The river Thames deposits its finds by weight; heavy objects together, small items made from lead, pewter or brass (such as tokens, coins and buttons) often found nestling discreetly among other metal such as iron scrap from ships, boats and barges, while sherds of pottery, much lighter in weight than metal or glass, can be found strewn higher on the foreshore, nearer the Embankment wall.
And there’s a particular section of the Thames Foreshore where I often find fragments of pottery showing a logo from a long gone business, trade, restaurant or café. These broken fragments from London’s past can often be found in sweeping, elegant, parallel lines draped across the gravel and sand, and every time I come here I make a beeline for this spot to see what’s turned up on the low tide. I’m rarely disappointed.
On one occasion last year I found this fragment of a cup with the name ‘LOCK -‘, a hint of a pattern, and the word ‘COCOA’ underneath. I have a broad knowledge of Victorian and Edwardian social history but had no idea what this was or what it referred to, other than obviously something to do with a hot, sweet drink. After I’d got home and cleaned up my finds it was time to make some tea, fire up the computer and start to research where the logo had come from. It wasn’t long before I had a complete name – Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms.
Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms offered cheap, good quality refreshments and were the Victorian equivalent of our modern day coffee shops such as Caffè Nero, Starbucks and Costa, with many outlets across the country. As my photo shows they had their own plates, saucers, cups and mugs complete with the Lockhart’s logo – blue on white Victorian transferware that quickly became recognisable by all who ate in their establishments.
The Cocoa Rooms had their origins in the Victorian Temperance Movement, a social movement against the consumption of alcohol. The Temperance Movement promoted alcohol education and campaigned vigorously to pressurise Parliament to pass new laws restricting the sale of alcohol. People were encouraged to ‘take the pledge’ (ie give up alcoholic drinks) and this became a mass movement throughout the 19th Century. Essays and pamphlets were published warning against alcoholic excess and drunkenness.
The Temperance Movement was earnest and well meaning but was above all motivated by a genuine concern for those affected by alcohol and struggling to function in their day to day lives because of it. Increasing numbers of men and women were often too drunk to hold down work and provide for their families, wives and children were then evicted from their homes and women were routinely exposed to domestic violence at the hands of inebriated partners. It was a vicious cycle.
An alternative to public houses and gin palaces was therefore seen as socially imperative in order to give people practical options to alcohol. Condemnation of drinkers was not enough, so cocoa houses and billiard halls came into existence; an alternative meeting place in a teetotal environment yet offering pleasant menu choices at a reasonable price.
Originally called ‘British Workmen’s Public Houses’, in June 1875 a limited liability company of that name was formed in Liverpool under the chairmanship of Robert Lockhart, who later set up a company under his own name and established a chain of Cocoa Rooms throughout the UK that became known as ‘Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms’.
I’d never heard of Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms prior to finding this sherd of pottery and this is probably because the Cocoa House Movement is one of the least remembered of Victorian passions during the last quarter of the 19th century, so there isn’t as much information about it. Nor do I recall seeing Lockhart’s mentioned in any books I’ve read or in documentaries of this period yet plenty of grainy black and white photographs exist of branches of Lockhart’s in multiple British cities and towns.
The Cocoa House such as Lockhart’s (there were other Cocoa Houses too but with different owners and names) remained at the very centre of the Temperance campaign although its message was aimed firmly at working class men as opposed to drinkers from, say, the middle or upper classes who, it was thought, were able to exercise greater self-control over their drinking habits.
Early attempts at establishing Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms were slow and not overly successful due to them principally being religious, amateurish and well meant philanthropic efforts, but eventually a more business-like brand emerged offering a clean, pleasant environment selling decent refreshments and soft drinks, and eventually growing quickly to occupy much larger premises in most of the major towns and cities across the country.
By the end of the 19th century there were over sixty Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms outlets in London alone and approximately eleven in Glasgow, three in Leeds, nine in Newcastle, two in South Shields, with one each in Darlington, Jarrow and Gateshead. The head office of Lockhart’s was eventually located at 75, Bishop Street, Anderston, Glasgow.
Each branch of a Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms usually employed five or six members of staff from a cook to waitresses plus also a manager. Their reputation was good and they were known for being well managed and well supervised, offering tea, coffee, cocoa, aerated (fizzy) drinks and refreshments at affordable prices. They even had their own token, similar to a coin, equivalent to the amount of one old penny (1d), which entitled a customer to a penny’s worth of refreshments at any Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms of their choosing.
While researching census information for another writing project I’m currently working on, I discovered the records for the Pursglove family of Hackney, London. The 1901 Census showed them living at 95 Hertford Road, with Albert Pursglove listed as the married head of the family. He was 38 years old and his job was listed as ‘Manager of Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms.’ We aren’t told where but in all likelihood it would have been somewhere in the centre of London.
The 1911 Census showed that the Pursgloves had moved to 95 Mortimers Road, Kingsland (still in Hackney) and that Albert had been promoted to ‘Branch Manager Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms’; clearly going up in the world although how much longer he would have continued to work in this role isn’t clear. I haven’t yet been able to look at later census records for this family and Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms began to start closing branches in the 1920’s, all their premises eventually sold. A decade later in the 1930’s the country was badly hit by the global economic depression, unemployment and job loss on a huge scale and the imminent approach of a second world war looming darkly on the horizon. The era of Temperance, Cocoa Houses and specifically Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms would have felt like a distant memory from another time.
I recently watched a YouTube video of a group of mudlarks deep in the Thames Estuary searching for finds. One of them, wading far out into the mud, was seen picking out what looked like an almost intact tea pot. As the camera panned onto what he’d found in more detail I could clearly see the logo of Lockhart’s Cocoa Rooms on the side of the pot. An extraordinary find.
A legal responsibility of every mudlark is to take anything they find over three hundred years of age to be checked and recorded by the Finds Liaison Officer (FLO), in my case at the Museum of London. If the find is treasure, ie gold or silver, the Treasure Act of 1900 states that it needs to be recorded with the Coroner within a month of finding.
I’ve found gold, a small piece of beautifully and intricately worked filigree jewellery, while mudlarking at a location I can’t reveal. I dutifully took it to Stuart Wyatt, my FLO, who took it away with him for checking. Although definitely gold (I knew the minute I saw it peeking out of the ground that that’s what it was – gold can be buried in the earth for a million years and will still be golden and untarnished when it’s eventually discovered) Stuart couldn’t trace exactly what it had come from as it was too small a piece, but confirmed it was gold, possibly Victorian. The lack of clarity surrounding the provenance of the fragment meant that in this instance he didn’t have to notify the Coroner and I was able to keep the piece without the need for the copious paperwork that goes hand in hand when identified treasure is found, as opposed to a less valuable find.
At my next visit to the FLO I was thrilled when he took in one of my newer finds. Of no monetary value, like the vast majority of mudlarking finds, nonetheless this remains one of my favourite pieces; a tiny bone dice. (See centre of the photo below – the little silver pieces surrounding the dice are not from the foreshore but from the much used and loved family Monopoly set.)
The dice was found by me, by eye, on a part of the foreshore where scraping, digging and metal detecting are forbidden unless you hold a more advanced Society of Mudlarks permit. I’m holding it in my fingers, turning it over, the once sharp edges now worn smooth by the river, and it feels light in my hand. Such a beautifully tactile object and I think about the person who carved it, those who played with it and the careless fingers that finally dropped in the Thames.
This is what it looks like when you have a find logged with the Portable Antiquities Scheme (PAS). Once it’s confirmed as of historical importance by the FLO it’s then researched and recorded and the item, unless treasure, is given back to the finder.
It’s described as a Post Medieval bone cuboid dice dating from the 16th to 18th Century. The numbers are indicated by a single dot; they are arranged so the opposite sides adds up to 7. The sides are in the arrangement known as Potter’s variant 16.
Egan (1997:3) writes “A remarkable degree of uniformity is emerging in London for the most recent excavated dice, that is those of the 16th to 17th Century and later, first noticed among a group of over 40 of various sizes and with numbers indicated by double-circle-and-dot, circle-and-dot or dot alone, all of 17th to 18th Century date and found at the site of the Fleet Prison. These are all regular dice, and more remarkably, all of them that are complete enough to gauge are just one variety – Potter’s variant 16. They may well have been the output of a single prisoner turning meal bones into saleable goods.”
It’s quite extraordinary to think that the dice I’m rolling around in my fingers was quite probably made by the same prisoner who fashioned these from leftover bone in the Fleet prison all those centuries ago. Sadly it seems his name will never be known. I find myself wondering what crime he was charged with committing, how long he spent deprived of his freedom and the impact that would have had on his family and the rest of his life.
The Fleet prison was originally built in 1197, near the side of the River Fleet, the area now is part of Farringdon Street. Once close to the Fleet Ditch, an open sewer, the area was filthy and unsanitary, the surrounding land being deemed perfect for the location of a prison. It was demolished and rebuilt several times. Destroyed during the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381, burnt to the ground during the Great Fire of London in 1666 (when it was engulfed in flames during the third day of the fire, the prisoners only just managing to escape) and was again destroyed during the Gordon Riots of 1780. It remained in use till 1844 and was sold to the Corporation of the City of London who finally demolished it in 1846.
Used primarily to incarcerate those who were charged and convicted of contempt of court by the Court of Chancery and also for those committed by the Star Chamber (a court that sat in the royal palace of Westminster from the late 15th Century to the mid 17th Century), in its latter years it was primarily used as a prison for debtors and bankrupts.
The Fleet Prison is memorably described by Charles Dickens in ‘The Pickwick Papers.’ Dickens’ own father, John, had himself been imprisoned in the Marshalsea Prison (Southwark) on the 20th February 1824 under the Insolvent Debtors Act of 1813 because he owed a baker, John Kerr, forty pounds and ten shillings and was unable to pay. It was a shameful experience that haunted Charles Dickens throughout his life.
Prisons during the 18th Century were profit-making enterprises and so prisoners had to pay for food and lodging, and the Fleet was no exception. In fact it had the highest fees in England. Prisoners didn’t even have to live in the Fleet as long as they paid the keeper to compensate him for the loss of earnings. From the 17th Century onwards the prison also became notorious for the carrying out of clandestine marriages by degraded clergymen, looking to earn some money on the side, and who themselves were imprisoned among the debtors and bankrupts. At a time when divorce was difficult and you wanted to marry someone else in secret, this was the place to come. Ditto if the bride was pregnant, or had already given birth, a wedding ceremony might take place in the Fleet and the certificate of marriage conveniently back-dated to before conception.
Prisoners would have struggled to find ways to pass the time while incarcerated in the Fleet so I can well imagine someone with skill trying to earn money by fashioning dice from leftover bones in order to make their sentence more tolerable.
Dice are the oldest gaming artefacts known to mankind and have been found in Egyptian tombs dating from 3000 BC. In Greek and Roman times they were made from bone, ivory, bronze, agate, marble and, much later, porcelain or clay. The Romans played two games with dice: Tali and Tesserae. Tali used four dice and the best score was when each die showed a different number. Tesserae was played with three dice and the best score was three sixes. The dice were thrown from a cup called a ‘fritillium’ and usually played on a board made of wood, bronze or marble. Roman dice are particularly keenly treasured by those mudlarks lucky enough to find them on the Thames Foreshore.
In later centuries cheating with dice became prolific, especially during the post Medieval period. Dodgy dice were known as ‘fullums’ or ‘fulhams’, named after Fulham in south west London, an area once notorious for the manufacture of loaded dice and clearly not the respectable part of south west London it is now.
‘Fullums’ were divided into two distinct types: high ones that would run to 4, 5 and 6, and low ones that ran to 1, 2 and 3. These were made by drilling tiny holes into the dice and filling it with quicksilver (mercury,) the holes were then plugged with pitch. Sometimes the corners would be discreetly filed in order to load the dice even more.
An entire vocabulary was created to describe the way professional cheats were able to fool the innocent and naïve during games of dice and ensure they won every time:
‘Topping’ – pretending to put both dice in a box but holding one between the fingers so that it could be turned to the cheater’s advantage, also known as ‘palming’
‘Slurring’ – throwing a dice smoothly onto the table so that it didn’t roll
‘Stabbing’ – using a rigged dice cup
‘Knapping‘ – throwing the dice so that one strikes another, stopping the bottom diced from tumbling
I’ll never know who used my dice find, what games they played with it or the circumstances in which they lost it, but I can assure everyone that it’s definitely not the loaded type. Light as a feather, an indication that thankfully it’s mercury free. I can use it when the family Monopoly board comes out at Christmas and holidays with a clear conscience.
I’m pretty much recovered from my recent accident and itching to get back to mudlarking. I’ve really missed not being by the river but the last eight weeks or so have given me an opportunity to do a lot more research and writing about the Thames and sort out some recent finds in my collection.
People new to mudlarking often ask me for advice on finds identification, so I thought I’d use this month’s blog to write about the different kinds of pottery that’s most commonly found on the foreshore. When I first started mudlarking, I could have done with a mini-guide to foreshore pottery but there wasn’t anything easily to hand. There are many books and articles writing about pottery in greater depth, and quite a bit if you look online, but sometimes all you want is a quick photo guide to finds accompanied by a brief description. If you want to research pottery further then that’s something you can do once you’ve acquired some basic knowledge of the most common foreshore finds, and of course the best way to learn is to go out and mudlark. There will usually be someone else about on the foreshore who will help you ID your finds and many mudlarks are extremely knowledgeable.
I found my first ever fragment of Roman pottery fairly early on in my mudlarking career when I saw a fairly nondescript piece of a pale grey something on the Thames Foreshore near the Oxo Tower on the Southbank. I picked it up and then put it down again thinking it was probably not very much. This was also my first lesson in ‘if you’re not sure, take your find home with you’ and get someone with a bit more knowledge than you to take a look at it or post it on Instagram (using the mudlark hashtag) or one of the many mudlarking sites on Facebook.
Something about this fragment made me return to pick it up and look at it again and I eventually ended up taking it home with me, even though it looked like something someone had only recently thrown on the potter’s wheel in a nearby studio.
Six months later when I’d almost forgotten about it I took it, along with a few other finds, to my first ever appointment with the Finds Liaison Officer at the Museum of London. He immediately identified it as a piece of mortarium, one of a type of Ancient Roman pottery kitchen vessels. These were hemispherical, conical and shallow bowls , commonly fired with coarse sand or grit embedded into the surface which made them excellent for grinding, pounding or mixing foods. Some Roman mortaria even show the name of the potter, which helps trace the workshop where it was made and the actual journey of the piece through the Roman Empire, eg Gaul to Londinium. So useful were these vessels in the kitchen that we still use this kind of design today to crush herbs and spices. My piece of pale grey mortarium can be seen bottom right in the photo below, just underneath and to the side of the more central find (small, round terracotta base of a Roman pot recycled as a gaming counter.)
There are many other types of Roman pottery still found fairly regularly on the Thames Foreshore if you know where to look and, as fashions changed, so did the need to have pottery fulfilling various different uses. Clockwise from the top: Nene Valley colour-coated ware (the Nene Valley is in Eastern England); coarse wares eg grey wares; Moselkeramik or Trier black-slipped ware (centre of photo) used for beakers, cups and commonly decorated with rouletted motifs on the rim as well as scrolls, dots, wavy lines and other motifs, often combined with a short text or instruction eg ‘BIBE’ or ‘Drink.’
Middle left of the photo are two fragments of a greyish shell-tempered ware. This can sometimes be difficult to differentiate between Roman and Saxon although Saxon shell-tempered pottery contains more finely crushed shells, therefore identifying it as having being made at a more recent date. The cruder and bigger the pieces of shell, the older the piece is. Middle Neolithic pottery would also have been shell-tempered but with clearly visible bits of reed, sticks or even animal bones in the clay as well as shells. Anything and everything was used in more primitive pottery.
Top left of the photo is probably the most ubiquitous of all Roman pottery types found on the Thames Foreshore; black-burnished ware. Unglamorous, not particularly stylish to look at, nonetheless it was a core staple in the kitchens of Roman London so I always treat it with respect.
I still haven’t found any decent sherds of much sought after Samian pottery fragments although in my early days mudlarking frequently confused it with post medieval bits of terracotta only to find the FLO at the Museum of London gently informing me that what I’d found wasn’t Roman, or even close. As a general rule of thumb, if your piece of terracotta red pottery is covered in a shiny glaze, it’s not Roman. The Romans decoratedtheir pottery with slip, not glazes.
Samian ware is also known as ‘Terra Sigillata’ and is basically a fine red pottery with a glossy red slip made of an equally fine clay mixed with water. Unlike later medieval and post-medieval glazes which hang heavy on the surface of the outer and inner part of a pot or plate, Samian slip is light and delicate because of the high potassium and calcium content that almost melts onto the pottery. Once fired in the kiln it turns a bright terracotta red. Many mudlarks have been fortunate to find decorated Samian ware – complete with gladiatorial motifs, hunting or erotic scenes and so on – and occasionally with the name stamp of the potter too, giving an indication of where the piece was manufactured in Gaul or elsewhere. As I still haven’t found any, and as I prefer to use my own photos for my blogs, I don’t have any Samian photos to include here but if you google Samian ware you’ll see some stunning examples of it in various museums or collections.
Medieval pottery, (the word Medieval itself comes from Latin and means ‘middle age’) spans hundreds of years from approximately 500 AD to 1000 AD, known as the Early Middle Ages, followed by the High Middle Ages from 1000 to 1250 AD, the rise and dominance of the Catholic Church shaping these years. The Late Middle Ages completed the Medieval period, lasting approximately until the late 1400s. This later period in the Middle Ages was marked by war and conflict as dynasties battled for control of Europe’s borders eg The Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453), fought between England and France. It was also during this period that the Black Death arrived on the continent of Europe wiping out an estimated 75 to 200 million people across Europe and Asia between 1347 and 1351. The closing years of the 14th Century saw the beginnings of the Renaissance in Italy with a blossoming of painting, sculpture and architecture.
Unfortunately pottery from this period, that is the fragments that turn up on the Thames Foreshore, is mostly fairly crude, basic and functional. Sherds from the Early to High Middle Ages are found less frequently, the more common finds are from the Later Medieval period and are characterised by what’s known as the ubiquitous ‘Tudor’ green glaze, which is actually not from the Tudor period at all as this came later. Medieval pottery actually comes in a range of green, yellow and brown glazes, which was the sum total of colour the Medieval potter could manage. A lot of the sherds I’ve found from this period are simply coarse borderware, a common find on the foreshore as it supplied London’s cooking needs in the 14th and 15th Centuries.
For the purposes of this blog, and I could write about pottery forever but don’t want this blog to turn into something that’s PhD in length, it’s also worth mentioning some of the well known potteries of this period – from North Yorkshire to Surry Whiteware, Kingstonware and Surrey/Hampshire Borderware. I’m not an expert in the precise ID of these but there are interesting examples in the Museum of London and the V and A. I’d also recommend you google the excellent Richard Hemery who has a YouTube channel where he IDs various types of pottery from this and other periods. I’ve learnt a lot from Richard’s online pottery films.
The Medieval age eventually made way for the Tudor Dynasty (1485-1603) where for the first time food was becoming more refined and therefore so was pottery. This period sees the widespread manufacture of Tin glaze pottery, earthenware covered in a glaze containing tin oxide, which is white, shiny and opaque. It normally provides the background for a range of decoration, from ferns, flowers and foliage through to random geometric lines, circles and other patterns. It’s also known as Faience (German, French and Scandinavian tin glaze), Majolica and Delftware. Colours of English tin glaze are predominantly blue on white, but it’s always a joy to find other colours too such as a splash of yellow, green, orange or the rare (because expensive) manganese brownish purple. Tin glazed ceramics were the first white pottery manufactured in England, although first used in Europe by the Italians in the 12th century for simple painted wares, and then by the Spanish during the 13th Century for more colourful vessels. The use of this glaze then slowly began to spread through Europe in the following years as both Holland and England became centres of tin glaze production in the 16th and 17th Centuries.
The first examples of more recognisably common tin-glaze pottery was thought to have been made by Guido da Savino in Antwerp in 1512. The use of marl, a calcium rich clay, allowed Dutch potters to refine their technique and produce much finer ceramics. Their Delftware was a blend of three clays, one local, one from Tournai and one from the Rhineland. Dutch Delftware was also popular because it resembled the fashionable Chinese porcelain (which was only affordable to the wealthiest people), an effect achieved by covering the tin-glaze with clear glaze, which gave added depth to the fired surface and a smoothness and clarity to the vivid cobalt blue.
By the mid 17th Century, most of the major potters in England were Flemish or Dutch, many having fled the Low Countries due to religious persecution, making their way to England and bringing their secrets with them, setting up potteries in Southwark, Rotherhithe, Lambeth and Aldgate. English Delftware was harder and coarser than its Dutch equivalent, which was softer and thinner. Prior to 1620, English Delft was closer in style to Italian or Dutch but after 1620 fashions changed as the public clamoured more for the fashionable Chinese style blue on white. At the cusp of the 18th Century, English Delftware became more distinctive and less intricately decorated than its 17th Century counterpart.
I’ve found some large chunks of tin glaze in my time, mostly fragments of plates or chargers, but big pieces are becoming rarer so even the smallest sherd of this type of pottery invariably makes it home with me. Delftware came in a wide range of pottery and ceramics including punchbowls, plates or chargers, wine bottles, puzzle jugs, guglets (globular jars with a long neck), tea and coffee pots, fuddling cups (three dimensional drinking puzzle vessels) and posset pots for creamy, sugary syllabub type desserts.
Production of English Delftware had more or less stopped by the end of the 18th Century as fashions changed once more due to the Industrial Revolution, and pottery become mass produced and therefore cheaper.
The Stuart period of history lasted from 1603 to 1714 and encompassed a wide range of pottery types, from Metropolitan Slipware to Staffordshire Slipware, Delftware, Salt glaze and Westerwald Stoneware.
Slipware (see photo below) is a type of lead-glazed earthenware decorated with a coloured slip then fired in a kiln. Jacqui Pearce, Senior Finds Officer at MOLA (Museum of London Archaeology) describes this period as ‘a time of vibrant growth in the potteries serving the London area.’ London-made Delftware was booming, especially in the Southwark area where extensive excavation in the 1980s uncovered huge quantities of pottery from this period. The potteries of the Surrey-Hampshire border were, from the 15th to 18th Centuries, also a prolific and important supplier of ceramics to the capital and elsewhere. In addition, a wide range of ceramics from the potteries of Devon, Somerset, the Midlands, Newcastle upon Tyne, Italy, Germany and the Low Countries also found their way to the London pottery market.
‘Slip’ refers to the decoration of the earthenware, when the runny clay mixture is applied to the clay vessel by painting, splashing or dripping. It’s then covered with a thick, glossy lead glaze that seems to stop before it reaches the edge of the rim of the piece. Every item is different and the sherds I’ve found show everything from careful application by the potter to wilder, careless decoration that looks as if it was done in a great hurry. I love its chunkiness, earthy quality and random, joyous decoration showing the potter’s freedom of expression.
I used to find fragments of Metropolitan Slipware nearly every time I stepped onto the foreshore but I’ve noticed that decent sized sherds of this pottery also seem to be much less frequent these days. My most recent finds have been slipware of a more dark chocolate brown colour instead of the more common orange-red, emphasising the differences in types of clay used, and decorated with a creamy rather than yellow coloured slip. It’s indicative of the hand made nature of this pottery that there are so many different types of colour-way within it which adds to its attractiveness. It’s a pleasing contrast to the uniform nature of factory produced pottery and porcelain where every piece is identical. Objects made in this style included pots, cups, mugs, chamber pots, candlesticks and chafing dishes (for heating food).
Another type of slip, and an extremely common find on the Thames Foreshore, is Staffordshire Combed Slipware. I have so much of it at home, and many mudlarks tend not to bother with it, but I find I can’t resist its various cheerful shapes, bold forms and ever-changing designs. It reminds me of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts and tea.
Staffordshire Slip pottery is solid, chunky and reassuring. Earthenware with a clear lead glaze containing iron inclusions, which gives the white slip its cream to yellow colour. The trailed slip is dragged along the surface to create the distinctive ‘combed’ look, hence the name. Originating in Staffordshire, as its name suggests, it was also produced in potteries in Yorkshire, Bristol and the Midlands. Most of the pieces were glazed on one side only but you often see traces of the glaze oozing out onto the underside, sometimes it doesn’t even reach the edge of the rim at all. My favourite pieces of this type of pottery are when the edges resemble a pie crust, and this is known as ‘coggling’ or ‘crimping.’
The common nature of this type of pottery marks a distinctive stage in a more mass market production of tableware that was specially intended for poor to middle class kitchens and dining tables as well as inns and taverns where it would have been in common use in the late 17th Century and 18th Century until it fell out of favour. I’ve noticed that much of this type of pottery often turns up on a part of the foreshore where an inn or tavern would once have been.
You can see from the photograph of some of the many pieces I’ve found of this pottery that every single sherd is different. The subtle variations in the colour of the slip and designs – from straight to thick diagonal lines and the kind of zigzag pattern you might see on a cardiac patient’s chart – is why it has so much character.
Salt-glazed stoneware was produced in Europe, predominantly Cologne, and was in common use throughout the 16th and 17th Centuries. It’s a common find on the Thames Foreshore and is also known as Bartmann or Bellarmine stoneware. Bartmann literally means ‘bearded man’ and is the fragment that all new mudlarks desperately want to find. If you haven’t found one yet, don’t worry, you will.
Bartmann pots have round squat bodies with shorter necks and a loop handle, covered in a brown or reddish brown glaze, while on the front is the face of the much sought after beardy. His toothy, often angry, snarling face glares at us from the front of stoneware jugs, bottles and pitchers. Used for transporting goods and storing food and drink they were also known as ‘witch bottles.’
In 2004 during the excavations of a house in Greenwich, a Bartmann jug sealed with a cork was found buried beneath the hearth. Further analysis of its contents showed the jug contained hair, nail clippings and urine, buried as a charm to protect the household from witchcraft. The image of the bearded face is thought to have its origins in the mythical wild man creature, popular in the medieval art and literature of Northern European folklore from the 14th century onwards where it was found in ceramics, metal, embroidery, portraiture, illuminated manuscripts and even stained glass.
Bartmann jugs also have a cartouche on the belly of the pot or jug showing the origins of the pottery eg Amsterdam or Antwerp. By 1634, they were also known as Bellarmine jugs, so named after the humourless Cardinal Robert Bellarmine (1542 – 1621) who held strong anti-alcohol views and was ridiculed for doing so by English and Dutch Protestants.
Westerwald is also a type of stoneware from this period, although much more colourful than its salt-glazed counterpart. Produced in German towns such as Grenzau and Grenzhausen, in the area known as Westerwald in the Rhineland. Made into jugs, tankards and other drinking vessels from the 15th Century until well into the 19th Century, moulded and decorated with circles, flowers, foliage and family crests and coats of arms. Last year I even found a fragment showing a bee collecting pollen from a flower. Predominantly a striking shiny cobalt blue on grey, some examples are pale grey, occasionally with inclusions of the much rarer brownish purple (manganese) colour. Cobalt blue and manganese were used because these were the only two colours able to withstand the high temperatures in the kiln.
Sherds of Victorian Transferware are everywhere on the Thames Foreshore and I have many favourite pieces. Long time mudlarks probably don’t give transferware a second glance anymore but I still pick up the nicer pieces, particularly where there’s a pretty little scene, an interesting face or unusual decoration. One of the most common of these types of porcelain is the famous Willow pattern, still produced today and in use in cafés, restaurants and homes. In and out of fashion yet also strangely timeless in its popularity.
Willow pattern is a distinctive chinoiserie design used on a variety of ceramic tablewares. It became popular towards the end of the 18th Century in England when pottery first became mass manufactured during the Industrial Revolution, and blue and white wares imported from China were the height of fashion. Stoke-on-Trent was one such centre of industry, making use of the speedier new process whereby a design was printed on a transfer and applied to the plate before firing, unlike the slower hand painting of before.
A huge variety of Chinese inspired waterside landscapes were produced in this way, the most popular being the ubiquitous willow pattern, usually blue on a white background although occasionally other colours were used in monochrome tints, eg green or red. Common features of this type of porcelain include scenes of lakes, bridges, fruit and foliage, willows, birds, boats and pavilions.
Thomas Minton is thought to have been the brains behind the Willow pattern creating it in 1780 before selling it to potter Thomas Turner who mass-produced it, trading on the fashion for stories from Chinese mythology. People have always been drawn to tragic Romeo and Juliet style tales of tragic lovers and here the story is of a young couple eloping, the girl’s father disapproving of her inappropriate boyfriend, being pursued by the outraged father (this shown on the porcelain by angry men waving machetes as they cross a bridge.) The couple were inevitably caught, the father setting fire to the cottage where they were hiding, burning both to death. The Gods then took pity on the young lovers and transformed them into doves so they could be together for all eternity.
There are various different versions of this story, all completely false, yet it still gives me pleasure to find a nice piece of this porcelain especially when it’s a prefect fragment of the two doves.
And last but not least, logos and things. From late 18th Century stoneware imprinted with the name of a blacking company that once employed a young Charles Dickens, a jar bearing the name of marmalade manufacturer James Keiller, the famous Hotel Metropole or the long gone Aerated Bread Company, each of these finds is worthy of a blog of its own, an important part of our social history. But that will have to be for another day…
If you’d like to read more about foreshore pottery then I recommend the following books – ‘If These Pots Could Talk’ by Ivor Noël Hume; ‘London In Fragments’ by Ted Sandling; ‘Pottery In Britain 4000BC to AD1900’ by Lloyd Laing. Check out the pottery exhibits in the Museum of London and V and A too as they have some fine examples on display.
I’ve recently had some very sweet, concerned emails from a few readers of my blog asking why I hadn’t posted anything here since March. People have been very kind but the reason for my being so uncharacteristically quiet here is because I’ve been recovering from an accident while out mudlarking. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to sit down at the old laptop and write my latest blog.
Before I terrify prospective mudlarks out there I’d just like to reassure everyone that the accident was NOT sustained while actually mudlarking on the Thames Foreshore, but rather as a result of a freak incident that occurred as I was actually sitting half way up some stone steps leading away from the foreshore, literally having packed my rucksack with finds ready to head off for a coffee and then to the station to catch the train home.
Ironically, it had been a good mudlarking session. There were quite a few other mudlarks and detectorists about as the weather was good, mild and sunny initially, with a reasonable low tide, and it wasn’t long before I made my first significant find, see the photo below. A very pretty Georgian (18th Century) pewter button with a triple heart design engraved on it. Holding it in my hand I was struck by the thought, as always, that I was the first person to touch this button since the individual who lost it in the Thames all those centuries ago. They’d have been really annoyed at doing so as the button would have been expensive and not easy to replace. Also, I can’t rule out that the heart design may have had some personal meaning to the owner so it made the find particularly special.
In fact that morning’s mudlarking session was full of haberdashery finds from the past. In addition to the Georgian pewter button I also found hooks, 16th – 17th Century brass aglets (bottom right of the photo below) which are the metal tubes found at the end of shoelaces to stop them from fraying, (some aglets are beautifully engraved) and a nice stash of brass dress pins. These can be difficult to date but are roughly from the 14th to 17th Century, and were used by both men and women to pin their clothing together at a time when buttons were rare or too expensive unless you were a high status individual. Dress pins are a bit of an obsession of mine and I’ll be doing a separate, more detailed blog about them later in the year, but what I’ve noticed about my recent mudlarking finds is the golden state in which they’re currently coming out of the mud, almost as fresh as the day they became loose from someone’s garment hundreds of years ago. Pin finds are fairly ubiquitous on the Thames Foreshore and when you’ve been mudlarking for a while there’s a tendency not to pick them up any more, or perhaps only the bigger ones, but if I see them, whatever their size, inevitably they end up coming home with me.
As the tide was starting to come in I made my way off the foreshore up a flight of stone steps and started to pack my finds away in my mud-encrusted rucksack. I’m still not quite sure what happened next but, sitting down on a step to check some of the photos I’d taken, I put my mobile phone back in my pocket and somehow ended up kicking my rucksack down the stairs. I should have just let it fall to the bottom. The tide was coming in, though not completely in, and I could have simply walked back down the stairs, picked the bag up and then walked safely back up to the top. Instead, I instinctively lunged for the rucksack as I saw it falling. In that split second I ended up falling too, head first, arms flailing, trying to grab hold of some railings as I lost my balance and in a moment of panic using my left leg as a break.
This stopped me from falling further down the stone steps but in the process I knew I’d hurt my left leg quite badly. I saved my bag and myself from pitching down to the foreshore but the pain in the leg left me under no illusion that I wasn’t going to be able to get home without help and I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t fractured a bone. When I’d got my breath back I tried to straighten my leg but couldn’t, every move was extremely painful and there was no way I could put my weight on that leg. It was very frightening and I had no choice but to call 999 for an ambulance which took me straight to St Thomas’s A and E. I’m hugely grateful to the two young women who saw I was in distress on the stairs, came to ask if I was ok and stayed with me till the ambulance came. The kindness of strangers.
This was a day of new experiences, not least my first time in the back of an ambulance. London looks very different when you’re lying on a bed in the back of one speeding past iconic London landmarks, inhaling gas and air while trying not to scream. I don’t remember much of the ambulance journey other than one of the crew asking me what mudlarking was and trying to distract me by asking me to describe what I’d found that day. I don’t know what she made of me jabbering on about different kinds of Roman pottery as I don’t think I was making any sense at all. Bless her for showing an interest though and not making me feel like a complete twat. There’s always that sense of guilt that ambulances are for people who’ve had heart attacks or seizures, not for those who end up having freak accidents on the Thames Foreshore, but the ambulance crew were quite clear to me that I shouldn’t be feeling like that. Accidents happen and their job is to assess and assist injured people, regardless of the circumstances.
A and E was packed to the gills as it was the day after a Bank Holiday, but I can’t praise highly enough the kindness and professionalism of NHS staff who treated me. X-rays done, mercifully no bones fractured, and a final diagnosis of torn lateral quad muscles. The left leg was put in a support bandage, I was supplied with more pain relief, a crutch, told to rest for a few days and given a leaflet advising sets of specific exercises to do at home, then finally discharged six hours later and my anxious family were able to take me home.
Later that night, safely back home, I was initially unsure about posting details of my accident on social media, or even blogging about it like I am now. But I’m glad I did as not only have I had wonderful ‘get well soon’ messages from the mudlarking community but I’ve had many mudlarks contacting me with their own personal horror stories of accidents or near accidents on the foreshore. Some of these have been quite terrifying; falls down ladders resulting in a broken rib or two, getting stuck in mud and twisting an ankle trying to extricate legs from the gloop, slipping on the green algae that often covers steps down to the foreshore, and mudlarks being impaled on bits of sharp and rusting metal. Many of those who contacted me told me that this was the first time they’d shared their scare stories, and my accident was a reminder for us all to be more careful when we’re out and about by the river.
I don’t want to frighten anyone with these horror stories but I think what my accident has done is to make me pause, reflect and think. Mudlarking is a wonderful thing to do but perhaps when you’ve been mudlarking for a while you become a bit lax, even casual, with your personal safety. Whereas my accident was a freak one that could have happened anywhere, it reinforced the fact that there are risks, albeit ones that can be managed, when you’re out and about searching for finds. So perhaps it’s timely to finish this blog by just reminding readers of some basic health and safety rules when mudlarking:
• always tell someone where you’re going and what time you’ll be back
• make sure you have a fully charged phone with you – I spend a lot of time filming and photographing finds for my blog and other social media accounts; it’s far too easy to end up with very little charge left, which isn’t helpful if you need to make an emergency call
• If I’m honest, I don’t really like mudlarking with other people, much preferring to mudlark on my own. Nothing personal, but it’s valuable time to myself and as I potter about I know that I only have responsibility for myself. However, I do go out with other mudlarking friends, especially to a more isolated area of the foreshore or somewhere that I’ve never visited before. There is strength in numbers and if you do get into difficulties in an unfamiliar place then it’s comforting to know there is someone with you and you’re not alone. There’s no point in mudlarking if you’re going to be worrying all the time so, if you’re new to this, take a friend with you
• I often recommend the Thames Discovery Programme (TDP) to people who are new to mudlarking and advise they sign themselves up for a guided foreshore tour. These are inexpensive, safe and the perfect way to familiarise yourself with the river. TDP are primarily an organisation whose main role is to monitor and record the archaeology of the foreshore, not mudlarks as such, but most of their tours end with a bit of mudlarking allowed and then identification of finds by the tour leader that day. You can find TDP contact details in the ‘Advice’ section of my blog
• make sure you’re up to date with a tetanus jab
• I always carry a small first aid kit with me in my rucksack – this wouldn’t have helped with my accident but I did once rush to the aid of a mudlark who’d cut themselves on a sharp piece of rusting iron scrap from an old boat. My first aid kit had clean surgical gloves, antiseptic wipes and plasters – all of which came in really useful that day. I’ve also completed a St John Ambulance training course which helped regarding basic first aid
• keep a very close eye on the tides – it goes without saying that finding a gorgeous piece of Roman pottery will be of little use to you if you end up on a pinch point on the foreshore with the water coming in fast and unable to get off safely
• ensure you are fully aware of exit points from the foreshore
• don’t eat or drink on the foreshore. While it’s welcome news that the Thames is much cleaner today than ever before, there are still discharges of sewage taking place at various points and will continue to be so until Tideway complete their lengthy work upgrading new sewage systems to cope with the demands of modern London
• make sure you have a permit to search as it’s illegal to remove artefacts from the foreshore without one. Permits and other advice regarding staying safe on the river are available from the London Port Authority website (see the ‘Advice’ section on my blog)
Finally, happy mudlarking, stay safe, take care and I’m looking forward to being back on the Thames Foreshore soon. Time to end today’s blog as my feline physiotherapist has just arrived…
I met a woman on the Thames Foreshore recently who was new to mudlarking and had only been out searching for finds a few times. We got chatting, as you do, and I passed on a few tips that other mudlarks had once passed on to me. She hadn’t found an awful lot, some bits of pottery, a bovine jaw bone (she was an artist and was intending to draw the poor beast when she got back into her studio) and was eager to find some brass dress pins, a staple of any mudlark’s collection when you start out. I found a patch of eroding mud and showed her how to search for these. It wasn’t long before she was clutching a decent handful of them and she thanked me for my time.
Pins and pottery are mudlarking staples, the basics of a trip to the Thames Foreshore. Eventually, and if you’re lucky, you find coins, tokens, an item of jewellery, maybe a Roman hair pin although these are extremely rare. You get them home, clean them up and spend a happy hour or two trying to identify them on the internet. That sense of looking things up, like an antiquarian detective, is precisely why I love to find sherds of pottery or porcelain with a logo on. Perhaps the name of a long gone business, trade, café, restaurant or hotel. Sometimes the river breaks the plate or cup in the most perfect place, neat and tidy, so that the name is clear and easy to identify. At other times, The Thames is frustrating with its gifts and leaves you a broken fragment that’s just a few letters too short to make a comprehensive ID.
Last year when I was out mudlarking on the Thames Foreshore near the Southbank I found an intriguing porcelain sherd broken right through the very middle of just such a logo. Fortunately it was fairly straightforward to work out that it was from the famous Hotel Metropole, and so my blog for March is about this, one of London’s long lost hotels.
The Hotel Metropole, built in Northumberland Avenue on the north bank of the Thames, was designed by Frederick Gordon and constructed between 1883 and 1885. It was the largest hotel in Europe when it finally opened its doors in 1885 and Queen Victoria was still on the throne. It had 600 rooms and was seven storeys tall, the first and biggest of a new wave of luxury hotels in London together with The Grand Hotel and The Victoria.
When the hotel opened in 1885 it produced a comprehensive 88 page brochure which claimed –
“That the hotel’s location particularly recommends it to ladies and families visiting the West End during the Season; to travellers from Paris and the Continent, arriving from Dover and Folkestone at the Charing Cross Terminus; to Officers and others attending the levees at St James’s (Palace); to Ladies going to the Drawing Rooms, State Balls and Concerts at Buckingham Palace; and to colonial and American visitors unused to the great world of London.”
The Victorian era was a time of enormous transition carried out at lightning pace throughout the whole of Great Britain, but particularly in London where the infrastructure of the Capital was undergoing a massive transformation that would make it unrecognisable from the previous era. From Bazalgette’s new sewage systems to the construction of the Thames Embankment, roads and railways, a huge building programme was under way and the country would never be the same again. An exciting time full of new opportunities if you were wealthy and looking for adventure , less so if you were one of the Capital’s many thousands of poor living in dreadful conditions and struggling to eke out a living. For the working class the very notion of luxury was something out of reach.
Frederick Gordon built hotels with what were considered to be groundbreaking amenities for the time such as lifts, bathrooms and phones in the rooms. Wealthy travellers coming from America and Europe, arriving at the newly built Charing Cross Railway Station nearby, expected no less and luxury was an important commodity with guests prepared to pay good money in order to travel and stay in comfort.
The architecture of the Hotel Metropole on Northumberland Avenue was unmistakably French in style with classic motifs and a Haussman era style. The view of the Hotel below is taken from the Embankment looking towards Trafalgar Square. Its famous triangular shape shows Whitehall Place on the left, while beyond The Metropole sits the Hotel Victoria. Northumberland Avenue itself took its name from the townhouse of the Percy family which stood on this location until demolished in 1874.
The Hotel Metropole quickly became a popular venue for high society in the 1880s and 1890s with celebrities coming to stay and to attend events. Edward VII was a frequent visitor and the hotel held a special banquet in his honour for his coronation on June 24 1902. As Prince of Wales and later King he entertained guests here on many occasions having reserved a box in the magnificent ballroom and using the Royal Suite, on the first floor of the hotel, with bow-fronted windows overlooking Whitehall Place. The hotel inevitably benefited from the cachet bestowed on it by its Royal clientele.
The Metropole was also the base for The Aero Club and The Alpine Club, and acted as the meeting point for competitors during the first London to Brighton car rally in 1896.
In 1916, during the first world war, it was commandeered by the Foreign Office and turned into government offices in order to provide a base for necessary war work. Winston Churchill worked in the rooms here during this time and in his letters he wrote about looking out of his window and watching hundreds of Londoners pour onto the streets to celebrate the end of the war on 11th November 1918.
The night before the British Expeditionary Force journeyed to France on the outbreak of war in August 1914, its two Commanders-in-Chief, Field Marshals John French and Douglas Haig, both stayed in the building.
The Hotel reopened after World War One and guests returned to its iconic location. The twenties were in full flow, fashions and tastes were changing and ‘The Midnight Follies’ became a well-known cabaret fixture in the ballroom at The Metropole. There was also The Midnight Follies Orchestra which included Mantovani as its band leader during this period.
When the Government redeveloped the buildings at Whitehall Gardens in the mid 1930s they leased the Hotel Metropole for £300,000 per annum to provide alternate office space for the Ministry of Labour and the Ministry of Transport, and later for the Air Ministry and Ministry of Defence. The rise of Hitler in Germany, and Europe moving towards a second world war, meant that it was essential The Metropole was commandeered again for war purposes.
The hotel’s location close to the Houses of Parliament and Government offices in Whitehall made it ideal for additional offices. The British Secret Services were based here, monitoring German internment camps and helping troops escape or avoid capture. Room 424 became the first home of MI9 and the SOE (Special Operations Executive), and later the holding point for one of the model planning beaches for Operation Overlord, the codename for the Battle of Normandy, the Allied Operation that launched the successful invasion of German-occupied Western Europe during World War Two. The Operation was launched on 6th June 1944 with the Normandy landings, also known as D-Day, and lasted until 30th August 1944, two months, three weeks and three days.
Transferred to the Crown Estates portfolio after the war, the building remained in the control of the MOD who continued to use it as an overflow building and by 1951 the Air Ministry was again a major occupant. From the mid 1960s to 1992 it housed the bulk of the Defence Intelligence Staff and the mirrored ballroom provided the setting for many press conferences.
The building has many secrets and there are reputed to be tunnels and secret passages under the road that link the hotel to other government offices nearby. A rumour persists to this day that, until fairly recently, there was an office in this building monitoring UFO sightings and activity.
In 2008 the building was eventually left empty and the Corinthia Hotel Group bought it from The Crown Estate for £130 million, determined to restore it to its original function as an upmarket hotel in one of the greatest cities in the world. After extensive renovation the hotel, now renamed the Hotel Corinthia, reopened in 2011. Some of the original features of the Hotel Metropole, such as the ceiling in the Grand Ballroom, were preserved, but much of the original Victorian design had to be adapted to the modern age as it was impossible to preserve in its entirety. Replacement stones were brought in from Italian quarries and contemporary interiors were designed by the best designers in this field. 300 guest rooms and 47 luxury suites, some with private lifts, were revamped, their views overlooking some of the most iconic sights in London.
The Hotel Metropole no longer exists as it did in the late 19th Century but it’s satisfying to know that the building lives on as the refurbished Hotel Corinthia and has had such a fascinating 20th Century history, while Northumberland Avenue is forever commemorated as a pink square on the Monopoly Board.
So, who knew that finding this broken porcelain sherd, washed up on the Thames Foreshore at low tide, would lead to uncovering the history of one of London’s lost and finest hotels.
Extra low tides so far this year have meant the chance to wade further out into the Thames mud than usual and find items that are normally just out of reach. So it was doubly thrilling to start January with a complete Victorian Codd Bottle find, and February with a vintage Bovril bottle. Well, exciting for me, but maybe not so much for the non-mudlark who doesn’t quite get the passion for finding lovely, muddy things on the Thames Foreshore when the tide is out.
This rare Artis, Capel and Company codd bottle was found by me on the Rotherhithe foreshore. It was mostly buried underneath what had once been a chalk barge bed and it took some while to gently ease it out of the chalk and mud with my trusty trowel. That done, it was a delight to find especially as it was intact and with its codd bottle marble still inside. Cleaning it was a heck of a task but was well worth it.
Artis, Capel and Company, the manufacturers of this bottle, were a Surrey Mineral Water Company based in Neate Street, Camberwell, SE London. Their business was founded in 1864 at a time when carbonated drinks were becoming increasingly popular but keeping the fizz in the bottle was proving to be a huge challenge.
In 1870, Hiram Codd invented and later patented the famous Codd bottle which made a huge difference to drinks companies producing these carbonated drinks. The bottle was made from thick, aqua green glass and contained a codd marble inside that helped keep the fizz in when the bottle was placed on its side. The design was a huge favourite with Victorian children who would smash the bottle to get at the marble. This is why complete versions of these bottles are hard to find. The photograph below shows an emerald green Codd bottle marble found by me on a previous mudlark at Rotherhithe, not far from where the bottle find was made.
My Codd bottle has a dent on both sides called a ‘lug’, which keeps the marble (above) wedged in. The bottle is inscribed with a rare Rylands of Barnsley patent on one side and the following words on the front:
‘THIS BOTTLE IS THE PROPERTY OF ARTIS, CAPEL & Co, CAMBERWELL. NO DEPOSIT CHARGED.”
Artis, Capel and Company were eventually taken over by Robert White (R White & Sons fizzy drinks manufacturers, still producing lemonade today). In 1912, two hundred women went on strike at the R White factory at Waltham Cross, protesting over the reinstatement of an unpopular supervisor. All power to these ladies!
A second extra low tide in February, where I hadn’t actually found very much when mudlarking, saw me rolling off the Thames Foreshore in the City of London just as the tide was starting to come back in. Glancing down into a rock pool I saw this Bovril bottle lying in the water.
It’s a vintage style from 1913, 2oz in weight, classic dark amber in colour, the bottle inscribed with the words ‘Bovril Limited’. These also came in a 4oz size. A classic example of the ‘What The Victorians Threw Away’ genre, Bovril quickly became a very popular food item. It’s still popular today, although you either love it or hate it, and is now rebranded as ‘Marmite.’
Invented by John Lawson Johnston, a Scottish butcher who hailed from Roslin (made infamous in Dan Brown’s novel ‘The Da Vinci Code’,) Johnston went to Canada where in 1863 he devised a recipe for a liquid beef broth which he called by the catchy name of ‘Johnston’s Fluid Beef.’ In 1874 he won a huge contract from the French Government to supply the French army with one million tins of beef, enabling him to experiment further with the offcuts and refine his liquid beef product to make it more concentrated. In 1879 he moved production to Montreal where he began to sell his beef broth warm during the winter carnivals.
After a fire, he returned to Shoreditch in London and in 1887 registered the name ‘Bovril.’ In 1888 the iconic brown Bovril bottles were introduced and production moved to 30, Farringdon Street. A popular advertising campaign followed with brightly coloured posters publicising this product to the public. Below is one of these, currently part of the extensive Victoria and Albert Museum archive.
The first Bovril bottles manufactured in the late 1880s were initially hand made. My bottle find is from 1913, just prior to the outbreak of World War One, when bottle production became automated for the first time although the neck and lip continued to be hand finished, as you can see from the photos below. On the right, there’s a clearly visible seam that runs along the neck down to the bulbous body of the bottle and, on the left, the thick, irregular shape of the lip.
These early bottles are reassuringly chunky with a dent at the base indicating their pre-war age, a design factor that continued into the 1920s as there was a shortage of glass. Inevitably my Bovril bottle research pulled me into a bit of an internet black hole of vintage Bovril bottle geekery. I discovered a site where fans happily discuss the fact that there are 35 different types of Bovril bottle, further breaking them down into 50 sub types. At this point I quietly crept away….
John Lawson Johnston became a very wealthy man as a result of his Bovril manufacture and in 1891 bought Kingswood House in Southwark. He transformed the building adding battlements and a north wing, plus extending the servants’ quarters. His extensive renovation resulted in the house being nicknamed ‘Bovril Castle.’ When he died in 1900, the house was used as a military hospital for wounded Canadian soldiers from the first world war. Eventually the Johnston Estate was sold in 1919 to Sir William Vestey, Lord Vestey of the Vestey Meat family. John Lawson Johnston was buried in Norwood Cemetery in London.
The Vesteys went on to purchase Oxo Tower Wharf, on the south bank of the River Thames, from the Leibig Extract of Meat Company, manufacturers of Oxo beef stock cubes, who had designed the original Oxo Tower so as to bypass advertising bans that existed on the south bank at that time. The illuminated tower advertising the Oxo product could be seen quite some distance away. Unfortunately, on an early morning February mudlark when I took this photo below, the lights of the Oxo Tower (just in front of the hideous tower block known as One Blackfriars) had well and truly gone out…..
A new year and my first blog of January is inspired by the initials A.B.C. No, not the excellent adaptation of the famous Agatha Christie thriller ‘The ABC Murders’ broadcast over Christmas, but an exploration of the story behind these two porcelain sherds I found close together under Waterloo Bridge at the beginning of last year. I haven’t blogged about them yet so now would be a good time to do so as they reveal a fascinating aspect of late 19th and early 20th Century social history.
The initials A.B.C stand for ‘The Aerated Bread Company Ltd’, founded in 1862 by Scottish medic and chemist, Dr John Dauglish, quickly becoming a large and profitable business empire comprising bakers, confectioners and tea rooms. It’s relatively easy to find references to this company online but I’ve tried to search for primary records, which have been much harder to locate as they were destroyed or damaged by flooding. The London Metropolitan Archives in the City of London hold some of the few surviving records, found in an abandoned factory once owned by the company in Camden Road.
The secret of the success of The Aerated Bread Company began with some early experiments Dr John Dauglish carried out to improve the speed of the bread making process. Traditional bread making involves the use of a raising agent (yeast) which has to be added carefully to flour and then the mixture left to rise before kneading and finally baking. This is a lengthy procedure particularly when scaled up for commercial reasons.
Dauglish used his knowledge as a chemist to invent a new method of raising bread without the use of yeast. This involved introducing carbonic acid gas, essentially carbon dioxide dissolved in a solution of water, into the bread mix to kick-start the leavening process. The resulting bread was similar in taste and texture to the ‘Mother’s Pride’ style white bread we have today; lacking taste and texture, but cheap and fast and easy to mass produce. It quickly became very popular.
In 1862, the first Aerated Bread Company bakery opened in Islington and then later moved to Soho at the turn of the century. The first tea room opened in Fenchurch Street Railway Station in 1864. By 1923 it had 150 branch shops in London and 250 tea rooms, easily rivalling the equally popular Lyons Corner House tea rooms although the Lyons branches were more upmarket and better managed. Eventually the Lyons tea rooms had overtaken their Aerated Bread Company rivals but, at the height of their popularity, A.B.C. opened branches as far away as New York, Chicago and also Australia.
The success of the first Aerated Bread Company tea rooms was based on affordability and also the introduction of an element of self-service, even though the earlier ones still had waitress service. The menu below from 1900 gives an indication of the cost of products and the basic essence of what was to morph into the first ‘greasy spoon’ cafés with their wide range of baked goods and teas.
The social importance of The Aerated Bread Company in the lives of women can’t be underestimated. They were the first tea rooms where women could go to eat a meal, alone or with women friends, without a male chaperone although it’s not without a hint of irony that I note the proliferation of moustachioed gents in the vintage photo of the Ludgate Hill branch of the A.B.C tea room below. They became known as safe havens for unescorted women from the late Victorian period onwards and were also recommended as eating places to the delegates of the International Council of Women, held in London in the week beginning 5th July 1899.
Many Aerated Bread Company tea rooms often had a women’s social club located on the floor above, thus providing a safe space for a new wave of feminist organizing and later used as the base for meetings of Suffragettes and Suffragists. The New Somerville Club, close to Oxford Circus, was one such social venue located over the Aerated Bread Company at 2, Princes Street. The social club were vocal in their support of the female employees of the A.B.C. and complained on their behalf, challenging the early inequality of the company for not sharing its huge profits with the women who worked long hours serving customers and cooking the food. However, this did not stop the female members of the Somerville from getting meals from The Aerated Bread Company sent up to the general room above during meetings. Men were occasionally admitted to this club as guests.
The Aerated Bread Company reached its peak in the mid 1920s with only Lyons having more branches. By now they were found all over London, from Aldersgate, Cannon Street, High Holborn, Cheapside, to London Bridge, Piccadilly, Pall Mall, Westbourne Grove and Kensington High Street. Interestingly, I found my fragments of ‘Aerated Bread Company’ crockery not far from Waterloo Bridge even though there was never a branch at Waterloo Station, the nearest one to the location of my find being at Victoria Street, Westminster or Westminster Railway Station. As with so many mudlarking finds one can only speculate how they ended up being dumped in the river and, since I found these pieces, I haven’t found any more on this particular stretch of the river.
In 1955, many aspects of the Aerated Bread Company were no longer profitable and tastes had begun to change. The Australian branch of the company went into liquidation in 1951 and a few years later the entire company was taken over by Allied Bakeries (owned by Canadian-born Garfield Weston) in 1955, eventually becoming a subsidiary of Associated British Foods Ltd, which it’s thought ceased trading in the early 1980s.
Not everyone was a fan of the Aerated Bread Company tea rooms. George Orwell loathed them and famously described them as a “sinister strand in English catering, the relentless industrialisation that was overtaking it: the 162 tea shops of the Aerated Bread Company….which rolled out 10 miles of swiss roll every day and manufactured millions of “frood” (frozen cooked food) meals, the milk bars that served “no real food at all….everything comes out of a carton or a tin, or is hauled out of a refrigerator or squirted out of a tap or squeezed out of a tube.”
However, in contrast, they were much loved by George Bernard Shaw. Shaw, a vegetarian, wrote about his daily visits to restaurants and cafés in his diaries, particularly volume 2, and appears to have found very few problems in his search for vegetarian food in London. On the 12th December 1888 he wrote the following entry: “….to the Aerated Bread Shop opposite the Mansion House station and had some eggs and chocolate there.” On 27th January in 1891, Shaw wrote about a visit to the Aerated Bread Company tea room at the corner of Parliament Square in the company of Florence Farr Emery. He was also a frequent visitor to the A.B.C. tea rooms next to Charing Cross Station, Oxford Circus and Piccadilly Circus. His diaries feature frequent references to having eaten and enjoyed such things as lots of fried or scrambled eggs, cheese (macaroni cheese being a perennial favourite), milk, cream, butter, chocolate, sweets, ginger beer, lemonade, unspecified soups, plus cakes and buns. There were only the occasional mentions of fruit, nuts, brown bread, porridge, rice or lentils so although his diet was unquestionably meatless, I’m not convinced it was particularly healthy.
On 5th March 1933, T.S Eliot wrote to Virginia Woolf from America and described a restaurant in Los Angeles called The Brown Derby, which he noted “seems just as normal as an A.B.C.” He also mentioned The Aerated Bread Company tea rooms in his poem called ‘A Cooking Egg.’ ‘Virginia Woolf herself mentions the tea rooms in her novels ‘Night and Day’ and ‘Jacob’s Room’.
Other notable references of the A.B.C tea rooms in literature can be found in Agatha Christie’s ‘The Secret Adversary’, Graham Greene’s ‘The End Of The Affair’, ‘Cakes and Ale’ by Somerset Maugham, ‘The Old Man In The Corner’ by Baroness Orczy, ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker and ‘Asta’s Book’ by Ruth Rendell writing as Barbara Vine.
Today the Aerated Bread Company only exists in vintage photos or sketches, a small selection of documents, a sherd of pottery washed up at low tide on the Thames Foreshore and as the occasional ‘ghost’ sign. When you’re walking about in London do remember to look up from time to time as there are still whispers of the past visible in the façade of public buildings. And if you’re ever walking down Fleet Street, you’ll see this fading remnant advertising the glory days of The Aerated Bread Company.