Over the years Coventry has had a bit of a hard time. Bombed heavily during World War II, the Modernist post-war reconstruction which was groundbreaking in its day has few fans left. However, in Broadgate - the dead centre (as it were), a building with a facade that only its mother could love has a special treat for keen-eyed visitors.

Above the Lady Godiva News kiosk (oh yes) there are two doorways with black eagles on them, signifying Coventry rising from the ashes, and a triangular window above. On the hour, Coventry's most famous heroine Lady Godiva comes rolling out of one door on her horse, buck naked of course with only long hair to cover her modesty. As soon as she appears, famous voyeur Peeping Tom pops out of the window above to get a good eyeful. She rides from one doorway to the next as bells alert goggle-eyed onlookers. In a flash it’s all over.

Both Lady Godiva and Peeping Tom are local heroes. Lady Godiva has another statue in the centre of Broadgate and she looms large in Coventry’s history. Another Peeping Tom statue watches the shoppers in Cathedral Lane shopping centre and the bizarrely-titled Peeping Tom News, a sibling of Lady Godiva News, lurks round the back of the clock.

The legend goes that Lady Godiva, an Anglo-Saxon noblewoman who was the wife of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, threatened to ride naked in protest at her husband’s decision to raise taxes. He ordered the populace not to look and everyone obeyed apart from local tailor Peeping Tom, who was cheeky enough to catch a quick eyeful. He paid a high price for his moment of pleasure and was blinded.

It’s not entirely clear why this hasn’t become one of Britain’s top tourist attractions. After all it is free and contains nudity. Mechanical clocks were at one time an essential feature of any self-respecting shopping centre. If you can’t manage a peep at Coventry’s, Masquerade author Kit Williams designed ones in Cheltenham, Telford and Milton Keynes or you could catch the magnificent Roland Emett’s The Aqua Horological Tintinnabulator in the Victoria Centre, Nottingham.

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Posted by Anne on January 23, 2010 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Anderby Creek is not somewhere you arrive at by accident. In fact, I went looking for it and still struggled to find it after driving through deepest and darkest Lincolnshire. Part of the problem is due to the fact that it doesn't consist of a great deal bar a large number of caravans and a wide expanse of (very pleasant) sandy beach. However since 1 April 2009 it has also been the location of the world's first 'Official Cloudspotting Area'. As member number 14364 of the Cloud Appreciation Society it was a personal must-see.

The Anderby Creek Cloud Bar, to give its official title, came into being after a disused beach shelter was given a new lease of life as part of the Bathing Beauties project. Designed by Michael Trainor, it's a simple wooden (larch I believe), building featuring a number of cloud spotting menus, some cloud viewing seating, (which admittedly is better to look at than to sit on), and some slightly Heath Robinson styled self-operating parabolic cloud-mirrors - to aid in the viewing of clouds across the wide East coast skies.

I arrived as the sun was coming up and if nothing else, the view of the North Sea from the Cloud Bar’s viewing platform was worth the journey alone. When it opened earlier in the year the weather wasn’t very kind at all, in fact the day was marred by, well, by clear blue skies. I had no such problem during my visit, in fact quite the opposite in so much that almost as soon as the sun appeared it disappeared behind a thick unrelenting band of Altostratus. Not the most attractive of clouds I suppose, but cloud all the same.

It may seem a little perverse to travel any kind of distance to view something that’s available to you outside your front door but the Cloud Bar is worth a visit nevertheless. As Gavin Pretor-Pinney, founder of The Cloud Appreciation Society, said: "The Cloud Bar is an inspired way to remind the public that some of nature's most varied and beautiful displays take place daily above our heads". Something we could all do with being reminded of, eh?

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Posted by Daniel Weir on December 06, 2009 | Permalink

Newcastle’s Grainger Market is almost 175 years old, but it’s the very model of a modern retail centre. These days, shopping centres are huge shiny things where you need GPS to get around but Grainger Market is just the right size and still has everything you need. That great shopping anthem, the ‘Are You Being Served?’ theme tune could have been specially written for it - perfumery, stationery and leather goods, wigs and haberdashery, kitchenware and food, going up!

Arranged neatly in a grid, a series of numbered ‘alleys’ contain spruce shopfronts and orderly displays. The pyramids of fruit and veg are shiny and fresh, and I saw a butcher’s stall so beautiful that it would make a vegetarian weep. Everything is refreshingly straightforward. The name says it all – The Shaver Centre, Bags of Bags and The Wig Shop need no explanation. Jewel Box has gifts for all occasions, Simply Men sells ‘everything for the modern man’ provided he likes walking sticks and driving gloves and Petticoat Lane sells underwear and smalls that are actually quite large. However the Plain English award goes to The Cheap Tab Shop, dispensing cigarettes at competitive prices, and doing a roaring trade if the queue was anything to go by.

Amongst the remarkably unremarkable stalls, the last remaining Marks and Spencer’s Penny Bazaar comes as a bit of a surprise. Michael Marks opened the first of these in Leeds in 1834 and their success turned M&S into a household name. This year as M&S celebrates 125 years in the business, the stall in Grainger Market is as modest as it has always been. Officially the world's smallest branch of Marks and Spencer, its original signage dating from 1895 is considerably more beautiful than its high street compadres.

The Weigh House is another gem. For 20p you can step on a pair of huge scales and have an attendant discretely write your weight down on a little ticket. As there’s a constant queue there’s a sense of camaraderie that you don’t get at weight watchers. There are screams of joy from some ladies when they see they’ve lost a pound or two (insert “ah-weigh the lads” joke here).

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Posted by Anne on September 05, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (5)

The Musgrave Collection in Eastbourne is a true one-off, just like its owner, 94 year old George Musgrave. Who is this man and why does he have his own museum, you say? Well, it’s a long story.

To start at the very beginning, the first exhibit is dedicated to The Dad I Never Knew – George’s father who died in WWI when George was only two years old. Next, fast forward to the 1950s with display cases full of plastic moulds, scenery and miniscule model figures that George designed for commercial toy manufacturers in the 50s and 60s. The “Swoppets” that he designed for Herald Miniatures are fabulous things – tiny cowboys and Indians run amok along the shelves, so animated in appearance that I bet they come alive at night and continue their battles. The original models, painstakingly created from wire and Plasticine show that this is a man with a creative mind, a steady hand and an eye for detail.

After this, in a bit of a curatorial non-sequitur, are miscellaneous paintings of people, animals and Patcham Windmill near Brighton where George lived and exhibited until it was subject to a compulsory purchase order. Next, stretching right to the back of the gallery are forty paintings of St Paul - a personal project that took up decades of his life and many research trips to the Middle East and beyond.

I wasn’t even halfway round at this point but already had the measure of the Musgrave Collection - expect the unexpected. Round the next corner there it was - some portraits of famous figures like Michael Grade and Roy Castle and an amazingly detailed, very clever diorama illustrating the four seasons, beside some display cases showing the history of communication and an impressive collection of Roman coins. As a final piece de resistance, his “Speck of Dust” painting, completed at the age of 91 shows the whole history of his colourful life in one go. Even here there are more surprises like his invention of the single yellow line, Olympic swim training and teaching in Africa. It’s a life that has spanned genres, continents and centuries. Blimey.

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Posted by Anne on August 23, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Just off the sea front in Bridlington you can walk around the corner from the promenade and experience a different type of amusement arcade. Old Penny Memories allows you step back in time and play coin-operated arcade games from the heyday of British seaside entertainment.

In the entrance you can pay a pound for a cup of twenty old one penny coins which operate the majority of games. It feels good to handle the big old pennies and you get a lot of play for your pound. The main room houses a variety of games and amusements such as early pinball machines, what the butler saw, penny pushing, shooting gallery, laughing policeman (well.. he may have been a sailor), strength tester and fruit machines. Pleasant sounds of bells and chimes ring out from 'pinball alley' in the next room.

Just like modern day arcades there is a buzz in the air, children and adults move around eager to play the next game while (sixties) pop music heightens the excitement. The difference, it seems, is that people here are not hypnotised by the flashing lights, computer imagery or prospect of winning money but genuinely excited by the inventive games.

It’s tempting to call Old Penny Memories a museum as the items have been collected, cared for and shared with the public. But this may be misleading as nothing is out of bounds and you are free to play on all the arcade games, each one unique in design, craftsmanship and entertainment.

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Posted by Maraid on August 09, 2009 | Permalink

In received opinion, modernist planning and architecture is a sterile, over-rationalised affair. Supposedly, it is blind to context, a purveyor of universal solutions and interchangeable types.

Maybe you could believe that looking at many of the post-war modernist shopping centres and estates of Britain, but a quick trip to Sheffield ought to change your opinion. Or rather, a visit to a handful of landmarks that have miraculously escaped a council decidedly handy with the dynamite – Park Hill, Gleadless Valley, and finally, Castle Market. These places, all making gleeful play of Sheffield's exceptionally hilly and diverse terrain, were planned under J. Lewis Womersley, the City architect hired in 1952, who within a decade commissioned 50,000 homes, designing on the side a multitude of schools and local centres, of which the finest surviving is our subject here. Now that Park Hill is undergoing stripping and gentrification and Gleadless languishes in obscure poverty, Womersley's socialist, modernist Sheffield is best seen in this remarkable shopping centre, of all things - built in 1960-5 and now slated for demolition.

The job architect here, Andrew Darbyshire, designed what could be described as a Megastructure before the fact, although never as domineering and 'iconic' as that would suggest. Rather than, as is customary, plonking down from on high a hangar or a slab, Darbyshire fitted a multitude of interconnected structures into a small, sloping site – an office block, with a distinctive angular profile; a raised walkway system with shops; and the markets themselves, three floors – all with access to the street on different levels of the hill – and a wildly curving entrance ramp at the back. Inside, there is a panoply of strange and fascinating things.

Like Park Hill, what is clever and unusual in Castle Market is that it's a modernist design that specifically tries to engineer bustle and individuality, so that you notice both the ingenious design of the labyrinthine structure, but also the competing design ambitions of the many stalls and built-in shops. Much of Castle Market, both the building itself and its individual units, retains original 1960s signage, making it a particular goldmine for classic caff enthusiasts. There's The Soda Fountain, in elegant, continental Sans Serifs seemingly absconding from a Blue Note record cover; the competing signs of Sharon's, where more recent promises of greasy excellence sit alongside a midcentury modern sign declaring 'Snack Bar'; on the outside walkways there's the deep red vitrolite box housing Cafe Internationale, its name appropriately reflecting the former Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire; formica tables and oddly Victorian chairs at Tennant's; the aspirationally named Riviera Snack Bar, replete with palm tree motifs and the promise (or threat) 'watch out for our specials'; and, best of all, the excellent Roof Top Café, which boasts a fantastically ambitious space-age suspended ceiling hanging over formica tables, a patterned floor and net curtains. That's just those open on a Thursday morning.

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Posted by Owen on July 20, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (2)

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 June 28, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (1)

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 | Permalink | Comments (1)

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 | Permalink

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 | Permalink

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 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Tyneham in Dorset is a curious thing - a ghost village. Being ghostly, it’s not the easiest thing to find. We couldn’t see it on any road signs, but the boards saying "Village: Open" were a dead giveaway. So we followed these until some roofless cottages and an ornate white phonebox appeared - a rare K1 no less, designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott in 1921. Ironically, it’s the one of the few things in Tyneham left intact.

Until 1943 this was a bustling community of 200, with its own post office, church, school and rectory. When the War Office (now the Ministry of Defence) needed some land for firing practice, the residents were asked to leave. On the door of St Mary's Church a poignant note remains:

'Please treat the church and houses with care; we have given up our homes where many of us lived for generations to help win the war to keep men free. We shall return one day and thank you for treating the village kindly.'

But they never did return. In 1948 the War Office took out a compulsory purchase order and the land was commandeered for military use. Information boards in the empty houses tell the story of the village and the campaign to get Tyneham back. Photos show residents as youngsters in the village, and as pensioners camping at the gates with placards saying "Get our village back".

In the end, the campaign to get the village back lasted longer than the war. It took over 30 years for access to the village to be restored and even then, it's only for a few days every year (officially 137). In whatever state it continues to delight and intrigue. Patrick Wright who wrote a book about it calls it "the symbol of a vanished England".

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Posted by Anne on April 08, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (3)

The tourist board would have you believe that King’s Lynn is famous for its historical buildings and nautical history, but when we visited there was only one thing that stood out - the Campbell’s Soup Factory on Hardwick Road.

Sitting on the outskirts of town, the tower sporting the famous Campbell's logo stands proud against the flat Fens of the Norfolk countryside. Campbell's is a familiar brand, well-known in most kitchens. Andy Warhol's famous reworking of its soup cans in the 1960s makes it even more iconic. So, seeing something this size, in such isolation is more like a piece of art than industry. If this was America, some flashing neon and a giant slurping spoon would complete the picture.

The first cans rolled off the production line here in 1959, in the first major Campbell's factory outside America. Within 20 years the factory employed more than 500 staff, making more than 60 varieties of soup. As if one culinary legend wasn't enough, Fray Bentos pies moved here in the early 90s, but sadly even this couldn't guarantee the factory's future. Premier Foods bought the company for £460 million in 1996 and in January 2007 it announced that it would be closing the site with the loss of 245 jobs.

Now Campbell's soup has disappeared both from King's Lynn and the supermarket shelves – it has been rebranded as Bachelor's condensed soup. Thankfully the tower has held onto its livery, albeit for a short while. Tesco, who owns the site, announced last week that the tower will be demolished to make way for a larger supermarket. Its demise will bring much needed jobs to the area but there’s still a note of sadness as a famous brand and an industrial icon disappears from King's Lynn skyline. Catch it while you can (pun intended).

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Posted by Anne on March 28, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Weston-super-Mare is blessed with two special transport museums. The nippy Lambretta Museum is in town while on the outskirts, The Helicopter Museum houses a more substantial type of vehicle.

Now the world’s largest dedicated helicopter museum, it has been growing steadily since 1958, when the founder Elfan ap Rees, an aviation writer and historian started to collect rotorcraft. Now here's where the vocabulary gets interesting - rotorcraft is a complex famlly of vehicles including helicopters, autogyros (same as gyroplanes), gyrodynes and tiltrotors. It became the British Rotorcraft Museum in 1978 but that wasn’t so catchy. Whatever it’s called, every variation is here, from bizarre early prototypes to hulking military beasts. There’s even a Gyro-Boat. Either way, it's a wonder any of them got off the ground. It just doesn't seem natural.

The early days of flight are marked by the Cierva Memorial Building, named after Don Juan de la Cierva, the designer and founder of the practical autogyro (as opposed to the impractical autogyro, of which there were many). The collection contains many rare and delicate vintage craft with great names like the Thruxton Gadfly and the Campbell Cougar as well as the modern superstars of the helicopter world - the fearsome Russian Army Mil Mi-24, the G-LYNX world record speed holder and royal helicopter The Queen's Flight. And it’s not just helicopters - Helix, the only teddy bear to have completed a round the world helicopter flight is here too.

Beside the shop and cafe there's an excellent display of models (some pretty substantial) and toy helicopters including Budgie, created by Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York who trained as a pilot in the Navy. He's all but forgotten in most households, but is fondly remembered here. Kids can take a ride in a miniature Budgie, or play around in the cockpit of a proper helicopter firmly rooted to the ground outside. The museum runs a number of special "Helidays" throughout the year where vistors can enjoy helicopter rides from the beach, as well as Open Cockpit Days where grown-ups can pretend to fly too.

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Posted by Anne on March 08, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (1)

The Old Pier Book Shop on Morecambe's Marine Road (the main drag) makes Glasgow’s Voltaire and Rousseau look positively organised. After browsing through the boxes and shelves outside I was tempted in, a little daunted by the amount of books inside. Open the door and the smell hits you, that unmistakable booky odour. Alan Bennett was blaring out on the radio, which couldn't have been more appropriate.

Inside, it is huge in a Tardis-like fashion. A series of doorways (all framed by books, even along the top) lead into each other, creating a strange Hall of Mirrors effect. Because there were so many books on show I had pretty much convinced myself that the book about motorway services stations that I'd been looking for would be there somewhere. So I looked for the travel section but nothing seemed to be in any particular order. There are some shelves that might possibly be a war section, and some vaguely historical titles but in the main, any subject arrangement appears coincidental, at best.

There are no signs or labels either, which in a bookshop this size seems foolhardy if not downright wilful. No matter though, because the owner, Tony Vettesse claims he knows where everything is. His parents ran the premises as a cafe called The Ramblers for years. When they retired Tony decided to give the second-hand books that he'd been slipping into the cafe their own space. 60,000 titles later and here we are.

Burrowing into the interior, I quickly lost my travelling companion along with all sense of time and space. The volume of books and the labyrinthine layout of the shelves make it disorientating very quickly. It was a relief to reach the sci-fi section at the back and be able to ignore a few bays. Randomly, over by what I believe may be windows is a stuffed goose.

It was one of the few shops in Morecambe open after 5 on a Saturday and I wondered if we'd be locked in. The proprietor was so hemmed in by stock that I'm not even sure he noticed us arriving. It's quite possible that down the back there's a little Japanese soldier still fighting the war. I did wonder if they ever close, as the range of stock outside looks like it would be a bit tricky to secure. I'd just stay open I think. Books make great pillows.

Continue reading "The Old Pier Book Shop, Morecambe" »

Posted by Anne on March 01, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (4)

Personally, I will not rest until every model village in Britain is catalogued on Nothing To See Here. So here's another: Corfe Castle Model Village on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset. The remarkable thing about this is that it's a faithful recreation of the real village of Corfe Castle. So as you walk down the miniature main street it's fun to figure out where you are, in the real world, as it were. The best bit is that one of the miniature houses has a model of the model village in its model back garden. For a moment I thought I would look into the model model village and see a tiny version of myself looking at an even smaller model and so on, into infinity but that’s a bit much to ask. The miniature village itself is quite an achievement without playing with space and time.

Opened in 1966 and built to 1/20 scale, the model village shows how the rather imposing Corfe Castle would have looked like in 1646, before it was destroyed by Cromwell's armies. The model castle, built on a manmade mound, contrasts nicely with the actual size one, which sits on a hill nearby. Both are very imposing and dominate the landscape around them. The detail, as with all model villages, is staggering. It must have seemed like a great idea, but taking two whole years to build, it’s amazing the novelty didn’t wear off before it was finished. Most people don’t have the patience to finish a model aeroplane, never mind build something of this scale.

The village was the brainchild of Eddie Holland, a local businessman. Many of the houses were built by Jack Phillips, a local builder who made genuine Purbeck stone roofs with teeny tiny tiles. As well as the village, there is a larger scale "village punishment area for scoundrels" with stocks and pillories (I didn't know the difference before I visited - there you go, it's educational). And to confuse matters even further there are some outsize games - a giant chess set and some huge Connect 4.

If you want to bide a wee, there's a cafe with a nice terrace outside. We were so enthused that we walked up to the real castle. Visiting the model acts as a nice introduction. I felt more connected to it as a historical artefact, with a better mental picture of how it would have been in its heyday. The strange thing is that once you get up that enormous hill, the real village looks just like a model. Deja vu or what?

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Posted by Anne on January 31, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (1)

The South Bank Lion stands proudly at the south-west corner of Westminster Bridge. Created in 1837 by W. F. Woodington, he's been about a bit, starting off as one of a pair on the Red Lion Brewery. When this was demolished in 1949 to make way for the Royal Festival Hall, King George VI took a shine to him and he was moved to Waterloo Station. But he wasn't there for long either. It was extended in 1966 and he ended up in his final resting place on Westminster Bridge near County Hall.

He also had a bit of a facelift on the way. When they were guardians of the Red Lion Brewery, both lions were red. The other one, which ended up on the Rowland Hill Memorial Gate at Twickenham Stadium, is now painted gold but the South Bank lion has been restored to show us what he's made of - Coade Stone.

Coade stone is a rather peculiar thing, not being a stone at all. Instead it’s a durable ceramic material which is resistant to the elements, explaining why our friend looks so sprightly today. Created by Eleanor Coade and first sold in 1769, it was easily produced in moulds, widely used, and hugely successful. Mrs Coade's Artificial Stone Company on Westminster Bridge Road catered for the high end of society, with its wares ending up in all kinds of high falutin' places, even Buckingham Palace.

However, Coade Stone's star waned as quickly as it appeared and in 1833 the company was declared bankrupt. Portland cement became a cheaper, more viable alternative and Coade stone was rarely used after 1840. According to records there are around 650 examples left, all over the world, with the South Bank Lion one of the finest. So for those of you crossing Westminster Bridge, this is no ordinary statue, this is one very special lion.

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Posted by Anne on December 20, 2008 | Permalink

Fitzpatrick's Temperance Bar in Rawtenstall, Lancashire is the oldest original temperance bar in Britain. When it opened in 1890, temperance bars were ten a penny. There was no tax on alcohol, so every hour was happy hour. Alcoholism was rife, and in 1832, Joseph Livesey, a cheese-maker from Preston decided to take matters into his own hands - the Temperance Movement was born. Initially, steering clear of spirits was enough to get you membership but after a while "taking the pledge" came to mean no alcohol whatsoever. In fact, the word teetotal is said to come from one member, who spoke with a stammer and said that nothing would do except "tee-tee-total abstinence".

In the early twentieth century, temperance bars became the focal point of many communities with locals gathering for a quick sarsparilla as the Band of Hope children sang uplifting songs. The Fitzpatrick family were renowned herbalists and ran a chain of temperance bars throughout Lancashire. Malachi Fitzpatrick, the last in the family line ran the Rawtenstall bar for over fifty years and lived until he was ninety, putting his long and healthy life down to the tonic and potions he brewed in the shop.

Fitzpatrick's now has new owners, who have given the place a sympathetic refit. Visitors can continue to enjoy their award-winning home made cordials like sarsaparilla, blood tonic (a lot nicer than it sounds) and dandelion and burdock. The original bar is a tremendous looking thing, almost organ-like with mysterious stops for Cream Soda and “Wino” among others. The shelves are full of jars with strange sounding ingredients like comfrey and borage, and for the less adventurous there are traditional sweets (lot of Uncle Joe's Mint Balls) and remedies.

The place is littered with vintage bits and pieces like Reckitts Crown Blue soap and Asepso antiseptic soap. Some familiar brands like Vimto (invented in Manchester as Vim Tonic) and Eno's had their roots in these sort of places. In the supermarket they have a job competing against new, shiny competitors but here they're in a fusty, yet very pleasant world of their own. Herbalists have had to weather the storm of fashion over the years, shunned as the domain of cranks, so it's heartwarming to find Fitzpatrick’s in such rude health.

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Posted by Anne on December 06, 2008 | Permalink

Poundbury, Prince Charles’ most famous attempt at town planning sits quietly at one end of Dorchester. So quietly in fact, that we arrived there completely by accident. It isn’t signposted and doesn’t appear on any of the maps we were carrying, in an "if you have to ask you can’t afford it" kind of way.

It’s a "pioneering example of urban development" built on the pillars of ‘A Vision of Britain’, the Prince of Wales' infamous intervention into architecture. Designed by the European architect Leon Krier, planning started in the 1980s, building in 1993. Phases one and two have been completed and work will continue until 2025 when Poundbury will have space for 5,000 people.

What sets Poundbury apart is that it’s a new town built in an old way. The architecture is designed in a traditional Dorset style and built with local materials. In the centre, Pummery Square is dominated by the traditionally-styled Brownsword Hall (above). Across the street is Poundbury Village Stores, or Budgens to you and I but they’re not allowed to say that on the sign in case it ruins the effect. All aspects of town planning are tightly controlled, with any alterations needing approval from the Duchy of Cornwall. This extends right down to signage which has good intentions, but the lack of visual clutter is really weird. It's all a bit too tidy.

In a strange way, these attempts to ensure that the "character" of Poundbury remains intact ensure that it has none whatsoever. It's astonishingly bland, spectacularly banal. There's an amazing lack of patina - the sort of scuffing or wear and tear that makes a place look lived in. In fact, that’s probably against the rules. You get the feeling if anything did become worn a little man would scurry out to touch it up again. As a result it doesn’t seem real, more like a model village than an actual one.

Instead, the “character” is planned in, and sticks out like a sore thumb. Period elements like bricked up windows (a feature of old English houses during the era of the Window Tax) look really hokey. In Dinham Walk there’s a decorative fountain that wouldn’t look out of place in Portmeirion. Prince Charles was greatly inspired by Clough Williams-Ellis’ fantastic Welsh village and it really shows. The difference is that Portmeirion pulls it off. It has tremendous warmth and a gorgeous higgledy-piddledyness but here it’s po-faced and embarrassing. It’s difficult to work out why one works and the other doesn’t - maybe because Portmeirion doesn’t discriminate where it borrows from and was allowed to grow over time. Here it’s all a bit too exclusive and forced. Trying to keep the modern world at bay isn’t sustainable. An architectural flourish on a double garage just doesn’t seem right.

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Posted by Anne on November 09, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (7)

I have to admit that I am completely stumped by this place, despite my best efforts to delve under the surface. Internet searches have found nothing – simply more people asking the same questions as myself, and trying to tease out answers from the owners has been unfruitful as they remain eerily aloof. The place in question is Enis’s Cafe in Waterloo, London.

Enis’s sits squarely in an area of London that would at first glance appear unremarkable. As one of the main routes into South London the roads are clogged with buses and covered in tumble weeds of litter from the nearby train station. However, a closer inspection reveals an area that is well worth a visit should you be passing through or find yourself with a slow connection at Waterloo station. There is the Hole in the Wall pub under the arches of the station, Caprini’s Italian restaurant with original fittings that remind me of my Polish granny’s house, the fantastically named “Fishcoteque” fish and chip shop and then there is the strange coffee hatch on Alaska Street...

This coffee hatch was my introduction to Enis’s. Like a moth to a flame I have been drawn towards this tiny hatch for years, not realising that it was just the tip of an iceberg. The street it sits on is dark and gloomy due to the train line that runs overhead. At night the yellow light shines out of the hatch and peering in you are met with a most marvellous sight, for here is a tiny kitchen that is entirely covered in aluminium foil. Part fairy grotto, part Warholian Factory the effect is breath taking. Tins of spam nestle into their silver background next to tomatoes and on the wall is an intriguing notice announcing “Enis’s SOS... the elixir of life”.

One day whilst peering in and getting random strangers to acknowledge the greatness of this unassuming place, a man appeared on the serving side of the hatch. I asked if I could take some photos of the inside and he said I was welcome to. He then enquired if I had ever been to the cafe round the front as this hatch was just for quick snacks and beverages. I followed his pointy finger and found myself in an astonishing interior. Long and thin, the cafe is filled with a mish-mash of furniture – some 1950s Formica tables and a long breakfast bar down one side with plastic bar stools. The window is painted with slogans in Coca-Cola font talking again of “Enis’s SOS”. But perhaps the most impressive features are the walls and breakfast bar which are covered in swirly hand-painted patterns in pastel and wax crayon. On the surfaces there are unusual trinkets, pictures of Elvis and collages made from magazines. At the end of the room is a large sign saying “£100” next to some odd-looking jars of stuff.

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Posted by Jasia on October 07, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (5)

Only the truly hard-hearted can clap eyes on a bubble car without breaking into a smile. These days it's rare enough to see one never mind 70 in a row. So the fact that the National Bubble Car Museum exists at all is cause for celebration. Here it is in Byard's Leap in deepest darkest Lincolnshire, second only to the Bruce Weiner Microcar Museum in Dubble Bubble Acres, Madison, GA.

Inside a huge barn there are bubble cars or to use the more accurate term "microcars" everywhere. Their cheery countenances give the impression that they might get up to mischief once the visitors have left for the day. They're safely behind ropes lest they break free and run amok, parping out the Benny Hill theme on their horns. A colourful symbol of the freedom and optimism of the post-war era, they're just made for jolly jaunts with a wicker picnic set and tartan travelling rug, provided there's only two of you and you're not over 5'6".

The Register of Unusual Microcars (yes, there really is one) defines microcars as "economy vehicles with either three or four wheels, powered by petrol engines of no more than 700cc or battery electric propulsion, and manufactured since 1945". So within the world of microcars there are bubble cars - the ones that look particularly bubbly, either in shape or personality. The most iconic are here alright. The Messerschmitt, with its strange hammer-headed bonnet and tall bubble canopy has the air of a distinguished gentleman. It looks like it should be wearing a monocle. The cheeky Isetta, the bubbliest of them all has an unusual front-opening or "suicide" door. Funny how that didn’t catch on. They might look frivolous but they come from a prestigious background. Isettas were manufactured by BMW and Messerschmitts were made by, er, Messerschmitt famous for their WWII bombers. The bubble canopy wouldn’t look out of place on a fighter plane.

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Posted by Anne on September 27, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (3)

The trouble with TomToms, and I’m talking sat-navs not drums, is they take all the fun out of finding those tucked away places like Norfolk’s Baconsthorpe Castle.

Of course where I say fun, you might say frustration, but ask me the way and I’d delight in giving you these directions. ‘Follow the Baconsthorpe sign from Holt. Much of the road is single track, so be prepared to pull over when meeting the occasional bit of traffic. Unless the oncoming vehicle’s a tractor or a 4X4, then say your prayers, because the drivers of neither seem to take any prisoners.

Once you’ve entered Baconsthorpe, you want the last left before you leave the village. Don’t look for a sign, because there isn’t one; well there is, but it faces the other way and is sustaining a good growth of ivy.

A short distance on, you’ll see a smaller sign at a field edge. Follow the pointing finger down a farm track towards the two silos, keeping the cabbage field on your right. Once you’ve passed the redundant liquid fertiliser tanker, there’s just three cattle grids to negotiate and you’ve arrived.

You might now be wondering what there ever was in this bit of the back of beyond that was worth defending. The answer’s probably nothing, because Baconsthorpe Castle, or rather what’s left of it, was never actually a castle, but a moated and fortified manor house, so maybe the grander sounding title was adopted by the upwardly mobile early Tudor occupants or is 15th Century Estate Agent speak.

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Posted by Andrew on September 20, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

The sixties were about to swing as 1961 saw the first appearance of the Beatles at Liverpool’s Cavern club. Above the earth Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space, whilst back on terra firma the cold war heated up when the first blocks of the Berlin wall were cemented into place. In South East Asia, 18,000 US ‘advisors’ arrived in Vietnam.

Closer to home the residents of the Elephant and Castle in South London no doubt marvelled, ignored and tut-tut-ted at these developments in equal measure. After the severe bomb damage of WWII their little corner of the world was slowly being reshaped by planners and architects full of exciting new ideas. The future would be a better, sleeker, more exciting place to live, although the dislocation between these ideas of modernity and the ordinary people were already apparent. For one thing locals were pondering the appearance of a huge shiny futuristic metal box in the centre of a roundabout in the middle of the Elephant. Back in 1961 nobody really knew what it was. Thirty years later the same was still true when, in June 1995, the Evening Standard ran a story with a picture of the box headlined ‘But what on earth is it?’

One often repeated urban myth can be discounted immediately, as the steel cube is most definitely not a subterranean home for dance music pioneer Richard D. James (aka the Aphex Twin). Admittedly it would be a great rock ‘n’ roll story if an artist who credits synaesthesia as an inspiration for creating ground-breaking ambient, acid and techno music should chose to burrow a home under one of South London’s busiest roundabouts. Sadly he lives in a converted bank just round the corner.

In truth it’s easy to sweep the mystery away. Just use one of the pedestrian crossings that link the urban mainland to the traffic island and take a look at the stone inscription on the north side of the box. This tells you that the stainless steel structure is a memorial to local boy done good Michael Faraday, who, although not the most famous south Londoner, was one of the most amazing individuals the capital has ever produced. Born into poverty in 1791, Faraday received only basic schooling but in his teens a fascination with science led him down the road of self improvement. By his early twenties he secured a post as a chemical assistant at the Royal Institution. Over the following years Faraday worked extensively on the principles of electricity, discovering in 1831 electromagnetic induction, the principle behind the electric transformer. This pioneering research laid the basis for the commercial exploitation of electricity. So the next time you switch on your kettle give a little salute to Michael Faraday.

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Posted by Maurice on September 14, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (5)

You may already be familiar with the Golden Triangle in South East Asia, and no doubt you have heard tales of the strange goings-on in the Bermuda Triangle in the Atlantic, but did you know that Yorkshire is home to its very own brand of triangle… the Rhubarb Triangle!

This mysterious land sits between Wakefield, Morley and Rothwell and despite being only nine square miles in size it used to produce 90% of the world’s forced rhubarb crop. Special Rhubarb Express trains would leave from Wakefield headed for London’s old Covent Garden Market where it was distributed. In its heyday there were over 200 rhubarb producers who were the first in the World to erect special “forcing” sheds where they perfected the art of growing rhubarb out of season.

Forcing rhubarb is a very labour intensive method which hasn’t changed much in 200 years. First the rhubarb is left to grow outside in a field for two years where it stores energy in its roots. It is then exposed to a frost and the entire plant is lifted out of the ground and placed on the floor inside a warm, dark forcing shed. These sheds have no soil so the plant must use the energy reserves in its roots to grow stems. The dark and the warmth encourage this growth and it is said that the plants grow so quickly under these conditions that you can hear the buds popping. The resulting forced rhubarb is much more tender and sweeter than rhubarb grown outside.

With the advent of exotic fruit importing in the sixties, Britain’s love of this vegetable began to wane. Today there are only a handful of producers left. One of the most well-known is E.Oldroyd & Sons Ltd who have been forcing rhubarb since the thirties. Janet Oldroyd Hulme is often referred to as the “High Priestess of Rhubarb” and every year between January and March she opens up her forcing sheds to the likes of you and me.

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Posted by Jasia on September 03, 2008 | Permalink

A quiet space in the City of London is remarkable, but Postman’s Park is unique. Round the corner from St Paul's Cathedral where the streets are full of city gents bursting with self-importance, it contains the Watts Memorial where people who were ordinary, yet extraordinary are remembered in a very beautiful way.

In one corner of the park, easily overlooked under a canopy, there are over 50 plaques, with beautiful lettering hand-painted onto Royal Doulton tiles. Each one details the untimely end of a heroic soul who died trying to save another life. Except they put it much more poetically than that. Although they're short, they're beautifully written with flashes of detail that paint vivid pictures of these tragic gothic scenes. Take David Selves, aged 12 of Woolwich who "supported his drowning playfellow and sank with him clasped in his arms", or William Donald of Bayswater who "drowned in the Lea trying to save a lad from a dangerous entanglement of weed". Fans of Edward Gorey or Lemony Snicket get yourself down here.

At first they seem funny - a bit over the top. But by the end of the first panel I was hooked. What next? What fresh disaster? After 30 or so plaques it's almost heartbreaking. Every tile has something, a name or a place or a word that places it firmly in the past. There are occupations that don't exist anymore and situations no one would ever find themselves in, peopled by a cast of Fredericks, Herberts and Alices. Even the causes of death are wonderfully archaic - descending a high-tension chamber, trampled by a runaway horse; or spectacularly bizarre like Sarah Smith, pantomime artiste who "died of terrible injuries received when attempting in her inflammable dress to extinguish the flames which had enveloped her companion".

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Posted by Anne on August 28, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (6)

‘I say, I say, I say, what’s 450 feet long and home to Britain’s last traditional seaside show?’ ‘I don’t know, what is...?’ Actually, I do know, the answer’s Cromer Pier, and while it might not be the country’s biggest and brightest, the town is justifiably proud of their iconic landmark; so much so that when a 100 ton storm-tossed rig-barge smashed through the middle of it on the night of Remembrance Day 1993, the council immediately made the money available for repairs, and again after substantial storm damage in November 2007.

Unlike most of the piers in the UK’s more popular resorts, stepping onto the boardwalk at Cromer, doesn’t mean first passing through the obligatory amusement arcade. There isn’t one ‘Penny Falls’, ‘A PrizeATime Grabber’, or ‘Pump-It-Up Dance Machine’ to be seen, or thankfully heard.

Instead at the pier head, you’ll find the booking office for the Pavilion Theatre, staffed by two blue-suited matrons. A little further on and opposite Tides Restaurant, there’s Footprints Gift Shop, which might claim to sell traditional seaside favourites, but you could turn the place upside down and not find a sniff of an edible willy, or any other hilarious novelty naughty bits. Sorry, but you’ll have to make do with Belgian chocolates and handmade fudge.

From here on in, your pier experience depends very much on the season and the weather. A bit of sunshine brings out the families and it’s a snapshot of any summer of the last fifty or so years. Kids dangle crab-lines over the rail, while grandad sits in one of the shelters, dangling a roll-up from his lips, and fishermen vie for position between the theatre and the lifeboat house.

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Posted by Andrew on August 20, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (3)

An Englishman's home is his castle, or so they say. His own little world. The Forbidden Corner, near Leyburn in Wensleydale is a very English place, and indeed is its own little world. What the Forbidden Corner is, exactly, is hard to describe. A public garden, yes, but also a maze. A folly, but a folly hidden from site. A sculpture, and a piece of theatre; a fairground fun house that tries to unnerve as well as startle.

Getting in is itself something of an odyssey. Tickets must be booked in advance, to comply with National Park planning regulations; and once you have one, you must explore winding country lanes before reaching the car park and the gift shop, which looks like an ordinary, standard gift shop aimed at the holiday-souvenir and school-trip market. "Have you been here before?" asks the girl on the ticket desk, giving you a leaflet. "The clues are all in the leaflet, but not in the right order." And what you thought might be a plan of the site is a spread of cryptic ditties, each one hinting of treasures within. A sign at the door asks you to make sure you close all gates and doors behind you; and the next thing you find is a building with a wide, gaping mouth, inviting you to walk inside.

The Forbidden Corner was designed, originally, as a private folly. Tupgill Park, Coverham, is the family estate of a diplomat called Colin Armstrong. Over twenty-five years ago, he started clearing paths in a small wood originally planted as a windbreak. Things grew, and he hired a local architect called Malcolm Tempest to design a grotto. The grotto is still there, at the heart of the garden, but surrounded by a labyrinth of paths, glades, and formal gardens, on a site which feels much, much larger than a map would have you think. After a court battle with the Yorkshire Dales National Park Authority, Armstrong opened his folly to the public; and every winter it is changed, altered and extended, to keep the visitors coming back.

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Posted by FP on August 11, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (4)

I think most people would agree that a great deal of nonsense is spoken in public houses. Combining the power of speech with the consumption of alcohol is normally an effective barrier to sensible conversation. The more you drink the greater your propensity to hear and spout total nonsense. Yet it was whilst propping up a bar in Soho that I was first told about a Soviet T34 tank parked up on waste ground in Bermondsey, just a stones throw from the Old Kent Road. Thinking that my companion was a little too well oiled from the Belgian import he was drinking my initial reaction was a furrowed brow and a disbelieving arch of the eyebrows. An armour plated piece of the Red Army dumped in South London? My internal urban myth alarm sounded loudly. I speculated as to who had put it there, Del Boy perhaps? The whole story sounded far too much like a plotline from an episode of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ to have any chance of being true. My drinking buddy gamely assured me that his tale was genuine, but when he told me that I would find the tank on ‘Mandela Way’, I assumed that only a right ‘plonker’ would believe such an unlikely story.

I’m not sure what I expected when I turned up on Mandela Way a few days later. Perhaps a man in a sheep skin coat, puffing on a cigar selling tickets to see the largest piece of Cold War memorabilia in SE1? Unlikely, as anyone touting for tourist trade in this part of town would face a tough job. Tower Bridge may only be a twenty minute walk away, but by the time you reach the incessant buzz of traffic on the Old Kent Road, the manicured visitor delights of central London have surrendered to the much more earthy charms on offer in the ‘Sarf’. A triangular piece of scrub ground deep in the heart of western capitalism is certainly an odd resting place for a machine which once sought to champion a socialist utopia. With a row of humble Victorian terraced houses to the north and the bleak prefabricated expanse of a trading estate to the east, the tank sits on a decidedly incongruous corner of the capital. Indeed the comrades who put this particular T34 together must have thought that the only way its caterpillar tracks would ever grace the streets of London would be during a victory parade. In actual fact it was to be the combination of a film company, British eccentricity and a planning dispute which succeeded where Marxist Leninist dogma failed.

When movie crews descended on Battersea Power station in the mid 90s to film an updated version of Richard III they needed some serious firepower. The swords and horses of Shakespeare’s time were to be replaced with more destructive modern weapons. Tanks were needed and one of the vehicles delivered was an ageing T34 tank recently imported from a rapidly decommissioning Russian army in Czechoslovakia. Unlike the make believe action of the film set, this particular tank had seen real service during the Prague spring of 1968 when Soviet troops rolled into the Czech capital to crush the revolting students. After the film, the T34 went to a scrap metal dealer from whom in 1995 it was bought by property developer Russell Gray as a gift for his seven year old son. Even fully deactivated a 35 tonne tank does seem a rather excessive present for one so young and it would seem that Mr Gray had an ulterior motive in mind. Soon after the purchase the T34 was installed on land owned by him at the corner of Pages Walk and Mandela Way, a plot on which he had recently lost a planning battle with Southwark Council. According to one (possibly apocryphal) story Mr Gray had by then secured permission to place a ‘tank’ on the land, although the council thought he meant one of the ‘septic’ variety. Whether there is any truth in that wonderful tale, it is evident the authorities are powerless to prevent the storage of vehicles on the land as the tank has remained in the same spot for the last thirteen years, with, if local rumour is to be believed, its gun barrel deliberately aimed toward the council offices.

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Posted by Maurice on July 24, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

The Bakelite Museum in Williton, Somerset is a museum of few words. At the entrance, a small sign introduces Bakelite "The material of a thousand uses". Invented by Dr Leo Baekeland in 1907 Bakelite was the world’s first, and most successful synthetic plastic, in continuous production ever since. If you think it's confined to old brown radios, think again. The museum, set over two floors in a 17th Century watermill is jam packed with Bakelite products of all shapes, sizes and colours.

Stepping in the door is like walking into a 1950s home. There are cookers, toasters, washing machines, and irons interspersed with smaller items like banks, clocks and egg cups. It is bright and resilient, in the spirit of the times. If the museum had ended here I would have gone home happy, but there's more. Next, a room of televisions, gramophones, radios and telephones is like a mini Design Museum. Plus a colourful display of elegant bowls and vases made from Bandalasta (also known as LingaLonga), a coloured, marbled variation of Bakelite which first saw light in 1925.

Up the steep stairs and into a little side room where I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. This is the colourful world of Bakelite egg cups, napkin rings and salt and pepper shakers, all perfectly lined up on curvaceous shelves. I shudder to think what the dusting overhead is like, but it looks wonderful.

From there you go onto hairdryers, electric heaters, hoovers and the last room with a full set of Bakelite teeth, picnic sets and the piece de resistance, a Bakelite coffin. As it was famous for its heat-resistant properties this didn't go too well at cremations and the product never took off. It is one of the many highly collectible items on show.

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Posted by Anne on April 27, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Right in the pivotal centre of Soho, there is a time machine. Walk along Bateman Street until you see a café painted as the Italian Tricolore. You really can't miss it. It looks like it's closed, doesn't it? It probably isn't. Try the door. Is it open? Yes? Well, step right into 1955. Welcome to the Lorelei – one of the last survivors of 'real' Soho. The first thing you'll notice is that the decor is a curious mix of village hall and alpine hut. The second thing is the mural of the naked mermaid that takes up an entire wall. I've never seen the odd-looking light fittings switched on to illuminate it.

From the Formica tables, the lino floor, to the faux-leather banquettes round the walls, almost everything is as it was the day it opened. In the little kitchen area, the elderly proprietor quietly produces the best pizza in London – the genuine Italian flour for these is stacked up by the front door. Watching the vintage grey-green Cimbali coffee machine operated is akin to seeing Handel himself playing the organ. That's the sound of real coffee being made. Chips come cooked to order, always on an ancient glass plate. A little mound of hot golden matchsticks, sweet and crunchy.

How a place so comically un-modern still exists in the centre of this ever-changing city is a mystery. Need the loo? It's in an outhouse down the yard – primly segregated into 'gents' (hand written in gloss paint on a brick) and 'ladies'. Even the plumbing is original. There's never any piped music on – although the dusty old speaker still on the wall no doubt once pumped out Tommy Steele. You bring your own atmosphere. It's the eye in Soho's storm.

There's no need to book a table. The staff always seem a bit surprised when anybody walks in. At night, when the window is streaked with condensation you can watch people stop to scrutinise the menu, their faces yellow from its sodium light. They rarely come in, perhaps preferring the bright lights and familiarity of better-known restaurants. They don't know what they're missing. The world needs character as much as it needs wipe-clean convenience.

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Posted by Gareth on March 25, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (8)

After the Second World War, 150,000 prefabricated houses (prefabs) were built across Britain. Created to host homeless families with young children, these “palaces for the people” as they were called were synonymous not only with comfort and luxury but also with freedom. The Excalibur Estate in Catford south-east London is still one of the largest surviving estates.

The 187 prefabs here were erected in 1946-47, by German and Italian prisoners of war. They were interim housing, a solution to the housing stock shortage after the end of the 2nd World War. They were expected to last between 10 and 15 years but are still standing after 60.

Over the years, Lewisham Council has tried to develop the site many times. In a recent review it found that the housing stock did not meet Decent Homes Standard and the cost for refurbishment would be £8.4 million. In April 2008 there will be a ballot to decide on whether or not stock transfer will go ahead. Residents have been told by the council that if they vote yes, the stock will be transferred to London & Quadrant, and the estate will be demolished. If they vote no, the estate will be put forward for a regeneration scheme, Lewisham Council will select a housing association of its choice, and the estate will be demolished. Either way the future looks bleak.

One of the tenants, Jim Blackender has been vocal in the campaign to save the estate. He writes:

As tenants we are trying to highlight the difficulties we are having trying to save our historic estate from the bulldozers

The Decent Homes Standard has given councils the golden opportunity to write off vast amounts of housing stock as non decent and transfer their stocks to housing associations who build in its place high density housing estates.

The Excalibur Prefab Estate is the largest of its kind now left in Europe. Europe values its war time history, we on the estate think it’s time we did too.

Continue reading "The Excalibur Estate, London" »

Posted by Doctor Boogie on March 09, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

The Museum Of Shops is sign-posted all over Eastbourne. It really whets your appetite. What an intriguing name. What could this place be? And it doesn't disappoint when you get there. It's spread over four floors in a townhouse not far from the seafront, in a quiet bit of town.

It's a massive 100,000 bit collection of, well, stuff, from the last hundred and fifty years of shops and consumption. Packaging, advertising, products, signage, clothes, ephemera, everything. The collection is crammed into themed displays with emotive mannequins acting out the part of shopkeepers. See Mr Barton in his well-stocked Grocer’s Shop. Check out the now long-gone treats available in the Sweet Shop. The Edwardian Kitchen is like a scene from Upstairs, Downstairs and the Wartime display will remind everyone large and small that we’ve never had it so good.

The focus seems to be mostly on the first half of the 20th century; if you're a thirty or forty year-old, you won't find much actual nostalgia to bathe in, but that's better in a way. You don't spend your whole time shouting 'Look! Spangles!' you actually look and think.

The museum was created by Jan and Graham Upton over a period of 50 years. They've done it really nicely. There's none of the compulsory interactivity that seems mandatory in museums nowadays. And no real attempt to create some historical context. You just gawp at the stuff and soak up the atmosphere. But it works really well, the overwhelming effect of the densely-packed sheer mass of stuff soon fades and you get to peer at the revealing little details. The tiny shop format is the perfect way to organise it – like full-size doll houses. This is a great place to pass some time.

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Posted by Russell on February 14, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Britain is littered with bizarre features that would never have existed were it not for heavy capital investment in the defence of the Realm. Whilst schools and hospitals compete against each other - and private business - for public funding, one must question whether Britain’s military spending is fully justified. During the current illegal and counter-productive conflict, I have often momentarily thought not - until astonishing legacies of military activity have presented themselves before me. These revelations have been numerous, and come always without disappointment.

The Gosport peninsula, a triangular area of land enclosing the western side of Portsmouth Harbour, is particularly rich in such things. Impressive derelict forts that have never seen action, a large aircraft hangar with no runways, old town ramparts, a ‘secret’ military intelligence school, a submarine escape training water-tower and a vast Georgian military hospital. These are just a few of the wonders on offer. All can be enjoyed by the casual onlooker more for the queries that they pose than any assurances that they might deliver.

Many military structures have a highly attractive pointlessness. They are neither useful nor decorative. This obviously provides great interest and value to the aesthete. The structure pictured here, which I have taken the liberty of fondly naming the ‘Browndown Mushroom’, is a perfect example. A brutal concrete fabrication, some twenty-five feet tall, it stands isolated on the extensive shingle beach that is Browndown Military Training Area. Perhaps some kind of vent, the mushroom’s gills are of steel mesh - and it is definitely not a platform. Its original purpose a total mystery, this entity has the power to perplex, impress and amuse all at once. Whilst delighting in such things, one can be absolutely satisfied that corpulent military spending should never be challenged.

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Posted by David P on January 16, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (8)

“It’s bigger than you think” proclaims the sign as you enter the Air Defence Radar Museum at RAF Neatishead in Norfolk. And indeed it is. We stopped by for a quick visit and came out two hours later. It turns out there's a lot to know about radar, and the museum staff (ex-RAF to a man) are only too glad to help you learn.

The museum traces the history of radar from early experiments like the sound mirrors still standing on the Kent coast, through Chain Home (the ring of coastal radar stations built by the British before and during World War II) to today's more sophisticated systems. RAF Neatishead is significant for radar enthusiasts (of which there are many) because it was home to the first secret defence system, built in 1941. It continued as a Sector Operations centre until 1993, protecting Britain through the nuclear threat of the Cold War.

The equipment used during World War II seems amazingly primitive. The Plotting Room (the room where they push things around with those big rake-type things) is staffed by dummy WAAFs (Women's Auxiliary Air Force). One thing the museum makes clear is women’s contribution to this end of the war effort. While the men were out fighting the women did their bit managing the information coming in over radar – plane positions, weather conditions. They counted them all out and counted fewer back. The museum shows complicated systems of charts, boards and obscure terminology. It must have been a demanding, relentless line of work.

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Posted by Anne on January 06, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Portsmouth, or Portsea Island - to give the land mass its geographical title - is most definitely an island, of about three by four miles. It is completely surrounded by water, with sea to the south and harbours to the east and west. To the north is a wide defensive creek. The encapsulating water is bridged by only three roads as links to the mainland. Officially the City includes sprawling suburbs on the mainland, but no local would consider these as part of Portsmouth proper. It therefore has the most clearly defined boundaries imaginable. This gives Portsmouth a unique atmosphere. It is unlike any other place in Britain.

In 1986 and 87, when I should have been at Portsmouth College of Art, I used the time much more fruitfully to develop an understanding of the craft of Urban Exploration. Day after day I cycled and paced the streets of Portsmouth in a quest to satisfy my appetite for experience of the mundane, the forgotten, the empty, the overlooked and the decaying. I craved old-fashioned shops, derelict buildings, odd bits of cobbled street, faded signs, brutal concrete, curious iron rings set into walls, ruins, relics and the obvious hypocrisies of the planning system. All of this is to be found in most places if one just takes the trouble to look - and I looked at Portsmouth. Unfortunately some of these things have now gone, but the strange, unused motorway junction at Tipner remains unchanged some twenty years on.

Until the mid-seventies there were only two roads on and off of the Island. Then came the M27 south-coast motorway, with its spur, the M275, bringing a third connection that penetrated deep into Portsmouth's western flank. The western side of Portsea Island is dominated by the Naval Dockyard, but to its north is the tiny peninsular of Tipner. Tipner is best known locally for the Greyhound Stadium, and a vast scrap yard, not so long ago a treasure trove of wartime military vehicles, tanks, submarines and ships, but unfortunately now largely cleared. There is also ex-MOD derelict land with strange boarded-up buildings, an MOD rifle range, a sailing club and a small council estate - all bleak and windblown by the constant breeze from the nearby water.

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Posted by David P on December 27, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (6)

Ibsley Control Tower combines so much that is of interest to those appreciative of atmosphere. Ibsley was a very busy RAF airfield in the last proper war. It was the location for a morale-boosting wartime movie starring David Niven, and was taken over by the Americans in 1943. Ibsley played a major role in the D-Day invasion. It survived for precious few years, the airfield having been lost, almost entirely, to gravel abstraction. All that is left is a ruined and forlorn watch office (control tower) surrounded by lakes, now known as Mockbeggar Lakes, with wooded islands.

There is undeniable atmosphere, and a definite sense of foreboding due to graffiti and drug-related litter suggesting regular use as a rendezvous for illicit nocturnal activity - which seems all the more strange when one considers the affluent and respectable New Forest village setting. Looking closely at the daubed and battered walls it is just possible to make out three forces' sweethearts painted by US airmen. Well meaning plans to save and restore the building have come to nothing and, unfortunately, its complete demise seems imminent. Ibsley Tower is on private land belonging to the gravel company, but its isolation and neglect would suggest that trespass for the sake of curiosity is unlikely to be a problem.

It can be viewed lawfully from the north-western most corner of Fir Walk, public access woodland a quarter of a mile to the south of the village of Mockbeggar, which itself is just off the A338, about two miles north of Ringwood.

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Posted by David P on December 07, 2007 | Permalink

When you tell people that you were brought up on the South Coast, people tend to think this involves ice cream, shale and all the windy, stopped-clock delights of the British seaside. Alas, in the case of Southampton they would be wrong. However the city does have one tiny little stretch of beach, and one so strange that it deserves a whole new category of terminal beaches all to itself.

Weston Shore, on the Southwestern edge of the city, before you come to the eerie village of Netley (more of which later) is a mix of Tarkovsky’s Zone, a 1930s beach utopia and a ‘60s brutalist dystopia, lining up in front of Southampton Water’s silty expanse. The first thing you notice is a line of identical towers, aligned one after the other in Alton Estate style, with one even taller one right at the end. Geometric and standardised, these council flats have at their entrances paths what can only be described as a meadow, an area of lushly overgrown vegetation leading to a thin road and a stony beach.

The road is dotted with a series of little 1930s concrete pavilions, as elegantly Modernist as anything built in that decade. A recent regeneration has cleaned them up, but in the process made them even more peculiar: each one now decorated with abstractions connected with the likes of World War Two, the Victorians, and (bizarrely) prehistoric archaeology, which frame the views of the towers and the beach itself.

Which is nothing to write home about: 2km of stones and general waste, but with pockets of undergrowth and further on, woodland. On the beach can be found some Stalker-esque inexplicable industrial waste: a pile of what seems like the fluff left by some moulting animal was lying there when I last visited. From the beach you get a view of port traffic and the occasional yacht going up and down the desolate waters, and a distant view of the vast Fawley oil refinery, its many slender towers complementing the bulkier ones on the beach side. Industry, the remnants of Social Democracy and disused leisure all make it a spot which can feel like an idyllic vision of the end of the world.

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Posted by Owen on October 21, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

In the 20s and 30s, all Modern architects seemed to be infatuated with Ocean Liners. The curves, contours and towers of a Cunard would be adapted into their houses and flats. The Brutalism of the 60s would, on the other hand, appear to have been a rejection of this high seas frippery for something more earthy and urban.

Wyndham Court in Southampton is the world’s only Brutalist Ocean Liner. This block of flats, which looms over Southampton Central Station, throwing the blandness of its surroundings into sharp relief, is – intentionally or not – a tribute to a bygone era of glamour and luxurious transport, fittingly in the very port where the Queen Mary, the Titanic et al made their voyages.

Making buildings symbolise something is something generally associated with the grisly jokiness of the ‘80s, such as Terry Farrell’s TVAM eggcups and so forth. Wyndham Court, though, makes its associations while never seeming anything less than logical. Twin blocks of flats angling themselves around a central public square, with shops at the edges and turrets sticking out strategically, hewn from white-grey, lustrous concrete, the long, jutting forms unmistakably suggest some sort of Corbusian cruise ship.

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Posted by Owen on July 26, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (5)

Of all the seaside towns in all the world, the biggest rock shop has to be in one of them, and it’s Great Yarmouth. It’s only fitting that a resort so unashamed of its dedication to traditional leisure and pleasure throws healthy eating to the wind and gets down to the serious business of getting rock right.

It’s not completely clear what kind of competition Docwras Rock Factory has for the “Biggest rock shop” title, although a couple of other establishments in Regent Road look like they’re thinking of having a go. Although the shopfront is relatively modest they’re not exactly hiding their light under a bushel with the enormous neon sign saying “The World’s Largest Rock Shop” running right down one side of the interior.

And indeed, it’s big. One side is taken up with lots and lots of rock. All shapes. All sizes. All flavours. There’s everything – banana, raspberry, coffee, strawberries and cream, aniseed, different types of mint, and they come with almost anything stamped through the middle. Towards the back, beside the novelty shapes like baby’s dummies and fried breakfasts made of rock there’s even a “naughty section” with some genuinely eye watering things to put in your mouth.

Docwras is a family run business that has been making rock and other sweets for over 100 years. They’re quite happy to share the expertise of their “rock and rollers”. At the other side of the shop, beside a huge pipe painted rock pink another huge sign says “See Yarmouth Rock Made Here” with a sign showing the time of the next demo. Sadly, I missed it. Seeing as they make 80,000 sticks of rock every week it shouldn’t be long before another one comes along.

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Posted by Anne on July 16, 2007 | Permalink

Barely hanging on to the most easterly tip of England, Great Yarmouth is the seaside town that time forgot. Within minutes of our arrival we discover this temporal isolation permeates the town's whole being.

At the core of Great Yarmouth’s time warp sits Louis Tussauds House of Wax. Its terrible likenesses have been widely mocked via viral emails and national radio.

It was the last day of our visit when we stumbled upon the grand old house, painted bright blue and white, with a small ticket booth out front and faded lettering spelling out 'House of Wax'. Disclaimers and warnings proclaim 'These waxworks are best enjoyed as snapshots in time’ and 'No Photography' - evidence its owners were stung by the email mocking their museum.

Buying tickets and stepping inside we immediately realise the wax works are just as bad as the stories had led us to believe, however it's the whole atmosphere, the entirety of the museum that makes it so fascinating.

Due to a lack of investment or more likely a lack of will, Louis Tussauds is a time capsule of the 1970s and early 80s. Jim Davidson stands proudly at the front of a display of television personalities featuring amongst others Dirty Den and Angie, Sam Fox and the cast of Dynasty. There's a whole gallery of military figures with Churchill and Hitler headlining. Modern day is represented by a lost looking Victoria and David Beckham, but they are probably just the old Morecombe and Wise figures melted down and given new hairstyles.

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Posted by Ben C on July 08, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (5)

Street in Somerset is a shoe town, well more accurately a village. Since the 1830s Clarks have been making shoes in Street, and while their shoes are now manufactured abroad, its headquarters are still located there. Within these headquarters is housed the most delightful little museum.

Passing through the corporate-style glass doors you find the introductory section which tells of the origins of Clarks and has a fabulous display of some of the fearsome foot measuring machines that used to feature in their shops. There’s also a selection of shop display showcards from the thirties, fifties and sixties. In fact ‘showcard’ does them an injustice - some are stylish and charming little 3D dioramas.

Up the wooden staircase the museum really gets into its stride, with a comprehensive chronological display of the history of shoes, housed in simple vitrines with hessian backed displays, a touch that reminds me of museums in the seventies and perhaps gives a clue as to when this museum was established. While the overriding emphasis is on shoes worn in Britain, from Roman times on, there are plenty of examples of footwear from all over the world, including some adorable Chinese silk children’s shoes. Even the most resistant visitor will soon be fascinated, as my (male) companion will happily confirm.

There’s plenty of contextual information should you need it, especially from the 19th century and on, including fashion pictures, advertisements, catalogue illustrations and photographs of shops. But its also possible, and perfectly natural, just to ooh and aah. One thing you can’t do it is rush through it - there’s so much to detain you despite its small size. Importantly, you are welcome to take pictures, something that cannot be taken for granted in many museums these days.

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Posted by Trevira on June 27, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

The Thames is a dead river. Save a stray tourist boat, and the Tate ferry that goes from one branch of Nicholas Serota’s World of Adventures to the other, London’s huge, majestic river is totally unused, and even in ‘Docklands’ it’s difficult to find any sign that it ever was. There’s one major exception to this, and that’s the Woolwich Ferry.

Not only is this a strange fragment of a past in which the river had some sort of function rather than being the backdrop to the ubiquitous ‘stunning developments’, it's also gloriously free. Just queue up at either side of the river : Woolwich SE18 or North Woolwich E16 – there’s a concrete shelter in case of rain – and at no point will anyone ask who you are or what you’re doing there, let alone ask for money.

The Woolwich Free Ferry was introduced in the 1880s by Joseph Bazalgette as one of his ‘improvements’, and the current terminus and ferries date from the mid-60s. The terminus is in shuttered concrete, with an angular staircase poking out, while the boats themselves are named after local politicians: all of a Leftish bent, given Woolwich’s history as a socialist stronghold. One of the three, marvellously, is called the ‘Ernest Bevin’, after the union boss and Cold Warrior foreign secretary in the Attlee government.

Go in the daytime or the weekend and the ferries are bracingly empty, with lines of benches sitting forlorn, while red-walled rooms labelled ‘SMOKING’ have their doors definitively locked. The ferry fills up at rush hour with people getting off at the DLR station on the North Side, going to the (until 2008) tubeless South. You can also stand on the traffic deck and gaze at this desolate stretch of river: the Tate sugar refinery (ironically enough) and the Thames Barrier dominate the riverscape here, with the leftovers of industry now overwhelmed by those riverside flats that cling to even the poorest stretches of Thames, with Canary Wharf (or ‘Thatcher’s Cock’ as it was once known) looming in the distance. At the front of each of the ferries is a little cylindrical lookout pod, creating a peculiar arch framing Woolwich Reach.

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Posted by Owen on June 19, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Ulverston is a lovely example of how the Lake District used to be. Compared to the bright lights of Kendal and Keswick it has twice the charm and half the tourists. When we arrived at 10am it was still stirring awake and didn't seem to make it far beyond dozing for the rest of the day. Traditional shops jostle with one or two designer boutiques and fancy delis but apart from Greggs and Boots it is relatively chain-store free, and thankfully there isn’t a cut price fleece in sight.

The town is full of unexpected fragments of a more genteel time. The Glaxo Social Club proclaims to be "Licensed in pursuance of act of parliament for public dancing, singing, music and other public entertainments of the like kind".
At the top of the high street there's an ancient chemist and opposite the Oxfam shop street spreads over 3 floors with the non-fiction laid out in Dewey Decimal order. Amazingly, the charity shops here still have something you might want to buy.

Round the corner just off King Street there's a museum devoted to Stan Laurel, Ulverston’s most famous son who was born here in 1890. It's a gloriously ramshackle affair. Not so much a museum as a collection of anything Laurel (or Hardy) related crammed into two rooms. In a third, complete with old red velvet cinema seats, you can watch Laurel & Hardy films in period style. When we arrive the proprietor, himself a bit of a character, is just nipping out for fish and chips so he leaves us to look around the place. Even the souvenirs are fantastically old school – thimbles, mugs in two different sizes and stylish leather bookmarks.

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Posted by Anne on June 10, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

I have been meaning to visit The Cumberland Pencil Museum for ages. It’s been on my ‘Must Go!’ list for at least two years. So it was with great excitement that on a sunny Easter Saturday we finally tootled up the M6 to Keswick.

Nestled amongst stunning mountains Keswick is a busy, bustling Lake District tourist town – not quite as overrun with wall-to-wall outdoor equipment shops, frilly cafes and organic delis as Ambleside. Thankfully.

The Cumberland Pencil factory building itself is a great example of Art Deco era architecture; resplendent with Gill Sans signage. The actual museum is housed within a pale blue 1950s prefab decorated with large MDF pencils. It’s a cheery little place.

The entrance to the exhibition is slightly disappointing – visitors have to traipse through a room of unnecessary fake caves, complete with mining dummies whose feet are falling off. In my opinion this part of the exhibition could do with being scrapped. Perhaps in order to give more space to showing off the biggest pencil in the world – which is currently housed (not to its maximum potential) in a case in a corridor.

• Nearby Borrowdale was the first place in the world where graphite was discovered, around 1500.
• When a pencil is made – it is precisely 184mm long.
• The local name for graphite was 'wad' and upon its discovery it soon became a precious commodity. The graphite mines were taken over by the government and wad was transported to London by armed stage coach.

These are just three of the fascinating things I learnt from my visit. I also got to look at some splendid examples of pencil packaging, and some very inventive pencil displays too.

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Posted by Kate on May 09, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

I’ve heard there are families that don’t stop at every crazy golf course they see when driving around the country. I’ve heard about them but I’m not sure they exist. How would they fill their seaside days if they’re not knocking golf balls through windmills, houses and into top hats? I just can’t imagine. Anyway. Suffice to say that we are quite the crazy golf connoisseurs and you should believe us when we assert that this crazy golf course in Mablethorpe is as close to perfection as you’ll ever find. Well worth traversing the barren nothingness of Lincolnshire to get there.

As you’ll know from your extensive experience of crazy golf courses, there’s an increasing tendency for course owners to get some off-the-shelf, plastic holes from a warehouse somewhere, blot them to a bit of concrete and call it a top-flight course. We’re always disappointed by this approach. We’ll always play on them but there’s nothing as exciting as a truly individual home-made course like this one. It’s not just amusements, it’s folk art. The colours, the ideas and the friendliness make it a lovely place to spend half an hour.

Our favourite hole is probably the enormous Humber Bridge, a vast hole which provides a challenge for even the most skilled minigolfer. But you can’t fault the house with boots and a moustache, the fat boy or the cannon. And the coup de gras is of course the final hole which will squirt water at you when you get your ball in. Genius. Andy Miller in his marvelous book Tilting At Windmills, chronicles his time attempting to get good at crazy golf. He visits a lot of courses. And he shares our enthusiasm declaring Mablethorpe Crazy Golf to be ‘the best in the country’.

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Posted by Russell on April 19, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Childhood doesn’t belong in a museum - it’s noisy and fun, not quiet and organised. When you walk into the barn-like space that is Childhood Memories Toy Museum the overall effect is of a chaotic bedroom that’s had a last minute tidy up for visitors. The name really fits, as soon as you come in the door it’s like being a kid again, looking at a whole heap of exciting things and wondering what to play with first.

There’s obviously been an attempt to organise the huge number of toys on show. There are neat displays showing an impressive array of toy guns, robots, doll’s house furniture, Sooty & Sweep, ventriloquist’s dummies, Sindy dolls, Mr (and Mrs) Potato Heads, it goes on and on. But outside these collections toys spill everywhere. Bizarre board games such as On The Buses and I only arsked: The Bernard Breslaw Game balance on the display cases, and anything that can hang dangles from the ceiling.

In the middle of the floor large dolls and cuddly toys of all ages are corralled inside miniature vehicles. Some of the old ones would give you nightmares, their glass eyes staring at you in the dark. A teddy sits in a Sinclair C5, not actually a toy car even though it looks like one. And everything is equal here. Although many of the exhibits are highly collectable there’s no indication that that makes them more important. Classic toys are on show alongside tiny disposable things and famous names jostle with others that have been long forgotten. That makes sense – kids don’t discriminate either.

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Posted by Anne on April 15, 2007 | Permalink

Even some of the most experienced south Londoners will furrow their brows and scan their mental A-Z’s in vain when you mention a visit to Nunhead. Despite being firmly lodged in zone 2 the area possesses a spymaster’s flair for anonymity. Perhaps its low profile can be ascribed to the Post office decision in the early twentieth century to lump Nunhead and Peckham together within the SE15 postcode. Ever since being made GPO bedfellows, Nunhead has played the poor relation to its neighbour and the crisis of identity was only exacerbated when Del Boy and his three-wheeler stamped an indelible mark on the nation’s popular consciousness. But while Peckham revels in notoriety, Nunhead possesses at least one very good reason why you should make tracks to this overlooked corner of the capital. Tucked away among the ordinary terraced side streets is perhaps the greatest of all London’s nineteenth century cemeteries, a true hidden gem, which the more discerning visitor will be just dying to visit.

From the outside, the front entrance to Nunhead cemetery exudes the sort of gothic menace which would excite the location finder for any Hammer House of Horror film production. The drama of the huge iron gates hanging from towering stone columns is heightened by their recessed location from the main road. It’s easy to imagine long faced Dickensian undertakers arriving atop a jet black carriage, pulled by plumed horses the colour of midnight. This monumental entrance is the meeting point for the vast ten foot high wall which encloses some 52 acres of gravestones. The gates revel in the insignia of death featuring badges depicting an emptied hour glass flanked by wings of a feathered angel, and more ominously, a skeletal demon. Similarly the stonework is decorated with down turned torches, the life of their flames permanently extinguished. It’s fair to say that this exterior possesses sufficient creepiness to encourage the casual passer-by to consider crossing the road even in the full glare of daylight. But if the outside alone is liable to unnerve then perhaps those of a nervous disposition would be advised not to take a stroll inside.

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Posted by Maurice on April 02, 2007 | Permalink

It’s certainly not unusual for buildings to be deemed a danger to public safety. Dodgy slates, subsiding walls or loose panes of glass often result in blocked pavements, stripy warning tape and cheek sucking workmen looking skywards. In the history of remedial construction however there must be precious few examples of an erection being declared unsafe due to the threat of falling penises. Yet in 1930’s London, number 429 Strand, a building dogged by controversy ever since its completion, was irrevocably altered, some would say vandalised, in the name of health and safety.

A stroll along the Strand today would most likely involve a head down battle against the tide of humanity. The street still contains some classic features, including Charing Cross Station and the Savoy hotel, but as a vehicle choked city thoroughfare, it’s not the best place in the capital to admire the view. In 1908 the scene would have been very different. Locals, spared the high doses of CO2, gathered in large crowds at what is now number 429, to view the recently completed headquarters of the British Medical Foundation. The focus of their attention was the series eighteen seven foot high nude sculptures entitled the Ages of Man which adorned the outside of the building. The nakedness of the figures enraged conservative writers of the time and the Evening Standard spearheaded a campaign against art works they considered to be morally retrograde. Father Bernhard Vaughn, a member of the National Vigilance Society raged in the paper that:

“As a Christian in a Christian City, I claim the right to say that I object most emphatically to such indecent statuary being thrust upon my view.”

While the good Father was clearly opposed to any sort of thrusting filth, the vehemence of the morally indignant he represented soon generated a wider public interest. So when the Evening Standard suggested that the statues were the sort that “…no careful father would wish his daughter, or no discriminating young man, his fiancée, to see”, Londoners flocked to the Strand eager to consume their quota of outrage.

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Posted by Maurice on February 20, 2007 | Permalink

Ever since the ingenious subterranean and tree top protests of environmentalists failed to halt the extension of the A34, Newbury has become an easy place to bypass. Traffic now speeds past its western edge with a consistent urgency, but with the defeat of the anti-road campaigners in the late 90s the town lost its national notoriety as well a few hundred acres of woodland. Unless you are a horse racing enthusiast or a Vodafone employee (the town is the world HQ for the company) there is little to tempt the casual passer-by onto the streets. The place is perfectly nice while being simultaneously perfectly undistinguished. Given this ordinariness, it’s peculiar to think that just over twenty years ago this sleepy part of Berkshire was a prime target for Soviet nuclear missiles.

What prompted Kremlin military planners to consider the total obliteration of Newbury is to be found a couple of miles to the south east of the town. Greenham Common is now a vast open space full of dog walkers, ramblers and the occasional cow but in the mid 80s it housed a huge military airbase and was one the most guarded places in the UK. The security was necessitated by the decision of Maggie Thatcher’s Conservative government, to allow American Cruise missiles to be located on British soil. These weapons were designed to neutralise the threat posed by Soviet SS-20 missiles which had been deployed in the mid 70s and were perceived to have upset the precarious nuclear balance of the Cold War. The first of the ninety six bombs housed at the base, arrived in November 1983. They were stored in six enormous purpose built underground shelters. Hundreds of anti-nuclear campaigners were on hand to greet the delivery and give notice that they had no intention of leaving the base in peace.

Today nature has reclaimed much of the Common, although remnants of the old base are still visible. The control tower, which once guided in vast military transport planes, is intact, but up close appears disappointingly small. It oversees the remains of the runway which is discernable only as an unnaturally flat stretch of grass which splits the centre of the Common. Pieces of military machinery, so imbedded they must be immovable, still punctuate areas which once would have accommodated taxiing aircraft.

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Posted by Maurice on February 10, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Morecambe, it’s fair to say, could almost be the resort Morrissey had in mind when he wrote ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’. It really does have the feel of a place they forgot to close down. The town’s heyday is long past. Looking at the flyblown bargain stores and low rent accommodation that line the seafront, it’s difficult to believe that Morecambe was once considered a more ‘select’ destination than Blackpool further down the coast. Even so, the place does have a certain appeal. There are gems like Brucciani’s unchanged 1930s tea room. There’s a special quality to the light which has attracted artists for decades. Large areas of the promenade have been given a sensitive makeover. The magnificent art deco Midland Grand Hotel is under restoration, and the Stone Jetty behind it is a great example of regeneration with a human touch. The bollards lining the Jetty are topped with witty sculptures of seabirds (incidentally, the patterns for casting them were made by my dad).

Between the Grand and the Jetty is a wind-blasted open square of concrete flagstones – the Arena Funfair. All that remains of this small fairground are two buildings glowering at each other like a couple of punch-drunk boxers. On one side there is the former fairground café, a squat bunker-like building with JUG OF TEA £1.50 carefully hand written on the front. Opposite the café is what was once an open stage. The only performances these days are by vandals and pigeons. Next to the stage is an empty shallow pool, coated in flaking cobalt blue. Painted by the same hand as 'JUG OF TEA £1.50' is a sign announcing REMOTE CONTROL BOATS. The stunning sunsets that Morecambe Bay is famous for only enhance the melancholic appeal.

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Posted by Gareth on January 07, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Despite being a child of the 60’s the Brunswick centre still feels distinctly futuristic, a neat trick considering its last century lineage predates the technological innovations which define modern notions of cutting edge. Yet among the otherwise genteel Georgian Streets of Bloomsbury the monolithic concrete architecture of the Brunswick still evokes visions of tomorrow. The rectangular slab looks like a super block of reinforced Lego that has fallen from space and embedded itself in north London.

Inside its walls the elevated pedestrian central precinct is a clinical open space, flanked by shops and residential units which run the length of the development and cascade down toward street level. The tiered construction is the architectural equivalent of a tea plantation with the flats terraced back against an invisible hillside. Huge service towers stand watch over the building, reaching for the heavens like the ramparts of a futuristic citadel. The effect is dramatic and distinctly sci-fi, you really wouldn’t be surprised to see a Cyberman or bowler hatted Malcolm McDowell giving the place the once over.

Our visions of the future are usually played out cinematically against two distinct architectural backdrops. On the one hand there is the grim, grimy and nihilistic tomorrow as seen in films such as Robocop. On the other our offspring are seen to inherit a sleek, minimalist, usually white robed world, often harbouring a sinister secret. Check out Jenny Agutter in Logan’s Run for a good example. Before its £24 million revamp the Brunswick centre would have fitted neatly into the former category. In the late 1990s the building was neglected and shabby; its concrete walls turned a dour shade of inner city grey by the British weather. The unloved design coped badly with neglect and the Brunswick looked increasingly like the sort of place Judge Dredd patrols in the pages of 2000AD. This state of affairs was hardly surprising given the history of wrangling and compromise which dogged the development.

Continue reading "The Brunswick Centre, London" »

Posted by Maurice on December 12, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1)

If the walls at The Old Operating Theatre could talk, they would most likely scream in agony rather than strike up a conversation. Standing on the tiered steps which arch around the operating pit, the centre piece in one of London’s lesser known and quirkier museums, it only takes a pinch of imagination to visualise the grim realities of surgery in a time before anaesthetic. The operating table, no more than a slab of wood, stands on stripped floorboards beneath the vast glazed skylight which once provided the illumination by which the surgeons could slice. These men, often dressed in frock coats, went about their business ignorant as to the merits of antiseptic and without the benefits of effective painkillers or unconscious patients. Operations required speed, skill, a strong stomach and more than a little luck to ensure those beneath the blade survived. It’s safe to assume that during the early decades of the nineteenth century the wooden walls of the operating theatre witnessed enough gore and suffering to make even the Christmas special of ‘Casualty’ seem tame.

Getting to the operating theatre is a peculiar business as the entrance is to be found in St Thomas’s church, an eighteenth century baroque building whose dusty loft space, or garret, houses the museum. The narrow spiral staircase which leads upwards, seems ill suited to the care of the sick and the location is only explained when one learns that the church roof abuts the wards on the south wing of St Thomas’s hospital. When the church was rebuilt in the seventeenth century, the new building was constructed with a large ‘aisle barn’ garret which became home to the resident Apothecary at the neighbouring hospital. This seller and maker of medicine would have cultivated a herb garden and recent renovation work has found remains of dried opium in the rafters. Part of the museum recreates the workshop of the apothecary and the combined smells from exotic ingredients such as Frankincense, Santolina, Comfrey, Horsetail and Gum Arabic assault the nostrils as soon as you reach the top of the staircase. Signs detail the medicinal benefits of these raw materials although some remedies appear to have more in common with witchcraft than science. One of the least promising must be the recipe for Snailwater, which purports to offer a cure for venereal disease through a mixture concocted largely from crushed snails and earth worms.

Continue reading "The Old Operating Theatre, London" »

Posted by Maurice on November 25, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1)

Seeing the Apollo Pavilion today, it’s hard to imagine how it ever seemed like a good idea. Designed by artist Victor Pasmore and built between 1963 and 1970 in Peterlee, a new town in County Durham, it’s an abstract concrete er, thing - half architecture, half sculpture. At eighty-two feet wide, it's a hulking great brute, spectacularly out-of-scale to everything around it. It’s not so much ugly as inappropriate. Loathed by many, but loved by a dedicated few, it is at once a symbol of the idealism of modernism and the new town movement, and the epitome of where it went horribly wrong.

When Peterlee was founded in 1948, Modernist hero Berthold Lubetkin was brought in as master planner but when his proposals for high-rise living proved unsuitable for mining terrain he left, disillusioned, and become a farmer. Abstract artist Victor Pasmore who was then Master of Painting at Kings College in Newcastle-upon-Tyne stepped into the breach. He designed “The Pivvy” as it's known locally as a bridge and focal point in a problematic area of the Sunny Blunts housing estate where a lake divides the housing estate and the road. Aspirations were high, and it was named The Apollo Pavilion after the moon mission which was reaching for the stars around the same time

Pasmore described it as 'an architecture and sculpture of purely abstract form through which to walk, in which to linger and on which to play, a free and anonymous monument which, because of its independence, can lift the activity and psychology of an urban housing community on to a universal plane.’ Well, he was half-right. People lingered and played alright, but not in a good way. Almost immediately it became a haven for vandals and teeny-tipplers. To add insult to injury, a local government spat ensued when the Peterlee Development Corporation that commissioned the £33,000 work was wound up and the Easington District Council which inherited it refused to touch it with a bargepole, or more usefully a paintbrush.

Continue reading "Victor Pasmore's Apollo Pavilion, Peterlee" »

Posted by Anne on November 08, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

The East Anglian fishing village of Sizewell has had its image swallowed whole by the two nuclear power stations. Sizewell A was opened in 1966 and has just recently begun decommissioning. Its large nondescript square concrete bulk sitting in drab contrast to Sizewell B's metal domed roof. Sizewell B opened in 1995 and is due to close in about 30 years.

Sizewell A and B dominate the village's beach and public image. They dominate the coast, sitting side by side, staring blankly out to sea.

Like middle class OAP's nuclear plants like living near the sea. Drawing in cold water for cooling and steam generation, often pumping out heated water back out to sea (just like a pensioner). Sizewell's inlets and outlets are marked by what look like two marooned seaside piers, which at night reassemble two skeletal fairground relics, details picked out once every two seconds by the blinking red light.

We visited at midnight. It would have been noisy trudging across the stones if it weren't for the loud evil growling sound coming from Sizewell A (which had yet to close). It sounded as though every single character from the Trap Door wanted to escape.

Standing on the beach between the power stations and the outlets is an eerie sensation. Beaches are supposed to be about fun and novelty. Sizewell beach is anything but, two grim concrete structures sat next to a shingle beach with two isolated piers and no ferris wheel. Even sand castles are unlikely as there's not much sand on the shore (although there's some attempt at sand dunes near the car park). Even if there was enough sand you wouldn't want to dig too deep when making the moats for your sand castles.

Continue reading "Sizewell Power Stations, East Anglia" »

Posted by Ben C on October 31, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

I must have driven past the turning for the A4180 a couple of hundred times before finally flicking the indicators and directing my car away from the terminally busy lanes of the A40. Previously my desire to either get to, or escape from, the congested delights of London had always persuaded me to speed past the west and east bound road signs which point towards Yeading and Ruislip respectively. Yet, delightful as these towns may well be, it was the words Polish War Memorial, emblazoned in white capitals across the top of the metal rectangle which always tempted me to deviate off course. I was intrigued as to what sort of a monument would warrant such a grandiose notice and always imagined that the post-war government in Warsaw had commissioned some brutal piece of communist commemoration to sit in capitalist Britain. So, cruising up the slip road, I twisted my neck searching for a memorial of Soviet proportions, all shards of concrete and square jawed figures, striking determined poses.

When I drew up alongside the monument I realised that my socialist fantasy had gotten the better of me. The structure which remembers the 2,165 Polish airmen killed during WWII is the work not of bureaucrats but rather surviving comrades who sought to build the memorial soon after the armistice in 1945. The Polish air force association commissioned Miecystam Lubelski, a craftsman recently released form a Nazi labour camp, to construct the memorial and his plan exudes gravitas through simple design. A set of small iron gates lead to a needle of Portland stone fronted by a shallow pond and flanked by two low walls. On top of the central column is a bronze eagle, symbol of the Polish air force, and to the rear a sunken half moon walkway is inscribed with the names of the fallen as well the insignia of long disbanded squadrons. Despite its proximity to a busy roundabout, and given that the dead end approach road is used as a car park, the memorial manages to radiate a serenity which succeeds in blocking out the distractions which surround it.

Continue reading "Polish War Memorial, Northolt" »

Posted by Maurice on October 26, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (5)

Opened in 1951, the Tyne Cycle & Pedestrian Tunnels join the communities of Howdon and Jarrow on the north and south banks of the river Tyne. At their peak 20,000 people travelled 900 ft (274 m) through them each day to get to work in the nearby shipyards. While pedestrian river tunnels are nothing new this was the first with a purpose-built cycle tunnel - still in regular use today as it forms part of the C2C cycle route running from coast to coast across the north of England.

Above ground at each end there is a dinky red-brick rotunda, quiet apart from the faint whirr and clank of machinery. Going in is like entering a station, but with no ticket office or trains. It's a slightly mysterious affair, just two escalators marked Up and Down that descend, seemingly, into the bowels of the earth. The directions need to be marked because they aren't moving. As you approach, a speed ray regulator powers the one you need into life. Legend has it the more people on them the faster they go although as it was quiet for our visit we didn’t get a chance to test this.

When they were built, they were the longest single-rise escalators in the world at 60m (approx 200 feet). Today they are still the longest wooden ones in the world, and a rarity now that wooden escalators such as those in the London Underground have been phased out. Built by Waygood-Otis, they have a solid charm, each of the 306 steps numbered and stamped, and they make a fantastic noise - a sort of gentle clank. The journey up or down feels like travelling in style.

Continue reading "Tyne Cycle & Pedestrian Tunnels, Tyne & Wear" »

Posted by Anne on October 22, 2006 | Permalink

Burgess Park is certainly not one of the most famous parks in London. Situated just off the exhaust choked tarmac of the Old Kent Road this large open space offers a green refuge from the madness of the capital's wild south east. On first inspection the park appears fairly undistinguished. It has a large lake where optimistic locals dangle rods and the largely treeless expanse plays host to impromptu football matches. It also stages the largest South American carnival of the year. But the strangest thing about Burgess Park is the iron canal bridge which sits alone like a forlorn bachelor on its southern most edge. This gently rusting structure is totally land-locked, spanning nothing but earth. Its existence is incongruous, canals and the Old Kent Road are not recognised bed fellows. Was I the first to wonder if its location hadn’t been the result of some eccentric copying the efforts of Robert McCulloch in transporting London Bridge to the USA? After all, that seemingly crazy inter-continental shift has transformed Lake Havasu into the second most popular Nevadan tourist attraction after Las Vegas.

If this were true then the experiment has failed in Burgess Park, there are no tacky gift shops or tourist hoards in evidence. However, by following the path leading from the bridge towards Peckham it soon becomes apparent that you are following the bends of an old water course which winds under two classic Victorian bridges. The physical scars of nineteenth century engineering are still evident on the landscape and when following the canal route it requires only a smidgen of imagination to visualise barges floating past the modern houses of north Peckham estate.

A little research reveals that at one time The Grand Surrey canal ran through what is now Burgess Park. Poor road links in the reign of George IV resulted in the proposed extension of the waterway to link London with Portsmouth. Unfortunately the money ran dry in 1826 with the canal only dug out as far as Peckham. The stunted waterway was adapted to ship softwood and materials were floated to Eagle Wharf, not far from where Whitten Timber merchants stands today on Peckham Hill Street. It’s worth popping into the shop to look at the old black and white pictures of the working canal and sniff the odour of freshly cut wood.

Continue reading "The Lost Canals of Peckham, London" »

Posted by Maurice on October 09, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

What is it about the Second World War that inspires such obsessive fascination in some folk? As a subject of 20th century history it is like a giant cuckoo in the nest, pushing out everything else that might divert attention away from it. Witness the history channels that broadcast wall-to-wall Hitler/Churchill documentaries. It evokes heroic values, courage, forbearance, all pulling together, digging for victory and making do and mending. Not to mention the perennial appeal of the uniforms, the fashions and the catchy tunes. I suspect that the cinema has something to do with it. There have been epic movies made on the subject every decade, practically since armistice was declared.

One such film is ‘Yanks,’ filmed in 1978, and starring Richard Gere. Locations in the Saddleworth area were used, and to mark this event Saddleworth hosts an annual weekend-long event that attracts Second World War aficionados from across the country. Attractions include the chance to admire original military vehicles and browse the handful of stalls selling vintage clothing, military garb and 2WW collectables. There’s also evening dances if you want to show off your jitterbugging skills. Most compelling of all is the chance to see enthusiasts dressed up as US Army sergeants driving round in jeeps and Nazi commanders in black leather trenchcoats.

We visited on the last day - a dull, cold and drizzly Sunday - and found that the village of Uppermill that was hosting the Yanks ‘camp’ had not yet roused itself. Indeed, it took some effort to find the camp at all, since signposting duties had been neglected. Our timing was off, we were thoroughly drenched by 10.30 and disinclined to hang around for the parade. This was a disappointment, because I had been looking forward to the “the biggest military convoy in the UK” and the attendant genuine army veterans that were to feature. We also missed the re-enactments of scenes from the film, with a Richard Gere look alike. As a reporter, I’m a sad failure, and certainly don’t have the fortitude of those wartime heroes who shrugged off bullets rather than raindrops.

Continue reading "Yanks Weekend, Saddleworth" »

Posted by Trevira on August 22, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1)

In the height of the cold war, back in the days when our foes were defined and known and telephones had wires attached, the post office built a bomb proof telephone exchange on the banks of the Thames, between Cannon Street station and London Bridge. Its concrete is clad in GRP (glass reinforced polyester), bright even after 30 years exposed to the elements. With the windows presenting a dark contrasting surface, it's no shrinking violet. Deep in its subsurface heart, lurks giant generators to power the building in the event of attack from the enemy, evidenced by the huge cooling cubes on the roof of the building.

Designed by architects Hubbard, Ford and Partners, on its completion in 1975 Mondial House was the largest exchange in Europe. The striking stepped-back style allows unobstructed views of St Paul's Cathedral beyond in line with strict planning requirements for the area. The front of the building facing Upper Thames Street, incorporates its name in the concrete that surrounds the building, and also the fire station that sits under one corner.

If anything should be deemed to entitle a building to special protection, it's a slating from Prince Charles, describing it as "the dreadful Mondial House". "To me, this building is redolent of a word processor," he wrote, apparently as criticism. To me, it's more like the seminal Commodore PET computer, but that's a semantic difference - either way, Mondial House is a bold, striking, innovative building.

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Posted by Ian on August 20, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (9)

If you ask directions to Manchester Metropolitan University's Hollings Campus you might get some blank looks, but if you ask for the Toast Rack everyone will know what you mean. Once you catch sight of it there’s no need to explain its nickname – it's a huge tapering building with parabolic concrete arches on top that give it the look of a great big toastrack. There is a legend that in the 1970s students made a giant slice of polystyrene toast and stuck it on the roof for rag week. And if that wasn't enough, to augment the big breakfast theme there is an adjoining building which being small and round is known as The Fried Egg.

The culinary moniker fits well as the building, described by renowned architectural historian Sir Nikolaus Pevsner as "a perfect piece of pop architecture" began life as a classroom block for Manchester’s Domestic and Trades College which had been teaching cookery and domestic science in various incarnations since 1901. It is now home to MMU's Faculty of Food, Clothing and Hospitality Management. With over 2,000 students it is the largest concentration of domestic science students in the UK - and yes, they do sandwich courses.

The buildings were designed in 1958 by City Architect L. C. (Leonard) Howitt who was also responsible for re-modelling the interior of Manchester Free Trade Hall after the original was destroyed in WWII, and designing the Crown Courts in Crown Square. Although it looks playful, there was a practical intent. The tapering shape provides different sized teaching spaces for small or large classes (although the varying room sizes reportedly caused heating problems until the building was refurbished in the 1990s). Beside the main building there are tailoring workshops which were kept separate to minimise noise from the sewing machines, and “The Fried Egg” - a low round building with a circular hall intended for catwalk shows which houses the library and two refectories.

Continue reading "The Toast Rack, Manchester" »

Posted by Anne on August 08, 2006 | Permalink

As you travel along the A66 on the edge of Darlington you'll see a train on one side of the road. Nothing unusual there except that this one isn't going anywhere. Designed by leading contemporary artist and sculptor David Mach, Train is made from 185,000 local "Accrington Nori" bricks and commemorates Darlington's illustrious heritage as "home of the railways". (The Stockton-Darlington Railway which opened in 1825 was Britain's first permanent steam locomotive railway). Mach describes his train as "as much a piece of architecture as a sculpture". 60 metres long and 6 metres high, it is a perfect rendering of the 1938 classic locomotive "Mallard", complete with plume of billowing smoke.

Creating a large scale, life-like whole out of thousands of commonplace objects is Mach's trademark. Apart from Train he has made a number of artworks worldwide such as The Temple at Tyre out of car tyres and his Big Heids beside the M8 near Glasgow out of steel piping. He puts his interest in mass-production down to a job in a bottling plant he had as a young man back home in Fife. But even though the constituent parts may be common, the end result is far from throwaway and his work is usually thoughtfully designed and painstakingly constructed with sensitivity to the local area and its long-term future.

To create the train a 5 metre long maquette was built - "a substantial piece of sculpture in itself" according to Mach. This was then scanned and produced in drawing form, then redrawn on computer. The construction was "a painful, boring process" involving a team of architects, engineers, bricklayers, quantity surveyors, mortar experts and the artist himself, there to make sure that each brick was in exactly the right place. The team of 34 took 21 weeks to build it and thoughtfully included 20 special "bat" bricks to encourage our nocturnal friends to nest there.

Continue reading "David Mach's Train, Darlington" »

Posted by Anne on August 06, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

The first time visitor to Tobacco Dock could be forgiven for thinking that they have arrived at a building nearing completion. It is immediately clear that the nineteenth century warehouse has been lovingly restored from a repository for imported goods into a modern shopping emporium. Everything is in place, fancy fixtures and fittings, stylish walkways and smart glass fronted units fully prepared for arrival of High Street names to breathe new mercantile life into the historic brick walls. Unfortunately Tobacco Dock is not waiting to be launched but rather sits becalmed after opening its doors in 1990. The crew that once manned the shops have long since abandoned ship and on this retail Marie Celeste CCTV cameras search for non existent miscreants.

Yet the story started so brightly back in the booming mid 80’s when stock markets were sky high and yuppies were busy buying red Porsches, listening to Phil Collins and carrying mobile phones that weighed half a tonne. During these heady days Brian Jackson and Lawrie Cohen had the bold idea to build a version of Covent Garden in the east end. Their ambition cannot be doubted and the selection of the stunning Tobacco Dock as a location seemed inspired.

The warehouse into which Cohen and Jackson would invest millions was designed by architect David Alexander as part of a much larger development built in 1811-14. This was a period of rapid commercial expansion along the Thames and businessmen hurried to keep up with the explosion in the sea-going transportation of goods. With London at the epicentre of the global market the demand for new storage and reception facilities for raw materials was enormous. In response Alexander collaborated with engineer John Rennie to mastermind the construction of London Dock. When completed the site covered 30 acres and specialised in high-value luxury commodities such as ivory, spices, coffee and cocoa as well as wine, tobacco and wool, all stored in elegant warehouses and cellars. Tobacco Dock was one part of this giant scheme and originally covered 20,000 square meters. The two fifths which remain standing today showcase an evolutionary architectural phase which, before the use of metal beams, combined timber and cast iron to make horizontal roof spans.

Continue reading "Tobacco Dock, London" »

Posted by Maurice on August 01, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

It’s amazing what people can get accustomed to. Locals living in Headington, a quiet suburb on the eastern edge of Oxford, don’t seem to notice the 25 foot long headless shark embedded in the roof space of an otherwise undistinguished terraced house. The head turning and furrowed brows are now the preserve of outsiders who gaze quizzically at the fibreglass fish then look skywards as if the beast has crashed down from the heavens. But this fishy protrusion is not in place by accident and from the time it was craned into position on 9th of August 1986 the shark swam into a wave of controversy.

The owner of the house with the new finned extension was Bill Heine, an American expat who had commissioned sculptor John Buckley to create the piece. If Bill’s desire was to generate publicity he very quickly achieved his goal as pictures of the shark went from Oxford to Fleet Street and then around the world. Camera crews and the curious followed all questioning the motives behind the eccentric project. Bill replied that the shark, actually named ‘untitled’, was a comment on Cold War politics having been installed on the 41st anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. He told journalists,

“The shark was to express someone feeling totally impotent and ripping a hole in their roof out of a sense of impotence and anger and desperation….It is saying something about CND, nuclear, power, Chernobyl and Nagasaki. “

For many locals and council officials this artistic explanation did not provide Heine with the freedom to lower the tone and possibly the house prices in the area. At first the shark was hunted on the grounds that it posed a danger to public safety, but engineering reports on the girders supporting the structure suggested otherwise. The council decided they needed a ’bigger boat’ so used failure to comply with section 22 of the Town and Country Planning Act as grounds for removal. While the debates on the future of the shark became mired in council committees local people slotted into pro and anti camps. The shark was either a harmless bit of fun or an unlawful eyesore. Heine proved adept at stalling for time and in 1991 appealed to Michael Heseltine, then secretary of state for the environment, for clemency. In 1992 Heseltine’s inspector Peter Macdonald ruled in favour of the sculpture and the shark was free to remain a fish out of water.

Continue reading ""Untitled", Oxford" »

Posted by Maurice on July 26, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (8)

Mention that you live in Peckham and most strangers gleefully enquire whether you drive a three wheeled van or live next door to 'Trigger'. Countering that the Only Fools and Horses film crews set up their cameras in Bristol rather than south east London doesn't seem to deter them. The on-screen world of ‘Del Boy’ bears little resemblance with reality and the only ‘trotters’ to be found are in the butcher’s shops. Rye Lane slices through the heart of Peckham and a saunter along its pavements reveals a slice of zone two London as yet untouched by the homogenising touch of modern retail. The street and surrounding side roads are a distinctly chain store free zone. Local entrepreneurship is in the ascendancy and most of those doing the selling are immigrants from an array of nationalities. There is no better place in London to buy international phone cards and avoid trendy wine bars. The effect of this melting pot is chaotic, exhilarating, scruffy, noisy, smelly and colourful in equal measure. Buses and cars battle with pedestrians for superiority and a raw energy crackles in the air.

Book-ending Rye Lane is the large green space of the common to the south and the Will Alsop’s iconic Peckham Library building to the north. The latter is an emblem for the ongoing regeneration of the area and this bold vision of modernity is soon to be joined by Peckham Pier, another Alsop building, this one a gallery space supported by the Camberwell and Chelsea art colleges. Peckham has long been an artistic refuge and a detour to the increasingly gentrified Bellenden Road reveals cast iron bollards designed by local famous person Anthony Gormley. Newcastle may have an Angel but Peckham can boast slowly rusting street furniture of a slightly phallic nature.

The tree lined Rye common is where an eight year old William Blake saw a vision of angels in a tree and is also the reputed site of Bodicea’s great battle against the Romans. The space is a picnicker’s paradise and the Clock House pub is a short stroll for a pint. Outside the library the lights illuminating the canopy in the square change colour in accordance to air temperature. When standing under its protection look across the street towards the ‘Crackerjack’ discount store where, beyond the shop front, you will see a rather crooked, elderly structure. It is a remnant of when Peckham was a village on the edge of the metropolis and is one of the oldest timber framed buildings still standing in London.

Continue reading "Rye Lane, Peckham" »

Posted by Maurice on July 13, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Malham is a village in Yorkshire’s Dales National Park. The population of just 120 is swelled during summer months by day-trippers, hikers, school trips and campers. They all come here to see the ‘rare and exciting limestone features’, which have been formed over twelve thousand years, since the last ice age.

An anti-clockwise walk, which should take around three hours (add extra time for picnics) allows you to see the seven wonders of Malham. The first of these is Janet’s Foss, a waterfall named after a fairy queen, who is reputed to live in a cave at the back of the falls. This is most spectacular during the winter months, but is worth a visit at any time of the year. See if you can spot the nearby ‘coin tree’. Also nearby are the remains of a 2000 year old Iron Age settlement.

If you follow Gordale Beck you appear to be presented with an impassable hill. But keep going; as the valley walls close in and make a sharp right turn, you reach Gordale Scar. 300ft, overhanging limestone cliffs frame a double waterfall. The more adventurous amongst you may continue onwards; you can climb up through the scar, and on towards Malham Tarn. This natural lake lies in a shallow crater formed by a retreating glacier, and was the inspiration for the novel ‘The Water Babies’.

Continue reading "Malhamdale, Yorkshire" »

Posted by Tom on July 11, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (2)

You are almost on the edge of nowhere – in an area known as The Black Forest - at the point where the Westerly Pennines slip anonymously into the Cheshire plain. Nearby are places with names such as Wincle, Wildboarclough and Longgutter. Here is Luds Church (map ref 987656) – you will have to look hard to discover it. Often when I have taken friends to show them this strangest of places I have had to search again and again for the hidden entrance.

This is where they say the Lollards (condemned as heretics) hid out in the 14th Century – and it is easy to see why. Who would ever find this place without a map and a knowledgeable guide? Books will casually remark that Luds Church is ‘worth a diversion’. It is worth much more than that. Luds Church must be one of the weirdest and wonderful of places and deserving of more than a throwaway nod.

This natural cleft is over 100 yards in length and in height over 20 yards high in places. Here the light of day rarely reaches and damp mosses curl down from the walls. If you stop and listen, even on the sunniest of days, it is possible to hear the drip and drip of water from the ferns which cling to the sides of this cleft. Perhaps of greatest significance is that this spot has been identified as The Green Chapel – the very place where Sir Gawain met and battled with the Green Knight one new year’s day long ago.

Continue reading "Luds Church, Gradbach" »

Posted by Rob on July 06, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (4)

Hardly an unknown institution, the Salford Lads Club has benefited from a tenuous connection with a celebrated Manchester band. It is now a site of pilgrimage for Smiths fans who queue up to have their picture taken under the distinctive green and white sign.

We were drawn by an exhibition of photographs of the local area called “The Smiths is Dead: Iconic Images From the Dirty Old Town” held to mark the 20th anniversary of Stephen Wright’s Queen is Dead photo session. These were displayed in the pristine Billiard Room, complete with its original tables and fittings. The photographs explored the cultural past of the neighbourhood, and highlighted the area’s importance, not least as the location of the original Coronation Street and Rover’s Return pub, and its role in supplying an authentic ‘Northern’ backdrop to the film East is East.

It was here that we met an enthusiastic volunteer called Leslie Holmes who gave us a guided tour of the building. Next to the Billiard Room is a tiny office containing card file records of every single boy who has ever been a member of the club. This was a persistent theme throughout our visit - the organisers and volunteers have, throughout its history, kept impeccable records and documented just about every event that the club has organised, including photographs of every summer camping holiday - they seem to have always chosen Aberystwyth but I could be wrong. It was a joy to leaf through albums of group portraits year by year and spot faces that soon became familiar. One in particular, Archie, joined as a 12 year old, became a volunteer in later years, and has just been awarded an MBE for his ‘Lifetime voluntary service with young people at Salford Lads’ and Girl’s Club.’

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Posted by Trevira on July 04, 2006 | Permalink

Blackpool is usually associated with gaudy delights such as the Pleasure Beach and Golden Mile, but away from the coast on the edge of Stanley Park lives a quieter attraction – Blackpool Model Village & Gardens. It’s hard to explain the joy that comes from seeing real things on a smaller scale, but if that’s your bag, head down here quickly. Established in the late 1960s or early 1970s (the owner was a little hazy about actual dates) by a local landscape gardener, the village is set in two and a half acres of park and is unique because of the beautiful (real size) flowers and shrubs that surround the more miniature exhibits.

And it’s all here – the village church with a wedding party outside, the local tea room, a caravan park, a fun fair and cricket match on the village green as well as plenty of things that let’s face it, few villages have – a huge prison, an airstrip and an enormous Scottish castle complete with Scots guards and piped bagpipe music.

As you enter the village you are given an instruction sheet that directs you along the labyrinthine paths with I-Spy style questions to keep the younger members of the party paying attention to detail. And the more you pay attention the more you get as there are little jokes throughout. Eagle-eyed visitors may spot that the proprietors of the garage are Messrs Hugh Crashum and W.E. Mendum. And although it’s a model village it’s not all perfect with an escapee making his way out of the prison, and oh no! a punch-up at the local caff.

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Posted by Anne on June 28, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (6)

High above the industry of Yorkshire’s Aire Valley is Shipley Glen, a long shoulder of heathland below Baildon Moor, studded with boulders left there by the ice age. The Glen has been visited for generations, and was a very popular destination for the Whitsuntide Walks of the late 1800s and the first half of 20th century. Mill workers from Shipley, Bingley, Saltaire and Keighley would enjoy the open air in their hundreds. Local farms often converted a barn to a makeshift tearoom – some of these barns still have a faded TEAS still visible on their walls or roofs.

Many of these visitors would walk up the wooded hill from Saltaire, and In 1895 a local entrepreneur built the Shipley Glen Tramway to help get them up the slope. it’s been delighting the residents of West Yorkshire ever since. This cable-hauled funicular railway trundles the quarter mile from Saltaire Park at the bottom to the Glen at the top. At each end is a miniature station with a tiny ticket office run by an affable volunteer. Pass though the barrier and find a seat on the carriage – you may have to flip the back of the seat over to face the right way. When ready, a klaxon will sound, there will be a slight jerk and you’ll start your journey through the woods, clunking along through a tunnel of green at about the speed of a trotting horse. At exactly half way, the carriage from the other end will zip past in a flurry of bunting and waving arms.

Until a couple of years ago, the Tramway was part of a tiny theme park which included Britain’s oldest fairground ride, the Aerial Glide, built around 1900. Sadly, despite a campaign to save it, all that remains of the ‘Pleasure Grounds’ is a charming semi-decrepit (but happily functioning) dodgems – complete with marvellously unrestored cars – near the gate to the Tramway’s ‘top’ station. Next to the dodgems is a pleasing little souvenir shop selling ice-creams and sweeties. Further up the wonderfully named Prod Lane is a tea room and pub, and then the Glen itself – still a great place to explore, walk and relax.

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Posted by Gareth on June 21, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (5)

Crosby beach has some strange visitors - 100 figures by Angel of the North creator Antony Gormley. Based on a cast of the artist's body, the sculptures are made out of cast iron and stand staring at the horizon. On a busy beach at first they are hard to spot, arranged over 3 kilometres of shore, stretching almost 1 km out to sea. We could only see 10 or 15 at the most and only 3 were fully visible from head to toe. The rest were partially submerged with some only head and shoulders above the water, not waving but drowning.

Up close the figures have been worn by the elements, giving them a wonderful texture. Each one has a tag on its wrist with a number. Despite the fact that each figure is 650 kilos of high-grade British art they seem pretty approachable and local residents have obviously adopted them as their own. The one that we could get to most easily was surrounded by children and as photos from the Another Place Flickr pool show they are sometimes adorned with sunhats, motorbike helmets and even a Santa outfit. They're also a handy place to leave your flip-flops if you're heading in for a paddle (but please, no swimming on this beach - it's too dangerous).

We saw it on a beautiful sunny late afternoon but I can imagine that other viewings will offer up different things depending on the weather and the tide. The figures looked beautiful against a blue sky but they look like they would rise to the challenge of a cold, rainy winter's day. It’s a truly beautiful, unique spectacle, in harmony with its surroundings - simple and elegant. And you can take from it as much or as little as you want. Amid the bustle of the beach, the solidity and stolidity of these figures gave me an enormous sense of peace.

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Posted by Anne on June 18, 2006 | Permalink

The knitted village is randomly situated amongst the stalls of bric-a-brac and furniture in a sprawling antiques centre, housed in what was once the Hornsea Pottery factory complex on the outskirts of Lancaster. One minute you are browsing for bargains - the next you are eye-to-eye with a knitted lighthouse!

The village truly is an incredible display of creativity and ingenuity that teeters on the brink of total knitting madness. It really is well worth a look. (Although, it has to be said that the display is suffering slightly from a lack of recent dusting.)

The village features a knitted funicular, helter-skelter, beach huts and a harbour, several rows (no pun intended) of houses and shops, a play-park, two churches and a couple of cafes. In total there are 72 buildings, 8 shops and a train.

A sign on the wall states that the three knitted villages of Lesser Knitting, Lower Needle and Much Knitting-on-the-Needle were created by three 'Kendal Ladies' between 1993 and 1998. No patterns were used, except for the trees - and five 'gentlemen' helped by making the wooden and electrical items, the bases and the trestles.

Well done to each and every one of them!

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Posted by Kate on May 30, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

If, as some people argue, the world is actually flat, then I’d like to nominate Dungeness as one of the ends of the earth. It certainly feels remote and strange enough for maps of the area to tell you that in the sea beyond the coast “Here be monsters”.

Dungeness is at the end of a mile and a half shingle promontory, between New Romney, Lydd and Camber on Romney Marsh in Kent. Aside from a collection of seemingly random huts and shacks, it has two nuclear power stations (once upon a time you could visit them, but in these days of tight security, that was thought to be a bad idea), two lighthouses (one defunct), is the terminus of the miniature Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway (of which more soon), some fishing boats moored on the shore, and a collection of flora and fauna unique to its shingle landscape.

The Dungeness Estate is privately owned (hence the gates at its entrance), and whoever originally decided to purchase it was obviously a genius, as it has to be one of the best investments ever: Each year more and more shingle is deposited on the shore, so Dungeness, unlike a great deal of the rest of the coast, is actually getting bigger. To see how much it has grown, look at the distance between the old lighthouse (1902) and the new (1962): Both were once almost on the shoreline.

In the aftermath of the First World War, when housing was at a premium, people began to rent plots at Dungeness and erect their own dwellings, often making use of old railway carriages to do so. Some of these are still there, although adapted and added to over the years. It was also home to filmmaker Derek Jarman (you can see his famous garden at Prospect Cottage).

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Posted by Ben on May 26, 2006 | Permalink

As a petulant teenager, Tetford was a place of exile. We moved there in the early 1980s and I had never lived anywhere quite so remote. It wasn't 'on the way' to anywhere, there was barely any traffic, there was one bus a day to a nearby market town, and one shop. I got out as soon as I could.

Occasional family visits in the following years taught me a little tolerance and even appreciation. Its setting in a picturesque valley in the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds, the peace so resounding that a sheep's bray sounded deafening and the miles of country paths to be negotiated behind a straining and excitable dog.

But my last visit was a revelation. Sometime in the last three or four years - I could be wrong here - the Tetford community established a yearly scarecrow festival and secured the participation of nearly every household within its boundaries. Held on the first weekend of May (Saturday, Sunday and the Bank Holiday Monday), the festival sees home made scarecrows installed in gardens, driveways, on fences and pavements and even wooded glades. Since the village is formed by a loop of road this makes a pleasingly gentle circuit of roughly one mile.

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Posted by Trevira on May 09, 2006 | Permalink

This is Saltburn or Saltburn-by-the-Sea to give it its full title - a lovely old Victorian seaside resort on the North Yorkshire coast a bit north of Scarborough. I saw it in a TV play years ago and vowed to visit one day. It looked so great with its cliff lift (they don't call it a funicular), pier and huge sandy beach. It has a real Alan Bennett feel to it, homely but windswept. When we got there we'd just missed The Royal doing some filming and Heartbeat are never out of there as it passes for the 1960s without any fuss. No wonder as it's so unspoilt.

The cliff lift is the oldest remaining waterbalance lift in Britain, working its way up and down the 120ft cliff since 1884. There's something satisfyingly low-tech about all the swishing and clanking that goes on. For 60p you get to travel in the intimate little cars (maximum 15 passengers and that must be a tight squeeze) with their lovely stained glass windows. There were two old men in ours who asked wryly if we were having a good time. They seemed suprised when we said we were. With surroundings as nice as this it's easy to get by without "attractions".

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Posted by Anne on May 08, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (10)