The Burning of the Leaves

The Burning of the Leaves by Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke
Wandering slowly into a weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.

The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! The reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before:
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;
Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.
The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

Burlington House

     I was in London to catch the Richard Dadd exhibition at the Royal Academy on Piccadilly.  While I was there I took the opportunity to revisit the 'John Madeski Fine Rooms', that is the rooms that were designed for 'display' when the building was a private residence, what is called in France an 'hotel particulier'. They currently have a dual function, part administrative and part gallery for the RA permanent collection.  When starting this post I believed that they were of a piece, but the history is quite complex.  It is because of the tact of later interventions that the rooms possess such a unity of style.

     I presume that beneath the plaster, the shell of the original late 17th century house survives.  Either way, Lord Burlington - Richard Boyle, 3rd Earl of Burlington & 4th Earl of Cork - working with Colen Campbell undertook a major redesign of the house in the first half of the 18th century.  Now, we have mentioned Burlington before, and I tend to see him rather as a pantomime villain in the history of British architecture.  It was he who successfully ousted the pragmatic Wren school of English baroque architecture, pushing British architecture into the first its periodical phases of doctrinally driven quests for purity, both stylistic and moral.  Burlington had a desire to return architecture to a state of pristine authentic Antique classicism, purged of the licentiousness of the Baroque which he, a good Whig, associated with Roman Catholicism.  To that end he saw the work of the Venetian architect Andrea Palladio as a contemporary embodiment of Antique virtue, ignoring Palladio's obvious Mannerist Style.  But it was more than that.  As I have written here before it was an attempt to change the orientation of British taste from France to the Italian peninsular in general, and the Venetian Republic in particular; promoting Italian opera, importing Italian singers, and painters.  And so architecture in Britain took a turn towards the dull, and the understanding of Palladio's work skewed to fit Burlington's moral and political vision.  Of course such quests are always riven by such ambiguities and contradictions. We have seen these play out at Houghton Hall, particularly in the interior, and we see the same things at Burlington House. 

    The façade was remodelled after Palladio's Palazzo Iseppo Porto in Vicenza, but without the Mannerist boldness of the original.  One might say emasculated.* The interiors were also remade.  The exterior was, I suppose, a relatively straightforward intellectual exercise.  The interior, as at Houghton, was not.  Palladio left no instructions for interior decoration of his buildings, not designed any furniture.  In any case, the villas, which not designed as a whole for clients as wealthy as the British aristocracy, were decorated in a very simple manner.  Burlington and Campbell therefore turned to the work of Inigo Jones, the early 17th century court architect, who introduced to Britain a more consistent and intellectually thorough use of the classical orders, was interested in Classical Antiquity, and produced designs for interior decoration.  Jones was promoted also because he was British.  The irony of this is that the Jones's designs for interiors e.g. ceilings, fireplaces etc. thoroughly influenced by contemporaneous French taste.

     And so, finally, to the actual rooms. Some six in all - on the Piano Nobile, or Bel Etage of the original structure. They are approached from the Main Stairs, created in their present position in c.1815 during alterations for Lord George Cavendish by Samuel Ware.  On the two side walls are two massive canvasses by the Venetian artist Sebastiano Ricci painted 1713-15 for Burlington's mother Lady Juliana, the Dowager Countess of Burlington.  the ceiling painting, 'The Glorification of the Inigo Jones', is by William Kent.
     Of the six rooms, five are situated on the s, entrance side of the house, while the Tenant Gallery is on the N side i.e. it is in the rear pile of what is a double pile house.  The southern rooms are arranged in an enfilade.  That is, all the communicating doors line up.  The ceilings of the three centre rooms share the same iconography ie Cupid and Psyche. Mahogany doors throughout.  With the exception of the General Assembly Room, they are almost completely devoid of furniture.

     The most important in terms of decoration is the Saloon, in the middle of the entrance front.  It is the work of William Kent (1685-1748), and the Roman sculptor Giovanni Battista Guelphi, both of whom Burlington collected on one of two his Grand Tours to Italy.**  Although the doorcases are very correct, the overall effect is Baroque; there are stucco putti on the frontoni, and elaborate frames for paintings (that, at some point, have been removed).**  The ceiling has a deep cove and a central panel in the French manner.  Originally it was painted by Kent in his Baroque Illusionistic style.  Only the central panel 'The Wedding Feast of Cupid and Psyche' survives.  The ceiling is currently undergoing restoration.

     To the east of the saloon are three rooms: the first, is the Richard Sharpe Council Room. It originally served as the head of the main staircase hall, and contains a very good ceiling by Sebastiano Ricci of 'Cupid and Jupiter'.  I believe it was also the original location of the two Ricci paintings on the Main Stairs.  Now, it is mainly the work of Samuel Ware.

     Beyond that is the former ball room, now the Reynolds Room, constructed by Ware from a number of smaller spaces.  It is a triple cube room (roughly 20 x 20 x 60ft) and has a particularly fine ceiling, also by Ware, in the approved Burlington manner.  Very sculptural.  Richly detailed full cornice.  Ware's work here and in the General Assembly Room is excellent but heavier, richer and more robust - it has more heft - then the earlier worker.  20th century figurative painting on the walls - the likes of John Nash, Carel Weight, L S Lowry, and dame Laura Knight.  At the far end of the room to the left is the crepuscular Tenant Gallery, containing 19th century art, for example, by Waterhouse, and Cadogan Cowper.

     To the west of the saloon are the remaining two rooms.  The first is the 'The Lee & James C. Slaughter Room', formerly the Secretary's Room, with a painting on the ceiling by William Kent, 'The Assembly of the Gods'.

     The furthest room was once the State Dining Room but is now The Generally Assembly Room.  It is perhaps the friendliest room in the suite, having furniture etc.  Ceiling is again by Ware in the Burlingtonian taste.  Central panel, 'The Meeting of Bacchus and Ariadne', is however, by Sebastiano Ricci. N door by Richard Norman Shaw.  Full cornice with a richly decorated frieze. On entering the room my first thought was that it had been decorated by Davis Hicks.  The pinky-orange walls just seemed to be the sort of thing he'd do. More twentieth century figurative art, skied, on the e wall.  Rather homely in its arrangement.

      I have, sadly, to confess to a slight disappointment, for the rooms are somewhat bare, lacking as they do curtains, furniture, and the light fittings are particularly intrusive.  If money, allowed I 'd like to see curtains, chairs, perhaps even brocade wallpaper, and the odd bit of furniture - console tables, and the like, that could be used to display sculpture, perhaps even larger pieces of ceramic. It would certain raise the temperature of the rooms.

     Finally, apologies for the rather poor photographs.  It is said the poor workman blames his tools; I am going to blame the circumstances - poor weather and the presence of people.

*Colen Campbell's 'Vitruvius Britannicus' depicts the façade of the house with statues and urns.  I suspect that they were never erected.  The other interesting thing to note, is the oddly divided nature of the design: grand palazzo on the entrance front and something all together plainer, rather High Renaissance, on the garden front.  Burlington House is not alone in Campbell's work to demonstrate this: both Houghton Hall and Stourhead have contrasting Palladian and Mannerist facades.  Perhaps the influence of Sir John Vanbrugh at work: both Castle Howard and Seton Delaval have Doric entrance fronts contrasting with Corinthian and Ionic garden facades.

** According to Rudolph Wittkower Burlington soon tired of Guelfi, just as he had  previously tired of James Gibbs and later would tire of Colen Campbell.

*** No mention of the original contents of the frames in the Survey of London.  Elsewhere on the internet, and probably erroneously, it is suggested that they were designed to contain paintings by Pellegrini - four of the original ten by the artist that decorated Burlington House and are now at Narford Hall in Norfolk.  It has also been suggested that they were fitted with mirrors as part of Samuel Ware's work on the house.

The Fitzwilliam Museum II

     

      I've neglected this, my final post on my stay in Cambridge.  Apologies.  There is a quite a bit going on at the moment.

      Back to the Fitzwilliam Museum and its rehang of four its thirty-three galleries of art. (The galleries of Italian, Spanish and Dutch art seemed to have escaped, as have the galleries dedicated to the applied arts such as ceramics.) The results in the four are mixed in that you can walk into two of them, 'Nature' and 'Men Looking at Women', and, ignoring the introductory signage, think nothing is amiss.  However enter Gallery 6, which contains the Medieval and Early Renaissance collections is completely trashed by the rehang.  Gallery 3 is no better.  The only purpose all of this serves, and one I suspect the museum failed to foresee, is to demonstrate just how poor contemporary art, including my own, actually is.  Even the rather dull portraiture of the 18th century wins in the first round; it is just so much more technically competent.  
     I cannot help but feel how different this world of contemporary, regime sponsored art is from the work and lives of the majority of arts working in Britain today.  I doubt many of us are receiving Arts Council funding, but then perhaps we have our own networks etc and we don't need the institutions in the manner they believe we do.  I certainly keep my distance, particularly here, in the Infernal City.

 

     Anyway some random photos of the stunning entrance hall of the museum as recompense:

     My final day I took the train to Bury St Edmunds, that deeply attractive town in Suffolk to look at the cathedral, but more of that in subsequent posts.

     I suppose I should sum things up.  The college was utterly delightful, the city perhaps less so.  Oh, all the buildings were still there as I remember them, but things were subtly different.  Trinity St was still vibrant and deeply attractive.  There were, however, far more tourists than there used to be - their presence, in such numbers, explains the almost entire closure of colleges to visitors, and yet, for all that, there were, for instance, empty shops in the city centre, particularly in that unhappy area of Market St. and St Andrew's St.  At times there was a slightly uneasy atmosphere, particularly around the market, which seemed a little frayed.  There were also less local independents and more generics - this was especially true of eating out, where the likes of Byron, etc. predominate.  I shall, however, be back.  There is nowhere quite like it.

     As for food, the best experience was the Cambridge Chophouse on King's Parade, and Rocco on Regent St, and then there was the homely, soothing gnocchi at Stazione.  By far the worst experience was at Cote Brasserie, on Bridge St. where the Boeuf Bourguignon was so badly presented it was an insult.  There were moments when I wasn't quite sure what I was eating.  On a much happier note I did notice a flock of new bakeries, not in the city centre but in semi-suburban Hills Rd.  I presume that's where the creativity now lies, away from the centre.

Exhibition: Autumn Gathering

     Pleased to relate that this morning de delivered four paintings to Aberglasney for inclusion in the new Studio Cennen exhibition 'Autumn Gathering'.  The art works are; 'Foliate Head'; 'Bethania, Chapel Morriston'; 'Sardis Chapel, Ystradgynlais'; and 'St Mary, West Walton'.  The exhibition runs from Wednesday 28th October until Thursday 5th November.

Currently Reading....

     'The Duke's Children' by the seemingly inexhaustible Anthony Trollope.  The final novel of Trollope's six novels about the aristocratic Palliser family, and Trollope's penultimate novel.  It was originally published in monthly instalments in the magazine 'All the Year Round' - a common procedure in the 19th century, which did allow for a wider readership.  When published in book form in May 1880 by Chapman & Hall, it was as 3 volumes.   I have decided to follow that pattern, giving me time between volumes to complete the other three novels I have on the go.

      As with the Barchester Chronicles I came to 'The Duke's Children' through one of those BBC adaptations which sadly seem so thin on the ground these days.  Not that I remember the original broadcast of the early 1970s, but the repeat sometime about a decade ago on BBC2 of a weekday afternoon.  And a treat it was.  Some 26 episodes in all, the work of the thoroughly scurrilous writer, the priapic Simon Raven.  A man worthy of a blogpost all to himself.

     However, my trip to London, to see the current Richard Dadd exhibition at the RA, in the last couple of days has put a spanner in the works, for instead of taking the 'The Duke's Children' (a hard back edition by the Folio Society, which has an eloquent forward by the politician Roy Jenkins) with me, I decided to buy a vintage Penguin paperback from Skoob Books in Bloomsbury.  I plumped for 'The Waterfall' by Margaret Drabble, one of her novels that give the lie to the 'show don't tell' school of literature. So now I have five books on the go.  So much for my good intentions.

St Peter & St Paul, Rock, Worcestershire I

     On our way to Bewdley, in Worcestershire, (a week ago today, in fact), we stopped off at St Michael's, Tenbury Wells; that remarkable creation of the Rev Sir Arthur Gore Ousley, and the architect Henry Woodyer. I posted about the exterior here.  An original and idiosyncratic riff on the Gothic style by a pupil of William Butterfield, who himself was no stranger to the idiosyncratic and the original. An unexpected, rather shrine like, rather urban object in the midst of a bucolic and remote part of England.  Trusting in the internet, I believed we could finally get to have a look inside.  I was wrong, thwarted, the church was closed.   

     Not wanting to disappoint you, approaching Bewdley, ahead of time, we made an unscheduled visit to the church of St Peter and St Paul, Rock.  However, it was not to be our day, for it too was locked.  The weather too had taken a turn from sunshine to overcast, blustery and cold.  Still some photographs of the exterior of what is the one of the most important Romanesque churches in the county.  It has been linked to the school of Herefordshire masons we have encountered before at Kilpeck and Leominster. That early work is largely confined to the n side of the nave and the chancel.  The doorway, as you can see, is pretty grand, no money spared.  The rest of the church was rebuilt in the later Middle Ages, when a s aisle was added to the nave and s chapel to the chancel and is not to be sniffed at. The tower is particularly fine.  Sandstone, some nice textures.  Church restored in 1861 by F Preedy, who sounds like a character in a novel by Dickens or Trollope.

The Ballad of Wallis Island

     To Worcestershire over the weekend and a visit to family.  On Saturday night we settled down to watch the recent British film, 'The Ballad of Wallis Island'.
     Charles Heath (Tim Key), widower, and double lottery winner, lives alone in a large house on an island off the British coast.  Travel there is by a daily skiff from the mainland (twice a day if they are lucky).  Such is the lingering intensity of his grief, Charles dreams of reuniting his dead wife's favourite band, the British folk duo MacGyver Mortimer (Tom Basden & Carey Mulligan).  Excellent film score by Adem Ilhan. Charles's plan, of course, goes awry, but in the ensuing emotional turmoil new possibilities emerge.  A charming, whimsical film.  Atmospheric and rather moving at times.

The Ballad of Wallis Island

2025

Producer:               Rupert Majendie

Director:                 James Griffiths

Cinematographer: G Magni Agustsson

Last night we also watched the inexecrable 'Madfabulous'.  The story of Henry Paget, the  5th Marquess of Anglesey.  What an absolute mess of a film.  I can't think of a single redeeming feature.

Madfabulous

2025

Producer:               Nadia Jaynes, Sean Marley

Director:                 Celyn Jones

Cinematographer: Laurie Jones

Own work: Sketches Preparatory to a New Painting

     Thought I'd just share with you some sketches I've done in the past week towards a new architectural painting.  It hasn't a name yet simply because, well, because it is based on a printed version of a design by Inigo Jones for part of one of his designs for a vast new palace he designed for King Charles I, to replace the muddled structures of Whitehall Palace.  These designs remained on paper but proved influential in the burgeoning Neo-Palladian movement in early Georgian England.  This Neo-Mannerist design, that combines elements of Giulio Romano and Andrea Palladio, is however nothing like the sterile creations of Neo-Palladianism.  It has drama and heft, physical and emotional.  Oh, btw you really can forget any idea that Jones was a Palladian; he was essentially a pragmatic eclectic designer who, magpie-like, took ideas from where ever he fancied.

     The illustration, I am basing this new work on, comes from William Kent's 'The Designs of Inigo Jones', the engravings being the work of the architect Henry Flitcroft.  As with the illustrations in the Vitruvius Britannicus of 1715, there is the possibility that the original Jones designs were altered in the engraving process to make them conform to the aesthetics of the new, and insanely dogmatic, architectural regime.

The Fitzwilliam Museum I

     On my recent holiday in Cambridge I spent Wednesday morning at the Fitzwilliam Museum.  Here are four paintings from the British Landscape Tradition that caught my eye, by Hockney, Spencer, and Samuel Palmer.

     

Ce qui entend le plus de bêtises dans le monde est peut-être un tableau de musée.

     This last painting, ‘View of Lee, North Devon’,1834-5, also known as ‘Autumn Landscape with view to the Sea’ by this deeply mystical artist, has, since the major (and controversial) re-hang of 2023, been accompanied by an information label that chides the artist thus: ‘Palmer’s landscapes show no sign of the industrial age that was making its mark on the environment.  Nor do they register the poverty of agricultural workers, which was worsened by the Poor law, introduced the year this work was made and which sent many in poverty to the Workhouse.’  Why should he?  Artists are under no moral obligation to do so.  To paraphrase a recent article in The Critic: art owes us nothing. 

     Certainly, those self-same criticisms could be levelled at Hockney and Spencer, but for some reason or another they are not so graced.  Hockney, after a teenage flirtation with ‘It’s grim up North’, forsook sooty Bradford for sun-drenched middle-class Los Angeles, and later became a chronicler of haut bourgeois London: aristocrats, fashion designers, writers, photographers, bankers, and the like.  Spenser’s landscapes show very little ‘sign of the industrial age that was making its mark on the environment’.  And a quick survey of the other paintings on display failed to elicit any similar comments.

     What is so threatening in Palmer’s work, to deserve this?  I can only deduce that this was, in fact, a purely arbitrary act, one designed merely to shame and humiliate.  Pour encourager les autres.  Such reductive comments fail, at a profound level, to understand to the creative process itself.  A work of art is a complex and messy thing, whose origins lie a web of often conflicting motivations often as not from the sub-conscious.  A definitive explanation of a painting is beyond us all whether we have a piece of paper to say we are qualified, or not.  At some level we are confronted with a mystery.

 

To Autumn

 

To Autumn by John Keats (1792 - 1821)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 
      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
   Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? 
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
   Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

St Michael, Cambridge

Twas Michaelmas season

They'd got corn and pears in

And all the fields cleared save some rakings and thythes

Cote prygon flocks muster

Round beans shelling cluster

And done are the whettings o reap hooks and scythes.

     It is Michaelmas.  A blustery day here, with leaves spinning across the sky on the wind.  I suppose we all ought to be eating goose.  Here, however, are the photos I took of the exterior of St Michael's church in Cambridge. 

     After photographing the exterior of Great St Mary, I braved the rush hour 'crowds' and photographed St Michael's.  The church stands on Trinity St., a few hundred feet north of Great St Mary.  Not as grand as its southern neighbour, nor as unprepossessing as St Edward and St Bene't further s.  Oblong plan with projecting s tower and n porch.  The tower like that of St Edward is very plain, but none the worse for that; it originally had a blunt, diminutive lead spire.  Short nave, longer chancel.  Mainly Decorated Gothic.  Fine west window. S. aisle plastered, whitewashed, and scored to resemble ashlar masonry.

     The church essentially belongs to the rebuilding undertaken from 1325 onwards when it also became the chapel for the now defunct college, Michaelhouse.  It was later also used simultaneously by Gonville College.  Both colleges were eventually subsumed into other institutions, Michaelhouse into Trinity, and Gonville into Gaius, and St Michael became parochial once more. With the growth of the colleges, commencing in the 1820s, the parish was slowly denuded of parishioners until in 1908 parish was amalgamated with that of Great St Mary.  It entered into a period of some uncertainty for much of the twentieth century.  Various alternative uses were proposed and then rejected.  Eventually it became used as a parish hall.  The chancel, and s chancel aisle, were retained for worship, and the nave and the north aisle repurposed.  Kitchen, toilets etc were installed in 1966.  George Pace was the architect.  Controversially, work including a brick wall betwixt the nave and chancel.  In 2002, St Michael's became the 'Michaelhouse Centre', more popularly known as 'Michaelhouse Café'.  The interior was redesigned by Archimage, and included the removal of Pace's brick wall.

Great St Mary, Cambridge II

Great St. Mary's Church, Cambridge: interior towards the west end. Line engraving by J. Le Keux, 1824, after J.P. Neale. Wellcome Collection. Public Domain Mark. Source: Wellcome Collection. https://wellcomecollection.org/works/pkfjy8nn

As I walked in Petty Cury on Trinity Day,
While the cuckoos in the fields did shout,
Right through the city stole the breath of the may,
And the scarlet doctors all about

Lifted up their heads to snuff at the breeze,
And forgot they were bound for Great St-Mary’s
To listen to a sermon from the Master of Caius,
And ” How balmy,” they said, ” the air is !”

And balmy it was ; and the sweet bells rocking
Shook it till it rent in two
And fell, a torn veil ; and like maniacs mocking
The wild things from without peered through.

Wild wet things that swam in King’s Parade

The days it was a marshy fen,
Through the rent veil they did sprawl and wade
Blind bog-beasts and Ugrian men.

And the city was not. (For cities are wrought
Of the stuff of the world’s live brain.
Cities are thin veils, woven of thought,
And thought, breaking, rends them in twain.)

And the fens were not. (For fens are dreams
Dreamt by a race long dead ;
And the earth is naught, and the sun but seems :
And so those who know have said.)

So veil beyond veil inimitably lifted :
And I saw the world’s naked face,
Before, reeling and baffled and blind, I drifted
Back within the bounds of space.

I have forgot the unforgettable.
All of honey and milk the air is.
God send I do forget. . . . The merry winds swell
In the scarlet gowns bound for St. Mary’s.

Dame Rose Macaulay 1881-1958

     And so to the interior.  And, as I have said in a previous post from years ago, it is a worldly place, where the civic and University, and the near constant flow of tourists combine to suppress the numinous.  It must be a hard task for the clergy to maintain even a modicum of the spiritual in such an environment.

     Entering through the s porch one immediately feels the weight of the galleries that fill the aisles; massive constructions encompassing the whole nave, the remains of an 18th liturgical 'refit', designed to accommodate the University for ceremonies and specifically the Sermons that then punctuated the academic year.  That original scheme centred on a 'three decker' pulpit of extraordinary design; the two lower desks for the clerk and the rector faced e while behind them pulpit itself, tall and proud in the form of an octagonal tower.  See above There were additional galleries at the w end and filling the chancel arch.  Local tradition has it that the galleries were designed by James Gibbs.  Whether that is true, they do give a good sense of what a Medieval church looked on the eve of the Oxford Movement.  Apart from the side galleries everything else was ripped out during Sir George Gilbert Scott's thoroughgoing mid 19th century restoration.  I don't think there were any other architectural interventions until the Post war period when the then Vicar Mervyn Stockwood brought in George Pace (an Anglican establishment architect if ever there was).  Pace was responsible for a re-ordering of th chancel and, I think, a new vestry at the W end.  (Could be wrong about the latter.) 

     As for the architecture, the nave is all, everything else an afterthought.  And it is pretty spectacular 'all singing, all dancing' Late Gothic.  The architect, it is pretty certain, was John Wastell, who we have encountered at two other buildings in E Anglia: Peterborough Cathedral and King's College Chapel, just the other side of Senate House Hill.  The interior façade is rich and restless.  There is scarcely any inert wall surface.  The arcade is very tall and slim and the clearstory double.  Construction commenced in 1478 and was completed just at the start of the Reformation.

     For all that magnificence the interior feels ill at ease.  There is an awful lot of contemporary semi-religious clutter, everything feels temporary, and nothing quite comes up to quality of Wastell's work.  It is also for an Late medieval East Anglian church surprisingly dark., and over-pewed.  It is a building I feel I would find it very difficult to pray in.

     Like St Edward's, Great St Mary was the stage for the radical middle stage of the Reformation in England and Wales.  The Reformer Martin Bucer was buried in the church in 1551.  With the Marian reaction his remains were exhumed and publicly burned on Market Hill.  A vindictive act.