Fear

A vast field of code 8 lead stretched either side and above me, the perspective accentuated by the regular lines of the wood cored rolls at each joint. The roof looked so insignificant from the ground, but churches are often deceptive, in a way the religion they serve can be. I was training to survey churches, a specialist field hedged around with little pressure groups, each clamouring for attention and each believing theirs is the only way to conserve these simple and ancient buildings. So I was seconded to a much older colleague, who had been working on churches almost since they were built.

He was standing above me, one foot raised on the shallow slope of the roof, laughing, the builder puffing his way up in front of him towards the ridge. ‘You’ve gone white!’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ I said, feeling dizzy. We had just climbed a very long ladder, all three sections of it extended to its fullest length; even so the top end only just reached the parapet. I had scrambled over it, trying not to look down. The worn stone felt gritty under my hands, and I was covered in white, chalky dust. Once over the parapet, I stood upright in the slimy gutter, and felt ill. The parapet was at knee height and I felt the drop pulling me towards it as iron to the magnet. Breathing heavily and sweating, I began to climb up the roof. Like many lead roofs, it had a shallow pitch and would have been simple to climb if it had been at ground level, but up here I was expending energy in fear more suited to the steeper parts of Ben Nevis.

I managed to get half way, to the background of my colleague’s gentle monologue on the history of lead roofing in general and the repairs to this one in particular, then the clammy fog of vertigo closed around me. Trying to keep my balance, I kneeled on the roof, then put my hands on the pitted surface and slowly lay face down. My colleague’s voice faded as he breached the ridge and started down the other side.

The lead was warm from the sun, and I was close enough to see tiny imperfections in the surface. Under my hand, I felt a regular pattern of holes and lifted my head to look. There was a pattern of tiny marks, as if done using the end of a nail, forming the outline of the sole of a sizable boot. ‘G S’ was inscribed within it. Two hundred years ago, the plumber had proudly signed his work. I wonder if I was the first person to see it since?

Happy Birthday!

Many thanks to TUPC for nominating my post, ‘Cat People’ for the Rising Blogger. When I first started this weblog, almost a year ago, I did not think I would get any readers at all, let alone regular readers. How many people, when told that there is a blog about an architect’s job, would show the slightest interest? It is more likely they would run away screaming, thinking it is all about being arrogant and wearing little 'Gok Wan' style specs, whilst earning squillions of pounds of money for scribbling incomprehensible designs. Of course, there are some of my colleagues who do just that, but unfortunately for my stress levels and bank balance, I ain’t one of them.

Believe it or not, this job can be extremely stressful; writing is a very good way of releasing some of the pressure and damn it, I enjoy it!

To celebrate my newly found fame, and the blog’s first birthday, ask me anything you like (keep it clean – yes, that means you too) and within reason I will try and give a considered and interesting answer in a week’s time.

I raise a metaphorical pint of Everards Tiger to all my readers – look forward to hearing from you.