The Micro-History of a Traffic Island
Everything has a history, and everything is connected.
Today, I’d like to talk about the history of traffic islands.
We have a lot of them in London. They help pedestrians get across busy roads by offering a refuge between lanes of traffic. Here’s one near Trafalgar Square, tested to its limits:
We have so many traffic islands in London that, contrary to all expectations, a few of them might be described as “quite interesting”.
I’d nominate the one opposite the Hilton on Park Lane, for example, where Mungo Jerry made their promotional video to In The Summertime (still the biggest-selling single by a British band thanks to its international success).
Certainly, I’d put forward the one from the opening credits of Bottom, the second-best British comedy of the 1990s:
If you go to that spot today, you will find that the bench carries a plaque to “The man, the myth, the legend; Pan Global Phenomenon, Dr The Rik Mayall”, who died 11 years ago this week.
Meanwhile, you might have used this triangular traffic island at the foot of Edgware Road:
This is where the Tyburn gallows stood for centuries. Thousands of lives were snuffed out on the site of this crossing. Its triangular plan mirrors the ghastly geometry of the Tyburn Tree. Today, it is a convenient way to get across to Wagamama.
The Tyburn crossing stands within sight of Marble Arch, itself marooned on a glorified pedestrian island. At the other pole of Park Lane we find Hyde Park Corner, yet another pedestrian sanctuary, which boasts the Wellington Arch and numerous war memorials.
I shall ignore these inflated examples of the traffic island, however, in favour of something more humble. The rest of today’s newsletter will concern itself with this elementary refuge:
It is a traffic island so humble that I bet you didn’t even notice it at first. The eye bounces off it; heads towards the truck or the buildings. It scarcely enters the cognisance of the people who pass by. But, in London, even the most insignificant places can have a rich history. In this case, we’re looking at London’s very first traffic island (allegedly). You can probably guess where it is. The prominent window display of CAVIAR would rule out Whitechapel or Willesden Green. We’re somewhere much more fancy: at the rarified junction of Piccadilly and St James’s Street.
The Origin Story
St James’s Street, as you’re no doubt aware, is a place of gentlemen’s clubs and high-end shops of such class that they could (and indeed did) feature in the Kingsman films. Thanks to the nearby presence of St James’s Palace, the street has been a place of quality since the 17th century.
Back in 1864, a gent by the name of Colonel Pierpoint was on his way to White’s club, on the north-east corner of the street. An elderly man, the Colonel had some trouble getting across the opposing lanes of traffic. This resourceful veteran of the Napoleonic wars resolved to do something about it. He petitioned the local vestry (council) to install a refuge mid-way across the road, so that pedestrians had only to contend with one direction of traffic at a time.
The traffic island was duly installed. It was widely hailed as the first of its kind in London. Pedestrians could now cross safely, even after a few too many recommendations from the White’s sommelier.
Colonel Pierpoint was delighted with his initiative. He led an inspection party down the steps of White’s and onto the carriageway, there to admire his handiwork. Pierpoint was promptly run over by a passing carriage and killed, and on the very same day that his safety measure had opened.
We Brits don’t just live with a deep sense of irony; we die by it too.
The man, the myth, the legend…
This, at least, is the story recounted across several reputable websites, as well as MyLondon. Yet it sounds a little fishy to my ear. Can it be true?
There is, it turns out, more than a kernel of truth in the tale, if not a colonel. The gentleman concerned was the Hon. Philip Sydney Pierrepont, part of the aristocratic Pierrepont family of Northamptonshire (but sadly no relation to Albert Pierrepoint, the noted hangman). As far as I can tell, I’m the first person to identify him as a real individual. Every other source can point only to a misspelled, mis-ranked “Colonel Pierpoint”.
Here’s our man, tub-thumping for a traffic island as early as 1860:
Pierrepont, though self-identifying as “aged and inactive”, was tenacious and persuasive. His letter-writing campaign was next directed at the local authority, who eventually moved forward with his proposals. The following is taken from the Minutes of the Committee of Works of St George’s Hanover Square, as reported in April 1863.
Sir, -In reply to your favour of yesterday, I beg to say that your sketch and plan of the proposed pillar of refuge at the top of St. James's-street, meet my entire approval, and I am quite ready to bear the expense, provided that it does not exceed £50, and also that it is completed and in operation by the 1st of May next. It would gratify me to have the words "Pierrepont's Refuge, 1863," cut on the stone plinth, on which I conclude it is to stand. But I by no means wish to make this a stipulation, or a sine qua non.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
(Signed)
P. S. PIERREPONT.
We can, then, confirm the first half of the story. The crossing was initiated by a man almost-called Pierpoint, and was brought into being some time shortly after April 1863. He even paid for it himself.
Now, the big question. Was the Hon. Mr P. mowed down while inspecting his own road safety measures? Was he busted by his own refuge, to coin a new variant of the hoisted-petard?
The good thing about posh people is that they’re easy to trace. I found Pierrepont’s dates with little difficulty. Born 13 June 1786, died 15 February 1864. He did indeed meet his end in 1864, just as the legend says. But this may just be coincidence. He was approaching his 78th birthday after all. “Being old, he would have died soon anyway,” to paraphrase The Day Today, the runaway best British comedy of the 1990s. Can we find a cause of death, to clinch the matter either way?
I discovered in the archives that he’d expired at his home at 4 Seamore Place, Mayfair. This now-vanished street was at the western end of Curzon Street in Mayfair.
Having already written my introduction to this article, I was rather amused by the coincidence. Pierrepont’s sick room may well have looked out onto Park Lane and — had he and his property somehow survived another 106 years — straight onto the traffic island where Mungo Jerry recorded their record-breaking hit. Honestly, if this article has one more unlikely call-back, then it’ll self destruct1.
But what did he die of? Most newspaper accounts of the Pierrepontian demise deal only with the contents of the Will. One report, however, mentions that he passed “after an illness of some weeks”. A longer obituary says that he slipped away “after a period, we fear, of much suffering”. Nowhere reports the actual cause of death.
Now, it could have been a road-traffic accident that left him critically injured. Then again, I can find no accounts of any elderly gentleman being struck by a carriage in the right time frame, and certainly not on St James’s Street. Sadly, Pierrepont had no children, and therefore no descendants, so he’s been largely overlooked by the genealogists on sites like Ancestry. Short of ordering a death certificate (which I’m tempted to do), I am unable to establish what fatally ailed him.
My hunch is that the Hon. Mr Pierrepont died of an illness unrelated to any road accident, but we can’t rule it out. That’s as it should be. A good urban legend should always retain an air of mystery, even in the light of contradictory evidence.
Speaking of the urban legend, it began to circulate three decades after Pierrepont’s death. In 1895, several newspapers published a ‘Notes and Queries’ item about the curious and barely legible inscription on St James’s Street commemorating “Pierpoint’s Refuge” (it seems he got his wish). All of them give the punchline about the gentleman being killed at his own crossing, but with an air of scepticism. At some point in the 20th century the tale had been spun enough times to Chinese-whisper his name into “Colonel Pierpoint”.
The real Pierpoint, the Hon. Philip Sydney Pierrepont, has been all-but-forgotten by history. I think we should revive the memory of this putative inventor of the traffic island. This obituary in the Bicester Herald (26 Feb 1864) paints the picture of a man who lived up to his honourable honorific.
Pierrepont’s Refuge remains in place today, albeit much altered and no-doubt repaved a dozen times. The “Pierrepont’s Refuge” plaque was noted as missing as early as 1897, and calls for its return can be found in the press a decade after that. It never was replaced. Perhaps my friend Martin Wilkie of World Origin Sites, which marks ‘world first’ locations, might care to look into it.
Finally, let’s go out with the greatest song ever recorded on a London traffic island. Take it away, lads:
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I mean, there are other connections I could interweave. I’m too young to remember In The Summertime’s original release (and video) of 1970. My generation associates the song more with an anti-drink-driving commercial from 1992 which, like the Pierpoint myth, also ends in a fatal car crash. Rik Mayall of Bottom was also strongly associated with motor accidents. He was seriously injured and almost killed in a 1998 quad-bike crash. His character was clipped by a van in Four Men in a Car. And the unforgettable finale to the The Young Ones saw Rik’s character Rick and the rest of the cast plummet of a cliff in a double-decker bus.
Oh go on, I'm going to splash out £3... He died of kidney disease https://postimg.cc/WqgYR24H
What can I say? Matt, you've made probably the dullest and most innocuous of street furniture interesting. I await your article on rubbish bins :-)