How often does destruction breed reinvention? Right here before you, St Michael, Cornhill, embodies this cycle. It’s a church with roots deep in London’s Roman past, a church that saw the flames of the Great Fire, a church reborn through centuries of architectural endeavors.
The first St Michael’s on this spot predates the Norman Conquest, a testament to the church’s enduring presence. Imagine the city then – a far cry from today’s London. The Great Fire of 1666 – that inferno forever etched in London’s memory – claimed St Michael’s, leaving only its defiant tower standing. From those ashes rose the church you see today, a testament to the genius of Sir Christopher Wren. Well, at least most believe it to be his creation. Some architectural scholars argue otherwise, suggesting local craftsmen followed their own plans, possibly even integrating remnants of the medieval foundations.
Look closely at the church’s tower. While Wren’s hand is evident in the structure’s lower portion, the top belongs to another architectural giant – Nicholas Hawksmoor. His distinctive Gothic touch, reminiscent of Oxford’s Magdalen College, adds a layer of intrigue to St Michael’s silhouette. Step inside, and you’ll encounter the legacy of yet another era. Sir George Gilbert Scott, a leading light of Victorian Gothic revivalism, reimagined St Michael’s interior in the mid-19th century. His ornate reredos, colorful marblework, and intricate stained glass create a feast for the eyes. However, one whimsical treasure from an earlier era survived Scott’s grand vision – a large, wooden pelican feeding her young. This isn’t your typical maternal scene. This pelican, more prehistoric beast than graceful bird, feeds her chicks with blood, a stark reminder of ancient Christian symbolism. St Michael, Cornhill, isn’t just a place of worship. It’s a living tapestry of London’s history, woven with threads of destruction, resilience, and artistic brilliance.