"A Heaven on Earth"

 As Everard the printer was inspired by William Morris, so have I been over the years. I also seem to have a penchant for chaotic artistic households, as I spent last winter reading everything I could find about the Vanessa and Quentin Bell household and their uber-creative Charleston country seat. Sadly, I have not yet made it to Charleston, and given its out of the way location, likely won't, so I have nothing to show. I recommend this yummy book written by Quentin Bell who was a boy in that household, and Virginia Nicholson. There are some good photos in the promo; more research inevitable.Here's a workmanlike Wikipedia item if you find yourself teetering on the edge of the same rabbithole.

But for Morris' Kelmscott, thanks to my kind English family,  I have a record and a memory movie of a delighful visit. Our lovely daily routine last May was a drive in the country to a stately home and garden at a reasonable distance. Of course, the drive itself along the iconic tree-arched Cotswold lanes would have sufficed, but then there was 'the house.' While my dear hosts wandered the estate and had tea in the garden, I was indulged time and again in a tour of a National Trust property I had long admired. At the end of the tour, I joined my family in the garden and the visit ended with al fresco tea and sweets. Is it any wonder I long to return?

And so went our visit to Kelmscott, Cotswolds retreat of William Morris, Victorian textile, wallpaper and furniture designer, writer and father of the Arts and Crafts movement. As promised in an earlier post, I won't play expert. Goodness knows there are loads of those. I will share what moved and awed me, and leave you to consult the experts.  Morris called Kelmscott "a heaven on earth", if that tips you off.

 Of course, the structure itself was awe-inspiring. According to Historic Houses Morris "loved the house as a work of true craftsmanship, totally unspoilt and unaltered and in harmony with the village and the surrounding countryside....almost organic...as if it had 'grown up out of the soil.' " I love that description of something that I feel so strongly about. I despair of houses, new and old,  that perch above the level, like birdhouses, rather than flow into the landscape. I love flagstone paths outside back doors, worn stone doorsteps, weathered benches nestled in the shrubbery. 

The house was pretty much 'as was', furniture, textiles and other design elements from Morris' time. Wife and muse Jane Burden and daughters May and Jenny lived in the 1570/late 1600s limestone farmhouse on the banks of the Thames in Oxfordshire from 1871-1896. ( I want to keep track of this article about May Morris, so will link it here.)

As I chatted with a gentlemanly docent at the entrance to the family rooms, I absently brushed a delicious textile on the wall beside me. "I'd rather you didn't, dear, that was worked by Morris" he advised. "What an idiot" I felt.

So, now that I have my breath back, I share some moments from my delighted sweep through Kelmscott's eccentric layout, conscious of my hosts' schedule, phone photos carrying away imperfect images of tapestries and wallpaper, furniture, architectural elements indoors and out, for later research. These few images are memory aids to the revisit I am doing with you this morning. Sorry to go on a bit. Pinching myself to be in this place.

 Above, the 1860s painted Medieval-style settle with embossed and painted leather panels so connected in my mind with Morris, designed by Phillip Webb for the Red House  and now in 'the white room' at Kelmscott Manor. 

The interior was draped in textiles: walls, windows, bedsteads. I suspect a practical reason, warmth, as well as the owners' delight in creating. This work with its design of birds and fruit trees is Morris' 'If I Can' embroidery, designed and worked by him personally in 1857/8. I remember having a go at Turk's Head knots in my earlier days; none even approached this majesty.

Also in the 'white room', The Blue Silk Dress, a portrait by Dante Gabriel Rossetti of Jane Burden, Morris' wife and Rossetti's model and lover for a time at Kelmscott.

Rosssetti founded the pre-Raphaelite Society with painters Willliam Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais.  Many of us will be familiar with Hunt's evocative Light of the World from our childhood, a regular in the Sunday-school prize category.

I'd forgotten the reason for the name of the movement. It was a reaction in 1848 to Royal Academy aesthetic and a look back to simple Italian painting before the artificiality of the High Renaissance. Their work greatly influenced the decorative arts. (Thanks Jimmy Wales.)

Also in the white room are the carved stone fireplace from 1660, the first addition to the original farmhouse, panelled walls from the early 1700s and the wood block floor laid for Morris. A photo in my book dated 1878 shows Jenny Morris in front of the fireplace, when it was painted in a marble effect (that's the Baroque for ya.)

I love this textile with a delightful story.It's the Daisy hanging and was designed by William Morris  and embroidered on deep blue serge found by the couple for their first home together, the Red House. 

Here we are in the Tapestry Room, one of the rooms associated with the Turner family who owned the house in its earlier years. The faded seventeenth century Dutch tapestries (of which I captured a slice) were acquired by the original family, and are majestic despite their faded condition. The stone chimney-piece in this, the principal sitting room, bears the Turner coat of arms.The blue tiles were added at the time of the Morris' residency.

Compare the utilitarian simplicity of this room with its contemporary, the cluttered Victorian interior, every surface decorated. The industrial production of furniture and home decor irritated Morris whose design house Morris and Company sought to revive the styling and craftsmanship of earlier times. 

This is William Morris' bedroom which sits at the junction of the 16th and 17th century homes, resulting in it being a pass-through to other rooms. I read he found it amusing that folk had to pass through his private space to get to other areas of the house.

The bed was constructed of oak pieces from two centuries, and the pelmet and hangings were embroidered by women of Morris and Co. The poem around the pelmet was Morris' own poem about the comforts of his bed - a rather relatable idea made grand in Gothic script. 

The attic with its white-washed elm beams and rafters is a wonderful space. Its tiny gable rooms served as accommodation for farm workers during the Turner's time on the estate. 

Here's an astonishing virtual tour of Kelmscott, should you want to see more than I captured on my flying visit.

And here I am clutching a takeaway from my brush with William Morris, the fine richly illustrated guide Kelmscott Manor, text by Jeremy Musson,  published by the Society of Antiquaries of London. It's a comprehensive history and a feast of gorgeous photos. 

Should you want more Kelmscott (I can relate) there are lots (273) of enthusiastic visitor photos here on the TripAdvisor site. 

And should I one day be able to continue my William Morris pilgrimage, I would add the Red House in Bexleyheath, Arts and Crafts flagship and the Morris' first home together, designed by Morris and the incomparable Philip Webb. And perhaps Morris' London house, home of the William Morris museum. 

After my Cotswolds visit, I spent a few days in London. A London house museum visit to the splendid Leighton House near Hyde Park provided another artist's studio home to treasure.

I'll share that foray into life as art/art as life at another time. I think I've said quite enough for one day.

Doors Open

During my week in Rome last fall I spent time at the Vatican experiencing the awesome architectural power of Bernini's St. Peter's Square for a second time. It was, however, my first visit inside St. Peter's Basilica, the most significant Christian church in the world, so steeped in history and faith, power and intrigue.     

Tonight the eyes of Catholics worldwide (and one blogger) watched one elderly man suffering from a headcold lead a ritual. Pope Francis opened the Holy Door, ushering in a Jubilee Year, a celebration of the Catholic Church which takes place every 25 years. Here's a bit of video, courtesy of Vatican news: hope it stays up for you. This Jubilee is being declared on the theme of Hope. Good choice for our tattered world.

Now I'm no theologian, so my account will fall short, and may offend by its simplicity, so I will refer you to the experts as I am wont to do. But somehow, anticipating this night, and knowing that years of tradition are about to be observed this Christmas Eve, I cannot help but pause and reflect. 

And one thing upon which I reflect is the power of curiosity, of travel, of openess to something 'other'. I spent some time in front of holy door during my visit. It was quite splendid with its bronze reliefs. I was enjoying that pinching myself feeling, that "I am actually here" moment. I had known nothing of this door or this tradition until then, yet today I have been looking forward to following its opening for the Jubilee Year live online.  That "I was there" feeling has expanded my experience, and somehow, me. 

All I know is, a year ago I had never heard of the Holy Door. Yet somehow, just being there has deepened my experience of the world, of my fellow human. And maybe even of hope.

For more of that "I am here" feeling, here's a fascinating video I've just found. It's by Manuel Bravo, a prolific history contributor. Here he describes a collaboration with Microsoft that yields an astonishing personal tour of the virtual basilica. 

"Sell up and Move"

 This photo has been my laptop wallpaper for the past week. And each time I sit down, I drift in with that home-coming sailboat.

After my BC month in August, home-based on False Creek with a dear old friend, I arrived back in Ontario with one thought on my mind. I wanted to go "home." 

Now I was born and bred in now-fabulous Prince Edward County, but spent many formative years in Vancouver in the 70s and 80s. Met the love of my life there. Each time I go back I feel 'home.'  

That begins the 'whys'. Here is some photographic evidence.

On my return to Ontario in September I began checklists - what I would need to do to downsize and return to Vancouver?

And what would I need? A tiny apartment in the West End, where I "began" in 1972. A pedestrian and water taxi life. Stanley Park my backyard. Vancouver Public Library. All of the above.

What is it about Vancouver? For me, it's the (rare) sun on the North Shore mountains. The head-clearing tang of ocean air. The lush and rare vegetation encouraged by a temperate rainy climate. The way the ocean sidles in along False Creek and Burrard Inlet. The people energy. The visual over-abundance. The indigenous art and culture. The dear friends. The personal history. Memories.

How can I resist the siren call this time?

Sigh. So, this is where my thinking ended up.

 The 'why not' arguments.  

 Ralph, my father, 'practical Pierce' as our mother jokingly called him, sometimes despairingly, took charge. 

I seemed to hear him saying of unreliable shiftless folk that they were the type to "sell up and move."

The work. The cost. The stuff. The family. The roots. The friends. The practical business of an organized life.

Well, the age. It it too late for new beginnings? 

In a few years I will have reached (all going well) the inconceivable age of 80. Didn't expect that in 1972.

So, here I am on the cusp of an Ontario winter (so far, so good).

 And here, alas, I will stay. 

With a bit of me snagged on a bit of Vancouver. Until I get back soonest. 

Everard's Printing Works

 I love unique hotels. The quirkier the better. Caveats: must be clean, quiet, safe and must smell good.

When I planned my May visit to family in UK, I chose a couple of solo stays, to allow for some exploring in places I hadn't spent enough (or any) time in. One was Bristol. Den and I had long talked about visiting the Clifton Suspension Bridge in that city. His engineering background led him (and ultimately me) to a fascination with industrial advances: steam trains, ironworks, hydraulic and mechanical wonders and over the years we spent many happy times exploring them together.

So, as an homage of sorts, I was determined to visit the bridge, and after doing some research, equally determined to see more of Bristol's built heritage.

 My dear niece drove me to Bristol, we lunched and she headed out on the long and challenging drive home. I shall always remember her generosity. I loved the time with her.

Tina left me at The Everard, a new build Clayton Hotel hiding behind the astonishing rescued facade of the Everard Printing Works (1900-1970). Throughout the hotel were numerous design motifs recalling the printing industry, created by local artists. The decor was modernist and original, the ambiance welcoming. And it was my home for two lovely days.

The Grade II listed building was demolished in 1970 but for the front and and a section of the rear facades; the rest was replaced by modern office buildings for years but the property fell into disuse, and was almost lost. It was only in 2022 that Clayton hotels opened at the site. And what a comeback.

Controversial for the time, the Art Nouveau design  paid homage to William Morris and Johannes Gutenberg. The building is considered one of the few remaining examples of English Art Nouveau in Britain, and its largest. This Web.Archive article was printed in the journal of the William Morris Society 

I am batty for glazed ceramic tiles and the complexity of Art Nouveau design, but just couldn't get close enough for good photos. Fortunately, some of the links I've included give us a better look. The heritage listing states the facade is "an important early use of glazed coloured external ware to propogate Arts and Crafts ideas of the reconciliation of art and industry, in the largest decorative facade of its kind in Britain." Doulton's of Lambeth were in charge of producing the tiles. William James Neatby, their head artist, created the design. The white glazed ceramic tiles were dubbed Doulton Carrara, because their creamy surface resembled marble. 

Of Everard it has been said that he regarded printing as a craft, not a business, and that his ideal was William Morris' Kelmscott Press. I think his inspiration would be pleased.

The Art Nouveau building front recounts the story of printing. At the top a tympanum of sorts containing a female figure holding a mirror (truth) and lamp (light). Below a battlement, we see Johannes Gutenburg, father of printing and William Morris who revived craftsmanship, with their styles of typeface. The Spirit of Literature spreads its wings over the arched windows. Everard's name in tiles in the typeface he created, and his intitials in the wrought iron front gates complete this triumphant bit of advertising. (credit: Bristol Past website). An exquisite horizontal band of stylized trees and hearts tops the front entrance and deep blue tiles clad the building at street level.

The back of the building at 1 John Street is of  red terra cotta brick. Preserved are interesting details like rounded Romanesque arches, billets, tourelles and crenellation, dragon rain water heads. And note the grey concrete businesslike walls rising behind this second preserved facade.Here's a Streetview visit.

I have wondered about this 'fireplace' in the lobby. The luscious 'Edward  Everard Printer' Art Nouveau ceramic panel and terra cotta dragons are an uncomfortable marriage. Having had a look at the rear of the old building on John Street, it's quite clear the dragon is one of the original rainwater heads. Surely I'm not the first to notice that. I wonder if the panel is original? And if so, where was it?

I've been reading about the huge effort that went into preserving the integrity of the building's history, while moving forward with a massive mixed-use redevelopment scheme, on this site. Kudos to AlecFrench architects and owner Artisan Real Estate. A good result, I would think, all considered.

Tool TIme

 Remember that goofy sitcom with Tim Allen? Anyway. Part of the fun of blogging is making up corny titles for the posts. 

 

This is just a quick note, a reflection on the tools we have at our disposal to visit and revisit the world we travel in. The observation was prompted by this not too clear photo, which I noticed again for the first time while browsing photos this morning.

 I loved the street tabernacles or little altars that appeared without fanfare as I walked the narrow old streets.  This morning I wanted to find out more about this Madonna and Child.

Notes to self: keep capturing street names/signs, even though passersby, should they notice at all, think you're barmy. Those names will help to zero in later on the name, details, history of an interesting spot in the world.

Streetview is a phenomenal resource. It turned my photo (thanks to that street name) into a tour of Via de' Giraldi, in the Bargello neighbourhood, and helped research the rest of the neighbourhood. 

With the address, I can find the name of the place, and then Google search that name. In this case, I came upon Loquis, a travel podcast site. I usually search for 'history' which gets me more sites to explore.

Good old Wikipedia  (yes,I contribute)  and its faithful contributors usually provide a research framework - and references.

And if the sites don't keep rolling out, memory can prompt another foray. In this case it took me to other street shrines, these in medieval village of Montecatini Alto - a modest little Madonna on this richly textured ancient wall and a more arcane Gothic Crucifixion with mementos of healings or prayers for healing. 

And lots more links  Which is how I came upon yet another resource, like this lovely writer Margie. 

There are a lot of us. We can't all be crazy.

Home from Home

 Much as I love travelling, I am a homebody at heart. I reconcile these two things easily when I am on the road. (I used to be fabulous at this when we were campers, throughout Ontario and from sea to sea in Canada.) 

Once I settle into a bnb or holiday let, I set out my lares and penates (okay, notebooks and spongebag) to suit me, and once I have my home built I am set to go exploring.

'Home from home' is the delightful English expression that explains that feeling for me. And the fact that I can hear my dear mum-in-law Alice saying it makes my heart hurt.

In August I spent a week on Gabriola Island, one of BC's exquisite gulf islands, reachable by ferry from Nanaimo, or float plane from Vancouver. I tend to do one of each in the course of a visit. Much of the visit is with dear old friends, who have settled on the island. 

But for a different experience this year, I booked 4 addtional nights at an AirBnB. The photos looked wonderful. But, as we say in those reviews, the real thing was even better. 

My hosts had created seating areas on the hillside. I breakfasted at one, had afternoon coctails on another, sat in the sun in all of them. 

My dear friend who suffers from vertigo found the entire property alarmingly tippy. I loved the feeling that if I started to roll, I would only stop at the ocean below.

Look way down. The home of my hosts (of which my home was the lower level) was set on the brow of a very steep wooded incline. And below, from my windows or the seats about my domain: sparkling ocean, shining white ferries, sails and engines of working and pleasure craft.

Look way up. Sky everywhere! Night darkness, stars, sunsets and sunrises, lightning and  rainbows all happened in front of my eyes.

   

The shoreline below was reached by public road. That shoreline was the incomparable stretch of Sandwell Provincial Park beach.

Can you blame me for thinking this would be a good forever home?