In 1941 Batsford published a new title by Edmund Vale called Curiosities of Town and Countryside. With a striking cover by Brian Cook, featuring the triumphal arch at Shugborough Hall, Staffordshire, the jacket blurb promised the reader ‘freaks, eccentricities and follies.’

The Flâneuse recently ordered a copy online and whilst waiting for the postman to arrive began to do some background research. She was baffled to find the reviewer in the Hampstead News writing that amongst the buildings featured in the volume were ‘monstrosities like Lansdown Tower, Bath, and the Sugarloaf Folly, Sussex’. William Beckford and ‘Mad’ Jack Fuller may have built structures that weren’t to everyone’s taste, but ‘monstrosities’ seemed a little harsh.

And then the book was delivered, and all became clear. As he states in the book’s preface, Mr Vale (1888-1969) excludes follies from his study of curiosities for the simple reason that he has ‘always cherished a profound and contemptuous dislike for these monstrosities’. His publisher, Harry Batsford, is adamant that follies should be included in the book, but Vale is resolute that he won’t write about them, and continues that follies are ‘interlopers’ as they are ‘decidely eccentric and not accidentally so’.

‘However I must not rant’ Vale writes (rather too late in the Flâneuse’s opinion) and he introduces Mr Charles Bradley Ford who has come to the rescue by writing a final chapter on follies, and thus allowing Vale to maintain his moral high ground. However this is all a little tongue-in-cheek, for ‘Charles Bradley Ford’ was the pen-name of Harry Batsford and his colleague Christopher Fry: when the company was hit by the financial crisis of the early 1930s, it was cheaper to write the books themselves using a pseudonym.

The publishers also had the last word on illustrations, so many ‘monstrosities’ can be found pictured in the book, including those featured here, although to add to the confusion some of the photographs are of structures that are not even mentioned in the text. And of course the dust jacket features a famous landscape ornament.

‘Ford’ begins his chapter with the obligatory note on the difficulty of defining a folly. He continues that the subject of follies is an ‘amusing and engaging byway’, but with a nod to Vale he continues that to some they are ‘detestable and deplorable excrescences’. Ford believes that follies ‘add to the gaiety of the countryside’, although he draws the line at obelisks which are ‘dull and commonplace in spite of the efforts of lightening to reduce their number’.

The Illustrated London News called the book ‘delectable’ and it is certainly a handsome volume. The argument for and against follies it contains is decidedly odd, but most entertaining: an excellent addition to any folly fan’s library.

The Flâneuse first spotted the striking dust jacket in a new Batsford publication – The Book Cover by Paul Dimond. The book explores 150 years of the vibrant covers designed for Batsford publications.

All of the follies pictured here are extant, and all can be visited or seen from a public road.

Thank you for reading. There will be more monstrosities next week. Scroll down to the comments box if you would like to share any thoughts.

In the early 1940s the artist Rex Whistler completed the illustrations for a book in his breaks from training with the Welsh Guards, working on the drawings in the army huts where he was stationed. The book was The Last of Uptake by Simon Harcourt-Smith, and the reviews agreed that here was ‘the perfect blend of artist and writer’.

Harcourt-Smith (1906-1982) was a former diplomat who wrote on a wide range of subjects, but The Last of Uptake is not typical of his work, as it started life as a lighthearted tale to entertain his wife who was in plaster after a car accident. Rosamund Harcourt-Smith (née Miller) was a society beauty, photographed by Beaton when her engagement was announced. She was known for her stylish outfits, so when Whistler (1905-1944) arrived to stay during this period he was offended by the standard crutches she was using to get about, and immediately set to work to design her a ‘princely pair, in a somewhat rococo taste’.

Simon Harcourt-Smith’s book tells the story of Uptake, a decaying stately home where the Ladies Tryphena and Deborah muddle by with a handful of ancient retainers. Their Palladian mansion is surrounded by a pleasure ground designed by perhaps William Kent, or Capability Brown, and dotted with follies and curiosities. These include a stepped pyramidal ice-house, a Chinese pavilion, a shell grotto, a hermit’s cave, sham Roman ruins, and automata such as a woodman who swings his axe at the turn of a key. When the sisters discover that their favoured heir has died, they decide upon drastic action and burn down the mansion.

The book jacket blurb makes clear that the story is a ‘fantastic confection’, dreamt up by Harcourt-Smith’, but he does write that parts are based on ‘legends’ told by his family and friends. One who might have sowed the seed of an idea is Edward Arthur Donald St George Hamilton Chichester, 6th Marquess of Donegall (1903-1975). Donegall sat in the House of Lords as Baron Fisherwick, a title taken from Fisherwick Hall, a former family seat in Staffordshire. Lord Donegall told his friend Harcourt-Smith the tale of how Fisherwick Hall was ‘inhabited by two maiden sisters who fell out and burned the house down’. It is true that the Marquess’s ancestors were forced to sell the Capability Brown designed Fisherwick house and park in around 1800 to settle debts, and it was demolished soon after, but there were no sisters, and no fire – and in fact no-one other than Donegal (who admitted his tale was ‘probably fictitious’) seems ever to have heard this myth.

Rex Whistler was in his element drawing such fantasy buildings. He loved follies and garden ornament, and favourites such as the Boycott Pavilions at Stowe, and the Palladian Bridge at Wilton, made regular appearances in his work. Part of the fun of the book is trying to figure out the British houses and gardens which might have influenced the text and pictures (track down a copy and try it for yourself). One may even have been fictional: Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca had been a huge success when published only a couple of years earlier, with its haunting description of Manderley in flames.

The Last of Uptake was published by Batsford, and as well as the standard copy there was a deluxe version in a limited edition of 100. This was printed on handmade paper, and signed by the author and illustrator. The book was well-received in the press, but the ‘delightful piece of literary embroidery’ was overshadowed by war. In 1967 Solstice Productions of London reissued the book with a foreword by Rebecca West. She wrote that The Last of Uptake ‘has long been a treasure of mine, and I have always thought it a great misfortune that it failed to be recognised as a classic because it was published during the war’.

Of course the greatest tragedy was that Whistler himself never knew how much pleasure his illustrations gave to readers. He was killed in action in Normandy in 1944, and as Harcourt-Smith wrote in July 1945, it was not easy to think of ‘resuming the round of peace without him’.

Rex Whistler’s original drawings for The Last of Uptake are in the collection of the National Trust at Plas Newydd on Anglesey, where the dining room features an enchanting Rex Whistler mural  https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/plas-newydd-house-and-garden

Apologies to regular readers who were confused to receive last week’s post a day early. This was for reasons of logistics and normal service has been resumed! If you would like to share any thoughts on this post please do get in touch via the comments box below. Thank you for reading, and if you would like to receive a folly story in your inbox every Saturday morning, please visit the Subscribe page.

Tucked in between towering glass office blocks in the city of London, this diminutive kiosk is an unexpected Turkish delight only moments from Liverpool Street Station. That it has survived in one of the most densely developed parts of London is astonishing, and its history is as colourful as its exterior.

In 1861 a London newspaper announced that ‘Turkish baths are coming rapidly into popularity in the metropolis and in the provinces’. There were a number across London, including one on New Broad Street in the City owned by brothers Henry and James Forder Neville. In 1893, looking for an edge over their competitors, the brothers decided to demolish the existing baths and start over.

Architect George Harold Elphick (1851-1924), whose office was practically next door to the site, designed a flamboyant structure in a Moorish style, cleverly using only a very small footprint at pavement level, with the baths below ground. Elphick also designed the tiles for the interior; based on a pattern used in the Alhambra Palace, they were manufactured by Craven Dunnill in Shropshire. The new facilities, Nevills Turkish Baths, were opened 125 years ago in February 1895 and were widely admired.

The fashion for Turkish baths waned in the 20th century and many were lost; the New Broad Street baths closed in the 1950s. For a decade the building was used for storage, and would surely have been lost to developers had a new use not been found. The building’s saviour was Josef Mourat, a Turkish entrepreneur, who started with a coffee shop in his native country before moving to London and setting up progressively more upmarket dining establishments.

In January 1967 he opened Gallipoli, a ‘definitive Turkish restaurant’, where the very finest cuisine was on offer. After being greeted by a ‘massive doorman dressed in gorgeous attire’ guests could dine before the ‘sensual entertainment’ began at 10pm and 1am prompt. Reviewing the restaurant for the Kensington Post in March 1967 ‘Trencherman’ was impressed by the food and, clearly also an expert on all things terpsichorean, described the cabaret as ‘the best belly dancing this side of Cairo’.

Gallipoli was succeeded by further restaurants and clubs and the Turkish kiosk continues to offer hospitality. It is currently known as the Victorian Bath House and is available for private hire, or you can book a table for exotic cocktails on a Friday evening. But do please invite The Folly Flâneuse to join you. More here https://www.victorianbathhouse.co.uk.

Thanks to friends old and new for the two wonderful illustrations. The Shoreditch Sketcher, aka Phil Dean, and The Folly Flâneuse go back a long way and it is great to feature his work. Find out more here https://www.theshoreditchsketcher.com

The Folly Flâneuse was introduced to the work of Eleanor Crow through her beautiful book Shopfronts of London: in Praise of Small Neighbourhood Shops (Batsford, 2019), and the associated exhibition of her watercolours at the Town House in Spitalfields. See more of her work here http://www.eleanorcrow.com

There’s a brilliant website with a full description of this and other Turkish baths of the period here http://www.victorianturkishbath.org