Just along from Liverpool Street station and tucked behind Spitalfields market is cobbled Folgate Street where the fabulous Water Poet pub can be found. But last night we sought number 18 – which is marked appropriately with gas lights.
In freezing temperatures, the beautifully-spoken guide gave us our instructions outside on the steps – he was mercifully quick. We were to tour the 10 rooms of “still life drama” over several floors in silence. We were warned that it would be cold and to be careful with the candles. I was a bit concerned about the theme of the place: “you either get it or you don’t”. As it happens, I got it.
We entered the dark wood hall and our eyes slowly adjusted to the candlelight. We could just about hear the recording of birds singing outside. Our first destination was the cellar downstairs which was a bit creepy – we could hear someone breathing. There was a monumental fireplace but this room was sparse. I learned that Spitalfields used to be the site of a leper colony.
The kitchen in the next room was a delight. The table was a disarray of real cooking in progress with mixing bowls, broken egg shells, a dusting of flour, jellies and even sugar mice. There was a huge fireplace with old utensils strewn about, freshly baked scones by the stove and other confections which created a warm aroma.
The hand written recipe book – so hard to read by candlelight – gave an interesting insight into how difficult things were before modern conveniences such as electricity. Everywhere you looked – from the china-laden dresser to the dirty dishes in the sink to the list of chores tacked to a side wall – made an impression. Despite the creaking floorboards and the clutter, the kitchen felt homely and I wanted to sit a while to drink it all in.
Back on the ground floor, the front parlour offered portraits of the family and a peek at day to day life in the gloom. Scattered oysters, nut shells, half-finished glasses of wine, tiled fireplaces, candle cutters and a functional candle-wax candelabra within dark green walls made it almost romantic.
Then up to the brighter and more elegant formal salon – I liked the reality of baskets of linen left on the stairs. The landing here contained a fabulous crystal chandelier with an ornate multi-layered stand below containing many tiny bowls of sweets and nuts and other treats. It really was very pretty.
The front salon was probably my favourite room – mainly due to the intoxicating aroma of spices and oranges from the garland over the large fireplace where a real fire crackled invitingly. It was just as you would imagine it to be but so much more realistic than the sanitised versions you often see on TV period dramas.
It was elegant and spacious but lived-in. There was carpet, armchairs, rich velvet curtains and half-finished cups of tea and whispers of everyday life - sewing, letters (with feather quills) and snacks. The softly playing church bells in the background were punctuated by the occasional louder bell on the door downstairs – the only real-time evidence to break the spell. Again, I wanted to sink into one of those chairs and absorb the scene, to properly transport myself back to times gone by.
The room behind was a contrast – whereas the front salon felt feminine, decorative and ordered, this room felt manly and functional. It was darker, wooden and a touch foreboding. There was a knocked over chair, clothes and hats cast carelessly about and letters and papers littering the central round table. Logs were neatly stacked below the window. The ticking clock in the corner and the finch chirping in its cage added to the effect.
As we stepped back into the small hallway, we could feel the cold draft blowing down from upstairs. The master bedroom held a large four poster bed – and you immediately understood the need to draw its curtains around you. The walls held an astonishing array of tiny shelves on which were placed so many Chinese cups and ornaments. The formal day dress hanging against a screen was in stark contrast to the small table bearing breakfast remains. I loved the feminine clutter on the dressing table. And I nearly jumped out of my skin as a real cat strolled into the room and leapt onto the bed for a snooze.
But the smaller bedroom behind, with a single wooden sleigh bed and a cosy fire was much more to my taste. Again, I would have been quite content to spend some time in here relaxing in a chair. It felt intimate and cosy (another real fire merrily burning away). I spent a while looking at the pictures and notices on the walls – each item told a story.
Then up to the attic where a poor family of silk weavers had lived. It was like a 3D Dickensian novel – really cold, with broken ceilings, tired and mended clothes hanging against a wall, chairs drawn around a small fire, evidence of sick children and a painful depiction of poverty. It was dirty and cold. And there was dust and dirt everywhere. I was drawn to a tiny corner bureau, with a partial glass screen, where moulding books were stacked on a grimy windowsill. I could imagine someone staring wistfully at the tiny portrait of a loved one while writing those letters and sealing them with wax.
Then finally we returned to the ground floor and took a look at the most modern room where there was an early sofa and so many pictures and stories about the new queen. Again, every crevice had an item that told a story that, woven together, created a compelling scene.
It was a spell-bounding hour. An amazing experience. And it really was like stepping through the frame of an oil painting and becoming an integral part of the tales that they told. Ordinary museums are going to feel very sterile in future.
Evening tours cost £14 and take between 45 minutes and an hour. There is also an exclusive tour where you get to sip champagne, sit in those chairs in a room of your choice and talk to the curators. I think I’ll have to return for that one.
Further details at http://www.dennissevershouse.co.uk/
