You’ve probably been inside a Christopher Wren building or two. But what’s it like to stand on one of his weather vanes or clamber over his rooftops? In this week’s newsletter, I’ll reveal some of the hidden details tucked away in the spires, domes and parapets of five famous Wren icons.
📣📣 Before we get to that, I just wanted to say a thank you to the dozen paying subscribers who came along on our site visit to the Peek Freans Biscuit Museum in Bermondsey at the weekend.
This is the factory that gave the world bourbons, custard creams, garibaldis and (almost, before they realised the horrors they were unleashing) seafood twiglets. It closed in 1989, but the magic lives on in this joyous museum, only open for pre-arranged group tours. We’ll have more such visits for paying subscribers in the near future, as well as a drinks evening in another historic pub. (Psst… by joining the paying subscribers you’ll also get extra newsletters and access to the full archive.)
Among the the Spires and the Rooftops of Christopher Wren
Christopher Wren built 54 London churches, one of the planet’s most famous cathedrals, the centrepiece of a World Heritage Site (in Greenwich) and much else besides. What he never built was a LinkedIn page. It would have been off the scale.
His buildings have, of course, been lionised into over-familiarity. But there’s one aspect that gets little coverage: his rooftops.
London’s lead-and-slate pate is a magical place that we rarely see. Fantasy fills in the gaps. “Up where the smoke is all billowed and curled,” confirms a starry-eyed Burt in Mary Poppins, “‘tween pavement and stars is the chimneysweep’s world.” But it’s not just chimneysweeps and spooky nannies stepping in time over the roof tiles. All the most interesting people go up there: James Bond, Ethan Hunt, Peter Pan, Santa Claus, Doctor Who; parkour runners, catburglers, snipers, steeplejacks, 80s ska bands, TV historians…
And then there’s me. Somehow, without really trying, I’ve managed to get myself invited up to dozens of London’s most famous roofs over the years. I’ve scaled the dome of the Royal Albert Hall, conquered the arch of St Pancras station and climbed 10 floors above the public viewing gallery of the Shard. There are some fine views to be had. But I’m equally pulled into the immediate foreground. London’s rooftops conceal their own secrets, rarely commented on in the history books. We find gargoyles, grotesques and wartime chests, the timeworn graffiti of mason and plumber. A mouse and its playfellow dash across beams, swerving the remnant of snapwinged pigeon. These spaces have their own histories, memories and ecosystems, distinct from London below.
In today’s newsletter, I’d like to share a few insights from five historic rooftops I’ve visited — all of them capping well-known buildings by Sir Christopher Wren. Yes, I am showing off a bit… but, I hope some of these little-known details will paint familiar landmarks in a different light.
St Paul’s Cathedral
Let’s start with the most famous one of all. Many readers will have scaled the dome of St Paul’s. For the sake of (quite) a few English pounds anyone who is physically able may climb its 528 steps. I’d recommend it. The views are as you’d imagine, but it’s the ascent that really takes the breath away (and not just in a cardiovascular sense). You’ll discover that Wren’s dome is actually three nested domes. An ever-so-slightly terrifying staircase threads between two of these. Do it.
Beyond the dome and other public areas lurks a complex network of passages, rooms, stairs and voids that would (and did) keep Lara Croft happy for weeks. These ecclesiastical heights are also the dominion of saints and apostles. Here is St John the Baptist, waving his cross over the city, as he has done for 300 years. He looks like he’s had a rough old time of it. What appears to be gaffer tape is actually a stonemason’s intervention, perhaps patching up damage from the war.
Other memories of the Blitz abound up here. St Paul’s famously survived the onslaught while almost everything around it burned. That wasn’t all chance. An army of fire wardens stood guard around the cathedral, ready to douse any flames before they could spread. A few weather-beaten fire boxes are still up here on the roof.
Graffiti is a common sight. The masons who built the cathedral could not resist leaving their mark. One passage bears the inscription “E+S 1709”. Whoever the scribe, they could not possibly have imagined that, 315 years later, their impulsive chiselling, so hidden from the common eye, would be seen by thousands of people all over the world on tiny glowing devices. But here it is:
I wonder if anyone’s ever done a proper study of the ancient graffiti adorning London’s historic buildings. We’ll see further examples in the remaining Wren buildings below. The same stonemasons would have worked across them, led by a father and son team, both called Edward Strong. Note the initials. Could this be our mysterious ‘E+S’? It seems doubtful. The graffiti looks hastily written, as though by someone who doesn’t want to be caught. Hardly the behaviour of a foreman. Anyway, there’s surely a PhD to be written on collating and analysing all the disparate examples of graffiti in Wren’s buildings.
Hampton Court Palace
Christopher Wren, you might be forgiven for thinking, built everything of note in the late 17th century. Even Hampton Court Palace. Not the truly famous bit, which is Tudor in origin and heavily associated with Henry VIII. But rather, an exquisite baroque wing for William and Mary in the 1690s (you might have seen it in Bridgerton). Its roof is notable for more recent history, however. A disastrous fire gripped the upper floors in 1986 causing extensive damage that took half a decade to repair. Patches of soot from that fire have been left in place on the upper stairwell, away from public gaze. It’s a laudable gesture to future historians.
Wren’s rooftop is an absolute joy. It’s the highest platform in the palace, and you can gaze down over the whole sprawling complex, a unique view of one of London’s most complicated buildings. Chimney stacks protrude from the roof like a line of sentries. Nearby, their Tudor counterparts are a minor forest of barley-twist stacks, layered hundreds of years ago by forgotten hands, for the benefit of almost nobody’s eyes.
It was while exploring the roof that I bumped into noted historian and documentary presenter Lucy Worsley, who seemingly materialised from behind one of the stacks (to be fair, she is Chief Curator here, so she has every right to skulk behind masonry). But still, the magic of the London rooftop.
Old Royal Naval College
St Paul’s isn’t the only famous Wren dome. The twin cupolas of the Old Royal Naval College have greeted visitors to Greenwich since they were completed in 1712. It’s a magnificent set-piece, outshining even St Paul’s. And it’s worth paying the extra to arrive at Greenwich by Thames Clipper, just so you can get a good eyeful on approach.
For about half its history, this elegant complex was a hospital for sailors. What a welcome contrast it must have made, to be transferred into this palace of Portland stone from weeks at sea on a cramped and stinking ship. It wasn’t just for wounded seamen, though. The place also served as a retirement home for the saltiest of seadogs, the nautical equivalent of Wren’s Royal Hospital Chelsea. In the 1870s it became a training college for naval officers. But memory is long, and it’s still common for people to call it the ‘Greenwich Naval Hospital’ or just ‘Greenwich Hospital’.
The navy shipped out in 1998 and the buildings are now a mix of educational establishment, tourist attraction and Hollywood film set. The College has recently started offering tours of one of the domes, but I was able to take a look back in 2016.
Anyone can get a look inside the western dome. It rises directly over the entrance to the fabulous Painted Hall. Just glance up as you wander in and there it is — a hollowed out structure whose interior is richly decorated with gold leaf and painted plaster. The eastern dome is a very different beast. This has multiple floor levels and is richly decorated in dust and cobweb. Entrance is via spiral staircase and a set of rickety wooden ladders.
It may have changed since my visit, but the east tower was used much like a domestic attic, for storing oddments that have no other good home. A set of battered organ pipes here; lithic acanthus leaves there; fallen steps and a knackered chair. The room was gloriously lit from wraparound double-height windows, all for the benefit of the very occasional staff member looking for a misplaced corbel. That said, the tower saw plenty of action during the second world war. Fire-watchers would sit up here throughout the Blitz — a peerless eyrie from which to survey the estate, but also a terrifyingly vulnerable one.
The dome itself is a dark, dusty place of porthole windows and wooden diagonal beams. If anyone knows an elderly lady called June Haynes, you might like to ask her what she was doing up here in August 1964. She isn’t the only one to leave her name. Elsewhere, I learn that pipe fitters D Brooker and R Neal paid a visit on 15 April 1988 (incidentally, the same day Kenneth Williams would die, a few miles away in Bloomsbury). Also, a plumber called L.P. Higdon was here in 1986. I’m not entirely sure why I’m recording these details, but I do find something stirring about old graffiti.
The Monument
My favourite Wren building (in partnership with Robert Hooke) arguably has no roof at all. This is the Monument to the Great Fire, which stands beside Pudding Lane. I have a family connection to this giant column. One of my Brown family ancestors helped to re-gild its golden flame during the Victorian era. So I was delighted, a few years back, to take up an invitation to climb into the flame, which sits directly above the public viewing gallery1.
The golden pinnacle is completely hollow. It’s possible to climb a ladder inside and stick your hand out of the top. Which is exactly what I did:
Perching up here at the top of a vertical ladder was not exactly a relaxing experience. I can only boggle at how people like my great-great-uncle were able to spend days up here, on Victorian scaffolding, and presumably without a safety harness.
Why was the Monument left open to the elements like this? Wren and Hooke designed it to be hollow for scientific reasons. They had intended to use the column as a giant telescope, to track and time heavenly bodies as they passed overhead. A small laboratory area can be found below street level, though it’s not open to the public.
The column was never a success as a telescope but it has given a birds-eye perspective to generations of Londoners and tourists. And a pony. In 1814, a local fishmonger’s boy led his animal all the way to the top, “without slip or stumble”. A couple of days later, he did the same up St Paul’s. A pony after my own heart.
And what about graffiti? The Monument has its own Georgian-era scrawlings. I recorded four instances: “RD 1794”, “THD”, “ID 1792” and, earliest of all, “IS 1709”. All of these were added long after the structure was completed and are presumably the marks of later contractors, keeping the tower in good condition. Alas, no sign of my ancestor’s initials.
Standing on the Weathervane of St Bride’s
In all my London adventures, I think this was my proudest moment. How many people get to say that they’ve stood on a weather vane? And not just any old weather vane, but the one that tops London’s most famous steeple.
During repair works in 2013 I was able to climb to the pinnacle of that famous wedding-cake spire of St Bride’s, 70 metres above Fleet Street. Workers were busy restoring the tower stonework, which was badly degraded from centuries of acidic rain and London soot. You hardly notice from the ground, but the tower is decorated with dozens of demonic grotesques, forming the keystone to ever small arch. Many had to be removed for restoration and then replaced.
Here, too, we find plenty of ancient graffiti. Wizarding fans may be amused to learn that the name “Snape” is scrawled into the upper-most tier. The date is difficult to read, though it looks like 1816. One plucky scaffolder recorded his presence on the base of the weathervane “HR Kench Scaffolder 1888”.
You wouldn’t want to have been standing here on 18 June 1764. Around 3pm on that date, London was treated to the “most dreadful peals of Thunder ever heard in the Memory of Man”. The spire was struck by lightning, sending several tons of masonry crashing down onto the houses and nave below. Remarkably, nobody was injured, but the spire needed serious repair work. The Royal Society and Benjamin Franklin had much to say on the matter, and St Bride’s was eventually fitted with one of the first lightning conductors at Franklin’s recommendation. It’s been hit several times since, but always without problem.
There ends our brief tour of the pinnacles and parapets of five Wren buildings. I’d love to add to my collections, so do get in touch if you have access to an interesting roof (one of Wren’s or otherwise). Feel free to leave a comment below or email me on matt@londonist.com (especially if you have access to an exciting rooftop). Next week, it’s the Easter holidays so this newsletter might be a wee bit shorter. We’ll have to see.
With thanks to Sandra Lawrence, who set up both the Greenwich and Monument tours.
A connection that also got me a gig as Simon Callow’s warm-up act during a theatrical performance in the Monument… but that’s another story.
Matt, this is another great piece. Really appreciate how you took the time to unfold the nuances of Wren's work (both the familiar and the undiscovered) and especially enjoyed the in-depth architectural introduction to the Royal Naval College. Very nice, and yet another reason I recommend you to our subscribers!
The Greenwich Royal Hospital became a school for the sons & grandsons of seafarers. In 1933 it upped sticks to a dedicated site in Holbrook, Suffolk where it became the Royal Hospital School.