt that their turf and creel houses were warmer and better insulated than the new stone houses and often refused to move out of their basket dwellings. Much propaganda by the ‘establishment’ deemed these creel homes poor and squalid, and forced the eventual demise of such structures.
Terroir: why build one and why in Glencoe?
RT: It is experimental archaeology; it tries to demonstrate a lost vernacular building style, and to understand how the materials used would behave. The building will also form part of a wider interpretation in telling the local story of the massacre of Glencoe.
From my point of view, and that of many of the crafts people involved, it is hopefully creating a resource for understanding this lost typology, and to provide an example of these materials and techniques. The turf wall aspect is particularly unusual.
Above left: turf wall detail. Above centre: base stones to keep the turf dry and off the ground. Above right: modern construction and safety techniques support ancient thatching skills
Terroir: how did you know what to build and what materials to use?
The building is based on archaeological findings from the National Trust for Scotland’s (NTS) excavation of the 17th century township of Achtriachtan further up the Glen - one of the main townships which predated the Glencoe massacre in 1692. The footprint for the new creel house was based on one of the larger houses to be found in the group. Along with written historic references and maps, the findings enabled the design of the new, replica house.
The project was commissioned by NTS, and constructed at the Glencoe NTS visitor Centre as a visitor attraction. The work was mainly funded by enthusiastic American donors, keen to see a recreated creel house form part of the interpretation of the Glencoe Massacre of 1692. It was led by an architect and a team of skilled crafts people. My involvement was funded by Historic Environment Scotland (HES) as a way of creating a skills legacy, including a record of the construction process, the skills and materials required and a maintenance manual. [Terroir: if only all new houses came with one of those]
Terroir: do you think that this new Creel House looks anything like the original dwellings?
RT: I think it is similar to an original creel house, but this is a very beautiful ‘Rolls Royce’ example. I think that the originals would have been a truer product of what could be sourced close to hand. Also I imagine the houses would have been continually altered and improved to cope with the climatic influences of their locality. What is important to understand is that these houses were often only built to last a few years, but this example has been constructed to last a lot longer, so it has to be more robust!
Accounts from the time revealed a palette of what materials may have been used, but it is not always clear how exactly some of these materials may have been used, for example, the coursing of the turf walls, or the use of glass in the window. The timber frame and wattle creel infill is similar to historic references, but the need to comply with modern building regulations made this a much more over-engineered example.
Terroir: are their lessons to be learnt?
It is a great example of what we can do with the materials in a historical way but I think that these materials can be developed into a modern context too. Long lost building techniques such as constructing with turf could be used in new homes, and I think it has certainly made people more aware of these materials, and their uses.
Having worked a lot with turf over the last year I can see its merits as a building material. Turf is easier to obtain than stone and is much better insulated. It is cosy to sit within the walls of a turf house, and it does not feel cold in the same way as a stone house. I also think when it comes to self-builds that turf and timber are both very user-friendly materials for anyone to try using.
Our next blog will return to Glencoe and its creel house and look at some of the unexpected and unintended consequences of creating a traditional building in a 21st century landscape.
But the best unexpected consequence is thanks to the Society for the Protection of Ancient Building (SPAB). The SPAB Heritage Awards will be presented by Kevin McLeod on the 3rd November in London https://www.spab.org.uk/news/new-awards-celebrate-historic-buildings-and-craftspeople . There are three finalists in the ‘Building Craftsperson of the Year Award (career changer)’ and we are delighted to announce that Rob Thompson is one of those three. Good luck Rob!
All images © R J Thompson
Who Lives Here?
What do our houses say about us?
For most of us, probably not a lot. Obviously the size and location of abode gives passers by an inkling of our financial standing. Something about our taste may be revealed in the external appearance of the dwelling place. Any garden may hint at our passion – or lack of it – for horticulture. What’s on the drive may signal a petrol head or whisper of a serious cyclist. But, on the whole, unless you have a liveried vehicle parked out front, our trade or profession, the name of our employer, or our pay grade, is not immediately obvious.
Looking at the images below, we might like to think we can work out the sort of person who would be living in any of these assorted homes, but to be honest, we have no idea.
Even whether we own or rent our property is less obvious since Mrs Thatcher’s ‘Right to Buy’ policy. Council Houses were always easy to spot: just like other mass building styles but with no external adornment whatsoever.
Former Council Housing
One of the early and easy ways of putting your own mark on your newly purchased council house was to replace the plain, unadorned, original front door with something more stylish, perhaps with an inset window, panels or a never-before-seen colour scheme. These days, social housing – what’s left of it – is much harder to spot.
But anonymity is not available to all. Consider this image (right):
Simply the name of the house reveals that at least one of the inhabitants is a committed Christian, is paid a not particularly generous stipend, is a cog in the Church of England behemoth, does not pay rent, council tax or water rates and won’t have to cough up to mend the roof. On changing job, parish or on retirement, the family will all have to move out.
Of course, in this particular vocation, making known one’s location is part of the job and is, I suppose, a not too onerous burden in the bigger scheme of being an effective Rector.
As an aside, it is interesting to note that this modern Rectory is now the hub of a United Benefice consisting of three village churches, and has replaced three former rectories, one in each of village.
Here is a view of one of those former Rectories. This glorious, historic edifice, now divided into two, generously sized homes (below left and centre), sends out an entirely different message about the status of Rectors in the Church and in Victorian Society, compared with the more modest and modern Rectory (below right). The latter requires a lot less upkeep (for the Church of England) and a lot less heating and house work (for the incumbent and family) than its predecessor.
Which brings us neatly onto that other form of a dwelling which ‘goes with the job’ - the tied cottage. Often associated with agriculture, tied cottages became an increasingly significant part of rural housing with the 18th and 19th century Enclosure Acts, which dismantled both common land and commoners right (grazing, gathering of fire wood etc), much to the detriment of the local, independent, small scale, rural economy. Working people became more dependent on paid agricultural employment and, from various motives, landowners increasingly offered their workers some form of accommodation. Rent was probably minimal and the house considered a perk of the job. It sounds idyllic, all roses around the door, with farm hands located close to where they worked, but of course it gave land owners much greater control of their work force and the workers had few rights and little or no security.
Many reforms of the system were made in the 20th and 21st centuries, including right to buy options, but the system became increasingly unfit for purpose and, with drastic reduction in the need for agricultural workers, many tied cottages were sold off to reduce overheads.
In the 20th century, many of the landed estates started to develop or extend a system of colour coding for their estate properties. Of course the mansion at the core of any particular land holding did not have its doors and window frames painted in the estate colour of choice (right Petworth House, now National Trust, is instantly recognisable but delightful anonymous)
but it became common practice for other estate owned property – from farm yard to village hall to village shop to estate cottages – to be painted in the appropriate colour.
An article in Country Life (https://www.countrylife.co.uk/interiors/why-you-see-matching-front-door-colours-across-great-swatches-of-the-english-countryside-226604) talks nostalgically about the colour options chosen by the big estates. Cowdray’s Sussex estate has doors and windows painted a bright yellow. The Duke of Northumberland’s Surrey Estate is adorned with a tasteful green. There is Chatsworth blue and Belvoir brown. It does add a certain piquancy to the rural landscape, that splash of unexpected colour which provides a highlight in a green and brown English landscape, reminiscent of the impact of a Gilbert Scott red phone box on the corner of a lonely rural lane.
Above: Northumberland Green and Cowdray Yellow
Of course, it is also very paternalistic and a form of marking your territory and branding your belongings in the way we used to brand cattle. Signs such as Keeper’s Cottage, The Bothy or the Old Forge tend to appear after the last game keeper, gardener or blacksmith has long gone. Yet, if you live in a cottage on a large estate, you may have no choice, as the identity of your landlord/employer may be emblazoned, in colour, all over your door and window frames.