Piss-up at the brewery!
Twenty years have passed since the Truman brewery closed here in Brick Lane in 1989 and still much of it stands empty. It hard now the imagine the teeming life of the place that sustained itself over three centuries of brewing on this site. But thanks to the vast British Pathe online archive of news footage, I was permitted a startling glimpse of the lively community that was once here. Click to watch this brief riotous film from 1954, Trussing the Cooper, which records a traditional apprentice’s initiation ritual of humiliation. The apprentice, Gordon Wright of Bromley in Kent, is put in a barrel, covered with all kinds of filth and rolled around until he emerges coated in grime to be presented with a pint of ale, now a fully fledged cooper. It is a powerful cinematic cameo with a gleeful Dionysiac energy that cuts across the intervening half century, thrusting us into the joyful heart of their world. Whatever else was going on, these people certainly knew how to make their own fun – but I am glad I was not the one in the barrel. To his eternal credit, Gordon takes it all in great spirit. Maybe he had a couple of pints already to give him some Dutch courage?
Chris Dyson, architect
Here are two pictures of 11 Princelet St, on the left is 2006 and on the right is 2007, before and after. Only it is not that simple, because the picture on the right looks closer to how it would have looked when it was first built in 1719 before the windows were altered in the nineteenth century to create the aberrant elevation on the left – meaning these pictures could equally be labelled, after and before.
Whichever way you choose to see it, I think there is no doubt that the current version looks better, with the original grid of windows reinstated to match up with the buildings on either side. The previous elevation destroyed the rhythm of this old terrace upon the north side of Princelet St, which is now harmoniously restored, thanks to the work of architect Chris Dyson.
For several years I have been admiring Chris’ work, observing the progress of his various projects around Spitalfields, but I consider 11 Princelet St as his signature piece. So it was a treat to meet the genial architect there, in the building that is both his home and where he has his practice too.
It was in 1995, that Chris and his wife Sarah first enquired after the house which was derelict at the time, then they waited ten years before being invited to submit a sealed bid to the receivers within two weeks and got the house by a cat’s whisker. Salvaging as much as possible of the structure (including the rear elevation, staircase and some panelling), Chris reinstated what had gone in consultation with architectural experts – with Dan Cruickshank’s advice, he rebuilt the facade using new yellowish London bricks stained with bitumen. Walking around now, through into Chris’ practice in the workshop at the rear, I was struck by the elegant proportions of the rooms and the exciting sequence of different spaces he has devised. This is a million miles away from any “conversion”, everything feels completely natural, as if it always was like this.
Chris Dyson’s training at Glasgow School of Art and his experience working alongside architectural luminaries Jim Stirling and Terry Farrell, sharpened a natural ability to create humane well-proportioned spaces and a balanced aesthetic drawing upon an understanding of traditional skills and principles of vernacular design. In Spitalfields, it is a question of preserving the original quality of buildings while finding the best way of making them work as functional spaces today – a question for which Chris has to find a different answer every time.
Let me admit, I am hoping to persuade Chris to come and take a look at my old house. Currently, it is as I moved in and needs an experienced eye to work out how to fillet the twentieth century alterations from the property (including a plastic kidney-shaped bath where the kitchen table should be), and give the place its dignity back. In the meantime, while I am saving up, I shall be telling you the stories of each of the different properties that Chris is working on in Spitalfields, as they come to completion.
Architecture, I’m told, is one of the professions worst hit by the recession but Chris’ practice is flourishing – he has become the architect of choice for the renovation of old houses here and based upon the evidence of 11 Princelet St alone, it is a reputation justly deserved.
Brick Lane Market 1987
I bought these tiny hares made of alloy in the Coppermill Market on Cheshire Street on my first visit to Brick Lane Market in November 1987. At a Bonfire Party at Strand on the Green (a line of old houses built right into the river bank beside Kew Bridge) where I lived at the time, I met Joshua Compston who also lived there. He offered to show me the market, so next Sunday he hammered on my window before dawn, dragged me from my bed and we caught the first District Line train from Gunnersbury to Aldgate East.
We were both connoisseurs of grimy cafes at the time and I recall escaping out of the frost into a splendid example at 1 Cheshire Street, where the grease permeated the smoky steamy air with such ferocity that the first breath you took caused you to gag violently. But we toughed it out for the unlikely charisma of the clientele which comprised exclusively old men in caps with Frank Auerbach faces. Afterwards, we examined the tiny stalls with items laid out on the frozen bare earth between Cheshire Street and the railway line, each stallholder with their own light glimmering in the grey pre-dawn winter gloom. We walked back down Brick Lane, and then Joshua took me to visit Jocasta Innes in her remarkable old house on Heneage Street with the oval stairwell and the secret door disguised as a bookcase, leading through to the architect next door.
Joshua had great success as a gallerist and art entrepreneur but died in 1996, still in his twenties – and I had quite forgotten about that first visit to the market with him, until I found these hares in my desk drawer where they have been all this time. It was when Joshua introduced me to the market that I fell in love with this place, so I suppose you could say it is because of him that I am here in Spitalfields today.
Columbia Road Market 11
I had a big night out last night at The Carpenters Arms after the neighbourhood firework display. Even as I stumbled up the road to the market this morning in a haze, I could overhear the dogwalkers discussing those “Great Balls of Fire” that served as the theme for the display. This explanation all serves as my excuse for not getting to the market until well after 8 o’clock. It was very quiet when I got there, I think the entire neighbourhood is nursing hangovers after entering into the festivities engendered by last night’s display.
With a modest outlay of £3 I bought this tray of six primroses to naturalise in my garden. I remember that primroses grow quite happily in the shade of hedges and trees because that was where I used to pick them when I was a child in Devon. These particular specimens have been “forced” in a polytunnel, which is why they are flowering now but I expect they will quickly revert to a more natural scale in my garden.
Baked apples
At this time of year my thoughts turn to baked apples. In Devon, I used to have my own Bramley Apple tree so I enjoyed a profusion of cooking apples that lasted until spring each year. Here in London, I walk down to the Borough Market to buy a crate of them for around twenty pounds. Then I stumble back to Spitalfields through the City with it on my shoulders, to arrive home with sore arms. On Saturday afternoon, I made the mistake of putting the large white box down to rest for a moment on the low stone wall outside the Gherkin. Immediately, three security guards clutching radiophones and fearful of terrorist bombers, ran towards me from inside the building. So I picked up my precious box of apples and moved on swiftly.
Overnight, a crate of apples will fill the house with an evocative fragrance that distinguishes this exact moment in the year for me. Baked apples are delicious served up with honey and cream or yoghurt. Eaten by the fireside on a frosty winter’s night (accompanied maybe with a nip of Macallan or Laphroaig), they are the perfect restorative for any soul challenged with dread at the expanse of cold nights ahead before spring.
I keep an apple corer stowed in the back of a drawer and once the cores are out, I stuff the apples with raisins, add a few cloves and put them in the oven on a baking tray. Cook them at a low heat for about forty minutes, but do not be tempted to think you can get your baked apples quicker by putting them in at a higher heat, otherwise they will explode – just as those security guards at the Gherkin feared.
Brian Butler’s Furniture
After photographing Roy Kinnear’s railway arch, I dropped by 157 Martha St (just a couple of arches west) where the magnanimous Brian Butler has his business. I was curious to learn about Brian’s extraordinary collection of sculptures and signs, but instead he wanted to talk about the farm he used to have in the next arch.
Once upon a time, someone rang to say there were some stray hens on wasteground in Backchurch Lane, so Brian brought them back in his truck. Soon they were roosting under his arch and once the word got round, Brian was asked to shelter some stray goats from Old Ford Lock too. Then a pal took Brian over to Southall Market where he was smitten by an old horse that he bought on impulse at a bargain price. He walked it all the way back from Southall himself, an epic journey of over six hours and a measure of Brian’s devotion to animals.
Quickly acquiring more livestock and a reputation somewhere between Noah and Old MacDonald, the presence of Brian’s farm under the railway arch became controversial in this densely populated corner of Shadwell. With some reluctance, Brian handed his creatures over to an animal sanctuary in Surrey – apart from Charlie the goat. Such was the sentimental attachment of man and beast that Charlie lived out his days here with Brian, roaming freely around Shadwell and regularly dropping into the chip shop for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.
Over the thirty years Brian has been running his business under his arch, he has taken the opportunity to indulge himself in collecting bizarre stuff and making artfully hand lettered signs advertising his own idiosyncratic philosophy and humour. The result is a striking installation worthy of any of our more fashionable galleries. He claims no-one has ever asked to buy one of his signs but I think it might only be a matter of time. Brian told me that the monster burger in the picture above came from a French fast food chain and used to have lettuce in it until some kids stole it. I was about the learn the origin of the bull too, when a woman tried to negotiate the price of a table that was good value at the asking price. But Brian doesn’t negotiate, so she paid his price and took the table, and I never learnt where the bull came from.
Next, Brian told me of his Spitalfields upbringing. Until the age of six, he lived in Hobson’s Cottages in Deal St. Later, the family moved to Toynbee St and then Cable St – five minutes from his railway arch. So for Brian it has been a lifetime within a square mile and it is apparent that he is profoundly at home here. Up on the wall inside the shop hangs a tin plate with a text painted by Brian in bold capitals “MY HEART LIES HERE”. “It’s true!” he says, with an open-hearted grin illuminating his generously rounded moon face.
Gathering winter fuel in Spitalfields
In common with everyone else these days, I am feeling the pinch, so last winter when my boiler broke, I gave up on it and relied upon fires instead. There is plenty of scrap timber lying around the streets of Spitalfields in the form of abandoned broken pallets from deliveries to the stores here. Also, the constant renovations provide an endless supply of firewood that just needs to be salvaged from curbside skips.
Now it is time to start lighting fires and gathering winter fuel again. If you see someone struggling with a pallet on their shoulder around Brick Lane over the coming months, do not just stand and watch, please give a hand – because that person is me! Last winter, friends would keep a look out on my behalf and sometimes in the morning I found pallets kindly placed outside my house in the night.
My neighbour lends me his powersaw and I lay the pallets down on the pavement and cut them up. After months of practice, I have learnt to do this expertly with the minimum number of saw cuts. Like a master butcher slicing through the ribs of a prize bull, I make four cuts with my saw the whole length of the pallet, traversing the slats, and then flip it over to cut through the base supports. I make short work of these pallets and in no time at all, I am sweeping up the sawdust from the pavement and stacking up a satisfyingly neat woodpile. A couple of pallets only provide a few evenings’ worth of heat, so this is a constant task for me during the winter months.
To keep warm in the depths of last winter, I lay in front of the fire on my couch under a large sheepskin blanket, with a hot water bottle cradled underneath and Mr Pussy on top of me, too. It was cosy lying there watching films by firelight and I feel quite sentimental about it now. The first thing I did last Christmas Day was to go out into the frost and cut up pallets.
The truth is I grew up in a house with no heating, my family regularly wore overcoats indoors and I remember visiting my grandmother in Chard one Christmas to discover her in her fur coat and hat, mixing ingredients in a bowl on the kitchen table. My other grandmother was confined to a Tuberculosis clinic in Bovey Tracey during the nineteen twenties where they believed that fresh air was curative, to the extreme that she once wrote in a letter of waking in her bed to find a blanket of snow upon the covers. The snow had blown in during the night from Dartmoor through the open door and windows. It is no wonder she died a year later, aged twenty three.
My own discomfort rates as nothing beside this, but I did find it hard to wake to see my own breath in the bedroom and then heat water in pans before going into the cold bathroom for a wash, as I did all last winter. Now my boiler is repaired but I will still be collecting firewood because, in spite of the work and dirt entailed, I love fires – and I should rather gather wood in the streets than pay any more than I can avoid to the power companies, currently profiteering off our human need to be warm.
When I came to live in an old house in Spitalfields, I certainly did not anticipate it could mean living in historic conditions too!
