28-29 July 2007
Little Moreton Hall
Getting to this place on a Sunday involved a journey longer than expected. Trains from Chester towards Crewe were not that frequent. Connections at Crewe were not convenient. I had a long wait at Crewe. It did not bother me because I was deep in the wilderness of the Himalayas with Herzog, his compatriots and his sherpas. As I journeyed slowly through a brilliant sun-kissed Cheshire countryside, I read of ice-and-snow capped peaks of Daulagiri and Annapurna. I read of the brave and bold vision of a few Frenchmen who wanted to conquer them in an unmapped mountainous terrain.
Walking along the canal towards Little Moreton Hall
When I left the train at Kidsgrove, I followed easy towpaths alongside canals. Although I have walked along many such canals I found something unique here. At one point two canals crossed each other, one above another! Roads and highways cross each other this way often. Rail tracks in the London Underground possibly do this even more. But canals! It had never occurred to me that this was possible.
All the way, it was an easy walk to Little Moreton Hall. To be out on a sunny day in summer in the countryside is to witness some sort of a perfection. The sky was made in blue and meant to be blue. The clouds were painted in white and were meant to be on the move. The vegetation was luxuriously green and was meant to signify the unrestrained growth of summer. The wind was meant to pleat the canal waters and flirt with leaves of ash. All these things existed in their native elements possibly for a reason, possibly for someone to see and be moved. That trivial things should reach perfection so easily! It is only trivial things that can achieve perfection – anything that’s complex will find it difficult. Within few minutes, this expanse of green and luxuriant countryside had its effect on me. The Himalayan peaks and that French expedition of 1950 was forgotten in preference to an immediate English experience. Travel is all about immediacy. It is the reality of being at the place and doing things in person. It is not about another’s experience.
Collage from Little Moreton Hall
Little Moreton Hall. What a delightful building timber-framed building and how beautifully preserved! All the buildings of Chester, wonderful as they are, cannot compete this one. It is highly decorative. The patterns are varied on both walls and windows. Started in the 15th century, the building has grown organically with no definite architectural style or layout. Yet this growth has been as parts that make the whole rather than break it. If there has been any sensibility in the medieval architects who made this, it has been to enhance its charm by unexpected variations – a little gable here, an extended tower there, a jettied window here, a little alcove there. Then there is the bold long gallery that spans the breadth of the building. Even from the facade, we can see the curve of this gallery. In fact, the building refuses to conform to rigid rules of architecture and cares little for plumb lines. When we climb to the first floor and above, we are likely to believe that it’s really a miracle that the building is standing as it is. Everything in this building is precise but it is not the precision of modern engineering. Nothing is straight. Everything leans at an angle.
Passing through the main entrance, we arrive at a central courtyard. Here we begin to see the true worth of this building. The house defines this courtyard in a roughly semi-circular shape with jagged edges. The open end of the courtyard leads to the moat and the garden through a hedge. The gables are many. Without these, much of the dynamism of the courtyard would be lost. These are not gables that stretch in a straight line. Each one is offset from its neighbour at an angle. Together, they trace the semi-circle of the courtyard. Each of the rooms has spaces that project into the courtyard, as if the rooms should gather to converse and gossip. From the inside, it is easier to see that these projections are parts of hexagons or octagons. In a way, these echo the shapes of patterns found on windows.
A view of the windows and roof edges
On these windows the lead linings make interesting patterns. Within a single window or a set of windows, the pattern is the same. When compared to the patterns on windows of another wall, they are different. All patterns are angular consisting of squares, rectangles, trapeziums, diamonds, hexagons, octagons and their variations. For example, the octagons are sometimes equilateral but more often they are not. Very rarely do we see curves or circles but they do occur in some windows on the higher floors. On the ground floor, some of the window frames display a daring inclination to lean steeply. The window glass too is of considerable interest. They are tinged in light colours depending on the chemicals that are in them – copper for blue/green, magnesium for pink and iron for yellow.
The timbers have been blackened with pitch while the infilling is limewashed. It is said that when oak is well ventilated it withers to an attractive silver grey and is tougher than many types of stone. The patterns made by these blacks, whites and intermediate greys are charming. They are sometimes like optical illusions. Do we notice the black more than white? Do we find continuity of shapes between frames of timber, or do we see this more across frames? In other words, do we see circles or pinched diamonds? Do we see parallel lines or concentric diamonds and squares? Are the patterns more obvious at the centre of a wall or more powerful at the corner of two walls? There are no clear answers.
Little Moreton Hall
While first floors are jettied, the same is done for the second floor. In some cases, windows of the first floor are also jettied. This recurs for windows on the second floor. By this series of little projections, the slant and the uncertain stability of the building are enhanced. Each floor or window at a higher level strives to peep beyond those below it. In such jettying there is one further detail that cannot be found in the buildings of Lavenham. While in Lavenham the projections are bare horizontal parallel beams supported by posts or brackets, here the projections have been filled in and smoothed to a concave moulding. Covings, as they are called, are either plain or decorated with patterns that extend those on the walls. The decorative form is most obvious in the covings within the courtyard.
In this courtyard are some 16th century words that pay tribute to the builders:
THIES WINDOVS BY THE grac OF GOD
Note the older spelling of familiar words. The word grace is “grac” and has been rendered in lower case due to lack of space on the coving. As much of the building, these words too much have been restored in more recent times.
The Long Road Home
I took time to leave Little Moreton Hall. The property closed for visitors. The last visitors left. The staff, one by one, departed. I sat on the grassy lawn in front of the building and under the shade of a leafy tree. In a field across, the cattle looked at me with their beady eyes. What was in their gaze – puzzlement or curiosity – I couldn’t say. I had a little sip of water. I wrote a postcard home carrying with it the impressions of this lovely timber-framed building of medieval Cheshire.
A view into Stafforshire from Cheshire
My bus from Stoke-on-Trent was not till midnight. I had plenty of time to walk to Stoke-on-Trent, though a long walk. I retraced my path along the canals through the same splendid countryside I had admired on my way to Little Moreton Hall. Leaving the canals, I walked through various suburbs, following for most part the National Cycle Route Number 5. I passed Kidsgrove, Turnhurst, Pitts Hill, Tunstall, Burslem, Cobridge and finally Hanley. Stoke-on-Trent is one of those industrial towns that have grown out of the amalgamation of these smaller towns. Together with neighbouring Newcastle-under-Lyme, they form what is called a conurbation. Development and evolution of cities can thus happen in two ways: the city begins to take shape from a distinct centre and starts to spread out into various suburbs; or the city grows as a conurbation of small centres which are distinct in their own ways but depend on each other for growth and prosperity. In all such conurbations we may regard that these small towns have something in common that contributes to their shared fortunes. In the case of Stoke-on-Trent, this common element was pottery.
A bottle-kiln at twilight
As I walked through these towns I often spotted brick kilns that stand on a broad base and taper gradually to a slender chimney. Bottle-kilns, as these are called, are quite similar to the ones I have seen at Coalport, Shropshire. Stoke-on-Trent must have once been a hive of activity with hundreds of such kilns filling the skyline, their smoky exhalations polluting an erstwhile clean countryside air. The principal causes for the concentration of this industry here are – the local availability of coal that could be mined easily; the availability of clay of various types; supply of water; river transportation by the Trent and Mersey Canal.
If I don’t like the look of Luton, Stoke-on-Trent is worse. I walked through some of the worst neighbourhoods I have seen anywhere in Britain. I walked through some back lanes and alleys overflowing with litter. The children seemed oblivious to this. They were at ease in their plays amidst the litter. The buildings reeked of poverty, unemployment and crime. It was not a surprise that in my brief stop, I heard the police cars whizzing past often. The town centre was deserted at a little past nine. The strange thing is not this desertion but the fact that people live hidden lives in crowded pubs and nightclubs. The strange thing is not the total silence of shops and walkways but that this silence is mirrored by noise and loud music behind closed doors. The strange thing is not that 21st century man has forsaken the great outdoors but prefers the dark passages of his own making.
I had no inclination to have my dinner in this drab town. I managed to get an earlier bus to Birmingham where I waited for a couple of hours for the connecting bus. I had the pleasure of seeing Coventry once more. Within minutes after departing Coventry there was a sudden hue and cry. “Hey brother! You have forgotten to close the hatch”, someone shouted. It became apparent that the luggage hatch had not been closed properly and one bag got lost on the road. The coach had to return to the bus station. If cattle have a highly developed herd instinct, man is not far behind. One passenger got off the coach to check if his bag was still safe. Everyone else followed. Another man was quick to condemn the driver, “I will complain to National Express. He didn’t do his job properly”. It’s a pleasure to travel light. The only bag I had brought on this trip was a little one. How much can a man need for a weekend trip? One of the taxi drivers had followed the coach and picked up the missing luggage. Then he went off on a call and all of us had to wait for twenty minutes for him to return. When we finally left Coventry, we were running 45 minutes late. These are the little joys of travelling! Life would be boring if everything was perfect, if everything happened as planned.
Part1 | Part2 | Part3
