Message in a bottle

Dr Brian Hoggard is an expert in the archaeology of British folk magic. This feature on the witch bottles of England first appeared in the spring 2016 edition of the SPAB Magazine. The magazine is benefit of SPAB membership, for details on becoming a member please see our website.

Witch-bottles first appear in the archaeological record in England in the first half of the 17th century. They were initially used as a specific counter-spell to undo harmful bewitching. For the first 100 years or so of their use a type of stoneware bottle colloquially known as a ‘bellarmine’ was used, glass bottles were used later on.


Witch bottle found in Suffolk

Witch-bottles, like other apotropaic (evil-averting) objects, were deliberately concealed so it is only when buildings are demolished, repaired, or when archaeologists excavate building sites that they come to light.  This means that only very few get reported to a local heritage service.  The amount that can be found is also limited by how many buildings survive from any given period.

The earliest written description of witch-bottles is Joseph Blagrave’s 1671 Astrological Practice of Physick.  Describing a method of removing bewitchment:

‘Another way is stop the urine of the Patient, close up in a bottle, and put into it three nails, pins or needles, with a little white Salt, keeping the urine always warm: if you let it remain long in the bottle, it will endanger the witches life: for I have found by experience that they will be grievously tormented making their water with great difficulty, if any at all…’
‘The reason. . .is because there is part of the vital spirit of the Witch in it, for such is the subttlety of the Devil, that he will not suffer the Witch to infuse any poysonous matter into the body of man or beast, without some of the Witches blood mingled with it. . .’

Blagrave is prescribing a method of turning the witches power back upon them using the sympathetic link between the witch and victim. It seems that the idea was that the bottle represented the witch’s bladder and, by inserting pins and the victim’s urine into the bottle and then heating it, this would cause intense pain to the witch, forcing them to lift whatever spell they had cast.

When the contents of witch-bottles are examined they almost always contain evidence of iron in the form of pins or nails. The next most common ingredient is hair with some bottles yielding large locks of it. Almost all of the bottles which have been tested for urine have tested positive.  Sometimes a small piece of fabric in the shape of a heart is found and pretty much anything prickly or unpleasant could be included. The early texts do not mention hair at all and they also do not mention deliberately bending the pins or nails before inserting them into the bottle – another difference from the texts.

The accounts only refer to burying the bottles if the heating was unsuccessful. All of the examples in my records were buried or concealed which suggests that the process of heating the bottles did not work well and that burying bottles was widespread and well known. It is my contention that this actually became the normal way to treat a witch-bottle.

Matravers bottle8

A bottle found beneath a parish boundary wall in Dorset. After analyses it was found to contain beef tallow and spring water, presumably this was a witch bottle to protect livestock.

Mapping early witch-bottles shows a distinct bias towards the south east of England and parts of the south coast. These bottles were imported in vast quantities full of beer and wine but the stoneware was so durable that they were reused many times, including as witch-bottles. Thus far I have not seen any examples of bellarmine witch-bottles further north than Leeds, yet the trade in stoneware vessels did reach this far. As we move beyond the 17th century glass witch-bottles in the shape of small phials, bottles and occasionally jars begin to be found in all parts of Britain. There are several examples from the USA and a few from Australia too.

Within the home slightly more than half were found either beneath the hearth stone or within the construct of an inglenook fireplace. The next most common location was beneath the floor and then beneath the threshold. From the middle of the 18th century onwards the locations and contents begin to diverge away from the original recipe and locations and there is increasing use of glass bottles.

Case Studies
In the grave of a young adult at All Saints Church, Loughton, Buckinghamshire a late 17th or early 18th century glass steeple bottle was discovered lying between the left humerous and upper chest. The bottle contained several copper pins and a number of pins were also stuck into the cork. The bottle contains liquid which may be urine, although no analysis has yet taken place on this substance. Based on currently available records for witch-bottles it seems that this is the only case of one being discovered in a coffin although several other bottles have been found buried in churchyards. Presumably the bottle was placed in the coffin as a kind of counter-witchcraft to perhaps help protect the body and soul in death or to exact revenge on the perpetrator of the witchcraft which was thought to have led to his death.

In Pershore, Worcestershire two small glass phials were discovered along with three childrens shoes and a collection of toys. The group was discovered behind the hearth.  In this instance the group of objects were dated to the mid-19th century. The phials contained wheat husks and possibly some resin from a pine tree. This is possibly residue connected with the production of pine beer which was once commonplace. The idea with this collection of objects appears to have been to bring together the shoes, two small bottles and toys to serve as a decoy for any bad influences that might want to attack the home via the chimney.


Glass phials discovered in Pershore, Worcestershire, with three children;s shies and a collection of toys

Theoretical metaphysics!
Initially it seems that witch-bottles were a specific counter-spell designed to cause physical pain to the witch thereby giving the opportunity to barter for your own unbewitching. I already noted that, if the heating was not successful then the bottle would be buried which would lead to a slow death of the witch. Over 50% of witch-bottles are found by the hearth which suggests that the heat and also the location by the only portal which was permanently open to the sky was important. The amount of effort involved in creating a witch-bottle and then digging a large hole for it is quite significant and it’s my contention that as time went by the way people thought of witch-bottles changed to more of a spirit trap.  The idea being that negative energies entering the home via the chimney would be sniffing out the victim and locate them conveniently near the hearth (the hair and urine) and plunge into the bottle become impaled on the ghostly pins and nails which had been ritually killed (by being deliberately bent).

The more I explore the beliefs, practices and customs of the past the more certain I am that life was viewed through a complex web of beliefs regarding magic, folklore, the supernatural and religious forces. Unseen forces surrounded and permeated everything. Witch-bottles serve as a small window into that world.

For more information on apotropaic objects visit Brian Hoggard’s website.

Coming in from the Cold War

Peter Jamieson, SPAB volunteer caseworker, and Chairman and Projects coordinator: Friends of Czech Heritage writes about a remarkable chateau conservation project deep in the Moravian countryside. This extract is taken from the SPAB Magazine, Winter 2015.

In 1938 our insular prime minister, who had barely crossed The Channel in his life uttered those famous words about a ‘quarrel in a far away country between people of whom we know nothing’. Tumultuous events followed, which affected both Czechoslovakia and Britain in widely different ways but often with a similar devastating affect upon the historic buildings of both countries. The War naturally took its toll but willful neglect often did more damage in the post War years.

In 1989 when the ‘Velvet Revolution’ brought Czechoslovakia in from the cold the situation was dire. The institutions responsible for historic buildings and their contents were starved of funds as the state adjusted to the new order. In 1992 the Czech Parliament passed a law that allowed ‘Czech’ citizens only to reclaim their property from the state but many estates, chateaus and other buildings were in very poor condition and had little or no income. It had been many years since they were occupied by family members, who had often been exiled and as a result contact with their past had been broken.

In those early days of opening-up contacts with the UK were established. For instance representatives from The National Trust hosted delegations from the Czech National Heritage Institute (NPU), the equivalent of English Heritage, to pass on their experience of displaying collections and running a commercial organization. Architectural history tours were organized to bring the wealth of what was on offer to a wider audience.

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View of the chateau Uhercice in Southern Moravia, 1833. Czech Heritage Institute, NPU

It was out of these events that one small initiative was born with the foundation in 2007 of The Friends of Czech Heritage; a UK charity devoted to providing small ‘pump priming’ grants and working parties it attempts to give grass roots stimulation to struggling local bodies trying to conserve or repair their heritage. The charity has been involved in a variety of projects but perhaps none so haunting as the chateau of Uhercice in Southern Moravia.


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Aerial view of Uhercice. Czech Heritage Institute, NPU

The chateau lies deep in the rolling Moravian countryside close to the Czech border with Austria. The implementation of borders across Europe has had a profound effect upon towns and buildings in the course of the 20th century. Originally merely part of the Czech lands of the Austrian Empire, Moravia and in particular Uhercice lay on the corridor that linked Vienna with Prague. This easygoing relationship was jeopardized by the founding of Czechoslovakia in 1918 and frozen solid when the Iron Curtain came down leaving Uhercice in the no mans land of a military border. During the great freeze it was used variously as a state farm, woman’s reformatory prison and barracks for frontier guards. One of the towers collapsed and much of the decorative work was left in a perilous state.


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The Gate Tower at Uhercice following demolition to allow access for farm vehicles in 1973. Czech Heritage Institute, NPU

Fortunately in the 1990s the quality and potential of Uhercice were recognized and in 1996 it passed into the care of the National Heritage Institute which has since undertaken a long term programme of restoration work. The roof coverings have been renewed and some of the interiors have been conserved. But progress has been slow partly on account of the ‘remoteness’ of the chateau and the limited number of visitors, which has given it a wistful Cinderella status.

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The Baroque Chamber Theatre today, with stucco work by Baldassare Fontana. Czech Heritage Institute, NPU

Like many houses in the Czech lands Uhercice has passed through a succession of owners. Founded in the Middle Ages it was remodeled in the 1550s in the Renaissance style with extensive Baroque additions in the late 17th century. The Italian plasterwork of this period by Baldassare Fontana is truly spectacular. The chateau was acquired by the Collalto family, patrons of Mozart, from Northern Italy, an indication of the mobility of cultures within the Austrian Empire, who held it until they were dispossessed in 1945. Perhaps the most arresting sequence of rooms are those created in the early 19th century under the influence of Romantic Classicism, which include the Neo Classical Banqueting Hall with its extravaganza of trompe l’oeil pilaster and allegorical figures. It was this room that became a major project for the Friends of Czech Heritage mentioned above.


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The early 19th century Neo-Classical Banqueting Hall today. Josef Slavicek / Czech Heritage Institute, NPU

In 2010 attention was focused on securing the Banqueting Hall. The windows needed replacing, archaic electrics replaced but most importantly the vast decorated ceiling needed to be stabilized. Following a survey by an expert conservator it was clear that the ceiling was in danger of collapse and The Friends of Czech Heritage offered to try and raise a grant toward the cost of this work.

The ceiling was constructed of timber boarding fixed to ceiling joists with woven reed matts fixed to the boards with iron hooks. This formed the key for the two coat lime plaster, which had in many areas lost its key, become delaminated or simply fallen. The decoration had become degraded through exposure owing to the missing windows. The remedial work took a conservative approach, which generally conformed to the SPAB philosophy. The boarding and reed backing were secured using screws and washers and loose areas of plaster either fixed in the same way or by injection. Cracks were filled with lime putty and missing areas of plaster replaced to correspond to the original. The painted decoration was stabilized to prevent further deterioration but the ‘retouching’ has yet to be carried out when funds allow.

As the local guide book states : ‘We can only hope that the genius loci is stronger than time in Uhercice and the chateau will revive at least to an afterglow of its previous beauty’.

National Treasure: Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, London

Felicity Martin, SPAB’s membership and development officer, introduces the theatrical ‘reimagining’ that is the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse in London. From the summer 2015 SPAB Magazine.

The Sam Wanamaker Playhouse is probably my favourite new ‘old building’. It is certainly the most uncomfortable modern theatre that I’ve visited. Shakespeare’s Globe claim that it is not a reconstruction of a Jacobean playhouse but a ‘reimagining’ – what else would you expect from a theatre company?

It is a beautiful chamber, lit with almost a hundred candles in ‘branches’ (metal candelabras) and ‘wallers’ (sconces). The audience sits on three sides of a thrust stage within an oak timber frame, with a musicians’ gallery above. In the heavens, the goddess Luna is haloed with gold leaf, surrounded by pale chains of clouds, stars and cherubs. The design was inspired by a ceiling in Cullen House, Banffshire, now lost. I can reassure those wary of pastiche that there is no pretense that this is not an illusionary space – the fabric is unmistakably new and crisp, still smelling of cut wood and melting beeswax. It suits modern tastes in being quite restrained in its decoration and it was built using traditional methods with hand-carved details. Though the columns were turned with an electric lathe, its speed was slowed down making tooling marks similar to surviving Jacobean examples.

Sam Wanamaker Playhouse. The ceiling depicts the goddess Luna surrounded by chains of clouds and cherubs. Photo by Pete Le May, supplied by Shakespeare's Globe.

Sam Wanamaker Playhouse. The ceiling depicts the goddess Luna surrounded by chains of clouds and cherubs. Photo by Pete Le May, supplied by Shakespeare’s Globe.

At university the story I heard was that in 1960s some documents fell out of a book in the library at Worcester College, Oxford, found to be the earliest existing drawings of an indoor English theatre. At the time these were thought to be by Inigo Jones (Sam Wanamaker built the external brick shell based on this in the 1990s) but current thinking attributes them to one of Jones’ assistants, John Webb, from rather later in about 1660. The drawings do not illustrate technical plans but were probably a rough design of an indoor theatre, based on those of a generation earlier, well before the footlights of the Restoration. Jon Greenfield and Allies and Morrison drew their inspiration from these and surviving buildings of the period to complete the theatre, which opened in January 2014. The hope at the Globe is that this ‘reimagining’ is one that Shakespeare and his contemporaries might recognize.

As with the Globe, this theatre was designed and built to experiment with ‘authentic’ performance, not only of Shakespeare but also for staging the darker English genius present in the Jacobean revenge tragedies or the raucous satire of the City comedies. We know that moving indoors changed the structure of plays, introducing intervals to trim the candlewicks. For the dramatists it also posed possibilities of lighting and sound effects which must have influenced their writing: would the fury of The Tempest be heard outside or the dark shadows of The Duchess of Malfi be seen in daylight?

Photo by Pete Le May, supplied by Shakespeare's Globe.

Photo by Pete Le May, supplied by Shakespeare’s Globe.

I must admit that a great part of the magic of this theatre for me is the candlelight. In our electric world the warm glow is festive and evokes the rituals of religious practices. The flames are reflected in the sumptuous details: the ruffs, the pearlescent makeup, the creases in pale silk and the starry ceiling.

The intimacy of the space is deceptive; bodies are tightly packed, the actors brush past, candles sometimes drip and the darkness – when it is used – is startlingly complete. The acoustics are crisp and allows the more delicate period instruments to sing out.

The physical experience is at complete odds with our modern audience expectations – you are likely to enjoy a restricted view of the stage, limited space, relatively dim light and unchanging scenery. The actors are unencumbered with microphones or a curtain to hide behind and yet they are their own lighting technicians. All focus is on the words and music, on gesture and tone. While the performances might be more historically informed, the building suits our modern taste for the immersive, multi-sensory entertainment experience. Though the building is new, it helps us to imagine another time.


Celebrating and Cataloguing Welsh Stained Glass

Judith Leigh, Wales officer for the SPAB, reported on a pioneering database of Welsh stained glass in the spring 2013 SPAB Magazine. You can browse the database by subject, artist, location and more.

How very familiar is the appearance of stained glass, its vibrant colours, its settings, most often ecclesiastical, and its imagery; but the names of the artists and workshops who created it are very unfamiliar to most of us.

Traditionally their work has been mostly unsigned and it is left to scholars and enthusiasts to identify pieces. A ‘Stained Glass in Wales Catalogue’, created by Martin Crampin and his associate web-designers Technoleg Taliesin, was launched in June 2011. Tailor-made for recording visual historic artwork, its aim is to hold a record all the stained glass in Wales, of all periods, and through the careful design of the database, enable cross referencing across diverse fields of interest, artist, workshop, subject, place, other archives and studies.

Karl Parson's The Good Samaritan 1929, Church of St James, Pyle

The Good Samaritan, 1929. By Karl Parsons. Church of St James,Pyle

The catalogue grew gradually out of projects run by the University of Wales Centre for Advanced Welsh and Celtic Studies, the first being The Visual Culture of Wales funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund and The Arts Council from 1996-2003. The founding premise was to counter the perceived fallacy that there was no national art of Wales, and resulted in three ground-breaking volumes by Peter Lord and John Morgan-Guy. These scholarly and generously illustrated volumes make the case for a specifically Welsh vein of British, even European, art and the resulting collation of material has created an important archive stored in the National Library of Wales, catalogued, reformatted and put on line subject to copyright.

The Sower, 1966. Church of St Michael, Llanfihangel-Genau. Designed and painted by John Edwards.

The Sower, 1966. Designed, cartooned and painted by John Edwards. Church of St Michael, Llanfihangel Genau’r Glyn.

Martin Crampin, an artist, designer and photographer, now a doctoral student, has worked on these projects from the beginning. Visiting buildings with specific commissions to photograph identified images, he also took the opportunity to photograph other historic imagery, particularly of stained glass. From this grew the concept of the stained glass database. It is by no means comprehensive yet and proposals for new entries are welcomed. The wide scope of the database also encompasses stained glass in modern techniques and from a secular context.

Church of St Illtyd, Swansea St Thomas

The Sun 2002–4, by Melanie Howse. Church of St Illtyd St Thomas Swansea

A thumbnail sketch of stained glass in Wales would first draw attention to the important late fifteenth and early sixteenth century stained glass in north east Wales. Fragments of medieval glass have survived in about fifty sites in north Wales; very little survives in south Wales though some re-sited imported glass from the continent has been identified.

Victorian stained glass in churches in Wales mostly comes from the big studios in London, Birmingham or Newcastle. Less well-known glass is being identified and recorded in non-Conformist chapels and in Roman Catholic churches. As the catalogue has grown it has been possible to attribute unsigned windows to firms making style comparisons and identifying instances where designs have been re-used.

The Arrest of Christ, probably late 16th century, panel from Church of St Gwenllwyfo, Llanwenllwyfo

The Arrest of Christ, probably late 16th century. Church of St Gwenllwyfo Llanwenllwyfo

The twentieth century has many Welsh artists and workshops or artists ‘local to Wales’. Swansea’s Welsh School of Architectural Glass established in the 1930s and still flourishing has trained many artists whose work is in places of worship and public buildings in Wales. It also gave rise to the firm of Celtic Studios, their output very familiar in south Wales’ churches. Stained glass emanating from Wrexham College of Art is found in north east Wales. Well known 20th century mixed media artists such as John Petts, Frank Roper and Jonah Jones have substantial bodies of work Wales. There are also some exceptional commissions from major English 20th and 21st century stained glass artists in buildings in Wales. Anonymity is no longer a problem.

Joachim in the Wilderness, 1498, Church of All Saints, Gresford.

Joachim in the Wilderness, 1498. Church of All Saints Gresford

We believe that this is the only comprehensive national data-base of stained glass, including nineteenth and twentieth century glass, though we understand that something comparable is being considered for England for this later period. It is a valuable resource for so many: enhancing enjoyment and understanding of the medium by the public, extending the knowledge of specialists and in particular helping those with responsibility for caring for historic buildings and their contents to ensure proper identification, maintenance and conservation of these national treasures.

All images from the SPAB Magazine (spring 2013), courtesy of Martin Crampin

Unique war memorials of St Albans

One of several features from the SPAB Magazine (Summer 2014) written to mark the centenary of the 1914 – 18 war. The SPAB’s communications manager Kate Griffin looks at a set of unique memorials in her home town, St Albans.

Albert Street, St Albans, in Hertfordshire, is largely unremarkable. Situated in the shadow of the Cathedral and Abbey Church in the City’s conservation area, it’s a typical hotchpotch of compact Victorian terraced cottages interspersed with in-fill dwellings of later date. Some buildings still bear the trace of a former life – wide windows suggest small shops and bricked up arches hint at long-gone trades and workshops.

Albert Street bears solid witness to a century of change that could just as easily be read in towns across the country.
There is, however, something almost unique about the street where I live and it’s something I look at every time I walk to the station on the way to work here at the SPAB.

Just a few doors down from my house, a plaque set into the brick wall of No 34 commemorates the names of the 12 men from Albert Street who lost their lives during the First World War. All these men served in the army. The memorial records two pairs of brothers, the Corleys and the Dunhams, (one pair reputed to have died on the same day), while another Albert Street resident listed here, Edward Foster, was the third son in same the family to die. His brothers lived elsewhere in the City. I often wonder whether any of these Albert Street men lived in my own house.

Albert Street memorial

Albert Street memorial. Kelly’s Directory 1914 shows Albert Street as an area of small terraced houses interspersed with neighbourhood shops including several general stores, a dairy, a butcher, carrier, greengrocer, corn dealer, scrap merchant, house decorator and beer retailers. It was described by a local at the turn of the century as a ‘very rough and poor’ street.

So far so sad, but not so very unusual you might think. Actually, this sober grey rectangle topped with a plain cross is the first of the permanent 1914 – 18 street war memorials in St Albans – and this makes it the first of a series of street memorials placed throughout the City which are thought to be unique survivals. The Imperial War Museum knows of no others still in existence, although there are some plaques to individuals on houses in Letchmore Heath, a village near St Albans.

The ten memorials mounted on ordinary houses in the Abbey Parish of St Albans were unveiled in 1920 and 1921 to commemorate more than 110 men (including nine pairs of brothers) who came from a small group of streets clustered around the Abbey. Approximately 650 men from St Albans died in the conflict so the high number lost from this tight knit working community is notable.

Fishpool Street

Fishpool Street memorial

Those who went to war from these modest streets and who never came back were men of the parish of St Albans Abbey and this probably why the anomaly of the street memorials came about. The fact that St Albans Abbey is a diocesan cathedral as well as a parish church meant that priority was given to its grander role when commemorating the dead of the First World War. It produced a Diocesan Book of Remembrance and commissioned a Memorial West Window.
In all other local parish churches (including those in St Albans) tangible, personal monuments were being put up outside or inside the building listing to honour the dead of that parish. The names of men lost from the Abbey parish were inscribed in the Book of Remembrance, but there was no separate memorial to them. People wanted to see their names of their loved ones in a public place; they wanted a place to lay flowers and remember their dead.

It is unclear where the idea for St Alban’s street plaques came from, but certainly Canon George Glossop, who served the Abbey for 40 years until 1925 and who lost two sons in the conflict, promoted the plan. The City Council still officially refers to the plaques as ‘The Canon Glossop Memorials’ although many other people were actively involved.  Records indicate that Abbey curate, the Revd Harry Evans made street collections to fund the scheme. It is said that when he visited the grieving families of the parish he offered the idea as a comfort.

Fishpool Street, St Albans

Fishpool Street, St Albans

As well as the plaque in Albert Street, visitors can still view Canon Glossop’s Memorials set into the walls of private houses in Bardwell Road, Fishpool Street, High Street, Holywell Hill, Lower Dagnall Street, Orchard Street, Pageant Road, Sopwell Lane and Verulam Road. (Two further plaques were re-erected following the redevelopment of the buildings on which they were originally placed. These can now be seen in Ridgemont Road and Grosvenor Road)

Verulam Road

Verulam Road memorial. This memorial also includes the dead from Cross Street, College Street, Queen Street and New England Street.

Sadly, around 50 years ago the names on one of the two Lower Dagnall Street plaque were obliterated, an act that led the City Council (in 1964) to take over responsibility for the maintenance of the remaining memorials with the co-operation of the owners of the buildings concerned. Today, although the memorials do not have specific protection, they are protected by virtue of their location in the conservation area.

Nearly all of the plaques conform to a general pattern with slight variations. Some have a ledge where vases of flowers were placed; some have a shallow hood to prevent weathering. They are all embedded into the walls of buildings and – with the exception of the High Street plaque on business premises in Wax House Gate – the buildings are private houses.
Generally, plaques are mounted on a house from which a man was lost. Following the dedication of the first memorial in Albert Street in the spring of 1920, the next three plaques in nearby Bardwell Road, Pageant Road and Sopwell Lane were dedicated in summer the same year by the Bishop of St Albans, Dr Michael Furse.

Bardwell Road

Bardwell Road memorial

Crowds filled these narrow, humble streets as a grand procession led by the Bishop accompanied by the Abbey choir and clergy visited each site in turn to hold a short service before the memorial was unveiled by the Mayor.
In 1921 the remaining memorials were completed and unveiled, but by this time the country was disillusioned and beset by industrial unrest – a far cry from the hope that the ‘war to end war’ might usher in an era of peace and altruism.
When he unveiled the last street memorial in Lower Dagnall Street, ironically one that was later defaced, Dr Furse caught something of the bleak national mood in his address.

Lower Dagnall Street

Lower Dagnell Street, St Albans. After this memorial was defaced the City Council took on the maintenance of the remaining plaques

“These tablets, as you see, have been placed where they will be seen, and should be seen, by those who will pass by in future years through the streets where these men once lived. Each of the tablets we are unveiling today bears the words, ‘For Remembrance’. I do not suppose that any of you who have lost husband, son or brother in the war will ever be likely to forget, but there could be others, as the years pass by, who will forget, or indeed never knew, the price that was paid in those terrible years for what we believed to be the peace of the world.”


The five newly-listed plaques were recently awarded Grade II status as part of Historic England’s project to mark the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. More information on the St Albans City and District website.
With thanks to:
Helen Bishop and John Cox of St Albans and Hertfordshire Architectural and Archaeological Society. (SAHAAS)
The Street Memorials of St Alban’s Abbey Parish by Alice Goodman (pub.1987). An updated edition (with new research and information) is to be published by SAHAAS in autumn 2014
Download the St Albans War Memorials Walk from SAHAAS