Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo. It seeks to convey a message, but speaks for itself without using words. This photo features Horsey Windpump, which can be seen in the English county of Norfolk.
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.
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 inset map shows the Western Isles in red, off the north-west coast of mainland Scotland. Map credit: ” By Contains Ordnance Survey data © Crown copyright and database right, CC BY-SA 3.0, Link “
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.
Water, water everywhere. You’re never far from the sea in the Western Isles.
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 fishing industry has left its mark on the Western Isles, much to the delight of 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.
For us, wildlife is one of big attractions of the Western Isles. Here we see Red Deer, a Buzzard, Whooper Swans and a Red-throated Diver.
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.
At over 5,000 years old the Calanais (Calanish) standing stones predate the famous prehistoric monument at Stonehenge in the south of England.
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.
On the Western Isles, some traditional domestic buildings have been restored, conjuring up romantic notions of a 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!
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!
The River Trent was once a thriving hub for waterborne commerce
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
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.
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.
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!
Kinwarton Dovecote in Warwickshire dates from the 14th century and has over 580 nesting chambers. It is the only remaining relic of a moated grange (country house with associated farm buildings) belonging to the nearby Abbey of Evesham.
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>, 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.
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.
Two views of the Great Hall, as modernised by Edwin Lutyens for comfortable 20th century living. In medieval times the Great Hall would have been a public space, open to the wider family and guests.
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!
We’ll soon be heading north to Scotland on our annual pilgrimage. The Scottish landscape and natural scenery are fabulous, but some of the little fishing villages are quaintly picturesque too. To me, born in London and resident for nearly 50 years in landlocked Derbyshire, the seaside seems like another world, so it’s always a treat whenever we go there.
The picturesque harbour at St Monans
One of the fishing villages that caught our eye during our last trip to Scotland was St Monans in the county of Fife. The village is named for the eponymous 6th century saint who came from Ireland to Scotland to spread the teachings of Christianity. At its heart is the harbour, overlooked by traditional fishermen’s cottages, some with white walls, others colourfully painted. They date predominantly from the 18th and 19th centuries, and although most have since been significantly altered, their origins are clear if you know how to read the signs.
More harbour views…seems like another world born in London and resident for nearly 50 years in landlocked Derbyshire!
Many of the cottages are roofed with distinctive red pantiles. This style, which is found widely in villages on the east coast of Scotland, originated across the North Sea in the Low Countries (the Netherlands and Belgium). The pantiles were used as ballast on trading ships returning from mainland Europe, and were then adopted as roofing materials when the ships were unloaded at St Monans.
Pantiles can be seen on several of these cottages. Note also, on some of the roofs, the “crow-stepped” gables that are believed to have been developed to break up the airflow and protect the tiles from being blown off in a gale.
To my eyes, the most striking feature of some of these cottages is the forestairs, an outdoor staircase leading to a door on the first floor. Fewer than ten examples survive today, but in the past they would have been much more common. They hark back to the heydays of the fishing industry, when living accommodation would often have been on the first floor, above a boat store, workshop and sail store on the ground floor.
The outdoor staircases (forestairs) leading to doors on the first floor are an echo of the time when the residents of these cottages were fishermen.
Although it is the historic residential buildings that give St Monans its character, the church is also worthy of comment. It dates from 1369, and was originally founded by King David II of Scotland in gratitude for his having survived a shipwreck on the coast nearby. Originally built as a small house of Dominican friars, it was restored in the early 19th century and now serves as the local parish church. When viewed from most angles the church has the sea as its background. It is widely claimed to be the nearest to the sea of any church in Scotland.
Photo credit: By Jim Bain, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9222537
A little further outside St Monans is the last remaining windmill in Fife, a relic of the salt industry. Large scale salt production began here in the late 18th century, and the windmill was used to pump seawater into the saltpans where it would be evaporated to reveal the finished product. The industry lasted only a few decades before closing down in 1825. The remains of the saltpans are unimpressive, little more than a few grassy mounds and depressions close to the shoreline. The windmill, however, has been restored and acts as a reminder of an industry that is unknown to most people today.
The (reconstructed) windmill, and the (barely visible) humps and bumps in the grass between it and the sea, are all that remains of a salt production industry that closed down 200 years ago.
By no stretch of the imagination could St Monans be described as spectacular. But there’s lots to admire there, including glimpses of a world and a lifestyle that is a total mystery to those of us who live our lives a very long way from the sea. Definitely worth a visit, if you’re ever in that part of Scotland.
Foul weather was our constant companion from the start of 2024. It wore us down, the sombre grey sky, the biting wind, the constant rain. There was no pleasure to be had in going out, so we stayed at home, and as grim weeks ganged up to become relentlessly miserable months we started to go stir-crazy. So when, at last, conditions began to improve we quickly decided we deserved a treat, courtesy of our local heritage railway.
This is Peak Rail at its best…the sight, and the sounds and the smells of a gleaming, steaming locomotive! This loco was built in 1955.
We live in Derbyshire, on the edge of the Peak District. Famed for the natural beauty of its limestone hills and verdant dales, in 1951 the Peak District became the UK’s first national park. The railway that crossed it, running between Derby and Manchester, was a triumph of nineteenth century civil engineering. It was claimed by many to be Britain’s most scenic railway line.
Sadly I never got to find out in person if this claim was true. Much of the line was closed down in the 1960s, the victim of an efficiency drive shaped by the infamous “Beeching Report” of 1962. Accountants, politicians and British Rail bosses doubtless allowed themselves a glass of champagne to celebrate this “victory” for cost-effectiveness, but railway enthusiasts were dismayed. Their response was to band together to form the “Peak Railway Society” – later “Peak Rail Operations – with the aim of restoring the line for recreational and community use.
This is the little steam locomotive that pulled our restaurant car. It dates from 1946.
Half a century later, the dream lives on. Peak Rail has succeeded in re-opening around 4 miles (6.5 km) of track, between Rowsley South Station and Matlock, over which it operates a service featuring heritage steam and diesel locomotives. Here’s how Peak Rail describes its offer:
Whether it’s simply a nostalgic journey back to a bygone age or a discovery of the sights and sounds…of a steam or diesel locomotive[,] Peak Rail welcomes you to experience the thrill of our preserved railway whilst travelling through the delightful Derbyshire countryside…As well as our normal train journeys, there is something for everyone to enjoy, luxury dining is available on our Palatine Restaurant Car which offers Afternoon Teas and operates on various days during the year. [Source: Peak rail website, retrieved 14 May, 2024]
Views from the train hint at the picturesque charms of Derbyshire’s rural landscape
The reality, it must be said, proved to be more modest than the marketing hype. The part of Derbyshire through which the train travels is pleasant, but not exceptional (it’s on the edge of the national park rather than within it), and given that the line is just 4 miles long there’s not a huge amount to see. The locomotive that powered our train gleamed brightly in the welcome afternoon sunshine, but wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination remarkable in the context of other UK heritage steam trains. And the Afternoon Tea, while thoroughly enjoyable, didn’t align with my understanding of the words “luxury dining!”
But it’s important to remember that this is an organisation run by volunteers, and a service delivered almost entirely by volunteers. It’s not a commercial operation, so you have to adjust your expectations accordingly.
Not the best Afternoon Tea we’ve ever had, but the setting makes it a memorable treat
Peak Rail offers an opportunity to escape the rigours of the 21st century for a couple of hours, and to wallow in nostalgia. Back in the 1970s, dear old British Rail – the late, unlamented provider of the UK’s national rail network at the time – ran a series of commercials that sought to persuade motorists to abandon their cars in favour of rail travel. Its strapline was “let the train take the strain,” and that’s just what we did for a couple of hours, courtesy of Peak Rail.
Thanks to Peak Rail we were finally able to get back on track, after many months of meteorological misery. I’m pleased to report that a fine time was had by all
Now I'm 64 