Tag Archives: History

The Sanctuary (Italy Pt IV) 

With a loud crack of thunder, the heavens opened. The ferocity of the deluge sent victims scattering for shelter. The morning’s blazing sunshine had lulled us into a false sense of security. As such, it was thin tops and carrier bags hurriedly commandeered as hoods and umbrellas. The high, stone walls provided little cover, so we skittishly hopped from one closed doorway to the next, exchanging a few inches of shelter for another. Criss-crossing the courtyard in this manner, I eventually reached the bowels of the ancient building.

We weren’t the first to use this aged structure for sanctuary. There exists an underground tunnel connecting it to the Vatican. In 1527 the German Emperor, Charles V, and his forces sacked Rome. You might imagine a faithful pope would stand firm in Christendom’s holiest site. Trusting his fate to God. Instead, Pope Clement VII hitched up his robes and scurried down the tunnel to safety. Three-quarters of his elite Swiss Guards died defending his escape. Clearly Clement wasn’t a strong believer in Jesus’ proclamation ‘Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul…’

Rain. The tourist’s bane. Now safely sheltered, I stood at the mouth of a stone corridor eyeing the dismal drizzle’s dogged descent. Fellow tourists would periodically rush down the metal steps in search of sanctuary. The corridor led from an open courtyard deep into the bowels of the ancient fortress. We gathered at the entrance, eyes to the skies, waiting for a break in the bleak blanket.

There’s another famous pope-related story associated with this place. This pope wasn’t escaping an attack; he was initiating one. In 590 St. Gregory the Great had a vision of an angel unsheathing a sword atop the building. He interpreted it as a sign of an end to the plague which had gripped the city. The vision inspired him to lead a procession to the church of Santa Agata in Surburra. Upon arrival a sudden clap of thunder supposedly caused an idol to miraculously fall apart.

Upon his return, Gregory the Great saw another vision of the angel wiping blood from his sword before sheathing it. The pope interpreted this as a sign that God was appeased, although, that didn’t stop him destroying numerous other sites around the city. A more prosaic explanation for his actions was told by a 15th-century traveller. He claimed that, in response to the ongoing plague, Rome’s populace had begun worshipping pagan idols in desperation. So Gregory destroyed them. Either way, it was this purported event that gave the building its current name: Castel Sant’Angelo – literally translated as ‘Saint Angel Castle’ – in honour of the angel.

Time wore on and the rain poured down. It was the type of downpour where thirty seconds exposure meant soaked to the bone. The rain’s solemn drumbeat marked the frustrating passing of wasted time. For the moment, my busy itinerary had to be put on hold. But I wasn’t the only one. Quite a gathering had amassed at the courtyard entrance. Our glum looks and impatient eyes fixed upon the unleashed heavens. Bored children began playing in the growing puddle that slowly oozed and slithered its way across the uneven granite floor.

I first spotted the castle as I crossed Ponte Sant’Angelo bridge. To be fair, it was hard not to. Positioned directly in front of the bridge and measuring sixty-four metres in diameter, you’d be hard pressed to miss it. It looked like a giant, stone snare drum had fallen from the sky.

By the 2nd century the Roman’s Imperial tomb was almost full with emperors and their families. Emperor Hadrian concluded a new grand tomb was required. Hadrian, and all subsequent emperors, were interred there. It was later realised that the massive construction formed an ideal base for a fortification, so by the Middle Ages the tomb had been modified into Rome’s greatest castle. The modifications were significant enough that the original Roman structure is largely unrecognisable today. It was later acquired by the papacy and used as a refuge from danger, as Pope Clement had done, but was later used as a residence. In the early 20th century it was converted into a museum, it’s purpose today. It features various exhibits of paintings, pottery and antique weaponry. Sadly, much of the tomb’s urns and ashes were trashed and scattered during a Visigoth attack in 410AD. And a later goth siege in 537AD resulted in much of the decorative bronze being looted and lost.

The rain didn’t appear to be in any rush to depart. The humidity had turned the cold, roughhewn stones clammy to the touch. I began deliberating over whether to accept my fate and brave the downpour. Typically, it was the one day I’d forgotten to take my umbrella. Numerous street sellers sold them. But the rain’s ferocity would have soaked me by the time I reached them, rendering the purchase somewhat redundant. That’s something I have to complement Italy on: The street sellers are flawlessly efficient. When the sun was shining they were loaded with selfie sticks. The moment rain struck, the sticks immediately disappeared to be replaced by umbrellas. I couldn’t understand how they managed this so swiftly. On occasions it felt like I shifted my gaze from a selfie-selling street seller to the sky, noted it had begun to rain, gazed back only to find the same street seller was now offering me an umbrella and the selfie-sticks were nowhere in sight. “How did you…do… that!?”

I clearly wasn’t the only one debating whether to accept my fate. Many dispirited eyes, eyed the grim, sodden skies. Occasionally someone would shrug in defeat and head out into the downward drift, leaving others exchanging contemplative glances. The deluge of dank droplets penetrated even the stiffest resolve.

It reminded me of long, childhood Sunday afternoons. Sat by the window waiting for a break in the rain so I could go outside to play. Time was wearing on and the sulky skies looked as tempestuous as ever. My bursting itinerary was bugging me to accept my fate. I couldn’t rely upon the castle’s protection forever.

My time in Rome was fleeting. My plans couldn’t be endlessly postponed awaiting the perfect weather. Sometimes you just have to brave the storms and make the most of it. A bit like life, I suppose. You can’t continually delay until the perfect moment arrives. You’ll never do anything. And, arguably, right now is the perfect moment, as it’s the only one you’ll ever have.

With this in mind I took a look around. The once crowded corridor had thinned considerably. The unremitting rain had eroded much staunch defiance. The wearing time had worn down my resolve too. To quote Tracy Chapman “If not now, then when?” I took a last glance at the sullen skies, shrugged my shoulders and headed out into the rain…

 

Millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. – Susan Ertz

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Italy Part III 

Meanwhile in 16th Century Vatican City…

“I don’t see what the problem is,” he shrugged.

“You don’t see what the problem is!” he said in exasperation. “Your holiness, he gave me the ears of a donkey!”

“I think they look rather fetching,” he mused.

“And there’s a serpent eternally biting off my testicles!”

“Well that does sound rather uncomfortable,” he said in sympathy.

“So you’ll order him to paint my face out?”

“Look,” he sighed, “I might have released you from purgatory, but over hell I have no power…”

Food rationing in Britain during WWII was so severe that giant, meandering queues became common place. It’s claimed that people would often join queues without knowing what they were for. They just hoped there’d be something worthwhile at the end. Not long after entering Vatican City I did something similar. There was a massive queue snaking its way around St Peter’s Square. I assumed it must be the right queue, so I joined.

Vatican City formed in 1870 when unification of the numerous Italian states resulted in much of the land surrounding the city being claimed. A territorial standoff resulted, lasting almost sixty years until Mussolini signed a 1929 pact rendering the city an independent nation state; the world’s smallest. Amusingly, it has one of the highest per-capita crime rates in the world. Many would argue this is owed to the tiny population skewing the crime figures. But perhaps it’s simply evidence for the Bible’s proverb ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ After all, when a reporter asked Pope John XXIII how many people worked at the Vatican he jokingly replied ‘about half of them.’

My intention was to queue for the Sistine Chapel, so I was relieved to discover the massive queue was actually for the basilica. It was ‘about three hours long’ I was told. I happily departed and wandered off to find the chapel’s queue.

I kept being approached by guys promising I could skip the queues. After discovering the chapel queue was 1hr 30mins I became interested. I got chatting to one who explained that for 50E I’d get a guided tour of the museum, chapel and basilica. Entry to the chapel was 20E, so it would be an extra 30E. I said I’d think about it and went to leave. He stopped me and offered student price. My comment about not being a student was greeted with casual insouciance. Student price was 41E. So he was offering 21E to skip the queues, receive a guided tour and see the basilica. Seemed like a sweet deal. Five minutes later I was inside listening to the guide’s explanations.

The guide was a slightly eccentric, middle-aged Italian lady wearing clothes daubed with more splashes of colour than your average painter’s smock. She also seemed extremely preoccupied with the male bodies of the museum’s sculptures, which I found rather amusing.

After the museum we entered the Sistine Chapel. It’s named after Pope Sixtus IV who commissioned it, and was built between 1473 and 1481. Its dimensions are the same as the Temple of Solomon’s as described in the Old Testament. It wasn’t until my visit that I realised the infamous smoke that the world’s press awaits when a new pope is being selected emanates from the chapel. A chimney is installed in the roof when required.

Although the chapel was completed in 1481, Michelangelo didn’t begin the ceiling until 1508. He was initially vehemently opposed to the commission. This was partly owed to the daunting scale of the work, but also his contempt for the art form. He considered himself a sculptor first and foremost, and distained frescoes. Despite this, he created such an astounding masterpiece that it changed the direction of western art. It takes someone remarkable to create a world-changing piece of art. To do so in a medium you’re contemptuous off…well… I’ve no idea what level of talent that takes.

It seems Michelangelo was also a pretty strong-willed character. You’d imagine most people would humbly abide any request from the pope. Not Michelangelo. He maintained that if he had to accept the commission then he must have a free hand in its design. He then dismissed the requested design completely and embarked upon an epic series of nine scenes from Genesis. Despite his initial reticence, he eventually painted an astounding three hundred figures covering 460m2. He also ignored the pope’s constant complaints about the mushrooming timescale and spent four years on the work.

The pope summoned his principal architect and instructed him to design a scaffold to aid Michelangelo in reaching the ceiling. Michelangelo laughed at the proposed design and opted to design his own. Many mistakenly believe he painted lying on his back, but he was actually standing up.

While in his sixties Michelangelo was called back to paint the altar wall. Once again he protested the commission; once again the pope dismissed his objections. The result was The Last Judgement – the largest fresco painted during the 16th century and an unquestioned masterpiece. It depicts Christ as the judge sending the damned to hell with his left hand and lifting the saved up to heaven with his right. Despite once again having to endure the pope’s constant pestering to hurry up he took his time and completed the work between 1535 and 1541.

The Last Judgment proved controversial through its depiction of naked figures. It ignited a bitter dispute between Michelangelo and the pope’s master of ceremonies, Biagio da Cesena, who considered it disgraceful for such a sacred place to feature nude figures. In retaliation, Michelangelo incorporated Cesena into the scene as Minos, the judge of the underworld, who has the ears of a jackass and snakes biting his testicles. Cesena complained to the pope who responded with the comment at the start of this post (“I might have released you from purgatory, but over hell I have no power” – the rest of the scene was artistic licence on my part.)

It goes without saying that the ceiling is spectacular. Sadly, I can’t share any photos as they’re forbidden. The Swiss guards who patrol the chapel are pretty strict about this. I saw one guy having his cheekily-snapped photos deleted. There’s no talking allowed either. There’s just a lot a shushing.

After the chapel we were guided through to St Peter’s Basilica. The first church on the site was built during the 4th century, but it underwent major rebuilding during the 16th and 17th centuries. This mammoth project took 120 years to complete.

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Catholics believe St Peter’s Basilica is built upon the burial site of the first pope and head of Christ’s apostles: St. Peter. Oddly, his name was actually Simon. He helped found the Christian church after Jesus’ crucifixion. He was later crucified for his efforts. The basilica’s altar is claimed to be positioned directly over his tomb.

Michelangelo was in his seventies when the basilica’s principal architect died. The construction had already been going for forty years. I imagine Michelangelo was hoping to put his feet up and relax in his twilight years, but the pope had other ideas. He dragged him from his retirement and appointed him superintendent of the building program – something he once again vehemently opposed.

Once again he also again demanded a free hand in the design. But he didn’t simply dismiss the work of the previous architects. He built upon it. In doing so he progressed the colossal project to a stage where it could be completed after his death. As such, he’s recognised as the principal architect of what stands today. Going for the hat-trick, the result was another undisputed masterpiece. It’s an example of Renaissance architecture considered by many as ‘the greatest of all churches of Christendom.’ It influenced architecture throughout Western Christendom and even features the world’s tallest dome (inspiring Christopher Wren’s dome at St Paul’s in London). Upon completion it gained the title of world’s biggest church. A title it held until 1989 when the church in Yamoussoukro, Cote d’Ivoire surpassed it.

Despite initially being uninterested in seeing inside the basilica I’m extremely glad I did. It’s astonishing. I’ve seen a fair few churches in my time, but I’ve never seen anything quite like entering St Peter’s Basilica and lifting my head.

The immense size and beauty is staggering. I was so overwhelmed by the visual hammer-blow that I stopped dead in humbled awe. I hope Christian readers can forgive me, but upon entering the holiest site in Christendom the words that immediately, accidentally, left my lips were “Holy fuck.”

The thing I took most from my Vatican City trip was respect for Michelangelo. He’s the genius rebel who revolutionised everything he begrudgingly touched. He considered fresco an inferior art form, and yet revolutionised it anyway. It was a rival painter who pushed for him to paint the Sistine Chapel – hoping his dislike of frescoes would result in a humiliating disaster. Instead, he elevated it beyond anything anyone had ever seen before.

He consistently rebelled against the pope’s authority. Whether it was arguing against his commissions, dismissing the intended designs or simply ignoring incessant demands to hurry up. Along the way he mocked a leading architect and humiliated the master of ceremonies. He also took one of the holiest sites in Christendom and filled it with nude images (until they were later covered over). He was clearly an unassailable maverick. You’ve got to admire that.

As I’m not able to show you any photos I thought I’d instead share this classic Monty Python sketch. It fittingly imagines Michelangelo arguing with the pope and explains why he never painted the Last Supper (the chapel’s Last Supper scene was painted by Rosselli).


Planet Oil

I recently watched part one of the BBC Scotland documentary Planet Oil, presented by geologist Professor Iain Stewart. The programme considers the story of how oil completely changed our world. It created riches on a previously unimaginable scale. It led to technology that revolutionised our lives. It changed the outcome of wars, and sent the balance of global power into a tailspin. The programme covered so many great stories that I thought I’d share a few.

Up until the mid-19th century the world’s lamps were lit by whale oil. But collapsing whale populations meant the industry, and the whales, were under serious threat. A new source of oil was urgently needed. In 1853 an industrialist named George Bissell took a trip to Pennsylvania. He’d heard stories of the region’s strange oily puddles and wondered if they might provide a solution.

The oily puddles bubbled up from deep underground. Bissell realised he needed to drill down to reach the source. This wasn’t something anyone had attempted before, so new technology was required. He partnered up with a former railway conductor, Colonel Edward Drake, who possessed the necessary engineering skills. By 1859 they were ready, and on 27th August Drake struck oil. Being the first to person to do so, he was taken by surprise when the oil erupted with such ferocity that it sprayed high into the air. Not wanting to waste the precious material he frantically grabbed some old whiskey barrels he had lying around and began filling them with the oil. This chance action is the reason we still trade oil in barrels today.

Bissell and Drake refined the oil into kerosene, which could be used to light lamps. This new type of oil was rapidly adopted, making the men extremely wealthy. Their wealth soon attracted the keen interest of others. Within twelve months over seventy-five drilling rigs were operating in the area. Within another year the area was generating around one million barrels a year. The shocking speed with which this new industry grew couldn’t be better illustrated than by the story of the town Pithole.

The discovery of oil in one particular location resulted in people flocking there to drill it. Within six months a prosperous town had grown from nothing. The town, named Pithole, was replete with ten hotels and numerous saloons, but the oil quickly dried up and the town disappeared. The rise and subsequent demise of Pithole occurred so quickly that it never appeared on the US census. A census is taken every ten years. At the time of the 1860 census the town didn’t exist. Oil was discovered in 1865. But by the time of the next census, 1870, the oil had dried up and the town was deserted.

These rapid changes were owed to the huge wealth this new mineral could bring. And there’s no finer example of this than the story of John T Rockefeller. He’s known as an infamous philanthropist, but he was also a ruthless businessman. He nickname was the anaconda.

Rockefeller originally worked as a greengrocer, but he soon saw the attraction of oil. It was hard not to. Every dollar invested in oil drilling returned a thousand. In 1865 he invested all his savings in an oil refinery. He used the profits to build a second. With so many people drilling for oil there was a risk of oversupply, so Rockefeller decided to distinguish his product by going for quality. To underline this commitment he opted to name his oil Standard.

Rockefeller’s business grew quickly. He soon became the country’s biggest supplier, but he still wasn’t satisfied. To further tighten his grip on the industry he focused upon the supply chain. Oil was transported via the railways. The size of his company afforded him great power, which he used to entice railway operators into extremely biased deals. The deals meant the more oil a supplier shipped, the cheaper the shipping became. As he was the largest shipper, the deal favoured his company. He then went a step further and arranged a deal that actively penalised smaller distributors. This killed off competition allowing him to monopolise the industry. The result? Never before in the course of history had one man become so rich so quickly from a single resource. He became the richest man that had ever lived, amassing a fortune equivalent to ten times that of Bill Gates.

In the 1870s a British military industrialist named Robert Nobel arrived in Baku on the Caspian Sea. He was seeking wood to make rifles. But instead he found a black, barren landscape. Gas would belch from underground vents. Volcanoes of mud spluttered into the air while rivers of oil oozed along the sun-baked sand. In this strange alien landscape he saw rocks on fire. He also saw an opportunity.

With his brother he formed the Nobel Petroleum company. They knew there was a ready waiting market, eastwards. The problem was getting their oil there.

The journey over land was long and arduous. The sea option was quicker, but required access to the newly opened Suez Canal (which connects the Mediterranean Sea with the Red Sea). But there was a problem, the clipper ships used to transport oil were deemed unsafe by the canal owners. They viewed wooden ships with thousands of oil barrels rolling around a dangerous prospect. The Nobel brothers needed a new design of ship.

The solution was found by the son of an English shell merchant, Marcus Samuel. His design is still in use today. It’s become one of the world’s most recognisable ships: the super tanker. Samuel then created his own oil company, Shell. Its name and logo was inspired by the shells his dad would sell. It soon became one of the world’s most recognisable brands.

Samuel’s new design of ship could carry twice as much oil and move it safely through the Suez Canal. This allowed the Nobel brothers to dominate the Asian market, much to Rockefeller’s frustration.

Drawn by the astonishing levels of potential riches many wells opened up across the world. But in their clamour to enrich themselves the new oil barons failed to notice the massive threat looming on the horizon: electricity.

In 1882 Edison flipped a switch. The switch sent electricity through wires which lit a series of streetlights across a London bridge. The world would never be the same again.

Towns and cities across the globe soon embraced this new technology. It wasn’t long before it was busy banishing darkness from inside people’s homes as well. Oil was made redundant almost overnight.

At that time oil only really had one use, and once that use had been supplanted the industry was obsolete. The oil barons needed a new use for their product. Conveniently, a German engineer was working on exactly that. Much like electric lights, his invention also completely revolutionised the world.

Oil reaches the surface in the form of crude oil. This is a mixture of numerous hydrocarbons (compounds of hydrogen and carbon). Only one molecule, kerosene, was used for lamps. By heating the raw oil the various types of hydrocarbons can be separated. This process, called distillation, causes the lighter molecules (such as propane) to evaporate first. As the temperature is increased the heavier molecules (such as kerosene) are separated out. This process generates many different products. One particular molecule was originally thrown away as a waste product. This made it the only fuel the German engineer, Carl Benz, could afford. So he designed his new internal combustion engine to run on it. The product was gasoline. Despite being initially considered worthless, a mere thimble full could perform the work of twenty horses. It wasn’t long before the world embraced Benz’s invention. And it wasn’t long before gasoline became oil’s most prized product.

Often the military is the first to embrace new technology. As was the case for gasoline. In 1911 Winston Churchill became First Lord of the Admiralty. One of his immediate concerns was the German navy. Their ships ran on oil, whereas the British fleet ran on coal. Coal ships travelled at ten knots; oil ships travelled at twenty-five knots – clearly a massive advantage in a battle situation. Churchill soon set about converting Britain’s ships to oil. Fortunately his work was well underway when war broke out in 1914.

A month after war broke out an event took place that’s largely unknown outside of France. Paris was on the verge of being taken by the Kaiser. His forces were amassed only thirty miles from the city. Many considered the city’s fall inevitable. Most people, including the entire government, had already fled. But the city’s military general, Joseph Gallieni, was determined to save the city. Frontline troops were heavily outnumbered. Reinforcements were available, but stranded in Paris. The story goes that Gallieni was standing on a Parisian street when he saw a taxi go by, then another, then another. A thought occurred to him. What if he used these new, fast, gasoline-powered vehicles to take his troops to the frontline?

The call went out to all Parisian cab drivers to abandon their passengers and come to the army’s aid. What resulted is now referred to as the Taxi Armada. Six hundred taxis answered the call. Within twenty-four hours six thousand troops had been delivered to the frontline. Never in world history had so many people been transported so far so quickly. The Germans were pushed back; the city was saved. The age of motorised warfare had arrived, and the world was in no doubt as to where the future of transportation lay. Although, as an amusing side note, it’s claimed the taxis’ meters were still running during the mass exodus. Well, we’ve all got to earn a living…


I Name You…Me! 

Legend claims that long ago there lived a princess named Rhea Silvia. She was the daughter of Numitor, king of Alba Longa. But her villainous uncle, Amulius, envied his brother’s great power. He ousted the king, seized the throne, killed his sons and forced Rhea to become a Vestal Virgin – a priestess sworn to chastity and charged with sustaining a sacred eternal flame.  

Contrary to her chaste obligations, Rhea fell pregnant by the god Mars. The betrayal of her vow would ordinarily have resulted in her twin sons being killed. But, upon learning of their father’s identity, King Amulius felt reluctant to risk angering the gods. So, he ordered them to be killed by either live burial, exposure or being thrown into the River Tiber. He reasoned that if they were to die by the elements then he and his city would be spared the god’s wrath. But the servant tasked with completing the order took pity on the twins. Instead, he placed them in a basket which he set adrift upon the Tiber.  

A series of miraculous events conspired to protect the young twins from harm. Firstly, the river god, Tibernus, calmed the river, ensuring their safe passage. Next, he influenced the currents so their basket would become caught amongst the roots of a riverbank fig tree. Afterwards, a lupa (she-wolf) discovered the twins and suckled them in the safety of a cave. Later, a wood-pecker or picus (someone turned into a woodpecker) supplied them with food. Eventually, they were discovered by a shepherd and his wife who took them in and raised them. After surviving their ordeal the boys grew up to become shepherds like their adoptive father, completely unaware of their royal blood. 

One day, while herding their sheep, the brothers encountered some of King Amulius’ shepherds. A fight broke out during which one of the brothers was captured and taken before the king. The other sibling gathered a band of fellow shepherds to free his incarcerated brother. 

The rescue was a success, the brother was freed and the devious king was killed. The city’s citizens offered the brothers the crown, but they declined and restored Numitor to the throne. 

Instead, the brothers decided to found their own city, but quarrelled over the ideal location. They agreed to settle the matter through augury. Augury was a type of prophecy that involved observing birds to determine what actions the gods favoured. One brother claimed to have won the contest having seen twelve birds. The other brother disputed this claim on the grounds that he’d seen his six birds first. They argued until one brother decided to begin building his own walls and trenches. His attempts were derided by his brother, who even jumped over the walls in jest. This mocking resulted in a fight breaking out. The mocking brother, Remus, was killed. The surviving brother, Romulus, founded his new city. Eponymously, Romulus named the new city Rome.  

Roman historians accepted the above story as historical fact. Citing the city’s founding as between 758 and 728BC. The image of the she-wolf suckling the twins even became an iconic representation of the city. Unsurprisingly, modern historians are a little more sceptical of the story’s veracity.  

Modern historians believe the city grew from several settlements situated around seven hills near the River Tiber. The location was advantageous as the river was narrow enough to be bridged. The downside was that the ground between the hills was marshy. Being isolated upon their hills made the settlements vulnerable. For safety, they drained the marsh and united as one easily defendable city.   

Rome’s early inhabitants were from a tribe called Latins, from the Plains of Latium. They were successful farmers and traders. The riches accrued through their success aroused jealousy amongst the surrounding tribes. This rivalry necessitated the need for a skilled army to protect the city. Over time the successful army expanded the territory so that by 300 BC the Romans controlled most of the Italian peninsula.  

A while back I decided to take a trip to Rome and explore its fascinating history. This is the first post in the series about my trip.  

 

Footnote 

You may notice the similarity between the story of the twins being placed in a basket and the story of Moses from the New Testament. The Roman myth predates the Moses one, but the original myth dates back much further. The story can actually be traced back to at least ancient Mesopotamia and the myth of Sargon (~2,300 BC).  


Yarmouth Castle

This is the last post about my trip to the Isle of Wight. The first can be found here. 

When I was around eight years old my class in school held a castle building competition. We were divided into teams, given a pile of boxes, scissors, string and Sellotape and the timer was started. I’m not sure why, but I became adamant that our team’s castle should be replete with a working drawbridge and portcullis. This, due to the time constraints, caused some consternation among some members of the team. A degree of teacher diplomacy was called upon, and I was eventually awarded a splinter group within our team to build the drawbridge and portcullis. We won the competition. I felt rather satisfied that our castle’s working drawbridge and portcullis was named as a deciding factor in the win.  

Still, this small success is no evidence that I could have made it as a successful castle builder. I was so determined that it should have a drawbridge and portcullis that I had little concern for anything else. If I’d have been a castle builder during the Medieval period no doubt I would have been standing back to admire my fancy gatehouse with working drawbridge and portcullis when the enemy arrived and I was asked, “Maybe we should have built some walls as well?” 

The competition was inspired by a project we were doing on castles. It was this project, and the subsequent trip to Porchester Castle, that sparked my early interest in these ancient defences. But I wasn’t the only one keenly interested in castle defences.  

Much like Southsea Castle (discussed in my previous post), Yarmouth was designed differently to Henry’s earlier castles. It was square and featured a new ‘arrow-head’ bastion protruding from its southeast corner. This new style of bastion, developed in Italy, made the castle one of the most innovative military buildings in England. Most of the castle’s firepower was directed out to sea, leaving it vulnerable to land attack. For this reason a moat was dug on the land side. The new bastion was positioned at the corner of the moat and enabled the garrison to provide flanking fire to protect the moat-side walls. Any would-be attackers who tried to get close to the walls could easily be despatched.  

The arrow-bastion revolutionised the design of fortresses, although the example at Yarmouth was initially somewhat lacking. The stone walls designed to protect soldiers from enemy fire were too short. Later alterations addressed the issue. It appears that Henry’s designers were experimenting with the concept before fully understanding it.  

Yarmouth was the last of Henry’s castles. Not long after Southsea’s completion a French fleet approached Portsmouth, on 18th July 1545. They were retaliating for an invasion by Henry the previous year. Owed to a long standing dispute, Henry still believed he, as king of England, was the rightful king of France. The fleet landed on the Isle of Wight. The next day a naval battle occurred in front of Southsea while Henry watched from the mainland. It was during this battle that his beloved, and infamous, flagship the Mary Rose sank.*  

Until the French fleet’s invasion, it was considered unnecessary to build a castle on the island. But by landing there they were beyond the reach of the mainland’s guns. The local militia defeated them, but the defensive weakness had been exposed. It was decided to build Yarmouth Castle. It was completed in 1547, after Henry’s death. It never saw action, but was garrisoned until 1885.  

This is how it originally looked: 

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But the castle has been altered significantly since its construction. Its original courtyard was filled in during the late 16th/early 17th century, and in 1670 the outer earthworks were removed. The moat was also filled in and a house was built – now the George Hotel. 

This is how it looks today: 

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Much like Southsea, Yarmouth’s only major action took place during the English Civil War. It was held by a Royalist captain, but he was clearly more sober and sensible than Southsea’s captain (as discussed in my previous post). When the Parliamentarians arrived the captain acknowledged that his tiny garrison was unlikely to repel such a large force, so he surrendered.  

The castle’s displays explained how the town of Yarmouth once exerted Parliamentary influence vastly disproportionate to its size. During Elizabethan times, Yarmouth’s burgesses (local officials) were able to send two MPs to Parliament. This situation continued until 1832, despite Yarmouth only possessing around six hundred residents. Birmingham, meanwhile, with a population of nearly 150,000, didn’t have the right to send any! 

In 1763, Yarmouth’s mayor was chosen during a meeting in which only he and one other burgess was present. This seems a little unseemly. Especially when the following year the same situation occurred, only with the two swapping places! It’s no wonder Yarmouth gained a reputation as a rotten borough. It still enjoys prestige beyond its size though. It’s Britain’s smallest town (unlike villages, towns have the right to hold regular markets, appoint mayors and construct town halls). 

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*As an aside, I visited the Mary Rose during a school trip in, I believe, the same year as the castle building competition. It was behind glass while being sprayed with water as part of its preservation. I remember wondering how long it would take to complete the process. That was back in the 1980s (it was raised in 1982). It’s scheduled to go on full display in the summer of 2016. It seems incredible that it’s taken so long. What an astounding amount of work it’s taken to preserve such a magnificent treasure. I’m thinking I might have to pay it a visit… 


Southsea Castle

The Battle of Hastings was a ferocious and bloody battle that left, by some estimates, 6,000 dead, but it wasn’t the end of the struggle for William. He still had a deeply hostile and resentful populous to pacify. Fortunately, he had some cutting-edge military technology at his disposal. William introduced the vanquished populous to a new innovation bought over from the continent: the castle. 

Initially Norman castles were simple, hastily constructed affairs. They consisted of a motte (an earthen mound) and a bailey (a flattened area surrounding the motte). The earthen mounds had steep sides rendering them difficult to attack. The bailey was often enclosed by a wooden palisade and wooden buildings were often constructed upon the motte. The castles could be quickly built and easily defended. It was this innovative military tactic that allowed the Normans to conquer and pacify the vast territories they did.  

Despite the great advantage of these castles attackers soon recognised the Achilles heel of the wooden palisades: fire. A sturdier construction was needed. Soon the wooden palisades and buildings were being replaced by stone keeps and enclosures. These new sturdier castles took more time and were more expensive, but were harder to attack. As the stone buildings grew in size they became too heavy for the handmade mottes, so they became the keeps, the last stronghold of the castle. The Tower of London, arguably the most famous example, became the first stone keep in England.  

As the use of stonewalls and keeps increased, attackers were forced to modify their tactics. Their three options were to dig under the walls, climb over the walls or break through the walls. In response castle designers adapted their designs again. Gatehouses were built to strengthen the entrances. Parapets and turrets were added to aid defence of the walls. Sometimes even moats were dug to stop attackers approaching the walls. As this arms race soldiered on, eventually a completely new design of castle emerged: concentric castles. 

Early attackers to concentric castles were likely celebratory upon penetrating the castle’s outer wall, at least initially. But undoubtedly their merriment would have been extremely short-lived. Beyond the first wall was a second, higher wall. Along its top were positioned archers raining arrows upon them. They were now stuck between the two great walls with nowhere to shelter. They were trapped in what was aptly dubbed ‘the death area’.  

As time wore on a more peaceful era emerged, negating the need for such grand fortresses. In response castles began to be built, and adapted, more for comfortable accommodation – as well as great displays of wealth. 

Until not long ago I was only familiar with the Medieval castle designs described above. But Henry VIII’s questionable marital liaisons and belligerent behaviour reignited hostilities with the great European powers of France and Spain. This created a renewed need for defence. But technological advances rendered large, flat walls easy targets and flimsy resistance against the period’s ferocious fire power. A new approach was needed. The solution was short, solid, squat, cylindrical constructions. I first encountered this alternative style when I visited the wonderful Deal Castle. I was immediately won over. Look at how unusual it appears from the air:  

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As you can see it’s made from a series of squat concentric circles. In fact, whether intentionally or not, from the air it’s shaped like a Tudor rose. Henry built around forty such forts along England’s southern coast. Many have since been destroyed. Many have been converted for accommodation or other such uses. There are around twelve, in various states of repair, open to the public. I’ve posted about some previous trips here and here. 

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One such castle, Southsea Castle, is situated in the town of Portsmouth. Across the water, on the Isle of Wight, is Yarmouth Castle. My intention of visiting these two castles was the motivation behind my Isle of Wight trip. This post, and the next, is about my visits. 

Southsea Castle was built to defend the incredibly important port of Portsmouth. It’s believed Henry himself played a role in its design. His adoption of the latest design innovations from the continent resulted in a departure from the rounded concentric forts, such as Deal. Southsea possess angled walls, increasing flanking capacity. Another defensive innovation was the manner in which the courtyard featured four walls, confusing any would-be attackers. The castle was hastily constructed in less than six months during 1544. The swiftness was owed to the ongoing threat from a French attack.  

The French attack never arrived. As is the case with many of Henry’s castles, Southsea didn’t see any action until the English Civil War broke out in 1642. It was not long after war broke out that a Parliamentarian force surrounded the castle. The Royalist commander of the castle, Captain Challoner, was too drunk to surrender and rather cheekily asked them to come back in the morning. Ignoring his inebriated request they approached from the undefended sea side and climbed over the walls in the early morning. The garrison of twelve men wisely surrendered to the four hundred besiegers with no loss of life. It was the only time the castle was captured.  

The castle served as an active military base for over 400 years. Military service ended in 1960, but easily could have done so sooner. Due to its dilapidated state, Southsea was nearly demolished in 1814. Thankfully it was instead renovated with the addition of more guns and a larger garrison. Today it’s is free to visit. I assumed this meant there wasn’t that much to see, but I was wrong. The castle is still complete and there’s plenty to see and do. I was quite surprised. I would happily have paid to visit, so it’s definitely worth visiting for free.  

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Appuldurcrombe House

This is the third post about my trip to the Isle of Wight. The first can be found here.

Regular readers may remember this post about Calke Abbey where I focused on the demise of country houses during the 20th century. While I was on the Isle of Wight I decided to take a trip to Appuldurcrombe, which is in an even more advanced state of decay.

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It may seem soppy and sentimental but I’m always saddened to see places of such former glory and grandeur reduced to hollowed-out shells. As I wandered around those empty rooms I couldn’t help but ponder how, over the course of their three centuries, they’ve witnessed every chapter of the human experience played out repeatedly. Within those walls many friendships were forged, and many loves blossomed. Raucous laughter of long forgotten jokes echoed down those hallways. The raised voices of bitter arguments did so too. Joyful singing marked the passing of untold birthdays, Christmases and New Years. Gentle, sweet-nothings were whispered into the ears of lovers in those bedrooms. Other times the lonely and broken-hearted sobbed their bitter tears. Some people’s fondest memories were formed within those walls, others their most painful. New born babies gasped their first breaths from air bounded by those walls. Others, on the final page of their life story, drew their last. Their memories of that place passing with them. All of it now long gone, lost and forgotten.

Instead, wind whistles down chimneys and out of empty fireplaces around which families once gathered for warmth. Pits within bricks betray locations of joists that once supported long departed floors upon which residents walked. What were once smooth, finely plastered surfaces are now coarse, un-cut stones bare, naked and exposed. Moss and lichen now clings to walls where priceless works of art once hung. These are walls which have stood stoically and witnessed the natural world hunker down to survive three hundred winters and welcome three hundred springs. Once much-loved. Now much-neglected. Gutted and ghostly. A vacant husk battered and bruised by wind, rain and storms. Elegantly framed windows that once guarded against the worst of the elements now freely let them pass. And with each passing gust evermore grains of those stones are carried away as they’re slowly worn down and crumble to dust.

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Appuldurcrombe originally featured 365 windows, 12 principled room, 52 rooms and 7 staircases. Such houses were known as calendar houses for the way their interiors represent the days, weeks and months of the year.

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From these now bare walls once hung one of the country’s greatest art collections, and displayed the most important collection of ancient Greek marbles in England.

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The ornamental grounds were shaped by the legendary Capability Brown in 1779.

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Some of the 18th century’s most eminent figures were entertained by lavish parties in the Great Hall.

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Use of the site can be traced back to 1100 when there was a priory situated on the land.

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Like many country houses Appuldurcrombe faced demolition in 1952, but was saved.

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The unusual name comes from the Old English ‘appuldur’ which is a place where apples grow and the Old English ‘cumb’ or Celtic ‘cwn’ for valley.

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Work began on it in 1702 and took 70 years to complete.

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It’s considered a baroque masterpiece and was once the grandest house on the island.

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A key factor in the building’s decline occurred in 1943 during the Second World War. A German Dornier bomber plane was badly hit and about to crash land. In hope of surviving the crash the crew dropped the sea mine they were carrying. The mine landed in the grounds of Appuldurcrombe. The explosion blew out the house’s windows and caused the roof to collapse. Despite their desperate attempts, the crew died on impact.

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One of its former owners was Richard Worsley. He was embroiled in an infamous scandal when a bitter court case revealed that his wife, Seymour, had 27 lovers. Worsley later died at Appuldurcrombe in 1805.

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A photo of one of the rooms when in use as a drawing room in the late 19th C when the house was a school.

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A photo of the Great Hall in use as the school dining room between 1867 and 1896.

Appuldurcrombe is currently for sale for almost £5 million, so if you’ve got some spare cash lying around…