Limehouse, London

A question of viewpoint (2)

Several of my readers correctly guessed my location in my previous post. I was indeed at the top of the Limehouse Accumulator Tower in East London. Many of you will know this building, which was constructed in 1869 to supply hydraulic power for equipment the nearby Regent’s Canal Dock (now Limehouse Basin). The role of the tower was to hold a huge weight, which pressed down on a supply of water, keeping it under pressure. The resulting hydraulic power was supplied via a network of pipes to provide power for cranes and lock gates in the basin – and also, apparently, to power lifts in offices and hotels. These hydraulic devices have long gone, but some of the remaining pipes now carry data cables. The octagonal brick tower remains, holding a large tube-shaped container which once, when filled with gravel, provided the weight; the tower also contains stairs, which lead to the view that was the point of my previous post.

Here’s another view from the top of the tower, looking roughly eastwards. To the right-hand side of the picture is the pale white Portland stone steeple of St Anne’s church, Limehouse, one of Nicholas Hawksmoor’s magnificent London churches, which I’ve posted about before.

To the left of the picture is another church, Our Lady Immaculate with St Frederick. This Catholic church is in a dark red brick, forming a strong contrast to pale St Anne’s. It was designed in 1925 by A J Sparrow and perhaps its most surprising detail is the turret bearing a statue (in painted wood) of Christ the Steersman, who looks out towards the River Thames and was no doubt meant to be seen from there, a signal to seamen, who abounded hereabouts. The number of places from which the statue can be now seen is limited by the more recent brightly coloured tower between the two churches. Visible in the distance, on the horizon between this block and the statue of Christ, is the top of another tower, the Balfron Tower, a block of flats of the late-1960s. This is by Ernö Goldfinger and is the elder sibling of the similar Trellick Tower in West London. One can just make out Balfron’s separate service tower, connected to the main building by a series of covered bridges.

All of this rises behind a low backdrop of Georgian and Victorian houses and offices and the variety goes to show how much one can see in London by finding a higher viewpoint – even if all this interesting stuff has now to contend with some (to me) less interesting architecture from the more recent past.

So, as well as heeding the oft-repeated advice to look up – remember occasionally to look down too.

Newell Street, London

The wisdom of Solomon

In the dappled green shade of the churchyard of St Anne’s, Limehouse (see previous post) is a 9-foot-high stone pyramid. It seems to mark no grave, has no obvious purpose, and stands there, looking mysterious. In 19th-century engravings it is shown mounted on a square plinth but now stands on the ground. On one face is the inscription, ‘The wisdom of Solomon’. The pyramid is part of a group of arcane symbols that seem to cluster around Hawksmoor’s churches – pyramids, obelisks, and other borrowings from ancient civilizations – that set them apart and contribute to the alien character of these massive buildings. The best guess about the surprising presence of this particular pyramid is that it was intended to top one of the corners of the church. No one knows for sure.

Such things arouse the interest of psychogeographers, those writers who have examined the lives of places and their effects on people’s psyches. Mappers of hidden cultural contours; those who exhume forgotten histories or find alignments between the past and the present; soakers in atmosphere; reclaimers of evocative desolation and pleasing decay.

Iain Sinclair, for example. A whole section of Sinclair’s book Lud Heat (part poetry, part prose, ‘a writing’ as that other great London visionary, David Jones, would have called it) concerns Hawksmoor’s churches. It includes a map with lines that join their sites, creating triangles and pentagrams and alignments with other highly significant sites and buildings such as William Blake’s house in Lambeth and Cleopatra’s Needle. Sinclair mines all kinds of allusions, myths, and significances from these alignments, connections that enable him to incorporate into his text references to such writers as Blake, Pepys, and Sir Thomas Browne, parallels with myths from ancient Egypt and ancient Britain, and sinister histories ranging from the plague to the murders committed by Jack the Ripper.

Who knows how significant all this is? It’s possible to make all sorts of sites connect on a map, especially if the scale of the map is small and the lines joining the points are thick, as critics of ley-line hunters have pointed out. But I’m not looking for literal truth or Ordnance Survey precision in the alignments between pyramids, obelisks, and plague pits. What is more important is that Sinclair has built absorbing and sometimes brilliant writing out of this hoard of images and myths.

And Sinclair nails Hawksmoor’s style. He says of the churches: ‘Certain features are in common: extravagant design, massive, almost slave-built, strength – not democratic. A strength that is not connected to notions of “craftsmanship” or “elegance”. They are not easy on the eye, and do not enforce images of grace. Metaphors inflate at their own risk. The mind is not led upwards to any starry nest.’ Sometimes Sinclair could almost be describing his own writing here, prose that has a strangeness and a solidity that is true to Hawksmoor’s buildings, large, ponderous, and weird as they are. Words that are arranged in a modern, collage-like fashion, and yet draw on ideas that have been around for as long as the pyramids of Egypt.

Newell Street, London

Landmark and sea mark

St Anne’s Limehouse, built between 1714 and 1727, is among the remarkable London churches designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor. It is one of 12 churches built at this period and funded by a tax on coal coming up the Thames and these buildings are now known as Queen Anne churches, in honour of the reigning monarch of the time.

St Anne’s is probably less well known than Hawksmoor’s central London churches, such as St Mary Woolnoth or Christ Church Spitalfields (also a Queen Anne church), buildings that loom out of the city in a way that it’s impossible to ignore. St Anne’s, by contrast, is slightly less monumental, and is quite easy to miss in its leafy churchyard on Commercial Road. But the tower is a stunner, and Hawksmoor obviously designed it to be seen not from the main road but at the end of this little side street.

The way the very angular tower relates to the small half-domed vestibule and then steps back as it rises, is striking. The semi-circular arch beneath the clock, and the tiny semi-circular opening lower down, harmonize with the curving half-dome. But the rest of the tower is much more straight-edged, with its bold corner pilasters and unusual octagonal lantern at the top above the clock. This lantern has a set of pinnacles, just visible in my photograph, that are topped with tiny pyramids and look like miniature Hawksmoor towers.

This artful tower had a purpose beyond the usual one of housing bells. The church is not far from the river, and at the very top, higher even than the pinnacles, is a flagpole supporting a golden ball. This acted as a sea mark for shipping, and seamen were also aided by the clock (said to be the highest church clock in London), which originally struck every quarter. Even such off-the-wall structures as Hawksmoor towers had their practical uses.

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More soon on St Anne’s churchyard, with its rather spooky pyramid. Watch this space…