Restoring our 17th century house on the Norfolk/Suffolk border had many extraordinary moments. Perhaps one of the most emotive was when we opened a doorway in the upstairs of our Town House once we had purchased the cottage behind, and went through a doorway that had been bricked up since 1851.
Every house has its history, in the same way that we as people have a history through our family tree. Most people will find many surprises if they explore, as millions do, the extraordinary story of where we have come from.
If houses could speak, or carried with them a potted history of their owners and the lives they have seen, it would be an extraordinary story, especially for a house as old as the one that we found ourselves restoring.
The small cottage behind our house was built in about 1740, and was therefore about 50 years later than own house, fronting on the street.
We pondered much over the history of the house. When we had purchased it, we had been told that we still technically had planning consent to be able to use the room into which our front door opened as a shop.
I looked into this in a small way, and found that in the 1940s, it had been an upholstery shop. I know nothing more than this about the commercial uses of our house, but I am sure it would be fascinating to discover more.
There were some features of our house that made us think that the original owners must have had some ambitions beyond the typical scale of a country town house.
Simply the staircase, which could be dated almost exactly to the date when the house was built in 1690, from the shape of the balusters which formed part of its construction.
It had unusually wide steps for a local house, and was constructed in the way that would be described as a floating staircase, so that there was no obvious support for each tread, and it rose three storeys to the attic on the top floor.
When I showed it to someone who had some understanding of historic houses, they said that they thought it had been adapted for this house, and perhaps had been salvaged from the great Fire of Bungay, which had taken place in 1688, and had destroyed much of the older wooden houses in the town.
And what we imagined was that our house had been originally owned by a merchant, and that the house next door had been built on the site of what once had been his storehouse, perhaps wooden built, in which his stock would have been safely stored, and which he could have accessed simply through a connecting door on the first floor.
This all fitted in with the fact that the house was just one hundred metres from the nearby River, which was navigable to the sea until 1932, when sluices were installed to control the flow of water.
Until that point, the shallow draught vessels typical of Norfolk, the Norfolk Wherries, would have traded as far as the Baltic and Holland.
Our house was roofed with Dutch Pantiles, which may have been used as ballast for the return journey from Holland, and Baltic Pine wall boarding was used for the internal room divisions downstairs.
In the days when security meant having a close eye on your own property, it made perfect sense for a merchant to have his warehouse secure behind his own house.
The fact that we had doorways between the two houses meant that we did not have to get planning consent to combine the two, we simply had to create the openings which downstairs had been cobbled together rather simply, and upstairs had been bricked up.
When we removed the bricks, easily done because the cement used was soft mortar typical of the time using lime, sharp sand and horsehair, so that it was easy to remove the bricks undamaged.
In the frog of each brick was the unmistakable cross that identified them as having been handmade in the 19th century at the St Cross brickworks, only half a dozen miles away.
More interestingly, we found a scrap of newspaper, from which we were able to ascertain that it had been bricked up in 1851, because there was a small article about the Great Exhibition on this scrap of newspaper.
It was 2001 when we removed the bricks and opened this ledge and brace door for the first time in exactly 150 years, perfectly preserved behind a neat wall of bricks.
Perhaps the first clue to the previous use of the next door house, had been the fact that there was almost 2 feet difference in height between the existing floor level of the upstairs room into which we stepped.
In other words, the ceilings for the downstairs rooms were much smaller than the height of our own, which again gave a strong indications that the owners had ambitions which required taller ceilings in a world where scale was often an indication of status.
So for example the staircase in the cottage we had bought was a more typical vernacular style of staircase, where you simply opened a door to find a steep narrow staircase to the next floor.
Quite different to the floating treads of our house.
We kept the ancient ledge and brace door, not even removing its ancient paintwork, that had remained preserved behind brickwork for more than a century.
Later, I discovered and rescued an old copy of The Art Journal, which contained the entire catalogue not of the Great Exhibition, but of the Paris Exhibition held in 1867.
The Art Journal was published annually in a volume, although I suspect was also published monthly and contained wonderful mezzotints and engravings, often of old Masters.
The edition that contains the catalogue for the Paris Exhibition is an extraordinary document, showing examples of fine furniture and furnishings beautifully reproduced for this special edition.
We called our house Merchant House, because of our sense that it had once served the purposes of a merchant, but we do not know any further details. The current owners of the house have retained this name.
The street on which the house sits was in the 19th century, and no doubt earlier, very much a Commercial Street, as I found described in a volume written by Lilias Rider Haggard, the daughter of the famous Victorian writer, who had lived just outside of our town.
She ghost wrote the memoirs of her gamekeeper, and in one of the volumes, The Rabbit Skin Cap, there is a description of Bridge Street and the businesses that thrived in the street in those times.
All of these things are unspecific to our own restoration project, but throw some light on the romance of our house's history.
Wednesday 29 August 2012
Sunday 26 August 2012
Eat, Fast, And Live Longer - We Are What We Eat
I watched a very interesting Horizon documentary recently.
It began with some extraordinary statistics. During the great agricultural depression in the United States, during the 1930s, when thousands of people had less to eat than what we think of as the minimum daily requirement today, life expectancy actually rose. Significantly.
Anecdotally, and speaking from my own experience I know this to be true because my elderly mother lived through wartime rationing, that generation has been statistically healthier and has formed the rump of the ageing population that we are having so much problem caring for.
It seems that several years of minimal nutrition has the surprising side-effect that those people that experienced it have been healthier, and no doubt happier as a consequence.
In this programme the presenter went so far as to purposely fast himself, at first a three and a half day proper fast, with just a cup of miso soup each day, but then a far more manageable fast (in terms of modern lifestyles) which amounted to eat what you like for five days, and have two days for the rest of the week when your calorie intake is significantly reduced. Say, 600 calories rather than a more typical 2000 calories.
It was a very compelling programme. So compelling in fact that I am beginning to experiment myself with reducing the amount of unnecessarily sugary foods, simply by cutting out desserts which I have typically had every night of the week.
And I am missing an occasional lunch at weekends, and avoiding any sugar-based snacks or sweets.
It isn't difficult to do, but the potential benefits might be enormous.
In experiments with mice, the longevity of smaller underfed mice greatly exceeded that of well fed mice.
And in fact, in the smaller calorie controlled examples, the incidence of destructive conditions like cancers and diabetes related conditions was negligible.
And in fact, it seems that the body's capacity for self repair is more likely to start to work when less calories are present.
The lesson is a simple one. Whilst we may think that our comparative richness compared to our ancestors is a good thing, we would do well to heed the lessons of the past.
That literally less can be more, and for someone in my situation, if my body can be encouraged to begin the process of self repair, it will certainly be a price worth paying.
And at the same time, my food bills have been substantively cut. the ultimate win-win situation.
It began with some extraordinary statistics. During the great agricultural depression in the United States, during the 1930s, when thousands of people had less to eat than what we think of as the minimum daily requirement today, life expectancy actually rose. Significantly.
Anecdotally, and speaking from my own experience I know this to be true because my elderly mother lived through wartime rationing, that generation has been statistically healthier and has formed the rump of the ageing population that we are having so much problem caring for.
It seems that several years of minimal nutrition has the surprising side-effect that those people that experienced it have been healthier, and no doubt happier as a consequence.
In this programme the presenter went so far as to purposely fast himself, at first a three and a half day proper fast, with just a cup of miso soup each day, but then a far more manageable fast (in terms of modern lifestyles) which amounted to eat what you like for five days, and have two days for the rest of the week when your calorie intake is significantly reduced. Say, 600 calories rather than a more typical 2000 calories.
It was a very compelling programme. So compelling in fact that I am beginning to experiment myself with reducing the amount of unnecessarily sugary foods, simply by cutting out desserts which I have typically had every night of the week.
And I am missing an occasional lunch at weekends, and avoiding any sugar-based snacks or sweets.
It isn't difficult to do, but the potential benefits might be enormous.
In experiments with mice, the longevity of smaller underfed mice greatly exceeded that of well fed mice.
And in fact, in the smaller calorie controlled examples, the incidence of destructive conditions like cancers and diabetes related conditions was negligible.
And in fact, it seems that the body's capacity for self repair is more likely to start to work when less calories are present.
The lesson is a simple one. Whilst we may think that our comparative richness compared to our ancestors is a good thing, we would do well to heed the lessons of the past.
That literally less can be more, and for someone in my situation, if my body can be encouraged to begin the process of self repair, it will certainly be a price worth paying.
And at the same time, my food bills have been substantively cut. the ultimate win-win situation.
Friday 24 August 2012
A Georgian Theatre In A Small Town
I have written about the small town on the Norfolk/Suffolk border in which I spent five happy years restoring a 17th-century house.
In that same town, many creative people lived, perhaps drawn by the quality of the environment and when I first moved there, the relatively inexpensive cost of attractive older houses. The town had a long history going back 1000 years, and a ruined castle to prove it.
It had never been a substantial town, but it had been an important market town for the surrounding villages in the rural border where the Waveney Valley provided an attractive border between Norfolk and Suffolk.
In the United Kingdom, East Anglia is the least developed region, which is ironic since in mediaeval times, it was the most highly populated.
It was very much an agricultural economy, and there are many rich churches, often endowed by wealthy merchants that had made their money from things like farming sheep, because the grazing in the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk was so relatively rich. Those beautiful churches are called Wool Churches as a consequence, and there are some of the most beautiful churches in England in these counties, often in what are now small villages with tiny congregations for the enormous size, relatively speaking, of the churches.
In some respects, in the 18th century East Anglia was still an important and wealthy part of the agrarian economy. As such, it sustained businesses that have long since withered and died, as its lack of infrastructure has made it difficult for businesses to reach a sufficient audience to sustain their activities.
One such business was a chain of Georgian theatres, run by the Fisher family. At one time, there were about 12 theatres across this region, between which the Fisher family toured theatrical productions. All but one of the theatre buildings have been destroyed, and the one that survives was, when we first moved into this small town, converted into a commercial warehouse premises, all traces of its theatrical past long since removed.
But a small and growing group of like-minded people wished to restore this last vestige of an old theatrical past.
We were soon encouraged to join this group of enthusiastic people, amongst whom were some notable writers whose work may well be known to some of my blog readers.
Elizabeth Jane Howard, a novelist in her own right and once married to Kingsley Amis, father of Martin Amis, was in fact near neighbour in this most historic of streets where we were restoring our 17th-century house.
Dame Elizabeth was the patron of The Fisher Theatre charitable group, and would often give readings at the Theatre once it had been purchased, and before funding had been found to restore the theatre, not exactly to its former glory, but into a modern multipurpose space that could operate to the requirements of almost any art form that could be enticed to perform in this out of the way spot.
Just on the outskirts of the town lived another famous novelist, author of Birdsong Sebastian Faulks. He and Dame Elizabeth would give readings of their work and all proceeds from ticket sales would contribute towards the fundraising that was a necessary part of ensuring that Arts Council grants could be obtained.
The building itself was purchased for relatively little money, just over £60,000, through the fact that around 250 people contributed one pound per month to the charity, and this enabled a mortgage to be repaid for the purchase of the building itself.
When eventually an Arts Council grant was approved, it was for in excess of £400,000, and the express intention was to ensure that the fitting out of this old building should be to high modern standards, with seating that could be retracted when not needed for performance based activities, ensuring that there was a large open area on a sophisticated sprung floor that could for example accommodate small scale dance.
In the basement, a separate space was developed so that music could be hosted that would appeal particularly to a younger audience, and a catering operation at the heart of the Theatre would ensure that local people used the building regularly as a meeting place.
Typically, just as fate took my partner and I away from our completed restoration, and I was rehoused in more accessible accommodation as my capacities reduced because of the progression of my multiple sclerosis, the Theatre opened after its restoration, and by now, several years later, it is blossoming.
When we eventually sold our restored 17th-century house, it was to two people that were professional musicians, and they have since started a family, and also become regularly involved in activities at The Fisher Theatre.
It is comforting at least that all of our work to restore our own project has been loved in turn by two people for whom it seems the house suits perfectly.
In that same town, many creative people lived, perhaps drawn by the quality of the environment and when I first moved there, the relatively inexpensive cost of attractive older houses. The town had a long history going back 1000 years, and a ruined castle to prove it.
It had never been a substantial town, but it had been an important market town for the surrounding villages in the rural border where the Waveney Valley provided an attractive border between Norfolk and Suffolk.
In the United Kingdom, East Anglia is the least developed region, which is ironic since in mediaeval times, it was the most highly populated.
It was very much an agricultural economy, and there are many rich churches, often endowed by wealthy merchants that had made their money from things like farming sheep, because the grazing in the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk was so relatively rich. Those beautiful churches are called Wool Churches as a consequence, and there are some of the most beautiful churches in England in these counties, often in what are now small villages with tiny congregations for the enormous size, relatively speaking, of the churches.
In some respects, in the 18th century East Anglia was still an important and wealthy part of the agrarian economy. As such, it sustained businesses that have long since withered and died, as its lack of infrastructure has made it difficult for businesses to reach a sufficient audience to sustain their activities.
One such business was a chain of Georgian theatres, run by the Fisher family. At one time, there were about 12 theatres across this region, between which the Fisher family toured theatrical productions. All but one of the theatre buildings have been destroyed, and the one that survives was, when we first moved into this small town, converted into a commercial warehouse premises, all traces of its theatrical past long since removed.
But a small and growing group of like-minded people wished to restore this last vestige of an old theatrical past.
We were soon encouraged to join this group of enthusiastic people, amongst whom were some notable writers whose work may well be known to some of my blog readers.
Elizabeth Jane Howard, a novelist in her own right and once married to Kingsley Amis, father of Martin Amis, was in fact near neighbour in this most historic of streets where we were restoring our 17th-century house.
Dame Elizabeth was the patron of The Fisher Theatre charitable group, and would often give readings at the Theatre once it had been purchased, and before funding had been found to restore the theatre, not exactly to its former glory, but into a modern multipurpose space that could operate to the requirements of almost any art form that could be enticed to perform in this out of the way spot.
Just on the outskirts of the town lived another famous novelist, author of Birdsong Sebastian Faulks. He and Dame Elizabeth would give readings of their work and all proceeds from ticket sales would contribute towards the fundraising that was a necessary part of ensuring that Arts Council grants could be obtained.
The building itself was purchased for relatively little money, just over £60,000, through the fact that around 250 people contributed one pound per month to the charity, and this enabled a mortgage to be repaid for the purchase of the building itself.
When eventually an Arts Council grant was approved, it was for in excess of £400,000, and the express intention was to ensure that the fitting out of this old building should be to high modern standards, with seating that could be retracted when not needed for performance based activities, ensuring that there was a large open area on a sophisticated sprung floor that could for example accommodate small scale dance.
In the basement, a separate space was developed so that music could be hosted that would appeal particularly to a younger audience, and a catering operation at the heart of the Theatre would ensure that local people used the building regularly as a meeting place.
Typically, just as fate took my partner and I away from our completed restoration, and I was rehoused in more accessible accommodation as my capacities reduced because of the progression of my multiple sclerosis, the Theatre opened after its restoration, and by now, several years later, it is blossoming.
When we eventually sold our restored 17th-century house, it was to two people that were professional musicians, and they have since started a family, and also become regularly involved in activities at The Fisher Theatre.
It is comforting at least that all of our work to restore our own project has been loved in turn by two people for whom it seems the house suits perfectly.
Saturday 18 August 2012
The Paralympics And What They Now Mean To Me
Perhaps like many people, I haven't thought much about the Paralympics, and what they mean.
I've just today watched a very moving film from the BBC iplayer, entitled The Best Of Men.
I haven't been so moved by a film For ages.
It tells the story of how the Paralympic games came into existence, but more importantly it tells of how attitudes to the care of a spinal injury patients were transformed in the Forties and Fifties, and how that transformation gave back the desire for severely disabled patients not only to live once more, but to strive to achieve beyond the expectations of the able bodied.
Perhaps it is predictable that I should be moved by such an extraordinary film, because I am myself severely disabled, not by a spinal cord injury. But by the degenerative condition multiple sclerosis.
In other words, I will never be an Olympian in physical terms, as my upper body strength is negligible, and my muscles are severely wasted throughout my body, thanks to the way in which my nervous system has been attacked by my own immune system.
But I am fortunate in that the muscles that enable me to speak have been unaffected, and if there were a competition that involved public speaking, I would be an entrant.
In fact, the fact that I am unable to work has given me the leisure to be able to use my voice and voice activated software to continue what has perhaps been my most important leisure pursuit.
I have published two volumes of my own poetry, and a book of short stories, some of which were written when I still had the ability to walk, and took it so for granted.
But many of which have been written when I have been perhaps as written off as those first patients at Stoke Mandeville Hospital where attitudes were so transformed by one particular doctor, who was himself a refugee from his own country because of the war that had created so many of the patients that he came to restore a sense of dignity and purpose to.
There have been times for myself when I have not considered myself to have a future.
There is no doubt that it is not straightforward to find a new sense of self from the wreckage of a life, whatever the cause, whether an accident or debilitating illness.
But I would heartily recommend this film to anyone, wherever they come from, if they have access to the Internet and can watch BBC programmes online.
I will certainly be watching the Paralympics with a changed perspective after having seen The Best Of Men, and perhaps too it will make me think differently about the way in which I see myself.
The fact that I can still make use of technology to access a world that 20 years ago nobody would have dreamed existed, means that I have plenty of reason to contemplate a future that is as distant and mysterious and yet achievable as any dreams I may have had when I was young and knew nothing of the condition that has so transformed my life.
I've just today watched a very moving film from the BBC iplayer, entitled The Best Of Men.
I haven't been so moved by a film For ages.
It tells the story of how the Paralympic games came into existence, but more importantly it tells of how attitudes to the care of a spinal injury patients were transformed in the Forties and Fifties, and how that transformation gave back the desire for severely disabled patients not only to live once more, but to strive to achieve beyond the expectations of the able bodied.
Perhaps it is predictable that I should be moved by such an extraordinary film, because I am myself severely disabled, not by a spinal cord injury. But by the degenerative condition multiple sclerosis.
In other words, I will never be an Olympian in physical terms, as my upper body strength is negligible, and my muscles are severely wasted throughout my body, thanks to the way in which my nervous system has been attacked by my own immune system.
But I am fortunate in that the muscles that enable me to speak have been unaffected, and if there were a competition that involved public speaking, I would be an entrant.
In fact, the fact that I am unable to work has given me the leisure to be able to use my voice and voice activated software to continue what has perhaps been my most important leisure pursuit.
I have published two volumes of my own poetry, and a book of short stories, some of which were written when I still had the ability to walk, and took it so for granted.
But many of which have been written when I have been perhaps as written off as those first patients at Stoke Mandeville Hospital where attitudes were so transformed by one particular doctor, who was himself a refugee from his own country because of the war that had created so many of the patients that he came to restore a sense of dignity and purpose to.
There have been times for myself when I have not considered myself to have a future.
There is no doubt that it is not straightforward to find a new sense of self from the wreckage of a life, whatever the cause, whether an accident or debilitating illness.
But I would heartily recommend this film to anyone, wherever they come from, if they have access to the Internet and can watch BBC programmes online.
I will certainly be watching the Paralympics with a changed perspective after having seen The Best Of Men, and perhaps too it will make me think differently about the way in which I see myself.
The fact that I can still make use of technology to access a world that 20 years ago nobody would have dreamed existed, means that I have plenty of reason to contemplate a future that is as distant and mysterious and yet achievable as any dreams I may have had when I was young and knew nothing of the condition that has so transformed my life.
Thursday 16 August 2012
Mars Before Breakfast
When I first heard about Curiosity, my first reaction was almost disbelief.
But what seemed to be more like science fiction has become science fact.
Taking almost a year to reach its destination, a new Rover has been sent to Mars, and is now at the beginning of a two year mission to explore the surface of the planet and with the aim of discovering whether Mars may have developed life perhaps in the distant past when it had sufficient water on its surface to enable biochemical reactions such as we suppose might have occurred on our own planet, culminating in the evolution of a complex life forms.
It has perhaps been millions of years since Mars possessed an atmosphere, long since stripped away by the Solar Wind. if it had one in the first place.
Mars has always been the imaginative likely home for life in our Solar System, and has certainly fueled the imagination of writers for a couple of centuries.
And now, with the Curiosity mission, it seems likely that we will discover at least a partial answer to the question as to whether we are alone, in this part of the universe at least.
If life did once develop on our nearest neighbour, it is highly unlikely that it will have survived to the present day. This much seems to be fairly certain from what we already know of the Martian environment, blasted as it is by Solar radiation and unprotected by what we appear to take for granted on earth, magnetic poles that appear to be the reason why we have retained an atmosphere, and by so doing, retained the oceans that seem to have been universally recognized as the origin of life as we know it.
Curiosity is in effect a roving laboratory capable of examining and testing the environment into which it has been introduced, to assess whether there are any traces of what we have seen on Earth as a result of an environment that has developed over millions of years.
It has already been discovered from previous work that deposits of gypsum can be found on Mars, and this is a mineral that on Earth developed as a consequence of standing water. The chemical composition of gypsum includes substantive amounts of calcium, and on earth this mineral is likely to have come about as a consequence of the deposit of primitive life in those ancient seas.
In some respects, the successful landing of Curiosity is one of the most remarkable scientific achievements ever to have taken place.
The fact that it has landed safely is simply remarkable.
And now, its mission over the next two years will hopefully throw some light on the question as to whether we are in fact an extraordinarily complex singularity, perhaps answering one of the most profoundly important questions for the Human Race.
I like to think that this is a purely scientific mission, but it holds extraordinarily significant questions in its mission parameters.
For if it does discover that no life has ever developed on another planet in our own Solar System, it does perhaps suggest that we may be more alone than our imagination would like to contemplate.
It would be wrong for me to suggest that any answers we may discover will throw any light on the existence of a God. This is not a scientific question at all.
Just as it is for each person to examine their conscience concerning questions of Faith, so it will be for every individual to assess any data that Curiosity may discover from its exploration of the Martian landscape.
I have already become a follower by Twitter of the Curiosity mission, and this has enabled me through a link to the NASA website to see some of the images already sent back by the roving laboratory's cameras.
Thus my title, Mars Before Breakfast. In my most recent communication from Curiosity, I spent a fascinating 20 minutes or so exploring another planet.
Not bad for someone that cannot walk, and perhaps simply another reason why everybody should have regular access to a computer with a broadband Internet link.
But what seemed to be more like science fiction has become science fact.
Taking almost a year to reach its destination, a new Rover has been sent to Mars, and is now at the beginning of a two year mission to explore the surface of the planet and with the aim of discovering whether Mars may have developed life perhaps in the distant past when it had sufficient water on its surface to enable biochemical reactions such as we suppose might have occurred on our own planet, culminating in the evolution of a complex life forms.
It has perhaps been millions of years since Mars possessed an atmosphere, long since stripped away by the Solar Wind. if it had one in the first place.
Mars has always been the imaginative likely home for life in our Solar System, and has certainly fueled the imagination of writers for a couple of centuries.
And now, with the Curiosity mission, it seems likely that we will discover at least a partial answer to the question as to whether we are alone, in this part of the universe at least.
If life did once develop on our nearest neighbour, it is highly unlikely that it will have survived to the present day. This much seems to be fairly certain from what we already know of the Martian environment, blasted as it is by Solar radiation and unprotected by what we appear to take for granted on earth, magnetic poles that appear to be the reason why we have retained an atmosphere, and by so doing, retained the oceans that seem to have been universally recognized as the origin of life as we know it.
Curiosity is in effect a roving laboratory capable of examining and testing the environment into which it has been introduced, to assess whether there are any traces of what we have seen on Earth as a result of an environment that has developed over millions of years.
It has already been discovered from previous work that deposits of gypsum can be found on Mars, and this is a mineral that on Earth developed as a consequence of standing water. The chemical composition of gypsum includes substantive amounts of calcium, and on earth this mineral is likely to have come about as a consequence of the deposit of primitive life in those ancient seas.
In some respects, the successful landing of Curiosity is one of the most remarkable scientific achievements ever to have taken place.
The fact that it has landed safely is simply remarkable.
And now, its mission over the next two years will hopefully throw some light on the question as to whether we are in fact an extraordinarily complex singularity, perhaps answering one of the most profoundly important questions for the Human Race.
I like to think that this is a purely scientific mission, but it holds extraordinarily significant questions in its mission parameters.
For if it does discover that no life has ever developed on another planet in our own Solar System, it does perhaps suggest that we may be more alone than our imagination would like to contemplate.
It would be wrong for me to suggest that any answers we may discover will throw any light on the existence of a God. This is not a scientific question at all.
Just as it is for each person to examine their conscience concerning questions of Faith, so it will be for every individual to assess any data that Curiosity may discover from its exploration of the Martian landscape.
I have already become a follower by Twitter of the Curiosity mission, and this has enabled me through a link to the NASA website to see some of the images already sent back by the roving laboratory's cameras.
Thus my title, Mars Before Breakfast. In my most recent communication from Curiosity, I spent a fascinating 20 minutes or so exploring another planet.
Not bad for someone that cannot walk, and perhaps simply another reason why everybody should have regular access to a computer with a broadband Internet link.
Saturday 11 August 2012
Might The Crying Games Become The Smiling Games?
I am not a great fan of sport. Neither participating or watching.
But over the last fortnight I have been keen to see the progress of athletes, and I have been as absorbed as anyone in the emotion of ceremonies and medal presentations alike.
The sight not just of the Union Jack being raised if we have won gold, but listening intently to the unfamiliar sounds of national anthems from around the world.
Perhaps from the outset I was gripped, when the opening ceremony seemed to capture in an extraordinary way everything that has led us to this moment in the present.
I have watched the opening ceremony several times since I first had the foresight to record it, and I have watched the opening hour once again just yesterday, perhaps beginning to feel that as the closing ceremony comes into sight, that I wanted to be reminded of that fabulous opening.
It is difficult to imagine how something so spectacular could be imagined, but in a strange way I have spent my entire professional life working to create just such events, with a combination of professionals and amateurs.
It is perhaps something that we are very good at in Britain, it is often said that more people are involved in some way as participants in the performing arts as amateurs than the total number of spectators for a weekend's football matches.
When the Arts Council of England was founded in I believe 1951, out of The Festival Of Britain, and the sense of a nation reborn after an extraordinary world conflict, it perhaps for the first time created an unnatural distinction between the professional arts and what had been happening for decades, perhaps centuries, in most communities throughout the land.
We do not have to look any further than Handel's great oratorio The Messiah to appreciate that it has been the committed amateur that has been the engine of the Arts in Britain over the years.
For some years, I was the Development Director for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra in Edinburgh, one of the finest chamber orchestras in the world.
As an orchestra of 37 full-time players, expanding on occasion as required by the music performed, the SCO has made numerous recordings from Opera and of Choral music, and perhaps not unusually, whenever it has needed to employ the United voices of a choir, it has turned to its own trained choir.
But this is not a professional choir, but a choir of dedicated amateurs, admittedly conducted and trained by a professional Choir Master, but nevertheless composed of people whose living is not derived from their participation professionally in music.
Many orchestras in modern Britain do have the services of a professional choir, as indeed most opera companies will have their own in-house professional chorus.
But it is easily forgotten that this has only been the case for the past 50 or so years since funding has been possible through the Arts Councils of Great Britain.
And over and above the network of professional choirs and choruses, there is still an important sector of impassioned amateurs.
It has been a stroke of genius to make this level of participation part of the opening of these extraordinary games, which have begun to be described as the crying games, as people have begun to reflect back on what has taken place during this 30th Olympiad.
I have met and worked with the Artistic Director of the opening ceremony, Jude Kelly, when she was the Artistic Director of an important regional theatre in Leeds when I was a humble Education Officer for Opera North based in the same city.
It is therefore unsurprising to me the way in which so many volunteers have become involved in this extraordinary pageant.
My own career within the professional Arts took place as a consequence of my involvement as a volunteer in something perhaps not so dissimilar, the creation of a musical theatre celebration of the City of Leeds.
I was at the time involved in creative writing on a regular basis, and as a group of creative writers, we were approached to be involved in the creation and performance of a community opera.
In the precincts of the University of Leeds, in the open air, around 300 people told through a pageant, the story of how the City had come about, and what its present concerns were, and what it perhaps might become in the future.
Over the course of more than a month, performances were developed and refined with the help of a professional Opera Director. A chorus of amateur voices were taught how to sing an original score composed by a young professional composer, and three performances took place to an audience of more than 2000 people.
As a writing group, we commenced work with a workshop led by the poet that was to become the poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy.
We then met together over several weeks, supported by a local creative writing specialist, to come up with ideas for ways in which we could explore the open theme of Leeds past, present and future.
Whilst most of the participants and performers were to be drawn from the local community, we had the involvement of one professional opera singer, and of course the professional team leading and shaping our work.
The end result for me was life changing, in the sense that I soon made the transition from the work I had been doing to becoming a junior in the Community and Education Department at Opera North.
I took a substantial cut in salary, but for the next 20 years, I found myself working alongside profoundly talented artists in the worlds of opera and classical music, finding ways in which their abilities could inspire and be communicated to people that had never experienced these artforms.
By the time that I was forced to stop work at the age of 43 because of multiple sclerosis, I was still concerned with my own creative writing, but I have been inspired by working closely with some of the most talented musicians, singers, writers and composers of our generation.
And so perhaps I am well placed to confirm that the experiences I have seen take place in this Olympiad may well have the potential to change the lives of so many people.
I find myself in the strange position of having been rather cynical at the outset, and since the opening ceremony, I have become totally convinced that participation alone - let alone the success we have seen - and the emotions associated with it, will have made this a strangely cathartic experience.
Perhaps it is the fact that the Olympic movement is so concerned with the peaceful coming together of nations in competition that has so moved so many people.
That we have been able as a nation to host this event so successfully must serve as some kind of therapeutic boost to our flagging sense of self.
It is of course the first time that a country has hosted the modern Olympics on three occasions, and perhaps this too is significant.
We first hosted the Olympics in 1908, just at the cusp of the First World War, when an Empire began to fade.
The second occasion was in 1948, and was described as the Austerity Olympics after we had survived the second world war. And coincidentally, the year in which the British Empire became the British Commonwealth.
And at this point in our times, you could say it is another Austerity Olympics, in that we are suffering a depressed business environment, and some would say could ill afford the £9 billion cost of hosting the games.
And yet, as I write this on the final day of the 30th Olympiad, it is as if it has been more than worth the cost, in the way that it has brought a nation together, and demonstrated that we can achieve something extraordinarily positive.
It is as if it has been a transformative therapy session, teaching us what we can achieve if only we have the vision.
As people, as human beings, and as a planet.
In 1908, just 22 nations took part, but this year 204 nations took part, and each took the oath that has bound us all together in this experience.
By the time the opening ceremony had taken place, I was convinced that it was not through medal successes that the games would be measured.
The fact that we have been so successful is wonderful, and has been perhaps the catalyst for our sense of national catharsis.
But it has been simply taking part, not winning, that has been most important.
It is as if the Olympic movement has been more successful than The United Nations at bringing nations together, in peace and in celebration of what can be achieved.
Let us truly hope that what has been described as the crying games can become known as the smiling games as we look back on them.
But over the last fortnight I have been keen to see the progress of athletes, and I have been as absorbed as anyone in the emotion of ceremonies and medal presentations alike.
The sight not just of the Union Jack being raised if we have won gold, but listening intently to the unfamiliar sounds of national anthems from around the world.
Perhaps from the outset I was gripped, when the opening ceremony seemed to capture in an extraordinary way everything that has led us to this moment in the present.
I have watched the opening ceremony several times since I first had the foresight to record it, and I have watched the opening hour once again just yesterday, perhaps beginning to feel that as the closing ceremony comes into sight, that I wanted to be reminded of that fabulous opening.
It is difficult to imagine how something so spectacular could be imagined, but in a strange way I have spent my entire professional life working to create just such events, with a combination of professionals and amateurs.
It is perhaps something that we are very good at in Britain, it is often said that more people are involved in some way as participants in the performing arts as amateurs than the total number of spectators for a weekend's football matches.
When the Arts Council of England was founded in I believe 1951, out of The Festival Of Britain, and the sense of a nation reborn after an extraordinary world conflict, it perhaps for the first time created an unnatural distinction between the professional arts and what had been happening for decades, perhaps centuries, in most communities throughout the land.
We do not have to look any further than Handel's great oratorio The Messiah to appreciate that it has been the committed amateur that has been the engine of the Arts in Britain over the years.
For some years, I was the Development Director for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra in Edinburgh, one of the finest chamber orchestras in the world.
As an orchestra of 37 full-time players, expanding on occasion as required by the music performed, the SCO has made numerous recordings from Opera and of Choral music, and perhaps not unusually, whenever it has needed to employ the United voices of a choir, it has turned to its own trained choir.
But this is not a professional choir, but a choir of dedicated amateurs, admittedly conducted and trained by a professional Choir Master, but nevertheless composed of people whose living is not derived from their participation professionally in music.
Many orchestras in modern Britain do have the services of a professional choir, as indeed most opera companies will have their own in-house professional chorus.
But it is easily forgotten that this has only been the case for the past 50 or so years since funding has been possible through the Arts Councils of Great Britain.
And over and above the network of professional choirs and choruses, there is still an important sector of impassioned amateurs.
It has been a stroke of genius to make this level of participation part of the opening of these extraordinary games, which have begun to be described as the crying games, as people have begun to reflect back on what has taken place during this 30th Olympiad.
I have met and worked with the Artistic Director of the opening ceremony, Jude Kelly, when she was the Artistic Director of an important regional theatre in Leeds when I was a humble Education Officer for Opera North based in the same city.
It is therefore unsurprising to me the way in which so many volunteers have become involved in this extraordinary pageant.
My own career within the professional Arts took place as a consequence of my involvement as a volunteer in something perhaps not so dissimilar, the creation of a musical theatre celebration of the City of Leeds.
I was at the time involved in creative writing on a regular basis, and as a group of creative writers, we were approached to be involved in the creation and performance of a community opera.
In the precincts of the University of Leeds, in the open air, around 300 people told through a pageant, the story of how the City had come about, and what its present concerns were, and what it perhaps might become in the future.
Over the course of more than a month, performances were developed and refined with the help of a professional Opera Director. A chorus of amateur voices were taught how to sing an original score composed by a young professional composer, and three performances took place to an audience of more than 2000 people.
As a writing group, we commenced work with a workshop led by the poet that was to become the poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy.
We then met together over several weeks, supported by a local creative writing specialist, to come up with ideas for ways in which we could explore the open theme of Leeds past, present and future.
Whilst most of the participants and performers were to be drawn from the local community, we had the involvement of one professional opera singer, and of course the professional team leading and shaping our work.
The end result for me was life changing, in the sense that I soon made the transition from the work I had been doing to becoming a junior in the Community and Education Department at Opera North.
I took a substantial cut in salary, but for the next 20 years, I found myself working alongside profoundly talented artists in the worlds of opera and classical music, finding ways in which their abilities could inspire and be communicated to people that had never experienced these artforms.
By the time that I was forced to stop work at the age of 43 because of multiple sclerosis, I was still concerned with my own creative writing, but I have been inspired by working closely with some of the most talented musicians, singers, writers and composers of our generation.
And so perhaps I am well placed to confirm that the experiences I have seen take place in this Olympiad may well have the potential to change the lives of so many people.
I find myself in the strange position of having been rather cynical at the outset, and since the opening ceremony, I have become totally convinced that participation alone - let alone the success we have seen - and the emotions associated with it, will have made this a strangely cathartic experience.
Perhaps it is the fact that the Olympic movement is so concerned with the peaceful coming together of nations in competition that has so moved so many people.
That we have been able as a nation to host this event so successfully must serve as some kind of therapeutic boost to our flagging sense of self.
It is of course the first time that a country has hosted the modern Olympics on three occasions, and perhaps this too is significant.
We first hosted the Olympics in 1908, just at the cusp of the First World War, when an Empire began to fade.
The second occasion was in 1948, and was described as the Austerity Olympics after we had survived the second world war. And coincidentally, the year in which the British Empire became the British Commonwealth.
And at this point in our times, you could say it is another Austerity Olympics, in that we are suffering a depressed business environment, and some would say could ill afford the £9 billion cost of hosting the games.
And yet, as I write this on the final day of the 30th Olympiad, it is as if it has been more than worth the cost, in the way that it has brought a nation together, and demonstrated that we can achieve something extraordinarily positive.
It is as if it has been a transformative therapy session, teaching us what we can achieve if only we have the vision.
As people, as human beings, and as a planet.
In 1908, just 22 nations took part, but this year 204 nations took part, and each took the oath that has bound us all together in this experience.
By the time the opening ceremony had taken place, I was convinced that it was not through medal successes that the games would be measured.
The fact that we have been so successful is wonderful, and has been perhaps the catalyst for our sense of national catharsis.
But it has been simply taking part, not winning, that has been most important.
It is as if the Olympic movement has been more successful than The United Nations at bringing nations together, in peace and in celebration of what can be achieved.
Let us truly hope that what has been described as the crying games can become known as the smiling games as we look back on them.
Saturday 4 August 2012
A Little Known Fact About Her Majesty The Queen
Few people will realise that the Queen is the patron of pigeon racing in the UK, and perhaps one of its most passionate participants.
No doubt she will have help and support with the work of keeping pigeons, but nevertheless it is a little known fact that she is in this country's most prominent pigeon fanciers.
Keeping pigeons is something I know more than most about, because my father was a lifelong pigeon fancier, keeping and racing pigeons for most of his life.
I cannot help but imagine that this lonely hobby, spending much time simply waiting for pigeons to return to their home loft after a race, was the ideal pursuit for men of my father's generation, for whom perhaps there was much to contemplate, after the terrible experiences of a World War in which my father served for eight years, from 1940-1948.
One of his brothers, my uncle Harry, was also a pigeon fancier, and I'm sure they had much to discuss whenever they met, about the details that concerned them both about their breeding stock, and the prospects for the races that they both competed in.
My uncle Harry had also served during the war, but all I know about his war was that when he returned from his service, his young wife and child had been killed after the last V2 to fall on West Ham destroyed the house in which they lived.
Although uncle Harry remarried, he never again became a parent.
Perhaps for him the lonely vigil awaiting the return of his pigeons on race days was filled with thoughts of a life he may have lived, had his first wife not been at home on that fateful day.
Uncle Harry's first wife was never discussed, and I only discovered recently about what had happened. My memories of him as a child had no inkling of what had taken place for him during the war.
He was simply one of my father's 12 brothers and sisters, and one that he perhaps was closest to, whether because they both shared a passion for pigeons, or because of a shared background in service during the war I never knew.
The technical details of pigeon racing are fascinating, and probably not understood outside of the fraternity of pigeon fanciers.
It is a simple fact that pigeons will return to their home from enormous distances, and their capacity for navigation was not until recently completely understood.
Or perhaps it is still not completely understood, but it is nevertheless now known that there are several species of animals that are able to navigate in quite extraordinary ways.
Other animals include turtles, and of course many species of birds that regularly migrate huge distances to find warmer climates during the Winter.
It seems that there is some mechanism within them that can work just like a compass, so that for example if a magnet were attached to their beaks, their capacity to navigate is seriously impaired.
This inbuilt facility to navigate means that pigeons have been used in the 20th century for numerous means of communicating across distances, long before the development of more technical means of communication.
For example, sending messages in wartime.
Their instinct to return home is a strong one, and one that I can remember my father using to great effect on race days by separating a mated pair of birds just before a race so that the instinct to return to the nest was sharpened.
My father's most successful pigeon was a dark chequer hen that came third in the London Combine from Thurso, one year back in about 1969.
About 30,000 birds were able to race together, thanks to the way in which pigeon fanciers measure the speed of their birds from release to return to the home loft.
Pigeon fanciers that live 20 or 30 miles distance from each other can race against each other because the distance from the race point can be measured exactly, and each pigeon fancier would be equipped with an extremely accurate timepiece that is designed specifically to record the exact time of the return.
Quite simply, birds entered for a particular race are fitted with a unique numbered rubber ring, and then when the bird is recaptured at the home loft, this rubber ring is placed inside a metal thimble which is inserted into this accurate timepiece, which when ‘struck’ notes the exact time that the ring has been placed into the clock.
Clocks are carefully measured against each other for their accuracy at keeping time, and simply the velocity of the pigeon in yards per minute can be established because the time of release is known, and the exact distance to the loft where it lives.
Thus the winning pigeon is the one with the highest individual velocity, and for the race in which my father's pigeon came third out of 30,000, the race distance was around 600 miles.
Of course, the speed with which a bird can be captured by its owner and the rubber race ring removed from its foot is critical to a successful race winner.
The art of capturing a pigeon is one that is perhaps a function of the familiarity of the birds with their owner, and the fact that after a race, they will be hungry and can be lured by a few tasty nibbles so that they can be handled by their owner, and the ring entered into the clock.
I still have my father's pigeon clock, or at least one of them.
The one I have is a French model, a Toulet. Quite a beautiful timepiece, perhaps with much in common with a ships’ chronometer.
Clocks are sealed with a special lead seal for races, to make sure they are not tampered with, and something like a paper dial such as would verify the driving of a large lorry would be the proof of when a bird had returned to its home loft.
Pigeons for races are placed in special baskets that contain about a dozen birds each, and the special lorries that take them to a race point are designed so that these crates containing the birds can be opened almost simultaneously so that the races are kept as fair as possible.
Perhaps it will only take a few minutes for two men to open all of the crates in which several thousand birds have been transported to a particular race point.
For several years as a young boy I would attend with my father to the club where his birds participated in races, and where perhaps the majority of fanciers were men just like my father, content with a hobby that meant they spent many hours just scanning the sky looking for the return of a speck on the horizon.
It was perhaps the only occasion in the year when my mother would be taken to a dinner dance, to the annual Pigeon Fanciers’ Ball, when cheques and cups would be presented to mark the success of the years racing.
For my father, it could mean considerable winnings, in the order of several hundred pounds, at a time when this was a substantial sum of money.
Quite simply, every bird entered into a race could be entered into a pool, often of quite small sums like a shilling or a two shilling pool, but if the bird was one of the first in this section, the pool of money placed might amount to quite significant sums.
I can still remember the way in which my father taught me to identify the different colorings of bird types, and if I see racing pigeons in the street, wearing the permanent metal rings over their feet placed there when sufficiently small for the rings to be fitted, I cannot help but recall all of those occasions when I went to the club with my father to see his birds safely on their way to a race.
No doubt she will have help and support with the work of keeping pigeons, but nevertheless it is a little known fact that she is in this country's most prominent pigeon fanciers.
Keeping pigeons is something I know more than most about, because my father was a lifelong pigeon fancier, keeping and racing pigeons for most of his life.
I cannot help but imagine that this lonely hobby, spending much time simply waiting for pigeons to return to their home loft after a race, was the ideal pursuit for men of my father's generation, for whom perhaps there was much to contemplate, after the terrible experiences of a World War in which my father served for eight years, from 1940-1948.
One of his brothers, my uncle Harry, was also a pigeon fancier, and I'm sure they had much to discuss whenever they met, about the details that concerned them both about their breeding stock, and the prospects for the races that they both competed in.
My uncle Harry had also served during the war, but all I know about his war was that when he returned from his service, his young wife and child had been killed after the last V2 to fall on West Ham destroyed the house in which they lived.
Although uncle Harry remarried, he never again became a parent.
Perhaps for him the lonely vigil awaiting the return of his pigeons on race days was filled with thoughts of a life he may have lived, had his first wife not been at home on that fateful day.
Uncle Harry's first wife was never discussed, and I only discovered recently about what had happened. My memories of him as a child had no inkling of what had taken place for him during the war.
He was simply one of my father's 12 brothers and sisters, and one that he perhaps was closest to, whether because they both shared a passion for pigeons, or because of a shared background in service during the war I never knew.
The technical details of pigeon racing are fascinating, and probably not understood outside of the fraternity of pigeon fanciers.
It is a simple fact that pigeons will return to their home from enormous distances, and their capacity for navigation was not until recently completely understood.
Or perhaps it is still not completely understood, but it is nevertheless now known that there are several species of animals that are able to navigate in quite extraordinary ways.
Other animals include turtles, and of course many species of birds that regularly migrate huge distances to find warmer climates during the Winter.
It seems that there is some mechanism within them that can work just like a compass, so that for example if a magnet were attached to their beaks, their capacity to navigate is seriously impaired.
This inbuilt facility to navigate means that pigeons have been used in the 20th century for numerous means of communicating across distances, long before the development of more technical means of communication.
For example, sending messages in wartime.
Their instinct to return home is a strong one, and one that I can remember my father using to great effect on race days by separating a mated pair of birds just before a race so that the instinct to return to the nest was sharpened.
My father's most successful pigeon was a dark chequer hen that came third in the London Combine from Thurso, one year back in about 1969.
About 30,000 birds were able to race together, thanks to the way in which pigeon fanciers measure the speed of their birds from release to return to the home loft.
Pigeon fanciers that live 20 or 30 miles distance from each other can race against each other because the distance from the race point can be measured exactly, and each pigeon fancier would be equipped with an extremely accurate timepiece that is designed specifically to record the exact time of the return.
Quite simply, birds entered for a particular race are fitted with a unique numbered rubber ring, and then when the bird is recaptured at the home loft, this rubber ring is placed inside a metal thimble which is inserted into this accurate timepiece, which when ‘struck’ notes the exact time that the ring has been placed into the clock.
Clocks are carefully measured against each other for their accuracy at keeping time, and simply the velocity of the pigeon in yards per minute can be established because the time of release is known, and the exact distance to the loft where it lives.
Thus the winning pigeon is the one with the highest individual velocity, and for the race in which my father's pigeon came third out of 30,000, the race distance was around 600 miles.
Of course, the speed with which a bird can be captured by its owner and the rubber race ring removed from its foot is critical to a successful race winner.
The art of capturing a pigeon is one that is perhaps a function of the familiarity of the birds with their owner, and the fact that after a race, they will be hungry and can be lured by a few tasty nibbles so that they can be handled by their owner, and the ring entered into the clock.
I still have my father's pigeon clock, or at least one of them.
The one I have is a French model, a Toulet. Quite a beautiful timepiece, perhaps with much in common with a ships’ chronometer.
Clocks are sealed with a special lead seal for races, to make sure they are not tampered with, and something like a paper dial such as would verify the driving of a large lorry would be the proof of when a bird had returned to its home loft.
Pigeons for races are placed in special baskets that contain about a dozen birds each, and the special lorries that take them to a race point are designed so that these crates containing the birds can be opened almost simultaneously so that the races are kept as fair as possible.
Perhaps it will only take a few minutes for two men to open all of the crates in which several thousand birds have been transported to a particular race point.
For several years as a young boy I would attend with my father to the club where his birds participated in races, and where perhaps the majority of fanciers were men just like my father, content with a hobby that meant they spent many hours just scanning the sky looking for the return of a speck on the horizon.
It was perhaps the only occasion in the year when my mother would be taken to a dinner dance, to the annual Pigeon Fanciers’ Ball, when cheques and cups would be presented to mark the success of the years racing.
For my father, it could mean considerable winnings, in the order of several hundred pounds, at a time when this was a substantial sum of money.
Quite simply, every bird entered into a race could be entered into a pool, often of quite small sums like a shilling or a two shilling pool, but if the bird was one of the first in this section, the pool of money placed might amount to quite significant sums.
I can still remember the way in which my father taught me to identify the different colorings of bird types, and if I see racing pigeons in the street, wearing the permanent metal rings over their feet placed there when sufficiently small for the rings to be fitted, I cannot help but recall all of those occasions when I went to the club with my father to see his birds safely on their way to a race.
Thursday 2 August 2012
A Floor Reaching To Heaven
In some respects my restoration of a 17th-century townhouse on the Norfolk/Suffolk border was my greatest act of vanity.
It was a work of love, and as it happened, my last opportunity to express myself through workmanship. Towards the completion of the project, I was diagnosed with the multiple sclerosis that would, ironically, mean that I would be unable to live in the house that I had lovingly restored.
Listed buildings are famously unsuited to the use of wheelchairs. And only so much can be done to make them reach the kind of standards that a disabled person would require, before an act of vandalism takes place.
Hours of labour were devoted to the restoration of this unique survival of an age past. the fact that the house had been abandoned and squatted had in some strange sense protected it from the worst excesses of inappropriate restoration.
With us when we purchased it from the squatters that could not really afford to repair the house, and make it more habitable, it was purchased not freehold but with the kind of title deeds that allow for the lost owner to potentially reclaim their property, through a form of insurance.
My partner and I were able to transform this to a proper freehold when we purchased the neighbouring cottage, and combined the two houses to make a five bedroomed house. With two full-size bathrooms and just the one kitchen, but with the second kitchen used as a utility room.
When finished it was indeed fabulous. We had adopted high standards in the work we mostly undertook ourselves, only bringing in experts when absolutely necessary.
Thus a firm specialising in the restoration of churches were employed to replace a 6 foot section of solid oak on which the roof rested, because such work would have been beyond us, and the Carpenters that did the work were gentlemen in their late 60s that had spent a lifetime using skills that are almost beyond modern craftsmen.
We taught ourselves to be able to work with lime plaster, and one of my proudest possessions was my large container full of goats' hair that was used in the mix of lime and sharp sand to help bind the soft mortar that is essential to the sensitive repair of an older house. So that it can continue to move and to breathe.
On the ground floor, what had perhaps once been a simple earth floor had been concreted over many years before we came on the scene, and this was both cold and somehow not right for the period of the house.
Research suggested that the correct floor would once have been red pine boards, and eventually we located a local timber yard in which we found something that we felt was exactly right.
It was a plank of Wellingtonia, Giant Redwood, Sequoia Sequoia. This single plank measured about 4 inches thick, was 3 feet in width, and about 12 feet in length.
In other words, when we sent it to a specialist to be machined into random width boards, we had more than enough to cover the entire downstairs reception room and hallway.
It wasn't really until the boards were delivered from their machining into tongue and groove boards that we realised quite how pink the timber was. And how soft.
The colour was simple to dye, and several coats of diamond hard varnish made it suitable for walking upon. But I suppose it was the romance that had convinced us of its suitability, as it had been harvested from the Duke of Wellington's estate, and must have been one of the first of its kind imported into the United Kingdom, as indeed the common English name for this timber, Wellingtonia, suggests.
I fixed Marine ply boards to the concrete floor, and was thus able to nail the random width boards directly to this subfloor with nails that in effect were invisibly driven into the side of the boards. The overall effect was simply stunning.
The softness of the timber made it easy to cut and fix, and once the colour was turned from the pink to an acceptable brown colour, it looked as if it might have been in place since the house had been built.
But I would tell people the story of the floor at every opportunity, and it was always admired.
In the room that it mainly adorned, there was our front to the street, and we found a beautiful marble fire surround, simple enough to have passed for an early 19th-century example, perhaps it was original, and at one of the road closure fairs we found a Carron grate, which fitted perfectly and gave us a roaring fire. local supplies of hardwood logs were easy to come by, and stored just outside our side entrance, became an attractive and efficient winter feature.
The chimneys proved to be in remarkable condition, and were quite safe to use.
It was a work of love, and as it happened, my last opportunity to express myself through workmanship. Towards the completion of the project, I was diagnosed with the multiple sclerosis that would, ironically, mean that I would be unable to live in the house that I had lovingly restored.
Listed buildings are famously unsuited to the use of wheelchairs. And only so much can be done to make them reach the kind of standards that a disabled person would require, before an act of vandalism takes place.
Hours of labour were devoted to the restoration of this unique survival of an age past. the fact that the house had been abandoned and squatted had in some strange sense protected it from the worst excesses of inappropriate restoration.
With us when we purchased it from the squatters that could not really afford to repair the house, and make it more habitable, it was purchased not freehold but with the kind of title deeds that allow for the lost owner to potentially reclaim their property, through a form of insurance.
My partner and I were able to transform this to a proper freehold when we purchased the neighbouring cottage, and combined the two houses to make a five bedroomed house. With two full-size bathrooms and just the one kitchen, but with the second kitchen used as a utility room.
When finished it was indeed fabulous. We had adopted high standards in the work we mostly undertook ourselves, only bringing in experts when absolutely necessary.
Thus a firm specialising in the restoration of churches were employed to replace a 6 foot section of solid oak on which the roof rested, because such work would have been beyond us, and the Carpenters that did the work were gentlemen in their late 60s that had spent a lifetime using skills that are almost beyond modern craftsmen.
We taught ourselves to be able to work with lime plaster, and one of my proudest possessions was my large container full of goats' hair that was used in the mix of lime and sharp sand to help bind the soft mortar that is essential to the sensitive repair of an older house. So that it can continue to move and to breathe.
On the ground floor, what had perhaps once been a simple earth floor had been concreted over many years before we came on the scene, and this was both cold and somehow not right for the period of the house.
Research suggested that the correct floor would once have been red pine boards, and eventually we located a local timber yard in which we found something that we felt was exactly right.
It was a plank of Wellingtonia, Giant Redwood, Sequoia Sequoia. This single plank measured about 4 inches thick, was 3 feet in width, and about 12 feet in length.
In other words, when we sent it to a specialist to be machined into random width boards, we had more than enough to cover the entire downstairs reception room and hallway.
It wasn't really until the boards were delivered from their machining into tongue and groove boards that we realised quite how pink the timber was. And how soft.
The colour was simple to dye, and several coats of diamond hard varnish made it suitable for walking upon. But I suppose it was the romance that had convinced us of its suitability, as it had been harvested from the Duke of Wellington's estate, and must have been one of the first of its kind imported into the United Kingdom, as indeed the common English name for this timber, Wellingtonia, suggests.
I fixed Marine ply boards to the concrete floor, and was thus able to nail the random width boards directly to this subfloor with nails that in effect were invisibly driven into the side of the boards. The overall effect was simply stunning.
The softness of the timber made it easy to cut and fix, and once the colour was turned from the pink to an acceptable brown colour, it looked as if it might have been in place since the house had been built.
But I would tell people the story of the floor at every opportunity, and it was always admired.
In the room that it mainly adorned, there was our front to the street, and we found a beautiful marble fire surround, simple enough to have passed for an early 19th-century example, perhaps it was original, and at one of the road closure fairs we found a Carron grate, which fitted perfectly and gave us a roaring fire. local supplies of hardwood logs were easy to come by, and stored just outside our side entrance, became an attractive and efficient winter feature.
The chimneys proved to be in remarkable condition, and were quite safe to use.
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