Saturday, 24 March 2018

I miss my pad and the places I've known

'Daydream transports the dreamer outside the immediate world to a world that bears the mark of infinity.' 
― Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

It's nearly two years now since I helped to organise what was probably the first ever archaeological dig of a postwar council estate. The most magical thing about this event for me personally was that it enabled me to be back on Middlefield for a duration of time (some four days all told, the longest length of time I've spent there since I moved away some 30-odd years ago). Towards the end of the final day of the dig, I felt myself slipping into the deeper time and space of the estate. There was one moment when I found myself walking over to one of the test pits, down a path that I always used to follow as I headed home from town, from school, from work, or at some strange time in the early hours of the morning after a night out. As I walked along that path and reached the point where the roofline of my old house and the window of my bedroom began to appear above the other houses in front of me, I suddenly thought of myself as a teenager c.1977, coming home from wherever on a similar, sunny Spring Saturday afternoon, and I thought that maybe my Mum was there cooking tea, that my Dad had just got in from the allotment, and that my bedroom was still there with its window open to the sunshine. And for a split second I was there again. The precise feeling is virtually indescribable. There was no wobble in space; the path and the houses around me didn't somehow shift back to their 1970s state. It was all in my head, but somehow I became me as I was back then. My home was there, my parents were there still, alive and with me once more. And then it passed. For that moment, it all seemed too easy - after all, how many times would I have walked down that path during my lifetime on the estate, expectant of getting home? How easy therefore to recall what was once an everyday state of being, my life on the estate as that teenager (although it could have just as easily been me as a nine year old walking home from school, or from the shops).

Sunday, 11 February 2018

The Radburn Idea 2: Partial/True/Modified/Experimental

In my last post we saw how some architects who were toying with the Radburn Idea in the immediate postwar years seemed to prefer terrace-like arrangements of houses fronting onto wide expanses of pedestrianised 'greens'. At the same time, these 'fronts' also tended to be strictly linear, with straight footpaths laid around the rectangular green areas, unlike - for instance - the pedestrian spaces seen above in a typically stylish Architectural Review illustration for an article entitled  'Over and Under – A survey of problems of pedestrian and vehicle segregation' (May 1961, p.323). In fact, any sense of an open, public, green space like the one seen below seems to be completely missing from this illustration (and in a scene which, in any case, appears more like a private housing development).

Indeed, the drawing is very reminiscent of this photograph (or artist's impression?) of the Radburn development itself as it appeared when new, and which tended to have quite naturalistic, wavering footpaths running centrally down the middle of wider open green spaces - parkland, even:

In one way, these images all happen to strike at the root of the critical stance many have taken against the way architects and planners applied the Radburn Idea to the postwar British council estate, as if council estates could never 'do it properly', ending up with a watered down version to suit cultural economies of scale. Radburn however was essentially a private development, and the AR drawing in turn seems to suggest that it would only do for private housing developments (to the point where, as more and more local authority housing developments adopted Radburn, the private sphere seemed to then drop it like a hot and very unsavoury potato). Indeed, the AR drawing for the 'back' of this imaginary Radburn estate reinforces the image of cosy mortgaged suburban life: 

Nevertheless, these illustrations were served to expressly represent a 'True' Radburn system, which is just one of the ways in which the Architectural Review tended to characterise the Radburn Idea. Here, and across a number of other publications of the time that comment on the Radburn system, four categories were generally used: 1. 'Partial' (aka 'Radburn-Type'); 2. 'True'; 3. 'Modified', and 4. 'Experimental'.

For an estate to be characterised as a 'true' application of the Radburn Idea, the main criteria in the 'Over and Under' article seemed to hinge on the idea of providing all 'householders' (note the phrasing there, which again seems to imply ownership) with 'access to a continuous belt of parkland' [my italics]. Yet degrees of difference in interpretation remained. In the AR of January 1960, the Chimswell Way estate in Haverhill, Suffolk (part of which can be seen below) is also referred to as 'true' Radburn (p.57). Some semblance of that 'parkland' ideal is apparent here, as is the curving footpath which is reminiscent of the one which can be seen in the above image of Radburn (the fencing and walling around the gardens at Chimswell would have come later, as a consequence of post-1980s right-to-buy deregulation). But there's perhaps little to formally distinguish this from the 'partial' or 'Radburn-type' Middlefield Lane estate also shown above.

Again, different architects and site planners would naturally interpret the Radburn Idea to their own personal creative ends and, especially, in relation to local authority needs and desires, alongside other factors such as any budgetary constraints. On the other hand, the AR of January 1961 notes that the planning of some (unspecified) municipal housing at Harlow New Town was based on a modified Radburn system’ (p.35 - my italics again) which, as described, seemed to do away with any green spaces, parkland or otherwise, altogether, leaving only footpaths to divide the fronts of the houses ... 

Either way, we are still a long way from the cosy, sylvan world of the 'Over and Under' drawings. Or are we? The same article concludes by stating that ‘The Radburn system, besides providing open space which people can really use, also makes life safer for the pedestrian and car parking and garaging easier. Though this scheme has been imitated in a number of countries, in Britain planners have been slow to realize its implications and the majority of layouts based on it so far have been uninspired.’

Which leaves 'Experimental' Radburn. I first came across this term while looking through various research papers published by the Stevenage Development Corporation in the late 1960s, where the appellation crops up many times, for instance when referring to the Pin Green neighbourhood. Given this photograph of the area taken from Frederic Osborn and Arnold Whittick's book the New Towns the answer to megalopolis (Leonard Hill, 1969) however there's not a lot which is 'experimental' about it all, aside from some creative bits of landscaping:

A closer read of these documents however reveals the true aim of the later 1960s experiments with Radburn at Stevenage. While the earlier schemes mentioned above seem content to simply separate the car from the pedestrian, it seems as if the planners at Stevenage wanted to totally eradicate the car from their housing estates: 'Sishes End – purely pedestrian (high density) ... forcing roads to function as local distributors … ' [my italics again]. On that note, I want to turn to The Meadows in Nottingham which I visited on a lovely sunny, summer's morning back in August last year:

Of course this photograph was taken in somewhat favourable conditions, but I might as well nail my opinions to the wall and say that I think The Meadows is one of the most beautifully designed council estates ever. As my good colleague Chris Matthews says in his excellent book Homes and Places: A History of Nottingham's Council Houses (Nottingham City Homes, 2015), the Radburn approach here resulted in 'a clean, green, low-density and peaceful environment' (p.79). The layout, he goes on, 'could be confusing to others', and he's right. There was nothing for this outsider to do but to wander at will, and what follows here is little more than a series of possibly too effusive observations on this quite remarkable place, based on that one morning's visit. 

The Meadows is a late example of Radburn planning in that it was only really completed during the mid to late 1970s, and it is truly ‘experimental’. Its layout is complex, difficult, abstract even, and almost improvisational in manner. If Middlefield and Haverhill are the Straight No Chasers of council estates, The Meadows is an ECM album. It is free, free in its arrangement and certainly designed to be as free from the car as possible. Even the classic Radburn 'service' roads at backs of the houses are quite few and far between in some places. Much of The Meadows consists of clusters of houses which are often completely surrounded by intimate, purely pedestrianized green areas with a number of footpaths all in and around:

This doctored google maps plan demonstrates just how much the car was excluded from this estate - the blue lines are the access roads; the rest is pedestrian access only:

In addition to this, it is also clear that by this time there was no need to even think about mirroring the nineteenth century terraces this estate replaced: the fact that these places still remained in our cities during the 1970s had become an embarrassment and needed to be forgotten. Everything was new, modern, innovatory, forward-looking. Chris Matthews describes The Meadows as low-density and he is almost certainly right; even so parts of the estate still came across to me as densely clustered – perhaps too much so at times, maybe a little too tightly knit:

In fact - and I can see that this also could be construed as a bad thing - on the day these 'gardens' and 'closes' around their grassy areas seemed to me to hark back further in relation to working class housing, to a pre-modern, pre-industrial urban Nottingham, to medieval in-fill and hidden away gardens in small courtyards. Radburn though was essentially suburban, and in a country where the car economy was more acceptable the cars could still park up to the house on car ports. In 1970s England however, and for those working class people who were in desperate need to be rehoused, the car was still by no means a consideration. As such, The Meadows is an exciting example of experimental Radburn purely in its desire to ignore the car altogether: as a consequence it is a real thing of beauty and, in its own way, nearer to Radburn - or at least the Architectural Review's ideal of it - than ever:

To finish, I'm certainly not about to get into a debate here around what Nottingham City Council once described as 'the problems associated with the layout of the New Meadows Radburn style layout' and how it apparently contributed to 'the anti-social behaviour and crime in the area.' (From a report of the Acting Director of Local Communities,, 7 Jan 2009). If there was one good thing to come out of the Grenfell tragedy, and in respect to social housing in general, it's that such off-the-cuff remarks like this are now almost de-trop. In a time of acute housing scarcity/social precarity I'd argue that we should move ourselves beyond all that. The Meadows didn't not work because of idealistic layouts, just as much as high density slab and tower blocks could never create crime and anti-social behaviour in themselves. The Barbican has always seemed to be ok in that respect and, well, there are also examples of Radburn planning within private estates, and they seem to be ok too, so next time ...

Saturday, 30 December 2017

The Radburn Idea 1: nothing lost and a good deal to be gained

... It would appear that there is nothing to be lost and that there may be a good deal to be gained by pursuing the Radburn Idea further, provided always that those who do so take the trouble to familiarise themselves thoroughly with the principles which underlie it.

J. Lewis Womersley, 'Some Housing Experiments on Radburn Principles', The Town Planning Review, Vol. 25, No. 3 (Oct 1954), pp. 182-194.

It's been eight months (April 2017) since I last posted here (on the perpetual wonders of children making their council estate home environment their own), but this was largely due to me working on what is really the crowning glory of this blog, my book Middlefield: A postwar council estate in time, which was published by the estimable Uniformbooks in the summer. In that book I wrote about how the open plan, pedestrianised spaces of the Middlefield Lane estate enabled its children to play freely across its spaces. As this blog has pointed out many times, Middlefield was but one example of those 'Experiments on Radburn Principles' that the architect, J. Lewis Womersley, refers to in the title of his 1954 article for The Town Planning Review. Since finishing my book I've become more and more interested in the 'Radburn idea' and how it was applied to other estates across the country, and so this post is the first of a series which will take the 'trouble to familiarise' ourselves with the Radburn idea and its principles. Despite my firm belief that these principles produced an environment where me and my friends could safely play and flourish to our heart's content, Radburn has gained a bad reputation over the years, especially in the snotty way it has been tagged as the 'council estate layout'. In particular, critics and historians have blamed architects and planners for not implementing Radburn in an 'authentic' manner, implying that they self-indulgently played around with its principles, creating estates with spaces that in turn wilfully 'experimented' with peoples' lives. Consequently, Radburn has been cited as yet another component part of the 'failed Utopian experiment' of council house building. As always with the postwar council estate however, I want to condemn less, and understand more. When and where was 'the Radburn Idea' adopted? How did it develop? How was it adapted; how did architects experiment with it in the design of local authority-built housing estates? How was the use of the Radburn Idea reported at the time? Despite the 'council estate layout' jibe, did architects attempt to use Radburn principles elsewhere? (The short answer is yes, and we shall later take the time to look at how they affected the design of one private estate).

The ‘Radburn Idea' stems from the small unfinished settlement of Radburn in New Jersey, which had been one of a number of experimental housing projects started in 1928 by the Regional Planning Association of America, and which was supported by President Roosevelt’s ‘New Deal’ programme of social and cultural reforms around the time of the Great Depression. The Radburn layout has been appropriately described by Alison Ravetz as ‘garden city plus motor car’. As we can see in one plan of the area below, the housing was set out in 'superblocks', closely-set, high density clusters of different housing types (eg. semi-detached, terraced 'townhouses', apartment blocks) arranged along relatively short cul-de-sac lanes that ran off a limited number of main access roads. These allowed the parking of cars at what was referred to as the rear, ‘service’ side of the houses (the letters within the houses shown below refer to the rooms within, with 'K' for kitchen facing the parking areas). Otherwise - and this is the most important facet of Radburn - the car, and the roads in general, were kept absolutely separate from pedestrians, who could get from A to B by using a network of public footpaths and green spaces at the front of the houses. 

Radburn planning was first acknowledged in this country in the Dudley Report of 1944 (Design of Dwellings, Central Housing Advisory Ctte, London: HMSO). One immediate and interesting contextual question to be raised about postwar British architects and planners adopting Radburn as a model for designing new estates is why they momentarily shifted their gaze away from Scandinavia, and towards the 'States for new inspiration? Was this by way of a cultural nod of thanks for the Marshall Plan? Or were they attracted by the soft socialism of the New Deal? Most likely I suppose is that they liked Radburn because they saw it as a new development in English garden city-type planning, but this is nevertheless a question that needs more exploration. Womersley's article is in any case one of the earliest to look at how Radburn could be used for new council estates, where he focussed on his Eastfield development in Northampton, which was being built at that time.

According to Womersley, Radburn principles were applied only 'in a limited form' at Eastfield. We shall look at why this was so in due course, however Womersley also admitted that he had been 'attracted by the Radburn Idea' but had 'lacked either the time or the courage to make a serious attempt to design a layout based on its principles'. That 'courage' was initially suppressed by one particular worry regarding rear service roads, which meant that visitors by car would have to enter the houses by the back door. Womersley then explains how it was pointed out to him that his own late Victorian house was part of a terrace which had since evolved to have service roads leading to garages behind. Being concerned about visitors having to enter a house by the back door might seem to us today as slight, quaint even, but it seemed to be based on nagging, pre-war conventions of suburban respectability and propriety (and it is one of the central criticisms of 'Radburn-as-council-estate-layout' that has persisted - in the long run however, this might say more about the social prejudices of the critics rather than the 'problem' itself). Thankfully, Womersley became convinced that any such 'risks' attached to a 'carefully designed Radburn layout' were 'almost negligible' while the advantages 'appeared to be considerable.' 

To me, the 'limited form' of Eastfield as a Radburn-Influenced estate seems to centre on the way its superblocks were defined by the terrace, rather than the staggered clusters of houses that were to be found at Radburn itself. In the early years of postwar reconstruction, council estate architects designing low-rise estates appear to prefer ribbon, terrace-like arrangements. Perhaps this was intended to maintain a sense of continuity and to make acclimatization easier for those being rehoused in the new estates (while also reflecting soon-to-come sociological studies such as Young and Willmott's Family and Kinship in East London (1957) which to some extent argued that (nineteenth century) terraced housing environments fostered strong social networks of dependence and mutual support). The photograph of the model of Eastfield above shows the terrace arrangements there, as does this recent view below:

Of course this was in any case a very different, more spacious and greener environment to the close-knit, overcrowded slum housing that estates like these were replacing (partly discussed here), but this form of Radburn nevertheless became a model for the design of other council estates across the country, including Middlefield, which began to be designed a decade or so after Eastfield in 1962 (interestingly, Middlefield's architect, Neil Taylor, once told me that his colleagues at this time in the small, provincial practice where he worked didn't know what he was talking about when he first mentioned Radburn to them). Like Eastfield, Middlefield also applies a terraced arrangement to the key Radburn principle of providing pedestrianised green spaces at the front of the houses:

Otherwise, it seems natural that any up-and-coming architect in postwar Britain would interpret the Radburn Idea to their own personal creative ends (which again would lead to non-architectural criticisms of a lack of fidelity to Radburn). Nevertheless, an examination of the various 'Experiments on ...' continue to throw up some anomalies. In his article, Womersley prides himself on following through 'Radburn theory ... to the end by designing house plans in which the kitchens overlook the pedestrian ways so that mothers can keep their children in view'. Yet, the Radburn superblock plan above shows that the kitchens there overlooked the service roads at the back (In this respect, Taylor got it right at Middlefield). Of course, it is difficult to know sixty years on whether Womersley simply got it wrong here, or indeed how much of the detail of Radburn he'd actually seen, but it does beg a more detailed scrutiny of the 'Radburn Idea' which will be attempted, however tentatively, in forthcoming posts (which might well end up perpetuating or even creating more anomalies!). In any case, the fairly utilitarian applications of the 'Radburn Idea' seen in this first instalment are completely blown apart in the later 60s and early 70s, when architects begin to really play around with its principles, for instance by almost completely rejecting any attempt to accommodate the car at all. But this will be explored further in the next post (which might not immediately appear but I promise it will be well within another eight months).

Friday, 21 April 2017

'From Phoenix'

These are a series of chalk drawings I photographed on Tuesday 11 April. They ran all along the path around Priory Close. 

I can't pretend to understand these drawings - the words, the kings and queens, the patterns (paths, houses?), the (self?) portraits - but what does that matter? The children who did them were probably occupied for much of the day, and for reasons that are essentially unfathomable to the adult mind. It was probably a one-off, spontaneous thing to do, with just a few found chalks. It probably started with one thing and then randomly extended along the path. I like to imagine that they would have been happy in the moment doing this, making their mark on the estate, making the spaces their own. When it rains, these drawings will get washed away. Then they might try to do it again, although it won't feel quite the same as on that first day because they planned it. They might never do it again. 

Saturday, 4 March 2017


Nothing much seems to happen on the Middlefield estate in its third year of existence. It seldom gets a mention in the Gainsborough Evening News over 1967, and so we can only assume that the estate’s residents on the whole were leading quiet, settled lives. On the 3rd of January, there’s a short piece about someone living on Sturgate Walk who tried to claim £6. 6s. (£6.30) from the Gainsborough Urban District Council, for damage to wallpaper and lino due to a burst pipe. Somewhat inexplicably, the council agreed to pay for the wallpaper, but not for the lino. A month later, the council’s housing committee met and agreed not to raise rents that year – and so in 1967 a two-bedroomed home like ours cost us 23s (£1.15) per week. 

On the 14th of February, the News reported that the council had also agreed to reduce the rental of garages on the uphill estates from 7s 6d (just over 37p) to 6s (30p) per month. When Middlefield was first conceived, the council were keen to embrace the car economy of the future, and 142 garages were built on the estate (about one garage for every three homes, significantly more generous than in the new towns, where the ratio tended to be one garage for every ten homes). But Middlefield’s garages always struggled to be let, which might have accounted for the reduction in rent.

In the same edition, there were indications that the council were nevertheless continuing to think of the future. Talks had long been established with the London County Council to build an overspill estate in the town for what Gainsborough’s Tory MP, Marcus Kimball, described as ‘real Londoners’. Kimball did not like the idea. Gainsborough, he argued, was too far away for those 'real' Londoners to seriously want to move here, but he also had another reason – the town should not be expected to take in London’s ‘problem families’. The council did not agree, and one councillor’s response to this is worth quoting verbatim: ‘the people who will move to this town are human beings, who will move because they have the initiative and the zest to seek pastures new in pleasant surroundings where work and housing will be available.’ Within two years, building had commenced on a new estate – the Park Springs Estate – which would be Gainsborough’s contribution in helping to alleviate what might appear to us now to be London’s perennial housing crisis. I need to do some research on whether there are any sociological studies of the whole ‘overspill’ phenomenon of the 60s and 70s, but I wonder what parallels can be drawn here between that, and what we tend to see now as very twenty-first century issues, of ‘decanting’ and social cleansing?

On the 25th July, the Gainsborough Evening News reported that parts of the uphill housing estates (including Middlefield) were said to be ‘overrun by dogs’ – and one councillor moved to have notices put up instructing owners to keep their dogs under control at all times. For reasons not specified in the article, this idea was outvoted.

On the 12th December, the council were considering a scheme for providing playing fields for children at Aisby Walk. This did indeed come to pass over the next couple of years, causing what the News described as ‘jubilation among parents’. 

And that’s it for the estate in 1967. But as I was trawling through the microfilmed editions of the News for that year, I was also keeping an eye out for one other thing: the week that the latest James Bond film, You Only Live Twice, came to Gainsborough’s ‘State Cinema’. And there it was, in the edition for Tuesday 28th November: an advert announcing that the film would be shown at the State for a week commencing Thursday 30th November. Over that week I saw what is still my favourite Bond film no less than three times: twice with my Mum who was quietly besotted with Sean Connery, and once with my reluctant Dad, who preferred war films. I was seven and a half then, and I was besotted in turn with the look of the world around me, whether it was the fictional (and still utterly fantastic to my eyes today) volcano-as-space rocket launching pad/SPECTRE lair, or the equally fictional (but more plausible, in that it was essentially based on the ‘Autopian’ landscape and architecture of 1950s and 60s America) of Thunderbirds because, in my innocence, I thought I was living in it.

Tuesday, 15 November 2016

The Phoscos

The Phosco P107 lampposts that sprung up across the estate as it was being completed in 1964 are all now slowly disappearing, being replaced by some skinny interlopers, one of which you can see lurking at the back of this photo: 

Altogether, there are twelve Phoscos left, and these photographs are intended to document them before they are completely lost.

In a post-right to buy estate-scape, where residents have been allowed to put up their own fences, this one has ended up inside a back garden:

This one has suffered the fate of being hybridised:

CU Phosco Ltd are still going strong in that postwar county stronghold of the council estate and new town, Hertfordshire. They still make external lighting of all kinds, including the P107. It would be nice if they could be maintained on the Middlefield Lane estate as part of the original designed fabric of the estate.