Building Power by Catherine Hokin

I've been having a lot of conversations recently about research, not just how much writers need to do but what type. Whatever the downsides of the web with its never-ending news feeds and all-too distracting social media, we are incredibly lucky to live in a time of such easy access to information. Like most of us I spent a lot of time buried in books but I can also be regularly found lost in articles and images on the internet and I'm beginning to think I couldn't survive without Pinterest. When you can, however, there's no substitute for getting out into the places you write about and letting your senses do the thinking. To this end I've spent a fair bit of time lately wandering the corridors of power, past and present, and one of my biggest takeaways? I really am rather small or, to put it another way, the architects of power did their job very well.

 Westminster Hall's Hammer Beam Roof Commissioned 1393

Architecture is used by political leaders to seduce, to impress and to intimidate. (The Edifice Complex, Deyan Sudjic).

Nowhere is this more apparent than in Westminster Hall, the starting point for my recent let's-get-away-from-the-desk meanderings. As most people are aware, very little of the medieval palace survives, most of the complex having been destroyed in the 1834 fire. Remarkably, however, given the fires, floods, bombs and death-watch beetles which had other ideas, the hammer beam roof commissioned by Richard II in 1393 remains intact. The hall itself was begun in 1097 but it was Richard who had the Norman pillars removed and the wooden arch (the largest medieval timber roof in Northern Europe) installed. It spans 60 feet and was incredibly dangerous to construct as the great beams, which together weigh over 600 tons, had to be hoisted to a height of over 90 feet. Crane up and you can see the carved angels and tracery work that was started but not finished and crane up again and there is Richard's white hart badge still edging the walls. It is a vast space, still filled with scuttling people clutching papers and quite a contrast to the labyrinth of corridors and tiny chambers that make up the back stage of the Palace - I was lucky enough to get that tour too - although that also retains a medieval feel, all shadowy corners and plots.

 Medieval shield painted onto the nave wall

I did even more craning up when I crossed the road to Westminster Abbey where you need an eagle eye to spot the fragments of medieval paintings and shields hidden among the main church's monuments. As you come in, and along the nave, there are a series of carved sheilds of arms, dating from 1245 and 1272 and commemorating the church's aristocratic benefactors, including Fulk Fitzwarren, William Ferrars, Earl of Derby, Roger de Mowbray and Hugo de Vere, Earl of Oxford. The shields are easy to miss among the huge marble sculptures now filling the walls and there is nothing on the audio tour about them but the guides are a happy fount of knowledge. As you continue round the Abbey, the medieval touches become easier to spot, culminating in the series of paintings of the Apocalypse in the Chapter House which date from 1375-1404 with a wonderful set of lower friezes from about a century later filled with amazing birds and animals. And you go past England's oldest door, from 1050, to get to it - it's like being given a never-ending box of chocolates.

 Richard 11

The Abbey is, of course, best known as the burial place of England's monarchs and the number, and beauty, of the tombs is quite overwhelming. For me, however, the most fascinating of the Abbey's monuments comes at the end - presented almost as an after-thought The huge portrait of Richard II is contemporary, commissioned by the King, and was painted in the 1390s by Andre Beauneveu. Restored and reframed in the nineteenth century, its vivid greens, crimsons and golds look freshly done and even the loss of some of the gilt work does not detract from the power it is meant to evoke. And power is what this painting is all about. Richard was devoted to Westminster Abbey and to St Edward the Confessor and he rebuilt the northern entrance and some bays of the nave but this painting was not simply an addition to the Abbey's riches - it was a reminder to an unruly London where power really lay. Like the Palace of Westminster, it is impossible not to feel tiny when you enter the Abbey and overawed. Add to that the hidden nature of much of the church's ceremonies during this period, performed behind the rood screen, and your insignificance grows. Standing next to the painting under the soaring ceiling and imagining it on display at the far end of the nave with Richard seated below it on an elevated throne, demanding his new title of Majesty, says everything you need to know about power and tyranny. It is impossible not to shiver.

 Citta Sul Mare, Sassetta

So Scotland to London and back home again and another group of buildings pointing to the heavens and shouting look up and fear me. Fourteenth century Tuscany was riven with politically charged violence and raids as city states, and their competing families, fought to control each other. One of the impacts of this can be seen in the ruined towers which still dot the landscape. These were used as homes and warehouses and were a very visible stamp of authority - the higher the tower, the more powerful the family. Built either from white albarese stone or reddish brick, they had crenellated tops, small Romanesque windows, narrow porticoes and - when a family built a number close together as they often did - holes to support movable connecting bridges. Stretching up to 180 feet, each floor had one room and floors were reached by winding stairs set into the walls or ladders. At the height of the building craze (pun intended), there were over 200 in Florence and Lucca and perhaps as many as 100 in Siena (the inspiration behind the contemporary Sassetta painting) and San Gimignano where the most preserved examples remain. And the sizes changed - as towers were seized they could be reduced or heightened depending on the message the new owner wished to transmit, a moving picture which puts me rather in mind of the opening of Game of Thrones.

 Tower of Hallbar & Me

The WIP will get me to Tuscany but, in the meantime, we have our own version of the Tuscan towers in Scotland, one of which, the Tower of Hallbar, is on my doorstep. Built between the fourteenth and sixteenth century, these tower house castles have some differences (including more elaboration) but largely follow the Tuscan pattern. Hallbar (which is privately owned and can now be rented) is 5 storeys high, has walls up to 1.6m thick and is very narrow. Each level originally had a single room, with a winding stair, built into the walls, wrapping around and linking the floors. At the basement level was a low-vaulted cellar. If you've any doubts about the scale of these things, that's me feeling very dwarfed by the door.

Nowadays we often associated high rises with the damage caused to working class communities or the horror of Grenfell. The new builds dominating our skylines, however, are increasingly once more becoming the preserve of the wealthy - we are again looking up at temples to power and greed but perhaps our shivering needs a different aspect. London's 95 storey Shard, owned by the Qatari royal family and the city's tallest building at 390.7m, currently has 10 of its multiple million pound apartments lying empty and is the target of protesters infuriated by such wasted space in a country in the grip of a housing crisis. The spectre of ghost towers - high rise homes built for the wealthy but standing empty - is becoming a real issue in the capital. The Observer newspaper recently revealed that builders are currently constructing towers in London containing 7,749 homes priced between £1m and £10m, and have planning rights to build another 18,712 high-end apartments and townhouses, despite concern over the number already standing half-empty and the lack of affordable housing. In 2016-2017 only 6,432 affordable homes were built.

When we look up now at the works of the mighty, it really is hard not to despair.

Westminster Oddities by Laurie Graham

I recently took a tour around  Leinster House, the Dublin home of Ireland’s Parliament. It seemed to have many features that echoed its historic links with the Palace of Westminster but none of Westminster’s idiosyncrasies. Then I discovered that since 1998, when modernisation fever struck, even Westminster has been purged of much of its quirkiness.  But not entirely.

First the casualties.  The opera hats have gone.  Before 1998 if a Member of Parliament wished to raise a point of order during a division he had to do so ‘seated and covered’.  At all other times an MP must stand to speak. That’s why, if you watch a televised debate, they’re up and down like meerkats with haemorrhoids trying to catch the Speaker’s eye. ‘Covered’ meant wearing a hat, and for that purpose two collapsible top hats were kept in the Commons’ chamber, to be passed hastily along the benches to whichever MP required ‘covering’ before he could raise a point of order.

I’ve searched in vain for a photograph. I wonder what happened to those redundant opera hats. I did enquire at the Commons' Information Office but they didn’t get back to me. I guess it wasn’t the most urgent enquiry of the week.

Eating is now prohibited in the Chamber though this wasn't always the case.  In the 18^th century MPs would crack nuts and suck oranges and leave the debris behind them, much appreciated by the resident vermin (of which, more anon). Nowadays the problem must be getting MPs to turn their phones and pagers to Vibrate.

‘I spy Strangers’ has been hollered for the last time. The public gallery is now rarely closed. And what used to be the Strangers’ Cafeteria is now called The Terrace Café, which sounds much more appealing. Espresso macchiato instead of tea and buns? The Strangers’ Bar lives on, and the Strangers' Dining Room, and why not? Parliament can do its business efficiently without rearranging all the furniture.

 And there are some gratifying (to me) survivors of a bygone age.  On the eve of the State Opening of Parliament a group of Yeoman Guards still searches the cellars for barrels of gunpowder. Here they are, advancing with cat-like tread and storm lanterns.  

An MP’s coat hanger still has a loop of pink ribbon from which he can suspend his sword before entering the Chamber. It is sometimes alleged that the expression ‘toe the line’ originated in the Commons, referring to the lines  -  two precautionary sword lengths apart  - which MP must not cross no matter how heated the debate. In fact swords were never worn in the Chamber even in the days when no gentleman would leave home without one, so the derivation is bogus.

So no swords, not now, not ever, and there is still a non-negotiable proscription against wearing armour. Just so you know.

 Smoking in the Commons’ Chamber has been prohibited since the 17^th century but not the taking of snuff.  In fact snuff is still freely available to MPs. It was traditionally English Rose mixture, available from a box kept by the Doorkeeper and paid for out of petty cash. 

The last MP known to have been a regular user was the late Sir Nicholas Fairbairn. Given what we now know about him free snuff was possibly the least of his vices.

When the House rises, often at an ungodly hour, the Doorkeeper still calls, ‘Who goes home?’ though it apparently sounds more like ‘Hooooome?’  This is a revealing relic. It dates from a time when Westminster was a dangerous place, the haunt of cut-throats and footpads. It was safer for MPs to leave the building in groups, and for those who lived on the Surrey side of the river, there was also the possibility of splitting the cost of a ferryman. Rather like sharing a taxi today.

Finally, no account of the oddities of Parliament would be complete without mentioning its non-human members. The story that Charles II obtained an exemption from the general ban on dogs so his beloved spaniels could accompany him to Parliament is apocryphal. Blind MP David Blunkett’s succession of guide dogs have had the place to themselves.   

The Palace of Westminster used to have a falconer on the payroll but that work is now put out to tender. A self-employed falconer brings in his Harris hawk on an As Required basis. His mission: to encourage the pestilential pigeons to... relocate.

Vermin  -  no jokes, please  -  have always been a problem in the Palace of Westminster, as in any old, riverside building. The Parliamentary Estates Directorate keeps a monthly record of Mouse Sightings. Moth Sightings are also recorded. Somewhat surprisingly there is no register of Rat Sightings. Perhaps the humans aren’t expected to distinguish a small rat from a big mouse. You’d think they’d employ a cat but whenever the matter has been raised  -  ‘given full and proper consideration’ is the actual phrase, it has been rejected on the grounds of  ‘clear practical and technical difficulties’.  Perhaps the cat food bill would have implications for the snuff budget.