The collapse of the Cologne City Archive in March 2009 was let’s just say, sub-optimal. The building full of the archives came down during construction work on the city’s north south light rail tunnel, killing two people in the neighbouring houses and burying one of Europe’s most important municipal archives under rubble and mud. This was not some little local records office containing a few damp parish newsletters, but a vast collection preserving nearly a thousand years of Cologne’s documentary memory, including medieval charters, manuscripts, personal papers and administrative records of extraordinary value. Few cities manage to mislay their own past quite so dramatically and this was especially unfortunate given that it had survived the ravages of the Second World War.
What followed was a long and expensive salvage operation, with archivists, conservators and volunteers working to recover, freeze, clean and identify damaged material piece by piece, which is in my humble opinion very much heroic work. Millions of items were rescued, though often in fragmentary or filthy condition, and the restoration effort has taken years, with the city slowly rebuilding both the archive and its reputation after a catastrophe that became a byword for civic embarrassment.
The work to fix the archives is not yet complete, over €400 million has already been spent and restoration and the rebuilding of the collection will take decades more yet. However, all of the most important pieces of the archive have been saved and the losses have been minimised, but it’s not really an ideal situation.
I like the museum’s exhibit on this, it’s a fire exit sign from around 2000 which was salvaged from the collapsed building. It is beautifully understated as a representation of the disaster that took place here.
The first bridge on this site was the Dombrücke, opened in 1859, a two track bridge built at a time when railways were transforming the city and when placing major infrastructure beside the cathedral was apparently considered an entirely reasonable little arrangement. By the start of the twentieth century the Dombrücke could no longer cope with growing traffic, and plans were drawn up for something larger, more decadent and more in keeping with Cologne’s enthusiasm for doing importance at scale. The present bridge was built between 1907 and 1911 and opened by Kaiser Wilhelm II, replacing the earlier crossing at essentially the same location and preserving that dramatic line towards the cathedral.
When the Hohenzollern Bridge opened in 1911 it carried not only railway traffic but also a road, with three adjoining bridge sections and an arrangement that tried to reconcile engineering necessity, imperial grandeur and Cologne’s urban awkwardness in one steel composition. It was named for the Hohenzollern dynasty, because the German Empire rather liked putting ruling family’s name on prominent things. This section here is part of the old infrastructure of the bridge, which is no longer used.
And the same section on the other side of the bridge, which now also goes nowhere.
The Second World War, in the usual considerate manner, interrupted all this rather badly. The bridge was blown up by the Germans in 1945, but it was rebuilt after the war, first reopening for rail traffic in 1948, with later rebuilding and widening phases in 1959 and 1987 helping to create the six track railway bridge seen today. The road element never returned, leaving the structure as a railway and pedestrian bridge instead, with 1,200 trains going over the bridge every day. The bridge is something of a tourist destination now and it’s likely for the best that the number of cars ploughing straight through the middle of the city has been reduced somewhat.
Incidentally, there is also, on the Deutz side, a public climbing facility maintained by the German Alpine Association, which is perhaps something that my friend Richard might want to have a go at now that he’s a climbing professional.
And then there are the love locks, which have turned the bridge into a giant metal archive of optimism since the custom took hold in 2008. The authorities don’t know how many there are now, but it’s likely around 700,000 sort of number. Counting each one individually would be a deeply unfortunate and sub-optimal way to spend an afternoon, so it’s unlikely the total number will ever be known. Deutsche Bahn has said the locks do not threaten the bridge’s structural safety, which is reassuring, because it would be a grim little twist if the bridge fell down because of them.
Anthony Gross (1905-1984) was not so much interested in the glamorous end of war, which is probably just as well, because glamour tends to be in rather short supply in a medical facility, known as the advanced dressing station. His 1942 watercolour ‘The Battle of Egypt – Advanced Dressing Station Interior’ shows men waiting, resting and enduring, with one figure seated in the middle of the picture while others lie around him in a scene of fatigue and exhaustion rather than triumph. These are the human consequences of war, just a waiting room of pain and I’m still not sure that I can really comprehend how frightening this whole process must have been.
In early life Gross lived in Dulwich and Camberwell, apprenticed at the LCC School of Photo Engraving and Lithography, then studied at the Slade and in Paris, which gave him a rather serious artistic grounding before the Second World War arranged more urgent subject matter for him. The information panel at the museum notes that he was one of four official war artists commissioned to record the Middle East theatre of war, in this case focusing on the people patching up the wounded in conditions that look deeply sub-optimal, while everyone tries not to think too hard about what comes next.
And, something which interested me more than it probably should have done, but it was Anthony Gross who created the artwork for the first edition of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies.
Apologies for the slightly sub-optimal image quality here, but this is the Moon Under Water in Colindale, which is also listed in the Good Beer Guide. Using the venue’s own history:
“Several Wetherspoon pubs have ‘moon’ in their name, linking them with the ideal pub described in detail by George Orwell. The highly regarded author named his fictional pub ‘Moon Under Water’. This one was purpose built as a branch of the Woolworths chain. It opened in early summer of 1939, serving a fast-growing suburb. Woolworths traded here at Varley Parade for 45 years, closing in 1984.”
This is the rear area of the pub, which feels more like the dining area. The service was friendly and timely, with the venue having a laid-back and comfortable feel to it.
This venue is on the cheapest price band which made this meal and drink under £6, which feels very reasonable to me. Although goodness knows what they did to the eggs. A perfectly decent arrangement with the non alcohol Guinness.
My now obligatory carpet photo.
This is the more lively front bar and as I was in the venue for quite a time and they had a special offer on the curry, I accidentally ordered one of those as well. Anyway, this was hot and tasted as expected, alongside my non alcoholic Erdinger.
I like looking at the reviews of JD Wetherspoon venues and I was once again tempted by that here. The venue is rated towards the higher end of the scale nationally and I must admit, I rather liked it here and didn’t rush to leave. But that’s evident as I had two meals.
“After driving 4 hours from Belgium with my 17-year-old son, we came here for a proper meal. I ordered a beer for myself and gave him a tiny sip with his meal — perfectly legal under UK law. The manager (pictured) didn’t even approach us himself — instead, he sent a waiter to tell us we had to leave. When I asked him directly why, he offered vague excuses and no real explanation. Our meals were shoved into cartons, and we were shown the door with no respect or courtesy.”
This reviewer has decided to post photos of the team member which seems entirely out of order to me. And he gave alcohol to an underage person which is against the policies of JD Wetherspoon and he wondered why he got thrown out?
“Shocked when I had to speak to this branch manager this evening. My 18 year old ordered on the app for a Manchester Moon under water – correctly selecting the Manchester location 0.3 miles from her. The app sent her order here??? 155 miles away Why no one knows?”
I think everyone knows, she ordered it to the wrong venue. The downside of JD Wetherspoon having about thirty pubs with this name.
“Awful experience, the assistant ‘manager’ who barely looked 21 took great pride in saying as two of our party did not have their IDs that they could not stay past 9pm. He then tried to say it’s the law, which it clearly is not and when asked to provide proof it was the law, he was unable too, then said it was the branch policy. Probably made his night being spiteful and nasty to customers. Thing about Wetherspoons, there is little point in complaining as they specialise in being cheap and could not give a monkeys about their customers.”
Challenge 21 is almost certainly in their licensing requirements, but might as well mock how old the team member looks.
“Need to retrain the chefs. Went in twice for tea as we was working away from home. Both times the food was terrible. Everything was over cooked. Even the fried eggs. If a chef cant cook an egg then its time to give up.”
I have some sympathy with the egg comment.
“Typical moons pub, grotty and full of Not trendy people, I only went because it was a works drink. Had one drink and had to leave.”
Hmmmm, those blasted non trendy people…
I was slightly disappointed to discover that there weren’t any negative reviews from customers who weren’t allowed to bring their dog in.
Anyway, I liked it here and it’s the first time that I’ve visited. There were six real ales available as well as a number of craft beers, all enough to justify their place in the Good Beer Guide.
The Taylorcraft Auster Mk1, used as an Air Observation Post from 1942 to 1946, seems like a practical little machine. Its intentions were simple, get into the air, find things on the ground and help artillery hit them with greater accuracy than might otherwise have been the case. It rather feels like the drones that are currently being used in Ukraine and Russia.
Around 100 of them were built and in 1944, the Royal Air Force trained members of the British Army to fly them. I’m not sure whether that was because they weren’t exotic enough for the RAF pilots or were just incredibly easy to fly. There are a fair few of the later versions of the aircraft still about, but it seems there are only a couple of the Mark 1 versions, this one and another at Historic Army Aircraft Flight charitable trust. I think I like understated things, so this was one of my favourite aircraft in the museum, as who needs huge firepower?
Having been away for a little while, quite a lot has changed at Anglia Square now. The cinema has entirely gone and the buildings are coming down at quite a pace. It’s surprising just how challenging it already is to work out what was where, but it’s clear that there will soon be very little left. There is though far more water being sprayed over the rubble than before, perhaps to counter the complaints about all the dust everywhere.
Just as I thought I had finished my visit to the Royal Air Force museum, I found they had an art gallery section as well. The whole arrangement here is some substantial that I’ll have to visit again to try and see everything that I missed when I visited last week.
This artwork is by Sybil Andrews (1898-1992) and she painted ‘Air Sea Rescue Launch’ in around 1942, and it is something of a splendid reminder that wartime art was not always interested in giving us handsome fighter pilots staring nobly into the middle distance. There are bold colours and a sense of urgency to the painting, it feels like quite a punchy artwork.
That, really, is the theme that justifies this riveting blog post, which is that the war depended on rescue, repair and the sort of practical work that rarely gets turned into legend. The museum panel notes that this was one of seven paintings Andrews made about boat building while attached to the Camouflage Development and Training Centre at Farnham Castle under the War Artists Advisory Committee, and that she was working for the Royal Air Force as an official war artist. I like it when infrastructure is at the centre, there are enough artworks of moments of great rescue at sea or of battle scenes.
This reversible destination board for Brussels and Paris, dating from around 1937 and once fitted to the steps used for boarding Imperial Airways aircraft at Croydon Airport, is a wonderfully matter of fact relic from the early age of international air travel. That things like this survive at all pleases me greatly, I like the symbolism.
There is something rather pleasing about the simplicity of it with no glowing screens, no urgent gate change announcements, no little electronic dramas and just a solid sign informing passengers that they were off to Paris. Or Brussels. Depending, of course, on which way round somebody had turned it.
I very much like air travel today, but I do wonder just how different it would have been. It would have been a more occasional treat with less security hassle, no worrying about whether bags fitted into the sizer and probably not having to deal with checking in on-line 24 hours before and wondering if the seating Gods had given me a middle seat.
The Minoritekirche in Cologne (St. Mariä Empfängnis in German) might look slightly understated, but it has a long heritage. It was built for the Franciscans, or Minorites, in the thirteenth century which meant some relative architectural restraint, though ‘restraint’ in medieval terms still left room for a very handsome Gothic interior. The Franciscans came to Cologne in the early thirteenth century and their church developed into one of the major mendicant foundations in the city.
After the Franciscans split in 1517, the Cologne house belonged to the Conventual branch and the church was later reshaped in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, before suffering badly under French occupation and the secularisation that followed. During this period, the friars were expelled and the building was put to more utilitarian use. It was saved in the 19th century, badly damaged again by bombing in 1942 and then rebuilt after the Second World War.
The nave of the church, which was peaceful and quiet. I had just been to the city’s grand cathedral which was beautiful, but that was anything but quiet. It’s only a short distance away and in 1846, the church was handed over to the cathedral and it was used for confirmations and ordinations.
The chancel and it feels well proportioned and light.
The rather grand altarpiece.
This is the tomb of Duns Scotus (1263-1308), medieval Franciscan philosopher and academic theologian. Known as the “Subtle Doctor”, he specialised in arguments of extraordinary complexity, suggesting a mind that found straightforwardness a rather unappealing little arrangement.
This memorial tablet is an epitaph for Johann Averdunck, a distinguished local legal and administrative figure. The monument is written in Latin and follows the traditional “D.O.M.” (Deo Optimo Maximo) dedication, which translates to ‘To God, the Best and Greatest’.
This is the seventeenth century Latin memorial tablet dedicated to Henricus Francis (Henry Francis), a notable scholar and clergyman.
As a note about just how observant I clearly am, the church also has the tomb of Adolph Kolping (1813-1865) who founded the Kolping Association. He was ordained to the priesthood in this church in 1845, but his father died the previous evening, so that must have been something of an emotional challenge.
I found this to be a rather lovely understated and quiet church, very much a contrast to the cathedral. The building had been knocked about so many times over the centuries that in many ways it feels quite modern, but the heritage is evident in other ways.
During the Second World War, playing cards were slipped into prisoner of war camps because they looked harmless enough, but hidden inside them were escape maps, allowing captured airmen and soldiers to peel apart the layers and reveal useful geography once the card game was over.
I do wonder how opposing military authorities failed to spot this little arrangement, especially given that wartime censors were not always generally known for their relaxed attitude to suspicious parcels. Perhaps the cards looked too banal to deserve much scrutiny, or perhaps someone simply saw a pack of them and thought that prisoners deserved at least one modest pleasure before returning to the business of attempted escape.
Either way, I like the ingenuity and the museum thinks that these were produced around 1943. The International Spy Museum in the United States notes:
“To date, decks of these cards are said to have helped at least 32 people escape from Colditz Castle and prompted some 316 escape attempts.”
There were some very careless military authorities amongst the German troops letting this lot through.
