The loss of the Crooked House pub reveals that built heritage is about a lot more than buildings

The Crooked House in Himley, Staffordshire has become the most famous pub in Britain after it was demolished earlier this month following a devastating fire. The jury is still out on why the fire started and why the remaining shell was so quickly demolished, but the subsequent political and public outcry says a lot about what people feel when part of what they consider to be their community heritage is lost. It seems that playing with (the aftermath of a) fire can get you burned.

The pub was originally The Glynne Arms, named for the family who lived in the original 1765 farmhouse. It was only renamed The Crooked House in 2002 as official recognition of the affectionate name given to it by locals a long time before.

Whilst no Leaning Tower of Pisa in terms of tourist pulling-power, it was nonetheless a source of love and pride for its regulars and gave its village and nearby Dudley a distinctiveness that all good places should have. It was the best example of common heritage phenomena in the Black Country – buildings made crooked by subsidence resulting from the area’s extensive coal mining.

Emma Smith, a local resident, was quoted in the Observer: “My nan and grandad brought me here when I was little, and I’ve brought my kids here. Everybody knows the Crooked House, it’s part of Dudley, part of our history, and now it’s gone…everyone is so angry.” 

Its swift demolition has been condemned by local politicians – Andy Street, the West Midlands Mayor says he is “laser-focussed” on making sure it’s “rebuilt brick-by-brick”. He told the Independent, “This is a part of our heritage, our history, and somebody thought it could literally just be confined to rubble. That is not right.” These places are important.

We’ve been debating the fate of another old building recently too – the Marks and Spencer building on Oxford Street, subject of a recent planning refusal by the Secretary of State following appeal of a grant of consent by Westminster Council. Michael Gove’s decision cited heritage and design issues (specifically the impact demolition would have on neighbouring designated heritage assets) in his ruling as well as the embodied carbon impact in demolishing and rebuilding the famous store.

Of course, the owners of the Crooked House, who have at the time of writing yet to comment, will likely make a good argument for the building’s demolition as did Marks and Spencer, their professional advisors and architects, Pilbrow & Partners, about Orchard House. In the case of Marks and Spencer, the argument accepted by Wesminster planners, the GLA and the planning inspector, who all supported the scheme, was based on tipping the balance between respect for heritage and carbon output in favour of economic regeneration.

Whilst it’s not our job to apologise or atone for the sins of the past, it is definitely our responsibility to recognise the impact of that heritage and shape our places accordingly

In our industry, when we talk of heritage we typically imagine only the built assets of a place, but of course heritage goes much deeper. Increasingly we are understanding that as we re-make and rebuild, the cultural heritage of a place is held preciously in our hands. How we choose to acknowledge, respect and feed it is just as important.

We like to tell stories of the history of the buildings and places we re-make but how often do we get them wrong because we don’t spend the time to dig deep enough? And what does that do for our connections to the people who live and work around our projects and the long-term viability of the schemes we build?

Those of us building on former industrial sites, telling romantic stories of the Industrial Revolution, particularly in the Midlands and the North, and invoking the innovation of the past to inspire the success of the new have to be very careful that we get those stories right. Even 300 years on, there are people living in our towns and cities whose lives are disadvantaged and prejudiced by how our communities developed over time.

Whilst it’s not our job to apologise or atone for the sins of the past, it is definitely our responsibility to recognise the impact of that heritage and shape our places accordingly, delivering ever-greater equality of access to the community services our developments provide. We have agency in this, we can do it better.

So what should happen to the Crooked House? Should it be rebuilt, or will that just end up being an ersatz, modern shadow of the building it used to be? When Warsaw was destroyed in the Second World War, it was rebuilt brick-by-brick (with the help of the Luftwaffe’s aerial reconnaissance photographs, taken to facilitate the bombing).

What would the Italians do if the Leaning Tower leant too far and toppled over? Would they rebuild it? 

Should we refurbish Orchard House, even if it provides much less opportunity for economic regeneration and the carbon cost of that refurb is still high? I think the answer might lie not in a technical analysis, but rather in an understanding of the place those buildings have in the hearts of the people who make up their resident communities and the people who travel a long way to see them.

We can’t undo the pub’s demolition, but maybe we can build a new Crooked House for the future, something that could come to be loved, something designed to be unique, connected to its place and very beautiful. Perhaps that’s the challenge the planning authority in South Staffordshire should set the building’s owners – to rebuild something that will create the heritage of the future.

>> Also read: The dial has moved: the age of automatic demolition and rebuild has come to an end

>> Also read: Is the M&S decision the start of a new era, or a fig leaf to conceal government backsliding on net zero?

>> Also read: Rebuild the Mack, but why stop there?