Not your normal type of church – introducing the tin tabernacle

I instinctively expect churches to be grand, imposing buildings, fashioned from stone by craftsmen whose skills draw on centuries of tradition. Most of the churches Mrs P and I see on our travels around the UK do indeed fall into this category, but just occasionally we encounter one that challenges my conventional expectations. And as unconventional UK churches go, the tin tabernacle takes some beating.

Henton Mission Room Oxfordshire (now in the Chiltern Open Air Museum). Erected 1886.

Also known as “iron churches” or “iron chapels”, tin tabernacles emerged in the mid-19th century. Comprising a timber framed building externally clad in corrugated, galvanised iron and lined with boarding, they were basically prefabricated places of worship that were sold in kit form.

It was in the late 1820s that an English engineer came up with a way of mass-producing corrugated iron. By the early 1830s, it became apparent that his process made possible the production of a relatively cheap, lightweight system for cladding buildings. In 1837 the final piece of the jigsaw fell into place when another bright spark realised that galvanizing the iron with zinc would stop it rusting. The stage was therefore set for the development of tin tabernacles.

Henton Mission Room.

Demand for more churches and chapels was fuelled by the rapid population growth that accompanied the Industrial Revolution. Existing buildings were simply not large enough, or in the right place, to serve new and emerging communities. Those communities often had no access to the materials, skills or financial resources needed to build “traditional” places of worship, but off-site prefabrication of tin tabernacles offered a practical and affordable way forward.

Tin tabernacles were intended to be temporary and portable, usually providing short-term accommodation for their congregations until they raised the money to build permanent churches. Luckily for us today, some of them survived a lot longer than expected.

Inside the Henton Mission Room.

Many tin tabernacles were built to house non-conformist groups like Wesleyans, Baptists and Moravians whose numbers expanded considerably during the religious ‘revivals’ of the 19th century. However, they were also used to accommodate Anglican congregations during an era of rapid population growth. Pre-fabricated iron churches were also exported to the British colonies, including Australia, South Africa and Canada

The first tin tabernacle anywhere in the world is believed to have been constructed in 1855 in London. They became increasingly popular towards the end of the 19th century, and a few were still being built in the 1920s and 1930s. Today, there are still around 80 scattered around England, although some of these have been re-purposed and others have been moved to museums in order to preserve them.

St Margaret’s Mission Church, South Wonston, Hampshire (now in the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum). Erected 1908/09.

Mrs P and I were pleased to get up close and personal with a tin tabernacle during a recent visit to the Chiltern Open Air Museum. Henton Mission Room was erected in 1886 in Chinnor, a small village in the county of Oxfordshire. Here it served as a place of worship for the local community, who affectionately referred to it as their “little tin church”, until 1973.

Henton Mission Room was an intimate space, housing just 50 chairs arranged in rows either side of a central aisle. The altar was equally modest, just an ordinary table supporting a pair of humble brass candlesticks. In keeping with its modest design, the room boasted neither a sonorous organ nor a grand pulpit – a simple harmonium supplied the music, while the Rector of Chinnor’s monthly Sunday afternoon sermons were delivered from an unpretentious lectern.

St Margaret’s Mission Church.

Following its closure in 1973, the Mission Room remained unused for two decades, until in 1993 it was acquired by a far-sighted museum. Reversing the original process of assembly, the chapel was then carefully dismantled, loaded onto trucks and transported 20 miles for re-assembly at its new, permanent home, where it offers fascinating insights into social, religious and architectural history.

Another tin tabernacle is preserved for posterity at the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum. It originally stood in the Hampshire village of South Wonston. The village was created from scratch in 1892, but originally had no church. The Rector of Wonston determined that this was unsatisfactory, and so in 1908 paid £8 (USD 10) out of his own pocket for a plot of land with the intention of erecting a mission room upon it. Money for buying and fitting out a prefabricated building was raised largely through public donations. The total cost, including the laying of the foundations, was £102.50 (USD 133). The church, named St Margaret’s Mission Church, first opened for business on Sunday 7 February 1909.

St Felix Chapel, Babingley, Norfolk. Erected 1880.

Initially the tin tabernacle served its community well, but as the village of South Wonston continued to grow its small size (just 42 square metres) became an intractable problem. And so, in 1996, all services were transferred to the new church of St Margaret’s built in the centre of the village. Ten years later the tin tabernacle was offered to the Weald and Downland Museum by the Trustees of the St Margaret’s Mission Trust. It was dismantled the same year and opened as a permanent exhibit in 2011.

St Felix Chapel at Babingley in Norfolk is more unusual than the two tin tabernacles featured above in that it boasts a thatched roof and is cruciform in shape. It was erected in 1880 as a mission chapel, a response to the fact that Babingley old church was situated a mile from the nearest road and was in a poor state of repair. When the Church of England came to the conclusion that this pretty tin tabernacle was surplus to its requirements, ownership passed to the British Orthodox Church, which still holds services in the building today.

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This short essay demonstrates, I hope, that tin tabernacles are a fascinating piece of our heritage. They are not grand or imposing, but they have real character. And each has its own story to tell. Hopefully Mrs P and I will be able to visit many more examples in years to come as we continue our travels around the UK.

St Felix Chapel.

Roads less travelled – the Western Isles of Scotland

The Western Isles of Scotland are home to many more sheep than people, and are therefore officially my kind of place. We were last there 30 years ago and a return visit was long overdue, so earlier this year we booked tickets for the ferry, packed plenty of warm, water-proof clothing and set off on our travels. The islands themselves didn’t disappoint, though sadly the weather did.

No people. Several sheep. My kind of place!

Also known as the Outer Hebrides, the Western Isles lie at the extreme North-West edge of Scotland. By British standards they are very remote. Head due west from one of the beautiful beaches and your next landfall will somewhere on the northern tip of Labrador, Canada.

The string of islands that together make up the Western Isles stretches for over 100 miles (160 km). They are connected to one another by a series of causeways and ferries which allow tourists like Mrs P and I to island-hop along their entire length, passing scenic sea lochs, dramatic cliffs, rugged hills, sandy beaches, moody moorland and gloopy peat bogs on the way.

You’re never far from the sea on the Western Isles. For tourists the sea’s scenic value is enormous; for many islanders its fish and shellfish have long been an important source of sustenance and income. And when the fishing boats are too old and broken to be safely used, they are left to slowly decay on the shoreline where they give endless pleasure to Mrs P and her fellow photographers.

The islands echo to the sound of bird calls, while gangs of red deer patrol the hills and clusters of seals chill out on the shoreline. We were thrilled to catch a glimpse of a White-tailed Sea Eagle, although it refused to pose for a photo. So too did the Short-Eared Owls, which hunted audaciously along the roadside in broad daylight. Other birds were more accommodating, including a handsome Red-throated Diver. But perhaps the most memorable wildlife experience of our trip was to be able to stand at the kitchen window in our holiday cottage and watch Red Deer in the garden, grazing on shrubs and grasses.

Glimpses of the islands’ rich history are everywhere. The Western Isles were first settled by humans as the climate slowly warmed up after the last Ice Age, around 8,500 BCE. Some 5,000 years ago their descendants erected one of the most extraordinary prehistoric structures in Britain. Calanais (Calanish) is a cross-shaped setting of standing stones, the tallest of which is 16 feet (4.8m) tall. It was an important place for ritual activity for at least 2,000 years, and is believed to have been a rudimentary astronomical observatory.

Another picturesque feature of the Western Isles is the scattering of traditionally designed domestic buildings. Thick stone walls and tiny windows are a reminder of the inhospitable climate that local people have had to contend with over the centuries, while the thatched roofs conjure up (somewhat misplaced!) romantic notions of a cosy lost world.

With a resident population of just 22,000, peace and tranquillity are never far away on the Western Isles: these are indeed roads less travelled. It’s a truly magical place in which to escape the stresses and strains of 21st century urban life, even if the weather is sometimes a bit challenging!

Book-benches, buildings and boats : a busy day in Newark

It was the summer 2024 public art trail that prompted my first ever visit to Newark-on-Trent. Launched in July to coincide with the start of the Newark Book Festival, the trail features bench sculptures shaped like an open book, each decorated by artists from the East Midlands. The colourful designs showcase a range of themes from Newark’s rich history, the beauty of nature, cultural stories and nursery rhymes.

“Corporal Ciapek” by Nottingham artist Nicola Mills.

Some of the benches tell stories from the real world. Corporal Ciapek, for example, is inspired by the story of the artist’s grandfather, who was a member of the Polish Air Force. During WW2 her grandad was based in England, where he met his future wife. He was part of the Polish 305 bomber squadron, whose mascot dog – known as Corporal Ciapek – is shown in the design of the bench.

“Shimmer and Shine” by Carla Dee.

The design of several benches includes the River Trent, which runs through the centre of Newark. “Shimmer and Shine”, for example, references a poem that speaks of 30 tributaries of the Trent, and 30 types of fish found in its waters.

The book-benches were colourful, inventive and lots of fun, and wandering the streets in search of them proved to be a good introduction to the town’s other attractions. It turns out that Newark has a lot to offer.

Standing on the banks of the River Trent, the ruins of Newark Castle dominate the centre of the town. A castle was built on this site around 1068, shortly after the Norman conquest of England, but the current remains are of a building constructed at the start of the 12th century.

Newark Castle is notable as the place where King John died from dysentery in August 1216. John was incompetent, sadistic and deeply unpopular with his people, so much so that chronicler Matthew Parris was moved to observe that “”Foul as it is, Hell itself is made fouler by the presence of John.” I bet they were dancing in the streets of Newark the night he finally succumbed!

For centuries, the River Trent was the lifeblood of Newark, which grew into a thriving hub for waterborne commerce, particularly trade in wool. The river’s bank became home to numerous wharves, warehouses and mills, as well as maltings and breweries. Keeping the boats moving freely became a priority, so a lock was built in 1773 and extended in the 1830s.

A narrow boat passes through Newark Town Lock, towards the ruins of the castle beyond.

These days, of course, commercial use of the river is minimal, but it remains popular with people who like to spend their leisure time boating along inland waterways. We were delighted to watch one very handsome narrowboat pass through the lock to continue its journey along the Trent.

Chain Lane – delightfully quaint and picturesque.

Away from the river, Newark has many picturesque streets and handsome heritage properties that get historians and photographers excited. Chain Lane, for example, is lined with historic buildings, while the hanging baskets of flowers added to the charm of this oasis of calm.

It seemed as if, every time we turned a corner, we spotted more historic gems, like those shown in the photos above. And yet, rather than a tired museum piece, the town seemed lively and relatively prosperous. Although Newark’s history is clearly cherished, the town isn’t living in the past.

“The Little House” (centre of photo, above the arch). The Town Hall is to its right.

One unusually quirky building we encountered was the so-called “Little House”, which at just 6ft 9ins (2m) wide is one of the thinnest buildings in the UK. The origins of this three storey curiosity are unclear, but it is believed to be older than the Town Hall which it adjoins. Eventually, the Little House was knocked through into the Town Hall. Today, its sitting room on the first floor is used as a robing room, where the Mayor of Newark puts on his (or her) ceremonial costume before attending civic functions.

More bizarrely, perhaps, the Little House also contains a toilet specially installed for the visit of Princess Anne to the town in the 1970s. Strange, but true. Clearly royalty doesn’t “go” where the rest of us “go”! Well, who’s a lucky lady then?

The Governor’s House

We ended our day in Newark by treating ourselves to afternoon tea in the Governor’s House café. The half-timbered building dates from 1475, and is a glorious example of late-medieval architecture. Drinking tea and eating cream cakes in a room oozing with history gave us the chance to reflect on our visit to this small, underrated Nottinghamshire town. The public art trail was great*, but by the time you read this it will already have been dismantled. However, there are countless other reasons to visit this place, and Mrs P and I will undoubtedly return. Newark is so much more than a bunch of colourful book-benches!

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* Postscript: In case you’re bored with historic buildings and yearn instead for book-benches, here are a couple more examples

An airport like no other – when the tide’s in, planes can’t land

For most travellers, the airport’s just a staging post on the way to their holiday destination. However, in the Western Isles of Scotland, Barra airport is a destination in its own right, thanks to its unique runways. Barra is believed to be the only airport in the world where scheduled flights land and take-off from a tidal beach, and every day spectators gather to watch the drama unfold.

Landing at Barra Airport. The tide had recently gone out and there was still plenty of standing water on the “runway”.

Barra is a small island at the southern tip of the Western Isles, which are also known as the Outer Hebrides. The resident population is only slightly above 1,000, but numbers are boosted during the summer by visitors hoping to experience the island’s famed beauty and tranquillity. Most tourists arrive by boat, but a few opt for the alternative, a plane that lands at low tide on the beach at Tràigh Mhòr (which appropriately, when translated from Scottish Gaelic, means “Big Beach”).

The first plane to land on Tràigh Mhòr touched down in 1933. At the time the search was on for places where an air ambulance service might be able to land when there was a local medical emergency. Barra postmaster John MacPherson suggested that the compact sand of the beach, popular then and now with cockle pickers, might also be suitable for aircraft.

On 14 June, 1933, Captain Jimmy Orrell tried it out, and confirmed that the beach would indeed pass muster as a landing strip, albeit only when the tide was out!

Coming in to land. On the left, spot the control tower and, a little further to the right, the arrivals/departures lounge!

Three years after Captain Orrell’s touch down, the Air Ministry officially licensed the site as an airport. The first scheduled flight landed on the beach on 7 August, 1936.

And today, 88 years later, they still do. Although Barra has no fewer than three “runways”, laid out in a triangular configuration to enable services to operate regardless of wind direction, the airport is, of course, a small scale operation.

Touch down! Note the windsock visible of the far left of this shot.

Unsurprisingly, there are no international flights. Indeed, the only scheduled route is between Barra and Glasgow, and passenger numbers are tiny: just 13,102 people passed through in 2022. Scheduled flights are confined to daylight hours, but in an emergency situation the airport can operate at night. When landing in the dark, pilots safely find their way with the help of vehicle headlights and reflective strips laid on the beach.

When Mrs P and I first visited the Western Isles 30 years ago, Barra’s quirky little airport was one of the must-see destinations of our trip. And so it was again this year. The word “unique” is overused and misused (you should hear Mrs P rant about that whenever she hears someone on television getting it wrong!), but in this case it is entirely appropriate.

There’s nothing quite like Barra airport, anywhere in the world. I was born and grew up in West London, within a couple of miles of Heathrow, one of the world’s busiest airports, but believe me when I say that the tiny, incongruous airport on the beach at Barra is infinitely more interesting.

Grumpiness personified? Or merely deep in thought?

Nearly 200 years ago a remarkable discovery was made on the beach at Uig in the Western Isles of Scotland; a hoard of 93 medieval artefacts that are today popularly known as the Lewis Chessmen. The hoard comprised 78 chess pieces, probably from five sets, 14 “tablemen” (pieces for backgammon or similar games) and one belt buckle.

Close-up of the queen. Grumpiness personified, or merely deep in thought?

The gaming pieces are carved from walrus and sperm whale ivory, and are just 60mm to 100mm (2.5 to 4 inches) tall. They were probably made in Trondheim (Norway) at some point in the 12th or 13th centuries, and their presence at Uig beach reflects the close relationship that existed between northern Scotland and Norway at the time.

Full view of the queen. She is around 100mm (4 inches) tall.

Mrs P and I were delighted to catch up with a few pieces from the hoard at the Lews Castle museum during our recent visit to the Western Isles (aka the Outer Hebrides). Controversially, most of the hoard is displayed 670 miles (1,080km) away at the British Museum in London, while a further 12 pieces are held at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. Just 6 chessmen can be seen at Lews Castle in Stornoway – the biggest town in the Western Isles – where they are now on permanent loan.

My favourite of all the Lewis Chessmen, is, in fact, no man at all. The expression on the queen’s face is priceless. To me it’s clear she’s irritated, cross and annoyed with someone or something. Grumpiness personified, in fact.

But some scholars disagree. In their view she’s not grumpy at all, merely deep in thought, as might reasonably be expected during a game of chess. They’re entitled to their expert opinions, obviously, but I reckon they’ve got it wrong. I’ve seen that expression countless times on Mrs P’s face when I’ve displeased her. I know grumpiness when I see it, and that’s it!

Clockwise from top left. Bishop (rear view); Queen (rear view); King (rear view); Knight (head-on view); Rook (warder); Pawn

Although the pawn is relatively plain, and is possibly intended to represent a boundary marker, all of the figurative pieces are full of character. And they all look quite miserable. Again, scholars take the view that the sculptor did not intend to suggest any emotion, but rather to portray seriousness and determination. Personally I prefer to think that they’re fed up because they’ve run out of beer.

As well as viewing a few of the original chessmen in the Lews Museum, visitors can also see modern sculptures inspired by them in various parts of the islands. This towering wooden version of one of the kings was particularly impressive. Without doubt, seeing some of the original Lewis Chessmen, as well as modern artworks they have inspired, was one of the highlights of our tour of the Western Isles.

Colourful elephants invade historic city

This summer a herd of 74 colourful elephants have been parading proudly through the Staffordshire city of Lichfield, as well as the nearby towns of Tamworth and Sutton Coldfield. And what a show they put on, bringing welcome colour to the urban landscape, supporting local businesses by boosting tourist numbers, and lifting the spirits of anyone spotting them.

“Fruity Frida” by Lucy Hebden, inspired by the markets of Lichfield, Tamworth and Sutton Coldfield.

But there’s more! Working in association with the events management company Wild in Art, a local Lichfield hospice – St Giles – has been instrumental in the organisation of the art trail. As a result of this collaboration, when autumn comes and the show is over, many of the sculptures will be auctioned off to raise funds that will help support local people who are living with a terminal illness. Everyone’s a winner when the elephants come to town.

Lichfield lies a few miles north of the city of Birmingham, and has a population of around 35,000. Although boasting a number of historic buildings, by the far the most famous is its medieval cathedral, the only three-spired cathedral in the UK. The organisers of the March of the Elephants public art trail were canny enough to place one of the sculptures in the grounds of the cathedral, enabling photographers like Mrs P to record this improbable sight for posterity.

“Staffie” by Anne-Marie Byrne, dwarfed by the majestic Lichfield Cathedral.

Sculptures along the trail come in two sizes. The larger elephants are designed and painted by professional artists, some local and others with a national profile. Without exception these are eye-catching creations, and it was great to see how both adults and children engaged with them.

In addition there are around 40 smaller sculptures designed by local schools and community groups, displayed in shops and venues like the local library. This aspect of the trail is particularly pleasing to see, an obvious attempt to make art inclusive and for everyone, rather than a minority, elitist pursuit.

Our day in Lichfield was a day well spent. It’s not a place I would ever have considered visiting were it not for the March of the Elephants. It plainly has a lot more to offer, including a scattering of historic buildings, a museum dedicated to the 18th century writer Samuel Johnson (“Dr Johnson”) who was born in the city, and a well maintained public park. But our visit to Lichfield was so crammed with elephants that we failed to do the rest of the city justice. Oh dear, we’ll just have to go back!

Mine’s bigger than yours – top guys have huge dovecotes!

This may be difficult to believe, but dovecotes were once important status symbols. Yes, that’s right, dovecotes, those quirky structures that our ancestors built for pigeons. Back in the day, you could discern a man’s wealth and social status by the size of his pigeon house. Top guys had huge, sometimes ornate dovecotes, middling guys had plain, little dovecotes. Ordinary guys – a.k.a. commoners, like my ancestors – weren’t allowed to have a dovecote at all.

Sibthorpe Dovecote in Nottinghamshire is believed to date from the 14th century. It is 15 metres high by 10 metres in diameter and has 1,148 nesting chambers.

Why so much fuss about pigeons and the places in which they spent the night? Well, the thing about pigeons is that they were once an important source of meat. In the Middle Ages, before root vegetables were widely available and grown in Britain, keeping livestock such as pigs and cows alive over the winter months was a struggle.

Swainsley Dovecore, Staffordshire. Evidence here of human occupancy, as well as pigeons!

Pigeons, on the other hand, were much less of a challenge. Simply give them a safe place to roost overnight, to build nests and to raise their young, and they look after themselves. At daybreak the birds would fly off to forage for food, before returning to the dovecote as night began to fall. The owner therefore had ready access to fresh meat every day of the year, as well as a plentiful supply of guano with which to fertilise his fields, and even a few feathers if he felt the need to make an arrow or two.

Rendall Doocot is on one of the Orkney islands off the north coast of Scotland. It dates from the mid-1600s. The birds entered the doocot (dovecote) through a small hole in the roof and nested inside

Dovecotes were most probably introduced into Britain by the Norman invaders nearly 1,000 years ago. But the defeated Brits had to be kept in their place, so from the outset the right to keep doves was limited to the Norman aristocratic elite and their descendants. For this reason, early dovecotes were usually sited in or close to castles and great houses.

Tucked away in the far right of this photo, which features the 16th century Ford Green Hall in Staffordshire, is an early 18th-century brickwork dovecote. The windows suggest a later conversion for human occupancy.

Unsurprisingly, given our obsession with social status, dovecotes soon became a vehicle for one-upmanship. They were strategically located within estates, on approach roads or next to the main entrance, ensuring they could be seen easily by those whom the Lord wished to impress. And no expense was spared in the design of a dovecote – bigger was better, and hugely ornate was better still.

Dunster Dovecote in Somerset dates from the late 16th century

It is reckoned that, by the middle of the 17th century, there were over 25,000 dovecotes in England. At around that time a more relaxed attitude began to emerge; commoners, albeit commoners with a good deal of money, began to build modest pigeon dwellings of their own. This, in turn, destroyed the incentive for members of the elite to construct grand dovecotes – there was no longer any social status to be gained from pigeon houses if mere commoners were allowed to have one!

The final nail in the coffin of dovecotes came in the early 18th century, when root vegetables were introduced into British agriculture. From that point, farmed livestock could be overwintered in large numbers, eliminating the need for alternative sources of meat during the colder months. Dovecotes were no longer needed. They swiftly fell out of fashion and into disrepair.

Wichenford Dovecote in Worcestershire is timber-framed and dates from the 17th century. IMAGE CREDIT: Wichenford Dovecote by Chris Allen, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Today anyone can have a dovecote, but few of us bother. If you want it, fresh meat is available to buy in the shops all year round, and for those who care about such things social status is determined by the schools we attended, the jobs we do, the clothes we wear and the cars we drive.

A modern dovecote at Trent Lock, Nottinghamshire. Size clearly counts for less in the 21st century!

But as this post illustrates, over the years Mrs P and I have stumbled across numerous dovecotes scattered haphazardly across the British landscape. Some have been restored and adapted for modern use, while others stand abandoned in the countryside, memorials to a forgotten world in which size really mattered and pigeon pie helped keep the ruling elite well fed during the winter months.

Disneyesque fantasies, ancient timbers, knotted dachshunds – the diverse joys of Great Dixter

Most old buildings have a story to tell: you just have to know where to look. Great Dixter, in the county of East Sussex, is a case in point. In its present form it dates from 1910-12, the work of celebrated architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (1869-1944). Lutyens was famous for imaginatively adapting traditional architectural styles to the requirements of his era, so it should probably come as no surprise that Great Dixter is in fact three buildings – two of them medieval – in one.

Great Dixter – three houses in one.

The original building on the site was a house known simply as Dixter, and dates from the mid-15th century. When businessman Nathaniel Lloyd (1867-1933) bought it in 1909, he quickly decided that it didn’t meet his 20th century needs. However he was a wealthy man, thanks to his colour printing business, wealthy enough to be able to buy his way out of the problem.

The oldest part of Great Dixter was built between 1440 and 1454.

Lloyd’s solution was to purchase a 16th century Yeoman’s Hall, built in a similar style, from the adjoining county of Kent. This new acquisition was swiftly dismantled, loaded onto trucks and brought to Dixter for re-assembly. Lutyens was hired to renovate both buildings, and to design and construct a third, linking the two older structures together. The result was a single house, much larger than its individual components, that was given the name Great Dixter.

The Great Dixter we see today is, in effect, an early 20th century, sanitised re-imagining of medieval life. Eat your heart out, Walt Disney!

Probably the most significant room is the Great Hall. At 40ft (12m) long by 31ft (9.5m) high, it is one of the largest surviving medieval timber frame halls in the country. It looks wonderfully, romantically comfortable. Wow, we think to ourselves, didn’t they live well in the Middle Ages! But don’t be fooled, back in the day the Great Hall was altogether less agreeable than today’s visitor to Great Dixter might assume.

Originally the floor was nothing more than beaten earth, covered with rushes. The Great Hall was heated by an open fire in the centre of that floor, the smoke from which escaped through unglazed windows – which could only be closed off with wooden shutters – or via a louvre-capped hole in the roof. To this day the wooden roof beams are stained black, evidence of the smoky-choky environment the medieval occupants had to endure.

The Solar would have been the principal private apartment of the 15th century house.

Unsurprisingly, this was not a lifestyle that Lloyd intended to embrace. He and his family used the Great Hall as their living and dining room for around 20 years, and to give them a standard of living in line with their perceived position in society, they installed modern amenities, including electric lighting and central heating. Radiators are concealed beneath old oak chests specially adapted for the purpose, and there’s not a shuttered window or wisp of smoke in sight. Lloyd was in love with the romance of life in the Middle Ages, not its harsh realities.

In medieval times the Parlour was one of the other private room to which the family could escape.

Only four rooms at Great Dixter are open to the public, as most of the building is used as accommodation for international students of gardening who are based on the property. While none of the others is as special as the Great Hall, all are impressive. Courtesy of Edwin Lutyens, they conjure up cosy, sentimental notions of a lost medieval world. I’m sure the Lloyds must have been happy living in their Disneyesque fantasy world; I know I would.

This is part of the 16th century Yeoman’s Hall, which was dismantled and moved here from Kent. In the early 20th century Mr and Mrs Lloyd used it as their bedroom

But now I have a confession to make. Great Dixter is a fascinating building that simply oozes with history (real and imagined) and architectural charm (I just love those ancient timbers), but the thing I enjoyed seeing most of all during our visit was this delightfully witty little carving of a dachshund! Yes, I know, it seems like I’m trivialising an important, Grade I Listed piece of architecture. But that’s not the intention. Surely it’s no sin to make the most of an unexpected opportunity for a happy laugh in these troubled times?

Christopher Lloyd was clearly a dog lover with a mischievous sense of humour.

Christopher Lloyd, who was the youngest of Nathaniel Lloyd’s children and spent his whole life at Great Dixter, was mad-keen on dachshunds (aka wiener dogs or sausage dogs), and happily shared the property with these furry draft excluders. The presence of the carving hints at his love for these popular little dogs, and helps turn what could otherwise appear to be a sterile piece of architectural whimsy into a home lived in by a real person. Way to go, Christopher!

Way to go, Christopher!

Where art and religion meet – the Berwick Church murals

Once upon a time, the interior of the typical English church was a riot of colour. In the Middle Ages churchgoers were greeted by vibrant images on just about every available surface; images featuring great biblical events and stories from the gospels. At a time when most of the population were illiterate, wall paintings were an important teaching aid, communicating key messages of Christianity to the masses. And then the Reformation came along, and put a stop to all of that.

The Protestants who found themselves empowered by the Reformation in the 16th century regarded painted murals as just one more example of Roman Catholic frivolity, a distraction from the deadly serious business of religion. Convinced that God was on their side, the Protestants ordered the whitewashing of church murals. Soon, church interiors were uniformly white. Boring!

Although some murals survived, hidden for centuries beneath successive layers of whitewash, most were destroyed when the whitewashed plaster was eventually hacked off prior to resurfacing. The newly applied plaster was equally white, and equally boring. But in just a few places, enlightened individuals speculated that the return of wall paintings would not provoke the wrath of God, but instead might serve to celebrate the glory of His creation. One such place was the village of Berwick, in the southern English county of East Sussex.

The murals that now adorn St Michael and All Angels Church, Berwick, were the brainchild of Bishop George Bell of Chichester, in whose diocese the church is to be found. The Bishop had a personal interest in Modernist art, and was keen to forge links between the church and the arts. With his encouragement the project was undertaken at the height of World War II: it was commissioned in 1941, and a service of dedication to mark the completion of the murals was held in October 1943.

The Berwick murals were painted by renowned artists Duncan Grant, Vanessa Bell and Quentin Bell, who all happened to be living just a few miles away at the time. They were all part of the Bloomsbury Group, an informal circle of English writers, intellectuals, philosophers and artists active in the first half of the 20th century. Members of the Group also included Virginia Woolf, John Maynard Keynes, E. M. Forster and Lytton Strachey.

Those associated with the Bloomsbury Group were regarded as unorthodox in terms of attitudes to aesthetics, fashion, gender, politics, sex and war, and it’s therefore no surprise that what the artists came up with at Berwick is unlike anything else to be found in an English church.

Although the subject matter of the Berwick murals is religious, they have a distinctly modern feel. For example, the landscapes that form the background to the paintings are representations of the local South Downs area of Sussex, while many of the figures represented in them are based on local farmworkers, their families and children.

Given that the country was at war with Adolf Hitler and his henchmen, the murals celebrate a way of life that was then under threat. One of them, Christ in Glory, depicts three servicemen, representative of the countless soldiers, sailors and airmen who put their lives at risk to keep the people of Berwick, and all their compatriots, safe from the Nazi hordes.

The aim of the artists was clearly to make Christianity more accessible and relevant to the local community. Bishop Bell (who, incidentally, was unrelated to either of the artists who shared his surname) put it this way:

The pictures will bring home to you the real truth of the Bible story …help the pages of the New Testament speak to you – not as sacred personages living in a far-off land and time, but as human beings …with the same kind of human troubles, and faults, and goodness, and dangers, that we know in Sussex today.

I’m not a religious man, nor do I have any artistic tendencies or abilities, but I have to say that I found Berwick Church to be extraordinary, quite unlike any other that I’ve visited before. Sir Nicholas Serota, Chair of Arts Council England since 2017, summed it up perfectly when he said:

“…the remarkable decorative scheme in Berwick church is of national and even international importance. It is, critically, the only example in the country of the complete decoration of the interior of an ancient rural parish church by twentieth century artists of repute.”

I can’t help thinking, however, that the Protestant zealots who whitewashed the walls of parish churches up and down the land in the 16th century wouldn’t have been nearly as impressed as either me or the estimable Mr Serota!

Well Dressing – a quaint Derbyshire tradition

Water, in the right quantity, is essential for the survival and well-being of our species. Too much or too little and we’re in big trouble. But rainfall is, of course, totally outside of human control, so our ancestors decided that, just to be on the safe side, it would be prudent to keep on the right side of the water gods. And thus was born the quaint Derbyshire tradition of well dressing.

Well dressing in the Derbyshire village of Taddington in 2022

Well dressing is the art of decorating wells, springs and other water sources with natural objects – particularly flower petals, leaves and seeds – to create vibrant pictures and designs. Its origins are uncertain. Some people assert that the practice was introduced by the Romans around 2,000 years ago, but others believe it to be even older. According to this theory, Celtic tribes that pre-dated the arrival of the Romans decorated sources of fresh water to give thanks for past supplies, and to encourage these supplies to carry on flowing in the future.

The tradition of well dressing is almost entirely confined to my home county of Derbyshire and surrounding areas of the Peak District. Why this is so remains uncertain. Clearly, reliable supplies of drinking water are essential everywhere, and so practices giving thanks for it can also reasonably be expected to happen in every corner of the country.

One of Belper’s well dressings in 2023.

There are suggestions that the ancient Celtic practice had indeed died out everywhere, but was revived in Tissington in the mid-14th century when the Derbyshire village was reportedly spared the ravages of the plague by the purity of its spring water. Alternatively, it is proposed that Tissington was saved from the great drought of 1615 by the reliability of its springs, and the villagers sought to give thanks by reviving the tradition of well dressing.

Either, or both, of these theories could be true, but ultimately this is of little importance. The fact is that the tradition is flourishing, with around 80 towns and villages in Derbyshire and the Peak District now having annual well dressings. Some of these don’t even have a proper well or spring, but such is the enthusiasm to participate in a traditional, community-focused activity that another local landmark is chosen to show off their floral creations.

Well-dressing begins with the construction – close to the well, spring or other chosen location – of a large wooden frame upon which the image will be created. Clay is then collected from the local environment, and strenuously worked until it’s soft and malleable. The worked clay is packed into the wooden frame, and smoothed out until it has produced a totally flat surface upon which the image can be created. To allow several teams to work on different parts of the well dressing at the same time the frame may comprise several separate panels, which are brought together only when they have been decorated.

A sketch of the proposed design of the Chadkirk well dressing, to help guide the team working on its creation.

An outline of the intended image is sketched on to a large sheet of paper. The design is applied to the smooth surface of the clay by pricking through with a sharp instrument and the paper is removed.

Now the real fun begins! Teams of makers from the local community “paint” the design onto the clay surface, using natural materials to create a stunning, colourful mosaic. The can take up to a week to complete, and the picture thus created lasts only a few days until the clay starts to dry and crack.

Writing nearly 30 years ago, a prominent local historian noted that well dressings are invariably blessed in a religious service, and suggested that around 75% of well dressings have a religious theme. However, my own observations lead me to believe that images are increasingly focused on the natural world rather than Christianity, reflecting perhaps a more modern approach to spirituality.

Some communities make arrangements for visitors to watch their well dressings being created. Mrs P and I did just that last year when we visited the little village of Chadkirk, which lies on the edge of the Peak District, within the neighbouring county of Cheshire. It was fascinating to watch the painstaking efforts of the volunteers working on various panels, where nature rather than religion was at the forefront of the design.

Sadly we never got to see the finished well dressing, which was not ready until several days after our visit, But Mrs P’s photos of the work in progress are a good indication of what the final result must have looked like. Chadkirk’s well dressing, and dozens of others scattered through towns and villages of Derbyshire and the Peak District, celebrate a tradition that is deeply embedded within our local culture. Long may it continue!