Common Ground

In the late 19th century, England’s growing industrial cities began to cast about for clean water in the uplands. Birmingham Corporation and the infant London County Council both coveted the resources of the Elan valley in Radnorshire and in 1892 it was Birmingham that succeeded in obtaining the powers to acquire it and build the first of what are now seven dams on the Elan and its neighbour, the Claerwen. By 1904, water was flowing, entirely by gravity, 73 miles to the Frankley reservoir on the city’s edge. The mountains of Radnorshire drain swiftly into Mercia. Beyond the county’s eastern limit at Hergest Ridge, no higher ground intervenes this side of the Urals.

Though London lost, its ambition can only be admired. From the Cambrian Mountains to the capital is twice as far as to Birmingham. Today, it still seeks additional sources of supply from the Severn and Wye. Bristol too, despite its network of local reservoirs to collect the waters of Mendip, takes half its supply from the Severn via the Gloucester & Sharpness Canal.

Other losers included the communities of the old Elan valley, some 100 inhabitants displaced by the rising waters. The landowners were compensated; the tenant farmers were not. Among the buildings drowned were two small country houses, shown in evocative photographs in the Elan Valley Visitor Centre. One was Cwm Elan, where the poet Shelley stayed after being sent down from Oxford for writing The Necessity of Atheism.

Birmingham became the owner of 45,000 acres of water gathering-grounds in Radnorshire and its three Welsh neighbours, upon which were constructed the dams, control towers, roads, bridges, workshops and all the paraphernalia the project demanded. Including a new settlement, Elan Village. Beginning as an encampment of wooden huts, it had by the First World War become a tiny garden suburb with homes that would not look out of place in Bournville. Birmingham’s most distant council housing came complete with a school (below), the city’s arms carved on the bell-tower and its motto, ‘Forward’, underneath.

All passed to Welsh control with local government reorganisation in 1974 and then in 1989 into private ownership. A group of councils, led by Birmingham, challenged the arrangements for water privatisation, pointing out that they had never been compensated for the loss of their assets because the original transfer had been made within the public sector. They ended up the victims of a very artful conjuring trick. The regional water authorities that were to be sold had first been constituted as bodies made up of councillors from across their areas, then slimmed down in 1983 to bodies with a tighter executive focus, appointed by the Secretary of State, until finally they were described by the Minister responsible as “Companies Act companies in all but name”. An astonishing description of what at that time were not just businesses but public bodies with most of the extensive regulatory powers over water that today are held by the Environment Agency. The judiciary, naturally, ruled that Parliament could do as it pleased and the councils went away empty-handed.

Birmingham ratepayers saw more than their investment in water wiped out. When the electricity and gas departments were nationalised in the 1940’s, the outstanding capital debt was bought out too but not the value of the assets. When the Birmingham Municipal Bank merged with the Trustee Savings Bank of the Midlands in 1976, Birmingham councillors continued to sit on the board of the merged bank. But regional TSBs then combined into one national bank which ultimately floated itself on the Stock Exchange to raise capital for expansion, and to resolve the so-called “problem” that technically no-one actually owned it. Like most privatisations and demutualisations, it was free money, built up over generations, given away in one. On top of all this, the sale of council housing at outrageous discounts created the expectation of political payback and tied millions into debt-based finance.

In contrast, private owners of capital have always been treated with grovelling respect. Almost all of the Attlee nationalisations were funded by issuing Government stock, the interest on which was to be paid from the profits of the industries acquired. Coal was the great exception. The pits were paid for in cash because the mineworkers refused to go on working, even at one remove, for those whose greed had cost so many lives. Elsewhere, the deal was a very good one for investors. The financial decline of British Railways that led to the Beeching report in 1963 was partly precipitated by the need to pay interest on British Transport 3% Stock even in years when losses were made. Shareholders would have had to go without a dividend. Stockholders benefited from a brave new world of ‘heads I win, tails you lose’.

Under Thatcher, a policy arose of attacking every safeguard that prevented nationally, municipally and mutually owned wealth being shovelled into the pockets of the regime’s best friends. As a despotic Parliament repeatedly told equally elected bodies how to organise their affairs, respect for property rights became shamelessly one-sided. The point is taken. Fairness dictates that, when the wheel of political fortune has turned full circle and the common wealth is taken back into common ownership, not a penny in compensation need be paid. Not one penny. It would be unforgivably rude even to think of asking.

Landscapes of Power

In Wales’ 1000 Best Heritage Sites, Terry Breverton records that, in the 1980’s, the so-called ‘Roman Well’ at Barry Island was built over without proper excavation and then, in the 1990’s, the site of St Baruc’s Holy Well also disappeared under a modern housing estate. Wales has more castles per square mile than anywhere else in the world, he tells us. In the 19th century it also had the largest number of places of worship in the world, per head of population. And on the basis of Barry and Newport, I think Wales today can claim the highest proportion of philistines too.

It was rather different in the years around the First World War. Major Edgar Jones, the headmaster of Barry County School from 1899 to 1933, was an enthusiastic antiquarian with a special interest in the Tinkinswood Burial Chamber, which stands at the top of a field to the north of Barry and west of Cardiff. Excavated in 1914, Tinkinswood is a Neolithic burial chamber of the ‘Cotswold-Severn’ type, surrounded by other features of the period. The excavators found the remains of at least 50 people within. The massive capstone weighs around 40 tons and may be the largest in Europe. And it pre-dates Stonehenge by 1,000 years.

Major Jones passed on his enthusiasm for Tinkinswood to my father, one of his pupils. (Professor Glyn Daniel was another; so too was Plaid Cymru’s Gwynfor Evans.) As a youngster I was taken to see the site and this month I was back for a second glance. My mother could never remember the name and would refer to it as ‘Tinkerbell’s Tomb’. (The real origin of the name appears to be ‘Tinker’s Wood’, which is how it was known until the 1940’s.)

Graffiti show that the site is popular with ‘pagans’. Or, to put it bluntly, silly children who sit around making up stories about the prehistoric and getting angry with those who prefer a less lazy approach, like looking logically at the data. I can’t forget the picture I once saw, done in psychedelic colours, of a flying saucer arriving at the Rollright Stones. At least the ‘pagans’ can learn. Others appear incapable. Officialdom could maybe win more friends by not placing a pylon in the very next field. Is it meant to be a dramatic contrast? Post-modern irony? Or just sheer incompetence?

On down the road is Duffryn House, built in the 1890’s for the Cory family (coal and shipping, when such things were at their height). Vale of Glamorgan Council owns it now, and prefers to spell it ‘Dyffryn’. The house features a vast entrance hall with a stained glass window showing Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury. It is also famous for its gigantic chimneypieces, antiques that maybe came from the continent. First impressions demand a caption. Something like ‘Trains for Budapest depart from Platform…’? The gardens are open to the public but the house is used for conferences and there is no other way inside. The gardens are magnificent, but Hamlet without the prince.

The gardens were more magnificent still but maintenance has been neglected and lottery money is only now restoring their former glory. Dyffryn Gardens have a little of everything: an arboretum, a rockery, a croquet lawn, fountains, and a series of outdoor ‘rooms’, which pre-date the better-known examples at Hidcote and Sissinghurst. It all cost money and it all costs money. So what to do about that?

The Right will tell you not to bother yourself over the destruction of heritage; the next generation of robber barons will always produce something better. Or fool itself that that is what it’s doing, as long as the architect says so. The Left will defend heritage only if it is drained of authentic meaning and smothered in politically correct goo instead, and will also insist on adding to it, pointless palaces of culture and the like that create work for work’s sake. The East of England Regional Development Agency provided us with a prime example of such architectural exhibitionism in its completely freeform competition to find “a visionary plan for a landmark, or series of landmarks”, “an icon that will foster a sense of identity for the region as a whole”, which would be “a fantastic opportunity for us to come together as a region and decide how to present ourselves to the rest of the world”. Ozymandias no doubt thought the same. How’s that £2 million giant horse in Kent coming along? Maybe some giant droppings could be included?

A resource-constrained future will have to make choices. My guess is that it will continue to make the wrong ones. It will be keeping the tepid bathwater and throwing out the treasured baby, because nothing gives greater offence to the untalented than the persistent evidence of unapproachable genius. What is really needed is a moratorium on the new, or more especially on the outrageously, expensively new, on gesture art. ‘Progress’ was meant to rid us of spoilt egos casting their power and wealth in all directions in a riot of supremely detached uselessness. The conservation world has more than enough to be getting on with, without the 21st century adding its own grands projets to the burden. Tread lightly on the earth, and think responsibly, not least of the grandchildren’s fast-emptying pockets.

Tides of the March

This morning I was at Blaise Castle House Museum in Bristol, a neo-classical mansion set in a splendid park by Humphry Repton, not far from Blaise Hamlet, the famous Regency assortment of mock-rustic cottages. Bristol’s museums are still run by Bristol, in contrast to many places where the assembled evidence of a common identity is no longer seen as anything to do with the expression of a common voice and will.

One room is hung with pictures, mostly landscapes, including several early 19th century views of Bristol by W.J. Müller. They repay close study, identifying the still-familiar landmarks. There’s the cathedral; there’s the Arnolfini; St. Peter’s, St. Mary-le-Port, Temple Church. St. Mary Redcliffe, before the spire was finished off.

My reason for being there was a talk by Toby Jones, the man from Oregon, in charge of conserving the Newport Mediæval Ship. A story he knows well and tells compellingly. Older than the Vasa, older than the Mary Rose, this is Wales’ own triumph of maritime archæology. She remains nameless but dates from the mid-15th century, a time from which shipping records start to survive and so research is continuing. Warwick the Kingmaker, no less, is thought to have owned such a ship and to have sent her to Newport for repairs. The dendrochronology is clear that she was not originally from the Bristol Channel area; there is some evidence she may have been built at Bayonne in Aquitaine.

Pulled up a pill beside the River Usk, she slipped into the mud and stayed there until 2002, eventually seven metres below ground level. Newport City Council has now built a theatre and arts centre on the site. It was in the final stages of rescue archæology during those building works that the ship was discovered. And nearly lost. Worried about rising costs, the Council thought of abandoning her. Protesters held a vigil on site until minds were changed. The ship was to be excavated and recorded but not preserved. At last the Welsh Assembly Government stepped in with the funds to enable her to be lifted and for conservation work to begin.

Here some practical issues intervened. The concrete piles for the building had already been driven, 13 of them through the ship, nailing her to the bedrock. Lifting her whole being impossible, the only option left was to disassemble her, sawing through countless oak pegs swollen for five centuries. Still digging its heels in, the Council refused to excavate the stern as too difficult a job. Building a “cultural” centre that requires the loss of real, irreplaceable culture is the sort of thing one expects of such folk. Spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar.

Now the task for conservators is to put back together again the 95% of the surviving timbers recovered – all 1,700 of them. Newport, the council who also managed to demolish half their castle for a road junction and now also deny the public access to the rest, seem at last to be waking up to the huge tourism asset they have done their best to destroy. Should she have taken them by surprise? Core samples were taken ahead of piling – the proof is visible on the ship – and cores with huge quantities of oak in them should have alerted somebody. Surely the Taffia could not have had a hand in maintaining the silence? Honourable men, in Newport, all honourable men…

Blest is the Eye, twixt Severn and Wye

It’s cold in the Forest of Dean. It was bitter yesterday and usually is, in my memory. When as a child I would visit my grandfather in Cinderford at Christmas, my father would, with weary resignation, announce that we were off to Cinderberia. Bed-sheets were like ice-sheets and I would awake to Jack Frost’s crystal etchings upon the window panes.

Yesterday, winter had yet to come to the Wye Valley. The leaves were still on the trees, in all shades of red and brown, yellow and evergreen. The first landmark north of Chepstow is Tintern Abbey, the first of 15 Cistercian houses in Wales. It was the remote and rugged world the Cistercians were seeking and they were what Wales needed at the time. Their austere piety harked back to the world of saintly hermits who had inhabited the post-Roman twilight; their political skills were soon at the disposal of Welsh princes and marcher lords in their struggles against each other and against the Anglo-Norman kings. And they suffered in the process. It was a Cistercian monastery at Aberconwy, burial-place of the princes of Gwynedd, that Edward I removed to build the castle and walled town of Conway (though he did pay for a replacement).

One of those buried at Tintern Abbey was William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, the lord of Raglan Castle, beheaded in 1469 for siding the wrong way in the Wars of the Roses. It was his descendant, the 9th Duke of Beaufort, of Badminton in south Gloucestershire, who, to pay death duties, in 1901 sold the Abbey and its lands back to the Crown in the shape of His Majesty’s Commissioners of Woods, Forests and Land Revenues, today represented by the Forestry Commission.

Crossing into England, one soon reaches St Briavels. The village castle (left) has much older links with the Crown, having been for centuries the administrative and judicial headquarters of the Royal Forest of Dean. The stone hunting horn that sits atop a chimney (below) reminds all who pass by.

In mediæval times, the miners of the Forest served in the Scots wars of Edward I (him again), doing good service in undermining the walls of Berwick-upon-Tweed during a siege. This may have been the occasion for a grant of mining rights in the Forest still maintained today, though it is also claimed that the rights exist “tyme out of mynde”. To be a freeminer it is necessary to be born in the Hundred of St Briavels and to have worked underground there for a year and a day. It is no easy qualification, now that the local maternity unit has been removed to Gloucester, far beyond the hundredal boundary. The freeminers vigorously defend their rights, which have persisted before, during and after nationalisation. The first Chief Executive of the Coal Authority had a rough time of it on visiting the Forest in 1996 when the freeminers protested, strongly but unsuccessfully, against the imposition of new licences and regulations they had managed well without.

The church at St Briavels is dedicated to St Mary. No doubt the Celtic saint was there first, ousted by the Norman abbey of Lire who took over after the Conquest and rebuilt the church in the late 12th century. One of the mouldings over an arched doorway ends in a primitive, snarling dragon’s head. The village pub is the George, its blazing log fire a welcome respite from the weather.

The next place to St Briavels is called Mork. No sign of Mindy though.

North of St Briavels lies Newland. It was new around the 12th century, when land was being assarted out of the primæval woodland. If St Briavels was the secular heart of the mediæval Forest regime, then Newland was its sacred counterpart. The church (below) is known as ‘the cathedral of the Forest’, an apt description for a vast interior that is a heavy burden for a now tiny parish. The mediæval Forest had no churches of its own, being extra-parochial, and it was from Newland that priests would set out into the clearings to minister to mining communities in the form of the ‘Morrow Mass’. All Saints, Newland houses the memorials of the royal officials whose job it was to protect the ‘vert and venison’ from the covetous common folk, whose ancestors no doubt once helped themselves to nature’s bounty without fear of challenge.

The range of unusual monuments to unusual people is the chief charm of All Saints. A forester, a bowman, a miner. Knights and their ladies. Priests in their vestments. Marble plaques, extolling the virtues of later gentry and judges, occupy a chantry chapel founded by Edward I (him yet again). Nearby, hatchments hang on the walls. The churchyard is peppered with the fine stone tombs of yeoman farmers.

A board lists the headmasters of the local grammar school, from 1447 until its closure in 1968. How could one decade, between 1965 and 1975, have witnessed such an orgy of institutional destruction? Ancient schools, ancient boroughs, ancient courts, ancient counties, all swept away with many a plea to retain even the most harmless links with the past rebuffed. This was the cross-party handiwork of a generation born between wars that were fought for an England considered worth defending. This is how they did it and now so many ask where society has gone. The search for novelty seems, bizarrely, a peculiar affliction of secondary education, hallowed ethos regularly sacrificed to zealous reorganisation at the drop of a White Paper.

The school’s first founders were local landowners, the Greyndours. J.K. Rowling, growing up in these parts, perhaps passed this way. Is Greyndour the inspiration for Griffindor? It seems too good to be coincidence.

Opposite the church door stands a row of 17th century almshouses, now empty and undergoing severe renovation. After nearly 400 years, the sole trustee of the charity, the Worshipful Company of Haberdashers, put them up for sale, to re-invest the proceeds in another charity they manage in Monmouth. You just can’t trust those City types with anything these days.

Last call of the day was Ross-on-Wye. The town’s grandest buildings are quintessential Herefordshire – pink sandstone, black-and-white half-timber. Its more modest buildings and streets though could be anywhere in the Welsh marches – Chepstow, Abergavenny, Monmouth, and on up to Ludlow and Shrewsbury – little towns little altered since the 18th century.

The A40 leads, through a string of unchanging villages, to Gloucester and the unquestionable modernity of the M5. Despite all the devastation that has befallen the city in recent decades, the cathedral tower of the one-time St Peter’s Abbey still dominates the skyline, as sure a landmark today as for merchants and pilgrims in centuries past. Controlling what was long the land route to south Wales, Gloucester has been a pivotal city since Roman times, its earls and dukes the close advisers and often relatives of kings and queens. It was at Gloucester in 1085 that William the Bastard held court and commissioned the Domesday Book. At such a crossroads of the kingdom it is easy to see why. Conquerors come and go but geography persists and analysing it is the key to success of many kinds.