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Recently I carried out an experiment. I've never knowingly used ChatGPT or other AI programmes (though I'm aware that often the first items in the list of Google search results are written by AI) and wondered what would have happened if my Herts churches book had been written by a computer. So I took my entry on Meesden (chosen because it's the church that appears on the cover) and submitted it to electronic emendation.
This is what I wrote:
Meesden church’s first attraction is its secretive sylvan location, unsignposted, at the end of an avenue of trees and all but invisible from the road, half a mile from the one-street village. It was substantially rebuilt by the prominent Victorian architect Sir Arthur Blomfield in 1876-7 (he is responsible, for example, for the very cute timber shingled bellcote), but the plain Norman south door reveals its earlier origins.
The Tudor brick south porch is one of the church's two outstanding features. It was built c.1530, and no one seems to know why such a large and elaborate structure was added to what's always been a small, out-of-the-way church. By rights it should be the gateway to a much grander building, and the contrast is almost comically bathetic. Sadly, it’s been brutally repointed at some time, the cement being slapped on like butter straight from the fridge. One oddity is that the bricks above the corbel table are noticeably different from those below, being less flat, darker in colour and more regular in shape: in other words, they’re modern bricks, and the turrets and battlements are Blomfield’s excellent work (a fact unnoticed and unrecorded until now).
The church’s star attraction, however, is the pavement of variously-shaped mosaic tiles around the altar, from the earlier fourteenth century. (They were perhaps made by the same tilers responsible for those, even more extravagant, in Ely’s Prior Crauden’s chapel, forty miles to the north.) They spread out from the altar, first of all in a fan shape, which is surrounded by a rectangular border, which in turn is surrounded by a bigger, more complex border. This outer border consists of nineteen circles, each of which contains a cinquefoil, which in turn are surrounded by four smaller circles. The colours have worn and faded over the centuries; what remains are mostly dusty yellows, dark greens, various shades of browny-orange and blacks. Many of them have been stamped with little designs: foiled circles, crosses, petal-like shapes, eagles. There are also two coats of arms of the Monchensey family, lords of the manor from the late thirteenth century. In the opaque yet relishable antique jargon of heraldry the design on the shields is known as Barry Vair and Gules (which sounds like a 1950s variety act, perhaps a ventriloquist and his dummy).
The plainly panelled seventeenth century font has been broken into several pieces and stuck back together, possibly as the result of a short-lived ordinance of 1645 which effectively outlawed fonts in favour of basins. This law was never enforced with any great vigour; thankfully so, otherwise no medieval fonts would survive.
I don't claim this to be especially insightful or eloquent, but it is I think a recognisably personal response. It dishes up the key relevant facts (thanks to The Buildings of England ('Pevsner') and the Statutory Listing), and spices them up with a dash of atmosphere, a soupçon of history and a sprinkle of opinion. Most importantly, it conveys, I hope, my pleasure in visiting the church.
I asked ChatGPT to rewrite it in a 'professional and clear style'. This is the result:
Tucked away at the end of a tree-lined avenue, Meesden Church is a hidden gem, barely visible from the road and half a mile from the small one-street village. Its secluded, wooded setting is part of its quiet charm.
The church was largely rebuilt in 1876–77 by the noted Victorian architect Sir Arthur Blomfield, whose work includes the attractive timber-shingled bellcote. However, the plain Norman south door hints at the church’s much earlier origins.
One of the church’s most striking features is its Tudor brick south porch, built around 1530. Its size and ornate design are curious, as they seem out of place for such a modest rural church—it looks more fitting as the entrance to a grander building. Unfortunately, it has suffered from heavy-handed restoration, with cement repointing applied rather crudely. A closer look reveals that the bricks above the corbel table differ from those below—darker, more uniform, and less flat—showing they are modern replacements added by Blomfield during his restoration, a detail that has gone largely unrecorded until now.
The church’s true highlight, however, is the fourteenth-century mosaic pavement surrounding the altar. Possibly crafted by the same artisans who worked on the lavish floor of Prior Crauden’s Chapel at Ely, the design radiates from the altar in intricate patterns. The central fan shape is enclosed by two successive borders—the outermost comprising nineteen circles, each containing a cinquefoil, surrounded by four smaller circles. The once-vivid colours have softened over time to muted yellows, greens, browns, and blacks. Many tiles bear delicate stamped designs such as crosses, petals, and eagles, while two display the arms of the Monchensey family, the medieval lords of the manor. In heraldic terms, the shield is described as Barry Vair and Gules.
Another notable feature is the seventeenth-century font, simply panelled and now pieced back together after having been broken—possibly during the brief period in 1645 when fonts were outlawed in favour of basins. The law was seldom enforced, which is fortunate, as it allowed many historic fonts like this one to survive.
The first thing to notice is that the AI version is about 25% shorter than mine (344 words rather than 436). Conciseness is certainly no bad thing, but several little details are lost in the process, which, according to taste, means either that the description has less padding or less of interest.
The main thing this particular AI version (it must be possible to programme ChatGPT to do other versions - there's probably a button somewhere for 'write a recognisably personal response') does is blandify my words. It relentlessly grinds them down into a flavourless pap.
It introduces two cliches to the 1st paragraph, 'tucked away' and, even worse, 'hidden gem' (arguably 'quiet charm' too) - though I see that I've used 'star attraction' in my 3rd paragraph, which if not a cliche isn't far off, and is made even worse by the fact that I've already used 'attraction' in the 1st paragraph. My 'cute' becomes the relatively insipid 'attractive', and my 'brutally repointed' and a vivid simile become merely a 'heavy-handed restoration' and an adverb. Maybe the AI's 'more uniform' is better than my 'more regular in shape'. My little attempt to raise a smile at the end of the 3rd paragraph is cut completely (computers presumably don't have a sense of humour). 'Never enforced with any great vigour' is wordier than but surely more expressive than 'seldom enforced'. Why change 'medieval' to the less specific 'historic'?
Nevertheless, I don't think anyone would recoil from the AI version if they came across it on a website, or even a book. It does the job reasonably efficiently, if without much character. AI is a threat to artists and artisans (I'm in the second category, of course); it's easy to imagine that guide books will soon be written by computers scouring, summarising and no doubt blandifying everything previously written on the subject (perhaps it's already happened). Novels and scripts, etc, will no doubt be next. Humans are better than AI, but AI is cheaper.
