Old St. Paul’s was a mess long before the fire even showed up. Seriously, it was a dump. The spire had been struck by lightning and was all crooked, like a bad toupee. The place was used as a market, a shortcut for drunks, and apparently a place to, uh, “do business,” if you know what I mean. It was a holy mess.
But it was their holy mess. Londoners loved it, despite the pigeons and the smell. It was the tallest building around, a big stone beacon you could see from miles away. People figured, “It’s made of stone, right? Fire can’t touch that.” Oh, how wrong they were. So, so wrong.
Sunday Night: The Fire Starts Whistling
The fire started on Pudding Lane, in a baker’s shop. A little spark, a lot of wood, and a stiff wind. Classic recipe for disaster. By the time it reached St. Paul’s on Tuesday, the fire was an absolute beast. It wasn’t a campfire; it was a raging monster with a taste for wood and ambition.
The cathedral was surrounded by tall wooden buildings and piles of kindling, I mean, merchandise. The fire licked at the church’s walls. People thought the stone would hold. They stashed their belongings inside the cathedral, their furniture, their silver, their hopes. They might as well have thrown it all into a furnace.
