London 10 - Marylebone

A Quiet Quarter (Marly-bone as the BBC might have it) 

Mary-le-Bone?  Marrowbone?  Something about bones?  Le Bonne? Simon-le-Bon?  No, not Bonne.  And not Bone neither.......

Mary-Le-Bone.  Sounds French?  Well there's plenty of Frenchification in the area (le Pain Quotidien, Le Relais de Venise L'Entrecote par example.....) Aubaine, having started as a bakery in the Brompton Road, then pinging pop-ups into Selfridge's, is now the place for Saturday Brunch in this genteel area....  And if you want to get a whiff of real cheese, just slip into the hermetically sealed cheese shop opposite, where Camembert fumes will overcome your wallet in seconds.

But it is not bones, though there are plenty here; nor bonne, nor French.  The name comes from the church of St Mary at the Bourne, and this particular bourne also gave us Tyburn (Ty Bourne), where hangs another tale...... (The village here was originally named Tybourn and what is now Oxford Street was once Tybourn Road.  The Tyburn Tree, famous place of execution, was where Marble Arch is now.....)

St Marylebone Parish Church, from the Churchyard

This church is the fourth in the area, and was built between 1813 and 1817, at a cost of £60,000.  Its predecessor, which was on Marylebone High Street, was the baptismal spot of Lord Byron.  It was also where Charles Wesley and Lord Nelson worshipped, and both Nelson's and Byron's daughters were baptised there. Charles Dickens, who lived next door from 1839 to 1851, was a member of the congregation of the New Church from time to time.  Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett, who had lived in Wimpole Street, were married here in 1846. It is an unusual church, partly because it faces north, and partly because it has a double gallery.

The Apse was added in 1844, and the church quickly added to the attraction of Marylebone, which, unlike some of the other villages of Greater London, does not have deep roots. In the mid eighteenth century there was little here apart from fields, with the odd lane traversing them.  Later it became a good area for burials, like Highgate for example, as there was unused space and few influential inhabitants. 

Where the old church stood is now a memorial garden, which commemorates, among others, George Stubbs (the painter), James Gibbs (the architect) and the Wesleys (Charles, his wife Sarah and their son Samuel);

Though it was not originally placed here, and therefore does not cover any bones......

And nearby, in Paddington Gardens, more memories of bones:

Where also sits the Street Orderly Boy, a statue by Donato Barcaglia of Milan (1849 - 1930) which was placed here in 1943.  A Street Orderly Boy was a street cleaner, perhaps like Jo the Crossing Sweeper in Bleak House.

But poverty and filth are not the themes here.  Marylebone, partly because of its relative newness, is a spacious and comfortable district.  Unlike Clerkenwell, for example, this was never a place of stews and slums.  The fields were allotted to, gifted or leased, gentry from the country, to build their houses and squares.  The names remain, even if the family doesn't.  Harley Street, for example, home of the uber-medics, takes its name from Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford (AKA Lord Harley of Wigmore, hence the Wigmore Hall) in 1730.  He had married Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles, only daughter and heir to John Holles, Duke of Newcastle who had bought the Manor of Tyburn in 1710 for £17,500.  

The couple had two daughters.  One died in October 1725 at the age of four days.  The other, Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley, married William Bentinck, 2nd Duke of Portland, in 1734 when she was 19.  So she inherited the estates, which included Marylebone High Street, in 1741 when her father died.  This accounts for such place names as Cavendish Square and Portland Place, which was laid out by Robert and James Nash, and which later was the home of Richard Hannay, hero of John Buchan's The Thirty-nine Steps...... 

By the sort of convolutions of peers that arises from endless Country House parties and duels at dawn, all this property passed by marriage to the Howard de Walden family, who just happen to be one of the wealthiest families in England, owning houses such as Audley End in Saffron Walden (the name associated with the very profitable production of saffron....) and reputedly being worth over £1 billion.

Not to be confused with the Portland family, and their Dorset connexions, the Portman family, originally from Somerset, have owned about 110 acres of Marylebone, between Oxford Street and Edgware Road, since the sixteenth century.  Their property includes Portman Square, parts of Baker Street (fictional address of Sherlock Holmes) and Manchester Square, a fine Georgian build from the late eighteenth century.

The north side of this square is occupied by Hertford House. This was originally Manchester House and was at one time the home of the Spanish Ambassador (whose chapel is just nearby - in Spanish Place, just to make it simple), but the 2nd Marquess of Hertford bought the lease in 1797.  A French connection then began under the 3rd Marquess who let the French use it as an Embassy and then while the 4th Marquess was himself in Paris it became a store for the family's growing collection of French Art.

The 4th Marquess however failed to leave legitimate issue, so it became the home of his bastard son, Richard Wallace, whose widow then bequeathed the entire collection, which includes 2,370 pieces of European and Oriental Arms and Armour, 528 pieces of furniture and 510 ceramic objects, to the Nation.

There are wonderful opportunities to compare Canaletto side-by-side to Guardi and that's not to mention Frans Hals' 1624 painting The Laughing Cavalier which is held by some to be the best of all baroque portraits.....

Marylebone Village is a quiet, aristocratic part of London. But, though the Landed Gentry may own the streets and squares, it is not only the high born, nor the "English," who live here.....  

It is a pleasant place in which to wander, and it has attracted a variety of residents, from those mentioned above, through writers and thespians:

To Beatles (both John Lennon and Paul McCartney lived here at times and the Apple offices began in Baker Street and moved to Wigmore Street before finishing in Savile Row) to Nipper Pat Daly (a boxer) and Barbara Windsor.  The Pope-Hennessy family are also remembered in St James's Roman Catholic Church, where Solemn Latin Mass is said at 10.30am every Sunday.

It is an easy place, with old-fashioned shops, such as James Taylor & Son, which still display the lasts from Rab Butler's shoes in their window:

Daunt books have a large shop in the High Street.  This chain, founded in 1990, have kept the former Edwardian bookshop almost as it was, with skylights and raised galleries, and William Morris prints. With an enviable collection of travel writing, and now its own publisher's imprint, this is a place to treasure.

Just down the road is the famous Waitrose clock, a victorian timepiece that somehow John Lewis used to persuade the powers that be that a supermarket would not lower the tone of the High Street.  Or perhaps, the other way up, the city fathers insisted on the time-piece to ensure that this particular grocer was respectable, so no hoi-polloi shopkeeper would get the idea that this was tesco territory!

But time is not the point here.  In Marylebone time stands still and you have to linger, not hurry.  Whether it's a sidewalk cafe.....

A phone call in the car.....

Or just a little window shopping, reflecting on the stylish architecture and the quality produce.....

Marylebone may not be buzzing like an angry wasp, but it fizzes like a glass of champagne.  It may not shock with cultural upheaval, but it is not stuffy, and in the neo-classical splendour of the Parish Church, just back from the snarling traffic of Marylebone Road, there are some surprises to be reflected on.....

And there are some bones connected to the Marylebone......

From the West Country - Severn Beach and Beyond

I last visited Severn Beach some twenty-five years ago, and certain details are etched on my mind.  There was a shingle bank along the Severn, behind which crouched some houses, most of which seemed then to have seen better days.  In the distance could be made out the smokes of Wales and the towers of the old road bridge, which was in fact quite new (opened in 1966) and, as the seventh longest suspension bridge in the world, it was something of a wonder as well.  I trudged along the riverside, wondering if the place had actually had better days, and then I returned to Bristol, full of slightly salty fresh air, and forgot about Severn Beach for years and years.

However, courtesy of the 9.20 train from Redland, whose station has been colourfully decorated as part of an unofficial youth occupation scheme, I recently returned to the same location, to find that many things have changed.  Some of the same old houses behind the beach are still there, but they won’t be for long.  New buildings and new roads are the order of the day, and there’s a growing community around the railhead.  The second crossing, as it seems to be known, carrying the motorway to South Wales and back, snakes across the Severn at almost the same place as the mainline rail tunnel burrows under.  The bridge is a colossus of concrete, awesomely beautiful in its grandeur and daring.  There is, indeed, a visitor’s centre, planted on some waste ground just behind the last derelict vestiges of my earlier visit, and in the shadow of the new bridge.  This centre is operated by the Severn Bridges Trust, and it is advisable to telephone on 01454 633511 if you are planning a visit.  (In the winter it is only open from 11 to 4 on Saturdays and Sundays.)

On this visit it is freezing cold, with crystals of ice on the rock.  Steam blows out to sea from the industrial areas of Avonmouth; vapour trails scar the powder blue sky.  The bridge gleams in the sun, spectacular, seeming alive with the persistent sound of the traffic pouring across in both directions. The tide is up; the high water swirls close to Binn Wall, which is decorated with debris of branches and seaweed, evidence of previous flooding.  Near the bridge two commemorative stones have been set side by side.  The first bears the date 1815, and simply bears the names: “E Williams, Surveyor, and F Calthan, Mason.”  The second bears the inscription: “This stone was unveiled by Mrs KJA Brown, Head of Regional Services and Defence Group, Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, to commemorate the completion of improvements to the Binn Wall by the Midlands Region of the Environment Agency between 1993 and 1998.” 

I now have a clear view of the “old” bridge gleaming white ahead of me.  Close to the wall there is an old farm - Severn Lodge Farm - a substantial building with 28 chimney pots, outhouses and a walled garden; it has an elegant portico to shield the front door and a neat little twin lawn front garden. Before the new wall it must have had its own defences, and there is still an old sign saying “unsafe for bathing, mud and currents.”  Out on the jetty, with the current flowing fast and muddy below, I can’t think why anyone would have thought that bathing might have been at all acceptable!  Two plaques on tell stories of past crossings from this point.  The first commemorates, “the crossing of John and Charles Wesley founders of Methodism, their journeys to Wales and Ireland from the ferry near the English Stones during the Eighteenth Century.   Dedicated for the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of their conversion May 28^th 1988.” The English Stones lie under the new bridge, just beyond Goblin Ledge and just before the Shoots, a channel through Crab’s Bay.  The second plaque is inscribed:  “South Wales Union Railway:  This is the remains of the terminal pier where train passengers embarked for Portskewett 1863-1885, Pilning Severn Stage Parish Council.” 

Down on the shore between the two bridges, the Pill issues into the Severn, with Red Ledge on one side and Sugarhole Sand on the other, leading up to Northwick Oaze, the mudflats which continue to the pier under Aust Cliff, from where the Aust Ferry used to ply, right up until the 1966 opening of the first bridge.  It is amazing to think that only 45 years ago, the only way to cross the Severn below Gloucester was via this route.  The shore is dotted with grassy tussocks; ice on the Pill that formed at high tide now flops down amongst the vegetation.  The grassy meadows are frosted, scavenged by flocks of Fieldfare while Dunlin and Oystercatchers scour the stones and mud.  A well-wrapped fisherman tries his luck and dog walkers steam up and down the footpaths.  The Severn way continues on from here right to the source of the river, some two hundred and ten miles in all.  It is one of the longest way-marked walking trails in Britain, offering exceptional access to areas of historical and ecological interest, and providing endless opportunities for observing bird life.

Perhaps another day!  I turn back towards Severn Beach, facing down towards Portishead and the Ocean, and the hills of Gordano.  Nearer the village the signs of habitation increase: “No cycling,” “Safety Notice:  No Parking - Area must be kept clear for emergency vehicles;” “Danger – Razor Wire.” The birds on the mud flats pursue their prey regardless; likewise the fishermen.  It is peaceful and, despite the changes all around, it is timeless.  Severn Beach has changed, and is still changing.  There are neat rows of modern houses, shops and caravan parks.  The Post Mistress assures me that there are wonderful sunsets, information she delivers with pride.  It seems a calm and settled place, even the loss of the local pub to more housing development does not seem to have caused outrage:  the nearest pub now is at Pilning, a couple of miles away – what’s a couple of miles? 

As I wait for the bus to return to the train at Avonmouth, I notice that passing drivers do not seem to be wearing seatbelts.  I board the bus, which is helpfully provided with lap restraints, but notice that the driver does not wear his.  I am the only passenger.  As we draw away, the rivers fall behind me: rivers of traffic over the bridges, the river Severn, the river of time.