Auriculas Of Spitalfields
The auriculas on my window sill have begun to sprout in the spring weather, inspiring me to publish this account of the history and lore of the auriculas of Spitalfields
An Auricula Theatre
In horticultural lore, auriculas have always been associated with Spitalfields and writer Patricia Cleveland-Peck has a mission to bring them back again. She believes that the Huguenots brought them here more than three centuries ago, perhaps snatching a twist of seeds as they fled their homeland and then cultivating them in the enclosed gardens of the merchants’ grand houses, and in the weavers’ yards and allotments, thus initiating a passionate culture of domestic horticulture among the working people of the East End which endures to this day.
You only have to cast your eyes upon the wonder of an auricula theatre filled with specimens in bloom – as I did in Patricia’s Sussex garden – to understand why these most artificial of flowers can hold you in thrall with the infinite variety of their colour and form. “They are much more like pets than plants,” Patricia admitted to me as we stood in her greenhouse surrounded by seedlings,“because you have to look after them daily, feed them twice a week in the growing season, remove offshoots and repot them once a year. Yet they’re not hard to grow and it’s very relaxing, the perfect antidote to writing, because when you are stuck for an idea you can always tend your auriculas.” Patricia taught herself old French and Latin to research the history of the auricula, but the summit of her investigation was when she reached the top of the Kitzbüheler Horn, high in the Austrian Alps where the ancestor plants of the cultivated varieties are to be found.
Auriculas were first recorded in England in the Elizabethan period as a passtime of the elite but it was in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that they became a widespread passion amongst horticulturalists of all classes. In 1795, John Thelwall, son of a Spitalfields silk mercer wrote, “I remember the time myself when a man who was a tolerable workman in the fields had generally beside the apartment in which he carried on his vocation, a small summer house and a narrow slip of a garden at the outskirts of the town where he spent his Monday either in flying his pigeons or raising his tulips.” Auriculas were included alongside tulips among those prized species known as the “Floristry Flowers,” plants renowned for their status, which were grown for competition by flower fanciers at “Florists’ Feasts,” the precursors of the modern flower show. These events were recorded as taking place in Spitalfields with prizes such as a copper kettle or a ladle and, after the day’s judging, the plants were all placed upon a long table where the contests sat to enjoy a meal together known as “a shilling ordinary.”
In the nineteenth century, Henry Mayhew wrote of the weavers of Spitalfields that “their love of flowers to this day is a strongly marked characteristic of the class.” and, in 1840, Edward Church who lived in Spital Sq recorded that “the weavers were almost the only botanists of their day in the metropolis.” It was this enthusiasm that maintained a regular flower market in Bethnal Green which evolved into the Columbia Rd Flower Market of our day.
Known variously in the past as ricklers, painted ladies and bears’ ears, auriculas come in different classes, show auriculas, alpines, doubles, stripes and borders – each class containing a vast diversity of variants. Beyond their aesthetic appeal, Patricia is interested in the political, religious, cultural and economic history of the auricula, but the best starting point to commence your relationship with this fascinating plant is to feast your eyes upon the dizzying collective spectacle of star performers gathered in an auricula theatre. As Sacheverell Sitwell once wrote, “The perfection of a stage auricula is that of the most exquisite Meissen porcelain or of the most lovely silk stuffs of Isfahan and yet it is a living growing thing.”
Mrs Cairns Old Blue – a border auricula
Glenelg – a show-fancy green-edged auricula
Piers Telford – a gold-centred alpine auricula
Taffetta – a show-self auricula
Seen a Ghost – a show-striped auricula
Sirius – gold-centred alpine auricula
Coventry St – a show-self auricula
M. L. King – show-self auricula
Mrs Herne – gold-centred alpine auricula
Dales Red – border auricula
Pink Gem – double auricula
Summer Wine – gold-centred alpine auricula
McWatt’s Blue – border auricula
Rajah – show-fancy auricula
Cornmeal – show-green-edged auricula
Fanny Meerbeek – show-fancy auricula
Piglet – double auricula
Basuto – gold-centred alpine auricula
Blue Velvet – border auricula
Patricia Cleveland-Peck in her greenhouse.
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An Auricula for Thomas Fairchild
A Walk Down Commercial Rd
At Aldgate
As is so often the case in this country, the day following the public holiday offered better weather than any of those that preceded it. So I decided to take advantage of the sunlight to enjoy a walk down Commercial Rd with my camera. Apart from the crowds at Watney Market and those visiting the many short terraces of shops, nobody walks along the Commercial Rd much and, for most of my nearly-two-mile journey, I found myself the lone pedestrian as the traffic hurtled past.
In its name and nature, Commercial Rd was a utilitarian endeavour from the start, constructed between 1802-6 by the East India Company to bring their goods from the East & West India Docks to the City. Running in a straight line through the fields from Aldgate to Limehouse, the road was entirely lined with terraces by 1830 and many of these remain to this day as its defining characteristic, although every time I come down here more gaps appear as redevelopment fragments the remains of nineteenth century streetscape further. Yet Commercial Rd is far from featureless and, as my photos show, there is plenty to offer interest to the curious.
In 1828, the volume of traffic was such that Commercial Rd was paved over with granite and the surrounding areas upon both sides soon became a dense warren of housing and factories. By 1860, road tolls were abolished and Commercial Rd was extended to Gardiner’s Corner where it met Commercial St, cut through Spitalfields in the eighteen-fifties, delivering traffic from the docks up to the Eastern Counties Railway terminus in Shoreditch.
The Proof House
At Adler St
In Back Church Lane
Fine nineteenth century terraces
Cheviot House
Eighteen-thirties terrace
Synagogue of the Congregation of Jacob
George Tavern
George Tavern
St Mary & St Michael – Bingo Every Friday
Lea Valley Steam Laundry
Fail Solicitors
Chick King
Troxy
Popular Cafe
Popular Cafe
A favourite Greengrocer
A favourite Fishmonger
A favourite Restaurant
At Limehouse Station
Brunswick Terrace
In Flamborough St
At Limehouse Basin
Our Lady & St Frederick Church
Limehouse Town Hall
St Anne’s Limehouse
Caird & Rayner
George Baker & Sons
Sailors’ Palace
After walking the length of Commercial Rd, a refreshment at The Star of the East is essential
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At Caird & Rayner
In January, I published photographs by Paul Talling of Derelict London of the abandoned Caird & Rayner building in Limehouse and today, thanks to historian Tom Ridge, I am able to reveal the proud story of innovation and enterprise that lies behind the current state of sorry dereliction
In 1893, Edward Bonar Caird & Thomas J Rayner patented a design for device that could evaporate seawater and produce drinkable freshwater. It was an essential piece of nautical apparatus that was to sustain the company for more than a century. Rayner was an inventor of considerable talent and Caird had the financial resources to develop the commercial potential.
They set up a partnership in 1889 and took a lease upon 777 Commercial Rd, a former sailmakers, spending more than fifteen hundred pounds in equipping it with machinery for their purposes. The company prospered and in 1893 – the year of their patent – Caird & Rayner, were described in a publication entitled ‘The Thames, Waterway of the World’ as ‘Gentlemen of Conspicuous Endeavour.’
With minor diversions into swimming pool filters and sewage treatment, Caird & Rayner carried on through the twentieth century supplying distillation and filtration equipment to the maritime industry, both naval vessels and grand liners, from their factory in Commercial Rd until 1972. During World War II, a plant was established in Watford away from the bombing of London and eventually all manufacturing was transferred there, leaving the factory in the Limehouse empty all these years.
Artists impression of Caird & Rayner offices in 1890
The Caird & Rayner building today
777 Commercial Rd in the early twentieth century
On the shop floor in Limehouse in the sixties
Percy Martin in the drawing office in the thirties
Plant to produce 25 gallons per hour
Plant to produce 100 gallons per hour
Diagram of secret communication system in World War II
A beano in 1949 for the company’s sixtieth birthday celebrations
The ladies of Caird & Rayner photographed on the roof of 777 Commercial Rd
The Watford factory opened in 1941, away from the bombing of the East End
Colour photographs copyright © Paul Talling
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At Time For Tea
Johnny Vercoutre
I had always assumed the words ‘Time for Tea’ emblazoned upon the fascia of a narrow building in Shoreditch High St indicated that it was an occasional tea shop. But when I enquired the meaning of this sign from Johnny Vercoutre, who has lived there for the past twenty years and who painted the text in question, he gave an unexpected reply. “It’s my philosophy of life,” he declared with a swagger and a smile, brushing his languid moustache with a forefinger as a mischievously pleasurable thought popped into his mind, “I’d like to drive a long truck with a line of dancing girls into the middle of the street and stop all traffic, and serve tea to everybody.”
Johnny came to the East End as child to buy a tortoise at the erstwhile animal market in Club Row. He likes to brag of his early prowess at splayed brickwork, which was a matter of pride to his father who was a builder in Kilburn and proved to be an invaluable asset in the restoration of his eighteenth century house. Originally constructed as the London Savings Bank, it served as the premises of Andrews the Clockmakers who supplied the timepiece to St Leonard’s Shoreditch next door, before becoming a pawnbroker and finally Clarkes the Stationers, when Johnny first visited to purchase envelopes.
The upper floors had been unoccupied since the forties when Johnny moved in twenty years ago. He has preserved the eighteenth century fabric and reinstated lost panelling, using vintage doors and windows in the restoration, yet pursuing a pre-war style of interior design with an Eau-de- Nil and black colour scheme that would make the last residents feel at home if they were ever to return, transported magically through time.
At street level, one door opens into an ancient flagged alley that once led through from Shoreditch High St to the Old Nichol, the notorious slum which was replaced by the Boundary Estate at the end of the nineteenth century. A side door here retains its metal grille from when the building was a pawn shop and a narrow staircase winds up through three storeys. A series of curious intermediary spaces are lit by skylights with stained glass and, at the first floor, the kitchen leads onto an attractive yard enclosed by age-old railings and overlooked by iron fire escapes. In the living room at the front, a box protrudes from the wall containing the mechanics of the clock on the exterior, installed by Andrews the Clockmakers.
Johnny boasts the last of the Nicholls & Clarke Eau-de-Nil ceramic suites in Shoreditch, imparting an underwater atmosphere to his third floor bathroom. Up above, the attic resembles the weavers’ lofts of Spitalfields with long windows granting views towards the City on one side and over the rooftops of Shoreditch on the other. Names painstakingly carved upon the beams and an elaborate anchor motif marked out in nails upon the a floorboard bear witness to those who passed through here in the eighteenth and nineteenth century.
Johnny’ s labour over past decades has brought this unique building back to life and every inch speaks of the history of old Shoreditch. Yet such are the changes in the neighbourhood in recent years – now that Shoreditch has grown rich – he can no longer afford the upkeep and has to sell. Developers are circling and, since the building is not listed, they would be free to gut it to maximize their return on the property and destroy its historic fabric. But perhaps there is someone out there who would like to buy it and cherish it for what it is? If so, Johnny Vercoutre would like to hear from you itstimefortea@googlemail.com
I was concerned how Johnny will occupy himself in future without his house to renovate. “I have a motor yacht that once belonged to Donald Campbell,” he confessed to me. In response to my exclamation of wonder at this information, he revealed it was sunk. “Oh dear,” I exclaimed. “I still have the pieces,” he reassured me, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, “I can put them back together again.”
One of Johnny’s collection of veteran vehicles
The first floor living room
The attic bedroom
The hidden eighteenth century alley with its original flags
A grille from the building’s days as a pawnbroker
An eighteenth century house in Shoreditch High St
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At Boughton House
In the Great Hall at Boughton
To celebrate the plaster being cut off my arm, Charlie de Wet, Director of the Huguenots of Spitalfields Festival, took me on an Easter trip away from the East End to visit her pal the Duke of Buccleuch & Queensberry, and explore Boughton House, his palatial seventeenth century mansion known as ‘The English Versailles.’
The Duke’s ancestor Ralph Montagu was Ambassador to Paris at the end of the seventeenth century and a Huguenot sympathiser, subsequently employing hundreds of refugee Huguenot artists and craftsmen upon the embellishment of Boughton, creating a lavish country house in the French style in the English countryside. Astonishingly, the house and its contents have survived largely unaltered through the centuries, and it stands today as a showcase of the superlative creative talents of the Huguenot artisans.
There was a bitter wind blowing across the Northamptonshire park land as we arrived and we were relieved to enter the warmth of the kitchen, yet the Duke cautioned us not to remove our overcoats. The chill of the old house has contributed to the preservation of its furnishings all these years and as we stepped into the gloom of the vast shuttered rooms, there was a tangible drop in air temperature below the level of the exterior courtyards where pale sunlight was already encouraging spring flowers into bloom.
Sequestered in darkness since the death of Ralph Montagu in 1749, Boughton has been almost frozen in time and the eternal chill of the tomb prevails in the state rooms where I was able to wander alone – opening single shutters to admit a ray of daylight, illuminating ancient tapestries and refracting in clouded seventeenth century mirrors.
Among myriad treasures, I came upon Britain’s oldest woven carpet with a date of 1585 woven into it and the portrait of Shakespeare’s patron, Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton with his cat. Entire galleries of family portraits by Lely gleamed in the half light and extravagant painted ceilings populated by gods and goddesses desporting themselves in cloudscapes glimmered overhead. From my brief stroll through this overwhelming labyrinth of riches, I offer these glimpses I was able to snatch with my camera.
In Fish Court
The Audit Room with paintings by Anthony Van Dyck, Godfrey Kneller and Peter Lely
The state bed was donated to the V&A in 1918 and returned ninety years later
In the unfinished wing – this door leads from one of the state bedrooms
Seventeenth century pagoda, once painted by Canaletto on the Thames-side terrace of Montagu House
The limed staircase
The Duke once kept his pet lion in this yard
The stable block
Britain’s oldest carpet, dated 1585 in the border
Shakespeare’s patron the Earl of Southampton and his cat, seen here confined in the Tower
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Viscountess Boudica’s Easter Celebrations
I cannot celebrate Easter without a return visit to our dearly-beloved Viscountess Boudica also known as ‘Old Mother Goose of Bethnal Green’
She may be no Spring chicken but that does not stop the indefatigable Viscountess Boudica of Bethnal Green from dressing up as an Easter chick!
As is her custom at each of the festivals which mark our passage through the year, Boudica embraces the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly – festooning her tiny flat with seasonal decor and contriving a special outfit for herself that suits the tenor of the day. “Easter’s about renewal – birth, life and death – the end of one thing and the beginning of another,” she assured me when I arrived, getting right to the heart of it at once with characteristic forthrightness.
I feel like a child visiting a beloved grandmother or favourite aunt whenever I call round to see Viscountess Boudica because, although I never know what treats lie in store, I am never disappointed. Even as I walk in the door, I know that days of preparation have preceded my visit. Naturally for Easter there were a great many fluffy creatures in evidence, ducks and rabbits recalling her rural childhood. “When my uncle had his farm, I used to put the little chicks in my pocket and carry them round with me,” she confided with a nostalgic grin, as she led me over to admire the wonder of her Easter garden where yellow creatures of varying sizes were gathering upon a small mat of greengrocer’s grass, around a tree hung with glass eggs, as if in expectation of a sacred ritual.
I cast my eyes around at the plethora of Easter cards, testifying to the popularity of the Viscountess, and her Easter bunting and Easter fairy lights that adorned the walls. There could be no question that the festival was anything other than Easter in this place. “As a child, I used to get a twig and spray it with paint and hang eggs from it,” she explained, recalling the modest origin of the current extravaganza and adding, “I hope this will inspire others to decorate their homes.”
“Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is my favourite,” she confessed to me, chuckling in excited anticipation and patting her waistline warily, “I probably will eat a lot of chocolate on Easter Monday – once I start eating chocolate, I can’t stop.” And then, just like that beloved grandmother or favourite aunt, Viscountess Boudica kindly slipped a chocolate egg into my hands as I said my farewell, and I carried it off under my arm back to Spitalfields as a proud trophy of the day.
Viscountess Boudica writes her Easter cards
“yellow creatures of varying sizes were gathering upon a small mat of greengrocer’s grass, around a tree hung with glass eggs, as if in expectation of a sacred ritual”
Viscountess Boudica turns Weather Girl to present the forecast for the Easter Bank Holiday – “I predict a dull start with a few patches of sunshine and some isolated showers. In the West Country, it will be nice all day with temperatures between sixty and eighty degrees Farenheit. There will be a small breeze on the coast and sea temperature of around fifty-nine degrees Farenheit.”
Easter blessings to you from Viscountess Boudica!
Viscountess Boudica and her fluffy friends
Be sure to follow Viscountess Boudica’s blog There’s More To Life Than Heaven & Earth
Take a look at
Viscountess Boudica’s Domestic Appliances
Viscountess Boudica’s Halloween
Viscountess Boudica’s Christmas
Viscountess Boudica’s Valentine’s Day
Viscountess Boudica’s St Patrick’s Day
Read my original profile of Mark Petty, Trendsetter
and take a look at Mark Petty’s Multicoloured Coats
The Inescapable Melancholy Of Phone Boxes
Red phone boxes are a cherished feature of my personal landscape because, in my childhood, we never had a telephone at home and, when I first made a phone call at the age of fifteen, it was from a box. In fact, for the major part of my life, all my calls were made from boxes – thus telephone calls and phone boxes were synonymous for me. I grew up with the understanding that you went out to make a phone call just as you went out to post a letter.
Yet the culture of mobile phones is now so pervasive I was shocked to discover I had hardly noticed as the red telephone boxes have vanished from our streets and those few that remain stand redundant and unused. So I set out with my camera to photograph the last of them, lest they should disappear without anybody noticing. It was a curious and lonely pilgrimage because, whereas they were once on every street, they have now almost all gone and I had to walk miles to find enough specimens to photograph.
Reluctantly, I must reveal that on my pitiful quest in search of phone boxes, I never saw anyone use one though I did witnessed the absurd spectacle of callers standing beside boxes to make calls on their mobiles several times. The door has fallen off the one in Spitalfields, which is perhaps for the best as it has been co-opted into service as a public toilet while the actual public toilet nearby is now a vintage boutique.
Although I must confess I have not used one myself for years, I still appreciate phone boxes as fond locations of emotional memory where I once experienced joy and grief at life-changing news delivered down the line. But like the horse troughs that accompany them on Clerkenwell Green and outside Christ Church, Spitalfields, phone boxes are now vestiges of a time that has passed forever. I imagine children must ask their mothers what these quaint red boxes are for.
The last phone boxes still stand proud in their red livery but like sad clowns they are weeping inside. Along with pumps, milestones, mounting blocks and porters’ rests these redundant pieces of street furniture serve now merely as arcane reminders of a lost age – except that era was the greater part of my life. This is the inescapable melancholy of phone boxes.
Redundant in Whitechapel
Ignored in Whitechapel
Abandoned in Whitechapel
Rejected in Bow
Abused in Spitalfields
Irrelevant in Bethnal Green
Shunned in Bethnal Green
Empty outside York Hall
Desolate in Hackney Rd
Pointless in St John’s Sq
Irrelevant on Clerkenwell Green
Invisible in Smithfield
Forgotten outside St Bartholomew’s Hospital
In service outside St Paul’s as a quaint location for tourist shots
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