Talk:Dragon Hall, Norwich

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Dragon Hall sits some 50 yards from the river, at a point where it curves and the elbow of the river makes a wider space, where there was space for vessels to land and unload. 
At this point, in the early 14th century, Roger Medday (or Mid-day or other spelling), one of the bailiffs appointed by the king to oversee the town and the customs, built a house. It was a single hall, with a screen dividing it from the door, running down from the road to the river; not all of it is left – about a third was demolished at some point. There Medday lived with his family and apprentices; privacy is a modern invention. 
A century or so later, in the 1420s, a strange man called Toppes built on the site a cloth hall. These are not uncommon in Europe. Quite a number survive in the great commercial cities, but they were all built by guilds – were communal projects of the great groups of merchants who controlled the towns of the cities.
Toppes’ hall is curious. It was built by a single man. And by a man who had no family. No parentage. 
Let me explain. Obviously he must have had parents, but none are recorded in Norwich history. And Norwich was a town where families rose by degrees. If you were at the top of Norwich politics in the 1420s, it was because your grandfather’s father had begun trampling on others’ steps on the ladder (or, to put it another way, had served the city well an d added to its prosperity) a century before. The names of the great families are etched deep in its history. But there is no mention of a Toppes.
Yet Norwich sent him three times to parliament to represent its interests. Much more importantly, the oligarchs elected him three times to serve as Mayor of Norwich, which by now had a considerable degree of self-government under royal charter as a city.
Some speculate he may have had connections with a powerful Flemish family, as the wealth of Norwich was bound into the wool trade and the Flemish sellers and weavers. But suddenly there he was at the summit of what was then the second city of England.
And he built himself a cloth hall. It was set at right angles to old Roger Medday’s hall, running along King’s Street. Curiously, he kept Medday’s door, with its curved Norman arch, but set around it a more modern frame, an ogee arch whose summit rises up in lovely curve like two longbows set back to back and meeting at the top. And above it is a blank shield. I’m told these structures were sold off the shelf, as it were, with the shield thrown in for when (of if) the proud householder might achieve a title, and with it arms to carve on the shield. The shield over Toppes’ door remains blank.
That is unfair, for he was splendid. Go through that door, then up a set of stairs, and you entered a spectacular space. It would then have been plastered and painted, and three great bow windows to the side and an arched window fit for a cathedral at the end illuminated it. And there were laid out Toppes’ wares. Wine from Gascony, leather from Spain, Arabic spices and Baltic timber. But above all worsted cloth. I always thought worsted was a grey nasty fabric used for schoolboy socks, but then it was one of the great fabrics of Europe. There were 800 grades of worsted cloth, ranging from the coarse habits of monks to patterns as fine as silk. And the bales were coloured: some scarlet or blue, some striped or patterned with criss-cross patterns, some watered and shown with colours flowing one to another.
And as you climbed the steps into the great hall, there you saw arch upon arch of hammerbeam pillars. And in the angle of those hammerbeams, in each was set a carved dragon, painted in red and green and gold.
In the north, furs meant luxury, and in the south silk. But in between, it was fine wool was the luxury that rivalled them, and wool that clothed the people who could not demand luxury. 
The East Anglian fields around Norwich were among the richest wool-growing regions in Europe. Even now, if you travel around it, you are almost never out of sight of a church built on the wealth of wool. (George McDonald Fraser, in his book on The Border Reivers, tells how a Norfolk man was travelling through the borders and, after a day without seeing a single church, was so disorientated that he exclaimed ot his guide: “In God;s name man, are there no Christians here!” “Na, na,” the man replied comfortingly, “We’s a Armstrongs and Elliots.”)
Toppes built splendidly. Most half-timbered buildings are built with the face that is towards the road set with the timbers close together, so that the passers-by can admire the owners wealth. Go round the back, and they are set more parsimoniously, spaced as far as safety will allow.
Not Toppes. The back of his hall faced towards the river, where the traders would come, and was as lavishly timbered as the front that faced on King’s Street.
Yet there is something in his building that makes one wonder if he was not the firework Maxwell of his day. The vertical timbers, those that everyone could see, were heart of oak, testable, expensive timber. The rafters, high up and out of sight, were sapwood.
The Hall shows the photos of the state of the timbers some centuries later. The rafters were so riddled with woodworm that in many cases they did not even meet at the top{ they had been utterly eaten away. Right down to the vertical beams. And there the woodworm met the heartwood, and they broke their little teeth and could go no further. The heartwood pillars, battered by 600 years, remain intact.
They were prefabricated. You can still see the numbers hacked into them. The hall was not to be built clumsily and laboriously on site. It was assembled in the county, and the timbers numbered and specified, so that they could be brought into the city and assembled with magical speed.
And so they were.
In the final years of Henry V, the most efficient king England had had for centuries. The first who actually worked through the financial accounts and initialled each page. One who did not permit breaches of his peace.
If Dragon Hall was built in 1427, it was built in the years of a great ruler. But within a year, he was dead and a babe in arms (who turned out to be incompetent) wore the crown. Local wars broke out, and unchecked led to civil wars. 
And Toppes, who had built a cloth hall in a time when the king held the country to lawfulness, had this massive investment to pay in a time when there was no law.
He held on.
He is buried in the church of the wealthy in Norwich.
After his death, the hall was sold off in pieces. Thomas Bolyn, uncle to Anne Bolyn, bought part of the hall, and ran a gallery across above the entrance way, to make a dining room. He also cut down the pillar, which was in way of this dining table. (The Bolyns had a talent for damage.)
Time went on. The road from Newmarket became the important route, where many fine houses were built. King’s street decayed. Where the elite had made great houses, the people whose work they had never acknowledged seeped in and made what homes they could.
By the 1970, the hall was unrecognisable, a tenement block. There was a pub at the corner, and a dozen houses set in the rest of the building. And it was falling down. 
The legend (sadly I am told it is gross exaggeration) is that the borough surveyor came to see what could be done with this by-then wretched structure. It was evident that the roof was falling in, the wall were unsafe, and the whole structure had gone beyond any use it might have had. 
Nobody imagined what its history had been. It was just a tenement block, decaying and disgraceful to the city.
As for the dragons – well if you had such a thing, would you not steal it? One was left, because it had been walled up between two walls and so was forgotten.
So he went to Mrs Scroggins, and had a cup of tea, and put up a ladder into her attic and, head bent under the rafters, looked around with no light but the flickering beams of his municipal torch and whatever might leak through the roof (though there was a great deal of light from the holes in the roof). Then down he went, and knockerd on Mrs Buggins next door, and had another cup of tea and went up again. And so on.
But somehow he realised that this was not just an urban slum; it was a medieval hall.
Something worth remembering.
I like that story.