The Courier & Advertiser (Angus and Dundee)
Robertson’s fire destroyed a little bit of Dundee’s soul... shame on the culprits
The fire that burned Robertson’s furniture store to the ground on Saturday night incinerated more than just a derelict Dundee shop. It laid waste to not only a beautiful Art Deco edifice and city landmark; it also torched history, heritage, and memory.
In my late teens, I frequented Willison Street regularly for my lunch, while working at the GPO telephone exchange just across the street from Robertson’s.
As Telephone House employees, we enjoyed the first-class canteen facilities.
And I’d often stroll round the block returning to the office and past Willison House, as Robertson’s store was known.
It was a majestic and impressive emporium selling top-quality furnishings, from sofas to carpets, and beds to curtains, with an exclusive range of the finest furniture available.
My father was a French polisher by trade. I recall him telling me he did the occasional job for Robertson’s, and speaking very highly of the quality of the goods they sold.
Despite having a posh reputation, it catered for a mixed clientele. But truth be told, as a Dundee scheme boy, the store always seemed to me to be several notches above the average city furniture outlet.
The Robertson’s building had an impressive modernist feel to it. Its stunning Art Deco design lent the place an aura of glamour.
There was a lavishness and luxuriousness about its window displays, showcasing high-end house furnishings and effects.
Dundee has known troubled times and great times. For me Robertson’s reminds me of our glory days when the city was home to some great shops and department stores, and the centre of town seemed resplendent and thronging with bustling crowds of shoppers.
My mind races back to a time when a huge store like Draffens stood several storeys tall, with its giant windows displaying an eye-watering variety of fancy goods.
The building seemed to commandeer Whitehall Crescent, lording it over the shoppers below like a towering castle.
It was a rare treat to be taken there on a special occasion to the very posh restaurant and served by waitresses wearing pristine white aprons. To a young mind, it was the Dundee Harrods.
My late mum’s neighbour Pearl was one of the waitresses there. I remember her talking proudly of how the great Dundee FC team which reached a European Cup semi-final would sometimes come in after training for lunch, smartly attired in their club blazers, slacks and shirt and club ties.
I attached that same sense of superior style and substance to other great city stores like GL Wilson’s, which occupied a commanding position on the corner of Murraygate and Commercial Street, and boasted impressive French-style awnings.
DM Brown’s was another in that style. It later became House of Fraser, then Arnotts. It proffered a sense of panache, style, and individuality, with its panelled restaurant and cornucopia of goods that was a world apart from the dreary sameness of the current main city thoroughfares.
The blaze at Robertson’s brought all these memories back to me.
Maybe it’s why there’s a sense that Dundee lost more than just a building on Saturday night.
Fire-raisers don’t care what, or who they damage.
And the minds of those who can set a building alight are as dark as the flames which consumed Robertson’s are bright.
Whoever set the building ablaze destroyed a deeply distinctive Dundee feature.
A unique piece of architecture has gone, and with it a wee bit of the city’s soul. I hope whoever set the blaze is caught. And I hope they feel some serious heat for their reckless act of ruin.
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My wife was a volunteer at Sunday’s Scottish National Cyclo-cross Championships at Camperdown where more than 430 competitors tackled the tough course.
It reminded me it’s getting even tougher on the roads these days for those of us whose mantra is “four wheels free the body two wheels free the soul”.
I’m a keen cyclist but suspect that efforts to get folk cycling in Dundee in big numbers are doomed to failure.
The millions spent on the route connecting Broughty Ferry to the city centre have provided a safe passage.
But roads into town from the schemes north of the Kingsway or the Lochee conurbation are less inviting.
Living in Birkhill my choices are the twisting Coupar Angus Road, where traffic whizzes by perilously close, or a pavementcycle path strewn with leaves, hiding a multitude of hazards.
I’ve been to Copenhagen, cited as an example to copy.
But the Danish capital is flatter than the tyres at the Caledonia Etape race in 2010 when hundreds of cyclists had tyres punctured by tacks scattered over the roads.
Between the dangers of traffic and poor infrastructure it’ll be a long uphill climb persuading enough folk that our roads are safe for two wheels.
Its stunning Art Deco design lent the place an aura of glamour