Today’s email comes to you not from London, but from a galaxy far, far away.

Well… Yorkshire.

I’m still on holiday, having a lovely time with the family, exploring the East Riding. That being the case, I’m taking a week off writing fresh material (and the History Radar). Instead, I’ve got an updated version of an article I first wrote for Londonist over a decade ago (and left the paywall off). It concerns century-old efforts to communicate with Mars by the most unlikely champion: an income-tax clerk and solicitor from Shoreditch…

Let’s call it my second Martian Chronicle, following the recent piece on H.G. Wells.

The Girl From Mars, and London’s 1920s SETI Programme

It was a message unique in the history of telegraphy.

“Opesti nipitia secomba.”

These words, written in Martian, were relayed from London to the Red Planet on 27 October 1926.

The sender was Dr Hugh Mansfield Robinson. The intended recipient was a six-foot, floppy-eared Martian lady called Oomaruru, with whom he’d been in telepathic contact.

Dr Hugh Mansfield Robinson was a former Town Clerk of Shoreditch and a Doctor of Laws. His picture in Hackney Archives, painted around 1912, suggests an austere, sober character. Yet just a few years later, this public servant and man of law was claiming to be an interplanetary psychic.

A glimpse of Mars

Robinson first heard from the Martians in 1918, and his astral body supposedly visited Mars on several occasions. He describes a planet populated by men seven to eight feet tall, while the ladies were over six feet.

“They have large ears sticking out on each side of the head, a huge shock of hair massed high, and a Chinese cast of features.”

These are portrayed as ‘intensely religious’ beings, who treat atheism as a form of insanity.

“They have great airships run by electricity. All their power is electrical, run from the harnessing of the canals and waterfalls in the mountains. They are consequently many generations in advance of us in wireless knowledge”, the doctor elaborated. They even dined on electric apples.

He also spoke of their society, believing that labour strikes were unknown, that the population was decentralised out of cities, and that their numbers included a lower caste of beings lacking in intelligence, and with heads shaped like that of a walrus.

The good doctor seemed taken with one Martian in particular, the lady Oomaruru. He claimed to be in regular telepathic contact with this girl from Mars. She is described as very fair, with a sweet face and big ears that “did not especially detract from her beauty”.

Oomaruru, whose name meant ‘loved one’, was a close friend of the director of Mars’ biggest wireless station. With her help, Robinson hoped to convince the world of his interplanetary psychic wanderings.

First contact

In 1926, Mars was 8 million miles closer to Earth than average. Astronomers everywhere were polishing their telescopes to make observations. In London, Dr Robinson instead sought the services of the General Post Office near St Paul’s. He handed the telegraphist a missive written in a mysterious language he claimed was Martian. “Opesti nipitia secomba.”

The puzzled telegraphist relayed the message to a transmitter at Rugby. From here, it was beamed into space on a wavelength of 18,240 metres. Receivers then listened out for a reply at 30,000 metres, a wavelength Dr Robinson believed the Martians to favour.

The post office had no precedent for such a long-distance message, but was very happy to take Robinson’s custom. An official from the Central Radio Office commented:

“If people wish to send messages even to the moon and the man there-on, and are prepared to pay for them, there does not seem to be any valid reason why the post office should refuse revenue.”

Robinson was billed 18 pence per word for the radio transmission, equivalent to the long-distance ship rate.

Alas, his pennies were wasted. A day later, the Post Office confirmed that no signals had been received that could have emanated from the Red Planet. Robinson dismissed the negative result, claiming that other stations might yet receive something, and later saying (but never proving) that mysterious replies had been received. Few were convinced.

A second attempt

Robinson made a further attempt two years later during another close pass of Mars. This time, the message was “Mar la oi da earth. Com ga Mar” (love to Mars from Earth. God is love). Again, no signal was received, at least not by radio. “I am advised by my telepathic friends on Mars that they did not receive our message owing to the layers of rarified air”, Robinson explained to the press.

The press, indeed, were quick to ridicule him, and not just the British newspapers. The Pittsburgh Post observed that the:

“Apparent failure of his attempt to communicate with Mars by radio early today did not discourage the psychic student. Neither did the attitude of his wife, who sniffed at her husband’s spiritual wanderings among the planets accompanied by a Martian girlfriend with big ears; nor the frankly sceptical attitude of the world in general and men of science in particular.”

The Aberdeen Journal, meanwhile, suggested that the lack of response might be the fault of the Martians rather than any oversight on Dr Robinson’s part. “There may not have been the speeding up process in the Martian telegraphs department that there has been in ours in recent years”, it sneered.

Robinson also claimed to have a recording of the national anthem of Mars. The ditty was conveyed by his Martian ladyfriend Oomaruru, through an Earth-bound medium called Mrs St John James, the wife of a London clergyman. Sadly, its tune is lost to posterity.

Robinson wasn’t alone in his beliefs. A few years earlier, Marconi had detected strange radio noises coming from the Red Planet. They turned out to be spurious, but the incident sparked many imaginations. Our old friend Archibald Low, a well-known scientist, communicator and technological evangelist, purported to know somebody who’d been to Mars and met its inhabitants. These Martians reportedly sported two thumbs on each hand, and telescopic eyes. Low did not, however, think Robinson’s radio techniques would be powerful enough to make contact and instead prescribed a huge piece of sky-writing to get a message across.

Others were less convinced. Arthur Conan Doyle — himself noted for his interest in telepathy and spiritualism — thought Robinson’s efforts uninteresting but noted that he had no doubt contact with Martians would one day be possible. Leading physicist (and part-time spiritualist) Sir Oliver Lodge, meanwhile, dismissed the experiment, pointing out that there was no evidence Mars was inhabited.

Perhaps Robinson’s fiercest critic, though, was his own wife Florence. After the 1928 attempt failed, she’s quoted as saying “I don’t know anything about this Mars affair. I have refused to have the experiments conducted in this house while I remain in it. I don’t know whether anyone encouraged my husband but there will be no more of that foolishness in this house.”

Robinson never gave up his quest to speak to the Red Planet. Later in 1928, he went on a “psychic holiday” to Ilfracombe, where he not only cast his mind out not only to Oomaruru, but also to the lost civilisation of Atlantis. In 1929 he gave technology another go, fruitlessly employing an ordinary wireless set augmented with a ‘psycho-telepathic motor-meter’. In 1930 he founded a college of psychic messaging whose staff included a telepathic dog called Nell. Then, in 1933, he claimed to have recorded the voice of Cleopatra, now a jilted farmer’s wife living in a glass house on Mars.

Dr Hugh Mansfield Robinson would eventually die on 23 December 1940, aged 75. He never got the world to take his claims seriously, and we now know that there is no realistic possibility of intelligent life on our neighbouring planet. Even so, his attempts to contact another world 100 years ago must be one of the earliest such attempts. In other words, London had one of the world’s first SETI programmes.

Thanks for reading! I’ll be back with something fresh next week. In the meantime, feel free to contact me via matt@londonist.com

I’m on holiday this week, travelling out beyond the commuter belt to Zone 27 — or Yorkshire, as I believe the locals call it.

In my absence, I’ve handed the keys to the time machine over to Vic Keegan, a lifelong Londoner who has done much to chronicle the city’s peculiarities and idiosyncrasies. We’ve shared many an anecdote (and drink) over the years.

Vic has a long, distinguished career as a journalist, poet and author. He regularly contributes features on our city’s history to OnLondon, and is the author of Lost London, Lost London 2, and Thorney, London’s Forgotten Island (all of which I’d strongly recommend).

In today’s article, Vic selects a few of his favourite historical discoveries from many years of exploration. I guarantee a few surprises along the way.

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1. Twin Tudors; two astonishing remains

i) The ancient cockpit

The mention of “hidden gems” in London has become a cliché. An exception must be made for two buildings on either side of Whitehall which are unquestionably gems and definitely hidden.

The less-well-known is a Tudor cockpit hidden among the military buildings close to where guards on horseback stand sentinel at the entrance to Horseguards Parade. It was reserved for royalty and attendants. It is said that if you lift the floorboards you will find them stained with blood from this barbarous sport which was hugely popular among all classes of people, not least because there was heavy betting on it.

It is not to be confused with the more famous royal octagonal cockpit further down the road at 70 Whitehall. That is long-gone but its remains are said to be preserved underground awaiting discovery.

ii) Cardinal Wolsey’s wine cellar

On the other side of Whitehall, buried within the Ministry of Defence building, is an even greater gem, the actual wine cellar of Cardinal Wolsey (later grabbed by Henry Vlll). It is one of the most spectacular buried treasures in London and the wonder is that it is there at all. It was due to be demolished as part of the plans in 1940 for a new Ministry of Defence, and was only saved after a protest by Queen Mary, widow of George V.

The rescue involved encasing the cellar in steel and concrete and lowering it by six metres so it didn’t interfere with the contours of the new building.Sadly, very few people get to see it because it is below ground in the bowels of the Ministry of Defence on Horse Guards Avenue. Special permission is required to view it, and tough security procedures must be gone through.

I was lucky enough to get a visit. What struck me after negotiating a series of stairways was not just the unexpectedly large size of the cellar itself but the way it is presented. It is done in museum style, with large reproductions of paintings and maps, and numerous boards explaining the historical background, as you walk around the outside of the mausoleum-style structure that now encases it. What a shame it is not open to the public.

2. The prison that became a church

Like most Londoners, I didn’t take much notice of the history around me. That all changed when, decades ago, I discovered to my amazement that the building a few yards away on the other side of the road to our mansion block in Victoria had been the site of a huge prison.

Tothill Fields penitentiary was no ordinary jail. It was built in 1834 near where an earlier (1618) penitentiary was located, and where the Greencoat pub in Artillery Row stands today. It was on an eight acre site employing “open” principles as a “panopticon” (roughly translated as “see all”) in keeping with theories espoused by Jeremy Bentham. The idea was that all of the prisoners could be viewed from a central point by a warder while not being able to see each other. It was pulled down in 1877 and the inmates moved to the much bigger Millbank Penitentiary, which occupied the site on which the Tate Gallery now stands.

The ground on which Tothill Fields prison was located also found a surprising new use. The huge and hugely beautiful Westminster Cathedral was built on the footfall of the prison. Part of it is still there. The nine foot bed of concrete on which the House of Correction was constructed was so solid that it was retained and now supports the Cathedral. Yes, a cathedral built on a prison.

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3. Two world-beating companies opposite each other in Horseferry Road

A few roads away from the site of Tothill Fields prison there was something else that astonished me. Horseferry Road wallows in history, not least two world-beating companies, which stood on opposite sides of the road where Coral the bookmaker is now located. In 1812, the Coral site was occupied by the Gas Light and Coke Company. It was the first organisation in the world to supply gas for public use. It had two large gasometers and several small ones at the rear of its premises, which stretched an entire block from the corner with Monck Street all the way to Great Peter Street.

The company expanded through mergers and eventually became British Gas, which can trace its ancestry back to this company founded by Frederick Albert Winsor, an immigrant from Brunswick. He installed the country’s first gas-lit street lights, in Pall Mall. They soon spread out to the surrounding area. You can see plenty of them today in St James’s Park and nearby streets.

On the other side of the street was the Broadwood piano factory, the biggest and most prestigious in the world.

A Broadwood piano was Beethoven’s pride and joy. He thought of it as “an altar on which I will place the choicest offerings of my mind to the divine Apollo.” It was a favourite of Mozart and Chopin, too. Listz played one on his last visit to London. Yes, it was here at 69 Horseferry Road, between a brewery and a marble works opposite the huge Westminster Gas and Coke Company.

London in the 19th century was the global centre of piano manufacturing, with over 130 factories, mainly located in Islington. But Broadwood chose Horseferry Road, an ancient route leading from Westminster to the horse ferry at Lambeth, which went into decline after Westminster Bridge was opened in 1750.

4. The Royal Aquarium

The Royal Aquarium at the end of Tothill Street facing Westminster Abbey was one of two grand creative buildings within a stone’s throw of each other, which should never have been pulled down. It was opened in January 1876 and ran most of the length of Tothill Street almost to St James’s Park station. Its iron and glass interior was clearly influenced by the stupendously successful Crystal Palace, from the 1851 Great Exhibition in Hyde Park.

It failed as an aquarium but its other facilities included an orchestra capable of accommodating 400 performers, and led by Arthur Sullivan, a skating rink, an art gallery and a theatre. Around the main hall were rooms for eating, smoking, reading and playing chess, as well as an art gallery under John Everett Millais.

By the 1890s, the Aquarium was acquiring a risqué reputation, with unaccompanied ladies promenading through the hall in search of partners. Its end was in sight.

5. The Grand Opera House that wasn’t

I don’t have a top 10 of Lost buildings, as they change according to mood – but the most tragic is the one pictured above. I stumbled across what I presumed was an unbuilt design for Europe’s grandest opera house close to Westminster Underground station a long time ago. I didn’t proceed because it obviously hadn’t been built. Years later I came across a letter to a newspaper complaining about the “eyesore” on the Embankment clearly referring to the Opera house. It turned out that construction started in the 1870s and used 5 million bricks reaching the level of the roof when James Mapleson, the impresario behind it, ran out of money. What could have been a 2,000-seat Grand Opera House by the Thames lay derelict for several years before being demolished, a huge cultural tragedy.

Except not all of it was pulled down. The foundations, which went deeper than the adjoining District Line, were so strong that they were retained and remain to this day. New Scotland Yard, the second HQ of the Metropolitan Police, was erected on top of them and opened in 1890, prompting the Mapleson family to complain that rooms intended for opera stars were now occupied by prisoners, It was a tragedy no opera could match.

6. The haunting tale of the Duke of York’s column in The Mall

The top of the Duke of York’s column off The Mall, can, unlike Nelson’s Column, be accessed by a spiral staircase. The problem is that it has been closed to the public for over 120 years. I stumbled across this curious fact reading the redoubtable Augustus J C Hare’s account of Trafalgar Square in 1896, which he described as a “dreary expanse of granite” with the “miserable buildings” of the National Gallery flanked by a “hideous hotel”. He considered Nelson’s Column “a very poor work, which, however, does not signify much as it can only be properly seen from the top of the Duke of York’s column, which no one ascends”.

This whetted my appetite to get a view of London that hardly anyone has seen for well over a century and – to cut a long story short – I managed to blag permission to ascend the column’s 168 Aberdeen granite stairs, accompanied by two attendants.

At the top, we were hit by a wonderful panoramic view of London from an angle I’d never seen before. I looked immediately for Nelson’s Column, only to find that what would have been Hare’s untrammelled view of Trafalgar Square was obscured by the British Council building, a Johnny-come-lately structure.

It is easy to see why it is still closed to the public, as there is a clear risk of suicides. But it is less easy to understand why the Duke of York (1763-1827) got a column in the first place, let alone one with a coveted spiral staircase denied to Nelson.

He was appointed Commander in Chief of the army by his doting father, George III, but failures in France and Holland made him widely regarded as unfit to command an army in the field. He was a notorious philanderer and gambler, with the dubious honour of being satirised in the famous nursery rhyme:

Oh, the grand old Duke of York, he had 10,000 men.
He marched them up to the top of the hill.
And he marched them down again.

The public used to be allowed to climb to the top between noon and 4pm. from May until to Sept, for the price of six (old) pence, until a spate of suicides led to its prolonged closure. Such a tragedy.

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7. How was the world’s biggest ship built on the Thames?

The biggest surprise I got during my research was to discover that the river Thames was once the biggest shipbuilding area in the world. Yes, the world. They never taught us that at school. The most dramatic example was the Great Eastern steamship (above), built by the amazing Isambard Kingdom Brunel. It was one of the wonders of its age. Constructed on the banks of the Thames at Millwall in 1858 to carry 4,000 passengers non stop to Australia, it was the longest ship the world had ever seen and remained so for over 40 years until the RMS Oceanic pipped it in 1899.

While it was being built, Brunel’s budget was cut from £500,000 to £250,000. This forced serious economies including abandonment of plans to build a new dock. So, almost unbelievably, it had to be built on the bank of the river, held up by wooden supports before being slid into the Thames. It was the first ship to be built almost completely of wrought iron and had three different modes of propulsion – propellers, sails and paddle wheels – to ensure she kept moving.

Although the ship was scrapped in 1890, after a chequered career, the remains of the slipway on which it was launched can still be seen at Millwall, a shortish walk from Island Gardens DLR station. I took this photo of it at low tide. The water was higher than expected because of rain, so only part of it was showing.

8. The biggest company in the world

Few companies have had such a controversial history as the East India Company. Its magnificent head office (above) in Leadenhall Street housed the biggest company the world had ever known. Even today its power boggles belief. The East India Company was more like a sovereign state than a company accounting for nearly half of all world trade. At its peak it had its own army with anything up to 260,000 men, twice the size of the entire British army at the time.

It owes its success to James I, who gave it a monopoly of British trade with much of Asia starting with the lucrative spice trade, then expanding into tea, textiles and other goods. By the 18th century it was, in effect, running a privatised British Empire, extending its influence from India into China.

The balance sheet of the company remains highly controversial. It ran a very successful monopoly – and it revolutionised our drinking habits by introducing tea from China. But it also became involved with the slave trade and riddled with corruption from the top downwards. It ruthlessly subdued and pauperised much of the population, and turned huge numbers of Chinese into opium addicts.

The company’s demise followed the Indian Mutiny of 1857 when its Bengal Army mutinied, triggering a national uprising. A two-year internecine war persuaded parliament it was time for a change of governance. The company was stripped of its powers and replaced by the British Raj controlled from Whitehall.

The former site of the East India Company’s head office is now home to the high tech building, Lloyds of London, whose forebears doubtless insured many of the activities of the East India Company. But that is another story.

9. The curious tale of Britain’s lost monastery

If asked in a pub quiz what was Eastminster to balance Westminster most people would probably say St Paul’s. But that is a cathedral not a minster. The real Eastminster was a large monastery, St Mary Graces, close to the Tower of London. It was the subject of huge excavations in the 1980s involving 150 people. The dig revealed walls stretching to 76 metres surrounding a hospital, a dining hall, chapel, chapter house (where abbey business was discussed), a refectory and other buildings.

The monastery was founded in 1350 by Edward III on the site of a notorious plague pit fulfilling a vow he made to God and the Blessed Virgin Mary of Graces after his life had apparently been spared at sea. When I paid a visit a few years ago all I could find were the remains of a small wall (above) which a reader assures me has now disappeared among the undergrowth leaving nothing to show from excavations that were so large they were surrounded by four streets.

Why the lack of care? The Chinese government purchased the five-acre site eight years ago in May 2018 for approximately £255 million. The intention was to relocate their embassy from Portland Place to this historic location together with other places they have in London, which would make it one of the largest diplomatic missions in Europe.

Sir Keir Starmer gave permission for the development prior to his recent visit to China but it has been delayed further by local objections and worries about security. In theory, provision has been made for the remains to be on public display. Meanwhile it remains the largest unknown archaeological site in London. May history win.

Thanks for reading. Vic can be contacted through his website.

Contact me any time on matt@londonist.com

Today, I’m continuing an occasional series in which we use old paintings of London as a springboard for historical discussion. This time, we’re back in 1862 to gaze upon the crowds of Paddington station.

That’s for the main section. First the History Radar…

History Radar

Upcoming events for those interested in London’s history.

🏛️ GUNNERSBURY CENTENARY: Gunnersbury Park Museum hosts Gunnersbury Park's 100th Birthday Party to celebrate a century of the west London estate. The massive community bash features live 1920s music, a local market, and a giant community picnic blanket, alongside traditional games and museum tours. 25 May

🛏️ BETWIXT THE SHEETS: Historian Dr Kate Lister brings her award-winning podcast Betwixt the Sheets LIVE to Cadogan Hall in Chelsea for an evening of history’s most scandalous and outrageous stories. Joined by a special guest, the show unearths the bizarre moments edited from textbooks, featuring interactive elements and a game of “Sh*ggeth, Marry, Kill.” 25 May

🏛️ UCL TOUR: Discover the people and places that have shaped University College London over the past two centuries on a guided UCL200 Walking Tour of the historic Bloomsbury campus. The 90-minute journey blends historical milestones with stories of progressive founders, medical trailblazers, and student activists, starting from the North Lodge Gift Shop in the Main Quad. 27 May

🏠 STANLEY ARTS TOUR: Explore South Norwood’s Stanley Hall on a guided heritage walk through the building. Originally opened in 1903, the Grade II listed venue is a treasure trove of Edwardian architectural detail and hidden stories, and today's tour reveals the history of the people who shaped the site, from its Art Nouveau beginnings to its current role as a community cultural hub. 27 May

📚 BOOKS & BOHEMIANS: City Guide Jill Finch leads a virtual journey through the intellectual heart of the capital in an illustrated talk hosted by Guildhall Library. Explore the streets and squares of the former Bedford Estate without leaving your seat, uncovering the history of the British Museum and the scandalous reputations of the Bloomsbury Set. 27 May

🏡 BROTHERS TOUR: Explore the hidden history of the Charterhouse in Clerkenwell through a behind-the-scenes tour led by a resident of the almshouse. Each 90-minute walk is unique, as the resident Brothers share their personal perspectives on the site’s long evolution from a 14th-century monastery to its current role as a community for older people. It's a rare chance to see historic buildings and rooms not usually open to the public. 28 May

🏮 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE LATE: The Florence Nightingale Museum in Lambeth opens its doors after hours for its monthly museum late, featuring a live performance by ‘the Lady with the Lamp’. Hear the story of her life in her own words, from her high-society upbringing to her pioneering work in the Crimean War and her revolutionary use of statistical analysis. 28 May

📚 LIBRARY TOUR: Stuart Baines, former chair of the Library Committee, leads a guided exploration of the Highgate Literary & Scientific Institution. Get a rare look at one of north London’s most beautiful private collections, tracing the institution's history from its 19th-century origins to its current role in the Highgate community. Admire the historic shelving and unique architectural details of the Members' Room while hearing stories of the HLSI’s fascinating past. 29 May

🩺 VICTORIAN SURGERY: Step into the oldest surviving surgical theatre in Europe for a Surgery Talk at the Old Operating Theatre Museum. Held in the original attic space of Old St Thomas' Hospital, the session explores the brutal reality of medical practice before the advent of anaesthetics and antiseptics. Museum experts trace the evolution of healthcare from the hospital's 19th-century origins to the pioneering techniques that shaped modern medicine. 30 May

📽️ HACKNEY WOMEN: Dalston’s historic Rio Cinema hosts the premiere of Women from Hackney's History, a new film commissioned by the Hackney Society to celebrate local trailblazers. Spanning three centuries of stories, the production features pioneers such as Clara Ludski, the founder of the Rio itself, and was filmed across various borough locations. The screening is followed by a panel discussion with filmmaker Barney Snow and editor Sue Doe, plus a Q&A and a book signing. 31 May

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Anatomy of a Painting: The Railway Station, by William Powell Frith

Welcome to Paddington Railway Station, a century before anybody associated it with a Peruvian bear. This delicious crowd scene was painted by William Powell Frith in 1862, just eight years after Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s mighty terminus first opened.

It’s called simply The Railway Station, and it shows dozens of Victorians, of every class, going about their business.

“Such a picture as this,” predicted the Western Daily Press at the time, “will certainly, ages hence, have great historic interest.” And they were right. Here we are, 164 years later, hungry to explore its details.

Frith is not exactly a household name today, though he was a respected painter of his time. A Yorkshireman by birth, he moved to London to study at Sass’s Academy on Charlotte Street — thereby gaining the same teacher as Millais and Thomas Lawrence. He tried his hand at many styles, including portraiture (cue this well-known image of Dickens in his study). He is best remembered, though, for his ‘genre paintings’, showing everyday life. A master of the art-form, he’s often dubbed ‘the Victorian Hogarth’. The Railway Station is one of his best.

The painting first met its public in 1862, and arrived with enormous anticipation. Frith’s previous crowd scenes showing Ramsgate Sands (1854), and The Derby Day (1858) were absolute blockbusters. The Railway Station, which took two years to complete, was something else. Today, we look back at the great age of steam with nostalgia and romance. In Frith’s day, this was all commonplace, if still relatively new. In the views of some of the art establishment, a respected Royal Academician like Frith should be working on loftier scenes. Railways were vulgar. Railways were low-brow. It would be like a serious artist today focusing on a Superloop bus or the Croydon Tramlink. Even so, the painting was met with both popular and critical acclaim. I mocked up an exhibition poster with some genuine quotes:

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What can we see in the painting?

Let’s start with the titular subject, the railway station. It’s recognisably Paddington. Here’s a 2026 view:

The angle isn’t quite right, but we can still see that the ‘moorish’ columns, arching roof and the serpentine metalwork over the glazing are the same today as in 1862. Sadly, the ‘disco ball’ pendent lights are no longer with us, though you can see similar confections down on the Circle line platforms at Baker Street.

Although it’s called The Railway Station, Frith’s painting is really about the people. What can we see in those crowds? I want to first direct your attention to the three dogs, bottom-left (one is held in a lady’s arms). They are unique in the painting; not just because they are dogs, but also because these are the only ones of Frith’s 100+ subjects who are not wearing some form of head covering. Headgear was an expected item of dress in this era, and we can see examples of many styles. Lustrous top hats, made from felted beaver fur, peek out among the cloth caps, railway porter hats, bonnets, scarves, straw hats and perhaps a bowler hat or two (a recent invention). Even the children have covered heads.

Frith painted himself into the scene. He’s the one in the bowler-style hat, looking on as his wife gives their young son a farewell kiss on the lips:

The young boy clutches a cricket bat and wears a blazer, indicating he’s on his way to boarding school, poor fellow. The elder brother is also school-bound, but has the poise and the pocket-watch of experience about him. This isn’t his first exile. He looks on, with an expression to mirror his father’s, a young man in the making.

Beside the Frith family, we find a scene of bewilderment:

In the centre, a foreign traveller looks suspiciously at a working-class fellow, who holds his hand out to show a coin. The latter is a cab man who is not satisfied by the fare that the bearded gentleman has paid. Reviews of the time have great fun with this vignette, revelling in xenophobia. One account describes the central figure as “a bilious Frenchman, yellow from gorging those hot breakfasts of his, and the interminable cigars that follow them; he is fur-clad, bearded like a seedy ‘pard’ [criminal].” The anxious wife is deemed “shrewish”.

Another scene of confrontation takes place to the far right. Here, two extremely well-dressed ‘plain clothes’ policemen are making an arrest:

The topper-sporting coppers have been identified as Michael Haydon and James Brett, two real-life members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. The duo were minor celebrities, having solved a number of high-profile cases. They agreed to pose for the painting. Meanwhile, their captive is clad in multiple layers, including a high scarf. He is attempting to flee in disguise. A lady who is presumably his wife looks on in horror as the arrest warrant is issued. Meanwhile, a gentleman in her carriage gets on with his newspaper, oblivious to the scene unfolding around him, like a modern-day phone zombie.

Immediately to the left, and in deliberate contrast to the scene of grave consequence, Frith places a wedding party, still giddy from the nuptials. The happy couple are about to embark on their Honeymoon, perhaps to the Isle of Wight:

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Every year, I have the honour of writing and hosting the Big Pub Quiz for the London Historians organisation.

Held in the Sir Christopher Hatton pub in Holborn, a dozen or so teams compete in a battle of historical nous… and guesswork.

This year’s quiz, held on 18 May 2026, marked the ninth annual event (and the 10th anniversary, seeing as we missed 2020 thanks to Covid). The winning team scored a remarkable 43/50, with the second-place team coming just behind on 42 points.

Can you do better? Grab a pen, jot down your answers to the 50 questions below and see if you might have won.

The winning team received a London goody-bag, plus the almost-coveted London Historians trophy. Their team name will be engraved upon it, and they’ll be asked to add a small trinket to the handles — the idea being that the trophy grows each year until, a century from now, it becomes an historic object in its own right.

London Historians, by the way, is a wonderful organisation, which organises site visits to impressive historical locations. They also run events like this quiz, and monthly meetups. Go take a look (but do the quiz first!)

Round 1: Picture Round: Maritime London

Round 2: History News

1. Which performing arts venue first opened its doors 75 years ago this month, with an inaugural concert featuring Beethoven’s 1st and 9th symphonies?

2. A sketch of a previously unidentified Tudor woman was recently analysed by AI, which identified her as whom? (Though, it should be noted that not everyone agrees with the findings.)

3. Another long-standing mystery was solved around the same time, when an historian worked out the precise location of Shakespeare’s house. In which part of the Square Mile was it located?

4. It was announced last year that Smithfield Market is now likely to move to the Royal Docks, to a site known as Albert Island. The site is spanned by a major road bridge named after which great British Olympian?

5. Missing-word question. Complete this Metro headline from April last year: “Historians may Have Finally Worked out how many BLANK are on the Bayeux Tapestry”.

Round 3: The Great Exhibition

This month marks 175 years since the opening of the Great Exhibition.

1. Easy one to start. The exhibition was, of course, housed inside the Crystal Palace. In which park was this initially erected, before moving up to Sydenham after the exhibition?

2. The Crystal Palace’s architect was Sir Joseph Paxton. As well as building giant glasshouses, Paxton was also a skilled gardener. At Chatsworth, he was the first to cultivate a variety of which fruit, now the commonest form eaten throughout the world?

3. What collided with the Crystal Palace in June 1851, coming within inches of causing a major disaster?

4. Among the exhibition’s larger exhibits was a giant clock manufactured by Dent. After the exhibition, it was installed in one of London’s railway stations, where parts survive to this day. Which station?

5. The Crystal Palace was, of course, later moved to Sydenham where it gave its name to the wider area. In what year did it burn down?

Round 4: A Load of Balls

With the men’s World Cup imminent, it’s time for a football round.

1. Which football stadium was built on the site of Watkin’s Folly, a failed attempt to build a rival to the Eiffel Tower that only reached 47 metres?

2. Which central London visitor attraction, which reopened not long ago, now displays a copy of the Euro96 sticker album, open at the Scotland page?

3. In 2024, one of the Overground lines was renamed the Lioness Line in honour of the women’s England team. What are its two termini?

4. In March 1966, the World Cup, then called the Jules Rimet trophy was stolen. It’s well known that it was eventually discovered by a dog called Pickles. But which Westminster landmark was it initially stolen from?

5. The World Cup: Which London football club has contributed most players to England men’s World Cup squads, since the competition’s inception in 1930?

Round 5: The ‘Can AI Take my Job?’ Round

I asked ChatGPT to set me ‘fairly tough but intriguing’ questions about London history. I will read five of them out, along with ChatGPT’s answer. And then use these to set slightly better questions. So don’t answer the first question, which is the AI slop, but address the follow-on question in each case.

1. Which London church was destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666 and subsequently redesigned by Christopher Wren?
ChatGPT answer: St Paul’s Cathedral

Your question: Obviously, this is a crappy question because dozens of churches were destroyed in the fire. Your question, then, is this: Not including St Paul’s, which of Christopher Wren’s post-fire churches is the tallest?

2. Which London railway station stands on the site of a notorious “pleasure fair” once associated with elephant baiting?
ChatGPT answer: Elephant and Castle

Your question: No actual elephant was ever recorded at Elephant and Castle, let alone elephant baiting. The name’s origins are contested, but it’s thought to come from a pub sign bearing the crest of which City livery company?

3. What was the only London Underground station named after a pub?
ChatGPT answer: Manor House

Your question: This is clearly cackpiffle. At least five other Tube stations get their names from pubs. We’ve already met Elephant and Castle – what’s the other one on the Northern line?

4. Which river, now mostly underground, flows beneath the route of London’s Victoria line and gave its name to a theatre district?
ChatGPT answer: River Fleet

Your question: Eh? What? No part of that question is right. But here’s an easier question: Which bridge marks the point where the River Fleet formerly met the Thames?

5. What annual event, first held in 1829, is a boat race between two universities on the Thames?
ChatGPT answer: The Boat Race

Your question: Well, the answer’s not wrong, but it’s just a repeat of the question. Here’s your question: In 2021, because of the Covid pandemic, the Boat Race was held away from London for the first time since the Second World War. On which river was it contested?

Round 6: Location, location, location (pictures)

Round 7: Prime Ministers and politicians

1. Who is the most recent British Prime Minister to be born in London? (Not necessarily by birth year, but by recency in the role.)

2. Which famous Prime Minister, on chairing his first cabinet meeting in the 19th century, was surprised at the behaviour of his ministers, describing it as “An extraordinary affair. I gave them their orders and they wanted to stay and discuss them.”?

3. Which Prime Minister spent some of his teenage years in a rented flat on Coldharbour Lane, Brixton?

4. In which notable London building did Margaret Thatcher breathe her last in 2013?

5. Which well-known politician is the current MP for the constituency we are quizzing in [the Christopher Hatton pub on Leather Lane, Holborn]?

Round 8: Natural History Round

(In honour of David Attenborough’s 100th birthday.)

1. Which riverside area is thought to get its name from the Old English for ‘landing place for cattle’?

2. In 1864, workers uncovered one of the best-preserved mammoth skulls ever found in England, in which Essex town, now part of Greater London?

3. Which famous London pub had a celebrity parrot named Polly, whose stuffed remains can still be seen above the front bar?

4. Which animal was recently released into Paradise Fields in Greenford, West London, after a 400-year absence or its species from the capital?

5. Which London borough shares its name with a preposterous heraldic beast, which has the head of a fox, forelegs like an eagle’s talons, the chest of a greyhound, the body of a lion, and the hindquarters and tail of a wolf. The beast appears on the coat of arms of that borough.

Round 9: Odds and Ends

1. Science fiction pioneer HG Wells was born in what is now the London Borough of Bromley and lived much of his life in London. What do the H and G initials stand for? (Half a point each.)

2. What faddish device did Selfridges send to Sir Ernest Shackleton in late 1921, just months before he died of a heart attack brought on by too much vigorous exercise?

3. One Canada Square was London’s tallest building before the Shard. But what was the tallest building before that?

4. Which famous author worked in the deep-level tunnels beneath our feet, while serving with military intelligence during the Second World War?

5. A replica of which famous London statue stands on a roundabout in Fleetwood, Lancashire?

A. ‘Eros’ (or Anteros or the Shaftesbury Memorial or Angel of Christian Charity… all names used for this sculpture)

6. A magnificent tree nicknamed Barney, near London Wetland Centre in Barn Elms, is thought to be the tallest and oldest example of its kind in London. What type of tree is it?

7. In what unlikely, central London location did 14 diners tuck into rump steak on 23 October 1843?

8. What were the names of the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic mascots?

9. Where can you see Cromwell, Shakespeare and Lauderdale side by side?

10. What do the following people have in common: John Wayne, Albert Gunter, Robbie Maddison and Peppa Pig?

That’s your lot! Finalise your questions, then mark according to the answers below.

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Answers

Round 1: Maritime London (pictures)

1. River Humber (it separates Yorkshire and Lincolnshire)

2. Wapping

3. Cutty Sark

4. Its guns are trained on the service station (accept any wording that suggests this)

5. King’s Cross (half point for ‘Regent’s Canal’, but I did ask for ‘area’)

Round 2: History News

1. Royal Festival Hall (accept South Bank Centre)

2. Anne Boleyn

3. Blackfriars

4. Sir Steve Redgrave

5. Penises. And the tally is either 93 or 94 depending which scholar you believe; a bone of contention, as the Sun put it.

Round 3: The Great Exhibition

1. Hyde Park

2. Banana

3. A hot-air balloon. Piloted by George and Margaret Graham. The balloon’s grapples came dangerously close to snagging on the roof supports.

4. King’s Cross

5. 1936

Round 4: A Load of Balls

1. Wembley

2. National Portrait Gallery

3. Euston and Watford Junction (I’ll accept just ‘Watford’... and half point for each terminus)

4. Methodist Central Hall (it was on show at a stamp exhibition)

5. Tottenham Hotspur or Spurs with 38 (next is Chelsea with 25)

Round 5: Can AI Take my Job?

1. St Bride’s (just taller that St Mary-le-Bow)

2. The Cutlers (handles were made from ivory)

3. Angel (other examples are Royal Oak, Maida Vale and Swiss Cottage)

4. Blackfriars Bridge

5. The Great Ouse (Cambridgeshire)

Round 6: Location, Location, Location (pictures)

1. Paddington

2. Kensington Palace

3. Excel

4. Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre

5. Royal Albert Hall

Round 7: Prime Ministers and politics

1. Keir Starmer (1961 in Southwark). Were he to get the top job, Wes Streeting would be the new answer (1983, Stepney)

2. The Duke of Wellington (1828). As a senior military man, the Iron Duke was not used to debate.

3. John Major

4. The Ritz hotel

5. Keir Starmer, MP for Holborn and St Pancras

Round 8: London’s natural history

1. Rotherhithe

2. Ilford

3. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese

4. Beavers

5. Enfield

Round 9: Pot luck

1. Herbert George (half a point for each)

2. A pogo stick

3. NatWest Tower (now Tower 42… accept either answer)

4. Ian Fleming

5. ‘Eros’ (or Anteros or the Shaftesbury Memorial or Angel of Christian Charity… all names used for this sculpture)

6. Plane tree or London plane tree

7. Nelson’s Column (on top, and before the statue was erected)

8. Wenlock and Mandeville (half point for each)

9. The Barbican (the three towers)

10. All have jumped Tower Bridge in vehicles (any words to that effect). John Wayne in Brannigan, Albert Gunter in a bus in real life, Robbie Maddison on a motor bike in 2009, and Peppa Pig (driven by the Queen) in a bus.

So, tot up your total and let me know in the comments how you did. The winning team scored a whopping 43/50. If you could have done better, then. why not consider coming along to the tenth annual London Historians Big Pub Quiz in May 2027?

Remember to check out London Historians here.

Thanks for reading (and quizzing). Please do leave a comment below, or email me any time on matt@londonist.com

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This edition’s a guest post by Laura Reynolds, charting the history of how London became addicted to coffee, via a tour of the city’s early coffee houses.

The advent of coffee in the city’s harder to trace than the history of tea in London, although we do know that coffee arrived earlier, as result of travel to the Ottoman Empire. The Levant Trading Company, and later the British and Dutch East India companies, were among early importers of coffee to England. When it arrived, coffee would be stored in warehouses such as those in Shad Thames and at Hay’s Galleria.

The first coffee was a very basic drink, made well in advance and reheated when served. This was long before the days of filtering, and the niceties of milk and sugar weren’t added until much later. It wasn’t much enjoyed by people at the time, who drank it for its stimulant qualities rather than its taste. Advert and posters of questionable scientific basis were published by proprietors of early coffee houses to get people hooked on the drink.

Pasqua Rosee, Cornhill

The iconic lantern of Cornhill’s Jamaica Wine House sits on the site of London’s first coffee house — a rather grand description for what was effectively a shed serving up a bitter liquid.

As a blue plaque informs 21st century passers-by, Pasqua Rosee opened a coffee house on this site in 1652, after opening one in Oxford the previous year. Although the premises bore Rosee’s name and picture, a Daniel Edwards was the driving force behind it. A member of the Levant Company and a Turkish goods trader, Edwards employed Rosee as a servant in the popular venture, which sold 600 servings of coffee every day (including one to Samuel Pepys, mentioned in his diary in December 1660).

Lloyd’s Coffee House, near Leadenhall

Modern insurance market Lloyd’s of London — famous for its Lutine Bell — exists today thanks to a 17th century business called Lloyd’s Coffee House. A popular meeting place for sailors, merchants and shipowners, relationships forged here led to the establishment of Lloyd’s of London, and several other businesses of seafaring matters.

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That’s for the main section. First, news of yet another site visit, and the History Radar.

📣 Subscriber site visit!

Do you like visiting small, niche museums that not many people have heard of? How about joining me for a tour of London’s only electrical clock museum? The Clockworks in West Norwood features a “world-class collection of electrical clocks, timekeepers and associated technologies”, many of which have London connections.

The tour will take place on the afternoon (3pm) of Monday 20 July. Places are limited, so what I’ll do is operate this one on a ballot system. If you’d like to come along, email me on matt@londonist.com by the end of the weekend (17 May). I’ll then allocate places by ballot early next week.

The tour is open to paying subscribers only (and plus-ones on request), as a thank-you for your ongoing support. This is a free tour, though donations will be welcomed by the museum. And, of course, we’ll repair to a local pub afterwards if anyone wants to keep the conversation going. Even though it’s on a Monday!

History Radar

Upcoming events of interest to London history aficionados.

🎉 HACKNEY HISTORY FESTIVAL: The month-long festival boasts a packed program this weekend (16-17 May). Saturday’s line-up includes (deep breath) Hackney Suffragettes, How the Hackney Society protects Buildings at Risk, Highlights from 20 years of our Design Awards, Sylheti Lascars, the Geology of Hackney and the launch of a new film of 100 years of Hackney’s History fronted by Hackney Community Orchestra. On Sunday, look out for a Rock against Racism concert, Queer Hackney and a Hackney History Pub Quiz.

🎶 COCKNEY SING-A-LONG: Moustachioed maestro Tom Carradine returns to the historic stage of Wilton’s Music Hall for an uproarious evening of traditional East End entertainment. Accompanied by his six-piece band, The China Plates, Carradine’s Cockney Sing-a-Long spans everything from Music Hall classics and wartime spirit to West End hits. 18 May

🎓 STUDENT LONDON: The Fitzrovia Chapel hosts a lunchtime talk exploring how students have shaped the capital through activism and community since 1826. Professors Georgina Brewis and Sam Blaxland discuss their new research on the history of higher education, accompanied by a short film about student life in London’s historic university quarters. 19 May

🎭 SHAKESPEARE IN ART: Hear how the narratives of the Bard have inspired Europe’s greatest artists and musicians. Discover how Shakespeare’s works launched the careers of 18th-century British painters and why every age continues to recreate his characters in its own image, in a free talk at Guildhall Library, also livestreamed online.

🏛️ SIR HENRY COLE: Guildhall Library hosts a talk on the extraordinary life of Sir Henry Cole, the polymath behind the Great Exhibition and the V&A. His great-great-great-great-granddaughter, Alice MacDonnell, shares stories of his relentless legacy, ranging from the invention of the Christmas card to a mummified rat. 20 May

🖼️ WHISTLER AT TATE BRITAIN: 150 works of art by James McNeill Whistler go on display at Tate Britain, on loan from the Musée d'Orsay in Paris. The works include his soupy depictions of the industrialised Thames. 20 May-27 Sep

👸🏻 THE BOLEYN SECRET: Historian and author Alison Weir launches her new Tudor novel, The Boleyn Secret at Southwark Cathedral. The story follows Kate Carey, daughter of Mary Boleyn, as she navigates the dangerous court of Henry VIII and uncovers a life-changing family secret.

📳 SPITALFIELDS GUIDE: Not an event, but I’d like to highlight an excellent downloadable audio-guide to the history of Spitalfields, by David Fathers. Many of you will know and admire David’s work, from his series of exquisitely illustrated walking guides to London. His latest work explores the diverse communities that have made Spitalfields such a fascinating part of town, all through a GPS-enabled audio guide. To give it a go, simply download the VoiceMap mobile app then search for Diverse Spitalfields. It’s very slick.

📚 NEW BOOKS: Amberley Publishing, who have a long track-record of creating colourful books on London history, have a bevy of new titles that might be of interest. Steven Miell’s Lord’s Cricket Ground in 50 Memorials is a self-explanatory (and highly pictorial) account of the ground’s long history. Meanwhile, Ealing a Potted History by Jonathan Gates and Paul Howard Lang, and Newham at Work by Malcolm Batten, provide detailed insights into those parts of town. Note, links go to Bookshop.org, which sources from local bookshops and pays a small affiliate commission for any sales.

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The ‘Zip-Wires’ of Old London

Twas a windy, autumn evening in the City of London. Gentlemen of business scurried about, some intent on reaching home, others to their cups or mistresses. Gracechurch Street was alive with activity, as coaches passed down towards London Bridge or north to Bishopsgate. Yet the Friday throng was of a somewhat different shape to usual. Crowds were forming along Fish Street Hill and Gracechurch Street and, by five o’clock, the gathering numbered in its hundreds if not thousands. All eyes were on a platform 160 feet (~50 metres) in the air. This platform:

The Monument to the Great Fire, designed by Robert Hooke and Christopher Wren, was the third tallest structure in the City, after St Paul’s and St Mary-le-Bow. Its position, on the approach road to London Bridge, made it a prominent landmark. This would be the scene, on 15 September 1732, of one of the great stunts in London’s history.

During the day, an anonymous sailor had carried a rope up to the Monument’s platform. Having secured one end to the railings, he lowered the coil over the edge to ground level. Back down the 311 spiral steps, he picked up the rope and carried it north to the Three Tuns Tavern on Gracechurch Street, where he secured the other end. By these means, he’d effectively created a zip-wire from the Monument to the pub.

The appearance of a rope over London’s busiest thoroughfare no doubt got chins wagging. Word spread that the sailor was going to attempt a slide along the rope at 5pm that evening. The crowds duly gathered and were not disappointed. The plucky seaman made the descent in “less than half a minute,” a pace that suggests he must have slid along the rope rather than pulling himself along.

Having accomplished the feat, he then collected money from the crowds as an incentive to go back up and repeat the escapade. One report tells us that he made ‘Forty pounds’ by this means — an incredible sum that would amount to thousands of pounds today. Clearly, a career in death-defiance could pay good money.

(The Three Tuns, incidentally, is long gone. On its site today stands another hostelry, coincidentally if appropriately named ‘The Folly’.)

In a footnote to the story, we’re told that the sailor’s rope was left in place overnight, though now hanging slack from the Monument. The next day, a Waterman’s boy reportedly used it to descend vertically down the column, rather than the more conventional staircase. He too was cheered on by the crowds. Remember this boy, because he will make an unfortunate return later on…

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Tudor rope-sliders

1732 might sound remarkably early for what was effectively a zip-wire. Yet our anonymous ropester was carrying on a tradition that went back at least 185 years earlier.

The following account is taken from The Chronicle of the Grey Friars, a contemporary record of key events in Tudor London. It details the festivities leading up to the Coronation of Edward VI (son of Henry VIII) in February 1547:

“…and at the west ende of Powlles stepull was tayed a cabelle roppe, and the other ende besyde the denes place at an hanker of a sheppe, and a man ronnynge downe on the sayd roppe as swefte as an arrow owte of a bowe downe wyth hys honddes and fette abrode not tochynge the roppe; and whane the kynge had sene the sayd thynge went forth un to the pallys of Westmyster.” Source.

In modern phrasing, the boy-king witnessed a rope slide from the western side of St Paul’s down to the ‘Dean’s Place’, where the lower end was weighted down by an anchor. Below, I’ve recreated the probable path on the recreated map of Tudor London by the Historic Towns Trust:

This was, of course, the medieval version of St Paul’s, which still retained its mighty spire (it would topple down in 1561 after a lightning strike). The text is unclear as to whether the rope ran from the steeple itself or simply to the west of it, from the nave roof. However, a slightly later account (1577) in Holinshed’s Chronicles specifically states the rope descended from “the battlements of Paul’s steeple”. Hence, we can picture the funicular funambulist’s journey:

The account in Holinshed’s Chronicles, though published 30 years after the event, is likely to be accurate. Its compilation was begun much earlier by Reginald Wolfe, who worked as a printer in St Paul’s Churchyard, enjoyed the patronage of Edward VI, and probably witnessed the rope-stunt first hand. This account provides further details. We learn that the daredevil was a native of Aragon and that, after his descent, he went upon the rope one more time to perform a series of tumbles and dangle-tricks. The King — only nine years old, remember — was very impressed.

The success of these exploits inspired others. Holinshed tells us of another instance of the Tudor zip-wire, this time during the arrival of Philip of Spain in 1554. Details are scant, but it seems that somebody again descended by rope slide from St Paul’s. It’s not clear if the stunt was undertaken by the same man, but we are told that the escapade “shortlie after cost him his life”.

The further adventures of the mysterious sailor

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For a bit of fun, I’ve written today’s newsletter — a short history of trees in London — from the point of view of the trees themselves. That’s for the main section. First, a quick puzzle…

The History Detective

An occasional feature, in which we try to solve the minor mysteries of London.

Reader Susan Mallory got in touch with an intriguing photograph, found among the possessions of a deceased friend. It shows a commercial premises somewhere in London (we think), with a cellar door covered in wartime sandbags. Susan wants to know the location, and why somebody might have commissioned a professional photographer to snap something so seemingly mundane.

The photograph includes a few clues. The building on the left carries the word ‘millinery’ on its fascia. The one to the right has cursive script beginning ‘KE’. A search of 1940s street directories might yield results here. The presence of a bus stop suggests this is not a back street. Meanwhile, the architecture — late Georgian — is reminiscent of Bloomsbury or Fitzrovia (though it may be elsewhere).

Can anybody identify the scene? The photograph came in a professional card-slip with an unidentified logo on the front, but no other clues or context.

If you have a suggestion, then either leave a comment on this article, or email matt@londonist.com

Have you got a mysterious London photograph (or family anecdote) for which you’d like more information? Drop me a line at the same address. I’m hoping this can become a regular feature!

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The Arboreal Chronicles of London

Being a short history of London, written by its trees.

The glaciers retreated, and we advanced. Our hardiest rootsoldiers — birch and pine — were first to colonise the fertile river basin that would one-day be known as London. They were followed by the oaks, the elms, the limes and the hazel, with thrusts of hornbeam and scratches of hawthorn. The ancient woodland grew wide and dense in a commingled succulence; a tangled community, green in leaf and stem. We were everywhere.

Then the meatfolk came. With flint, then bronze, then iron they delved and they chopped. Space was cleared for homes, crops and animals. Our fallen ancestors were whittled and carved to their needs. Some became the timbers of great halls or the keels of water craft. Others were shaped into weapons and tools. And, oh, how we burned. For food, for warmth, for ritual… these incessant fires made ash of our forebears. Still others were fired into that rancorous residuum known as charcoal.

Despite the chronic cull, the meatfolk could also be respectful. Larger trees were venerated and protected, even worshipped. The wild wood became a source of fable and folklore; the Green Man, the dryads, the wodewose... Trees were cultivated for their fruit rather than firewood. Others were planted in procession to mark important boundaries. Many sacred objects were crafted from our boughs.

And so we lived among them, over countless abscissions, in a strained equilibrium. Eventually, though, their need for materials, pasture and farmland tipped the balance. The wild wood was was tamed to bocage, in service to the growing settlements.

These very settlements adopted the names of plantkind. More than 2,000 cycles ago, the ancient ones had a camp they called ‘Pen-coed’, which meant ‘head of the wood’. Over time, the word was garbled to Penceat, and eventually Penge. It is one of the oldest place names among their kind, yet they have quite forgotten that Penge grew up beside an ancient wood.

Across the great river, towards the sunset, lay another settlement known as Acton. This, too, recalls our ancestors. The Ac-tun, was a small farmstead beside the oaks (‘Ac’). Meanwhile, over where the morning sun rises, we find Bexley, a ley of box trees; and Bromley, a clearing of broom. One group of river-dwellers named their settlement Poplar, after our cousin the black poplar, who thrives on marshy ground. Only one of its kind still grows there today.

Some place names recall individual trees, like Burnt oak and Gospel Oak. The settlement of Fairlop (not far from Woodford) remembers a great oak – long gone, now – whose limbs were lopped yet still did it grow. Nearby, Becontree is named for a great arbour on the land once owned by a Becca or Beohha.

One of the sovereign meatfolk is said to have visited our Fairlopian cousin, as recalled in an old verse:

To Hainault Forest Queen Anne did ride,
And saw the old oak standing by her side,
And as she looked at it from bottom to top,
She said to her Court, it should be at Fairlop.

This ‘Queen Anne’ was not the first of her lineage to admire our kind. Her antecedent Elizabeth is said to have dined beneath a great hilltop Quercus, which ever-after was known as the Honor Oak (gone, but replaced). Another fallen cousin in the leafy hills of Greenwich is linked with this selfsame Queen. Then, back among her timber-frames, on the banks of the River Fleet, she found a cherry tree, around which to dance with one of her favourites. Its remains can still be seen inside one of those places where the meatfolk go to drink our fermented grainfriends.

In the great city, you can see the woods for the trees, for they are everywhere on the meatfolk map. Wood Green, Colliers Wood, Hadley Wood, Abbey Wood, Harold Wood, Petts Wood, Northwood, Norwood, St John’s Wood, Woodford, Scratchwood, Borehamwood; Forest Gate and Forest Hill. The list is near endless.

The most famous tree in the city was no tree at all, but a ghoulish simulacrum with three trunks. The ‘Tyburn Tree’ was really an elm-wood scaffold, upon which the most dastardly meatfolk were dangled out of life. It is said that up to 24 malefactors could be dispatched simultaneously on this fatal not-tree.

A happier numerology can be found in the settlement known as Seven Sisters. This recalls seven elms who once engirdled a walnut tree. The original sisters have since fallen and a septet of hornbeams have taken their places.

Trees are resilient but, like the Seven Sisters and original Honor Oak, all must one day succumb to rot, disease or axe. Among our kin, however, are individuals who have seen hundreds of summers. These are the oldest Londoners.

Father of the canopy is a hoary yew upon the raised land once farmed by Tata (now known as Totteridge). This venerable soul reckons to have lived through 2,000 summers. She was here before the great city itself.

Another of her kind, a male tree this time, has stood beside the sunset river for an untold number of cycles. This yew remembers a sovereign meatfolkman named John, who came to the runinge mede more than 800 cycles past, whence to scratch lines onto sheepskin. As such, this yew is the last surviving witness to that Great Charter, otherwise known as Magna Carta. He is remembered as the anchorite’s tree, or Ankerwycke Yew, and he may have seen 2,500 summers (though he can’t say for sure).

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The yews are our most venerated elders, but others among us have lived through thousands of seasons. Here, we record just a few:

Black mulberry: A tree beloved of the silkworm, which the meatfolk sought to exploit for their personal woven canopies. The first of these trees were brought here 400 summers ago. One still survives from that time, in the gardens of Charlton House.

Cedar: We are lucky to share our soils with many stunning cedars, welcomed here from the sunrise lands when the showier meatfolk got serious about their tamed plants. The oldest of all was planted at Forty Hall towards the boreal limits of our region, some 360 summers past. Recent years have not been kind, however.

Elm: A great plague befell the tribe of ulmus not 50 summers ago. Few survived. The largest and oldest, saved by its isolation, is probably the towering elm on the high street of Marylebone.

English oak: The most venerated of all our tribes, ancient English oaks survive in large numbers across the region. The area of Richmond is something of a retirement home for these stalwarts. The oldest of all is thought to have seen 800 summers, and is dubbed the Royal Oak for reasons that neither treefolk nor meatfolk can recall (although we’d bet our little acorns it has something to do with that Elizabeth).

Giant redwoods: 170 summers ago, we received some remarkable seedling ambassadors from far-off ‘California’. Those first giant redwoods, also known as sequoias or Wellingtonias, are now of prodigious height and still have plenty of growth to come. The oldest may be found in the avenues of Canons Park (not far from the old Burnt Oak), or else those in the joyous woodlands of Havering.

Holm oak: Our exotic, evergreen friends first reached these soils some 500 summers past, plucked from the shores of a great sea they call ‘Mediterranean’. One holmfriend of that vintage still thrives beside the Palace at Fulham.

Plane tree: A hybrid cousin, formed long ago from the commingling of the oriental plane and the American sycamore. The ‘London plane’ is now the most common great tree within the city. The oldest and largest, known as ‘Barney’, stands in Barn Elms not far from the great river. He has withstood 350 winters.

By now, you will understand that many in our community are not indigenous to these soils. The horse-chestnut is another incomer, unknown here before the time of Queen Elizabeth. Only in the days of her father did the field maple first spy its foreign cousin the sycamore. Since then, hundreds of further exotics has joined our community. The meatfolk seem to cherish us for novelty and size, building prize ‘collections’ in their private gardens. A reservation known as Kew (to rhyme with yew?) holds more types of tree than any place on the planet.

Of all the immigrant trees, it is the plane that has done best for itself. Barney’s descendants now dominate the city. They line all the great avenues, including those named Embankment, Kingsway, Park Lane and The Mall. About 200 summers ago, a bewhiskered subset of meatfolk known as ‘the Victorians’ discovered that plane trees could withstand the smoke and grime of their engines. Hence, the trees were planted in prodigious number throughout their city, so much so that they became known as London planes.

This trend for street trees continues to the present day, though the London plane has lost favour. Now, the streets are lined with cherry, pear, birch, maidenhair and dozens of exotics. A sage and learned scribe, known propitiously as , has emerged as the meatfolk’s acknowledged champion in this arena. (Sadly, he imprints his wise words onto sacrificed trees known as ‘books’, but you can also find his teachings on the paperless medium of ‘substack’.) He tells our story in more depth and detail than can be essayed here.

Street trees are just a part of London’s greenaissance. The great city now has more trees and cleaner air than at any time since the age of coal and steam. It is said that a fifth of London is blessed with tree canopy. It is an urban forest, and the world’s first National Park City. London, we might say, is now a dendropolis. May we all grow together in this sylvan place.

Yours arboreally, in shade and in light,

The Trees

Thanks for reading! Do leaf a comment on the web version of this article, or contact me any time on matt@londonist.com

Hammersmith Bridge gets a bad press. It’s been closed to motor vehicles for seven years now, with no end in sight for the repairs. This lack of motors is inconvenient for many, but it has also brought a hush to the Victorian landmark. No better time, then, to pay the span a visit, and ponder its long, troubled history.

That’s for the main section. First, a quick announcement and the History Radar.

📣📣 Thank you so, so much to everyone who subscribes to this newsletter. I am frequently cheered to see that so many people share a deep, unwavering love of London history.

For anyone considering taking out a paid subscription, now is a good time. We’ve kept Londonist: Time Machine’s prices frozen since its inception three years ago, but they will go up on 15 May. The good news? Current paying subscribers — including anyone who upgrades to paid between now and 14 May — will remain on the current rate of a fiver a month or £45 annually, indefinitely. You don’t need to do anything. Anyone who becomes a paying subscriber after that date will pay £7 monthly (still less than the cost of many a London pint!) or £50 annually.

Paying subscribers get bonus newsletters (including the full article on Fridays), but also invitations to social meet-ups (we had one last week) and site visits. Previous site visits have included Walthamstow Town Hall, the Bermondsey Biscuit Museum, a secret archive of ephemera, the Brunel tunnel shaft in Rotherhithe, and even a look inside an ornate tomb near Richmond. And the best is yet to come!

Most importantly, you’ll be helping to support the publication of this advert-free newsletter, which often contains the type of stuff that a traditional publication would be unlikely to sustain (e.g. the three-year project to colour-in the John Rocque map).

Thank you, in any case, just for reading along and making Londonist: Time Machine such a joy to be part of.

History Radar

Upcoming events of interest to London history fans.

⚰️ UNDERTAKERS AND DEATH: Death historian Dr Dan O’Brien visits The Last Tuesday Society in Hackney for an illustrated talk exploring the 18th-century trade. Discover how early undertakers were depicted in popular culture and cartoons, and enjoy a complimentary glass of Devil’s Botany Chocolate Absinthe during the lecture. 11 May

🍸 MUSEUM GIN TOUR: Join an after-hours guided tour of the Household Cavalry Museum with a complimentary Horse Guards gin and tonic on arrival, followed by a walkthrough of the stables and exhibitions and talks about the regiment’s uniforms and traditions. 12 May

🪡 ARMY EMBROIDERY: The National Army Museum in Chelsea hosts a special evening event exploring the intricate goldwork and artistry of military uniforms. Watch a live demonstration by experts from Hand & Lock, the 250-year-old embroidery house responsible for garments worn at the Coronation of King Charles III, and get a glimpse of rare ceremonial objects from the museum's collection which are not usually on public display. 13 May

🏠 KEATS HOUSE: Experience the beauty of the Regency villa where Romantic poet John Keats lived and worked during a special late opening of Keats House in Hampstead. Explore the poet's life story and his relationship with Fanny Brawne, join a volunteer-led tour, and view the current exhibition after dark. 14 May

🛫 CROYDON AIRPORT: Will Noble is at Croydon's Braithwaite Hall, talking about the era when Croydon was the centre of the universe, thanks to its airport, a place Hollywood stars, royalty, record breakers and politicians poured in and out of. 14 May

🎈 CHEAM CHARTER FAIR: Rumour has it that the Cheam Charter Fair dates back to 1259 — though even the modern-day organisers can't verify that. Either way, head to the London-Surrey border for a traditional fair of stalls, kicked off with a procession at 9am. 16 May

🕯️ TWILIGHT TOUR: Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields hosts an exclusive, after-hours Twilight Tour of the architect's remarkable home. As the sun sets, an expert guide leads a small group of 15 through the atmospheric interiors, reawakening the vast collection of art and antiquities after the daily crowds have departed. 16 May

🤴🏻 HENRY VIII: The CryerArts Centre in Carshalton hosts a theatrical encounter with the Tudor monarch in Divorced, Behead, Died: An Audience with King Henry VIII. Set in 1544, the performance finds an ageing, ill-humoured King recounting the events of his long reign and inviting his "loyal subjects" to petition or question him on any subject. 17 May

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Tales of Hammersmith Bridge

I happened to be wandering across Hammersmith Bridge yesterday and, by the maxillary whiskers of Bazalgette, isn’t this marvellous?

No cars. No vans. The choke-thrum of traffic is entirely absent. Cyclists enjoy the widest bike lanes in London, while pedestrians stroll beneath those grand Victorian arches. I heard somebody laugh. I never heard anybody laugh on Hammersmith Bridge before. The stroll was so enjoyable that I walked back a second time — and then realised that I had to make a third crossing to resume my original direction.

Now is a good time to visit Hammersmith Bridge. The charismatic span closed to motor vehicles in 2019, after cracks were found in its support structures. The repairs are taking an age, with no end in sight. Meanwhile, pedestrians and cyclists have been allowed back on. The once fume-choked bridge is now an agreeable place to stroll.

But... but… but… I can almost hear the good people of Barnes fuming at my rose-tinted blinkers. The loss of the bridge has caused nasty traffic build-ups elsewhere, and played havoc with important bus routes. The restrictions are a chronic headache for many people. It’s a big old mess. From the perspective of a non-local visiting on foot, however, I have to say that the bridge never felt so pleasant. Sorry.

While the bridge’s future remains uncertain, this seems like an apt time to consider its past. And it does have quite a past.

Hammersmith has been served two impressive bridges. The current structure is late Victorian, and I’ll come to that in a bit. Its predecessor was built exactly 200 years ago, and it was something of a marvel.

This was the first suspension bridge to cross the Thames. Not only that, it was the longest suspension bridge anywhere in England at the time. Its architect was the under-celebrated William Tierney Clark, a local boy who would go on to build a similar bridge at Marlow, and the landmark Széchenyi Chain Bridge in Budapest.

It was needed, too. Until now, no bridge had spanned the Thames between Kew and Putney bridges, more than 5.5 miles (9km) apart. Hammersmith’s opening in 1827 was a big deal. A royally big deal, for the heir to the throne was supposed to cut the ribbon. The bridge proprietors had invited the Duke of Clarence — the future William IV — with plans for plenty of pont-pomp. The Duke, however, dropped out for mysterious reasons. One newspaper speculated that the Duke had taken umbrage at the previous involvement of the Duke of Sussex, his younger sibling: “If my brother was old enough to lay the foundation,” growled the heir presumptive, “Surely he is old enough to open the bridge.” Other rumours circulated that some jump-the-gun nobleman had been able to ride his coach over the bridge a few days prior, thereby stealing the royal thunder.

Without the royal presence, a bevy of nobles made their excuses and the celebrations were called off. Still, it proved a fun day. The bridge was opened at 6am on 6 October 1827 to the tolling of church bells and the cheers of eager crowds. The evening saw a Punch and Judy show set up in the middle of the bridge, followed by fireworks. Happiest of all were the labourers who’d built the bridge. They were treated to a roast-beef dinner at the nearby George, considerably more slap-up than their usual fare.

Underneath the arches

A still more unusual meal was served up a decade later… beneath the bridge. In January 1838, bitterly cold weather caused large sections of the Thames to freeze over. The locals took to the frozen river on ice skates, and the whole of Hammersmith riverfront became something of a frost fair. Somehow, a group of watermen were able to roast a whole sheep on the ice without thermally undermining themselves. Hundreds of people turned up to watch the novelty, and many paid a shilling or two to carry off “delicious morsels of water mutton”. The big freeze also extended to the bridge toll. Canny locals simply skated across the river, rather than submit a halfpenny to the man in the toll booth.

Hammersmith Bridge has always had associations with rowing. Almost as soon as it opened, the span found itself the start or finish line for many an aquatic race. It soon became a popular vantage point from which to watch the University Boat Race, whose course from Putney to Mortlake was fixed from 1845. Hammersmith Bridge is roughly at the mid-point, and so huge crowds would assemble. The phenomenon was captured in this borderline-insane painting by Walter Greaves, circa 1862.

This reminds me of those ‘spot the danger’ drawings, which teach children about everyday perils, such as overhanging pan handles or puddles on the kitchen floor. In this image, however, it’s harder to ‘spot the safety’. Quite aside from the risk of a fall or a crush, the excessive weight of the crowds could imperil the whole bridge. By 1870, some 12,000 people were counted on its deck and suspension cables. The authorities were not blind to the danger, and Hammersmith Bridge was closed to the public on Boat Race day from the mid-1870s.

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A new bridge (and a forgotten one)

Tierney’s bridge coped well with the boaty crowds and the constant traffic but, as the century drew on, its ageing ironwork began to rust. Further, its narrow roadway could cause tailbacks, especially when tolls were lifted in 1880. A decision was then made to replace the bridge with something stronger, and better suited to late-19th century traffic levels.

The people of Barnes and Castelnau were not impressed. With the removal of tolls, the local authority was suddenly responsible for the upkeep of approach roads, which meant a hike on local taxes. Now the bridge was to vanish for two years. The locals would still be liable for the extra tax and would have to pay ferrymen if they wanted to cross the river. Much harrumphing ensued.

The solution was to build a simple and inexpensive temporary bridge while work continued on the permanent structure. This was assembled to the west of the span in 1885, and went some way to regruntling the dissatisfied ratepayers of Barnes. The temporary bridge — of which no photographs survive, so far as I can tell — was built of wood in just six months. It could carry vehicles of up to eight tonnes, and included a narrow, segregated space for pedestrians. Its designers had neglected to include any drainage and so, in wet weather, those sloshing across got so sodden that they might as well have swum.

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Every now and then, it occurs to me that time machines can visit the future as well as the past, and so I set the dials for years yet to come. Today is/was/will be one of those days.

Specifically, I want to look ahead to the 2051 Festival of London.

The 2051 Festival of London has no official recognition. Not yet. I’ve made it up. But I’m confident that something along these lines must be held. Here’s why:

2051 marks 200 years since the Great Exhibition… the huge celebration of arts and industry in the purpose-built Crystal Palace. (175 years ago this week, as it happens.)

2051 marks 100 years since the Festival of Britain… the huge jamboree that pulled the country out of a doldrums of war and ration-books, and launched the South Bank as a cultural centre (75 years ago this week, as it happens.)

2051 marks 2,000 years of London… Nobody knows the exact date of London’s founding by the Romans. It was probably in the late AD40s, but it would have remained a small riverside camp during its first years. And it depends what you mean by ‘founding’. AD51 seems as good a date as any to set the clock ticking.

2051 marks 150 years since the end of the Victorian era… Queen Vic died on 22 January 1901. Her reign saw London transformed in ways that would have boggled her predecessors.

2051 marks 1,000 years since the seeds of the Battle of Hastings were sown in London. Possibly. According to some accounts, William of Normandy visited Edward the Confessor in London in 1051, and was there promised the Crown upon Edward’s death. 15 years later, that promise would lead to a vicious game of thrones whose after-effects are still felt today.

That last one is a bit tenuous, but do you see my wider point? 2051 almost has to be a big celebration year, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the 2012 Olympics.

What will it be like, though? Sometimes, these big, top-down, forced celebrations can flop. We don’t want another Millennium Experience. This party has to matter. So why don’t we get the planning in nice and early — 25 years early — and start brainstorming for the festival right now… and in a grassroots, bottom-up kind of way?

Below, I’ve jotted down my own ideas for the 2051 Festival of London (in the ridiculously long-range hope that someone invites me onto an organising committee in my dotage). I’d be delighted to hear your own ideas, no matter how ambitious, in the comments section to this article. Let’s make it a team effort. Hopefully, this article (and its comments) will be found by somebody 20 years hence, and get a few balls rolling.

I’ll admit, the ideas I present below get ever more bizarre as the article goes on. But if recent history has taught us anything, yesterday’s unhinged fantasy is tomorrow’s state policy.

Let’s get started with the obvious…

1. Rebuild the Skylon: Universally acknowledged as a design classic, this beguiling sculpture was a true highlight of the 1951 Festival of Britain. Its 90-metre (300 foot) quill was unceremoniously dismantled and chopped up following the festival. For shame.

Its lightweight aluminium structure would be relatively inexpensive to reconstruct. It could be placed in its old home on the South Bank or — radical idea — assembled on top of the O2 Dome. Here it would create a striking centrepiece for the existing pylons that are its architectural heirs, while also uniting the 1951, 2000 and 2051 festivals.

2. Cable car to Canary Wharf: I took the above photo from London’s only cable car, ‘the Dangleway’, which runs from close to the Dome across the Thames to the Royal Docks. Opened in 2012, it struggled in its early years, partly because there was little to see on the Royal Docks side, but also because we all liked sneering at Boris Johnson’s vanity projects (see also Boris Island, Boris Buses, the Garden Bridge…). It now makes a small profit and, as a novelty attraction, is rather fun to ride. It might become something more were it to be extended west towards the massive crowds of Canary Wharf as part of a legacy project for 2051.

Specifically, I’d put a base station in Wood Wharf, Canary Wharf’s eastern extension, which currently lacks any transport links. It wouldn’t work now… too quiet… but by 2051, this district should be a-buzz, and ripe for better connections. If that proves a success, then perhaps a whole Dangleway network could spread through the eastern docklands…

3. The Crystal Tunnel: By 2051, road traffic will have evolved considerably. We can, perhaps, expect most (non-pedal) vehicles to be electric, networked and self-driving. Cars will automatically reroute to take the most efficient route. This and a greater emphasis on walking/cycling will allow further pedestrianisation of central London, following on from current projects like Oxford Street and Strand.

Against this backdrop, I have a proposal. 2052 will mark 100 years since the closure of the Kingsway Tram Tunnel. Let’s reopen it for the 2051 festival as a subterranean boulevard, with a glass ceiling where the roadway used to be (cycle lanes and pavements would be retained on either side of the glass roof). The ceiling glass would not be pure, sheet glass, but set with prisms at random angles, so as to refract and besprinkle the boulevard with an anarchic, ever-shifting patina of rainbows.

Meanwhile, the walls of this new boulevard could be used as a ‘Museum of Subterranean London’, with artefacts and displays about the Tube, trams, sewers, lost rivers, bunkers and basements. It might even connect up with the deep-level shelter on Holborn, which is supposedly opening as a tourist attraction later this decade.

4. The Memorial to Every Londoner: London, like any city, has plenty of statues and memorials to the high and mighty, and occasionally to the worthy. But this misses a mind-expanding point. We are all important. We all play a part in shaping the city, even if we never know it. Our daily interactions and movements have countless tiny knock-on effects on those around us. We hold the door for someone; they get to the street crossing a few seconds earlier than otherwise; they make a green-man they would have missed and get across just ahead of the signal change; this gets them to a cafe a couple of minutes earlier; they sit next to a different person; they get chatting; something new begins that wouldn’t have happened had we not held that door. It’s the ‘Butterfly effect’. It’s Sliding Doors. Every Londoner who ever lived is therefore important. Remove any one person, and the city would be subtly (or sometimes radically) different. We all deserve a memorial. And in 2051, we can do it.

All we need is a list of everyone who ever lived in London, and some kind of monument on which to display those names. The list is the hard bit. We can pull together a good ‘first pass’ through census returns, parish records and other historic sources. That’ll generate tens of millions of names. Vast numbers of Londoners, however, were never recorded. From Roman through medieval times, we know the names only of nobles, some land-holders and the merest handful of commoners (often criminals). Later parish records of christenings, weddings and deaths are patchy at best. Only in the 19th century was record-keeping advanced enough to capture a significant portion of the population.

Pulling together and de-duplicating the lists of known Londoners will be a big task in itself. But what about all the missing people? If ever there were a task for AI, this is it. It might work backwards from the masses of genealogical data already in the public domain, then ‘fill in the gaps’ with the most likely name combinations for each lost generation.

The resulting master-list of known and conjectured names could then be projected onto a large surface, such as the underside of a dome. The name-cloud would shift around in pleasing patterns. It would swirl and eddy, but with underlying structure. Family members and associates — as gleaned from census and GEDCOM data — would flow together and occasionally bud off to form new aggregations. It would be hypnotic, and deeply meaningful; every Londoner who ever lived, every creed, every colour, sempiternally commingled in a molten dance for the ages.

5. The Great Londoner Debate: Years ago, when blogs were a big thing, I had the idea of recruiting famous dead people to write about modern topics. They would all comment on each other’s blogs, forming an erudite and historically fascinating community, and one that was open for the general public to join the debate.

Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to get Emmeline Pankhurst, Charles Darwin or Mary Seacole to personally turn in copy, but I thought it could be a stimulating, public-engaging outlet for biographers and scholars. The idea never got very far, though I did persuade Jeremy Bentham’s keepers at UCL to write a blog called ‘Thinking Inside the Box’ (the blog is long defunct, but archived here).

The idea might be revived for the 2051 Festival of London using more up-to-date technology. One format would be a Question Time-style debate. Instead of incisive political figures (and Nigel Farage), the panel would consist of holographic recreations of historical Londoners. Imagine: Samuel Pepys debating climate change or housing policy with Jimi Hendrix, Virginia Woolf, Cardinal Wolsey and a Mitford sister or two. Each historical character could be ‘played’ remotely by a leading expert in real-time, or else powered by an AI that had been fed the complete works and teachings of each person.

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6. Reimagine the Euston Arch: The muscular landmark was demolished in the 1960s during the rebuilding of Euston Station, despite an outcry from heritage lobbyists. Euston is once again in flux, with the High Speed 2 project mired at low speed, and a rebuilt concourse seemingly forever on the horizon. If things drag on into the 2040s, then the redevelopment could be crowned with a rebuilt version of the Euston Arch. Only, it shouldn’t be rebuilt as per the original, which was heavy and intimidating. Rather, a design competition should be held among Britain’s brightest and best young architects (age-capped to 30), for a new arch to different, forward-looking design. It might incorporate a few of the original stones, to keep heritage voices happy.

7. March of the arch: 2051 also coincides with the 200th anniversary of further arch manoeuvrings. In 1851, the Marble Arch was shifted from its original home outside Buckingham Palace to its current location at Tyburn (to use the old place name). We might use 2051 to deliver the arch to yet another new location, thus baking in an extremely long-sighted tradition that would see the arch transposed every 200 years. By 2851, the citizens of London’s different regions will be in frenzied competition to gain custodianship of the wandering arch.

8. Relive 1851: This whole 1851→1951→2051 thing began with the Great Exhibition, so it should be honoured in some way for the upcoming festivities. One possibility is a reunion: bring together as many wondrous objects from the Great Exhibition as possible. Many, perhaps most, still exist. The V&A holds over 3,500 objects associated with the expo, and could easily mount a special display. But this could be augmented with external objects — from ornamental fountains to a tree of razors —on loan for the celebration year. Budget allowing, a new glass edifice, designed by a modern-day Paxton, might even be constructed to hold the treasures.

9. Massive London-themed playground: Central London is not designed for small kids. Sure, museums and visitor attractions do their thing, but where are the playgrounds? The Royal Parks have some good examples, but much of the centre is pitifully equipped (the Square Mile, for example, doesn’t have a single public swing or slide). I’m not just calling for more playgrounds, I want London to build the world’s best playground, and it could even be London themed.

I’ve suggested before that the old market buildings at Smithfield would be the ideal location — large, covered spaces; hugely characterful; and right next to the new London Museum. By 2051, this will inevitably have found another use, but something on a similar scale should be used.

What to put in it? Imagine over one hundred items of play equipment all under one roof, and all designed especially for the 2051 London Play Park. We could have a multi-storey model of ‘Big Ben’, with a spiral slide down the inside; a Tower of London ‘haunted castle’ to explore; zip-wires between pint-sized skyscrapers; a miniature London Eye; a Millennium Dome roundabout and Tower Bridge see-saw, with swings pendent from the Wembley Arch; and through it all, a snaking ball-pit representation of the Thames.

Those are my ideas. Kids will think of better ones. Whatever its contents, the whole 2051 London Play Park should be curated as carefully as an art gallery. Our kids deserve it.

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10. Meat mashup: Here’s an alternative vision for Smithfield that plays on its history while looking to the future: set up a biotech meat emporium.

By 2051, we should be able to grow convincing steaks in culture, without having to farm or slaughter animals. Such predictions are often aired, but they are usually framed around conventional meats. Why? If you can grow a beef burger from a handful of cells, then why not a panda burger, or a dolphin burger, or a star-nosed mole burger? Suddenly, the whole animal kingdom is open for consumption, and not the slightest harm may befall a living creature (bar the initial cell extraction). Smithfield, London’s biggest meat market for a millennium, could have a future as a Noah’s Ark of exotic, lab-grown meats.

Why stop with living species? Mammoth burgers and dodo fritters become possible. Or meats might be blended. Nobody in the history of the planet tried a sloth-and-bat sandwich. It might be the greatest combo in the history of taste. And think of the marketing possibilities. Disney could engineer a Pooh-burger made of bear, pig and tiger meat. The Tower of London could serve up “Bloody Burgers”, hewn from the sapid cell-lines of raven and cow (cf. beefeaters). Julia Donaldson’s people could front a Snail-and-Whale Twizzler. Perhaps not.

Divorced from ethical considerations, the whole meat-o-sphere becomes accessible. New blends would be crafted by artisans known as ‘carnists’, and Smithfield 2051 could be the first big expo of their art. We could, of course, also see lab-grown human meats enter the equation. Which celebrity will be first to mass-market their loins as a delicious patty? One could imagine the charcuterisation of an entire football team. Would it be treasonous to suggest that Burger King could finally live up to both halves of its name?

11. Beer Street and Gin Lane: While we’re talking food and drink, 2051 is the 300th anniversary of Hogarth’s most famous print Gin Lane, and its companion piece Beer Street. To be honest, I’m not sure what to do with this information in the context of planning a major festival. It’s not like we’d want to recreate the distressing scenes in the former, or even celebrate the beer-cheer of the latter. Perhaps just use it as an excuse to mount a new retrospective of Hogarth’s work — sure to be a blockbuster in any year.

12. Found a New London on Mars: The stars have always flocked to London, but 2051 could be the year we take London to the stars. Should the rocket plans of Messrs Musk, Bezos et al. come to fruition, then we can expect a small, permanent colony on Mars well before 2051. London, the city that forever reinvents itself, should be part of this great adventure to the Red Planet. We even have a ready-selected home, in the shape of Tooting Crater — named after the south London suburb. And a ready-made hero — local to London and Mars — in the shape of David Bowie. The Red Planet awaits. After all, it was another Londoner who wrote “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars”.

13. The greatest memorial of all: As an alternative to all of these lofty plans, we could instead invest meaningful sums into removing poverty and inequality. 2051 is also the 200th anniversary of the publication of London Labour and the London Poor by Henry Mayhew, the seminal study of the capital’s impoverished working class. Wouldn’t it be something to mark its bicentenary by making poverty history? Sadly, from current perspectives, a New London Mars base in Tooting Crater seems eminently more plausible.

Thanks for reading! I hope that didn’t prove too daft, and perhaps it got you thinking about other ways we might mark the multi-occasion. If so, do feel free to leave a comment on the web version of this article, or drop me a note any time on matt@londonist.com (especially if you’re the eventual organiser of the 2051 Festival of London and you’re reading this in the year 2045, and you have space for an ageing but keen Londoner on your committee…)

I’m sure that most readers have ventured to Greenwich Park a few times. It’s world-famous — indeed, it’s part of a World Heritage Site — home to the Royal Observatory, the Prime Meridian, the National Maritime Museum and some of the most celebrated views in London. Tourists cluster around these set-pieces and rarely venture beyond. That’s a shame, because the wider park is a veritable timeline of London history. In today’s newsletter, I’m going to show you where to find Roman, Saxon, Medieval, Tudor, Georgian, Victorian and 20th century remnants… all in one, beautiful park. That’s for the main section, first an announcement and a bumper History Radar.

📣📣 Subscriber Site Visit!

Can you name London’s most central museum? It’s just metres from the Charles I statue at Charing Cross — London’s official centre — yet few people ever notice it. That’s ironic, given its subject matter. The British Optical Association Museum chronicles the history of spectacles, lenses and eye care. It’s open only by appointment, and I’ve secured us one.

Curator Neil Handley will show a group of 25 Londonist: Time Machine readers round at 3pm on 12 June 2026 (you’ll need to book, see below). As we’re a London-obsessed bunch, he’ll point out some of the items with local interest, including the spectacles of various notables and celebrities. As per tradition, those who want to can join me for a pint in a local historic pub afterwards, where we can talk about London history and make topical jokes about ‘beer goggles’.

To join: this site visit is open to paying subscribers only (and their plus-ones if relevant). Drop me a line on matt@londonist.com to reserve places and get detailed meet-up instructions. These site visits usually fill up quickly, so if you’re seeing this after the publication date of 1 May, you might be on a waiting list. The visit is FREE, though there will be an opportunity to make a donation to the running of the museum.

History Radar

Upcoming events of interest to Londonist readers. A bumper edition this week!

🎉 HACKNEY HISTORY FESTIVAL: The big jamboree of all things historical Hackney launches today (1 May), with a month of walks, talks and more (ably previewed here). One highlight to look out for is a new map by cartographer extraordinaire Charlie Peel. Charlie’s found a way to superimpose an old Hackney street plan on top of a modern one (much as sites like Layers of London do digitally). You can see his handiwork at the Bootstrap venue throughout the month-long festival. Full details here.

✍️ KEATS MEETS COLERIDGE: Take part in a 90-minute guided walk across Hampstead Heath to join a reimagining of the famous 1819 encounter between Romantic poets John Keats and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Led by historic enactors, Keats meets Coleridge begins near Coleridge’s former home in Highgate and explores the "thousand things" the pair discussed, from nightingales to dreams. The tour concludes at Keats House in Hampstead, with admission to the house included in the ticket price. 4 May

👩‍⚕️ GUY’S HOSPITAL 300TH ANNIVERSARY: The Florence Nightingale Museum joins the Guy’s Hospital 300th Anniversary Celebration with a hands-on outreach day featuring nursing history and artefacts. Visitors can try on historical nursing uniforms, handle museum objects, and pose for a photo with the famous fanoos lantern. 5 May

💀 TYBURNIA: Guildhall Library hosts an illustrated talk by Pete Smith exploring the dual history of Tyburn, from its centuries as London’s notorious ‘theatre of death’ to its 19th-century transformation into a prosperous residential district. Discover the stories of the area's residents and the disorderly crowds that once gathered for public executions in Tyburnia. 5 May

🏠 OXFORD HOUSE: Join a unique guided tour of this listed Victorian building in Bethnal Green, which served as one of the world’s first settlement houses. The Oxford House Building Tour offers a chance to peek into the archives, visit a ‘secret chapel’, and climb a spiral staircase for 360-degree rooftop views of east London. 6 May

🗞️ BROADSIDES: Guildhall Library hosts the launch of Broadsides: Speaking to the People, a new exhibition exploring the cheaply printed sheets that served as London’s historical witness. Join curator Sarah Hume to discover how these documents ranged from biting political satire and melodrama to the dry announcement of laws. 6 May

☠️ BLACK DEATH: An Evening with Thomas Asbridge celebrates the release of historian Thomas Asbridge's new history of the bubonic plague, The Black Death, exploring the devastating impact of the pandemic. Takes place at Waterstones King's Road. 6 May

HISTORIC ANTI-FASCIST ART: A bit ‘out of town’ this one, but head to the Towner Eastbourne for a new exhibition with strong London connections. Comrades in Art: Artists Against Fascism, is a retrospective of the Artists International Alliance (AIA), who during the 1930s staged their first exhibitions on Charlotte Street, before their landmark Against War & Fascism show at Soho Square. The exhibition brings together 320 works from the group. 7 May-18 October

📖 MAMIE DICKENS: The Charles Dickens Museum hosts an exhibition talk on Mamie Dickens, the author’s eldest daughter and former housekeeper. Great-great-great granddaughter Lucinda Dickens Hawksley explores Mamie’s transition from a dutiful "local celebrity" in Kent to her later, secretive life in Manchester. Watch in person, or online. 7 May

⛲️ POPE'S GROTTO: Trustees of the Pope’s Grotto Preservation Trust join Professor Judith Hawley for an online talk exploring the long-term conservation of Alexander Pope’s 18th-century grotto in Twickenham. Trace the history of the site from its 1720 construction to its recent 2024 reopening. 7 May

💪 GENERAL STRIKE: The British Library hosts a panel discussion on The General Strike of 1926: Britain at a Standstill. Historians Professor Jonathan Schneer and Dr David Torrance join journalist Polly Toynbee to examine the nine-day period when two million workers downed tools, exploring how the event reshaped British politics a century ago. 7 May

📚 LIBRARIES OF LONDON: Join Open City for the libraries of London cycle tour, a 5.2-mile journey exploring the architectural history of bookshops and public libraries from Bloomsbury to the East End. Led by Justin Manley, the route visits the expansive British Library, Holborn Library, and the Bishopsgate Institute before finishing at the Whitechapel Gallery. 9 May

🙎‍♀️ A WOMAN’S WORK: Elinor Cleghorn, author of Unwell Women, leads A Woman’s Work guided tour around the Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury. Explore the radical history of mothering and how the 18th-century stigmatisation of single mothers necessitated the creation of the Foundling Hospital. 9 May

🕎 MEDIEVAL JEWISH LONDON: The Medieval Jewish London History Day is a one-day festival bringing the City’s 11th-century Jewish community back to life. The programme features expert talks on everyday life and myths, a guided walking tour of the original Jewish quarter, and family activities including clay golem making, at Barbican. 10 May

🍃 SEEDS OF EXCHANGE: Garden Museum exhibition Seeds of Exchange examines botanical exchange between Canton (Guangzhou) and London in the late 18th century, displaying a collection of Chinese botanical art and research for the first time in Britain since it was commissioned 235 years ago. It’s your last chance to see it, ending 10 May.

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At the Unassuming End of Greenwich Park

Here’s the extraordinary, world-class view from Greenwich Park.

And here’s the extraordinary, world-class institution that is the Royal Observatory (with bonus Chinook).

Good, we’ve got those out of the way and can move on to matters less celebrated. (The observatory is bloody marvellous, and I hope to do a special on it sometime, but today is not that day.)

Rather than hang about in tourist Greenwich, we’re going to dip deeper into Greenwich Park. We’ll visit the areas best known to local dog-walkers and the like. It’s a big old park, and it contains an inordinate number of historically interesting sites, if only you know where to look.

Indeed, the various mounds, monuments and structures span the whole chronology of London’s history, from the Romans onwards. I’ll present the features of interest in chronological order, but you can visit them in any sequence you wish.

Greenwich Park is not for the faint of calf. You cannot get to the southern section without confronting a challenging hill. My tip is to look at the trees. No Royal Park has such a density of gnarled, charismatic arbors. To contemplate the generations of Londoners who have walked beneath their boughs will take your mind off the gradient!

Now, as is my wont, I’ve prepared a map to help you find your way around:

Let’s get exploring…

ROMAN: A hill-top temple

The mighty hills of Greenwich were no doubt important to bronze- and iron-age peoples, but the first evidence of a permanent structure comes from the Roman period. What’s now thought to be a temple complex was discovered to the east of the park in the late 19th century. There’s not much to see above-ground, frankly, but the interpretation board and scale model do an excellent job.

Various digs, including a Time Team survey, have traced its outline and revealed numerous artefacts, but still the place remains mysterious and tantalising. Who built it? Why? When, exactly? And why here? The Roman Watling Street is not far away, so the area was reasonably well-trafficked, though the site is distant from any known settlement. Did the Romans perhaps have an outpost at Greenwich, lost beneath subsequent developments?

SAXON: The burial mounds

After the Romans had cleared off (~AD410), or bred themselves into the wider population, along came the Saxons. They, too, were drawn to Greenwich. The name itself comes from this period, and means something like ‘green harbour town’. Their settlement would have been down by the river, with Greenwich hill serving as a kind of cemetery. To this day, a number of low, conical mounds can still be descried.

Sadly, the graves were plundered many centuries ago, and some were destroyed by the construction of a Victorian covered reservoir. Modern archaeology has found little of note. The subtle tumuli remain, however. It’s sobering to walk among the barrows and contemplate the long centuries that separate the tears of the bereaved from the crass flourish of my smartphone.

MEDIEVAL: Cornish rebels plaque

Dip just outside the Blackheath Gate and follow the wall east to find this easily missed plaque. The Cornish Rebellion of 1497 is by no means an obscure chapter in English history, but it’s fair to say that most people outside of Cornwall will be in the dark. In a nutshell, the Cornish felt aggrieved at a punitive tax, imposed by Henry VII to help beclobber Scotland. They marched on the capital, recruiting similarly irked commoners in the neighbouring counties. The ragtag army eventually reached Blackheath (just south of what is now Greenwich Park). The ensuing fight with the royal army did not end well for the rebels, and the ringleaders Michael An Gof and Thomas Flamank were captured and executed.

The plaque, in English and Cornish, was installed in 1997 to mark 500 years since the confrontation. Its prediction — “They shall have a name perpetual and fame permanent and immortal” — is based on the supposed final words of An Gof. It’s true, their names have lived on, though mostly in history books (and Substack newsletters) rather than in more general memory.

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TUDOR: Queen Elizabeth’s Oak

Somewhere around the centre of the park stands a gnarled Quercus dedicated to good Queen Bess. The tree was already 400 years old by her reign. According to legend, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn once danced around its trunk. Their daughter, who was born down the hill at Greenwich Palace, would later enjoy picnics in its shade. All jolly, romantic, utterly undocumented stuff.

Another seemingly fanciful tale says that the hollow trunk was used as a temporary prison in the 19th century, in which park wardens might lock-up miscreants while awaiting the official constabulary. A poem of the time seems to back up the story, and the Royal Parks website does not refute the idea, so perhaps it was true.

Whatever its royal and penal associations, the tree has enjoyed a long afterlife. It died in the 19th century, but continued standing, braced by ivy, until 1991. Its fallen remains, and a replacement tree, are today fenced off and marked with a plaque.

STUART: Hawksmoor’s subterranean conduits

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Today, we have another instalment in my multi-year mission to colour in the 1746 John Rocque map of London. I’ve been quick with this one. Only three weeks ago, we looked at the Chelsea panel. This time round, we’ve bounced over to the eastern end of the map…

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It’s that time of year again when Londoners start getting hyped to snoop around a stranger’s garden in the name of ‘history’ and ‘culture’. London Open Gardens has announced its programme, running 6th-7th June 2026, and like usual it’s a smorgasbord of pocket courtyards and wildlife sanctuaries and grand private gardens and community projects — many of the venues aren’t usually open to the public.

Before getting to the gardens, we have a pretty amazing giveaway for our paid subscribers — thanks to Scala Arts & Heritage we have two copies of the newly published Fit for a King: Tudor and Stuart Armors at the Royal Workshops at Greenwich to win.

Written by Ian Eaves (Keeper of Armour at the Tower of London’s Royal Armouries from 1978–1996) and Stuart W. Pyhrr (curator emeritus in the Department of Arms and Armor at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art), it’s a deep and gorgeously illustrated dive into the armour produced at the royal workshop in Greenwich from 1515 to 1642 for nobles of the Tudor and Stuart courts — including the tournament armour of Henry VIII.

If you’d like to enter, comment on this post or email hello@londonist.com with the subject line ‘Henry VIII’ before Saturday 2nd May. Winners will be picked at random, and contacted by email.

If you don’t win or you’re just feeling impatient, you can also grab a copy for yourself here.

(*We can only post the copies to UK addresses.)

Ok, back to the gardens. This year I’ve committed to no repeats from last year in this list — because otherwise I’ll still be putting Emery Walker’s House and Approach Gardens in every round-up for the next century. So there’s a fresh five below, and if you’re craving more, here’s the 2025 edit: including a riverside Hammersmith mansion, a Grade I-listed burial ground, and a little reclaimed oasis of green space near Barbican. All of them are still on the programme this year.

There’s also a chance to tour the garden of 10 Downing Street, with the ballot for tickets closing on 5th May.

You might also like: London days out for garden lovers

The Phoenix Garden

Camden

The Phoenix Garden is the last of the seven Covent Garden Community Gardens, established in 1984 by local volunteers.

Before the garden, the land had been a second world war bomb site — now it’s home to community classes, a profusion of trees, wildflowers and greenery, and a lot of urban wildlife, including a population of frogs.

Fassett Square

Hackney

Fassett Square is a beautiful pocket of greenery in the backstreets between Mare Street and Dalston — and also the original inspiration for the setting of Eastenders — with the Victorian layout of paths still winding through the flower beds, and part of the grade II-listed German Hospital (now residential apartments) flanking it.

St Dunstan-in-the-East

In between London Bridge and the Tower of London

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If you were to gather together all of London’s statues in one place, then they might settle a large village, fill the seats at the Adelphi Theatre (tough crowd), or occupy every pod on the London Eye — twice over. The city’s stone and metal population is substantial, but also fluid. Statues come, and statues go. In today’s newsletter, I want to track down some of the historic statues that started out in London, but later fled to the provinces.

That’s for the main section. First the History Radar…

History Radar

Upcoming events of interest to London history fans.

💎 STONY JACK: Daunt Books Cheapside hosts historian Victoria Shepherd in conversation with journalist Bidisha to celebrate the paperback launch of her book about the greatest single cache of Elizabethan treasure, found close to the event's location. The talk explores the murky world of 20th-century mudlarkers and antiquities dealers, and your ticket includes a glass of wine or a soft drink. 29 April

🛹 SKATE 50: The Undercroft Skate Space at Southbank Centre is 50 this year, and the centre opens a special exhibition to celebrate. Skate 50 showcases documentary photographs and films of the space through the decades, as well as contributions from sound artist Beatrice Dillon and animator Sofia Negri. 30 April-21 June 2026

🙋🏽‍♀️ THE WOMEN AROUND DICKENS: The Charles Dickens Museum in Bloomsbury hosts Professor of English Lillian Nayder to give a hybrid talk exploring the real-life connections and community of the women in the novelist's circle. She re-examines these figures beyond their fictionalised portraits to uncover the authentic bonds that existed between them. 30 April

🎸 LOST MUSIC VENUES: Join curator Harriet Reed at V&A South Kensington for a preview of the museum’s upcoming display celebrating the cultural impact of independent UK music spaces. The talk explores grassroots venues from the 1980s to the 2010s, highlighting their role as creative hubs for musicians and designers before the full exhibition opens in May. 30 April

⛏️ METAL DETECTING: In a busy evening for history fans, Eleanor Bruce and Lucilla Gray discuss their debut book Things We Found in the Ground with antiquarian bookseller Tom Ayling, at Stanfords Covent Garden. The cousins recount metal-detecting discoveries across Britain — from Roman coins and Bronze Age axes to other unexpected finds — and explore what those objects tell us about our past. 30 April

🚂 BLACK HISTORY STEAM TRAIN: Board an original 1950s engine for the Black History steam train tour, a nostalgic journey from London to Hampshire and back. The trip explores the legacy of Windrush pioneers and Black Second World War aircrew, featuring historical commentary and stops at vintage stations along the original ship-to-rail route. 2 May

🏥 BARTS NORTH WING TOUR: Explore two of England’s most significant interiors at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in West Smithfield. This Barts North Wing tour visits the Great Hall and the Hogarth Stair, featuring massive paintings by William Hogarth. Learn about the hospital's 18th-century craftsmanship and the recent conservation work that has rejuvenated this Grade I listed building. 3 May

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Lost Londoners: The Statues That Fled the Capital

“We gave up the Big Smoke for a stress-free life in the country!” It’s a story that gets regurgitated time and again in the press. By some kind of industry-wide agreement, every journalist or blogger who decides to leave London must write a short feature to justify their decision.

Humans aren’t the only ones to vacate. As we saw in a previous article, many of London’s historic buildings now find themselves living in distant towns or even — as with London Bridge — in a different country.

The phenomenon is less common with statues. These tend to be more site-specific than buildings. An unwanted church or a bridge can often be taken down and reassembled somewhere completely different. A statue, on the other hand, usually has a deep relationship with place. It makes sense, for example, to position a statue of Amy Winehouse in Camden Town rather than, say, Grimsby.

Yet there are examples from London’s history of a statue decamping to a very different location. These include the largest equestrian statue ever cast in England, a group statue depicting an historical event that never happened, and a modern statue who Beat It.

I’ve collected nine examples below. I’m not counting statues that were taken down and destroyed or put in storage (like Robert Milligan). Nor do I include additional castings, as happened to ‘Eros’. The statue must be taken down then re-erected in another town.

Here, then, are London’s exiled statues, in chronological order…

Charles II and Oliver Cromwell → North Yorkshire

Before construction of the Mansion House, the busy Bank junction was overlooked by one of London’s more bombastic statues. Here, in the historic Stocks Market, stood a marble statue of Charles II riding his horse all over the prostrate figure of Oliver Cromwell… in a turban.

The peculiar grouping was paid for and erected in 1674 by Lord Mayor Sir Robert Vyner, all while Charles was still on the throne; a clear case of toadying. This was, however, a recycled tribute. Vyner had got hold of an existing statue depicting John III Sobieski of Poland riding down a Turkish soldier. In a regal version of Face/Off, Sobieski’s features were chiselled into those of Charles, while the fallen Turk became Cromwell.

Needless to say, the sculpture is not based on actual events. Cromwell died while Charles was still in exile, and no fatal dressage ever took place. The Commonwealth experiment had been metaphorically trampled, even if its leader had never personally tasted hoof.

The statue lasted until 1739 when it had to be moved for construction of the Mansion House. It was given back to the Vyner family, who subsequently re-erected it in their Lincolnshire estate at Gautby Hall. A century and a half later it was on the march again, following the family to Newby Hall in North Yorkshire. You can view it there today.

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Duke of Wellington → Aldershot

Arguably the most famous statuary departure was made by the Duke of Wellington (1769-1852). His extraordinary statue, atop his faithful horse Copenhagen, was erected on top of the Wellington Arch near Buckingham Palace in 1847. Just 40 years later, Wellington would be booted out…

The Iron Duke was immortalised as a Bronze Duke by Matthew Cotes Wyatt, a member of the architectural Wyatt family. This was the largest equestrian statue ever attempted in Britain, and required a special furnace for the casting. Once atop the arch, it was widely lambasted as ugly and out-of-scale. Even Queen Victoria made no secret of her dislike for the statue.

The Duke had a ringside view. Do you see, in the left-hand photograph above, the building to the right of the arch? That’s Apsley House, the London townhouse of the Dukes of Wellington (now open to the public). Imagine yourself in the Duke’s boots. How would you feel if, every morning when you opened the curtains, the first thing you laid eyes upon was a nine-metre-tall statue of yourself?

The Duke evidently enjoyed that feeling. When the government proposed the statue’s removal, Wellington threw a hissy fit and threatened to step down from all his public posts if his brobdingnagian likeness went walkabouts. The government backed down.

Wellington died in 1852, but the statue lingered on for another three decades. It finally faced its Waterloo in 1882 when Hyde Park Corner was remodelled, which involved the slight relocation of the arch. The statue was taken down at this point, and eventually replaced by the ‘Quadriga’ sculpture that still crowns the arch today.

Wellington and Copenhagen were stored in Green Park for a year or so, before making the difficult journey down to Aldershot in Hampshire, where they remain today inside the barracks.

Sir James McGrigor and Louis-Napoléon, Prince Imperial → Sandhurst

Two further military men had their likenesses carted out of London to a distant army facility. Sir James McGrigor (1771-1858) was a prominent army surgeon credited with laying the foundations of army medicine. After his death, a statue by Matthew Noble was erected in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. It was later moved to the Royal Army Medical College beside Tate Britain, before being spirited away to Sandhurst in 2002.

There he joined the likeness of Napoléon. Not the nemesis of Wellington, but Louis-Napoléon, Prince Imperial (1856-1879; the son of Napoléon III and grand-nephew of the Napoléon Bonaparte).

This Nepo-Napoléon was exiled to England, along with his father who’d been dethroned in 1870, and mother Empress Eugénie. Following in the footsteps of his martially minded ancestors, the young man trained as a military officer, though for the British rather than French forces. He was killed in South Africa aged just 23 during a skirmish of the Anglo-Zulu War.

Though he’d accomplished little, the prince’s pedigree (he’d been touted as a potential Napoléon IV), and his heroic death fighting for Britain prompted various commemorations. Among them was a statue, sculpted by no lesser a figure than Admiral Prince Victor Ferdinand Franz Eugen Gustaf Adolf Constantin Friedrich of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, GCB (Count von Gleichen to his friends). It was originally mounted at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, but moved to Sandhurst in 1955. A Prince Imperial Road and Napleon Lane can still be found in Woolwich.

1st Baron Strathnairn → Hampshire

1st Baron Strath-whom? Perhaps we should have held on to this equestrian statue and he might have retained some prominence among Londoners. Strathnairn, otherwise known as Field Marshall Hugh Henry Rose (1801-1885), was a much-decorated, yet extraordinarily unkempt military man, serving and leading in multiple conflicts across the mid-19th century.

His equestrian statue was originally intended for Whitehall but, in the absence of planning permission, it ended up in Knightsbridge from 1895. Just 36 years later, it had to be taken down to make way for a subway to the Tube station. The hirsute Baron remained in storage for 30 years before acquisition by a private buyer. He now stands outside Foley Manor near Liphook, Hampshire.

Robert Stephenson → County Durham

Hands up if you remember this fellow?

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I thought I’d try something a little bit experimental this week; one big graphic, with not so much text. I hope you don’t mind. It’s not really the done thing on Substack, but sometimes a story is better told visually.

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Welcome to Londonist: Time Machine’s Friday edition for paying subscribers, with a plump teaser for everyone else.

Everything changes in London, and that includes the wildlife. Some of our commonest bird species are Johnnie-come-lateleys. Parakeets and Egyptian geese, both now ubiquitous, would have been unknown to the Victorian city dweller. Meanwhile, Charles Dickens would be more likely to hear a compliment about his daft old beard, than a sea gull over London. Even the wild pigeon was a rarity until the middle of the 19th century.

That’s for later in the pecking order. First, the History Radar…

History Radar

Upcoming events of interest to London history fans.

🟩 SIX ISLINGTON SQUARES: Explore the domestic architecture of 19th-century Islington from home with this virtual tour hosted by Footprints of London. Guide Rob Smith leads an illustrated Zoom presentation through the first suburbs of London, sharing stories of the theatre critics, singers, and experts in guerrilla warfare who once lived in these historic Barnsbury squares. 20 April.

🏛️ BRIDGERTON'S FORGOTTEN ENSLAVERS: Independent historian Tré Ventour-Griffiths visits a Camden pub to host Bridgerton's Forgotten Enslavers: Inside Jane Austen's Candy-Land. This Pints of Knowledge lecture uses the hit Netflix series as a case study to explore how Regency-era period dramas can obscure the historical realities of the British Empire and absentee slave-owners. 23 April

🗺️ CAMDEN ARCHIVES: Archivist Tudor Allen leads a 90-minute highlights tour of the Camden Archives, showcasing its wealth of manuscripts, photographs, maps, books, newspapers, ephemera and more — some dating back to the 16th century. 24 April

🕯️ SOANE LATE: Sir John Soane's Museum hosts Soane Late: The Drama of Architecture, an after-hours celebration of the museum's unique design and its new Vanbrugh exhibition. Visitors can explore the atmospheric, collection-lined corridors of the Lincoln's Inn Fields townhouse while encountering actors delivering dramatic readings of excerpts from Vanbrugh’s plays. Admission includes a glass of prosecco or wine in the elegant Library-Dining Room. 24 April

🎸 GUITAR HISTORY: Nigel Jones, resident guitarist of the Handel/Hendrix House Museum, leads a musical journey through the evolution of guitar style at V&A South Kensington. Blues to Bowie, Beatles to Britpop explores everything from early rhythm and blues to modern rock across two afternoon sessions. 26 April

🇮🇹 ITALIAN HOLBORN: London Blue Badge tour guide Diane Burstein gives a talk on the history of Holborn’s once-Italian quarter — from organ grinders and ice-cream sellers to mosaic makers at St Peter’s church, and the annual Italian Festival. The talk, at Wilderness Kitchen, also touches on the area’s links to Dickens and London’s diamond district. 26 April

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The Common London Birds That Would Have Astounded the Victorians

This handsome fellow is a black-headed gull:

It’s perched on the river wall close to the London Eye. Nothing, you might think, is very remarkable about this photograph, other than the distinct lack of a black head on something called a black-headed gull (it’s in winter plumage).

Yet had you stood here in Shakespeare’s time — or even Queen Victoria’s time — the sight of a gull in central London would have been something to write home about. Indeed, it was something to write to the editor of the Evening Standard about:

Today, we’d raise eyebrows at the “large masses of ice”, but scarcely notice the birds. Not so in 1881. As their colloquial name suggests, ‘sea gulls’ were intimately connected with the sea or estuary. They rarely strayed inland. Sightings as far upriver as central London were such a novelty that ‘W. T. H.’ felt the need to scribble a letter to the Standard’s editor, who evidently agreed with its newsworthiness.

Nowadays, gulls of various species are common as muck. They’ve learned to scavenge discarded food, and so thrive in any urban area where that might be found. I can see a pair right now, circling over my home in outer London, many miles from the Thames and the sea.

The change in habit, and habitat, appears to have started in the 1890s. A succession of cold winters seems to have driven the birds further inland, seeking shelter and new sources of food. Newspaper reports from the time talk of large flocks bossing the wildlife of the Royal Parks. One correspondent, Percy Clark, was quite taken with the rare birds, preferring them to the commonplace ducks of St James’s Park:

"The next step may be (dare we express the hope?) that they will remain and breed! Imagine, Sir, a real breeding colony of wild gulls in the heart of overbuilt London. The prospect seems too good to be possible. Yet it is just on the cards... Let them all come."

And come they did, in great number. The birds are now so numerous that, if we thought about them at all, it would be as a squawky annoyance; an unattractive clutter, as ubiquitous and unloved as the pigeon.

Speaking of which…

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Feral pigeons

The idea that gulls were an exotic sight in 19th century London is easy to fathom. They still retain a strong association with the coast, even today, and it’s not hard to get one’s head around the idea that their arrival in London was relatively recent.

But pigeons?

The scrappy pecksters are so common that they’ve become an unofficial symbol of the city. Indeed, they might be considered an official symbol, now that the London Museum has co-opted the bird into its logo:

Strange to report, then, that feral pigeons only became common in the second half of the 19th century.

The maligned birds are descendants of the rock dove, a species that tends to dwell on cliffs and rock faces not typically found in built-up areas. The species was domesticated many centuries ago and, much like dogs, has since diversified into hundreds of breeds. We exploited them as carrier pigeons, racing pigeons, and as a food source. Pigeon poop was a valued fertiliser from medieval times, and it was also used occasionally in the leather-tanning process. These were useful birds.

It was not unusual, then, to see domesticated birds swooping over the capital. What you would not see is large gatherings of pigeonkind, loitering around like this:

These are feral pigeons, descendants of domesticated birds that, for whatever reason, failed to return to their roost and went wild. In all ages, some portion of the domestic stock would have turned its beak up at the dovecote, and instead gone wild. This seems to have happened more regularly in the 19th century, as pigeon keeping grew in popularity among the poorer classes, particularly in Spitalfields and the East End. Before long, large flocks of feral birds were noted among the buildings of the city.

They’re now the most common bird in central London where, 200 years ago, they’d have been a rarity. Like gulls, they’re attracted to human food, to the point where the Eastcheap branch of Greggs has had to impose a ban on peristeronic visitors:

One of the clearest accounts I can find of an excess of pigeons comes from the playwright Edward Blanchard of Adelphi Terrace. In 1881, he penned an account of the birds’ recent ubiquity in central London. Even back then, the birds seemed to gravitate towards the place with which they are now most closely associated:

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Everyone knows that the Wright Brothers made the first powered flight in 1903. How, then, to explain this drawing of a winged aircraft over London… sixty years earlier?

All the elements are there: light…

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This edition’s a return to some of London’s public clocks from over the centuries. Five historic London clocks: Part I included: the first clock to show Greenwich Mean Time; the clock that’s probably presided over the most proposals in London, and the clock that’s an 18-bell musical extravaganza, among others.

Now we’re back to chip away at some more of London’s centuries-old obsession with creating ornamental - and often pretty surreal - timepieces and scattering them around the city. Part 2 of probably 600.

All images by Matt Brown unless otherwise credited.

The series of tube-homaging clocks

Bethnal Green tube station

Along the eastern stretch of the Central Line you’ll find some of my favourite London public clocks, designed by the Magneta Time Company in the late 1940s.

Four stations have roundel clocks along the line: Bethnal Green — my home ground, so I’m biased… but also objectively the best? — Wanstead, Redbridge and Gants Hill. The clocks aren’t all identikit: Bethnal Green’s is gilded and majestic, as befits its status as Best Tube Station; Gants Hill has colourways in the roundel’s usual red-and-blue, and the other two are monochrome and elegantly severe.

And there’s been a more recent addition to the crew, with the first non-Central-line roundel clock at Chadwell Heath on the Elizabeth line installed in summer 2024.

The first public clock in London to have a minute hand

St Dunstan-in-the-West in Fleet Street

Outside St Dunstan-in-the-West hangs the oldest known public clock in the city to have a minute hand. Installed on the medieval church that stood on the site in 1671, it was taken down in 1828 when that church was demolished, but re-added to the current church building in 1935 to mark the Silver Jubilee of George V.

In the past the two giants flanking the clock — Gog and Magog — have marked the hour by banging the bell with their clubs, but they’ve been on strike for around a year pending some restoration work needed to get them back in action.

The clock where a former prime minister masquerades as a sun god

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The school holidays rumble on, and I hope you will pardon me for finding less writing time while I spend some precious hours with the kids (we did do some proper history yesterday, when I took them to the Bosworth Battlefield Heritage Centre… a surprisingly ex…

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I’ve had my digital crayons out again. I’m both proud and exhausted to present the 16th colourised panel from John Rocque’s 1746 map of London. This time, we’re following the King’s Road down into Chelsea, there to explore the vast waterworks, the pleasure g…

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How well do you know Regent’s Canal? The 200-year-old waterway stretches from Paddington to Limehouse. Any given section will yield historical treasures for those who walk with open eyes. This week, I’m focussing on a stretch of just one mile, through Camden Town and along the top of Regent’s Park. It’s a popular section and you may know it already. However, I promise you an historical surprise or two…

That’s for the main section. First, the History Radar, and a reminder that we’re having a drinks meet-up in an historic London pub for paying subscribers on 29 April. If you’d like to come along, drop me a line on matt@londonist.com.

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History Radar

Upcoming events for fans of London history.

🪑 CHAIR LIFTING: One of those quirky annual traditions which London does so well is the Easter Monday chair lifting in Greenwich. The Blackheath Morris Men make the rounds of local landmarks, pausing to allow people (well, women) to climb onto a beautifully decorated chair, which they then hoist above their shoulders between dances. 6 April

🚂 TRANSPORT DEPOT: London Transport Museum’s Acton Depot holds one of its occasional public openings this (long) weekend. Speaking as someone who’s been to pretty much every museum in London, I’d put it in my top three venues. It’s like the main museum, but with much more space for vintage trains, buses and trams; but much else besides, including a library of old maps and Tube roundels. 9-12 April 2026

🚇 BRUNEL'S LEGACY: Tim Bryan, former Director of the Brunel Institute, gives a lecture exploring how Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s image and reputation were crafted by his family and biographers and how that legacy has evolved, as well as the revered engineer’s continuing relevance in the 21st century. Takes place at the Brunel Museum (Rotherhithe), on Isambard Kingdom Brunel's birthday. 9 April

👗 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S STYLE: Clothing worn by Queen Elizabeth II through all 10 decades of her life goes on display in a special exhibition at the King's Gallery at Buckingham Palace. Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life In Style opens on 10 April (running till October) and showcases 200 items, many on display for the first time, including her christening robe, bridesmaid dress, wedding dress, coronation dress and the ensemble worn for the wedding of Princess Margaret.

💂🏽 LONDON GUARDS: The National Army Museum hosts a day celebrating the London Guards -- the reserve battalion combining companies from the Grenadier, Coldstream, Scots and Irish Guards -- giving visitors a chance to meet serving members. Hear from Lieutenant Colonel Russell Lewis MC, commanding officer of the London Guards, and take part in other special activities. 11 April

💌 LOVE LETTERS: Witness devotion, longing, sacrifice, heartache and passion expressed through personal letters, poems, drawings, official memorials and wills. Correspondence dating back more than 500 years is on display in this final week of the free Love Letters exhibition at The National Archives in Kew. Ends 12 April

⛏️ ANGLO-SAXONS: A little outside London in Aylesbury, but some readers might be interested in a new exhibition about Anglo-Saxon life in the region. The new show at Discover Bucks Museum brings this poorly chronicled period to life, with interactive exhibits centred on discoveries in Wendover, Marlow and Taplow. Runs until November.

Historical Walk: One Mile on the Camden Towpath

This is an easy walk, with few gradients, though you may have to negotiate a morass of tourists in the first section. I wish it were also step-free, but some sections are not wheelchair friendly. That said, you could start a little farther east at Royal College Street, which has a ramp, and come off a bit early just after the Snowdon Aviary.

Start at the steps down from Kentish Town Road, easily reached from Camden Town Tube station.

Descend onto the towpath and, immediately ahead, you’ll see a roofline of eggs. This was the former studios of TV-AM, a pioneering breakfast show of the 1980s. The building was an old car showroom, converted by Terry Farrell (the architect not the Star Trek actress) in 1981. The ovular pinnacles were Farrell’s idea. Unfortunately, the studios didn’t want to pay for such frivolity, so the architect stumped up the cash himself to make it happen. The studios closed in 1992, and passed to MTV. They’re now occupied by Paramount.

Admire the family of Egyptian geese, who seem enamoured with this particular section, then walk on past the recent Hawley Wharf development. This retail and eating hub was built on the site of the old Canal Market, which burned down in 2008. I happened to be walking past at the time, and helped alert a few of the High Street shopkeepers to the calamity unfolding to the rear. This was the fire that badly damaged the Hawley Arms, a music pub closely associated with Amy Winehouse (whose portrait still hangs in an upper window).

Anyway, it’s all change now, with Hawley Wharf catering more for the GAIL’s crowd than the seekers of inexpensive jewellery, chair throws and joss sticks who previously patrolled this bank.

Follow the canal past Hawley Wharf and under Camden High Street bridge.

This spot used to smell of weed. The dealers were cleared out long ago, to be replaced by purveyors of fresh orange-juice. I’ve never understood market forces. The canal bridge, and the distinctive ‘Camden Lock’ railway bridge nearby, have appeared in countless films and TV shows, including a recent episode of Doctor Who. Even the Marvel Cinematic Universe paid a call, when The Eternals got into a scrap here with a baddy monster thing. I don’t think it was based on actual events.

Emerge from beneath the canal bridge into Camden Lock.

The funny thing about Camden Lock is that there is no Camden Lock. The various gates here all use different names, with the one ahead of you known as Hampstead Road Lock 1. Still, the Camden Lock name has near-universal traction, and is now a shorthand for the wider area.

This has long been a bustling place, with tens of thousands of people a day descending on the markets. That hasn’t always been the case. This was still an area of industry well into the second half of the 20th century, and the first market was only established in 1974. It’s since grown so bloated that many Londoners now snobbishly dismiss it as a place for tourists, like Leicester Square with narrowboats. I’m still fond of the old place, though I try to avoid it in summer when the crowds are impenetrable.

Make your way around the market’s basin to emerge back on the towpath. It’s worth popping up onto the ‘diagonal bridge’ (erected early to mid-19th century) to survey the path ahead.

That stonking great brick construction is known as the Interchange Building. It’s from the early 20th century, but the site had been used since the 1830s for switching cargo from canal to rail or vice versa. Today, it’s used as office space for start-ups and co-working.

Stick with the towpath on the north (Camden Market) side and proceed over the humped bridge shown in the left of the photo above.

This bridge arcs over a canal opening in the base of the Interchange Building. Both bridge and inlet predate the warehouse by half a century. The latter is known locally as ‘Dead Dogs’ Hole’, supposedly after its habit of accumulating detritus, including unfortunate pets and strays (presumably less so, nowadays).

Dead Dogs’ Hole hides something more exciting than canine corpses. Many, many years ago, I kayaked into the inlet with a bunch of urban explorers who’d heard stories of a cavernous world within.

Between you and me, the legends were true.

The aquatic undercroft does not penetrate far before ending in a jetty. However, here we found an open door, with no signs warning against trespass. It felt a little bit naughty to just wander in — to put it mildly — but the lure of ‘secret tunnels’ was impossible to resist. We gamely stepped through.

Beyond the door was a labyrinth; a huge, brick-lined labyrinth of bewildering orientation. The complex was built in the 1850s, long before the Interchange Building above. These were once horse tunnels, used for stabling in an age when both canal and road transport relied on the animals. If you’ve ever been inside Stables Market next-door, then you’ve seen something similar, although this space is abandoned and off-limits.

A couple of my fellow explorers — one of whom has since become a world-famous nature writer — had brought along musical instruments, and we enjoyed an impromptu subterranean concert. The whole adventure was made still more surreal by our neighbours. The film crew of James Bond film Spectre were shooting in another section of the tunnels, back across the water. It’s only a mild exaggeration to say that we had to negotiate with James Bond’s security guard to gain access to a secret underground lair. Sadly, though sensibly, access to the tunnels is now impossible thanks to a barrier at the inlet’s entrance, and I dare say that open door is now much more secure. The tunnels are still down there, though, and other naughty explorers have made a map, which shows how extensive the network once was.

My apologies for the lengthy tangent about a part of the canal infrastructure you can’t actually see. Let’s return to the towpath…

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