Piers are remarkable things. Remnants of a former era when British seaside resorts were thriving places, they stick their necks out against the tide in more ways than one. And they are all remarkable in different ways. It’s not the longest, shortest or oldest, but Boscombe Pier, near Bournemouth in Dorset has come to be known as Britain’s coolest.

In contrast to the delicate wrought-iron and ornate detail of Britain’s Victorian piers, Boscombe Pier is a modern streamlined affair. It has an audacious, almost Googie-style entrance with a geometric cantilevered roof, for all intents and purposes like the wings of a jet. The message is clear – Boscombe Pier has landed.

Like many of its peers (sorry) Boscombe Pier has not had its troubles to seek. Originally built in 1888, it had no head until 1926. It was partly demolished for security reasons during the Second World War and lay in a sorry state until the 1950s. Opinion was divided on what to do next. A war of words broke out in the Beaches and Pavilion Committee with one councillor proclaiming “Piers are really redundant” and another that “A seaside without a pier is like a pig without ears”.

The consensus was that Boscombe needed a lift and the pier was rebuilt. The borough architect, John Burton, designed the terribly modish entrance building in line with the Modernist style of the late-1950s. The pier neck was rebuilt in reinforced and pre-stressed concrete (so this one shouldn’t burn down) and The Mermaid Theatre at the head was opened in 1962 with the ultimate in modern entertainment – a roller rink.

Over time its popularity faded and The Mermaid Theatre closed in 1989. It was later demolished, and as the entrance building was also closed for health and safety reasons the future of the pier looked bleak once again. A council survey in 2003 showed overwhelming support for the pier’s regeneration, and Grade II listing ensured that its character was kept intact. Plans were drawn up for some big names to put Boscombe back on the map.

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Posted by Anne on July 28, 2009 | Filed under Anne Architecture Coastal England
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The crypt of St Leonard’s Church in Hythe contains one of only two ossuaries in the UK (the other is in Rothwell, Northants). It holds over 2,000 skulls arranged neatly along the walls and 8,000 bones in a huge pile stacked almost to the ceiling - like a macabre game of Jenga. When death is such a taboo these days it’s a shock to see so much of it staring you in the face.

Seeing so many skulls in one go makes them less of a sinister object and more of an anthropological souvenir. They come in all shapes and sizes, some with axe wounds and congenital deformities – a sign of the times. One even shows a trepanning wound, where a hole was drilled in the skull and miraculously, the patient survived. A table of jawbones shows rows of teeth in surprisingly good shape. In those days refined sugar wasn’t part of the diet and the greatest dental hazard was tough bread.

This collection is gold dust for those want to know more about the health and genetic make-up of our predecessors. The numbers stamped on to each skull are signs of a study that took place in the 1930s. When I visited, a forensic anthropology student from Bournemouth University was working away with a craniometer, measuring the skulls one by one. The owners hope that new technology will reveal more about the lives of the people who came to rest here.

There have been many theories about how such a large collection got here – as the result of a Saxon battle or a wave of the Black Death. The mostly likely explanation is less dramatic, simply that an existing burial ground was disturbed during the building of the new church in the 13th Century.

At that time ossuaries were relatively commonplace. Bodies were only buried for a short while before being dug up again. The skulls and femurs (thigh bones) were kept as they were the two strongest bones and it was thought that their preservation was enough to guarantee passage into the afterlife. This might seem horribly disrespectful by today’s standards but it was a sign that the physical body wasn’t important. The soul had already ascended to heaven and so the body returned to dust.

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Posted by Anne on June 21, 2009 | Filed under Anne England Holy
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Scotland is famous for many things – tartan, whisky and beautiful scenery to name a few, but a modern invention has brought it fame and shame in equal measure. News reports on Scotland’s abysmal health record are almost always sprinkled with references to that culinary legend, the deep-fried Mars Bar.

So what is it about deep-fried food that makes it so special, so delicious? In Scotland every town has its chippy, serving fish, sausages and even haggis as ‘singles’ or ‘suppers’ (that means served with chips). For decades, the deep-fried pizza has been a permanent fixture – delighting Scots and horrifying more health conscious onlookers. So wrong, and yet so right.

Rewind to 1995 when the deep-fried Mars Bar was first spotted in the Haven Fish Bar in Stonehaven on Scotland’s north-east coast. Now called The Carron, it has been serving them ever since, and the huge ‘Home of the deep fried Mars bar’ banner outside suggests that they are not embarrassed by the ignominy it has brought the nation as a whole.

In truth, despite their worldwide fame, they are not actually that common (and Scots don’t live off them). They can be easily found in tourist traps like Edinburgh’s Royal Mile but in 2004, The Lancet (yes, The Lancet) surveyed the availability of said treats and only found them in 22% of chip shops. I’m not sure what that proves. In other areas, inventive souls riffed on the idea, most famously The Reiver Fish Bar in Duns which has diversified into deep-fried Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. Oy.

So, the million dollar question - what does a deep-fried Mars Bar taste like? I chose a ‘single’ - you can order it with chips, but that’s just wrong - and it was freshly made to order. It looks more or less as you’d expect, like a Mars bar in batter - not particularly pleasing to the eye. However, the batter is crispy and light, encasing the sweet hot goo inside which runs out on first bite. It’s sweet and savoury, crispy and gooey – in short, a taste sensation.

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Posted by Anne on June 07, 2009 | Filed under Anne Eats Scotland
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The village of Bedfont in Middlesex is not the kind of place you'd purposefully go and visit. Lying in the shadow of Heathrow airport, it's one of many suburbs you pass through in a hurry to catch your plane. But tucked away on the village green lies the parish church of St Mary the Virgin, which boasts a very impressive display of topiary.

Either side of the church gate are two towering yew trees that have been shaped to form two peacocks and an arch. These birds sit on top of a pile of leafy pillows which in turn rest on a topiary inscription: 1704 and 1990. The whole structure towers over the path to the church and at night it is floodlit magnificently.

The church itself dates from 1150 but it is thought that the trees were first cut into peacocks in 1704. Several periods of dilapidation and restoration followed with the most recent restoration being in 1990, remedying the neglect of the post-war years.

Such is the presence of these mighty birds in the village, that they are represented on the local district council crest and Bedfont Green F.C. are known affectionately as "The Peacocks". In 1827 Thomas Hood published a lengthy poem about them called "The Two Peacocks of Bedfont":

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, Behold two maidens, up the quiet green Shining, far distant, in the summer air That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,--sailing as if they were Two far-off ships,--until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate ….

Worth missing a plane for.

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Posted by Jasia on May 30, 2009 | Filed under England Jasia Nature Sculpture
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Tanks rumble across No Man’s Land, submarines patrol the sea, soldiers stand guard and munitions workers labour day and night - all in stained glass. They feature in three of the windows in St Mary’s Church, which, together with a stone cross, constitute Swaffham Prior’s unique memorial to World War I.

Created in 1919, the windows were designed by CP Allix; local squire, church benefactor and a man apparently fascinated with machines. The windows have lots of small scenes, each accompanied by Biblical texts, some of which seem rather laboured, as if they have been levered in to justify the images.

The first one starts with a barrage balloon floating among the stars while searchlights comb the sky and a tank roams the plains. Not the sort of thing you usually see in churches. Under a biplane flying though glassy blue skies is the text ‘Though they climb up to heaven thence will I bring them down.’ Was Biggles an agent of the Almighty in his battles with the Red Baron? As they stack up the shells they‘ve made, female munitions workers are encouraged by ‘Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with your might.’

The fascination with technology is undimmed in the second window - ‘Though they be hid from my sight in the bottom of the sea thence will I command the serpent’ accompanies a fantastic painting of a submarine, complete with riveted sections, periscopes and a complex rudder mechanism. On the surface a ship steams along happily, but not for long… now you see it sinking under the waves, where you can also admire four different types of mine.

After that the belligerence starts to lessen. Hospital nurses help casualties and, elsewhere in the world British engineers build a pipeline to bring water to the desert. ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour like thyself’ is the inspiring text for an illustration of what seems to be a YMCA shelter – surely the world’s ONLY instance of this organisation appearing in sacred art?

The final window extols the benefits of peace. There are bright scenes of sheep grazing, men ploughing fields, women gathering crops and so on. It’s all very nice and cheery but you can just tell his heart wasn’t in it, or perhaps there just wasn’t enough technology to interest him. If only the Massey Ferguson and the mechanised milking parlour had been invented in time to liven up those pastoral idylls.

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Posted by Lucy on May 23, 2009 | Filed under England Holy Lucy Military
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Keir Mill, near Thornhill in Dumfries and Galloway is a fairly unremarkable wee place. Describing it as a hamlet is overegging things slightly. But great oaks from little acorns grow, or in this case, great inventions as Keir Mill is the birthplace of Kirkpatrick Macmillan, who gave the world the pedal-driven bicycle.

Born here in 1812, he was the local blacksmith. When he saw someone clamber past on a ‘hobby horse’ (a bike without pedals) he thought there must be a better means of self-propulsion and began to experiment. He came up with the ‘Kirkpatrick’ rear wheel pedal-driven bicycle which had wooden wheels, iron tyres and a weight of 57lb. There is a replica nearby in Drumlanrig Cycle Museum. It’s hard to imagine it going anywhere, but in 1842, he took it 68 miles over bumpy roads to visit his brothers in Glasgow.

Legend has it that the locals heard tell of a ‘Devil on Wheels’ and thronged to meet him. No one had ever seen such a thing, and in the ensuing stramash Macmillan knocked down a young onlooker, and was called to the Gorbals Public Bar to pay a fine of 5 Scots shillings. The magistrate was so impressed that he let him off, provided he did a turn on his bicycle in the courtyard.

The Dumfries Courier reported the incident, saying, “This invention will not supersede the railway.” How little they knew. Instead it was as exciting as the jet pack. However, with that sort of reception, Macmillan’s bicycle did not become popular and he didn’t take it any further. Others had similar ideas and in Paris in 1861, Michaux’s boneshaker, with cranks and a front-wheel pedal became popular. This paved the way for the Penny Farthing in the 1870s and the rear wheel driven “safety” bicycle of the 1880s.

Kirkpatrick Macmillan died on 26 January 1878 aged 65 and is buried in the village churchyard. While he’s not exactly a household name, cyclists come from all over the world to pay homage. On a crowded family gravestone, his name is at the bottom, almost like an afterthought. His relatives all died early, many as children. Kirkpatrick was lucky to lead a long and productive life. As the National Committee on Cycling plaque on his smithy home reads 'He builded better than he knew'.

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Posted by Anne on May 17, 2009 | Filed under Anne Industrial Scotland
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Marine Court, a hulking Art Deco apartment block, dominates the seafront at St Leonards-on-Sea in East Sussex. When it opened in 1937 it was the tallest block of flats in the UK. The strange thing is its sheer bulk makes the wonder of its design easy to miss. From St Leonards it is a shabby block of flats, but look at it along the coast from Eastbourne or Hastings and it becomes clear that this architectural behemoth is a graceful ocean liner ready to set sail.

Once you know this it's impossible to see it any other way. Marine Court was modelled on the Queen Mary, Cunard's famous liner which first sailed in 1934. To describe it takes a mixture of architectural and nautical terms. At the eastern end, the curved lower floors protrude like a ship’s bow and the floors above recede like the stacked decks of a liner. At the west end the balconies end in a graceful curl, leaving a gap at the stern. The architects, Kenneth Dalgleish and Roger K Pullen, stopped short of adding portholes but it’s a simple but effective set of visual clues. On a sunny day, residents could feel like they were enjoying a luxury cruise from the comfort of their own flat.

However, not everyone could see the bright side. A competition to name the building had suggestions like ‘Monstrosity Mansions’ and ‘Have No Care House’. When it opened it contained 153 flats and 3 restaurants. In the 1960s it was home to The Cobweb, also known as the Witch Doctor - a nightclub that saw Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie and other luminaries play. Today, it's much quieter and the "comfort superstore" that occupies the ground floor is more suited to its current, mostly elderly inhabitants.

Grade II listed in 1999, it is starting to show its age. The exterior is a bit tatty, and the original details have been compromised by double glazing and rogue DIY. But it could have been a lot worse. It's still standing and it’s lived in. It looks like it has a few stories to tell.

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Posted by Anne on May 07, 2009 | Filed under Anne Architecture England
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