I looked at the wonderful, text-book structural fault and could hardly contain my glee. Of course, such a thing is bad news for the owner of the building, but looking at this brought all the problems of the past ten years into sharp focus. I was standing two storeys up on the scaffolding, flapping debris sheet behind me, grit blowing along the rough scaffold boards and the sun shining brightly, with a dark cloud on its way over. I wanted to see this and photograph it before the next load of rain was dumped on the city and made us dash for the site hut. Traffic rumbled on the street below, or was that thunder?
It had been grand, once. A rich merchant in the 1540s had spent a lot of money building it. The oak frame was made of huge timbers from trees of a stature that would have put today’s great oaks to shame. The spaces between the timbers were filled with mellow, irregular red brick, beautifully laid in a herringbone pattern. Each window was made of large, elaborate roll moulded oak sections with little, diamond-paned, leaded glazing. The opening windows were of wrought iron with lovely curly, time worn stays and catches. The interior had oak panelling, each panel made to show off the rippling grain of the timber and each muntin and rail had a little chamfer, stopped at the corners. The enormous fireplaces were so wide you could lie down in them, and had beautiful two-centred brick arches holding the chimney breast above. The firebacks were of patterned, basket weave and herringbone brick, stained with hundreds of years worth of soot. In the Victorian era, a new wing and some alterations had been done, unusually tastefully, by a well known local architect. So beautiful, so old. So badly damaged it had been deserted for five years and was full of filth, debris, pigeons and druggers’ paraphanalia.
The last tenant had been sitting in the living room in the flat over the shops one evening when a particularly large lorry went by. As usual, the building shook. More unusually, he could suddenly see a shaft of light hitting the floor from the streetlamp outside. It was not coming through one of the windows, but through a large, jagged and newly formed crack in one of the walls. The following day, more cracks snaked up the chimney breast and the floor had distorted. Some hefty Accrow props were installed by a structural engineer, who labelled it as dangerous and began a lengthy drain investigation, leading to a court case.
Five years later, and the case was settled, after protracted wrangling, out of court. Meanwhile, this lovely building was empty, leaking and continuing to slump onto its props. The drains were relaid, but the damage, according to the engineers, was done.
Forward another three years and I am standing on the scaffolding. The builder had taken down part of the brickwork over the shopfront and exposed a huge oak beam, a foot wide and eighteen inches deep, from an oak of such a size I felt disappointed in our modern oak trees for months afterwards. Even more amazing was that this huge thing, so strong you could have supported a bridge with it, had been almost completely rotted through. Oak does eventually go rotten, of course, but often only around the outside, whilst the centre becomes harder and stronger with age. It has naturally occurring tannic acid in it which prevents rot and insect attack, so I rarely see a member of this size in this condition. This beam supported the Victorian brickwork over, where the first crack appeared. The problem was not the drains at all, but lack of support over the shopfront.
I looked up at the cast iron gutter. A drip was forming slowly at the bolted joint, glittering in the sun. As I watched, it fell onto the lead flashing over the projecting face of the shopfront. Instead of being directed off the building, as it should be, it ran back into a tiny hole in the lead, and into the gap where the beam should be.
One drip. Another drip. Over how many years? I wondered. If the owners ten years ago had mended the gutter and the tiny hole in the lead, a repair costing less than £200, all would be well. Now the cost was somewhat more. Such a tiny fault, such a huge and catastrophic effect.
26 June 2007
17 June 2007
Bricks Are Really Interesting...
The humble brick, that wonderful hand sized polyhedron made from nothing more than fired dirt, which has built everything from Roman aquaducts, to castles, to your outside privy; what a wonderful thing it is. I can’t understand why peoples’ eyes glaze over when I mention my brick collection, or why they remember all sorts of pressing appointments and leave when I offer them a tour. Even some other architects find it strange, but they tend to be from the glass, steel and concrete faction.
It makes me want to weep when I see poorly laid or badly repaired brickwork. It’s only too common, unfortunately.
Picture the scene: a woman opens the door to a rough looking man who has just stepped out of his unmarked white Transit – ‘Your house needs pointing, luv – you don't want damp walls! I’ll do it for you – with the real thing, cement and none of that dirty old lime mortar’. She agrees, of course, who wants damp all over their nice new stencilling? After discussing it with her husband, who becomes worried about his perfectly good, if old, brickwork, they agree to pay the exorbitant cost.
Two weeks later, the damage is done, and the brickwork is now traced with the sharp, hard, ruled lines of blueish cement mortar, with added splash marks and a stain on the patio where the cowboys have mixed the wretched stuff without putting some protective boards down. Cement mortar is very hard, sets quickly and is made from Portland cement. You can buy it in little bags from B&Q and it is a grey blue powder. Mix it with water and sand and Bob’s your uncle – a wet, sloppy substance which the cowboy builders swear by (among other nasty things).
Five years later, and the cement is fine, but the bricks are not. They are turning into brick dust and with every rain, more and more is washed away until the damp penetrates inside and ruins the nice new wallpaper. Why? I hear you students of architecture ask. Well, brick walls are supposed to absorb rain and act a bit like an overcoat – the top surface gets wet, then dries out once it stops raining. Most of the drying out takes place through the joints, which in old walls, are made of lime mortar which is softer than the bricks. Over time – and we’re talking about many years, sometimes hundreds, the joints erode, but that is relatively simple to repair – you just bung in some more lime mortar.
If you use mortar which is harder and more impermeable than the bricks, such as cement – guess what? The wall will dry out through each brick and not the joints. That means the joints stay pristine and as good looking as the day they were done by the wretched man with the tattoos and the Transit, and your precious little bricks, the wonderful little darlings that are holding your house up, start eroding. Just look at the photograph. The bricks are over 140 years old. The remains of the modern cement mortar are no more than about 30 years old.
Be warned!
It makes me want to weep when I see poorly laid or badly repaired brickwork. It’s only too common, unfortunately.
Picture the scene: a woman opens the door to a rough looking man who has just stepped out of his unmarked white Transit – ‘Your house needs pointing, luv – you don't want damp walls! I’ll do it for you – with the real thing, cement and none of that dirty old lime mortar’. She agrees, of course, who wants damp all over their nice new stencilling? After discussing it with her husband, who becomes worried about his perfectly good, if old, brickwork, they agree to pay the exorbitant cost.
Two weeks later, the damage is done, and the brickwork is now traced with the sharp, hard, ruled lines of blueish cement mortar, with added splash marks and a stain on the patio where the cowboys have mixed the wretched stuff without putting some protective boards down. Cement mortar is very hard, sets quickly and is made from Portland cement. You can buy it in little bags from B&Q and it is a grey blue powder. Mix it with water and sand and Bob’s your uncle – a wet, sloppy substance which the cowboy builders swear by (among other nasty things).
Five years later, and the cement is fine, but the bricks are not. They are turning into brick dust and with every rain, more and more is washed away until the damp penetrates inside and ruins the nice new wallpaper. Why? I hear you students of architecture ask. Well, brick walls are supposed to absorb rain and act a bit like an overcoat – the top surface gets wet, then dries out once it stops raining. Most of the drying out takes place through the joints, which in old walls, are made of lime mortar which is softer than the bricks. Over time – and we’re talking about many years, sometimes hundreds, the joints erode, but that is relatively simple to repair – you just bung in some more lime mortar.
If you use mortar which is harder and more impermeable than the bricks, such as cement – guess what? The wall will dry out through each brick and not the joints. That means the joints stay pristine and as good looking as the day they were done by the wretched man with the tattoos and the Transit, and your precious little bricks, the wonderful little darlings that are holding your house up, start eroding. Just look at the photograph. The bricks are over 140 years old. The remains of the modern cement mortar are no more than about 30 years old.
Be warned!
13 June 2007
Rain
Church surveys – ah, yes. A wonderful building all to myself; access to all the parts no other worshippers can reach; the unexpected beauty of a bronze bell glowing in the dusty light; dipped stone steps curving out of sight, worn by countless feet; a sudden dazzling flash of coloured light through stained glass as the sun bursts through outside, or a half hidden, ancient painting, faded hues softly showing though many years of white, chalky limewash. I could go on, but as I have a job to do, and am usually being watched by the churchwardens, these little pleasures are fleeting.
It was warm, with storm clouds gathering as I drew up at another large and ornate country church in the middle of nowhere. Two people lumbered towards the car. In some parts of this rural county, there are some rather strange folk. The words ‘inbred’ spring to mind, as they tell me they and their family have been living within five miles of this church for the last three hundred years. This place was no exception. There was a short, rough looking blond man of between 40 and 60 – it was impossible to tell. His weatherbeaten face was mummified by years of exposure to the sun and wind. A younger man, with a cigarette clenched between his teeth, squinted at me.
‘Eh!’ he said. I noticed he had a withered arm and an expressionless face.
‘My son’ said the older man.
‘Eh!’ said the son.
They both manoeuvred a ladder into place so I could examine the gutters and eaves, as it started to rain. I climbed the ladder up the high warm wall and grasped the iron gutter. Large, warm raindrops, a few at first then a few more, then suddenly a drenching downpour almost bent my knees with its weight. The lead roof shone and the gutters gurgled with water. At least I could check them properly for leaks, I thought, as the water found its way down my neck and began to soak through my jacket. Water gushed over the top of the gutter and down the walls - there was a blockage.
Slightly to one side there was the opening to the ornate iron hopper and downpipe. Growing beautifully in the hopper, in the dirt of years as if in a pot, was a flowering plant. I grasped it and pulled. With a plop! it came out, soil and all, and I dropped it. There was a wet splat sound as it hit the paving and splattered dirt all over the two men. ‘Sorry’ I shouted, above the drumming rain. They didn’t flinch – they were both looking up, faces running with water, the young man’s cigarette a drooping, drenched, soggy piece of paper.
Climbing down, I was wet through and I still had to do the inside. I dripped all the way around the building, then made my way to the bottom of the tower. The two men stayed at ground level. ‘Don’t think we ever bin up there’ said the older one. ‘Eh!’ said his son, grimacing.
Up the worn stone stairs, no ladder this time as it was a large church with richer benefactors during its building than the one I described in the last post. Chalky limewash rubbed off onto my drenched clothes as I climbed, and climbed. Up through the silence chamber; noting the cracks. Past the bell frame and the disused bells. A ladder this time, ancient and polished smooth with use, although it was obvious no-one had been up there since the last inspection, five years ago.
I pushed open the heavy lead covered hatch. There was an explosion of flapping pigeons. I pulled myself up onto the lead roof, my clothes dripping water onto the bells below.. It had stopped raining and as I inspected the castellated parapet, the sun came out. The view of the glittering country around was illuminated in sharp light and shadow and was spectacular. I was on top of the world.
It was warm, with storm clouds gathering as I drew up at another large and ornate country church in the middle of nowhere. Two people lumbered towards the car. In some parts of this rural county, there are some rather strange folk. The words ‘inbred’ spring to mind, as they tell me they and their family have been living within five miles of this church for the last three hundred years. This place was no exception. There was a short, rough looking blond man of between 40 and 60 – it was impossible to tell. His weatherbeaten face was mummified by years of exposure to the sun and wind. A younger man, with a cigarette clenched between his teeth, squinted at me.
‘Eh!’ he said. I noticed he had a withered arm and an expressionless face.
‘My son’ said the older man.
‘Eh!’ said the son.
They both manoeuvred a ladder into place so I could examine the gutters and eaves, as it started to rain. I climbed the ladder up the high warm wall and grasped the iron gutter. Large, warm raindrops, a few at first then a few more, then suddenly a drenching downpour almost bent my knees with its weight. The lead roof shone and the gutters gurgled with water. At least I could check them properly for leaks, I thought, as the water found its way down my neck and began to soak through my jacket. Water gushed over the top of the gutter and down the walls - there was a blockage.
Slightly to one side there was the opening to the ornate iron hopper and downpipe. Growing beautifully in the hopper, in the dirt of years as if in a pot, was a flowering plant. I grasped it and pulled. With a plop! it came out, soil and all, and I dropped it. There was a wet splat sound as it hit the paving and splattered dirt all over the two men. ‘Sorry’ I shouted, above the drumming rain. They didn’t flinch – they were both looking up, faces running with water, the young man’s cigarette a drooping, drenched, soggy piece of paper.
Climbing down, I was wet through and I still had to do the inside. I dripped all the way around the building, then made my way to the bottom of the tower. The two men stayed at ground level. ‘Don’t think we ever bin up there’ said the older one. ‘Eh!’ said his son, grimacing.
Up the worn stone stairs, no ladder this time as it was a large church with richer benefactors during its building than the one I described in the last post. Chalky limewash rubbed off onto my drenched clothes as I climbed, and climbed. Up through the silence chamber; noting the cracks. Past the bell frame and the disused bells. A ladder this time, ancient and polished smooth with use, although it was obvious no-one had been up there since the last inspection, five years ago.
I pushed open the heavy lead covered hatch. There was an explosion of flapping pigeons. I pulled myself up onto the lead roof, my clothes dripping water onto the bells below.. It had stopped raining and as I inspected the castellated parapet, the sun came out. The view of the glittering country around was illuminated in sharp light and shadow and was spectacular. I was on top of the world.
03 June 2007
Empty Religion
The large key turned easily in the lock, the iron smoothed with many years use and polished by many hands. As I shouldered the studded oak door open, that smell of church wafted out; candle wax, dry earth, damp and flowers combining into that familiar scent. I was alone, the best wayto be when doing a survey. I wondered down the nave, no hurry as there was no one to see me lingering. I pondered over the remnants of stained glass, salvaged from Cromwell, which formed a centrepiece to each of the huge windows. Fragments of faces, hands, soft yellows, reds and blue traced with black lead, casting coloured shadows onto the worn stone floor. Dust motes caught in the beams of sunlight, disturbed by my passing.
I leant on the alter rail, admiring the huge flower arrangements either side of the alter, and the vast brass candlesticks on the white cloth. Sighing happily, I wandered back down one of the aisles. There is nowhere more peaceful than an empty church. But I had work to do; I was commissioned to survey the bell frame, at the top of the tower.
I unlocked the door in the screen to the base of the tower, and paused, contemplating the religious lumber inside. Old masks, from a play. Boxes of candles. The Nativity scene in wheat straw. A dusty paining of Jesus, opening his hands to show the wounds. Did he really have a beard and long hair? I thought. How do they know? Five bell ropes dangled, brightly coloured, in the dusty air.
The ladder stretched up and up without restraint to the floor 25 feet above. There was no handrail, and as I reached the middle, the thing flexed alarmingly with each step. I don’t like heights – which is rather difficult in my job, as I have to climb ladders and scaffolding almost every day. I clung to the ladder, and tried to break my step to stop it oscillating.
Reaching the hatch, I pushed hard. It was heavy and difficult to move. I heaved myself up into the silence chamber with some difficulty – there was no handrail and the top of the ladder ended flush with the hatch. Another ladder, attached vertically to the wall this time, showed dimly in the light from the filthy, tiny windows on each side of the tower. There were two huge cracks in the stonework, opposite each other – but these were not my business today. I stepped out into the room and the board I stood on upended itself. I caught myself just in time, with my foot dangling over the drop, and was smacked in the face by the short board as it fell. I made a note: warn the next surveyor that the boards of the silence chamber were not nailed down.
I was in the bell chamber. The bell frame was in front of me, five bronze bells glowed in the slatted light of the large sound openings. The wind hissed though the louvres. Each bell had an inscription round it – ‘J Turner Made Me 1592. Glory to God’ - some too faint to read. Carefully, carefully, I edged around the frame on the narrow walkway to inspect each joint. Bells are very, very heavy and swing almost 180 degrees when being rung. Rhythmic swaying eases out the joints, rocks the tower and over time cause damage and catastrophic collapse, if one does not inspect regularly (every five years is the norm). Church towers are massively built for this reason. The bell frame is a fine thing, Elizabethen, and is made of huge timbers, braced and pegged, marked with I, II, III onwards by the carpenters at each joint, so it could be made in a timber yard and reassembled at the site, hundreds of years ago. Curved braces keep the frame square. I inspected the huge wheels with the ropes attached, looking for shrinkage. I checked the bearings for wear and the clappers and bells for cracks. All seems well. One bell is ‘clocked’ meaning that the rope is attached directly to the clapper, rather than the wheel, meaning that it is not swung to ring it. This can be a bad thing, as wear occurs on one part of the bell only, and can change its tone or crack it.
‘Hello?’ comes a small voice, up from below. ‘I want to ring the Angelus’.
‘S***!’ I thought. ‘Please don’t, not until I’m out of the way’ I shouted.
A bell swinging around would leave no room at all in the narrow chamber, and it would not stop if it hit me but splatter my innards all over the stone wall. Then I thought – if it’s the clocked one, that’s OK.
‘Oh, I don’t know’ she said when I asked her, ‘but I’ve got to do it now otherwise it will be late’.
Ringing a bell, it seems, is more important than mashing an architect. Luckily for me, it was the clocked one. Unluckily – have you ever been in a belfry when the bell is ringing? The noise vibrated through my entire body and I was still vibrating and almost stone deaf when I made it to the ground level. Churches don’t have silence chambers between bellringers and their bells for nothing.
I leant on the alter rail, admiring the huge flower arrangements either side of the alter, and the vast brass candlesticks on the white cloth. Sighing happily, I wandered back down one of the aisles. There is nowhere more peaceful than an empty church. But I had work to do; I was commissioned to survey the bell frame, at the top of the tower.
I unlocked the door in the screen to the base of the tower, and paused, contemplating the religious lumber inside. Old masks, from a play. Boxes of candles. The Nativity scene in wheat straw. A dusty paining of Jesus, opening his hands to show the wounds. Did he really have a beard and long hair? I thought. How do they know? Five bell ropes dangled, brightly coloured, in the dusty air.
The ladder stretched up and up without restraint to the floor 25 feet above. There was no handrail, and as I reached the middle, the thing flexed alarmingly with each step. I don’t like heights – which is rather difficult in my job, as I have to climb ladders and scaffolding almost every day. I clung to the ladder, and tried to break my step to stop it oscillating.
Reaching the hatch, I pushed hard. It was heavy and difficult to move. I heaved myself up into the silence chamber with some difficulty – there was no handrail and the top of the ladder ended flush with the hatch. Another ladder, attached vertically to the wall this time, showed dimly in the light from the filthy, tiny windows on each side of the tower. There were two huge cracks in the stonework, opposite each other – but these were not my business today. I stepped out into the room and the board I stood on upended itself. I caught myself just in time, with my foot dangling over the drop, and was smacked in the face by the short board as it fell. I made a note: warn the next surveyor that the boards of the silence chamber were not nailed down.
I was in the bell chamber. The bell frame was in front of me, five bronze bells glowed in the slatted light of the large sound openings. The wind hissed though the louvres. Each bell had an inscription round it – ‘J Turner Made Me 1592. Glory to God’ - some too faint to read. Carefully, carefully, I edged around the frame on the narrow walkway to inspect each joint. Bells are very, very heavy and swing almost 180 degrees when being rung. Rhythmic swaying eases out the joints, rocks the tower and over time cause damage and catastrophic collapse, if one does not inspect regularly (every five years is the norm). Church towers are massively built for this reason. The bell frame is a fine thing, Elizabethen, and is made of huge timbers, braced and pegged, marked with I, II, III onwards by the carpenters at each joint, so it could be made in a timber yard and reassembled at the site, hundreds of years ago. Curved braces keep the frame square. I inspected the huge wheels with the ropes attached, looking for shrinkage. I checked the bearings for wear and the clappers and bells for cracks. All seems well. One bell is ‘clocked’ meaning that the rope is attached directly to the clapper, rather than the wheel, meaning that it is not swung to ring it. This can be a bad thing, as wear occurs on one part of the bell only, and can change its tone or crack it.
‘Hello?’ comes a small voice, up from below. ‘I want to ring the Angelus’.
‘S***!’ I thought. ‘Please don’t, not until I’m out of the way’ I shouted.
A bell swinging around would leave no room at all in the narrow chamber, and it would not stop if it hit me but splatter my innards all over the stone wall. Then I thought – if it’s the clocked one, that’s OK.
‘Oh, I don’t know’ she said when I asked her, ‘but I’ve got to do it now otherwise it will be late’.
Ringing a bell, it seems, is more important than mashing an architect. Luckily for me, it was the clocked one. Unluckily – have you ever been in a belfry when the bell is ringing? The noise vibrated through my entire body and I was still vibrating and almost stone deaf when I made it to the ground level. Churches don’t have silence chambers between bellringers and their bells for nothing.
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