Wichenford, Worcestershire

 

Local colour

Monuments like this – a large 17th-century altar tomb commemorating four members of the same family – make me smile. I find them delightful because they’re colourful (and parish churches often lack colour, aside from the stained glass which not all churches have anyway) and because of the way that they connect us with the people of the past. The people in this case are John Washbourne, whose effigy is placed above that of his father, Anthony, and beneath those of his two wives, Mary (née Savage) and Eleanor (née Lygon). I do not pretend that these rather stylised portraits by a presumably local artist capture the subjects’ features with great precision – only those rich enough to hire a top-rank London sculptor could expect that, the rest had to make do with something more approximate or stylised. But the monument does tell us something about how they wished to be remembered, or more exactly how John Washbourne, who commissioned the monument when he was 84 years old, wanted them to be remembered. The delineation of the armour and the women’s clothes, as well as of their faces, has been done with care and the formality or stiffness of the figures is very much of its time.

So is the decoration – the array of foliate motifs, scrollwork, and strapwork. The bright colour is restored but must come near to the original. Very much of its time too is the heraldry. The arms of at the upper centre of the monument are of the Washbourne family. Lower down and also in the centre are the same arms quartered with those of two other related families, Poer and Dabitot. To the left these arms are combined with (or impale, to use the heraldic term) those of Savage on the left and Lygon on the right. Portraits and visual identifications and ornamentation combine to make an effect I find both impressive and charming. True, you had to be rich and powerful to have a monument like this and to be allowed to occupy quite a large part of a small church with it. But personally I don’t grudge them the space. 

Saltaire, West Yorkshire

Well schooled

The industrialist Titus Salt planned his workers’ village with public buildings that were both visually impressive and well designed for their intended purpose. If they proved less than adequate, Salt and his descendants tried to put things right, something that’s exemplified by one of the most impressive of all the village’s structures, the school on Victoria Road, built in 1869. From the outside, the architecture is palatial – there’s a statement being made here about the importance of eduction. Inside, the classrooms were well appointed and there was space for 750 pupils, with the older girls and boys taught separately in rooms on either side of the building and ‘mixed infants’ in a room in the middle, in accordance with the ideas of the time.

The Italianate architecture is kitted out with a full complement of columned loggias, round-headed windows, overhanging eaves, and an imposing bell turret (with a rather small but no doubt effective school bell). What’s more, this structure is richly carved. The central section displays Salt’s coat of arms within a roundel surrounded by laurel leaves and scrolls; to left and right of these elements are relief carvings of woolly creatures. These are alpacas, a reminder that Salt was one of the first in Britain to work with alpaca wool, creating alpaca cloth that became much sought-after. The use of this wool was the key to Salt’s success. No wonder he wanted to celebrate the Peruvian creatures, but in doing so he was providing an instant lesson for the school’s pupils – that’s where the wool comes from, that’s what gives your father employment, that’s why you live here. The bell turret is also richly carved – a boy, a girl, and a globe can be made out beneath its roof.

This imposing building with its lovely carvings was soon outgrown by Saltaire’s burgeoning population. The Salt family lobbied for a new school, and by 1878 a new one had been built, not as magnificent architecturally, but big enough to cope with the demand. The original school remains in use and is now part of Shipley College.

Saltaire school, detail of bell turret and pediment

Bradford, West Yorkshire

Packing a punch

Among the merchants’ buildings of Bradford’s Little Germany, the Thornton, Homan warehouse in my previous post stands out as one of the most imposing and ornamental. I thought I’d post a slightly less ornate, but still impressive, example, now known as Caspian House but originally built as the headquarters of Delius and Company. The Delius family had lived for several generations in the German Rhineland before Julius Delius moved to Bradford to develop his career as a cloth merchant, going into partnership with Charles Speyer to form Speyer, Delius & Co in 1853. Julius is best known today as the father of Frederick Delius, who gave up a place in the family firm to become one of England’s most famous 20th-century composers. By the early 1870s, Julius was a successful businessman who could build a substantial new warehouse* on a corner site in East Parade. It was constructed in 1873 to designs by Eli Milnes (1830–99), a local architect who, with his partner Charles France, was responsible for numerous buildings in Little Germany and the wider city of Bradford.

Like several of the Little Germany warehouses, the Delius building has a corner door embellished with rich carving – a roll-moulded arch covered with carved leaves, a tympanum with a fan-like design, and scrolls filling the spandrels above. The door itself has seen better days, but its scale gives one an idea of how impressive the entrance once must have been.† The doorway is by far the most ornate part of the building and the upper floors are very plain indeed. But a considerable effort was expended on the masonry of the lowest floor, in effect a semi-basement that diminishes in apparent size because of the building’s sloping site. This masonry is made up of alternate courses of pulvinated (i.e. convex-profiled) and reeded (vertically marked) stone. This is very striking when viewed from the pavement. Because the street is narrow, it’s actually not easy to look at the upper floors without standing in the middle of the road, so, as in many Little Germany buildings, the architect concentrated on the lower levels, which are most able to make a visual impact. The geometrical designs of the wrought-iron window grilles add to the effect. From the pavement level, Mr Delius’s building packs a punch.

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* I call these buildings warehouses, although they actually also included office accommodation.

† Click on the image to enlarge it. Yes, that seems to be Mr Bean on the door. I think he is left over from a time when the building was used for exhibitions and installations.

Delius building, Bradford, lower wall detail

Bradford, West Yorkshire

Palace of commerce

Architecturally one of the most rewarding areas of Bradford is the enclave in the city centre known as ‘Little Germany’. This is a network of narrow streets lined with Victorian warehouses that were originally occupied by companies in the textile business. Many of these buildings are five or six storeys high, so they make a dramatic impression in the narrow streets; their size also makes them difficult to photograph. Many of the owners were of German heritage and sent cloth across the Channel to their homeland and to other European countries. But this was not always the case. The corner block in my first photograph was the premises of Thornton, Homan, a local firm that was proud of its extensive trading network – its goods went as far afield as America and China.

Thornton, Homan’s building is typical of the more imposing warehouses in this part of the city. They commissioned Bradford’s most prominent architectural firm, Lockwood and Mawson, to design it and it was built in 1871, towards the end of the main building phase in this district. The style is broadly Italianate, producing something of the effect of a Renaissance palazzo, with a carefully detailed ground floor, reducing amounts of ornament further up, and a heavy overhanging cornice at the top.

The doorway is the most outstanding feature. This was not only a utilitarian building for storing cloth, but also a showcase, where customers could come and inspect the wares, and so the entrance is designed to impress. As in several other buildings in Little Germany, this entrance is set on the corner, making it highly visible as you approach it. The doorway is dominated by the semi-circular tympanum above the door with its large carved eagle, a reminder of the company’s close relationship with the USA. But the rest of the entrance is a riot of carved decoration – vine leaves in the panels on either side of the entrance, classical columns next to these panels, massive blocks making up the arch above the door (partly obscured by carved swags of fruit and flowers), foliate scrolls and a coat of arms in the curved pediment above.

My lower picture also shows the way in which the ground floor walls are built with large rusticated* blocks of stone punctuated by horizontal bands carved with vermiculation.† The windows have massive blocks to the arches (smaller versions of those above the doorway) and a band of Greek key decoration lower down. Not all the Bradford warehouses were as grand or as decorative as this one – the example in the foreground is much plainer. The Thornton, Homan building shows what Bradford’s architects are builders could do with a generous budget and a client who wanted to make their architectural mark. They succeeded.

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* Rusticated: masonry with extra deep joints between the blocks of stone.

† Vermiculation, part of the vocabulary of classical architecture: carved ornament designed to make the stone look as if parts of it have been eaten away by worms.

Thornton, Homan building, Bradford, main doorway

Burford, Oxfordshire

 

Street-facing

When you turn into the Oxfordshire town of Burford from the A40, you descend the High Street, the first part of which is called The Hill, towards the centre of town and the shops, the Tolsey (the market house and also, now, the town’s museum), and the parish church. The Hill is lined with houses of various dates, and one that I admire is Glenthorne House, the one on the left in my first photograph. This has a handsome 18th-century front with sash windows arranged in pairs, each window with a prominent keystone, each pair surrounded by a raised band of stone. There’s a central door with a pedimented surround and above it a blocked window, and the whole front is book-ended by stone quoins and topped with a plain parapet. It’s as pleasant a Cotswold-stone late-18th century composition as you could wish for and one might suppose that the whole house dates from the same period.

Perhaps the roof, however, is a bit of a giveaway. It’s not low-pitched and hidden behind the parapet, but higher and with an asymmetrical bow to its ridge that suggests something older. If you walk a little further up The Hill and look at the side of the house, the picture is very different. The building is emphatically not the symmetrical box implied by the street front. From the side, it can be seen how far back the house goes and how it has mullioned windows that suggest a rather earlier date – much of this probably represents a 17th-century remodelling of a medieval house. Pevsner reports that there’s a 14th-century stone archway inside the building. This side view also shows that the street front is an add-on, built against the house to present a once-fashionable Georgian face to the street.

Many house owners smartened up their street frontages like this. Often the position of the windows or proportions of the facade are incorrect, betraying a building of irregular or asymmetrical design behind. In this case, the proportions are just about right, and the makeover has been achieved with some style and grace. No doubt the house attracts as many admiring glances as it must have done in the 18th century. A few of the glancers, looking at the side elevation as well, will reflect that the human habit of responding to changing fashions has been around almost as long as architecture itself.

Hampton Lucy, Warwickshire

 

Industrial Gothic

Thomas Rickman (1776–1841) is best known today as the author of a book with the lengthy title of An Attempt to Discriminate the Styles of English Architecture from the Conquest to the Reformation, first published in 1817 and reissued many times. This work was the first to use the names Norman, Early English, Decorated and Perpendicular for the different phases of English architecture between 1066 and the beginning of the Tudor era, names that are still often used today.* Rickman stumbled into his deep interest in medieval architecture after two disastrous events in his life, the failure of his business and the death of his first wife. He took to taking long walks in the English countryside and became fascinated by the many medieval churches he saw on his travels. His studies and drawings of these buildings led to his book and to his career as a designer of buildings – houses, at least one town hall and numerous parish churches.

I visited Hampton Lucy to see St Peter’s church, built to designs by Rickman and his architectural partner Henry Hutchinson in 1822–26§ for Rev. John Lucy, a member of the family who owned the nearby country house, Charlecote Park. I found a church that’s surprisingly large for a small village and built in glowing Cotswold stone. The style is what Rickman called Decorated, the idiom of the first half of the 15th century, characterised by rich carved ornamentation and elaborate, curvaceous window tracery. The south elevation in my photographs shows the tracery of the aisle windows with its two different patterns, using a range of curvy shapes. The pinnacles and parapets above create a skyline that’s typical of Decorated carving.

The stonemasons of the 14th century, and their successors in the 19th century, handled stone beautifully. But Hampton Lucy has a trick up its sleeve. That window tracery is not stone at all – it is actually made of cast iron. Thomas Rickman, a stickler for reproducing medieval details, did not mind using ‘modern’ materials to achieve this. He developed a fruitful working relationship with at least one ironmaster,¶ which allowed him to use high quality ironwork in several of his churches. This use of one material to look like another is the kind of architectural ‘dishonesty’ that many Victorian architects and writers rejected – if it looks like stone, they’d have said, it should be stone. However, Rickman died before this kind of purism became not just fashionable but morally axiomatic. And the results here at Hampton Lucy are impressive. I’m sure most people who see the church assume that this tracery is stone, like most other window tracery, in spite of the fact that the paint is slightly paler in colour than the true masonry. Personally, I respect the craft of the stonemason,† and when one looks closely at hand-carved work, there are always minute variations between apparently ‘identical’ windows that give pleasure to those with eyes to see it. I do find, however, that 19th-century handwork is often much more mechanical in appearance than medieval carving and in this case I’m happy to find the cast-iron tracery of Hampton Lucy not only acceptable but also ingenious.

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* I own a battered copy of Rickman’s book and admire its many engravings of medieval architecture; the book is well worth looking out for. Rickman’s four styles and their names, though not perfect for the shifting modes and evolving patterns of medieval building, are still useful.

§ The chancel was built later, after a request for a still more elaborate setting for the church’s high altar in the 1850s. Its design is by Scott.

¶ John Cragg of Liverpool, who worked with Rickman on several churches, including St George’s, Everton, which I hope to see on my next visit to Liverpool.

† Much of the stonemason’s art and craft is visible in this church, not least in the parapets and in other windows made the conventional way.

Detail showing aisle windows, Hampton Lucy

Cornwell, Oxfordshire

Vernacular, but not as we know it

When in 1939 the architect Clough Williams Ellis came to Cornwell in Oxfordshire to work on the manor house, adding a ballroom to the existing building, he also remodelled many of the cottages in the village. As the creator of the whimsical Italianate village Portmeirion in Wales, Williams Ellis might have transformed Cornwell’s Cotswold limestone cottages into something from the realms of fantasy. But he was more restrained than that, following the brief of his client, Mrs Anthony Gillson, who instructed him ‘to maintain the traditional appearance so far as possible or might seem desirable, while contriving up-to-date interiors within the ancient husks’.*

Apparently employing a local builder with a pedigree going back to the time of Christopher Wren, Williams Ellis preserved the typical features of the Cotswold cottages and added more in the same vein. The flat canopies over the doorways, with their attractive scrolled brackets, for example, are a common feature of local vernacular buildings but the ones in my photograph were added in Williams Ellis’s remodelling of c. 1939. The unusual alteration to these particular houses, however, is the pair of large sloping buttresses, which show the architect introducing a bigger, bolder feature than would be usual in a house in a Cotswold village. Whether supports of this size and bulk were actually needed, I don’t know, but they certainly catch the eye. They also have the effect of lending some shade and privacy to the doorway between them, something that has been increased by the surrounding planting. The result is charming and pleasingly eccentric without in anyway being offensive to lovers of Cotswold vernacular architecture, tradition and innovation hand in hand.

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*Christopher Hussey, Country Life, 1941, quoted in Cornwell Conservation Area Character Appraisal, accessed online, 21 May 2025