The Bar Convent, York

Just outside York’s city walls is England’s oldest continuing convent. Its roots lie in the missionary vision of Mary Ward, a child in the city when Margaret Clitherow was executed – crushed to death – for having hidden Roman Catholic priests and allowed the celebration of Mass in her house. It was a powerful early experience for a life which saw Ward, in 1609, found the Congregation of Jesus, an order modelled on the Jesuits, and underpinned with a belief that women could play a full and active role in mission and education work. It met with opposition within the Roman Catholic church and found itself suppressed by Pope Urban VIII (Ward herself was imprisoned at one point by the Inquisition, and the order didn’t in fact receive the definitive approval of the Church until 1877).

The Bar Convent, York: a place of peace and prayer and survival against the odds

All of which makes the existence, let alone continuance, of the congregation’s York home all the more remarkable. It was founded by one of her followers, Frances Bedingfield, in 1686 as a school for Catholic girls. The establishment of a Catholic convent was at this time illegal – the nuns concealed their identity, but even so faced persecution and imprisonment. Yet the convent persevered, the 18th century seeing the original house replaced by today’s Georgian building and, in 1769, the construction of the elegant neo-classical chapel. This was still 22 years before the Roman Catholic Relief Act of 1791, which finally allowed worship to officially take place in the convent. Consequently the chapel is entirely hidden from the outside, its domed roof disguised by a pitched slate one above it. As a further precaution, eight exits were built to offer priests an escape route in the case of a raid, and even a (recently-rediscovered) priest hole for them to hide in.

The 20th century saw the school become first a grammar, then a comprehensive, and it is no longer run by the convent. But what remains is a home for members of the Society of the Congregation of Jesus. The convent’s history is told in a museum, while the convent also serves as a small guesthouse and cafe (the well-maintained gardens are a tranquil escape from the city outside). It’s a calming place for prayer or just peace imbued with a spirit of hospitality, and a living testimony to the courage of so many in witnessing to their faith against the odds.

The Bar Convent, York

Le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation, Berlin

A giant concrete grid splashed with colour: Le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation

Le Corbusier’s Berlin Unité d’Habitation looms out of a wooded hill above a leafy suburb, a giant concrete grid splashed with dashes of colour. It arrived here having failed to fulfil the requirements of a competition set by the city in 1953 to design modern housing for the war-wrecked district of Hansa, a contest which also attracted the likes of Arne Jacobsen and Alvar Aalto. Le Corbusier’s proposal was far too big, but instead of rejecting it, the Berlin senate offered the famous architect a choice of other sites. They settled on a wooded hill in the western area of Charlottenburg, near to the 1936 Olympic stadium. And so too, over the next two years, did Le Corbusier’s apartment block.

141.2m long, 22.96 metres wide and 52.94 metres high, the building is orientated north/south, so that none of the 530 apartments (ranging from one to five rooms) faces north. Outside are balconies, while internally the flats open onto rather austere corridors known as streets. Berlin’s Unité d’Habitation follows those built in Marseille (Le Corbusier’s first and pioneering such development) and Nantes-Rezé, all attempts at creating urban living environments by one of the 20th century’s most controversial architects. Two more followed in later years. Initially designed as low-cost rental apartments, in 1979 they began to be sold as owner-occupied homes, many to the original tenants.

Six decades on from its construction, there’s a feeling of calm civility as you approach the building, turning off quiet streets of set-back detached houses, and following a path through trees and a well-tended garden. An exhibition on the ground floor explores the building’s construction and offers some atmospheric images of the early interiors. A sensitivity for ‘period’, evident in fixtures and font, is apparent. The whole feels neat and fondly cared for – which isn’t bad going for an epic mid-20th century modernist building, and certainly a better fate than that fared by many of the buildings Le Corbusier’s vision inspired.

The Building Centre, Bloomsbury, London

In the age of Google Earth, or Apple Maps, or whatever is your touch-screen town-scape zoom-in-and-all-around 3D mapping package of choice, an actual model of a city might seem ridiculously retro. But there it is, a 1:1500 scale model of London, all 12 metres of it stretched across an atrium exhibition space, a magnificent miniature metropolis made by architectural model makers Pipers. You can have your virtual: nothing conveys scale quite like, well, reality. Of sorts. Buildings are rendered as blocks, as is common with architectural models, but giving the impression that our fair city is entirely made of brutalist structures. The effect is to throw the emphasis for the city’s shape on arteries and infrastructure – the roads, railways and canals become not the bits in between, but the main frame around which the rest is built. As it is, as they are. But when you’ve found your home, your office, and where you sat in the spring sunshine on the lawn last weekend, what else does The Building Centre offer? I guess that depends on when you go. On my visit the 110 square-metre space was housing information boards about boroughs and their building plans, a little beyond lay insights into infrastructure initiatives, and further still building companies displaying and demonstrating their products and plans, like a high-end, Bloomsbury-based trade show. The RIBA bookshop was well-stocked, the cafe serving coffee and cake.

Metropolis in miniature: the Pipers 1:1500 model of London

The Building Centre itself was established in 1932 in New Bond Street, but moved 20 years later to the present building, a former car showroom built in 1914. It’s part of the sweep of South Cresent, originally laid out by architect George Dance the Younger in 1810 (though today’s buildings are not original), and its curved frontage and wide windows offer a sense of both welcome and occasion. A programme of talks, debates and films are advertised, while the Building Centre Trust supports education and cultural work related to the built environment. And if you’re still left pining for the virtual, you can always download their app.

The Building Centre, London Free entry

Murray Edwards College, Cambridge

Most Cambridge colleges are superb examples of their architectural era, but most don’t need writing about here: a thousand guidebooks poking from the pockets of tourists staring skywards at soaring Gothic grandeur will serve them well. Just north of the city centre though, is a very different but equally authentic product of its age. Murray Edwards College – or New Hall as it was until 2008, and one of the University’s two female-only colleges – is a cool, calm, concrete complex that manages to take the stark, strident drama of brutalism and lend it a strangely homely charm.

Murray Edwards College: a cool, calm setting for contemporary art by women, including a Barbara Hepworth sculpture

The original buildings, opened in 1965, were designed by modernist architects Chamberlin, Powell and Bon, whose most famous creation was London’s Barbican. As if to further cement, as it were, Murray Edwards’ place in the architectural ethos of the era, it was actually constructed by WC French Ltd, who built the motorway bridges on the M1. The centre-piece is the dining hall – a soaring circular dome, somewhat resembling a sprouting bulb bursting from its skin, frozen in time. The library also offers an impressive set-piece, a stairwell that viewed head on gives a perfect perspective of uninterrupted ascending, while thin concrete pillars support a series of soaring arches and a light airy vault. In fact light is the overriding sensation of Murray Edwards, expanses of glass lining and lighting long corridors, dispelling the negative connotations the hard, cold materials in which it is built can have, and rendering it warm and welcoming, an effect enhanced by the sound and shimmering surfaces of the water that flows outside.

All this confident neutrality offers a perfect backdrop to the New Hall Art Collection – the old college name gets to stay here – offering nearly 400 works by contemporary women artists including Maggi Hambling and Barbara Hepworth. The college’s adjacent gardens are planted with international species, a haven of informality in a city of predominantly pristine lawns and flowerbeds. This and neighbouring older houses makes a happy juxtaposition with the original and newer concrete and brick buildings, every bit in keeping with the cheek-by-jowl styles and synergies of the city of Cambridge itself.

Murray Edwards College

The Hospital of St Cross, Winchester

The Norman church of the Hospital of St Cross, Winchester

The centre of Winchester almost falls into fields; minutes from the cathedral close you’re strolling stream-side across scenic meadows. Keep going for half a mile, and you reach The Hospital of St Cross – no more a hospital in today’s use of the term than, say, Abbot’s Hospital in Guildford. But a place of hospitality – and free beer, if you ask nicely.

According to tradition, a grandson of William the Conqueror, Henry de Blois (who, at the age of 28 in 1129 became Bishop of Winchester) had encountered a young peasant girl who begged him to help her impoverished, starving people. Thus, between 1132 and 36, De Blois founded a community to help the poor – the Hospital of St Cross, initially to house 13 men too frail to work (who became the Brothers of St Cross), and to feed a further 100. In the 15th century, Cardinal Beaufort added to the site with an additional, adjoining almshouse – the Order of Noble Poverty. Today’s residents – of which there are 25 Brothers, all lay, general elderly and unmarried or widowed, and each with their own self-contained 15th century apartment – still wear different colour uniforms depending on which order they belong to. It is the country’s oldest almshouse.

The Hospital of St Cross’s elegant quadrangle – home to the Brothers

Architecturally, the most dominant feature is the substantial Norman church, the only remaining part of the original 12th century Hospital. Solidly built, with Norman and Gothic features, it was restored by William Butterfield in the 19th century. It stands tall over the whole tranquil scene; beneath lies a harmonious quadrangle – off which there is a 14th century hall with minstrel gallery and Georgian kitchen – and the elegant Master’s garden. While so many similar historic foundations have been subsumed into suburban sprawl, here, a pleasant walk from a city centre, remains one that in both setting and spirit seems not far removed from its origins. It even keeps alive the tradition that visitors may ask for their ‘Wayfarer’s Dole’ – a morsel of bread and a small cup of ale. Now that’s hospitality for you.

The Hospital of St Cross

London Silver Vaults

An unexpected and slightly surreal subterranean shopping experience: beneath a solid, unassuming building on Chancery Lane, down several flights of a corporate-feeling stairwell, lie London’s Silver Vaults. An Aladdin’s cave of silver-selling shops, each glistening outlet housed in one of the old security vaults from the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit, opened in 1876 to provide peace-of-mind to London’s super wealthy. The present set-up, in which security serves no less a vital function, dates from 1953.

The weighty safe doors which seal each capsule-like vault put one in mind of a submarine. So too does the submerged setting – it could be sunny outside, it could be a storm: you’d never know down here, where silverware glistens sumptuously, sometimes stylishly, sometimes eccentrically. From trinket boxes and spoons, to candlesticks and ornaments, it boasts of being ‘The world’s largest retail collection of fine antique silver’, and I can well believe it: craftsmanship is in evidence in excess. What isn’t quite so in evidence are price tags, which no doubt speaks volumes, though anyone buying here is promised a cast iron – or rather silver – guarantee of authenticity.

The London Silver Vaults

The Francis Trigge Chained Library, St Wulfram’s, Grantham

St Wulfram’s, Grantham, is an impressive church, a wide Gothic building with a tower that climbs harmoniously upwards, topped by a spire of vertiginous elegance. Ruskin reportedly swooned on seeing it. But it has been written about widely elsewhere, so we’ll focus instead on a curiosity within: a small chained library dating from 1598 – the first library in England outside of an institution such as a college.

Public libraries as they once were: the Francis Trigge Chained Library, St Wulfram’s, Grantham

Perched atop the South porch, reached by a tight, steep spiral staircase (as all good medieval architectural curiosities should be) it was set up by Francis Trigge, Rector of Welbourne (also in Lincolnshire) for the use of clergy and inhabitants of Grantham. His aim, for which he donated ‘one hundred poundes or thereaboutes’ was ‘the better encreasinge of learnings and knowledge in divinitie & other liberall sciences’.

There were 228 titles in 1608, and 356 now. Most were originally chained via the fore-edge of the covers (which accounts for them being now shelved spine to the wall) – only 82 chains remain now, though the rods to which they attach are late Victorian, as are the shelves (though some are made from the original desks). It seems quantity might have played a role over quality in some of the initial acquisitions; they include a book recording 14th century Italian legal cases – of rare value now, but of doubtful use to a Grantham vicar then (or indeed now). There are, however, also theological works, and books on natural history and medicine. One tome was published in Venice in 1472, a mere couple of decades after Gutenberg had invented the printing press. There’s also a miniature – by which I mean about an inch long – book of the Life of Christ. Intriguing and atmospheric, and well worth the spiral stairs.

Woolsthorpe Manor, near Grantham

Few places with a claim to have played a significant role in human history can be quite as idyllically serene as Woolsthorpe Manor. Its unassuming sand-coloured walls feel almost at one with the tranquil Lincolnshire countryside. Here, far removed from the splendour (and squalor) of 17th century London or the charm (and chaos) of Cambridge, Isaac Newton developed many of his most important theories, including that of the constituent colours of light, and differential calculus. He was born here in 1642, and returned for a formative time in 1665 while plague plagued Cambridge. It was a fruitful (pun intended, see below) period he later described as his annus mirabilis.

Woolsthorpe Manor, birthplace of Isaac Newton, quietly nestling in the Lincolnshire countryside

The manor house was bought by Robert Newton, the scientist’s grandfather, in 1623, though a manor here dates from at least the 13th century, and is atmospherically presented as it might have looked when Newton lived here. All is modest domestic charm, homely but not hiding the basic simplicity even those a notch or two up the social scale experienced. Display panels within the house tell us something of Newton’s life, as well as that of the family and society among which he lived. Stable buildings and barns offer insights into his science and theories, including child-centred interactive displays (which were clearly having the desired effect when I visited!).

The world’s most famous apple tree – a falling apple from which led Newton to the theory of gravity

Outside the house is the Flower of Kent apple tree (felled by a storm in 1820, it regrew closer to the ground) from which a falling apple, Newton later claimed, prompted the discovery of the theory of gravity. You can’t sit under it now – too many people tried, hence a small willow fence – but it doesn’t take much imagination to think of Newton doing so. After all, not an awful lot has changed here since then, the museum elements being subtly and sensitively integrated into the architecture and landscape.

Newton was educated in nearby Grantham, an attractive market-town with an array of elegant Georgian houses and a magnificent church – as well as a small town museum. You can learn a little more about Newton here, though the aim is that you will one day be able to learn a lot more. Closed a couple of years ago, the museum has just been reopened by volunteers, and there are ambitious plans featuring displays about, among other things, Newton and Margaret Thatcher, who was born in the town. The town can also boast of having had the first female police officer. Grantham has a lot of stories to tell. I wish them well.

Woolsthorpe Manor, near Grantham, is looked after by the National Trust

Wollaton Hall and Industrial Museum, Nottingham

The rise up to the Elizabethan grandeur of Wollaton Hall, three miles outside Nottingham

Few approaches to great houses can be as dramatic – or require as much energy – as the rise up to Wollaton Hall, an Elizabethan mansion a few miles outside of Nottingham. Built in the late 16th century by Francis Willoughby, whose wealth came from the nearby coal fields, and designed by architect Robert Smythson, its flamboyant facade, exuberant towers and turrets all crafted in honey-coloured stone more than achieves its purpose of impressing visitors – today just as much as in late Tudor times.

Those expecting the period perfection of, say, a National Trust stately home, will still find the grand hall with its fine (fake) hammer beam roof and an antique organ that might or might not have been played by Handel, as well as a Regency room recreated in delicate pastel shades. Much of the rest of the house is given over to an engaging, period natural history museum, packed with dioramas of birds and beasts offering varying degrees of charm and alarm depending on the glass cabinet’s occupant. The taxidermist’s craft may be somewhat out of fashion these days, but its legacy brought me as close to a gharial as I ever wish to be: thrilling, in an Edwardian sort of way. Buildings evolve – and this one has a current remit as evocative as any other.

Proud heritage: Reg Harris’s Raleigh and Bryan Steel’s Lotus

As does the stable block slightly downhill, now housing the newly reopened Nottingham Industrial Museum, a well-presented insight into the city’s proud industrial past, whether as a lace-making centre (the heavy iron based machines a world away from their delicate creations), pharmaceutical innovation (Nottingham being the birthplace of both Boots the chemist and Ibuprofen) or bike design, powered or otherwise. Brough motorbikes – TE Lawrence was a fan, owning seven, one of which he died riding – are represented by some shining examples, while Raleigh bikes are given appropriate honour, both through World Champion sprinter Reg Harris’s bike (standing behind local athlete and Olympic medallist Bryan Steel’s Lotus frame) and the iconic Chopper. Gramophones, telephones and huge steam engines complete the manufacturing miscellany.

From here, the ground slopes scenically down to a lake: 500 acres of parkland encompass woodland and, apparently, deer, though it was too unseasonably warm to explore further and the lure of the cafe’s chilled refreshments proved too strong. The vista was left viewed from afar.

Wollaton Hall, Nottingham 

Turton Tower, Lancashire

Many historic houses are restored to represent the era of their heyday, glory-days preserved for posterity. In contrast, Turton Tower – nestling among the rolling hills between Bolton and Blackburn, and perhaps not quite sure when its glory-day was, remains a charming chronicle of the preoccupation of its various owners. It looks lovely, but not really anything like it should look.

Turton Tower – romantic Gothic, through Victorian eyes

It was, once, a rectangular stone tower – a Pele tower – from which the area possibly gets its name (as in ‘tower town’), built in 1420 and used both for defensive purposes and as a farm building. Its owners from the late 15th century, the Orrell family, added two cruck-framed extensions in the early 16th century to turn it into a home, and at the end of the century a further extension of half-timbered box structures.

The Orrells continued to live at Turton Tower until 1648, despite it having been sold to Humphrey Chetham – a name now indelibly linked to the Manchester school and library – 20 years earlier. The Orrells backed the King in the Civil War, while Chetham backed Cromwell and stationed Roundhead troops on the estate. A legacy of the somewhat precarious position this left the Orrells in, is the small defensive door cut into the main entrance; another reminder is the painting of King Charles’s death mask found upstairs.

But much of Turton Tower’s appearance today derives from the Victorian ownership of the Kays, antiquarians who bought it in 1835 and transformed it into a romantic Gothic-style house. The great 16th century Courtenay Bed carved with faces to ward off spirits (and much else besides one might imagine) was brought to the house in the 19th century to give authenticity to a room re-modelled as a 16th century chamber. Late-Stuart panelling in the dining room arrived in the mid 19th century from now-demolished Middleton Hall near Manchester. Even the railway bridge standing a few minutes from the house is a wonderful juxtaposition of mock-medieval and modernity – a castellated crossing to greet the racing express train. From 1930 to 1974 Turton Tower was used by the local council as a town hall. Now open for tours, it’s a fascinating testimony to how a building can be an ever-evolving reflection of the tastes and trends of the times.

Turton Tower – Near Bolton, Lancashire