Learning British
history is as simple as a walk in the park – or anywhere else you may happen to
stretch your legs. Next week, for example, I shall be hiking in the Lake
District National Park and, while admiring the picture-postcard landscape, will
remind myself (and my hapless companion) that most of it is not quite as nature
intended, having been modified by mankind’s economic activities. The flanks of
the hills that once were clothed in trees are naked now, cleared and stripped of
new growth by the sheep that are the mainstay of farming in the area. Moreover,
I learned from a local barmaid (in the days before they all came from the EU)
that the common place-name ending “thwaite” is Old Norse for “clearing in the
woods”: deforestation has been going on for a long time. It is pointless,
however, to bemoan the fact that the hills are treeless – sheep farming will
persist for as long as it is economically viable. It would be more useful to recognise
such phenomena as the imprints of history on our countryside.
But in our built
landscapes it is, perhaps, easier to decode the stories of history. Stroll
through enough suburbs and, if you are interested, you will begin to identify
when they were built, which will soon prompt the questions ‘why?’ and ‘how?’.
Make your way through the crowds on the High Street, where familiar liveries
and logos compete to draw your attention and distract you from looking up at
the architecture, and pause instead to ponder why the street layout is the way
it is. The most obvious markers, however, are the monuments and statues
peppered around public spaces. They may be so familiar that we become blasé and
disinclined to stop and read their inscriptions, nevertheless their presence,
in itself, is as much a part of our identity as the houses in which we live. The
recent call for the removal of Lord Nelson’s statue from Trafalgar Square is, therefore,
alarming, though it does raise the question whether we think consciously about
our history or clothe ourselves in it uncritically. Nelson was a significant
national figure and, like most of his contemporaries, did not embrace the moral
or ethical standards that are widespread today. But rather than remove him from
his column and thereby erode public awareness of our history, we would do
better to place a statue of Napoleon facing him to more completely illustrate the
story of Trafalgar.
Away from the grandeur
of Central London, along the north bank of the Thames Estuary, I was walking
with friends who pointed out the features of its layered history that make up
in interest what the area lacks in visual appeal. There are ancient and barely
visible remains, like the row of wooden stumps that was a medieval jetty. There
is the star-shaped stone fort at Tilbury, lovingly preserved by English
Heritage. (It is currently closed while being used as a set for Mike Leigh’s film
of the Peterloo Massacre, a crucial event in the fight for universal suffrage,
yet not well known – outside of Manchester, that is). There is industrial
archaeology-in-the-making just nearby, where a redundant power station awaits
its uncertain fate. As the land gets lower, we walk past a jetty where earth
spoil from excavations in and around London is deposited to create arable
fields which, one day in the future, passers-by will assume were always there.
We end up at East
Tilbury, a small town that once was home to the headquarters of the worldwide
Bata shoe-making empire. The elegant, grade II listed factories are now empty
but intact and, at their entrance, stands a bronze statue of Thomas Bata
himself. He once made a fortune from supplying boots for Mussolini’s army, but
one hopes that the remote location will protect his effigy from a call for its
removal on that account.
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