The coastal walk from Robin Hoods Bay to Whitby is spectacular.
My wife, son and myself enthused with rare energy and motivation for a weekend activity drove the 50 or so miles from home to arrive at the Old Station Car Park at the unearthly hour of 7am.
The drive from East to North Yorkshire sets the scene for a good day. Leaving behind the Metropolis that is Hull and it's satellite towns it is within minutes that you are into clear and unspoilt countryside. By-passing historic Beverley there is an undulating drive through the Wolds before the right turn into Bainton Village and across to Driffield, a real market town with local traders still holding on against the onslaught of the relentless express that is Tesco.
There is a steady climb northwards from the town with the Humber Bridge and Saltend cooling towers in view some 30 to 40 miles south on a clear morning. The spiralling sweep into Langtoft is usually accompanied by silence in the car, not out of reverence or awe but because there is no signal whatsoever for radio or phone until emerging back into broadcastable range on the upward incline.
The steepness of the Langtoft dip is in direct contrast to the very wide and shallow form of the next valley and the small hamlet of Foxholes. Such is the length of the slope down that I can regularly freewheel for a good 2 miles before engaging the gear box at the 30mph sign amongst the cluster of cottages.
Then up and down past an old Inn, now a house, which cannot get any seasonal sunlight surely, before the top of Staxton Hill. An imperial 1 in 6 descent complete with a sand filled escape route for any runaway vehicles. I have never seen this in actual use although the contents of the wide trench do appear regularly cleft by wheel tracks.
The approach to Scarborough from the south is unremarkable and I would not blame first time holidaymakers from thinking they had booked a week on an industrial estate from the extensive areas of factories, workshops and yards in view.
The town itself is exceptionally grand architecturally and although adding up to half an hour to a through journey it is always uplifting to take the South Bay, Harbour and North Bay route stealing (as the driver) a sideways view up the precipitous slopes to the Castle whilst taking care not to run into any pedestrians making the dash across to the harbourside funfair and amusements.
The A171 is the main road towards Whitby, a wide and undulating carriageway with sea views to the east and moorland behind the drystone walling against the left verge giving alternate sights of ships and sheep.
The tourist destinations are signposted with the attractions of Heavy Horses, the North York Moors railway and Boggle Hole on offer before the right turn for Robin Hoods Bay.
We have been along the same road stretch many times in anticipation of a stay in a rented cottage but the sweeping view is always breathtaking. Ravenscar sits on a steep headland to the south. This was promoted as an affluent New Town based on railway investment but never materialised beyond a few Villas and now overgrown footings. Perhaps a very early warning of property speculation and credit crisis.
The actual quaint RHB is not yet in view as it hangs low on to the cliff face and is shored up against the waves by a huge concrete defence wall. Fylingthorpe the satellite village is functional but not attractive and then the 'T' junction with some red brick Victorian houses and car parks for visitors and residents alike.
The coastal walk sets off towards the cliff top and crosses the Rocket Field from the days of plucking stricken seafarers from the teacherous Bay below by rope, pulley and bosuns breech. The path is well worn and close, but not too close, to the sheer face of the cliff to cause me anxiety.
There are some tricky parts where the clay on the clifftop has fallen away to leave a very narrow slippery track but with plenty of wire fence to hang on to for reassurance. The clay does hold up a lot of water and even on a summers day there can be thick quagmires on the lower crossing points for the Becks which cascade into the sea.
By 8am the path is already busy with walkers and it does get a bit tedious nodding or murmuring a greeting. The path is a short leg of the Cleveland Way, a long distance trek and well tended and patronised by the volunteers and supporters. There are some steep cut step climbs along the route but plenty of excuses to pause and catch breath in admiring the views.
The jagged outline of the ruins of Whitby Abbey drift in and out of the eyeline and then just passing the Fog horn mounted on a coastguard building a decision has to be made to press on to Whitby itself or make a left wheel for the return trip.
We unanimously voted for the latter.
We were tired and baking a bit in our sensible early morning gear now looking positively unsuited to the approaching mid morning heat. Supplies were also running a bit low.
After some roadwork, jarring on knees after the grass covered clay, the recommended route takes the course of the long dismantled railway. The surface is in a loose dressed slag based material and very sapping to tired legs. The course of the former line may have represented an engineering marvel for the early 19th Century but to the pedestrian it is very boring and feet and time drag incessantly.
The elevated course gives a view over the earlier route now dotted with cagoule or 't' shirt clad ramblers but some hours behind our ambitious schedule.
At last, back into the upper part of Robin Hoods Bay and the purchase of chocolate bars, crisps and coke from the village shop to sustain the drive back. We ache and have very sunburnt features that will certainly give some discomfort later. We have completed our mission, not altogether in good style, but in good spirits and with an overwhelming feeling of achievement.
In all must be 10-12 miles but that can be accurately measured and verified at some later date.......
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
That Sunk Island Feeling
Give a man a map and he is in his element.
There is nothing more thrilling to the male population than opening up a crisp, brand new Ordnance Survey Sheet with everything that it implies and promises by way of new experiences.
The danger arises when a journey is undertaken by memory alone shunning all navigational aids and reference points.
That was my situation today when I set off for Sunk Island with a strong visual impression of my destination. The lady in the estate agents office availed me of the missing hours of the previous recipient of a set of keys for the property in question. He had got hopelessly lost out in the expansive flat lands which stretch for miles towards the northern marshland of the River Humber.
In a completely featureless landscape, that is if you disregard the dispersed houses, tree lined avenues, farmsteads and billowing fields of cereal crops and peas, it is easy to become disorientated and then the doubts and panic set in.
I laughed at the hapless individual and confidently asserted that I knew where to go.
I had, after all, been in the approximate area a few times in the last 25 years.
If I just headed for the evocatively named Stony Creek I could not go wrong.
Stony Creek is at the convergence of three long rural roads but because of the indentation of the land drain and lock gate which release the surface water into said Creek they do not actually join up.
My destination was at or close to that very location.
I knew that for certain but the trouble was selecting the right roadway. My map resource was not the ideal one for such a journey. It was a regional guide, intended to assist travellers in the larger towns and cities and fell well short in the critical detail of an open rural area. I doubted that even a sophisticated Sat Nav would be of any use unless you had the data upload for the Netherlands which would just about cover this remote corner of Yorkshire, England.
Turning off the main coast road brought me to my first choice route to try to find the quaint but functionally named Saltaugh Sands Estate.
It sounded idyllic and I could imagine something akin to a happy holiday camp, albeit more inter war than the latest Butlins. I had come across similar addresses in other parts of the country and these had included a peace camp, the shacks and chalets of conscientious objectors, a naturist commune and a temporary residence for seasonal agricultural workers.
The estate agent, now having fully debriefed the disillusioned visitor of a few days prior mentioned that I was not to be distressed when the metalled road surface ran out and to persist with the loose dressed track and hump backed bridges.
My first choice road seemed well surfaced and seemingly endless. There was no traffic at all although I could see, in the vast acres into the distant horizon, tractors and heavy machinery or rather the dust clouds that they churned up in the dry heat of a summers day. The atmosphere was ripe with country odours and these wafted through my open window. The hot corn smell was comforting and that of the freshly vined peas quite mouth watering. Less enticing was the heavy, sweet and sickly manure smells which were rapidly taking over as the huge agricultural operations churned out the muck to fertilise the freshly harvested land.
At one, if not the only bend in that road in 6 miles a large swine disease control sign forbad me and other motorists to proceed further. I was convinced that I was close to my destination and so completely ignored the ominous warning. In the hazy distance there seemed to be a group of slate roofs and chimneys which I was convinced was my destination.
As the car skidded to a halt at a cul de sac marked by a pile of topsoil I knew that the second choice would be the correct one.
Backtracking seemed to take longer than the outward journey and I was a bit anxious at passing by the pig farm in case a delegation had been sent out to teach me, an obvious townie, the etiquette of controlling fever amongst the pig population.
My start point for the next road brought the trip counter on the dashboard to 12 miles covered and no house found.
This route was a bit deja vu in that it ran quite close and parallel to my first abortive attempt. The outlook and any landmark features were therefore uncannily similar and quite disconcerting. This time the public road petered out even sooner and I crunched down onto a gravelled track. The surface was very well compressed from the passage of evidently quite large and heavy vehicles. I glanced around in case any of them sneaked up on me unannounced if that was possible by something of tangible tonnage.
This route went on for, it must have been seven or eight miles. I was sensitive to damaging my tyres and the prospect of having to be rescued in the middle of nowhere following a puncture or worse was not worth thinking about. A couple of fields away was a settlement made up of dwellings and barns.It looked promising as a candidate for my job but I had no idea, however, how to get to them as the track started to take me farther away.
Perhaps I could leave the car and walk along the headlands as a valid short cut. I decided against that for fear of getting even more disorientated. You sometimes read about people getting lost and perishing in a ditch or drain from fatigue and thirst. Two tractors pulling twin axle trailers approached and I had to pull up sharply onto the verge to give them room to pass. They were laden with fresh peas. I knew this from the fluorescent green liquid which drained out of the tailgate and splashed up and over my bonnet and windscreen.
I had reached another dead end. The Birds Eye convoy was some way away but I hung back in following to disguise my incompetence in navigation.
There was one route left.
Driving along I recognised a few of the farmhouses and some of the traditional cottages that had been built for the resettlement of soldiers from the First World War. Former memories were rekindled and yes, I was now definitely, for sure and for certain heading towards my intended destination.
There were of course more doubts as the tarmac ran out again but I crossed a couple of narrow, steep bridges and then saw the first signage referring to Stony Creek. A few cars were parked up, left by dog walkers, ramblers and twitchers giving the impression of a crowded metropolis after my many miles of lone travelling.
In turning around at the drain outlet parapet I saw a directional post with the name Saltaugh Sands Estate.
I had arrived after some thirty miles and nearly two hours in a trek that should only really have taken a fraction of that time and distance. The house itself was, frankly, a bit of a dump with none of the elusive Shangri-La character that I felt that I deserved for my efforts. On returning the keys to the estate agent I lied that I had not had any trouble finding the place. I think they were not entirely convinced my by claims.
There is nothing more thrilling to the male population than opening up a crisp, brand new Ordnance Survey Sheet with everything that it implies and promises by way of new experiences.
The danger arises when a journey is undertaken by memory alone shunning all navigational aids and reference points.
That was my situation today when I set off for Sunk Island with a strong visual impression of my destination. The lady in the estate agents office availed me of the missing hours of the previous recipient of a set of keys for the property in question. He had got hopelessly lost out in the expansive flat lands which stretch for miles towards the northern marshland of the River Humber.
In a completely featureless landscape, that is if you disregard the dispersed houses, tree lined avenues, farmsteads and billowing fields of cereal crops and peas, it is easy to become disorientated and then the doubts and panic set in.
I laughed at the hapless individual and confidently asserted that I knew where to go.
I had, after all, been in the approximate area a few times in the last 25 years.
If I just headed for the evocatively named Stony Creek I could not go wrong.
Stony Creek is at the convergence of three long rural roads but because of the indentation of the land drain and lock gate which release the surface water into said Creek they do not actually join up.
My destination was at or close to that very location.
I knew that for certain but the trouble was selecting the right roadway. My map resource was not the ideal one for such a journey. It was a regional guide, intended to assist travellers in the larger towns and cities and fell well short in the critical detail of an open rural area. I doubted that even a sophisticated Sat Nav would be of any use unless you had the data upload for the Netherlands which would just about cover this remote corner of Yorkshire, England.
Turning off the main coast road brought me to my first choice route to try to find the quaint but functionally named Saltaugh Sands Estate.
It sounded idyllic and I could imagine something akin to a happy holiday camp, albeit more inter war than the latest Butlins. I had come across similar addresses in other parts of the country and these had included a peace camp, the shacks and chalets of conscientious objectors, a naturist commune and a temporary residence for seasonal agricultural workers.
The estate agent, now having fully debriefed the disillusioned visitor of a few days prior mentioned that I was not to be distressed when the metalled road surface ran out and to persist with the loose dressed track and hump backed bridges.
My first choice road seemed well surfaced and seemingly endless. There was no traffic at all although I could see, in the vast acres into the distant horizon, tractors and heavy machinery or rather the dust clouds that they churned up in the dry heat of a summers day. The atmosphere was ripe with country odours and these wafted through my open window. The hot corn smell was comforting and that of the freshly vined peas quite mouth watering. Less enticing was the heavy, sweet and sickly manure smells which were rapidly taking over as the huge agricultural operations churned out the muck to fertilise the freshly harvested land.
At one, if not the only bend in that road in 6 miles a large swine disease control sign forbad me and other motorists to proceed further. I was convinced that I was close to my destination and so completely ignored the ominous warning. In the hazy distance there seemed to be a group of slate roofs and chimneys which I was convinced was my destination.
As the car skidded to a halt at a cul de sac marked by a pile of topsoil I knew that the second choice would be the correct one.
Backtracking seemed to take longer than the outward journey and I was a bit anxious at passing by the pig farm in case a delegation had been sent out to teach me, an obvious townie, the etiquette of controlling fever amongst the pig population.
My start point for the next road brought the trip counter on the dashboard to 12 miles covered and no house found.
This route was a bit deja vu in that it ran quite close and parallel to my first abortive attempt. The outlook and any landmark features were therefore uncannily similar and quite disconcerting. This time the public road petered out even sooner and I crunched down onto a gravelled track. The surface was very well compressed from the passage of evidently quite large and heavy vehicles. I glanced around in case any of them sneaked up on me unannounced if that was possible by something of tangible tonnage.
This route went on for, it must have been seven or eight miles. I was sensitive to damaging my tyres and the prospect of having to be rescued in the middle of nowhere following a puncture or worse was not worth thinking about. A couple of fields away was a settlement made up of dwellings and barns.It looked promising as a candidate for my job but I had no idea, however, how to get to them as the track started to take me farther away.
Perhaps I could leave the car and walk along the headlands as a valid short cut. I decided against that for fear of getting even more disorientated. You sometimes read about people getting lost and perishing in a ditch or drain from fatigue and thirst. Two tractors pulling twin axle trailers approached and I had to pull up sharply onto the verge to give them room to pass. They were laden with fresh peas. I knew this from the fluorescent green liquid which drained out of the tailgate and splashed up and over my bonnet and windscreen.
I had reached another dead end. The Birds Eye convoy was some way away but I hung back in following to disguise my incompetence in navigation.
There was one route left.
Driving along I recognised a few of the farmhouses and some of the traditional cottages that had been built for the resettlement of soldiers from the First World War. Former memories were rekindled and yes, I was now definitely, for sure and for certain heading towards my intended destination.
There were of course more doubts as the tarmac ran out again but I crossed a couple of narrow, steep bridges and then saw the first signage referring to Stony Creek. A few cars were parked up, left by dog walkers, ramblers and twitchers giving the impression of a crowded metropolis after my many miles of lone travelling.
In turning around at the drain outlet parapet I saw a directional post with the name Saltaugh Sands Estate.
I had arrived after some thirty miles and nearly two hours in a trek that should only really have taken a fraction of that time and distance. The house itself was, frankly, a bit of a dump with none of the elusive Shangri-La character that I felt that I deserved for my efforts. On returning the keys to the estate agent I lied that I had not had any trouble finding the place. I think they were not entirely convinced my by claims.
Monday, 5 August 2013
Dimples are Delightful
I have marvelled at scientific progress over the last 5 decades.
It is hard to believe that things that we take for granted today were mere theories, notions, scribbles or fanciful schoolboy day dreams not that long ago.
Take television, for example. Founded in scratchy and unreliable black and white and held in wonderment by those who witnessed it. Imagine then the jaw dropping experience of the introduction of broadcasting in colour.
I had a huge valve powered radio in my bedroom as a child. It was a piece of furniture in its own right and had to be regularly switched off to allow the innards to cool down to a safe, non combustible temperature. This equipment was soon replaced by a tiny transistor radio that I was presented with on passing my 11-plus examination to go to the local Grammar School. Now even that is positively archaic with the availability of DAB digital services.
Our family were enthralled with the early video games. The cumbersome and clunky table tennis kept us engrossed for many hours. We could scarcely contain our excitement upon learning that the local pub had a Space Invaders game in a table top.
Again, this is all a bit embarrassing to recollect what with the rapid development of gaming with such strikingly life-like graphics and ever more compact delivery systems.
Just today I realised how far we as a civilisation have come.
This is in the form of a single, simple innovation but one which represents a positive revolution in my life.
For many years I have struggled with one particular operation in the kitchen. I am certainly not alone in this predicament and this will, no doubt, have prompted a huge investment in research and development by one particular corporation.
I am talking about that difficult task of levering up the pull ring on the lid of a tin of Heinz Baked Beans.
The latest tin that I purchased today from the Tesco Express has been designed with a small, perfectly round and shallow indentation under the outer rim of the ring pull. I have not ever noticed this detail before and believe me, I have had a long term relationship with this one of the 57 varieties of Heinz products.
My stubby, nerve chewed-nail fingers can now, with ease, grace and a smooth movement liberate the contents without the frustrated stabbing and probing with a sharp object that so often figured in my ritualistic preparation of Monday's tea.
It is hard to believe that things that we take for granted today were mere theories, notions, scribbles or fanciful schoolboy day dreams not that long ago.
Take television, for example. Founded in scratchy and unreliable black and white and held in wonderment by those who witnessed it. Imagine then the jaw dropping experience of the introduction of broadcasting in colour.
I had a huge valve powered radio in my bedroom as a child. It was a piece of furniture in its own right and had to be regularly switched off to allow the innards to cool down to a safe, non combustible temperature. This equipment was soon replaced by a tiny transistor radio that I was presented with on passing my 11-plus examination to go to the local Grammar School. Now even that is positively archaic with the availability of DAB digital services.
Our family were enthralled with the early video games. The cumbersome and clunky table tennis kept us engrossed for many hours. We could scarcely contain our excitement upon learning that the local pub had a Space Invaders game in a table top.
Again, this is all a bit embarrassing to recollect what with the rapid development of gaming with such strikingly life-like graphics and ever more compact delivery systems.
Just today I realised how far we as a civilisation have come.
This is in the form of a single, simple innovation but one which represents a positive revolution in my life.
For many years I have struggled with one particular operation in the kitchen. I am certainly not alone in this predicament and this will, no doubt, have prompted a huge investment in research and development by one particular corporation.
I am talking about that difficult task of levering up the pull ring on the lid of a tin of Heinz Baked Beans.
The latest tin that I purchased today from the Tesco Express has been designed with a small, perfectly round and shallow indentation under the outer rim of the ring pull. I have not ever noticed this detail before and believe me, I have had a long term relationship with this one of the 57 varieties of Heinz products.
My stubby, nerve chewed-nail fingers can now, with ease, grace and a smooth movement liberate the contents without the frustrated stabbing and probing with a sharp object that so often figured in my ritualistic preparation of Monday's tea.
Sunday, 4 August 2013
Seven Year Itch
I think that I am still involved in a professional role in the periodic supervision of a Cube House being built in Hull. I am not sure because to my knowledge it is not yet finished after 7 years.
This is a pure bred example, and not the shameful lip service to the genre which is starting to emerge in the brochures of the mass volume, low quality, speculative builders. Their versions have all the external appearance of a Cube House but merely as cladding to a very ordinary design and construction format. It is as though the Corporates all got a copy of Grand Designs as a Christmas present and went berserk taking on board the stylish bits but deliberately ignoring the essential substance.
Hence, you may see amongst the characterless acres of housing estates called such derivative names as Shipman Road (no Doctors have purchased there), Blackwater Way (actually flooded in 2007) and Wankley Dell (made that one up), the emergence of coloured composite panels, ceramic tile elevational treatments, excessive square metres of opaque glass blocks and some oddly angled masonry or fibre glass attachments. The sad thing is that these crude and insulting embellishments are being fully accepted and enthused about by the house buying public, or at least those who have the sizeable deposit needed to pass through into the Mortgage Lounge of the financiers to meet their colleague representative advisory person (CRAP) and be sold not just a mortgage but break-down cover and a raffle ticket.
The real Cube House I mention was started in 2005 and is now nearly ready for first occupation in 2011. The timescale involved is not, get lost Kevin McCleod, due to complex structural or planning issues but because the Architect, Builder, Project Manager, Funder, Navvy, Powder monkey and Tea Boy are all the same person and at the same time holding down a day job.
By definition the construction has taken place on the occasional evening during the week and with a more concentrated effort at weekends, during Bank Holidays and any general vacation entitlements. Add to these constraints a strong sense of authenticity and respect for the Cube House and great attention to detail and you have, dah, dah, dah . daaar, a 7 year labour of love.
My first site visit was at the steelwork stage. The bright red oxide finish was a bit overpowering as well as the sheer size and scale of the skeletal frame over three equivalent storeys but yet long and narrow in dimensions. The house was located on a narrow strip of land adjacent to a cemetery . In the earliest stages of emergence the locals and passers-by thought the structure was going to be a public convenience and even a crematorium for the internees which says a lot for the role of a bright yellow Planning Notice on a lampost or the actual validity of writing to all surrounding households to inform them of what was going to be built.
With the steelwork in place the intermediate floors were positioned and then the elevational finishes could be erected. The main south face of the house consisted entirely of glass blocks, individually sanded to combat any lethal solar magnifying effect and then mounted and reinforced in a framework. The appearance is exceptional in texture and impact. The eastern and northern elevations were fitted with a grey thermally insulated panelling and to the west, full floor to ceiling windows over the three floors.
The interior provides great flexibility as there are no loadbearing requirements. Natural light comes in a softened hue through the glass wall onto the stairways and with large glazed apertures and light wells illuminating efficiently all the accommodation. A stainless steel staircase is suspended above the ground floor and appears to float. At the front of the ground floor is the principal living area. A large open plan arrangement includes a kitchen. The space is open and airy to a full two storey height. There is a further day room behind a balcony above and with bedrooms and bathrooms beyond and above.
Internal floor area at over 2000 square feet is more than double that available for the faux versions on a non-descript housing estate. I have had to advise and undertake an exercise in calculating the cost to build and ultimate value of the Cube House but this transcends all normal conventions. What price for 7 years of labour not to mention the thinking time during 7 years worth of waking hours? What price for hundreds of journeys to and from the site, builders merchants and maintaining a lifestyle in current residence? What price for missing out on time with family over 7 years?
It is not about price at all , it is about the underlying values.
This is a pure bred example, and not the shameful lip service to the genre which is starting to emerge in the brochures of the mass volume, low quality, speculative builders. Their versions have all the external appearance of a Cube House but merely as cladding to a very ordinary design and construction format. It is as though the Corporates all got a copy of Grand Designs as a Christmas present and went berserk taking on board the stylish bits but deliberately ignoring the essential substance.
Hence, you may see amongst the characterless acres of housing estates called such derivative names as Shipman Road (no Doctors have purchased there), Blackwater Way (actually flooded in 2007) and Wankley Dell (made that one up), the emergence of coloured composite panels, ceramic tile elevational treatments, excessive square metres of opaque glass blocks and some oddly angled masonry or fibre glass attachments. The sad thing is that these crude and insulting embellishments are being fully accepted and enthused about by the house buying public, or at least those who have the sizeable deposit needed to pass through into the Mortgage Lounge of the financiers to meet their colleague representative advisory person (CRAP) and be sold not just a mortgage but break-down cover and a raffle ticket.
The real Cube House I mention was started in 2005 and is now nearly ready for first occupation in 2011. The timescale involved is not, get lost Kevin McCleod, due to complex structural or planning issues but because the Architect, Builder, Project Manager, Funder, Navvy, Powder monkey and Tea Boy are all the same person and at the same time holding down a day job.
By definition the construction has taken place on the occasional evening during the week and with a more concentrated effort at weekends, during Bank Holidays and any general vacation entitlements. Add to these constraints a strong sense of authenticity and respect for the Cube House and great attention to detail and you have, dah, dah, dah . daaar, a 7 year labour of love.
My first site visit was at the steelwork stage. The bright red oxide finish was a bit overpowering as well as the sheer size and scale of the skeletal frame over three equivalent storeys but yet long and narrow in dimensions. The house was located on a narrow strip of land adjacent to a cemetery . In the earliest stages of emergence the locals and passers-by thought the structure was going to be a public convenience and even a crematorium for the internees which says a lot for the role of a bright yellow Planning Notice on a lampost or the actual validity of writing to all surrounding households to inform them of what was going to be built.
With the steelwork in place the intermediate floors were positioned and then the elevational finishes could be erected. The main south face of the house consisted entirely of glass blocks, individually sanded to combat any lethal solar magnifying effect and then mounted and reinforced in a framework. The appearance is exceptional in texture and impact. The eastern and northern elevations were fitted with a grey thermally insulated panelling and to the west, full floor to ceiling windows over the three floors.
The interior provides great flexibility as there are no loadbearing requirements. Natural light comes in a softened hue through the glass wall onto the stairways and with large glazed apertures and light wells illuminating efficiently all the accommodation. A stainless steel staircase is suspended above the ground floor and appears to float. At the front of the ground floor is the principal living area. A large open plan arrangement includes a kitchen. The space is open and airy to a full two storey height. There is a further day room behind a balcony above and with bedrooms and bathrooms beyond and above.
Internal floor area at over 2000 square feet is more than double that available for the faux versions on a non-descript housing estate. I have had to advise and undertake an exercise in calculating the cost to build and ultimate value of the Cube House but this transcends all normal conventions. What price for 7 years of labour not to mention the thinking time during 7 years worth of waking hours? What price for hundreds of journeys to and from the site, builders merchants and maintaining a lifestyle in current residence? What price for missing out on time with family over 7 years?
It is not about price at all , it is about the underlying values.
Saturday, 3 August 2013
Barnstorming
The damp and moist soil floor of the old barn was certainly home to something.
I hesitated at the low and squat north side entrance to take stock of the observation of a lot of excavated holes. Certainly an indication of concentrated burrowing by animal or animals unknown.
The passage of the sun across the opposite face of the building, by mid morning, produced thin shafts of dusty and insect strewn light through the arrow slit vent openings. Two large plank doors glowed as the sunlight found its way through the fissures and cracks in the rotten woodwork.
In spite of this natural illumination it was still quite gloomy in the far recesses of the barn.
The brickwork was green-stained and leaching out salts and minerals from persistent penetration of rainfall. My heavy footfall approach, purposefully intended to alert any creatures to my presence, had worked and the deep, dark and sinister entrances to any subterranean network were still and quiet. I took this to mean that my path into the barn would not be impeded by scurrying rodents, ambling badgers or a cornered fox.
It was necessary to stoop in the action of stepping over the threshold which, being the thickness of the external wall, was a good lengthy stride for me. The farmworkers, active in the halcyon days of this particular farmstead in the late 1700's and through to the arrival of mechanisation towards the mid 19th Century, would not have had to crouch to negotiate the low clearance. Although working in an open air and healthy environment the onset of rickets, premature curvature of the spine and the ravages of poor nutrition in their early years would stunt their growth so as to make the ground floor of the barn seem positively cavernous.
The top of my head brushed the underside of hayloft boarding leading to a shower of cobwebs, insect bored sawdust and a few decades of dirt and grime. I made a mental note to keep well clear of the woodwork which would be bristling with protruding nails, spikes and other sharp objects, any of which being capable of inflicting a nasty wound.
As my eyes became accustomed to the change in light I could make out the detail of the ground floor of the barn. It was a squat and wide structure intended to provide a large open plan space for the industry of agriculture. This was with the exception of a line of very substantial square brick pillars through the mid point on which sat huge rough hewn boughs, tree trunks in fact. Remarkably well preserved these resembled the timbers seen at riverside wharfs in terms of dimension and inherent strength.
Close-up the surface was peppered with woodworm and insect flight holes but they had made little headway into the dense heartwood.
The scale and rigidity of the undercroft of the barn gave me some indication of what to expect on the main hayloft level above.
I made my way carefully through the cratered floor, tentatively putting my bodyweight on my front foot to test the surface for any weakness or give. It seemed to be stable and not likely to fall away beneath me.
An angled open riser ladder was the means of access to the first floor.
It was wide enough for a worker to carry up a bale of hay or a sack of grain with relative ease and I found this reassuring as I prepared to clamber up.
Head down to ensure a good foothold I only glanced up as my head and shoulders cleared the hatch in the loft floor.
I stared in amazement at the scene before me.
I had entered a vast cathedral like space so very and strikingly different to the enclosed vault of the ground floor.
For a brief moment I was disorientated by the inverted 'V' of the roof. It resembled the fashioned ribs and bulkheads of the hull of a capsised ship, of Mary Rose proportions and quality. I felt as though I had emerged between decks albeit in a confused upside down world.
Spanning between the outside walls were the horizontal beams of the principal supports. These were yet more tree trunks, simply stripped of peripheral branches and boughs and lugged into position on the top of the wall either side of the structure. I could imagine this being a mammoth task of manual labour at the time. From this had been constructed the 'A' frame of the trusses.
Craftsmen joiners will have knotched out joints and formed holes for the wooden pegs to be driven in to tighten up and strengthen the framework as required to take the deadweight of the roof. The angled rafters , themselves significantly sized timbers, followed the plane of the trusses, up to more crafted peg joints at the apex of the roof. In between and to brace against the wind the hull-like structure were two parallel lines of purlins in staggered positions.
In comparison the timber battens onto which the roof tiles were intermittently nailed were like lollipop sticks.
I doubt if the barn had been actively in use for the last 30 years but as a testament to the workmanship and calibre of the original build it had remained perfectly watertight. The clay pantiles could be heard to rattle with any gust of wind but they had remained resolute in excluding any weather. A few transluscent tiles, in pantile shape, had been inserted into the roofline from the Victorian era to throw some light on proceedings and these too were sound in spite of the fragility of the hand made glass.
Other sources of natural light emanated from the hayloft pitching door in the west gable where the pane was shattered and through more of the arrow slit ventilation openings formed in the thick outer walls. The sunlight was dazzling from the west giving the reddish brown brick a warm glow inside the transept like space.
I was in awe of the whole sight and felt privileged to have seen it in such glorious originality. Within a few months much of the detail will have been covered up, obscured, dulled or lost as a consequence of the conversion of the barn into accommodation for a seasonal holiday let.
http://instagram.com/p/cbjVZPOgF2/
I hesitated at the low and squat north side entrance to take stock of the observation of a lot of excavated holes. Certainly an indication of concentrated burrowing by animal or animals unknown.
The passage of the sun across the opposite face of the building, by mid morning, produced thin shafts of dusty and insect strewn light through the arrow slit vent openings. Two large plank doors glowed as the sunlight found its way through the fissures and cracks in the rotten woodwork.
In spite of this natural illumination it was still quite gloomy in the far recesses of the barn.
The brickwork was green-stained and leaching out salts and minerals from persistent penetration of rainfall. My heavy footfall approach, purposefully intended to alert any creatures to my presence, had worked and the deep, dark and sinister entrances to any subterranean network were still and quiet. I took this to mean that my path into the barn would not be impeded by scurrying rodents, ambling badgers or a cornered fox.
It was necessary to stoop in the action of stepping over the threshold which, being the thickness of the external wall, was a good lengthy stride for me. The farmworkers, active in the halcyon days of this particular farmstead in the late 1700's and through to the arrival of mechanisation towards the mid 19th Century, would not have had to crouch to negotiate the low clearance. Although working in an open air and healthy environment the onset of rickets, premature curvature of the spine and the ravages of poor nutrition in their early years would stunt their growth so as to make the ground floor of the barn seem positively cavernous.
The top of my head brushed the underside of hayloft boarding leading to a shower of cobwebs, insect bored sawdust and a few decades of dirt and grime. I made a mental note to keep well clear of the woodwork which would be bristling with protruding nails, spikes and other sharp objects, any of which being capable of inflicting a nasty wound.
As my eyes became accustomed to the change in light I could make out the detail of the ground floor of the barn. It was a squat and wide structure intended to provide a large open plan space for the industry of agriculture. This was with the exception of a line of very substantial square brick pillars through the mid point on which sat huge rough hewn boughs, tree trunks in fact. Remarkably well preserved these resembled the timbers seen at riverside wharfs in terms of dimension and inherent strength.
Close-up the surface was peppered with woodworm and insect flight holes but they had made little headway into the dense heartwood.
The scale and rigidity of the undercroft of the barn gave me some indication of what to expect on the main hayloft level above.
I made my way carefully through the cratered floor, tentatively putting my bodyweight on my front foot to test the surface for any weakness or give. It seemed to be stable and not likely to fall away beneath me.
An angled open riser ladder was the means of access to the first floor.
It was wide enough for a worker to carry up a bale of hay or a sack of grain with relative ease and I found this reassuring as I prepared to clamber up.
Head down to ensure a good foothold I only glanced up as my head and shoulders cleared the hatch in the loft floor.
I stared in amazement at the scene before me.
I had entered a vast cathedral like space so very and strikingly different to the enclosed vault of the ground floor.
For a brief moment I was disorientated by the inverted 'V' of the roof. It resembled the fashioned ribs and bulkheads of the hull of a capsised ship, of Mary Rose proportions and quality. I felt as though I had emerged between decks albeit in a confused upside down world.
Spanning between the outside walls were the horizontal beams of the principal supports. These were yet more tree trunks, simply stripped of peripheral branches and boughs and lugged into position on the top of the wall either side of the structure. I could imagine this being a mammoth task of manual labour at the time. From this had been constructed the 'A' frame of the trusses.
Craftsmen joiners will have knotched out joints and formed holes for the wooden pegs to be driven in to tighten up and strengthen the framework as required to take the deadweight of the roof. The angled rafters , themselves significantly sized timbers, followed the plane of the trusses, up to more crafted peg joints at the apex of the roof. In between and to brace against the wind the hull-like structure were two parallel lines of purlins in staggered positions.
In comparison the timber battens onto which the roof tiles were intermittently nailed were like lollipop sticks.
I doubt if the barn had been actively in use for the last 30 years but as a testament to the workmanship and calibre of the original build it had remained perfectly watertight. The clay pantiles could be heard to rattle with any gust of wind but they had remained resolute in excluding any weather. A few transluscent tiles, in pantile shape, had been inserted into the roofline from the Victorian era to throw some light on proceedings and these too were sound in spite of the fragility of the hand made glass.
Other sources of natural light emanated from the hayloft pitching door in the west gable where the pane was shattered and through more of the arrow slit ventilation openings formed in the thick outer walls. The sunlight was dazzling from the west giving the reddish brown brick a warm glow inside the transept like space.
I was in awe of the whole sight and felt privileged to have seen it in such glorious originality. Within a few months much of the detail will have been covered up, obscured, dulled or lost as a consequence of the conversion of the barn into accommodation for a seasonal holiday let.
http://instagram.com/p/cbjVZPOgF2/
Friday, 2 August 2013
Dozy Pillock
I am very well qualified to provide an up to date report on the current state of the Holderness coastline, the fastest eroding in Europe. My credentials are not academic, scientific or geographic. I have not augured the boulder clay and carbon dated the glacial deposits. I cannot profess to knowing the actual physical forces promoting the saturation and slump of the soil. I have not sat in a precariously balanced clifftop chalet whilst a lifetimes collection of garden ornaments tumble into the North Sea to emerge millenia later as fine particles forming a new stretch of beach at Clacton. My experience, well it is from parking up and falling asleep at all of the current cul de sac roadways terminating at the cliffline. Only just today I revisited Ulrome, a wonderful spot just at the southern cusp of Bridlington Bay and with a sweeping eyeline view out to the Flamborough Head lighthouse. The keepers of the light must feel really smug on their chalk plug of a headland whilst their near neighbours and brethren towards Spurn Point struggle to retain a foothold in England. The Ulrome resting place is fast diminishing. No expensive or extensive coastal defences are warranted unless you staunchly defend the right to see a plastic Walls Ice Cream flag stiffly flapping as a guarantee of a good British seaside holiday. The cafe owners at Ulrome have optimistically claimed the top of the cliff for a seating area for customers but have they not realised that it takes less and less visitors every day to reach full occupancy. I suspect that on a very blustery and showery monday, today, it is more a time to re-arrange the stock than be run off your feet serving snacks. The strength of the wind, in rocking the car gently made for a good power-knap. I can also recommend the parking area and viewpoint at Mappleton for a restful break. This is a fairly recent venue occupying an elevated position above the massive imported granite rock reef which is intended to protect the strategic, as in the only, road, south of Hornsea. It is amusing to keep half an eye and one ear open and alert to the comings and goings of visitors to the car park ,not for the sake of people watching but to avoid being blown up with the enthusiastic retrieval and display of corroded and unstable ordnance from the adjacent Cowden Beach live firing range. I remember that tuesdays in the 1980's was air attack day with coastal strafing by A10-Thunderbolts. Having observed the pitifully poor aim and deployment of missiles and heavy rounds by the US Army Air Corps on such days I am not surprised on the wide availabilty of cold war memorabilia. My favourite location for a snooze and peruse is Tunstall a bit further south. This is a positively cosmopolitan and hectic environment with a large and well patronised static caravan park, facilities and a boat compound. My late Father in law, George ran a cobble fishing boat out of Tunstall and I can certainly appreciate the attraction of the place. The Holderness coast may be fast receeding, some 3 miles and many rural hamlets have disappeared to the sea since the Doomsday Book, but it does have two dominant factors in abundance- a lot of sea and a very big sky. I find these things very therapeutic and cannot help but drift off. I am comforted by my calculation that if I park seventeen and a half feet from the current precipice I have at least a full year of undisturbed sleep with no worries of being roughly deposited on the sandy beach below ,car and all.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Daddy Day Care
The two men, perspiring heavily in their overalls on such a warm day, took up the slack on their ropes and slowly and surely extricated the carcass of the bloated cow out of the horsebox and down the cerrated ramp onto the muck, blood and urine stained concrete apron in front of my car.
My son watched in a vague expression which effectively disguised his actual horror and disbelief at what he had just witnessed.
I decided at that exact point in time that I would not take a child of mine to work with me ever again.
If I had had any prior indication that I was visiting a large scale maggot factory I would have parked out on the roadside. My oath at that time was of course a rash promise if ever there was one.
The inevitable outcome of two parents working is that child care has to be shared on a rota basis.
Grandparents could be called upon when the schedules of my wife and myself made it impossible to dedicate the necessary time and attention to our three young children. This makes us sound like absolutely terrible parents but given the worst case scenario, of just leaving the children locked in at home on their own with a packet of cream crackers in complete illegality, we were certainly trying our best.
I was in a better position to take the children to work with me.
If I was confined to the office then our small impromptu creche would come into operation. This consisted of the attic store room with a box of crayons, lots of scrap A4 paper and a small plastic toy treehouse, the origins of which I have no idea. The children were supplied with snacks and had plenty of drinks. I could easily place my hand over the phone speaker if, during a conversation with a client, a small voice expressed a need for a wee-wee.
If I was out on appointments then the children were packed into the car, usually with our two dogs behind in the luggage compartment separated by folding bars. I made sure upon parking up to go on a job that there were plenty of liquids and air in the vehicle.
However, it is truly amazing how much CO2 is expelled by five living creatures in a Volvo over a half hour time period. On my return the windows would be heavily steamed up and with an accompanying indistinct odourised vapour which took some minutes to clear with the ventilation system and heated rear window on full.
If I had to park in sight of the property that I was inspecting or in plain view of the home-owners then I was heartened by their warm welcomes and offer for the children to come and sit in the house. I declined their very kind invitations out of respect of their decor and floor coverings.
On one inspection I had parked the car and its precious occupants just outside. They seemed very content with a cassette of songs, plenty of books and a replenished stock of drink cans and goodies. About ten minutes into my investigatory work at the bungalow the doorbell rang. I carried on but was called to the door by the house-owner. He asked if I knew the child on the doorstep. My eldest daughter stood there and requested my presence at the car as her brother was bleeding. I apologised profusely to the man before dashing outside to find a small boy with a gashed finger from the ring pull of a coca-cola can. I had to abandon the job to seek medical attention.
The full compliment of bodies in the car represented a cash-cow to the village shops in the area. We will have single-handedly sustained a number of sweet shops, fish and chip shops and general stores throughout East Yorkshire for many years.
There was of course a very strong educational content to any of the "going to work with Dad" days.
If the job involved a vacant and unfurnished house and away from a Neighbourhood Watch area then my children would actively assist in a survey.
We jointly experienced some very interesting houses and I really enjoyed explaining why the only toilet was outside, why the sky could be seen through the bedroom ceiling, the difference between annobium punctatum and other infestations, why mouse droppings should not be mistaken for california raisins on the basis of taste only and getting the children to collectively flush the loo before all rushing downstairs and out into the garden to see the water coursing through the open manhole with, whatever was stuck up the pipe emerging to, shouts of delight.
I do believe that this frontline experience led to my eldest daughters' interest in buildings and her current year out in New York working for an architectural practice. My youngest daughter still recounts her memories of specific properties or things she saw. My son still talks with hilarity over his accompanying me around a Freemasons Lodge and seeing for himself the ceremonial room, vestments and paraphenalia of that secretive society.
The actual time spent in the car may well have been, on the whole, excruciatingly and mind-numbingly boring for the active minds of young children. No doubt child psychologists will allude to problems of commitment and concentration in later life to the post traumatic stress of living a feral existence with dogs.
I expect, any second, for there to be a knock at the door and to be taken away on charges of child cruelty. I walk to my car half prepared to be approached by a phalanx of paparrazzi asking me about the exploitation of my own children and did I not know that under the Factories Act of 1833 it was illegal to employ children younger than 9.
I have a witty response to these accusations. The quoted legislation, did they not know, only applied to children in the textile industry and not in the surveying profession. Dumbfounded they left in search of another gangmaster type but dragging my wheelie bin with them, papers blowing everywhere.
My son watched in a vague expression which effectively disguised his actual horror and disbelief at what he had just witnessed.
I decided at that exact point in time that I would not take a child of mine to work with me ever again.
If I had had any prior indication that I was visiting a large scale maggot factory I would have parked out on the roadside. My oath at that time was of course a rash promise if ever there was one.
The inevitable outcome of two parents working is that child care has to be shared on a rota basis.
Grandparents could be called upon when the schedules of my wife and myself made it impossible to dedicate the necessary time and attention to our three young children. This makes us sound like absolutely terrible parents but given the worst case scenario, of just leaving the children locked in at home on their own with a packet of cream crackers in complete illegality, we were certainly trying our best.
I was in a better position to take the children to work with me.
If I was confined to the office then our small impromptu creche would come into operation. This consisted of the attic store room with a box of crayons, lots of scrap A4 paper and a small plastic toy treehouse, the origins of which I have no idea. The children were supplied with snacks and had plenty of drinks. I could easily place my hand over the phone speaker if, during a conversation with a client, a small voice expressed a need for a wee-wee.
If I was out on appointments then the children were packed into the car, usually with our two dogs behind in the luggage compartment separated by folding bars. I made sure upon parking up to go on a job that there were plenty of liquids and air in the vehicle.
However, it is truly amazing how much CO2 is expelled by five living creatures in a Volvo over a half hour time period. On my return the windows would be heavily steamed up and with an accompanying indistinct odourised vapour which took some minutes to clear with the ventilation system and heated rear window on full.
If I had to park in sight of the property that I was inspecting or in plain view of the home-owners then I was heartened by their warm welcomes and offer for the children to come and sit in the house. I declined their very kind invitations out of respect of their decor and floor coverings.
On one inspection I had parked the car and its precious occupants just outside. They seemed very content with a cassette of songs, plenty of books and a replenished stock of drink cans and goodies. About ten minutes into my investigatory work at the bungalow the doorbell rang. I carried on but was called to the door by the house-owner. He asked if I knew the child on the doorstep. My eldest daughter stood there and requested my presence at the car as her brother was bleeding. I apologised profusely to the man before dashing outside to find a small boy with a gashed finger from the ring pull of a coca-cola can. I had to abandon the job to seek medical attention.
The full compliment of bodies in the car represented a cash-cow to the village shops in the area. We will have single-handedly sustained a number of sweet shops, fish and chip shops and general stores throughout East Yorkshire for many years.
There was of course a very strong educational content to any of the "going to work with Dad" days.
If the job involved a vacant and unfurnished house and away from a Neighbourhood Watch area then my children would actively assist in a survey.
We jointly experienced some very interesting houses and I really enjoyed explaining why the only toilet was outside, why the sky could be seen through the bedroom ceiling, the difference between annobium punctatum and other infestations, why mouse droppings should not be mistaken for california raisins on the basis of taste only and getting the children to collectively flush the loo before all rushing downstairs and out into the garden to see the water coursing through the open manhole with, whatever was stuck up the pipe emerging to, shouts of delight.
I do believe that this frontline experience led to my eldest daughters' interest in buildings and her current year out in New York working for an architectural practice. My youngest daughter still recounts her memories of specific properties or things she saw. My son still talks with hilarity over his accompanying me around a Freemasons Lodge and seeing for himself the ceremonial room, vestments and paraphenalia of that secretive society.
The actual time spent in the car may well have been, on the whole, excruciatingly and mind-numbingly boring for the active minds of young children. No doubt child psychologists will allude to problems of commitment and concentration in later life to the post traumatic stress of living a feral existence with dogs.
I expect, any second, for there to be a knock at the door and to be taken away on charges of child cruelty. I walk to my car half prepared to be approached by a phalanx of paparrazzi asking me about the exploitation of my own children and did I not know that under the Factories Act of 1833 it was illegal to employ children younger than 9.
I have a witty response to these accusations. The quoted legislation, did they not know, only applied to children in the textile industry and not in the surveying profession. Dumbfounded they left in search of another gangmaster type but dragging my wheelie bin with them, papers blowing everywhere.
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