Stone cobbles are the most elemental of construction materials. No two structures built of them are exactly the same. Endlessly fascinating for their unique appearance, I’m on the lookout wherever I go, and often stop and stare at homes and public buildings, foundations, streets, commemorative arches and monuments, even porch railings and flower planters.
Cobbles are smooth, naturally rounded rocks not much bigger than what most people can easily carry. Webster defines them as “larger than a pebble and smaller than a boulder often arbitrarily limited by geologists to a size ranging from 64 to 256 millimeters in diameter,” about two-and-a-half to ten inches. They were ground down, polished, and then dropped by the glacier that retreated from my area in southern New England about 12,000 years ago. Today, they are most easily found in streambeds and along lake and sea shores, exposed by the erosive power of water. They also arise from tilled fields by frost action, appearing like fossilized potatoes.
I never know where I’ll find a building constructed of cobbles, or architectural features built of them like chimneys, fenceposts, or pillars at a driveway entrance. Serendipity is the essence of such exploration. It can lead to questions about local geology, ethnicity, trade skills, and history. Each structure is highly individualistic, not just due to architectural design, but by stone size, shape and color, and whether they are laid at random or layered in courses.
Fortunately, I need not go far from home to find a wide range of cobble constructions. One of the best is the old Westport, Connecticut town hall, a standout along U.S. Route1 with its crowded architectural hodgepodge. It has a façade of large irregular cobbles framed by cut brownstone with classical details. Another favorite is a delicate entrance arch at the Neipsic Cemetery in Glastonbury, Connecticut. It features small stones spelling the name of the graveyard, dates, and a five-pointed star.
Insofar as each cobble structure is unique, even humble ones draw my attention, like a foundation with contrasting stones crossing in the form of an X, or a series of squat, conical pillars connecting fence rails. Certainly not objects of high architectural design, but intriguing in their quirky self-expression.
Cobblestone construction dates to ancient times, but flourished in medieval England and along the north shore of Europe. The Finger Lakes region of New York is the epicenter cobblestone buildings in the United States, with the highest concentration said to be within a 75-mile radius of Rochester, most built between 1825 and 1865. Emphasizing this distinction, nearby Albion hosts the Cobblestone Museum, founded in 1960, and now the guardian of three period cobblestone structures, including a Universalist church.
Although often hidden beneath concrete or asphalt, many older municipalities feature cobblestone streets. Nantucket, Massachusetts may be the capital of exposed cobble pavers with possibly more linear feet of stone as a percentage of road milage than anywhere else. Legend has it that the stone came as ballast in ships, a claim that’s generated some disagreement. The stones must have been a great improvement over streets that alternated between dust and mud, but I’ve found them a little noisy, tedious, and jaw rattling to drive over. Still, they are great at slowing traffic and warning pedestrians of oncoming vehicles.
Some masons embellish their work with decorative patterns dictated by size, color, and alignment of stones. I’ve found geometrics of all sorts, herringbone and striped designs, lettering and illustrations of common objects like birds and trees. Variations in the shaping of mortar joints, including beading, can also add an artistic flair.
Rarely do I see new work in cobblestones, and I suppose few masons today have the training or patience. It’s slow work compared to cut or cast pieces of masonry, and each stone requires conscious choice and a vision of ultimate design.
I look at cobblestone structures and think about the bounty of rounded rocks left by the glacier. Then I imagine the talented masons who puzzled them together in useful and beautiful shapes. A formative natural process that shaped our landscape has conspired with human energy, skill and creativity to yield something that makes time and place distinctive. It establishes a bond, a relationship with our surroundings. You’d have to be as blind as a stone not to notice and fall in love.
