Derbyshire Antiques – Dinky Toy Aircraft
Last month I penned a few lines about the enduring and collectible die cast model motor vehicles produced by Meccano Limited under the Dinky imprimatur. This I threatened to follow up with an article about the die cast model aircraft the firm also made from the 1930s. I was given my first example as a Christmas present from an aunt – of which in those days I had Bertie Woosterish quantities – in the shape of a model 73c Vickers Viking, a rather portly looking twin engined medium airliner. I had just been taken to see (and had been enthralled by) a film called The Night my Number Came up, about an aircraft or similar size, (actually a Douglas DC3) getting lost and crashing onto a Himalayan mountain valley, so the dear old Viking had to go through a good few re-enactments with its nine year old owner. The other attraction, as I got older, was that before the war, Dinky produced models of types that were virtually extinct, even in the 1950s, and which I deemed much more worthy of acquisition than a modern (then!) boxed 734 Supermarine Swift (about £20/25 with box) or 70a Avro York (about £15-20 unboxed). My interest was quickened when, in 1954 we moved to a house not so very far from Croydon airport, then used exclusively for club flying and where numerous pre-war types could be spotted pottering across the sky from our garden. My first pre-war acquisition was a nice blue 62k Airspeed Envoy – modelled on the King’s personal transport (about £350 retail in box, but £40-50 unboxed and played with, like mine), and things continued, via pocket money and visits to junk shops, until I was sent away to school at ten and finally nose-dived (if you will forgive the pun) when I transferred schools at thirteen. My most prized possession was a Dinky model 63a/b Mayo Composite – essentially an Empire flying boat called Maia which carried a small mail carrying floatplane called Mercury on its back, and which in real life took off from its host when the latter had to stop for re-fuelling. Being long deleted by Dinky, I found the bottom part second hand but had to wait eighteen months before a rather strange general store in Tain, in the far North of Scotland (where we were staying with friends), astoundingly happened to have Mercury, new, and left unbought on an obscure shelf for twenty years! I have no idea how it became parted from its other half, as both came together in a blue box. The whole thing boxed would set you back £350-450 today, and even without box, like mine, £80-120. Yet one autumn day a year or so later I couldn’t find it, and hunted high and low for this prized possession, including every inch of our fairly large garden; my mother thought I’d developed an unhealthy interest in horticulture! Some years later it emerged that mama, who each year sent toys to the local orphanage, had found it in an unlikely place, assumed whilst I was away at school, that I had tired of it, and consigned it to the orphans. One I particularly loved was the DH 91 Albatross, a pre-war wooden four-engined airliner of great beauty which I had never seen in the flesh (none survived the war) and managed to acquire in blue, along with a DH88 Comet racer in silver. The series began in 1934 and ran through the war to some extent, some of the military types being dubbed ‘two seat fighter’ and ‘heavy bomber’ to confuse enemy spies. A Messerschmitt 110, masquerading as ‘twin engine fighter’ with props missing went through a general sale at Bamfords for £10 recently. My model 62a Spitfire was boxed and sold specially to raise money for the wartime Spitfire fund – not to be confused with a much more authentic looking Spitfire which was issued as a revival in the later 1970s. By the time I got mine (having been born a little too late) there was no box – not that I’d have kept it! The last models were issued around 1973 with no. 731, a Jaguar fighter with – unheard of in a Dinky – a retractable undercarriage (mint in box about £40). The most expensive examples which I have come across include an Avro Vulcan estimated at £500-700 and a pre-war model 60e Dewoitine D.500 open cockpit fighter (one of the range only sold in France) good condition but no box, a snip at £600. Coming closer to our times, even a 1960s Sud Caravelle in Air France livery is likely to set you back £120. Buying in auction would be the best bet for anyone intending to collect these miniature masterpieces in decent condition. For instance, a second issue Dinky 60 set of six was sold for £800 against an estimate of £1,000 to 1,300, for which you got, in pristine condition, a 60a Armstrong Whitworth Argosy (coyly called ‘Imperial Airways airliner’), 60b DH 85 Leopard Moth, 60c Percival Gull, 60d ‘Low wing Monoplane’ (a Boeing P-26?), 60e General Aircraft Monospar and 60f Cierva C.30 autogiro – all rare and early examples, and no metal fatigue, no knocks, about £130 per plane, which is actually not bad for any of these. Likewise, a box of mixed period (including ‘revival’ (post 1973) ones, all well played with, sold at Bamfords recently for £22. Indeed, Spitfires and Hurricanes in silver rather than camouflage and small post war fighters like Gloster Meteor IIIs and P-33 Shooting Stars (which lacked the fragile red tin propellors of the former pair) can be had almost for pence if you look around. And the attraction is that you get some completely forgotten aircraft types, like the Bristol 173 twin rotor helicopter of 1952 (£30-40), which never really got into serious production, perhaps because on its initial flight on 3 January 1952, it was found it tended to fly backwards! After 1973 the
Travelling Through History – Where Our Forebears Trod
One lesson archaeology has given us is that people have always moved around much more than we realise. Tales of ancient sages in deep rural England who had hardly ever been to the local market town and never to London were commonplace when I was young, but the astonishingly wide distribution of certain diagnostic types of artefact confirm that such static lives were by no means universal. The proof also lies in the antiquity of our road network, for whilst some roads have long fallen into desuetude and become green lanes, hedgerows or crop marks, many ancient trackways are still in use. When I first worked at Derby Museum I was always struck by the lack of a Roman road going due south from Derby’s Roman predecessor, Derventio (now Little Chester). There was Ryknield Street going from, NE to SW via Little Chester, Long Lane running due west, and a road running SE across Derby’s former racecourse towards Sawley and across the Trent to join the Fosse Way at Vernemetum (Willoughby-on-the-Wolds, Leicestershire). But what if you wanted to go to London? It seemed to me absurd to go either via Letocetum (Lichfield) or Willoughby-on-the-Wolds. Looking through the finds records at the Museum (then held on index cards) during research we were doing jointly with the (now long defunct) County Museum Service on Swarkestone Bridge, it became apparent that this so-called Medieval causeway and 18th century bridge went back a lot further. Numerous finds of dropped low-value Roman coins had been noted along its course, for instance, along with Iron Age artefacts northwards along the road to Derby. Clearly the crossing at Swarkestrone had a much longer pedigree. I risked publishing this idea in 1988, and notice it has entered archaeological orthodoxy now, thanks to a recent report of the archaeology of Derby’s western inner suburbs. What we have is an Iron Age trackway which long pre-dated Derby to allow the inhabitants of the tribal area of the Corieltauvi (whose Roman period capital was Ratae (Leicester) to reach the Trent and follow the Derwent Valley north in the territory of the Brigantes. Iron Age it may have been, but artisans such as smiths and potters had to move around between groups to ply their trades. When the Romans came, they simply took the route over, probably made improvements and used it to connect Derventio to Ratae and thence the south and Londinium. The crossing at Swarkestone would have been on a substantial bed of brushwood and withies, just like the tracks of the same vintage exposed on the Somerset Levels in the 1980s, with a ford over the wide part of the Trent, then positioned further south than today. There after the road probably ran as today, east then north to Chellaston, avoiding the Bronze Age burial site at Swarkestone Lowes, which would probably have been recognised as sacred even in the Iron Age. This Iron Age or prehistoric trackway then entered Derby along the line of the Osmaston Road and ran right through the site of the present city long before anyone lived on its site, for the present city was only founded in around 921 as a Saxon burh or defended settlement, the only previous habitation being the seventh century minster church of St. Alkmund and the small enclave surrounding it. If one climbs the 172 feet of the cathedral tower, and looks south one can see this ancient trackway quite clearly from the end of Queen Street to well beyond The Spot; it really is most impressive seen like that. On the ground, one follows it down Osmaston Road (which has had some Victorian kinks put in along its course further out to accommodate a private estate and railway installations) to The Spot, where London Road, only instituted as a turnpike in the early 18th century, joins. Previous to its creation one reached London via Swarkestone Bridge as indeed Bonnie Prince Charlie planned to do in December 1745. From The Spot (an 18th century name) one descends St. Peter’s Street on the alignment, which originally must have crossed the Markeaton Brook on a ford at the bottom, then along Corn Market (widened in the early Middle Ages to make room for the marketing of grains), up Rotten Row, the west edge of what later (c. 1100) became the Market Place, up Iron Gate and along Queen Street (part of King Street, renamed after 1760), King Street, Darley Lane and thence along Darley Grove. Its course across Darley Park (landscaped by William Emes 1777-78) shows up as a ridge or agger, beyond which it leaves the northern edge of Derby to follow the Derwent Valley. How much of it can be traced thence to the Peak is not really researched, but I am sure it will be done in time. This route, being pre-Roman in origin, lacks the straightness of a course worked out by a Roman agrimensor (surveyor), but it does have directness, although even that was affected by later developments. When the minster church of St. Alkmund with its six canons was established, some time after the evangelisation of the Kingdom of Mercia which commenced after 655, the church and the canons’ houses and workshops which served it were placed on the line of the old trackway, which was without doubt in use then, for it was kinked around the tiny enclave to the west before regaining the old alignment and continuing northwards. The section from Darley Lane fell out of use in the 1750s when the road to Manchester was a turnpike, and the modern Duffield Road was pitched as a result, hence Robert Holden was able to empark the land to the south of his seat at Darley Hall with impunity once the mood took him a couple of decades later. Next time you wander down St. Peter’s Street, wondering at the sheer awfulness of Intu, or looking for post-Christmas bargains, remember that you are walking along a road that began life as a
Celebrity Interview – John Lyons
For more than 17 years he was Sir David Jason’s moustachioed sidekick on the immensely popular television series A Touch Of Frost. It proved to be a double-edged sword for John Lyons – he is often recognised as Detective Sergeant George Toolan and it has limited his subsequent TV appearances. But the small screen’s loss is the East Midlands’ gain. In the past two years John has appeared in three plays which have been seen here and he is currently rehearsing a farce to be performed in Chesterfield which will show another side to this indisputably talented actor. He took the lead role in Father Brown – The Curse Of The Invisible Man, an adaptation of two G K Chesterton mysteries by John Goodrum of Derbyshire-based Rumpus Theatre Company, before John’s wife Karen Henson of Tabs productions snapped up John Lyons to play two roles: Inspector Hubbard in Frederick Knott’s Dial M For Murder and the judge in Marie Lloyd And The Music Hall Murder, both in the 2017 Classic Thriller Season in Nottingham. The two Johns, Lyons and Goodrum, met when John Lyons was appearing in The Mousetrap in the West End. The distinguished actor has appeared in Agatha Christie’s legendary play on three separate occasions, clocking up no fewer than 1,200 performances as Major Metcalfe. John Goodrum had written a play called The Ripper Files about Jack the Ripper which was going on tour. He thought the other John would be ideal to play the inspector, so he left a script at the stage door. John Lyons read the play and liked it: “It had a very good twist at the end which I didn’t see coming. I said to John I’d like to do it, so we met and chatted about it. I started to learn the script but then, as happens all the time in this business, an offer came along of another job and John very kindly let me out of The Ripper Files.” Two-and-a-half years later John Goodrum called the other John again and asked if he would be interested in playing Father Brown. The character was popular at the time on BBC Television. John Lyons agreed because he felt he owed the other John a favour. “That was a slight mistake because at that time the play hadn’t been written and I didn’t know how big the part was. So when I got the script for Father Brown it was 69 pages long and my character was on 65 of them! “Anyway, I thought I couldn’t let him down twice so I’d better try to learn it. It took me four months but I got it in the end and I enjoyed it tremendously.” John Lyons says he looks forward to working with both John Goodrum and Karen Henson. “They’re very easy to get on with. There are no great histrionics or shouting or screaming. It’s almost like a family business. They enjoy what they’re doing and it passes over to you. “When we do tours and they give me parts that are very taxing with a lot of dialogue, they work it out so that we never do a full week. We do about four days and then I get three days off to get my breath back.” John Lyons who is still working hard at the age of 74 will take the role of Granddad in Ray Cooney’s Caught In The Net which opens later this month at the Pomegranate Theatre, Chesterfield before touring. He should be refreshed after having a break over Christmas instead of appearing in pantomime as he has done for a number of years. He was offered the role of Captain Hook in Peter Pan but turned it down. “I did it ten years ago which was okay. But I think Captain Hook is physically a little too much for me – the fencing that he has to do with Peter Pan and the running around. “Panto is hard work but fun. I hope if I keep my health, strength and faculties together there’s probably another one or two pantos left in me.” John Lyons was born on 14 September 1943 in Whitechapel. He is a true Cockney, born within earshot of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow Church, Cheapside – but they were not chiming on the night he was born because the Luftwaffe were dropping bombs on the capital. When he was 17 he played Sunday morning football along with thousands of others on Hackney Marshes – one of the largest areas of common land in London. In the same team was a journalist who asked John if he had thought about becoming an actor. The journalist told John about a new drama school, East 15, which was just about to open. John rang up, got an audition and to his great surprise as he had never been on stage he was accepted. “At the beginning I thought ‘this is rubbish – I don’t want to be an actor’. But at the end of the three-year course I enjoyed it so much I thought I could be quite good at it and make a career of it.” John left drama school on a Friday and three days later he started filming Catch Hand, a BBC drama series about the adventures of two building workers, which also featured Anthony Booth – later to star in Till Death Us Do Part. John has worked almost constantly since then, appearing in four West End musicals; about 500 television appearances including Play For Today, Upstairs Downstairs, The Sweeney, Minder, On The Buses and Man About The House; 50 TV commercials; and numerous theatrical productions. “I wanted to have a long career playing lots of different parts. And I’m glad to say it’s worked out that way because I’ve near enough covered almost everything you can do. The only thing I haven’t really conquered is radio and voiceovers.” That seems ironic after John had one-to-one tuition every morning when he
Derbyshire Walk – An Alpine-style walk around Matlock Bath
On a sunny weekend today’s Matlock Bath is popular with middle-aged motorcyclists whose expensive mounts line the riverside frontage. They are just the modern manifestation of the visitors who come to enjoy the local scenery. As far back as the Georgian era, people have come to admire the unique setting of this small village: at first it was only visited by those who could afford the expense of horse-drawn transport, but when the railway came, and with it cheaper transport, it opened up the place for those with lighter purses. Since then the coming of the motor car has spread the net and people flock from all over the north Midlands for a day out in this mini-holiday resort. Early visitors likened Matlock Bath to an alpine resort, and that cannot be far from the truth. Romantic poet Lord Byron described Matlock Bath as; ‘There are places in Derbyshire rivalling Switzerland and Greece’. A bit far fetched, but with the vertical limestone crag of High Tor and its continuing ridge opposite the main part of the village, the aspect is not far removed from some alpine village – admittedly not quite as high, but nevertheless the looks are there. The ambience is continued with the cable car up to the Heights of Abraham and its terraced woodland walks. There’s even a tiny chapel, St John’s, about half way between Matlock and Matlock Bath that could easily be mistaken for a miniature Alpine Schloss. Probably the closest to a truly alpine footpath is the path along what is known as ‘Giddy Edge’. This path, complete with a metal handrail crosses the upper face of High Tor and can truly be compared – again, in a small way, to Via Ferrate the iron ladders that criss-cross the Dolomites and other limestone mountains of the Alps. This walk uses many of the high-level and riverside paths that wander high and low around the village. Starting at Matlock Bath railway station the walk climbs up the side of High Tor into the outskirts of Snitterton. This linear satellite village follows what was once the only road south from Matlock until the line of the A6 was developed. Entering woodland, the path climbs to the summit of High Tor, where the exciting prospect of the Giddy Edge path begins its descent back into Matlock Bath. Here if you want, a truly alpine extension to the walk can be made by taking the cable car to the top of the Heights of Abraham and enjoy its woodland walks. (Visit www.heightsofabraham.com for opening times) Continuing towards the riverside section of the walk, a footpath leaving the car park climbs to the ridge-top continuation of High Tor, before dropping down to the river by a series of well-laid steps. A left turn at the river will follow the wooded path called ‘Lovers’ Walk’ until it reaches a modern footbridge. Over this are the Riverside Gardens and beyond is the Pavilion, the restored replica of an alpine Kursall, or spa. The fascinating Peak District Lead Mining Museum is here together with a friendly café dispensing home-made food. There are many alternatives for refreshments along the roadside, ranging from fish and chips to several excellent restaurants and pubs. A WORD OF CAUTION While the Giddy Edge section of the walk has a well-placed handrail, it should be approached with great care and certainly not in wet or icy conditions. For anyone not wishing to use the Giddy Edge path, there is an alternative route bearing left at the start of the edge path which crosses the highest point of High Tor. Children and dogs must be under close scrutiny at all times. The Walk Take the side road parallel to both the river and railway line, away from the car park. Turn right and go under the railway, uphill towards the entrance to the bottom station of the Heights of Abraham cable car. Do not bear left to the cable car entrance, but continue ahead and through a squeezer stile next to a metal gate. Climb the roughly surfaced track until it reaches an unmade road lined with houses. Turn left on this road and go through a gate opening on to a surfaced track leading into woodland. The track climbs steadily, bearing right in its upper reaches. Where the track on leaving the trees bears left, continue ahead until it peters out. (The track going left is heading for a radio mast). The woodland is part of the High Tor Recreation Grounds. There are several roofless old mines around the summit, often bearing fanciful names such as ‘Fern Cave’ or ‘Roman Cave’, but none are quite so ancient. It was once possible to enter the mines for self-exploration, but an over-cautious council has closed them off on Health and Safety grounds. There was once a café on the summit of High Tor, but it mysteriously burned down within a few days of its closure. Swing round to the left away from the mast compound and make for the summit of High Tor to admire the view. N.B. There is no barrier at the summit, so keep well away from the edge – there is a 190 foot drop straight down the tor face. Bear left away from the summit rocks and follow the signpost towards Giddy Edge, making use of the iron handrails as necessary. N.B. If it’s icy, raining or if you do not have a head for heights, bear left away from the start of the Giddy Edge path and go over the highest point of High Tor. This path joins the Giddy Edge path on the far side of the summit. Continue on the edge path, using a well-placed seat for a rest along the way. At the far end, join a rough path zig-zagging steeply downhill through mature woodland. Go to the left and then right around the perimeter fence of the cable car. Go under the railway bridge and turn left on to
Lost Houses of Derbyshire – Oak Hurst, Alderwasley
As one travels north on the A6 one of the less uplifting sights in an area of stunning beauty is the wire works, covering the valley floor not many hundreds of yards south of the bridge by the former Derwent Inn, now a tea-room. Should you be caught in slow traffic – fairly likely at any time of the year – and should it also be this time of the year, when the leaves are coming off the trees apace, you might well catch a glimpse of a large, clearly ruinous house on the far side of the works, embowered in trees. This is Oak Hurst, a house of considerable merit, despite its relentless faux timbering, pointy-roofed corner bartizan and tricksy, late Victorian fenestration. As one travels north on the A6 one of the less uplifting sights in an area of stunning beauty is the wire works, covering the valley floor not many hundreds of yards south of the bridge by the former Derwent Inn, now a tea-room. Should you be caught in slow traffic – fairly likely at any time of the year – and should it also be this time of the year, when the leaves are coming off the trees apace, you might well catch a glimpse of a large, clearly ruinous house on the far side of the works, embowered in trees. This is Oak Hurst, a house of considerable merit, despite its relentless faux timbering, pointy-roofed corner bartizan and tricksy, late Victorian fenestration. The site was originally part of the Hurt family’s Alderwasley Hall estate – indeed, that fine house, now a special school, but erected in 1790, is perched on the hill top not very far away. In the 1760s, the family, ever enterprising, started an iron works in the valley bottom; certainly it was up and running by 1775 when Joseph Pickford ordered iron grates for some of the fireplaces at Kedleston Hall and balusters for Robert Adam’s bridge over the lake when he was clerk of works there. One thing that marked Francis out in this enterprise was that he, as a major landowner, was making a considerable investment in the iron industry at a time when most gentry families were content to lease works on their estates to professional ironmasters at a fixed rent. Hurt, on the other hand, was acting as entrepreneur and, as with his family’s lead mining enterprises, taking the profit. The original Ambergate forge did not survive beyond 1794 before being completely rebuilt, but vestiges of the original blast furnace, set up on the earlier site, were visible amidst the sprawl of Johnson’s wire works at Ambergate until they were destroyed in 1964. A substantial stone house was also built for the forge manager, Forge House, across the river in Alderwasley parish at the foot of Shining Cliff woods, but alongside the works, probably designed by George Rawlinson of Matlock Bath, a friend of Pickford’s and who seems to have worked extensively for both Sir Richard Arkwright and the Hurts. It was lived in by Francis Hurt’s manager, Matthew Bacon for some years. In 1848 the works were leased to John and Charles Mould, Forge House included and one of the brothers took up residence. The upwardly mobile Moulds re-named it Oak Hurst and lived in it until 1865, when they became bankrupt, new technology by that time having made their haphazardly up-dated first generation ironworks obsolete. For over twenty years the house reverted to being let, mainly to the Hurts, as a residence for their estate manager, and the works appear to have remained in the doldrums. In around 1880, however, the Midland Railway purchased it (or possibly did so slightly earlier) and in that year extended it, giving it a sturdy Neo-Jacobean cloak. The architect was their “in-house” man, Charles Trubshaw, a talented member of a long established Staffordshire dynasty of builders and architects. His Railway Institute in Derby has outlasted his Station façade by 20 years. It thereupon became the residence of Richard Bird, the superintendent engineer of the railway. However, on his leaving the post, it was in 1887 let (and soon afterwards sold) to John Thewlis Johnson, (1836-1896) a Mancunian who had already bought the old forge site from the Hurts and turned it into a wire works. Johnson, grandson of John Johnson of Pendleton, was the ‘nephew’ in the well-known firm of Johnson & Nephew, started by his uncle Richard Johnson (1809-1881), and of which the Ambergate works was a subsidiary. He lived at Broughton House, Manchester, dominating the Manchester Chamber of Trade for many years and serving as its president in 1892. He was also a director of Nettlefolds, the Birmingham foundry. His father Thomas Fildes Johnson of Pendleton had been a successful cotton spinner. In 1888 Johnson completely rebuilt Oak Hurst and considerably extended it so that he could dwell cheek by jowl with his latest enterprise. A new full height canted entrance boasted a tablet above with his initials and the date. It is not clear who the architect was but John Douglas of Chester has been plausibly suggested, who also built Brocksford Hall near Doveridge at about this time for a fellow industrialist. The house had a thorough Arts-and-Crafts makeover, and the interior fitted up very sumptuously with panelling and all the latest contrivances, including electric light and modern central heating. Furthermore, it was lit by electricity throughout, then something of a novelty. He also landscaped the grounds. By two wives – Aurelia and Anne Higgins, cousins to each other – he had five sons, of whom two lived in Derbyshire, the fourth, James, being at one time tenant of Foston Hall. The eldest, Herbert Alfred (1866-1923), who succeeded his father when he died aged only 59 in 1896, had a glamorous American wife who could not stomach living cheek-by-jowl with a wire works, and they moved, taking a lease of Farnah Hall from Lord Curzon and later were the last private owners of Allestree Hall.
Lost Houses of Derbyshire – The Devonshire Hospital
Someone mentioned to me the other day that there were many other lost houses of historic and architectural importance apart from country mansions and town gentry houses and why didn’t I write about something just slightly different every now and again? Well, often the problem is that a paucity of images prevents one from doing so, but the other day I was going through a folio of drawings and came across a re-constructed elevation of the Devonshire Hospital in Full Street, beautifully drawn by the later Edward Saunders. It occurred to me that here was a building designed and built to the highest standards to house a specific group of people which richly deserved to be chronicled. The story goes back to Bess of Hardwick (which Derbyshire stories often do). This much married woman rose from minor gentry to Countess in a progression of four glittering marriages, and she ended up allied to royalty, fabulously wealthy and a formidable operator all round. She was a patron of the arts amongst other things and a keen builder, commemorating her projects on her epitaph in Derby Cathedral. Her buildings – mainly paid for by her second husband, Sir William Cavendish and her fourth, George Talbot, 5th Earl of Shrewsbury – included Chatsworth, Worksop Manor, Oldcotes, Hardwick Old and New Halls, just to name the most prominent projects. Most were built under the guidance of the Tudor builder/architect Robert Smythson, and thereby gained immortality if only through his ability to build spectacularly and innovatively. On 5th October 1599 Bess, by then Countess of Shrewsbury, decided to found a charity in Derby, the Shrewsbury Hospital, to house eight poor men and four poor women, to be endowed with a rent-charge of £100 per annum (pretty generous in 1599) raised out of the tenants’ receipt from Little Longstone, in the Peak. The lucky dozen were to be chosen from the parishes of All Saints’, St. Michael and St. Peter, and had to be ‘the most aged poor or needy persons within the said town of Derby, being of good and honest conversation, and not infected with any contagious disorder.’ They also had, once it had come into being, to cleanse, dust and sweep over’ the large and ornate monument, designed by Smythson, to be erected to their benefactress on her death (which occurred in 1680), and that they attend (if not bedridden) divine service in the church daily. They were also to receive £1 – 13s – 4d [£1.67p] each every quarter with £1 expenses to buy a gown in the livery of the Cavendish family with a silver heraldic badge of Bess’s arms, a ‘bedstead, bolster, two pairs of sheets, two coffers, two tables, a cupboard, two stools, four peter dishes, iron tongs, fire shovel, etc.’ They had to keep off the booze and not have strangers to stay either. They also had Richard Haywood, the resident warden, and his wife on site, too. The building was put up immediately behind the chancel of All Saints’ and consisted of a two-storey range parallel to the street in stone, of nine bays, the central entrance being ensigned by a large carved armorial panel and giving access to a courtyard behind. There were two doors alternating with two ground floor three-light stone mullioned windows either side of the centre, with two-light windows above, providing the accommodation of the four old women and the warden. Flanking the courtyard were two ranges at right angles to the front one, each of four units in matching style, the roofs being pitched and tiled. Each person had a parlour, a kitchen and a bedroom above. Gardens led down to the Derwent. This agreeable building, the maintenance income of which was topped up by William Cavendish, Bess’s eldest son (later 1st Earl of Devonshire), by rents from Edensor, sufficed for the twelve pensioners, until the time of William, 5th Duke of Devonshire, who succeeded in 1764. He was somewhat infected by the same desire to build as his ancestrix, Bess, and was, by the time of his death in 1811, responsible for many improvements at Buxton (including the Crescent, currently being restored), Chatsworth and many other family properties, probably as a distraction from the gloriously wayward Georgiana. He was especially keen to improve the Chatsworth estate, and at first hired James Paine to replace the stables there with the present epic construction, along with the unfinished Palladian mill in the park. When Paine moved on to other projects, he hired Paine’s acquaintance John Carr to undertake work at Buxton, and Derby’s Joseph Pickford to continue at Chatsworth. Pickford’s greatest tour-de-force at Chatsworth was the Edensor Inn, a brick building of outstanding subtlety, the Edensor rectory (later destroyed when the village moved), the North Lodge, Ashford Hall for the agent, and three eighths of a vast but unfinished octagonal stable block, also in Edensor, opposite the Inn. Hence it fell to Pickford to come up with a design to replace Bess’s rather poky almshouses with something altogether rather more up-to-date, re-named the Devonshire Hospital. Pickford, whose style tended to be pitched to accord with his clients’ requirements, was Neo-Classical when employed by a Tory (as at Kedleston) and Palladian, the favoured style of the Whigs, led locally by the Duke, when employed by the governing Tories’ political opponents. Hence the new almshouses, also in stone, were firmly in the Palladian revival style: ancient Roman elements disposed according to the published precepts of the Italian architect Andrea Palladio, ironically a rather older contemporary of Bess of Hardwick. This time, instead of having the inmates living on the road frontage, they were housed rather comfortably in two wings parallel to the road, and a range connecting them nearer the river with an arch through to the gardens which went down to it, all shielded by a very grand screen facing the road with a central entrance wide enough for vehicles and a pair of pedestrian entrances. The end bays consisted of interpenetrated
Lost Houses of Derbyshire – Thornhill, Kingsway, Derby
This impressive Regency villa was built on an elevated site in the district of California, Derby, looking south but with an easterly vista across The Rowditch towards the town, but one later spoilt by the erection of two brickworks on the west side of the brook. It is one of three such houses, which Stephen Glover tells us were designed by the amateur architect Alderman Richard Leaper (1759-1838); the other two being now listed grade II. Leaper was also a director of the family bank, receiver of customs for Derby, four times mayor of Derby and a partner in a tanning firm. Subsequent research has identified a group of other local villas firmly attributable to him, all of considerable interest and charm. The client was Major John Trowell JP, DL, who came originally from Long Eaton where his family had been considerable landowners since the Restoration. Born in 1744, son of another John Trowell, he had been appointed to the Bench in 1776 and made a deputy lieutenant of the County six years later. His public service was by no means over, however, for in 1787 he was gazetted Major in the Derbyshire Volunteer Militia. At the time Thornhill was actually commissioned he has living as tenant at Offcote Grove, near Ashbourne, where he was recorded in 1809. Prior to that he had been living in the large house in Friar Gate designed by William Strutt (now no. 65) which Roy Christian used to point out had originally been intended for Strutt’s father Jedediah, who unfortunately died before he could move in. His presence there is accounted for by the fact that he had married at St. Werburgh, Derby, on 27th September 1792, Dorothy Webster, daughter and sole heiress of William Woollatt, Jedediah Strutt’s original partner and brother-in-law, who had occupied the house on its completion. This match, needless to say, further enriched him. His wife died in December 1852 leaving a daughter, Elizabeth, born in 1798, but who died unmarried in November 1876. Unfortunately, like Jedediah Strutt and the Friar Gate house, Trowell had died by 1821 when the house, originally modestly called Trowell Hall, was completed in 1821. It was finished against a bond for £7,000 dated 27th March that year between Mrs. and Miss Trowell and Thomas Cooper (died 1850), a prominent Derby mason and contractor. This refers to the completion of the ‘remainder of the buildings’ at Thornhill. The money appears to have been in the form of a loan from Thomas Cox of 41, Friar Gate, also a banker; this was probably because the Major’s estate was still in probate. The two storey house was built in brick and originally rendered in Brookhouse’s Roman Cement – one of several forms of external stucco, in this instance manufactured locally in The Morledge, Derby – and grooved to resemble ashlar. The main SE front, was originally of five bays set under a wide, low hipped roof. Here the ground floor windows were originally carried down to terrace level. The NE front is of three bays and was originally the entrance front, entry being gained via a Tuscan portico, but unfortunately, that was replaced much later by a much larger brick affair on the SW front when the house became an institution. The two substantial service ranges were originally of three bays and two storeys, neither exactly alike, but lower and built side by side. They were done in a much more vernacular style, originally with unstuccoed brickwork, brick lintelled windows, dog toothed eaves cornices etc., as with other houses by Leaper. The interior was relatively plain, partly following local tradition at such residences and partly, one suspects, because the flamboyant Major Trowell was then but recently dead, his widow probably did not feel it appropriate to finish the interior in as bravura manner as her husband might have done himself. The main staircase, however, latterly reached right from the hall, was top-lit and consisted of a dog-leg, turning in an apse on the north side. The mahogany balustrade was supported on plain locally made cast iron square section balusters with generous spiral terminals, again all much resembling that at Mill Hill House (see Country Images article, July 2015). In 1987 a number of good quality contemporary chimney pieces in various local polished limestones survived, albeit securely boxed in. The gardens were terraced down on the east, where Sainsbury’s car park now is, and were shielded from the brickworks by planting. Parkland, originally nearly 100 acres, stretched south towards Rowditch and east to the Uttoxeter turnpike, then newly pitched and from map evidence was partly wooded. Much of the parkland was preserved when the Borough Lunatic Asylum (later Kingsway hospital) was built to the designs of Benjamin Jacobs of Hull from 1888 being retained with little alteration to provide the unfortunate inmates with a life enhancing environment. . The entrance was reached from the Uttoxeter New Road at The Rowditch via Trowell’s Lane (metalled and built up from 1888), which had a neat contemporary brick lodge about half way along it, which survived until c. 1930. Mrs Trowell swiftly re-named the house Thornhill from the eminence upon which it stood. Her daughter, however, refused to sell some land to the Corporation in 1873 in order to build the Asylum, probably out of what today we would call NIMBY-ism, but on her death it passed to her nearest heir, Edward Strutt, 1st Lord Belper, and he sold the Corporation the house and land they required – about 24 acres – and more to the Trustees of the Derbyshire General Infirmary to build a temporary typhus hospital. The house was subsequently sold to the Mosleys of Burnaston House – descendants of Sir John Parker Mosley, 1st Bt., of Rolleston Hall, Staffs; becoming the home of the eldest daughter of Ashton Nicholas Every Mosley of Burnaston House: Isabella Ashton Mosley, who died there unmarried 27th July 1912. The family trustees, having failed to find a tenant, finally sold it
