Callington, Cornwall

Well hidden

To a dedicated church-visitor like me, Cornwall is full of evidence of ancient piety. Not only are there many medieval churches, but these are often dedicated to local saints, obscure figures who are little known outside the country. There are also many holy wells, tiny structures erected near or over springs, which were built or maintained by the medieval church and whose water was said to have healing properties. One of the most beautiful of these small buildings is the Dupath well east of Callington.

It was built almost entirely of local granite – even the roof is made of granite slabs – in the early-16th century, and the shallow arch of the doorway is typical of the period. Its architecture is made more elaborate by pinnacles at each corner and the striking structure, topped by a cluster of pinnacles, above the entrance. This is a small bellcote, an unusual feature of a well house, but perhaps there because the well house performed some of the functions of a church – according to certain accounts, the building was sometimes used for baptisms. Most pilgrims came here for the water’s healing qualities, however. Inside the well house is a trough into which the water flows, suggesting that visitors might have bathed in it, rather than drinking the sacred fluid.

Holy wells were among the institutions (like monasteries and chantries) that were suppressed by Henry VIII in the 1530s. The working life of this well might therefore have been very short. But the building survived and spring water does not stop flowing at the whim of monarchs. So it may be that those who believed in the water’s healing properties (it was said to cure or ease whooping cough, for example) still came here.

Travel was slow and difficult in the Middle Ages. To get here, you’d have had to walk or possessed a horse. Even now it seems remote, and part of the charm of the place for today’s travellers is the approach and the setting. You park in a farmyard – the farmer apologised for the amount of mud in the yard and joked that there hadn’t been enough rain to wash it away. Across the yard there’s a sign and a very short track to the well, which stands against a background of trees and fields. It’s a magical spot, we might say today, and no doubt medieval believers felt it was magical too.

Hull, East Yorkshire

Artisans at work

At the time of my visit to Hull in the summer, there was building work going at the Wilberforce House Museum, making photography difficult. So I honed in on a detail of the entrance, excluding as many distracting objects as possible, to give an idea of the extraordinary architecture of this house of the 1660s. It was built for a merchant called Hugh Lister, later became the official residence of the Governor and Deputy Governor of Hull, and still later, in 1730–1832, was owned by the Wilberforces, the family of the celebrated anti-slavery campaigner.*

The elaborate architectural style is known as Artisan Mannerism, a fashion created not by architects but by stonemasons and bricklayers, drawing on pattern books of classical architecture (some of which were produced in the Netherlands and France, where the merchant Lister had spent time on business) but disposing the decorative features in unconventional and naïve ways. Popular elements and motifs included curvy Dutch gables, exaggerated mouldings, unconventional arrangements of pediments and other details, and a disregard for the conventions of proportion. Although they disregard many traditional rules or guidelines of Classical architecture, Artisan Mannerist buildings can still have much vigour and charm.

A glance at the entrance of this building will reveal what I mean. Lister’s builder, who was probably a Hull bricklayer called William Catlyn, threw the kitchen sink at his design, incorporating not only round-topped niches on either side of the doorway, but crowning these with triangular pediments, outlined in pale stone. The round-arched doorway is also crowned, not with a triangular pediment but with a stone moulding that breaks into a semi-circle, topped with a carved feature a bit like a plinth or bracket for a statue, above which is no statue but a window lighting the next floor up. Elsewhere on the facade, ornamental stones bearing various geometrical carvings (here a diamond, there a square), are inserted. The undecorated runs of brickwork are laid with deep horizontal bands every half-dozen courses, to give the effect of rustication.

It’s a matter of taste whether one regards this effect as a provincial offence to Classical taste or a rich mélange. I belong to the latter camp, and can find much to like in the energetic effect produced by a local worker who was happy to pick up some motifs and run with them. Hull would be a poorer place without such a display.

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* William Wilberforce (1759–1833) was a hero of my childhood, partly because my mother came from Hull, where he was born, and partly because he was one of the people championed at my primary school. History in those days was often taught as a succession of great individuals (mostly, but not all, men) who had a major influence on the history of Britain. Such people included the engineer James Watt, the nurse and nursing reformer Florence Nightingale, the social reformer Lord Shaftesbury, and William Wilberforce. These historical stars were seen mainly in terms of specific shining achievements, and any negative aspects were ignored or played down. Wilberforce’s support for socially conservative moves such as limitations on gatherings of more than 50 people, the suspension of the right of habeas corpus, his opposition to trade unions, and his opposition to holding an enquiry about the Peterloo massacre, were quietly ignored. To recognise these views is not to devalue Wilberforce’s abolitionism, but to see the man whole. Neither is it an example of today’s so-called ‘woke’ attitude to history; contemporaries such as William Cobbett pointed these things out in the 19th century; today it’s still vital to realise when one’s heroes are not plaster saints.

Hull, East Yorkshire

Church side, market side

On the street called North Church Side, hard by Hull’s impressive medieval Minster, is the city’s Edwardian Market Hall. The building houses a market behind the row of ground-floor arches while the upper floor was designed to accommodate a corn exchange and a venue for concerts. In adopting this multi-purpose structure, the building is in the line of countless much older market buildings with an open market below and a meeting room or council chamber above. This Hull example also has a landmark tower – market proprietors and stallholders like towers that guide customers to the goods on offer. This tower, with its open upper section, concave curved cornice, cupola, and tiny lantern, has a baroque feel to it.

However, the main market building leaves the Edwardian baroque behind. Here the architect called on an array of motifs – the large windows with iron balconies, carved panels and cartouches, an area of banded stone and brick, a parapet with a segmental dip in each bay, and above all a doorway with an extraordinarily tall and etiolated keystone (see my photograph below), which, listed like this, suggest a mish-mash but which come together to make a satisfying whole. The person responsible for the design was Joseph Henry HIrst, a prominent local architect who could do grandiose baroque when required (his design for Hull City Hall is an example), but could also produce quaint half-timbered work (as at Carnegie Library, Hull).

The sort of mish-mash he devised for the market is usually referred to as ‘Edwardian Free Style’. It’s not as over the top as full-blown Edwardian baroque can be, not as restrained as the Jacobean revival that’s sometimes used for large buildings of the period. It has an unbuttoned quality that combines with the practical, usable market space to produce a good working building, something a great mercantile city could be and still can be proud of. A century ago, it must have buzzed with business; when we were there it still seemed well used.

Hull, Market Hall, doorway, serene in spite of notices and barriers

Hull, East Yorkshire

 

Names and textures, 2

Now for a sign that contrasts with the one in my previous post and makes a good excuse to look at one of my favourite street names. Yes, The Land of Green Ginger is the name of a street, a narrow one off Silver Street in the centre of Hull. There are various theories about the origin of this curious name. Some say that it is a corruption of ‘Lindegroen jonger’, referencing a junior member of the Dutch Lindegreen family, who lived in Hull in the early-19th century. Others suggest it derives from ‘Landgrave Granger’, because the Landgrave family nearby. I am always suspicious of derivations that are said to be ‘corruptions’ of ‘difficult’ words and prefer the simpler explanation that, in this great shipping and trading city (a cosmopolitan place where ‘unusual’ names must have been common), valuable spices like ginger were sold nearby.

The sign itself is an elegant one that uses a serif letterform which fills the name plate so that there’s very little free space around the words. Such is the clarity of the letters, though, that the sign doesn’t look crowded and is perfectly legible. The size of the sign has been well specified to sit comfortably on its strip of masonry. The dark background of the name plate and the thickness of the material mean it stands proud slightly as is easy to spot.

But what an extraordinary wall it’s set on. This building was designed in 1907 by Dunn and Watson for the National Provincial Bank. Built in 1907, its Portland stone walls are finished with an effect called banded rustication – the masonry is arranged in bands that have deep grooves between them, giving a striking stripey look in full sun. But this rustication goes further than most. Many of the bands are pulvinated – in other words they have a convex curved profile. The gaps between the bands are very deep and there are concave mouldings within each band; the ends of the bands are carefully chamfered or curved. A lot of trouble has been taken with this masonry, including the way the bands turn to embrace the keystone above the window. Another striking feature is the Celtic knot design on the square block above the keystone. Once more in Hull, name and texture, surprising for different reasons, sit well together.

Hull, East Yorkshire

Names and textures, 1

One of the first things I noticed on arriving in Hull back in July is that the city has some attractive old street name signs. I quickly learned that it also has an extraordinary variety of styles of these signs, probably representing every period from the 19th century to the current decade. This is hardly surprising. For one thing, Hull sustained severe damage from bombing during World War II. For another, it has been a dynamic, developing place, responding to highs and lows, for much of its history. Here’s one example of an early sign in a street I walked along very soon after I arrived.

What a characterful sign this is, and how well it complements the texture of the brick wall to which it’s attached. Its shape, a long rectangle (naturally), cut off at the corners by concave curves, is one that was popular in the 19th and early-20th centuries in many British towns. I’ve noticed signs of a similar shape in places such Louth in Lincolnshire. But signs like the one in Louth are heavy objects, made of thick cast iron, which project visibly from the wall surface and are attached to it by screws that pass through the sign into the brickwork. This one in Hull, by contrast, is much flatter and is fixed in place by screws and washers set around the edge of the sign.

What really caught my eye, though, was the lettering, Most of the letters are of a standard form used by the Victorians on signs, capital letters that have serifs* with a slight curve where they join the main strokes of the letter. The letters also display a notable contrast between the widths of the strokes – thick verticals and thin horizontals. This style gives the letter-designer or sign-writer a particular challenge when it comes to the most curvaceous letters, especially ’S’. In this sign both examples of the letter ’S’ have small serifs that rest slightly above the base line while the lower part of the curve sits a fraction below, giving the letter a slightly free-floating look that I find charming.† The whole sign, I think, looks good on a background of brickwork and sash windows, providing a small asset that’s worth more than a passing glance.

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* A little lettering terminology. Serif: the tiny strokes at the ends of the main strokes of letters. Base line: the imaginary line on which the bottom of each letter sits.

† It’s traditional in sign-writing it was and is normal to place the bottom of a curvy letter such as S or O very slightly below the base line; if it sits on the base line itself, it looks in practice as if it’s floating a little too high. The details of the sign will be clearer if you click on the image to enlarge it. 

Hull, East Yorkshire

Suit you, 2

In the centre of Hull, strolling around on my visit back in the summer, I found Hepworth’s Arcade, a small shopping development of 1894–5. It’s modest, but well detailed, from the glass roof in the form of a barrel vault supported on openwork iron arches (one such arch is visible in my photograph), through the decorated frieze and fluted pilasters of the upper floor, to the small shop fronts at ground level. The name of the arcade is displayed inside as well as out, to remind us that the development was built for Joseph Hepworth, the tailor from Leeds who pioneered the business of supplying reasonably priced made-to-measure suits using a national network of shops.

This is not a grand interior like the magnificent one in Hepworth’s home city designed by the theatre architect Frank Matcham, but local firm Gelder and Kitchen did a good job that has stood the test of time. The development was no doubt a business venture for Hepworth, but he would also have liked the idea that his name would be remembered for more than his large chain of clothes stores. Perhaps this was shrewd, since in the 1980s the Hepworth business metamorphosed into the chain now called Next, while the arcade still bears the Hepworth name.

There is still a men’s clothes shop in the arcade too. It’s called Beasley’s and it has a separate hat shop opposite its main premises. A hat shop: these are rare beasts nowadays. I celebrated its presence by buying myself a straw hat to replace one I’ve had for about 40 years. On my way out into the street I noticed a bit of Hepworth memorabilia: the large and colourful sign advertising their company. I don’t know the age of the sign but its range of traditional letterforms, its lavish scrolls, and the pointing hand (neatly jacketed and shirted of course), suggest some time fairly on in the history of the arcade. It’ll suit me.

Hull, East Yorkshire

Suit you, 1

My visit to Hull back in July turned out to be rather provisional. Faced with just a day in a very large city, I concentrated on strolling around, looking at as much as I could, but resisting the temptation to linger too long or to visit museums. I soon decided that this was a place I’d have to come back to. Nevertheless, a number of buildings, large and small, held my attention. Here’s one that did so by sheer size.

As readers will immediately see, this building began life as a branch of Burton’s, the tailor, in the 1930s. I have gone for a photograph showing the whole thing, in all its vastness, but even so the sign at the top of the building displaying the company’s name can be seen clearly (you can click on the image to enlarge it). By 1935, the year this branch opened, Burton’s already had a history going back several decades. Its founder, Meshe David Osinsky, was born in what is now Lithuania and emigrated to the UK in 1900. He eventually changed his name to Montague Burton, and was one of the entrepreneurs who revolutionised the business of men’s outfitting – like his forerunners Hepworth’s, he offered made-to-measure men’s suits at affordable prices. A customer would come to one of his shop, get measured up, and select a fabric and style, then the suit would be made at one of Burton’s factories. The business expanded quickly, because Burton made a deal to manufacture military uniforms during World War I – and his success continued when his branches became a go-to source of the suits soldiers bought when demobilised from the army. By 1939 he had 595 shops.

Burton knew that impressive shop fronts were good advertising. It wasn’t just the long shop windows, but the tall buildings, mostly specially designed by an in-house architect – Harry Wilson in the case of this Hull branch. By the 1930s, Burton had fully embraced Art Deco, and his stores often came with polished black granite facades, tall, metal-framed windows, and jazzy details like the V-patters above the upper windows, the pair of central gold pilasters, and the moderne balconies of the middle section of windows. The company name takes pride of place. Though hard to see in my photograph, there’s a diagonal line of script to the left of the ‘B’, which is the owner’s first name, so that the whole panel reads, ‘Montague Burton The tailor of taste’. What was behind all those upper windows? Not men’s clothes. Burton had all the retail space he needed on the ground floor. Upstairs in a large Burton’s there was usually a room with billiard tables, to attract potential customs to the building. The rest of the upper floors were let out as offices, bringing in more revenue.

When I saw the building, it was obvious that it had recently been restored, but I wasn’t clear how much of this impressive facade had been replaced. It turns out that a lot of the granite had been damaged and has been replaced with material from the same quarry as the original stone. Defective window frames have been renewed and shop fronts reconstructed. And it does look impressive, and an improvement on the tired frontage that it had become. At the time of writing, the building is on the market, to let for retail or restaurant use (the ground floor) and for ‘mixed use’ (the upper floors). One hopes that the old Burton’s will be successful in its new life.