Unmitigated England

Essential England

2012-01-24T08:02:00.005Z

I rediscovered this detail from a map in the archive, and can't remember where it came from. Except it must have been from a 50s holiday brochure for someone like British Railways. I've always loved picture maps of England; their simplicity and naivety have a particular resonance in reducing the country to the barest essentials. This one of the south east keeps it very basic: An immense Canterbury Cathedral and a pair of oast houses cipher Kent, in Brighton the Prince Regent spies a Norman conqueror splashing into the English Channel and Chaucer resolutely approaches Penshurst wondering if it wouldn't be quicker by rail on the Pilgrim Express. And Morris Dancing seems to be the only thing going on in Essex, although I do worry about the swimsuited girl on her inflatable spotted duck being so far out to sea. Picture maps were (and sometimes still are) seen on posters and postcards, and Esso once did a whole, much more detailed, set of maps in a bound book. Which is also around here somewhere. Perhaps there should be one for Unmitigated England that's just our sort of pubs indicated on rusty signposts being looked at from Austin Somersets.

Wooden Top

2012-01-12T07:59:00.004Z

This is the head of Admiral Lord Howe, and he stares imperiously out over a hedge as you approach The Lee, up in the land of my maternal ancestors in The Chilterns. It is course a ship's figurehead, taken from the navy's last wooden warship- HMS Impregnable. The rest of the ship, broken up in 1921, was used very visibly in the extension of Liberty's store in London, and the house he guards is 'Pipers', the then home of Ivor Stewart-Liberty. Many of my family members worked in various guises for the Liberty's (my Great Aunt Pattie was inducted as the local District Nurse by Lady Liberty) and a decade or so after the appearance of the figurehead my father bicycled up from Great Missenden station to visit my mother-to-be at her grandfather's house in Lee Common. Unaware of the figurehead, his gas-fired cycle lamp suddenly picked out the admiral looming over the hedge, (only comparatively recently was he encased in a wooden shelter), and he promptly fell off into the ditch in fright, the lamp being immediately extinguished.

Unexpected Alphabet No 19

2012-01-04T07:50:00.005Z

After aquaplaning down the Great North Road to London yesterday morning, through the worst rain I've experienced whilst driving, the clouds later scudded away rapidly to reveal this in Hornchurch. Opened as the Towers cinema in August 1935, the first double bill was The Phantom Light and Vagabond Lady. The faience-clad front elevation was designed by Kemp & Tasker, the interiors by Clark & Fenn that included a cafe and ballroom. It still seats 1,800, and was taken over by the Odeon chain in 1943 who stuck their neon sign over these architectural letters for a re-opening in 1950. The last film to be shown here was the James Bond movie Live and Let Die in 1973. And so I suppose we have to thank Mecca Bingo for revealing the sign once again. Clickety-Click.

Numero Uno

2012-01-01T12:20:00.002Z

The first day of January. Happy New Year everybody! I couldn't find a number one in the collection, so this is a cropped down photo of a fourteen on a Carter's Steam Fair wagon at Weston Super Mare.

Christmas Post

2011-12-24T07:40:00.003Z

A very Merry and Unmitigated Christmas to all my readers!

Cover Story

2011-12-09T07:00:00.002Z

So, seasonal congratulations to the Radio Times. This cover really stood out in the newsagents, surrounded as it was by its competitors that couldn't free themselves from the usual trashy soap celebs huddled together under snow-covered mastheads. For the RT to break free from this tradition is remarkable, guilty as it has been in the past for indulging the latest Doctor Who or dodgy chef. Christmas issues should be special; when it first came out the RT was in monochrome, and colour was usually only seen at seasonal highpoints. Covers by consummate professionals like Edward Ardizzone and Eric Fraser, and in my own time (under the editorship of David Driver) classic covers by the likes of Peter Brookes. I remember it all stopping when I stared in disbelief at a Christmas issue with a heavily retouched Mike Yarwood grinning out at me, probably doing his impersonation of Frank Spencer. Blimey, that dates me. But this current cover does it for me again. The actual details are very simple, but the overall effect is so rich, like the lid of a decorative biscuit tin. Even the Gruffalo offer is incorporated successfully, but a shame about the barcode, which annoys all designers. The cover is by Kate Forrester, and also comes in a green version. Which I suppose I'll have to get. Or three copies, a red and green for the library, another for seeing what's on the telly. But which colour? Oh God.

Battersea Battery

2011-12-08T10:32:00.006Z

I've always hankered after taking a photograph of Battersea Power Station, but in its neglected and vandalised state this has proved difficult. I just wanted to be able to demonstrate what a stunning building this is, and a silhouette seemed to be the only solution, considering that so much is now missing. And I love those cranes that were used to unload cargoes of coal from the Thames. At last, the opportunity came yesterday lunchtime as I emerged from Chelsea onto the Embankment and was confronted by this. Snap, snap. What I didn't realise was that Battersea is apparently two power stations- one two chimney structure built in the 1930s, another identical one in the 50s, giving it the fantastic four chimney outline. The exterior was designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott (phone boxes, Liverpool Cathedral) and is still the largest brick structure in Europe. Going at full bore it got through a million tonnes of coal a year. There's a shot of it in The Beatles' film Help, it's on an album cover for Pink Floyd's Animals (with a barrage balloon pig sailing over it), and perhaps it was appearances like this that started us appreciating hitherto disregarded but important buildings. But since decommissioning in 1983, successive would-be developers have been and gone, after well and truly trashing the building. What a temple to industry this would have made, the art deco turbine hall once again humming with giant dynamos and lit with arcing flashes of electricity to show us just how beautifully exciting these powerhouses were.

Hawksmoor

2011-12-02T10:00:00.006Z

As London expanded in the early eighteenth century, so did the need for new churches. An Act of Parliament was passed in 1711 in order that fifty new churches could be built to serve the population gathering at the fringes. By the time the order ran out in 1731, only twelve had been built, but amongst them are six stunning churches by Nicholas Hawksmoor. This master of the baroque was once Wren's assistant, but his own style is from another world altogether. This is Christ Church, opposite the old Spitalfields wholesale market and heralding the very desirable Huguenot weavers' houses to the north in thoroughfares like Fournier Street. Built between 1714-29, this is one of my all-time favourite buildings, and the view I always enjoy is my top picture, taken from down Brushfield Street, where the distinct impression is given that the tower is a continuation straight up from the immense Tuscan porch with its semi-circular pediment. As you move around the entrance, you discover that it's not. And what looks like it should be a square main tower is in fact a rectangle. There is much more to say, and some of it can be found in More London Peculiars where I've gone on about this and three other Hawksmoor churches.

Our Ken, Beyond

2011-11-28T12:21:00.005Z

So sad to hear this morning of the passing of film director Ken Russell. One imagines him now in some gothic Valhalla surrounded by Elgar, D.H.Lawrence, Mahler and Oliver Reed. Who is leading him to a heavenly champagne bar staffed by seventeenth century nuns. Ken was an enormous influence on me in the sixties and seventies, first with the groundbreaking television films- Elgar (after which my father, on seeing the director credit said "We must watch out for him), Song of Summer (the last days of composer Delius); and then the superb feature films- Women in Love, The Devils, and later Gothic and The Rainbow. A flawed (thank goodness) genius, I had always meant to track him down to his cottage in the New Forest where he ended his days alone. Now of course, he is largely forgotten by most of today's audiences who, if at all, will only remember his ill-judged but mercifully brief stay in the Big Brother House. I'm glad, though, that his work, in particular The Devils, was championed by critic Mark Kermode, and that this masterpiece is now finally going to be very belatedly released on DVD. I shall hook-up my videotape player tonight and give it a spin, raising a big glass of something good to a true master of English cinema.

(That's Ken in the middle of the photo above, with Lady Chatterley (Joely Richardson) and camera left his third wife Hetty Baynes.)

Phone Call

2011-10-27T14:00:00.009+01:00

Discovered on a private driveway down to a house near Bath, the last remains of a K6 telephone box. This of course may be the awful fate of all these once ubiquitous red sentinels, their death knell tolled by BT back in the 1980s when they started to replace them with those unspeakable off-the-shelf glass cabinets. Mobile phone use has rendered them pretty well obsolete now, but I do wonder if a new use couldn't be found for them that means they remain in their original locations, instead of being turned into conversation piece greenhouses or shower cabinets. Some are quite rightly listed, some still have their interior lightbulbs shining brightly in the gloom, all of them appear to have discouraging notices about actualling attempting to make a telephone call. Unmitigated England Phone Boxes will of course have a corded handset on top of a black Bakelite phone, A & B chrome buttons, a shelf full of pink or yellow boarded directories, a list of local exchanges and a small mirror on the back wall. On the floor will be one empty Player's packet and a pencilled number awkwardly written on a Fry's Five Boys wrapper. And a man in a trilby tapping on the glass, mouthing 'Hurry up".

Unexpected Alphabets No 18

2011-10-19T11:37:00.004+01:00

Just a quick one here, spotted by a gate leading up to Slawston Hill in Leicestershire on a Sunday afternoon walk. I like the simplicity and sheer effectiveness of the carefully stencilled letters, the colours, and the enigma as to why it was nailed to its post at an angle. Probably because we all walk about here with curious leanings.

Unexpected Alphabets No 17

2011-10-06T10:52:00.003+01:00

In Dorset at the weekend, with friends who took me around some of their favourite haunts before we found ourselves inexplicably in The Stour Inn in Blandford St.Mary drinking Badger Poacher's Choice. Our last port of call as the sun dipped down behind the church was Cranborne, and we took a detailed look at buildings, brickwork and tombstones and wished we could get nearer to Cranborne Manor, Squire Allworthy's Jacobean mansion in Tony Richardson's Tom Jones (1963). And so to Castle Street, and this beautifully signwritten vets. Just perfect: the alphabets, the mixture of styles, the imaginative design of the projecting sign. I only wish it had been open and that I'd had a dog to de-distemper or something so that I could've gone in to congratulate them.

Phew Kew

2011-09-30T14:31:00.005+01:00

I was in Kew Gardens yesterday, almost enjoying the heat of the Indian Summer that has suddenly arrived. I partook of refreshment (tea, egg and cress sandwiches and a bottle of Fentiman's Ginger Beer) under the rustling leaves of the carefully considered pergolas outside the Pavilion Restaurant. I could have been in a Paris park. Round the corner is Decimus Burton's Temperate House that was once the largest plant house in the world. It's still the biggest surviving Victorian glass structure anywhere. Started in 1859, the government allocated £10,000 but four years later the Treasury got cold feet and brought construction to a halt. It took another 35 years for it to be finally completed. I love glasshouses, and this one needs a helping hand because it's been another 35 years since the last restoration. Find out more here.

Border Country

2011-09-23T12:03:00.010+01:00

I can't think why I'd never seen this before. It must be well-known to travellers driving west on the A44 out of Moreton-in-Marsh towards Chipping Norton, positioned at a dog-leg crossroads about a mile and a half from the town. The Four Shires Stone once marked the spot where four counties met: Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, Oxfordshire and Warwickshire. Three still do, but the Worcs. boundary is now further down the road. (The nearby parish of Evenlode was once in an enclave of Worcs., cut off from the main county until 1931.) This was a meeting place for centuries, and there must have been previous stones now removed or sinking into the surrounding ditches. The current marker has a seventeenth century-ish look , but the local history society has it as 1909. (That looks about right judging by the lettering.) Such is the timeless appearance of beautifully weathered Cotswold stone.

A long time ago I'm sure my brother told me that there was once a similar marker in the meadows by the River Welland in Stamford, marking the meeting of Rutland, Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire and possibly the Soke of Peterborough, which I suppose will now be Cambridgeshire. He reckoned he once went swimming in the Welland, and deposited his clothes around the stone. Trousers in Rutland, shirt in Lincolnshire, vest in Northants, etc, etc. A likely story, but not impossible.

Tin Mack

2011-09-23T10:12:00.005+01:00

Many apologies for being away from Unmitigated England for so long. Hopefully normal service will be resumed from now on. To be going on with, how about this wonderful tin. I noticed it again at a dear friend's house a couple of weeks ago, and memories came back of often coveting it. "Don't even think about it" came the riposte as I stared at it again, wondering if it would fit in one of the capacious pockets of my poacher's coat. 'Delicious Beyond Description', as it says on the tin.

Down and Up

2011-08-31T11:42:00.005+01:00

A postponed walk along the South Downs is now in the offing, and the thought put into my mind this skilful London Underground poster. Executed by Clifford and Rosemary Ellis in 1933, for me it perfectly evokes the atmosphere of downland, even though its form is very graphic. Literally a bird's eye view, I continually return to it. The Ellis's produced companion posters for 'Heath' with an owl, 'River' with a heron and 'Wood' with, yes, a green woodpecker. Part of London Transport's brief to get passengers out into the countryside, this poster is not only brilliant in its execution, but a testament to the far-sightedness of publicity manager Frank Pick in choosing such celebrated artists to give the Underground the feel of a very accessible art gallery.

Crag Snag

2011-08-23T14:22:00.006+01:00

Sunday evening found me shouting at the television. Again. I'm actually not going to go on about it, much, but Britain's Secret Heritage (not anymore it isn't) on BBC1 was a masterclass in how to show pretty pictures, prance about in and around them in inappropriate clothing and then dub on tracks from the My Hundred Best Tunes CD box. With a lowest possible common denominator script, Cragside in Northumberland (above), saw Paul Martin, off something called Flog It, flog every hyperbole he could find in the manual, every two minutes. He did it in the obligatory puffa jacket, ill-matched with bright strawberry pink trousers, and was book-ended at Jervaulx Abbey ('this magical hidden gem") by the ubiquitous Clare Balding in a big bright blue dressing gown. Cragside was this week's 'host' location, which meant that we also had Charlie Boorman grinning on a rubber dinghy and a bloke pretending he'd slept all night in a Lincoln prison. Now, before I rant further, I must say that picking through all the debris I did manage to scavenge some titbits of interesting information. But what I will never forgive the producers for is not telling Mr.Martin that the architect of Cragside, brought in by owner Lord Armstrong to develop his Northumbrian shooting box, was none other than the brilliantly talented Richard Norman Shaw. He wasn't even mentioned once. Shame on you BBC. Next week Britain's X Factor Heritage.

Garagistes

2011-08-15T09:44:00.003+01:00

As it's holiday time, I thought you might like a quick look at a little piece of Unmitigated France. Or La France Profonde? I've always been a bit of a fan of Vilac wooden toys, because Ashley Towers just isn't crowded-out enough with English juvenilia, and last Friday Youngest Boy and I found ourselves inexplicably in The Conran Shop. Of course we were only there to look at the racing car ceramic tiles surrounding the original Michelin building it's in, but half-an-hour later saw YB clutching a bright red Vilac racing car. Which he has subsequently not let out of his sight. All the way back home he kept suddenly bursting into song: "Vilac! Las Vegas!". I then remembered that I'd been given a Vilac garage for a birthday past, and we rummaged in the woodshed for it. It took us a while, but for what it's worth here it is. Ici. It really is La France Profonde, as the prices for fuel are in good old Gauloises stained francs. Still, perhaps it will come back to its own very soon. In the meantime, anyone for a quick depannage?

Truffle Shuffle

2011-08-08T11:02:00.007+01:00

A lovely girl in Market Drayton has just sent me this box of truffles. Before you all go 'Oh yes, what's all that about then?', I will explain. A few weeks ago I happened upon this small town in the eastern marches of Shropshire, and noticed that the sign said 'Market Drayton. Home of Gingerbread'. On getting my obligatory sausage rolls and custard tarts for lunch, I asked for the aforesaid confection. 'Tuesdays' came the reply. As it was Monday I said 'Oh, you mean I've got to come back tomorrow?' Tuesday's of course turned out to be a wonderful chocolaterie, and it was here that I not only bought packs of gingerbread but also fell into conversation with the delightful Nicola, and learnt that MD was not only the home of gingerbread, but also had an incredible concentration of damson trees. The fruit was used to make dye for the northern cotton industry. 'I make truffles with gingerbread, damsons and of course chocolate', Nicola tantalisingly told me, before admitting she hadn't got any. It all started when she was presented with damsons a customer had used in making gin, and used her skill to blend the fruit and gingerbread with a dark, spiced, cream ganache. Nicola keeps the recipe very close to her heart, but Market Drayton can't get enough of them. I do urge you to try a box if you get the chance. We tucked in last night, and I have to tell you that not only did I eat four in a row, but I kept leaving Inspector Lynley and his burgundy Bristol to shuffle into the kitchen for more. They are supremely delicious, and I have additionally invented a new combination in the style of port & Stilton. I bought half a dozen shot glasses on Saturday, so commissioned them with Absolut vodka and the truffles. Perfect. Thankyou Nicola, I will return for more.

Creature Feature No 10

2011-08-02T17:18:00.004+01:00

This jumped off a coach at me at an Abbey Pumping Station event. Leyland made Cubs for over 30 years, and this particular model was coachbuilt by Yeates in 1958. Leyland liked jungle nomenclature for their vehicles, and growling around oil-slicked bus stations were also Tigers, Cheetahs and Leopards. And Gnus for some reason. Leyland. Is this the only vehicle manufacturer to take its name from the town they manufacture in? Oh yes, forgot Bristol.

Crane Jib

2011-07-29T09:59:00.005+01:00

Now. This is a really difficult post to write. Because I like Nicholas Crane very much, whose new BBC2 series Town started last night with Ludlow. And I had to turn it off. OK, I did need an early night after a particularly concentrated early doors, but I really did want to sit back and enjoy it. The problem is twofold. Nicholas came to our attention with his trademark umbrella sticking out of his knapsack in the beautifully informative series Map Man. And then he appeared striding around clifftops and harbours in Coast, or at least when that nighthawk Neil Oliver wasn't glowering at us over his shoulder and flicking his raven hair out of his eyes. But something had changed, and I'd like to bet it wasn't Nick's fault. He vocal delivery altered. Suddenly he was talking in a fashion perfected by sports journalist Gary Newbon on 70s Midlands television, and currently irritatingly employed by that girl who does trailers on Radio 2. A sentence that starts, rises up and then dramatically falls back down again. Everytime. It's difficult to put into words, but I hope you know what I'm going on about. The thing is, this isn't how Nick talks. I've met him, and he talks perfectly normally. (Certainly better than me on this particular occasion.) And he was on Front Row with Mark Lawson the other night, and was very enjoyable to listen to. So what happens? It has to be the producers / directors, the ones with headsets and stopwatches saying "Nick darling, we need it like Gary Newbon" as they flick hair out of their eyes. That's the onefold. Number two was the music so thumpingly overlaid. Why? As Nick reluctantly admitted to Mr.Lawson, what was really needed was the natural recorded sound of the townscape. Not the Ride of the Valkeries (again) just because Nick was giving us a nervous grin from a helicopter. Come on BBC, put down your clipboards and puffa jackets a minute and look at how Aubrey Manning did it. And if you haven't heard of him get a DVD of Betjeman out of the archive. Sorry Nick, but don't let them do it to you.

Orderly Audley

2011-07-27T13:44:00.014+01:00

I feel the need to impress upon you, dear readers, what an Unmitigatedly good day out is to be had at Audley End House, on the fringes of the delightful Essex town of Saffron Walden. English Heritage do some remarkable things, in this case the superb presentation of a house, a garden, and the attendant detail. A Jacobean house looking out on the formal gardens and surrounding countryside from tall windows with blinds half drawn; walls lined with the stern portraits of ancestral ownership punctuated by Venetian views; warm bright kitchens with copper pans reflecting firelight, pretty Victorian girls shouting to each other over pudding bowls; the heady scents from an expansive walled kitchen garden, grapes inflating in dazzling white greenhouses. So much to delight the eye round every corner. And after all that the Fry Gallery in the town, and a stunning exhibition of Eric Ravilious's Essex paintings. I had to be led out weeping, and into the Kings Arms on Market Hill to gather myself back together.

Tin News

2011-07-25T12:30:00.007+01:00

I wasn't going to comment on the demise of the News of The World, but then rediscovered this on a forgotten shelf. It's an 'O' Gauge tinplate advertisement for nailing up on the fence of Hornby railway stations. Before you ask, the Ashley Archive did grab one of the last copies of NOTW, running out of Sainsbury's with it in a plain wrapper. On reading it I have to say I was very tempted to light the fire with it, but as it's July, blah, blah. I can't help thinking that when this little tin poster was bought, the NOTW was an altogether different kettle of fish 'n' chip wrapper. More vicars caught with their trousers down in vestries than footballers shovelling coke up their noses. Maybe. We never had a Sunday newspaper in our house when I was running my clockwork trainset, and the habit was probably thought of as an integral part of the Devil's tentacles. (Or 'testicles', as an elderly country preacher once said, much to our infinite amusement.) Sharing the same shelf as this were tin ads for Woodbines, Gold Flake, Stephen's Ink and Shell Oil. All I need is a tinplate station fence.
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Camp Follower

2011-07-18T15:02:00.016+01:00

Yesterday saw us at English Heritage's annual Festival of History at Kelmarsh Hall in Northamptonshire. Evidence of it being taken down a notch or two was apparent, with no Vulcan bombers strafing Civil War pikesmen and extremely indifferent service at one of the Bacon Roll counters (bacon placed outside the roll). Perhaps there was a war on. But still much to enjoy, with Roman Legionaries talking into mobiles (sinister dexter) the good ole executioner waving an axe about and telling six year olds about dismemberment, and a Lost Boy. (Sign here if you want him back.) Lovely stuff. For me though it's the brilliant photo opportunities, as once again an afternoon of July showers meant fabulous sky backdrops and stage lighting. I can't tell you anything historically accurate about these pics, particularly concerning the corrugated iron hut. But how could I resist it?

Louis & Annie

2011-07-12T12:44:00.006+01:00

Saturday morning found me seeking out Diplo, hoping I'd catch him defrosting a fox or something for his breakfast, but the familiar battle-scarred Landrover was not on the gravel outside Diplo Hall. So I decamped down the road to one of my favourite Northamptonshire churches at Southwick. Here the combination of church and hall is a perfect example of one of the essential Unmitigated England fantasies, viz: that rectors holding wigs against the wind still scuttle in buckled shoes across lawns bordered by hollyhocks between dark oil-lit vestries and their masters' sunlit drawing rooms. For once I'd remembered my tripod, and so was at last able to photograph the monument in the chancel: 'Sacred to the memory of George Lynn Esqr who departed this life on the 6th day of May 1758'. And there's his wife, looking up adoringly at her husband. The craftsman here is French sculptor Louis-Francois Roubiliac, and this must have been one of his last commissions, executed in 1760. I had stared at it a couple of times before I saw, with a pang of immense pleasure, Anne Bellamy Lynn's sculpted foot. So relaxed, so informal. The years rolled away as I imagined her briefing Louis-Francois, staring at him as she let her slipper casually drop from her heel.

Painting The Town

2011-07-05T11:49:00.006+01:00

The Stamford Civic Society celebrates its 50th anniversary next year, and very kindly commissioned me to execute a painting of the town. Unmitigated Stamford is the result, and prints are available here. And a little film can be seen here. I've always had great affection for Stamford, starting in the 1950s with childhood visits to my Uncle David and his family. Uncle was editor of the Stamford Mercury, and indeed wrote (with Martin Smith) the definitive history of what is England's oldest newspaper. So the streets and alleys of this superb stone-built town became very familiar to me. I can remember standing on a corner of Red Lion Square when the Great North Road still thundered through the town, holding my father's hand as a seemingly giant red petrol tanker roared just feet from my nose, church bells echoing around me. I had favourite buildings, like the communal Bath House and Sancton Wood's classic Stamford Town railway station, and continually wandered about the meadows next to the River Welland. I decided to put my images of the town together in what I believe is called a capriccio, a fanciful notion where the buildings don't have to be in scale or even in the right place. And of course it gave me the opportunity to put in a train complete with blood 'n' custard carriages. I've enjoyed it all immensely, and have just completed another for what looks like being a series. So Unmitigated Leicester arrives very soon, and then hopefully Brighton. Oh I do like to be beside the seaside. And any opportunity to drink Harvey's Sussex Bitter whilst gulls scream around domes and spires....

Single Decker, Double Joy

2011-07-01T17:14:00.012+01:00

As promised, here are photographs of the bus that ferried passengers from the nearby station on the Mid Norfolk Railway to the Hardingham Village Fete. Although painted-up quite correctly in the 1970s National Bus Company livery (slogan: 'Together we can really go places'), on its arrival in Norfolk in 1967 this Bristol bus would most likely have been signed in the original gold 'Eastern Counties' logotype on the side panels. I await cries of anguish from bus savants. But we just loved this. As fete openers we were allowed to go on it back and forth, so for a while we had it to ourselves. Well, apart from the conductor. And driver. "What's 'Stubber' mean dad" Youngest Boy asked, running his fingers over the raised surface of one of the little metal plates attached to the rear of every green upholstered seat. "It's where you were allowed to stub your cigarette out" I replied, and he just looked at me in sheer disbelief. What joy, the two of us sitting in different parts of the bus, me with my father's Panama on, he with mine. "Oh no, look!" he shouted, "That's all we need". And coming towards us on the empty green Norfolk lane was an open-topped Morris Minor. I buried my head in my hands, half expecting Hattie Jacques to get on when I looked up again.

A Smashing Time

2011-07-01T15:36:00.009+01:00

Last weekend the Youngest Boy and I were in Mid Norfolk at the tiny village of Hardingham. I'd very kindly been asked to open their very Unmitigatedly English Fete, so I prepared a wandering speech all about rural pleasures and was going to recite from Philip Larkin's Show Saturday after apologising for it being a Sunday. A silver prize band tuned-up, bunting and chocolate cakes were adjusted and I went behind a marquee to limber up with throat spray and a hip flask. My kind host then told me that I didn't need to say much more than a couple of sentences because nobody would listen anyway. My ego suitably deflated I was going to give the mike to Youngest Boy, who'd brought a pair of kitchen scissors in his pocket because he'd thought there would be a ribbon to cut. So we kept it short and sweet and then got on with feteing. A red 1967 Eastern Counties Bristol single decker (of which more later) brought folk to the village from special steam trains that were stopping at Hardingham station. Crowds gathered around well-thumbed Dan Browns on the bookstall, rats were splatted in drainpipes, rides were taken behind a small scale steam traction engine. A kindly fireman told us how they cut crash victims from wreckage with massive bolt cutters and a Norfolk copper kept staring at me and talking sotto voce into his walkie-talkie. We thought the best thing was throwing three balls at shelves of crockery for 50p. Which suited us well enough, particularly Youngest Boy who was itching to do something similar to the Tombola table. Thankyou Hardingham for such a pleasurable afternoon in the heart of Unmitigated Norfolk.

Fired Up

2011-06-19T12:45:00.006+01:00

Before I say anything else, I have to confess to being a) so uncharacteristically 'with it' that I use a smart phone (well, not very smart as it's covered in beer stains and gouache fingerprints) and b) utterly absorbed with taking snaps with the astounding Hipstamatic 'app'. As they say, "digital photography has never looked so analogue". The software uses the standard phone camera, but turns pictures into unbelievable retro-looking snaps. Just like plastic-lensed cameras of the 50s or 60s. Flaring, blurring, generally messed about with, it introduces an eccentric quality you'd spend two grand a day with a London snapper to get. The next step is that we'll all go back to using Instamatics and waiting for them to be done-over at Boots. And if you think I'm joking, or for once in my life ahead of the game, it's already happening. The Hipstamatic 'films' and 'lenses' have curious Ikea-style names like 'Ina 39' and 'John 'S', and if you don't watch out it changes your settings at random, just for fun. So you can imagine how I felt when these First World War limeburning kins at Barrowden in Rutland, in front of both a raging sky and the limestone village church, were accidentally captured on a film called 'Lucifer' with its burnt out ring of fire. You can find out more about the kilns in this book.

The Size of Eggs in Warwickshire

2011-06-13T20:17:00.005+01:00

Another collection started today. The sheer variety of local signs advertising fresh eggs makes an interesting I-Spy game whilst out on country roads. Well, that's my excuse anyway. It could be a piece of recycled wood knocked out from the back of a wardrobe with not enough space left on it for the 's' of 'eggs', or the remarkably enigmatic 'Bull's Eggs' found out on an Essex coast road, as seen in Cross Country. Local vernacular commercial art. Here's a lovely jolly example on a road leading into Wilmcote near Stratford-on-Avon. Note the wheels for running it indoors at night. And yes, I did call in for half-a-dozen, and a quartet of duck eggs for good measure.

Hoovering

2011-06-03T09:03:00.005+01:00

You can find out much more about these fabulous art deco buildings at the inimitable English Buildings blog, but I couldn't resist putting these pictures up. I'd been in central London, and was supposed to be joining the North Circular at the Hangar Lane 'Gyratory'. But I was so taken up with ranting and waving my arms about for the benefit of my long-suffering passenger that I found myself in the tunnel and out the other the side in a flash. I couldn't correct my error until the next junction on the A40 at Perivale, but this meant that on our return trip eastwards we passed this stunning pair. I'd always wanted to photograph them, but either it was raining or I was on the wrong carriageway. I do urge you to park up nearby if you're in the area and take a good look as we did, and I hope the sun and clouds are as complementary to the architecture. As Pevsner says, this was a factory designed to impress the new speeding motorists passing by in a few seconds, a blinding flash of hygenic white that perfectly endorsed the efficiency of the household cleaners once made within the early 1930's factory. The 1938 air terminal above was in fact the canteen, and round the back is now a Tesco, whose signs adorn the front lawn. Their presence here is remarkably and untypically low key. Every little helps.

Friar & Goblet

2011-05-22T13:35:00.007+01:00

I can't tell you how long I've waited to get my hands on one of these. I must have seen it first as a boy, perched up on grocers' shelves. We were a Bird's Custard household, but I remember wondering about the connection between a monk and a glass of custard. Much later I read that the custard makers were Monkhouse & Glasscock, where sometimes funnyman Bob's father was chairman, hoping vainly that his son would follow him into the business. As we all know only too well he didn't, and M&G got subhumed into Bird's. Such an evocative brand, and further round the tin there's a full-size monk holding up the glass and saying "At last. At last". How true.

This Way

2011-05-15T09:24:00.003+01:00

I've always loved this. It shows just how brilliant some local signing was in the past before the impending national homogeneity took over. It also demonstrates what civic pride was taken in the detail, and Leicester was once rich in such things. This example is now housed safely behind glass (prohibiting both a decent picture and itchy screwdrivers) in the Museum of Technology at the old Abbey Pumping Station.

Howzat

2011-05-13T17:40:00.007+01:00

Jonathan Meades once wrote that I had an eye for 'wonky cricket pavlions' and he's right. Compiling photographs for a Leicester project I learnt in my local that Leicestershire County Cricket Club once played on a ground just off the Aylestone Road before finding their current permanent home at Grace Road. They did, from 1901 to 1939. 399 first class games were played here, including matches against the touring sides of Australia, West Indies, India and New Zealand. Being next to the power station, it was then used by the 'Leccy' (electric) board, and indeed it is still the home of the Leicester Electricity Sports Cricket Club. I was not a little alarmed to see Persimmon Homes' flags fluttering on the boundary fence, but on presenting myself at the 'marketing suite' was told by a delightful girl that the ground was safe. Later I discovered that there is to be some development of the outfield, and although it will be smaller it is planned that this should be one of the finest cricket 'squares' in the country. Persimmon are going to take the wonkiness out of the pavilion, and club members will see to the inside. So that's alright then, and very fitting, considering W.G.Grace once played here.

The Art of Flower Arranging

2011-05-09T07:35:00.005+01:00

The drovers' lanes and wide-verged enclosure roads of High Leicestershire are currently billowing with characterful cow parsley. You may know it as Queen Anne's Lace, Keck, or even Badman's Oatmeal, but there's no mistaking what Richard Mabey, in his indispensable Flora Britannica, calls "mile upon mile of...indomitable, dusty smocking". Soon the council mowers will be out, scything through it all to leave bare verges, so yesterday we collected a few stalks and stuffed them into this impromptu vase as the centrepiece for our Sunday lunch table. Constance Spry would've been very proud of us. The Ovaltine tin is courtesy of a shed clearing by master joiner and bicycliste Clarkie, who brought it in a carrier bag to early doors at the pub on Friday evening. " I didn't think you'd got enough of 'em" he explained, and also inside the bag was a green and red Fowler's Black Treacle tin. Ah, the month of May in Unmitigated England, holding so many joys. Incidentally, did you know that cow parsley is part of the carrot family? Look closely at the leaves.

Matchless Festivities

2011-05-04T14:20:00.006+01:00

Sixty years ago yesterday saw the opening of the Festival of Britain. Although celebrated with events all over the country, it centred on London's South Bank with buildings and structures that have become like 3D souvenirs, even though almost all of them have disappeared. Powell & Moya's 300 foot cigar-shaped Skylon was rumoured to have been made into ashtrays, but at least we still have the Royal Festival Hall. This was 'a tonic to the nation', as Festival Director General Sir Gerald Barry had it, a surreal enlivener to perk up post war Britain after the deprivations of wartime. What brave new world things we would have seen. Everything including Terence Conran's first outings into furniture, Barnett Freedman's Penguin biscuit wrappers, Laurie Lee's captions in the Lion & Unicorn Pavilion, Rowland Emett's Far Tottering & Oyster Creek Railway chugging round Battersea Park. And Lewit-Him's Guinness Clock (above) that whirred into action every hour, as it later did on the promenades of British seaside resorts. I watched it with great wonder in Great Yarmouth, but I didn't make the Festival, only becoming aware of it when my brother stuck a sticker of Abram Games' Festival symbol with its bunting Britannia on the family cricket bat. But I do now have a book of matches (top) and a faux leather comb case with it on, and one of Bedfordshire's steel roundels used on village signs. (Given to me by the original manufacturer, I hasten to add.) My cousin went, but had a row with his dad and had to come home early.

Magic Marker

2011-05-02T08:19:00.006+01:00

The end of April, and a walk on a recently discovered and delightful path through the beeches and ash trees of Wardley Wood on the Leicestershire and Rutland border. It starts with parking up next to a wooden shack in the trees called Sweethedges, where homely refreshments are provided to passing wayfarers. Almost the only indication of the turning off the lane between Stockerston and Allexton is this carefully-shaped lump of ironstone leaning next to a tall hedge. I went into a long rambling discourse about it being a marker for the crossing of both ancient trackways and the nearby Eye Brook, a forgotten and unrecorded landmark that defied any cogent explanation. I ran my fingers over the surface to discern some obliterated runes, and looked into the warm blue distances hoping for answers. Which came when I raised the subject as our tea and almond slices were brought to our table. "Oh that", we were told. "We dragged it up out of a pond and thought it would make a good signpost. Just haven't got round to carving anything on it". My thoughts of discovering a long lost totem and of assuring myself a place next to Alfred Watkins and John Michell evaporated with the steam rising from my little brown teapot. We left, me forgetting to pick up my discarded pullover.

Unexpected Alphabet No 16

2011-04-30T08:56:00.007+01:00

Well, what a day. Everything from the High Victorian visions in Westminster Abbey- red uniforms and internal green trees like it must have been inside the Great Exhibition of 1851- to our village hall with a party for the children- miniature sausage rolls and My Boys (and others, it has to be said) taking it in turns to wear my giant tea cosy that's shaped like a muti-coloured crown. And this sponge cake emblazoned with stencilled castor sugar (I think). It was a little thing, and I expect there were a few thousand like it up and down the bunting-ed and beflagged streets of the nation, but this was one of ours. I loved it all, the care and precision of everything from a military epaulette to a flag stuck in a cake. "I was glad", as Hubert Parry had it for everyone in the Abbey, but particularly for that stunning processing bride. God bless 'em.

Iron Filing

2011-04-27T15:15:00.005+01:00

In accordance with my New Year resolution to try and stop driving by interesting things without photographing them, I give you the remains of an old cottage in Blaston, Leicestershire. For years it has been covered in ivy, and the ground surrounding it a heaven of tangled undergrowth from which sprouted a few beehives. "I really must hop over the gate and photograph that" I muttered to myself every time I drove by. The thing is it's very near my home, and I see it virtually every day. So there was always another time. Until last week, when I saw that the ground had been cleared and levelled, and an ominous planning application poster was tied to a metal five bar gate. Last chance then, so I saw the other side of the cottage for the first time. It was like seeing an old friend suddenly stripped of their clothing, if you'll forgive my doubtful analogy. Just the bare bones really, but nevertheless an interesting object lesson on various building materials. I'm so glad I stopped and recorded it. For certain it will never be seen like this again.

Easter Bells

2011-04-24T08:40:00.003+01:00

Happy Easter Everybody!

Down Rover

2011-04-22T11:59:00.005+01:00

Last weekend the roads around here were filled with remarkable motor cars- 'Drive It Day' or something. I don't know where they came from or where they ended up, but they must have been let out of the meeting paddock in staggered groups. A stately Austin Devon estate followed by a bulbous Somerset and then a few minutes later by a muted growl of MGBs. I ran about trying to photograph them, tripping up kerb stones and poking the lens through cherry blossom for effect. Nothing really worked, but then this Rover 2000TC purred into shot and I managed to catch the rear end. I remember this shape of Rover coming out, and it took a bit of getting used to after its predeccessors. But then one day in 1975 I drove one around Bradford for some reason and thought 'This is rather nice'. There was something really revolutionary about the design, like seeing a Citroen DS for the first time. It was the first winner of European Car of The Year in 1964 and was built in Solihull between 1963-1977. One for village doctors, police inspectors and regional heads of sales, usually with pipefulls of Erinmore on the go.

Oxford Bags

2011-04-20T15:40:00.011+01:00

Sorry to have been off piste for a while, but at least I've been to Oxford on a bright warm April day, the streets awash with cycling professors and neo-punk girls. Unsuccessfully avoiding one of my favourite bookshops- Blackwell Art & Architecture, I then started to loiter with intent along unfamiliar streets, particularly in North Oxford with its detached houses of red brick and tiles forming the backdrops to billowing pink and white blossomings. Perhaps many are now divided up into flats, but it's still perfectly possible to imagine dons bent over Heroditus in their studies, dutiful wives out on the terraces with Bombay Sapphires, and the ghost of John Betjeman in the evening- "Oh! Fuller's angel-cake, Robertson's marmalade / Liberty lampshade, come shine on us all". And then St.Aldates and a wonderful timber survivor that embellishes the pavement outside the post office. Don't you just love that 'Newspapers and packets"? Only one sight caused me a little grief, as I ranged up my camera in The Broad to snap this row of gabled cottages with their warm stone roof tiles and coloured renders. Visitors to Unmitigated England know of my distaste for the current fad of over decorating buses, but how can the city live with this playschool crayoning? So come on Oxford, this isn't Blackpool; rise up from your sofas and re-runs of Morse and Lewis and demand something that better reflects and complements the beautiful and absorbing sights to be seen from the top deck.

Accidental Art 1

2011-04-11T16:21:00.006+01:00

I don't know how big, or little, this series might be,or indeed how soon the next one will appear. But this is the first, a remarkable find pointed out to me on the 30mph sign painted last year on an approach road into Hallaton in Leicestershire. A stray leaf from a nearby ash tree had obviously landed on the road, and the sign maker just covered it over with his thick white paint. Rain, salt and tyre scuffing did the rest, until the leaf finally disappeared, leaving its ghost made from the tarred surface. So of course I'm now out there seeing if it's happened elsewhere, dodging the traffic and not for the first time on my hands and knees in the middle of the road.

Creature Feature No 9

2011-03-29T13:08:00.003+01:00

Just a quickie here. We went up to Lyveden New Bield on Sunday, and ended-up having teas and hot chocolates out on a lawn. They gave us wooden sticks as stirrers, and a kind lady came out with a tin of sweets. Which was very nice. The Boys soon ran off to continue a sword fight on one of garden mounts, leaving this behind on the iron table. I thought: how good is that, even down to the mop of hair made by a piece of uneaten (strangely) chocolate.

Unexpected Alphabets No 15

2011-03-25T12:45:00.004Z

Wandering around Islington on Wednesday evening I chanced upon this cafe in Essex Road. I am now relieved to know that 'S&M' stands for 'Sausage & Mash', having initially thought that a cappacino might be accompanied by a good thrashing. Or, tantalisingly withheld. But what of course really took my attention was that lovely panel advertising ices at post war (or even pre war) prices. And that marvellous mosaic entrance with 'refreshments' underfoot. I'd bring all my luncheon vouchers here.

Major Minor

2011-03-22T10:21:00.004Z

On our way down to Bigbury and Burgh Island on Sunday, in the glorious county of Devon, we came across a row of cars and vans incongruously parked in a field. " Hare coursing" I said immediately, but on drawing nearer we saw figures in the wide landscape hoovering the soil with metal detectors. But on the way back, (after malty Pilchard Bitter and cold Sauvignon on the island), all the vehicles had gone except this lonely Morris Minor. We drove slowly by, and of course two miles further on I said "I really should have photographed that Morris in the field". A turn at a crossroads, a drive back up the winding narrow South Hams lane, a very uncoordinated vault over a farm gate, and here it is.

Loneliness of the Cross Country Runner

2011-03-16T15:14:00.012Z

At last, a messenger arrives hotfoot from Bloomsbury with an advance copy of Cross Country. This is the latest from the typing room at Ashley Towers, and so celebrations are in order for the next few weeks. I shall now be locking myself away with the book, my only company twenty Capstan Full Strength and a bottle of Baillie Nicholl Jarvie. I shall be like a dog with a new bone, growling when anybody comes up the spiral staircase to the turret room.

The areas covered in my Cross Country ramblings are: Southwest Cumbria, Herefordshire & Shropshire, North Norfolk, Romney Marsh & Dungeness, North Cotswolds, Essex Estuaries, Wiltshire-Dorset Borders, North Cornwall Coast and High Leicestershire (of course).

Melancholy Talk

2011-03-10T15:50:00.005Z

This week I've been photographing the remarkable stone-built town of Stamford in Lincolnshire, for a project I'll talk more about later in the spring. In the remains of the day I found myself at the west end of the town, and in particular on this pathway that runs between a stream and the water meadows that stretch out to the River Welland. It's called Melancholy Walk, and is in fact a raised causeway that ends at a few acres of allotments and an isolated cottage. Standing there I was taken back to a spring evening long ago, when aged about three I was taken down here by my two older girl cousins who lived nearby on Tinwell Road. They held my hands and patiently let me toddle on between them until we reached a gateway that's just out of sight to the left of this photograph. We tried to traverse an area of deep black mud churned up by cattle, in an attempt to cross the meadows, but I got stuck fast, my little wellington boots slowly sinking into the ooze. They pulled and pulled, to no avail. And then a man in a raincoat and flat cap appeared, cycling slowly down the causeway either to the allotments or the cottage. "Excuse me mister", the elder girl called out, "But our cousin has got stuck in the mud". He didn't even turn and look, but just shouted over his shoulder "Bugger off".

Birthday Cakes

2011-03-04T15:44:00.004Z

Yesterday I found myself round the back of Waterloo Station, as you do, my visit coinciding with a few beams of sunlight that were just starting to light up the capital. This is one of my favourite areas of London- Roupell Street in fact, where the street is lined with artisan's cottages from the mid-nineteenth century. On one corner is a delightful pub, further down nearer the station is this, a branch of Konditor & Cook. I could've spent an hour just looking through the window hungrily, with perhaps a frayed balaclava on my head and my shoelaces undone. But I didn't have time. If I had foregone trying to get on the M11 before the rush hour I would have gone in and bought something special. Particularly as today is Youngest Boy's birthday. Shame on me, happy birthday to him.

Toy Boy

2011-02-25T13:54:00.007Z

Sometimes I think that I'm trying to re-create my childhood, piece by piece. Toys, books, old copies of the Radio Times, drooling over Humber Super Snipes. "A comfort blanket to hold up against the tyrannies of the new century" someone once said. Actually, it was me. The thing is, all those years ago I didn't have a Hornby 0 Gauge level crossing for my 1950's clockwork train. So very recently I couldn't resist this, in its bright red box that told me it was of 1953 vintage. I just love it. Opening and shutting the gates, trying to not let them scratch the printed tinplate as its first (probably) owner had done. I wanted to share it with you, but thought it was a bit plain on its own. Not having a clockwork train and carriages yet I reached out for my cheese biscuits tin and sourced these two Britain's farm models. And I didn't have those either as a child.

Unexpected Alphabets No 14

2011-02-22T11:22:00.013Z

I'm busy photographing England's smallest county, Rutland, and on arrival at the churchyard of Holy Cross in Burley-on-the-Hill came across this remarkable gravestone. Apart from its fabulously momento mori skull and crossbones, it is very, very early for such a thing. Most memorials at this time (just decipherable as 1701 I think) were inside the churches, and there are no others of similar age as far as I could see. The local limestone has been used, but even so it appears to have weathered rather well. I have a thought that this is because the monument may have been inside the church and was removed during the inevitable Victorian 'restoration'. Or it could have been part of a larger piece of stone forming the side of a dismantled tomb chest, and cut with a rounded top when placed in isolation. But I still can't fathom out all of the inscription, other than that the person died on the 16th November and was only 20. Is 'Mason' a name or an occupation? And who is it? The surname may be 'Harald'. I'll just have to get back up here with a wire brush. No I won't. The other beautiful thing about this gravestone is what age has done to it with lichens and mosses. 'Pleasing Decay' in a country churchyard.

Funnel Vision

2011-02-14T15:12:00.005Z

It started with three pop-pop steam boats I bought at the Abbey Pumping Station event (see last post). The idea is that you fill them with water and then light candle stubs that you slide under their tiny boilers. On heating up they start to go pop-pop and if you're lucky they steam happily along for five minutes or so. That's the theory, but we had grandiose ideas of having a race with them across our local stream where it fords a bridleway. Youngest Boy quite rightly said we should test one first in the kitchen sink, so after I'd burnt myself with the cigarette lighter, cut myself on the tin and thrown the offending boat down the garden, we took our Sutcliffe Clockwork Liner out instead. What a performer. A few turns of the long key you put down one of the funnels and it's away. It head-butted not only a strong wind but also the unpredictable current of the stream, whirring away whilst we let water flow into the tops of our Wellingtons. Having gone through a couple of concrete pipes unscathed it finally grounded itself Fitzcarraldo-style in a reed bed. We went home for cocoa, (well, Bovril in my case), wet through, caked in mud and very, very happy. I told The Boys I had bought the tin ship from Mr.Sutcliffe in person, which was met with utter disbelief. Amazingly, it's true.

Steamed Up

2011-02-10T11:40:00.019Z

Sunday found us at the Abbey Pumping Station in Leicester. Once used for pumping enormous amounts of sewage up to Beaumont Leys in Leicester (for which they were very grateful I'm sure), the incredible Gimson steam engines are housed in a Victorian Valhalla of decorated iron pillars and clanking walkways. As often as possible they're fired-up to thunderously roll again, but at the side is an utterly absorbing Museum of Science & Technology that shows you (amongst lots of other things) how lavatories work. Every now and then there's a Special Event, and this Sunday it was Steam Toys. It was just wonderful. A tent full of blokes bent over stationary Mamod engines, more people with their glasses opaque with condensation in the roof above the pumps running tin locos past tin stations; and outside a full-size train running in and out of the obligatory Victorian planting of laurels. Oil, steam, hoots and whistles. I had to go and lie down, and that was before sitting on a late 1930's Leicester Corporation bus ('Spitting Prohibited') and being allowed inside the Unmitigated 1938 Bedford mobile chip shop. (Thankyou Barrie.) There was a lot more, but was it all a steam elitist day out for shiny anoraks? Certainly not. The place was heaving, full of local families resisting the cold and having an utterly brilliant time. Perhaps this is the kind of thing Dave means when he goes on about the Big Society, a community coming and acting together for a common good.

You know what's coming next, don't you? Yes, Leicester City Council want to close the whole enterprise down, along with Belgrave Hall, the Roman museum at Jewry Wall and the fantastic medieval Guildhall next to the cathedral. The excuse is 'cuts' of course, but the Pumping Station does what it does because it's served by 100 (yes, 100) volunteers, who love and cherish it so that we and future generations can be educated, enthralled, or just given a marvellous time on a cold Sunday. The permanent staff will move on, the Pumping Station will be boarded-up, and thieves will break in (they've made a start on the roof) and destroy the engines for scrap. It will never be the same again. Unless of course a miracle happens, and someone will realise what a golden opportunity exists here- right next door to the National Space Centre- to tell the whole story of technological ingenuity on one site. Let's hope it's not another End of Steam.

Quick! Into the Jag!

2011-02-08T10:06:00.005Z

There should have been another blog between the last one and this, but I'm still working on it. (Get on with it, Ed.) So here's another stunning car for you, a 1952 Jaguar. (Mark 9?) I just love it. As we talked about last week, advertising was so much simpler and more to the point in the fifties. All they needed to say was 'Grace', 'Space' and 'Pace'. Which meant that it looked good, had lots of room and went like stink. What more did we want to know? One of the getaway cars-of-choice for Laarndun villains, the Jag had style in bucket seat loads. Except I think it had a bench front seat. And look at that logo for 'The Motor' too. Perfect.

Windermere Winner

2011-02-02T14:11:00.007Z

Often on this blog and elsewhere I have mentioned in passing the 'fat Austin Somerset', but not until today do I have a good picture of one to show you. Gliding through a very stylised Windermere, here it is; a 1952 Somerset in a paint finish I don't remember seeing, but with that fabulous flying 'A' badge above the radiator grille and four tweeds-and-pearls passengers. The woman in the front passenger seat is saying to her husband through gritted teeth "I wish Brian'd stop waving that bloody pipe about". 'Austin' is somehow such a homely English name for a car, even more so with a list of model names that included not only the Somerset, but also the Austin Dorset, Devon, Hampshire and Hereford. "Darling if you don't mind awfully I'll drive you to the station in the Hampshire".

Latch Match

2011-01-31T17:03:00.005Z

What's that word again, the one that's for when you start seeing faces in inanimate objects? Like Hitler in a half-bitten McVitie's plain chocolate biscuit. Incidentally, I looked at my almost finished piece of toast this morning (Waitrose Seeded Batch, Wilkins Tiptree), and noticed that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a map of England and Wales, my last bite being Cardigan Bay. I was going to blog it but ate it before photography could commence. Anyway, this is a door latch at Ashley Towers in winter sunlight.

PS I've just noticed another, very unexpected face.

Spamgate

2011-01-24T11:03:00.009Z

Bradgate Park will be well-known to the people of Leicester and Leicestershire. An almost perfectly preserved medieval landscape of 350 acres, this is where the city comes to walk, picnic, fly kites, kick footballs and exercise rotweilers. I was brought here many times on a Midland Red bus as a child, eating Spam sandwiches on the igneous rocks, snapping away with a box Brownie and once having an unfortunate accident in my trousers because I refused to enter the evil smelling lavatories. At the heart of the park is Bradgate House, a spectacular orange brick ruin that is one of England's earliest fortified manor houses. Started in 1490, it later became the birthplace of Lady Jane Grey, nine days Queen of England before being summarily beheaded at the behest of Mary I. They say all the oaks in the park were pollarded out of respect for her, and by the look of the oldest trees this would seem to be the case. Walking up to the ruins, I realised just what a major part of my life they'd been, and I will bring my boys here again very soon, armed with sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and their new digital cameras. But I'll make sure they 'go' before marching out under the oaks.

Unexpected Alphabets No 13

2011-01-18T11:21:00.005Z

I love signs that are what they say they are. If you get my mangled meaning. This was spotted on the Grays Inn Road in that London last Thursday. And I love neon, which I may have gone on about before. It appears to have a long shelf (or wall) life. There's still a big 'Take Courage' in blue neon up on a London gable end, lighting up every night on what used to be a pub. I'd like to bet the owner of the building has no idea it's still connected to his electric supply.

Yorkie

2011-01-16T17:06:00.006Z

So, farewell then Susannah York. On the day she passed away I was by remarkable coincidence showing Second Eldest Boy Tom Jones, Tony Richardson's seminal 1963 film in which she played Sophie Western: "Mr. Blifil! You can't be in earnest! If you are, I am the most miserable woman alive." I first saw it sitting nervously in Leicester's Picture House cinema (it was an old-fashioned 'X' certificate and I was under age) and remember thinking, as Miss York made her first delectable appearance on the bridge at Stepleton Iwerne in Dorset, "Blimey, who's that?". And today, as I heaved logs into the shed I noticed again one of the big wooden red 'E's from the main sign for the Picture House hanging up on the wall.

Sixties Players

2011-01-11T10:07:00.004Z

Funny how the wheel of life turns. Or the CD on the record player of life. Putting the finishing touchs to my cigarette book (blogs passim) I was reminded that Procol Harum made an album in 1969 called A Salty Dog. And that the album sleeve was a primitive pastiche of the original Player's Navy Cut cigarette packet. I'd never heard the album, even though A Whiter Shade of Pale transcends genres and time to still be one of the best pop songs to make the Hit Parade; and I do have an obscure album of theirs called Exotic Birds & Fruit which I bought just for the still life on the cover. So needing a pristine example of A Salty Dog to scan in for the book, I sent off for what I think is a 40th anniversary edition. It arrived yesterday, so I can now tell you that the cover was painted by Dickinson, who, surprisingly, is a lady and married (at least at the time) to the lyricist in the band Keith Reid. I popped it into the player in the car this morning, and have to tell you I had to stop the car in a field gateway and stare out over the wet fields of Leicestershire as the eponymous first track swept over me. I thought it simply brilliant. Which is a good job, after forty two years.

Blog Early This Christmas!

2011-01-03T12:56:00.004Z

Well and truly thwarted in my plans to give you a Christmas Special, and having failed to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, I can at last kick off 2011 with something appropriate. Considering my lack of getting anything done this last December, I can do no better than give you this excellent Barnett Freedman poster from 1938. It will act as a reminder for me to get my finger out next December. Freedman (1901-1958), is one of my favourite designers, amongst the last of a breed once called 'commercial artists' as opposed to 'graphic designers'. He will perhaps be best remembered for King George V 1935 Jubilee stamps and Faber bookjackets, but little recognised for designing an early Penguin chocolate biscuit wrapper. Happy New Year!

No 48 Picture

2010-12-14T09:33:00.002Z

Here it is. A bit like last week's I know, what with that dome and all.

Where's That Then? No 48

2010-12-14T07:00:00.000Z

My domestic computer has decided not to allow me to download pictures on to my blog. Which is not helpful, considering having a photograph is fairly essential to the whole idea. So I will download it from my other piano in the morning. Sorry for delay. I mean why?

Where's That Then? No 47

2010-12-07T07:00:00.000Z

I do hope regular readers aren't getting too tired of Unmitigated England being an Unmitigated Quiz at present. But just think about it as leaving the central heating on low so that the house doesn't freeze up. The New Year (I've just decided) will be the start of all the usual things you've come to expect and been deprived of: corrugated iron, fag packets, Vimto bottles etc. With a Christmas Special of course. In the meantime, how about this?

Where's That Then? No 46

2010-11-30T07:00:00.000Z

If you were on the other side of this summer house, then you'd think this was a one storey building. And behind you would be something much bigger. Clue: mid-southern England.

Where's That Then? No 46

2010-11-23T07:00:00.000Z

One of my favourite places, and a great adventure playground for my boys. And on top of all that, it's free. Any clues? Let's just say east.

Where's That Then? No 45

2010-11-16T07:00:00.000Z

Complete change of locale this week, and away from the Deep South for once. This crane dominates the skyline of what I think is a very fascinating and absorbing place, once one gets beyond the sneers and music hall jokes that once surrounded it.

Where's That Then? No 44

2010-11-09T07:00:00.000Z

This has got to be one of my favourite churchyards. Mainly for the view from it- the half-timbering, orange brick, white painted dormers and the whole thing looking like a backdrop to a Powell & Pressburger film like A Canterbury Tale. Which gives a kind of a clue as to which quarter of the country we're in.

Where's That Then? No 567

2010-11-02T13:04:00.005Z

What can I possibly say? All has not been as it should be in Unmitigated England, but my dear readers should never have been left high and dry with just a clock tower to look at. So, once again, sincere apologies. And also to those who tried to e-mail me on the address attached to the blog. Another major failure with the intranet that has only just been sorted. Normal service is now resumed, and I hope (if anyone's still out there) that the next few weeks will see things getting better and better. Thankyou for your patience. So, where's this then?

Where's That Then? No 43

2010-10-12T10:19:00.004+01:00

I love clock towers. Marking the hours above stable yards, regimenting school timetables and a focus point for swifts on summer evenings. Here's one on a bank, but in which town?

Ace

2010-10-06T14:18:00.010+01:00

Last Friday night saw us in Cirencester, at a private view for another exhibition of the work of Tony Meeuwissen. I've gone on about Tony's work before, but at the Corinium Museum was another chance to see it again. I can only say you must try and see it. It's only on until the end of October, but there may be other opportunities. I can't remember the last time my jaw literally dropped open at the sight of such incredible design and illustration, unless it was when I saw his exhibition in Stroud last year. The two playing cards above will give you a hint as to what's in store; they're from his deck of cards The Key To The Kingdom. There are beautiful signed prints available too, and whilst I'm in recommending mood, if you need a good hotel in the town then give The Fleece a go. What a lot of links, but it's worth it.

Where's That Then? No 42

2010-10-06T10:14:00.003+01:00

Abject apologies for my non-arrival yesterday. Unavoidable, so perhaps I should start a new series called Where Was I Yesterday?, which applies to the uncompromising scene above. A tricky one I know, but the big clue I can give is that just off to the left of this scene is one of my very favourite dock structures in England. As seen in a recent book.

Lace Wing

2010-09-30T16:09:00.004+01:00

You know how it is. You have an hour to kill between Nottingham and Derby so you start wandering aimlessly about hoping that something will grab your attention. That's what happened to me this morning and I found this, first as an enormous silhouette against the sun across the fields, and then on arriving in Derby Road Draycott I discovered this deeply impressive frontage to Jardine's Victoria Mill. Built between 1888 and 1907 it was started by E. Terah Hooley, a wealthy local industrialist, but finished by Ernest Jardine who stuck his name up below the clock face. It's all here- cream coloured rock-faced stone at the base and then red brick, blue brick, stone dressings and then that fishscale roof topping it out. And the clock still works and does Westminster chimes. They reckon this was the largest lace factory in the world and I'm not surprised, it appears to endlessly march down Elvaston Street at the side. I must come back when the sun lights the western elevation where there are four huge bow-fronted staircase turrets. What do you think? I ran about snapping away like a madman.

Time Capsule

2010-09-27T12:25:00.015+01:00

To Leicester, and on a beautiful autumn Saturday afternoon we find ourselves in the incredible enclave of Belgrave. Once a small village by the River Soar, it is now surrounded by the teeming life of the big city. But taking a turn off the Loughborough Road brings you into a cul-de-sac where time has stood still. At least on the outside. At the end is the granite-walled St.Peter's church, to the left (top picture) is the early eighteenth century Belgrave Hall (it says 1715 on a rainwater head), opposite gardens that reach down to the river next door to Belgrave House (bottom pic), built later in the same century. The Hall belongs to Leicester Museums, and we would turn up here on winter mornings in the early 1960's just to get a warm from the coal fire that sputtered in the entrance hall grate. It's still much as I remembered, except more museum-ised and all that that means in 2010. Posters stuck to the reverse of the door, computer on a table, exhibits brought in from other houses etc. and what looks like the start of a Christmas (sorry, Celebratory Season) Bazaar. My boys of course were very impressed with the stories of ghosts that have appeared here, particularly the internationally famous one that posed for the CCTV camera a few years ago. They of course saw ghoulish spirits at every turn. Oh, wet leaves, orange brick, the sound of oars dipping in water and then home to fish 'n' chips from the van that chuffs along at 30mph with hot oil slopping about in the back and smoke pouring out across the fields from a tin chimney. A perfect Saturday all round.

PS: Off to Unmitigated Wales tomorrow, so Where's That Then? will be next week

Where's That Then? No 41

2010-09-21T07:00:00.001+01:00

I'm going to do a much longer blog about this place, but the fountain is the quite jaw-dropping centre (and master) piece. Until the end of October you can see it burst into watery life almost every hour between 11 and 4; the 'firing-up' being described as being like 'the noise of an express train'. I discovered it on Saturday, couldn't keep my eyes off it and want to go again as soon as I can. Oh yes, the house is worth a look too. Any ideas?

Flak Jacket

2010-09-17T10:58:00.006+01:00

Inundated with Battle of Britain celebrations (celebs flying Spitfires, everyone making Woolton Pie) I turned to Flying Officer X. He was a kind of uniformed Writer In Hangar for the wartime RAF, and produced two books of short stories: The Greatest People In The World (1942) and How Sleep The Brave (1943). They actually concern Bomber Command, but the ethos is the same- young men flying by the seat of their khaki overalls on operations. The pilots, navigators, observers and rear-gunners of those leviathans of the sky, their bravery, their courage, their bar bills. Flying Officer X was of course the masterful story writer H.E.Bates, and these two little books should help put paid to the lie, recycled by James Delingpole recently when he repeated in the Spectator what friends had told him, namely that Bates books were just 1930's romantic slush. There may be romance (usually bitter sweet) in his work, but none of it is slush. Quite the opposite. And he wrote superb novels, novellas and collections of short stories right up to the 1970s. The two RAF books were combined as The Stories of Flying Officer X and you can get a cheap copy on Abe Books .

Where's That Then? No 40

2010-09-14T07:00:00.000+01:00

Hopefully a less tricky one this week. What can I say other than I'm often going round the ring road here and swerving into the local Waitrose for one of their Hoysin Duck wraps and a bottle of Oasis Summer Fruits. There you are you see, a Waitrose. What a clue.

Hawkey 2

2010-09-13T10:45:00.003+01:00

I felt I had to show another Raymond Hawkey design. The first edition of this book has a tipped-in miniature dossier at the front with perfect facsimiles of British and American government letters and plans of aircraft and maps of China. All in a manilla file with 'Top Secret' stamped on it. I nearly wept in the bookshop. The photographer was Adrian Flowers.

Where's That Then? No 39

2010-09-07T07:00:00.000+01:00

Far from the madding crowd. But not Dorset. I do love those gate piers. I've got a thing about gate piers me.

Hawk Eye Hawkey

2010-09-03T16:44:00.005+01:00

I was very sad to hear a few days ago of the passing of Raymond Hawkey. Without doubt he was the first major influence on my life as a graphic designer. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say his work was revolutionary on its first appearance, and still stands up admirably today. Hawkey once went to a party, and was deputed to eject a gatecrasher who turned out to be Len Deighton. They became lifelong friends, and Hawkey produced the dust jackets for a long series of Deighton's novels. Just take a detailed look at that cover for Funeral in Berlin. And if you want to see one of the best film title sequences ever, watch Oh! What a Lovely War, written and produced by Deighton. (Although for reasons still not entirely clear Deighton took his name off Richard Attenborough's directorial debut.) Hawkey was also the designer who put a bullet hole through the Pan paperback cover of Ian Fleming's Thunderball. Along with John Gorham, he will never be forgotten.

Where's That Then? No 38

2010-08-31T07:00:00.000+01:00

I hope this doesn't cause as much distress as last week's.

Where's That Then? No 37

2010-08-24T07:00:00.000+01:00

I only discovered this sublime place a couple of weeks ago. Yet another thing I love about England- you never know what's around the next corner. A bit like Northern Ireland, when I drove round a bend and found an old man worse for drink lying in the middle of the road in the pouring rain. Passing motorists negotiated me trying to pick him up so that I could lay him over a fence like an old carpet waiting to be beaten, both of us clutching each other in a ghastly dance. Anyway, how about this? Impossibly English, it must have been used as a period film location.

Where's That Then? No 36

2010-08-17T16:15:00.004+01:00

Right then. Sorry for all this mucking about. All will become clear, because I'm bringing a book to its conclusion and my brain is therefore degenerating. More of that later, but in the meantime I give you a London corner turret. Quite spectacular, there are variants all around it. Not the usual quiz monochrome, but I stared and stared at this yesterday, an ample reward for the UE Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shalt Always Look Up.

Where Is It Then?

2010-08-17T10:07:00.001+01:00

Having been away I have returned to my computer to find someone's messed about with my photo settings and it's going to take me all day (well, when I'm back from Darkest Essex) to find out what's happened. So. Very sorry. Normal service will probably be in the morning now. Curses.

Where's That Then? No 35

2010-08-10T09:32:00.004+01:00

I used to pass through here fairly regularly, which is no use at all. I went through it three weeks ago or so and it hasn't changed that much from the picture, just more traffic. What more useful clue can I give? I know. Think Mary and Eliza.

Where's That Now Then

2010-08-06T16:15:00.004+01:00

This is my very recent shot of the Cley-next-the-Sea windmill featured in last Tuesday's quiz. I managed to get down into someone's tiny boat moored on the water, almost exactly where the boat is in the original picture. You can immediately see how much silting and general narrowing has gone on in the last 60-odd years. My trouble was that I had great difficulty in getting out of the boat, and ended up going in the River Glaven. In obvious distress that naturally involved a lot of very loud cursing, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, who shall be nameless, couldn't do anything for laughing, and when I finally got back up onto dry land by squelching up a wooden ladder, I found people patting her on the back because she was crying and choking at the same time.

Where's That Then? No 34

2010-08-03T09:37:00.004+01:00

Deceptively simple. Probably. All I'll say is that although this view today still has the mill, a river and boats (and very little else), it looks very different. Think silting up, as you do on a Tuesday morning.

Dorset Poacher

2010-07-27T14:15:00.004+01:00

I meant to share this with you after my Dorset expedition a few weeks ago. Spotted on an ivy-clad stone wall in Worth Matravers, this is the little-known lichen Friedii Eggus.

Where's That Then? No 33

2010-07-27T09:44:00.002+01:00

This view is a very unexpected sight, considering what's at the top of the hill behind the photographer. I often bring people from a railway station not too far away, and without exception they all gasp with astonishment. Extra Wilkins Orange & Tangerine Marmalade for the nearby town.

Where's That Then? No 32

2010-07-20T07:00:00.000+01:00

A photograph by John Piper. Obviously best known for his paintings, prints, ceramics, set design and all stations to Fawley Bottom, his photography always repays study. I think, along with Edwin Smith et al, he was one of our finest topographical photographers, shooting on a Hasselblad for the most part and printing up his pictures in the stables at Stonor Park near his home. But where was he on this day?

Festival of Pictures

2010-07-19T14:12:00.009+01:00

Once again we found ourselves in a Northamptonshire field staring at red coats, green tents, yellow knights and, for a time, blue skies and white clouds. Yes, this weekend it was the English Heritage Festival of History at Kelmarsh Hall. It has to be one of the most photogenic gatherings it's possible to see, and all over a couple of days. Belgian refugees camping out on their way to the coast in what looked like my brother's old Standard Eight, demurely-stockinged ambulance drivers, Roman centurions going 'sinister dexter' like in Carry On Cleo, muskets and markets, jousting and jesters. And as if to say "You've seen nothing yet" a Hurricane does a low noisy pass over the wheatfields from Market Harborough, and then on a whim spirals upwards into those white clouds. I suddenly felt the need of a cold Charles Wells' Bombardier in a hot tent. (Bombardier is a beer, before anybody says anything.)

What's That Then?

2010-07-15T17:21:00.005+01:00

I've been deeply immersed in the Romney Marsh this week (and once or twice quite literally), but obviously couldn't resist another flying visit to Dungeness. On leaving I spotted this curious building, looking like a 1930's public lavatory for the vertically-challenged. But I know that the Southern Railway ran trains down here until 1937, so wondered if this was something to do with it. It's so out of character, that is: not being made of driftwood and not looking like it might take off in the next Channel storm. So, can anybody out there help?

Where's That Then? No 31

2010-07-13T07:00:00.000+01:00

It really hasn't changed that much. The photograph was taken before the war, on a hot summer's day. But there's a cooling stream running along in the dip, and Tony Richardson used it for the opening scenes of his Tom Jones follow-up, the rarely seen Joseph Andrews, (1977), another Fielding classic.

The Mini Cheddars Pub Landlord Test

2010-07-09T15:04:00.004+01:00

Haven't had a rant for a long time. So here's one. We have a pub in our vicinity that changes landlord about as often as the barrels. It's owned by one of those wretched 'tavern' groups- you know the sort. They put put up an awful plastic banner outside of a bollocksed 'tavern' that says "You could run this pub" which means that any tosspot riding by on a bike goes "Ooh, I've always wanted to do that". So you end up with someone running it who likes the idea of being a pub landlord but is completely unaware of how much work it means (all day, everyday), and how much word-of-mouth recommendation means, particularly in backswood villages like ours. So, yet again, we've got a new landlord in this one. Of course I beamed and welcomed him, and he regarded me with great suspicion. Which is normal. Then I asked "Are you going to stock Mini Cheddars?". He looked at me as though I'd just asked him if I could have sex with his wife, and said "Don't know". A week later I asked again. "Any Mini Cheddars on the way?". "No", and goes back to his paper. You see, I like a packet of something to help the beer go down. It doesn't have to be Mini Cheddars of course, but it was becoming a bit of an obsession with me. And you know what that means. Last week I walked into an empty pub (here we go) and asked "Those Mini Cheddars in yet?". Blokey puts his crossword pen down and says "Look. The wholesaler only does Walkers. Ok?". I'm going to try my level best not to go in there again, which severely restricts my options to two locals, but in both I'm always made to feel that my custom is valued. I mean, how difficult would it have been for Mr. Genial Landlord to go and buy a months worth of Mini Cheddars from bloody Sainsbury's? After all, that's probably longer than he's going to be here. So he could then say "Here you are Pete, got these in for you". I'd tell everybody how good he is and I'd still be sitting at the bar now. But I'm not.

Clouded Visions

2010-07-06T16:18:00.009+01:00

To make up for my dilatory ways, I give you two landscapes. The top one is of a range of low hills to the west of the road between Ashley (no relation) and Medbourne in Leicestershire, just after crossing over the River Welland by the old single storey limestone station that stands by a row of tall poplars. The sunlight on Sunday evening was perfect, lighting up the clouds above the fields and woods as the sun started to sink down over the western horizon. There was an immense sense of calm, the still scene only interrupted by the odd crow flying home to roost. By contrast, the following morning was very bright and breezy with a classic blue sky and cumulus clouds just starting to tower over the Northamptonshire countryside. This is a lane that runs westwards from the hamlet of Wigsthorpe to the A605 Northampton to Peterborough road just to the south east of Oundle.

Where On Earth Is That Then?

2010-07-06T09:32:00.003+01:00

Many apologies for the non-appearance of Where's That Then?. Much is going-on in Unmitigated England just at present, and I awoke with horror this morning realising that I had neglected to furnish you with a puzzle pic. I think a revision of my working practices is in order, and hope that on the
'regular features' front there will be a more constant and regular supply coming through soon.

Sticky End

2010-07-01T17:05:00.003+01:00

Off it goes. The world's oldest brand hoiked out and flogged to the Americans. It seems that Tate & Lyle aren't interested in sugar refining anymore. Which is a bit like Cadbury's saying they're not interested in chocolate. Oh no, hang on a minute....

Elgar Notes

2010-06-30T10:58:00.004+01:00

So, we've apparently got until Wednesday to use up all those £20 notes with Elgar on them we've been hoarding under the futon. I thought they'd got rid of 'im years ago, and thought it an utter disgrace then as now. But here's a tale they won't remember. When the Elgar note first came out, it coincided with the house you can see in front of Worcester Cathedral being put up for sale. The estate agent quickly capitilised on the fact and made a big thing about it in the press. That's it really.

On The Beach

2010-06-29T16:13:00.007+01:00

This will all seem incredibly self-indulgent (so, what's new) but it's hot and I thought you'd all like to see where I went yesterday. Eagle-eyed UE followers will probably recognise this fishing boat, because it's just about the only one left on the beach at Aldeburgh in Suffolk. I've been coming here since 1968 when I got both Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears to write their names on a postcard of Aldeburgh, and at the same time managed to get Mr.Britten to bang his head so violently on the boot of his white Alvis drophead that a load of crotchets and quavers fell to the ground outside the White Lion Hotel. The great thing about this little coastal town is that it hasn't really changed all that much in the intervening forty two years. Quite apart from the excellent fish 'n' chips down at the Slaughden end, cool pints of Adnams in the Cross Keys and music snobs swatting flies with the Telegraph, you can still buy fish straight out of a tarred hut on the shingle. This boat, Silver Harvest, caught a hundred lobsters at the weekend, and I took one of them home with me, together with some delicious green samphire. And I want to go back for more NOW.

Where's That Then? No 30

2010-06-29T07:00:00.001+01:00

Back with the itinerant Mr.Gullers, and a rainy day. But where? And who's that on the plinth supervising the car parking?