[Image - Restoration of the tower and bells of St Winnow church by Louise Lubbock - restoring a distinctive sound to the Fowey estuary... ...the 10 new bells are now 'up' and installed, the tower repaired - HOORAY! This project was in effect sponsored heavily by ourselves, with Louise spending much of the last year working, practically, alongside the contractor without a fee - but what a splendid result...]
170 years ago, when Henry David Thoreau conducted what he called his 'little experiment' in self-sufficiency in the New England woods, he needed no architect. But his subsequent record of the experience offers a poignant reminder of the higher purpose of all architecture and place-making (whether it be 'humble' or 'grand') - to heighten our existence and to enable us to 'dwell poetically' (as Heidegger might phrase it) upon this earth:
"When I first took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my nights as well as days there, which, by accident, was on Independence Day, or the fourth of July, 1845, my house was not finished for winter, but was merely a defence against the rain, without plastering or chimney, the walls being of rough weather-stained boards, with wide chinks, which made it cool at night. The upright hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave it a clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers were saturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them. To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited the year before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to entertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it. Olympus [1] is but the outside of the earth every where.
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent, which I had used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so lightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go out doors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. It was not so much indoors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa [2] says, “An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning.” Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbour to the birds, not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them."
Extract from Chapter 2 “Where I lived, and What I Lived For”
in Walden by Henry David Thoreau
[1] Home of the gods in Greek mythology.
[2] An epic Hindu poem written in the fifth century.
"When I first took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my nights as well as days there, which, by accident, was on Independence Day, or the fourth of July, 1845, my house was not finished for winter, but was merely a defence against the rain, without plastering or chimney, the walls being of rough weather-stained boards, with wide chinks, which made it cool at night. The upright hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave it a clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers were saturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them. To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited the year before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to entertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it. Olympus [1] is but the outside of the earth every where.
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent, which I had used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so lightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go out doors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. It was not so much indoors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa [2] says, “An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning.” Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbour to the birds, not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them."
Extract from Chapter 2 “Where I lived, and What I Lived For”
in Walden by Henry David Thoreau
[1] Home of the gods in Greek mythology.
[2] An epic Hindu poem written in the fifth century.
