Last Wednesday morning, the Cellarium Café of Westminster Abbey was filled with excitable French visitors. It was the press preview of Notre-Dame de Paris, The Augmented Exhibition. ‘What do you make of our croissants?’ I ask the sharp suited French curator. ‘Comme ci, comme ça’ he chuckles, taking another bite.
While Notre Dame undergoes restoration following the 2019 fire, its stewards have toured the world via an immersive digital exhibition, now doing a stint in the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. With an iPad-like device in hand, visitors become une mouche sur le mur of major events in the cathedral’s story: the 12th century building site, Napoleon’s coronation, Viollet-le-Duc’s creation of the iconic 19th century spire.
Visitor engagement differs from country to country, the PRs tells me. In the US, average visitor time was 60 minutes. In Germany, it was 96 minutes. In China, they adored the jewel-like rose windows. I wonder what London stats will skew towards. The medieval tavern, perhaps? Of course, the Notre-Dame fire has forced the Westminster Abbey team to review their own evacuation procedures. I press the Dean of Westminster, Dr David Hoyle, about which treasure he would save, if – God forbid – the abbey was in flames. ‘The Coronation Chair’, he answers, ‘it’s closest to the door’.
Today, the options for conspicuous consumption are endless. The home cinema. The Model Y Tesla. The spa complex. For our Georgian ancestors, it was gauged brickwork. It’s perfectly precise, with immaculate joints and clean lines, was made from fine, soft bricks called ‘red rubbers’. Just a small section – to accent a window or garden wall – was guaranteed to impress.
Earlier this month, I watched a section of gauged brickwork being completed by the expert hand of Charles Reily, a man with 35 years of experience. It wasn’t his usual setting. We were at Olympia, London, at the Listed Property Show, a gathering of heritage experts showcasing their work and offering free advice. Displays pose pressing questions such as ‘Do you find insects boring or do you find boring insects?’ Talks on offer include ‘Control of Dampness’ and ‘Insulating Historic Roofs’.
Though the trades are varied, and approaches differ, there is a common enemy here: Portland cement. Since the mid-19th century, and particularly after the world wars, Portland cement became the go-to miracle material, quick to prepare and cheap. But unlike traditional lime-based mortar, it’s hard and impervious, forcing water through masonry rather than joints. The result is spalling: the stone or brickwork crumbles away.
By the 1990s, the terrible damage to centuries-old churches, cathedrals, and country houses became clear, and a reversion to traditional lime-based techniques gained momentum. It was this ‘lime revival’ which I chatted about at the Rose of Jerichostand, a company who supply traditional paints and mortar. Their name reflects the mission. The Rose of Jericho is a resurrection plant, which springs back to life after years of neglect. What’s more, some of the earliest surviving lime mortars were found in the ancient city of Jericho.
From their colour chart, I learn that ‘Apple Green’ was first recorded in English in 1648, ‘Lilac’ in 1775, and ‘Pistachio’ in 1789. Today, neutral colours are most popular and numerous: ‘Linen’, ‘Parchment’, ‘Fresco’ – and certainly no ‘Portland cement’ to be seen.
‘It’s basically a massive vape,’ the curator, Rupert, explains. I’m on a research trip, and we’re gazing into a fireplace in the Great Hall of Dyrham Park, a large country house near Bath. There is no heat, nor flame. It’s an illusion, created using a combination of orange light and water vapour creates. ‘You’d be amazed how many visitors still gather here and warm their hands’, Rupert adds, chuckling. Dyrham was built between 1692 and 1704 for William Blathwayt, King William III’s Secretary of State. Today, it’s a gem in the National Trust portfolio, having one of the best Baroque interiors in the country. Each room is sumptuous, with oak wainscoting, walnut panelling, leather-hung walls with gilt detailing.
Fake fires aren’t the only trick of the eye here. I sit to play a harpsichord, stumbling through a Bach Prelude in B flat. As the plucked broken chords echo brightly around the hall, I notice the makers marking: ‘Colin Booth MMXIII’. How remarkable that – despite the 1680s design – this instrument was built a decade ago, by an expert in Wells. Nearby is more intrigue: a long corridor with a caged bird, a dog, a broom leaning on the wall, and a love letter dropped on the stairs. On closer inspection, this is also an illusion. It is a magnificent two-dimensional trompe l’oeil painting from 1662. The word Baroque derived from the Portuguese barroco, or ‘oddly shaped pearl’. Exploring the rooms at Dyrham, with their curious surprises, it’s not hard to see why.
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