Grandma phoned last week to tell us how, in the middle of the night, she woke up and couldn’t see the time on her alarm clock (she’s in her nineties). Was there anything we could do about it? We found the answer at a car boot sale that weekend. For the grand outlay of £2, we snapped up a 1950s vintage electric alarm clock with illuminated red numerals the size of a small neon street sign. Job done.

Things would have been different in 1690, the date of manufacture of another bargain clock we snapped up. A simple, but in its own way beautiful antique alarum lantern clock, it had been pooh-poohed by the huddle of dealers at our local Saturday village hall auction.

They were convinced it was modern. After all, how else could such a little gem turn up in this forgotten saleroom in the middle of nowhere? I have no idea, but the fact of the matter was it was as right as ninepence, as confirmed by a clock expert who checked it out and cleaned it for us so that we could have it running without fear of damage to its movement.

Convinced all along that it was right, we paid £100 for it in those cavalier days when we were still learning about antiques. A £100 mistake would have been less upsetting than it might be today when we’re supposed to know what we’re doing. Now part of our pension fund, we reckon we could add a least a nought to its value.

Ironically, but perhaps understandably, dealers and collectors tend to shy away from buying lantern clocks, not because they are particularly complicated or troublesome, but rather because of their reputation as being the target for all sorts of “restoration” over the centuries.

Lantern clock production lasted for barely 150 years and in that time, they were a particularly common given that they were made entirely by hand and were thus expensive. Robust but inherently crude in their manufacture, the earliest examples had a balance wheel or sometimes verge escapement that needed winding a least every 12 hours and sometimes every eight.

So the first thing that happened was that movements were changed to anchor escapements capable of running for 30 hours. Similarly, both these movements were driven by weights: one to power the going train (to make it tick) the other striking train. When the eight-day duration spring balance movement was developed, clocks were updated again and the weights discarded.

Some lantern clocks, such as our own, were fitted with an alarm mechanism visible on the centre of the dial and most, but not all, did not chime the hour. However, as a clock was passed down through the generations of a family, requirements changed and often the alarm mechanism was discarded and sometimes ham-fisted attempts were made to modify the movement to either make it chime or stop it if the noise was too loud.

Almost all genuine lantern clocks have just one hand, indicating the hours, half hours and quarters — in other words making the clock accurate up to 15 minutes either way. So, in another modification clockmakers were asked to add the necessary mechanism to allow the movement to run two hands and thus give greater precision. However, these modifications are not common. Instead, the two-handed lantern clock is likely to be a modern reproduction, Smith’s making a particularly attractive example in the 1940s.

It’s amazing to consider that a clock made 300 years ago is still capable of running today. This was made possible in part by the addition of brass doors to either side of the clock movement. These were originally intended to keep out the dust, of which there was a great deal when even the best homes used straw on the floors.

The doors pivot on two lugs in holes in the top and bottom plate of the clock but easily come unhinged and over time often become lost. So, most clocks coming onto the market today have either lost one or both doors or else have had them replaced. It is often difficult to tell the difference. Attitudes differ on whether this affects value and is really down to personal choice, but the purist would be disappointed by modern replacements.

One of the most attractive features of a lantern clock are the pierced decorative frets which sit immediately below the bell above the dial at the front and on each side. These give the clock its character and are decorated with such motifs as a lion and a unicorn holding a shield; sea serpents; Latin inscriptions and stylised flowers and foliage. They are also often the area chosen by the maker to inscribe his name and place of origin.

They too are held in place by lugs and lost frets are all too common. Similarly, fashions change and over the passage of time, owners will either have discarded the frets or replaced them with new, more stylish examples. Although it is difficult to tell the difference, old replacements are considered more acceptable than new ones, and a clock with no frets looks distinctly odd. Modern replacements can be obtained but whether such a clock should be purchased in the first place is again a matter of personal taste.

Although it is capable of being used, we choose not to have our clock running on the basis that something as old as it is will ultimately wear out. Again this is down to personal taste, but in these days of radio time checks, digital clocks on video recorders, atomic clock synchronisers on computers and wristwatches accurate up to so little that it doesn’t matter, it’s far from necessary.

But none of the modern timekeepers looks I antything like at home with our little group of antique oak furniture, so that’s how it will stay.

Pictures show, top: A lantern clock by Thomas Creed, London, circa 1670. The pointed protrusion on the right rear of the dial is the anchor-shaped pendulum which should be concealed by a decorated brass cover now missing. The holes where it was fixed are just visible behind the slot in the door

Below, left: This good quality German lantern clock was made in the late 19th or early 20th century and as such is a modern reproduction of the 17th century original. The giveaway is the twin winding holes on the dial, for going train and strike train, and the two hands. It runs for eight days, something no original lantern clock could manage

Right: A lantern clock by Thomas Knifton dating from about 1650. It has lost its brass side panels and the frets, although nicely cut, appear to be later replacements

Learning to tell the time in the Morris household was not easy. It was apparently all Grandpa William’s fault. He claimed it was named after him – he said it was called a grandfather clock, so he believed he was right � but he never did like the numbers painted on the dial. So one day, he took out his brush and a pot of black paint, and he replaced the digits with the letters of his name. Take a look at the picture and you can see the result: the photograph was taken at seven minutes past A o’clock!

It’s a charming story. But what’s equally fascinating the clock�s link to the clock-making industry that thrived in the Conwy Valley of North Wales in the 18th and 19th centuries. The family who own it have a link to someone special too. See the panel for more.

Centred on the small market town of Llanrwst, 12 miles south of Conwy, the North Wales clock-making industry established itself around the Owen family, whose production methods allowed them to become hugely prolific.

Well before mass-production was ever thought of, the Owens produced literally hundreds of clocks using components — movements, fingers and dials — imported from other centres, notably the clockmaking area around Prescot, St Helens and Warrington, which were assembled in cases made locally. Llanrwst already had a well-established furniture-making industry, using timber available locally.

Readers interested in learning more about the clockmakers of Llanrwst should obtain a copy of a book by the same title written by Colin and Mary Brown to whom I am grateful for the information in this week’s column. The book is published by Bridge Books, Wrexham (Tel: 01978 358661) and is available in softback, price �21.

However, as can be seen from the illustrations, William Morris’s clock does not bear the name of a Owen maker, rather one Moses Evans, of “Llangerniew”, who is recorded in that other vital research book: Clock and Watch Makers in Wales, written by Iorwerth C. Peate and published by the National Museum of Wales (Welsh Folk Museum). Mr Peate was Keeper of the Department of Folk Culture and Industries.

In fact, the latter book lists three makers by the same name working at Llangddoged from 1780-1819; at Llangernyw and at Llanrwst, although a footnote points out that all three are “almost certainly the same person”.

Evans is described by Colin and Mary Brown as the only other clockmaker of any significance to have ever established himself in or near Llanrwst, and they note that there is nothing to connect him to the Owen family.

Interestingly enough, the William Lewis Morris, whose name is painted on the dial of the Moses Evans clock face, is by marriage a distant relative of John Lennon, a fact not realised until 1995, when the link was established following family research.
Lennon�s great grandfather, John Denbry Millward was born in Llantwit Major, in South Wales, the son of the landlord of an inn which stands to this day. He subsequently moved to live in North Wales, where he met and married Mary Elizabeth Morris. She was born in Llysfaen in 1851, and her cousin William Lewis Morris, the man whose name appears on the clock, is the grandfather of the clock’s present owner.
Millward later became private secretary to the Earl of Shrewsbury, whose townhouse was the famous Tudor House on Lower Bridge Street in Chester, now the well known Bear and Billet public house.
While living in Chester, Millward and his wife, Mary Elizabeth, had a daughter Annie Jane, who was Lennon�s grandmother. Millward and wife Mary Elizabeth subsequently moved to Liverpool and their daughter, Annie Jane, met and married George Ernest Stanley. They had five daughters, one of whom was John Lennon�s mother, Julia.

Despite the competition that they would have provided him, Evans appears to have produced good-quality clocks for nearly 40 years.

Moses Evans was the only child of Owen and Jane Evans, tenant farmers on the Gwydir estate in Llanddoged, near Llanrwst. He was baptised in 1744 and married Jane Jones of Llangernyw in 1779, when he was 35. He died in 1819, aged 75.

Exhaustive research by Colin and Mary Brown gives valuable evidence for dating Moses’ clocks. A study of 35 examples by him spanning a period 1775 to 1819 showed no painted dials signed by him in Llanddoged. He moved to Llangernyw, his wife’s home village, in about 1785, so the William Morris clock must date after then.

All Moses’ clocks were eight-day duration and it is interesting to note that while he probably relied on farming for a least some of his income, he made no effort to compete with the Owen family which he could have done by making 30-hour clocks to sell cheaply to undercut them.

It would also appear that Moses used the same suppliers of mechanisms and fittings for his works and also the same joiners for his clock cases, but unlike the Owens, he is known for incorporating a clock into the centre of a dresser or cupboard

Pictures show, top:The time? It�s seven minutes after A o�clock! Mr Morris had an aversion to the numerals on the dial, so he took his paint brush and painted his name in their place. The Moses Evans clock is worth �1,000-1,500

Below: No painted dials were signed by Moses Evans in Llanddoged. He moved to Llangernyw, his wife’s home village, in about 1785, so the William Morris clock must date after then

It’s been a challenging few weeks. Regular readers will recall that instead of a balmy two weeks in sunny Florida, we ended up coping with the aftermath of Hurricane Dennis and our hearts go out to those who have suffered loss in area’s newest disaster that was Hurricane Katrina.

Arriving home, we were surprised but delighted to see the Sold sign plastered across the For Sale board outside our house. After a gloomy few months wondering whether we’d ever find a buyer, the race was on to exchange contracts and complete in 15 days.

In the event, the move was surprisingly trouble free and we’re thrilled with our new abode. The challenge now is to find homes for all the junk we collected during the 17 years at the previous address. It ain’t easy.

Fortunately, our two longcase clocks fitted in straight away and both are ticking and chiming away merrily.

Ironically, one of them has not done so in all the time we lived at the other place. Don’t ask me why, it was just never put back together when we moved there in 1985, so hearing it run again was highly cathartic.

The clock is very special to us. Aside from the fact that it dates from about 1690 (which means it has only a single finger and runs for just 30 hours) it was one of the first real antiques we ever acquired, paid for with a personal loan financed by the Business Manager’s first wage.

Now it’s back in one piece, I really can’t understand why I never had it running at the old house.

The setup was a simple process, despite the fact that the removal men had prized the seat board – that’s the small plank on which the movement sits – from its mountings, which in effect are the the sides of the clock.

If they had asked, I could have told them the movement was secured to the seat board by two vertical pins and simply lifted off it with absolutely no effort.

Fortunately, the old clout nails which held the seat board in place were still present and it was easy enough to refasten the seat board and replace the movement on its pins.

The hardest part of the setup was ensuring that the clock was “in beat”, that is making sure that its tick equalled its tock, if you see what I mean.

Any clock – bracket, wall or longcase – has to be in beat to run successfully, in many cases to run at all. If you’ve ever listened to a metronome, you’ll know that the pauses between the respective beats of the machine are absolutely equal.

Setting a wall clock in beat is a relatively straightforward process. Simply by swinging the case by small amounts either right or left using its hook as a pivot causes the pendulum to shift out of vertical. Listened carefully and you’ll hear the difference the moves make.

The only time this is a problem is when it’s necessary to swing the clock so far out of vertical to put it in beat that it is obviously hung crooked.

Circular, schoolroom-style clocks are much easier to accommodate, but long wall clocks such as a Vienna regulator, can look ridiculous if they don’t hang straight.

The solution here is that physically bend the clock movement’s crutch. This is the small vertical bar which protrudes from the rear of the movement through which the pendulum runs.

The same is necessary in the case of bracket (mantle) and longcase clocks, but it’s not a job for the fainthearted.

The crutch is made from a softer metal allowing it to be bent readily to move the pendulum out of vertical so that you don’t have too move the actual clock.

It’s a delicate operation, though, and requires a certain amount of trial and error. Bend it too much, or too far, or too vigorously, of course, and the crutch can break. Disaster.

The bottom line was that after a couple of small alterations, our old clock was ticking, tocking and chiming perfectly.

Over the next few days, I shall be attempting to check that is running accurately – although this won’t be easy, or crucial, given that it has only a single finger and is therefore accurate to only the nearest 15 minutes. (Remember: move the pendulum up to make the clock gain, move it down to make it lose).

All this said, having set the thing up and sat for a while listening to its soothing tick-tock, I started to worry.

Consider this, if you parked your car in the garage and left it for 17 years, how safe would it be to simply start it up and drive away?

I know enough about mechanical things to realise that the first journey should be to the nearest service bay to have the thing overhauled and given at least an oil change. To do otherwise could cause untold damage.

I realise antique clocks don’t have things like onboard computers and catalytic converters, but they are mechanical. What’s more, some of them are highly complex and unlike cars, they are an appreciating asset, so it’s worth looking after them.

So I put the question to Michael Turner, head of clocks and barometers at Sotheby’s. I was reassured.

Certainly, Mr Turner recommended giving the clock a full overhaul, but at a likely cost of £400 that will have to wait, after all we have just moved house.

It seems like a lot of money but the charge would cover a complete strip down of the clock movement. All the build-up of centuries old grime and old oil would be removed, the clock reassembled, tested and returned to your home where it would be set up to run satisfactorily and should not need further attention for the next 10 years or more.

This seems pretty reasonable when compared to the cost of a full service on a family motor.

But what about running a clock that has stood idle for 17 years? Should I get the oil can out and have a go myself?

Michael Turner said it was a little like recommending someone try to set up a clock in beat by bending the crutch arm. It was something an educated amateur could undertake, so long as it was done carefully, using the right oil applied sparingly.

The specialist clock restorer, of course, uses special clock oil. Refined domestic machine oil such as Three in One would do the job adequately, but the can of WD 40 should be left in the glove compartment. It sets and will gum up the works, stopping it completely. Leave for vegetable oil in the kitchen, for the same reason.

Applied in tiny droplets from the end of a piece of wire, the only places that need oil – and it’s just a touch, not more – are at either end of the anchor where it engages and disengages with the escape wheel; the brass square at the top of the pendulum rod where it slides in the fork of the crutch and the ends of the arbors or spindles where they rotate in the small holes in the back and front plate of the movement (see diagram).

Do not oil the small toothed wheels, called pinions, which transmit the driving force to the next wheel in the movement. This causes dust to adhere to them forming a sticky mess which will clog the wheels.

Here are a few more tricks and tips should you be moving home or you simply need to relocate your longcase clock to another part of the house: never move the clock with all its various parts in position. Working in this order, remove the hood; wind of the clock almost fully and then unhook the weights (use a felt tipped pen to mark them discreetly left and right); remove the pendulum and then the movement.

If the clock is moving some distance, it is wise to protect the pendulum by fastening it to a strip of wood of a similar length.

Special care should be taken with the fine spring “feather” of the top of the pendulum rod which can be further protected by sliding a cardboard tube over it. The centre of a toilet roll is perfect for the job.

Reassembly is the reverse of the above. When finally assembled and going smoothly, the case should be fastened to the wall to prevent it toppling over with tragic consequences.

I look forward to celebrating the 400th anniversary of our longcase clock in 2090. It should still be going strong.

Pictures show, top: An early 18th century longcase clock movement alone worth £600-800. With its seconds subsidiary dial just below 12 o’clock and the date aperture just above 6 o’clock, setting the thing up to be accurate is not for the faint-hearted

Below, left to right, Oil here – sparingly (click to enlarge).

This good Edwardian longcase clock sold last month for £9,000. Tackle setting up in a new home at your peril. Its brass dial shows phases of the moon and has a subsidiary seconds dial and two dials to regulate the movement. The clock strikes and chimes on five gongs and eight bells with no way of silencing them!A good mid 18th century walnut longcase clock worth £4,000-4,500.

A good George III mahogany longcase clock by John Wilkins who is recorded as working in Islington, London, in 1773. It’s worth £4,000-5,000

A good George III mahogany longcase clock by John Wilkins who is recorded as working in Islington, London, in 1773. It’s worth £4,000-5,000

A late 18th century London clock by Walter Barry. Note the strike/silent dial in the arch which, as it sounds, stops the clock from chiming and keeping everyone awake. An alternative in lesser clocks is to muffle the point at which the striker strikes the bell with an Elastoplast! The clock is worth £1,200-2000.