It can be any type. Little or large. Wide or narrow. High up or low down. Easy or difficult to get to.
In my daily workload I am fortunate enough to have ample opportunities to peer into holes.
That may sound a bit voyeuristic but a lot can be discovered by probing about in the darkest depths of a building.
Take today. I have been spoilt for choice of the things.
First up was a chance conversation with two builders digging out the footings for an extension behind a very old town centre property. If not the instigator of a hole I always enquire after others involved in digging holes. They had indeed found a few interesting things in their trench excavations including a whole clay pipe and a number of fine, thin replacement stems. That type of smoking implement was popular amongst the working menfolk being cheap and readily available making it also very disposable and many centuries later a common find.
Next up in my work diary was a newly discovered cellar beneath a Georgian Town House.
The new owner had been stripping out in preparation for renovations. A few old floorboards in the base of a kitchen pantry cupboard had looked a bit iffy. In fact for a recess intended to keep foodstuffs cool and dry the mere existence of a wooden floor was unusual. There would normally be an old quarry tile or red painted concrete base.
After making good use of a large crowbar the gaping chasm of a cellar was revealed. I was summoned to give an opinion on the torchlight observations of dampness to the brickwork and whether there was any threat posed to the rest of the building given the intended investment in its restoration.
It was a case of my having to limbo through the narrow gap in the old floor and feeling around, unsighted, for a firm footing so that I could ease my torso through.
There were stone flagged steps down into the gloom.
The handy courtesy light on my phone was the first illumination of the dark space for more than half a century or possibly longer. It was possible to stand, albeit slightly stooped, under the beautifully crafted vaulted brick ceiling and in a full 360 degree sweep I could make out the actual dimensions. The cellar was roughly twelve feet square and had evidently been in regular use in the halcyon days of the property as a Gentlemans Residence from the apperance of the rather menacing meat hook hammered into the apex of the brick vault.
A shaft of daylight, just visible where my undignified entrance had stirred up the ancient dust came from an airbrick although largely obscured by some above ground obstruction. The handmade bricks will have come from a local manufacturer, thin and everyone with its own irregularities, flaws and impurities.
In the far corner the former coal hole had been roughly backfilled probably in the modern era when the arrival of gas services had superseded the messy and heavy labour intensive domestic solid fuels. The cellar was actually quite dry after making allowances for normal moisture retention of masonry and the lack of adequate ventilation over a couple of generations of occupation.
There was no sign of a high tide mark which so often hints at the periodic waterlogging of a cellar or the giveaway of an excavated sump and pump. I eased myself back out of the hole taking care not to bring its contents on my suit, already a bit grubby and fusty.
I reported to the anxious owner that there was no cause for concern subject to improving ventilation. A lot would be dependant on his actual intentions for use of the cellar but for keeping a nice bottle of white wine at optimum serving temperature it would be absolutely perfect.
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