British Europe

This article originally appeared in Wessex Chronicle Volume 17, Issue 1 (Spring 2016)

Wessex Society’s aims, as set out in our constitution, include “promoting Wessex as a cultural community within an English and European context”.  The English context should be self-explanatory.  The European one comes with the territory; Wessex has been subjected to waves of settlement and conquest from a continent about which it is often ambivalent.  From the declaration of the Reformation Parliament that “this realm of England is an Empire” to Shakespeare’s “precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands”.  Viewers of BBC2’s Wolf Hall will know just how many aspects of English politics can be played out on a wider stage.  Shakespeare – an English playwright whose plays are mostly set abroad – puts his lines in the mouth of John of Gaunt, an English prince, born in Flanders (at Ghent) and, in his second wife’s right, claimant to the Spanish thrones of Galicia, Castile and León.

Although one might think that nothing could be more English than the Church of England, it was founded by an Italian – Augustine – and revitalised by a Greek – Theodore of Tarsus.  The English gave as good as they got: the Apostle of the West Saxons, Birinus was a Frank, while the Apostle of the Germans was an Englishman, Boniface.  For us, the Saxons are English: it could be said that they are us.  For the Germans, Saxony is an element in the name of three of its regional states and it was the Saxons who went east to settle lands beyond the Elbe.  The word for ‘German’ is saksa in Estonian and saksan in Finnish.  King Alfred’s name is shared with characters as diverse as Alfred Nobel, the Swedish arms magnate, and Alfred Dreyfus, the Jewish French officer falsely accused of espionage.  England has a long history of welcoming political outcasts, from Karl Marx to Napoléon III (who is buried at Farnborough Abbey), but the tide flows both ways, taking many a disgraced sovereign or nobleman to France or the Low Countries.

So here’s a question: how many members of the European Union can claim a constitutional link to England?  The answer may be surprising: 14 out of 28.  The figure is calculated as follows.

1.    States that are, or have been, part of the UK number 2: the republic of Ireland (1801-1922) and the continuing United Kingdom.  The UK for this purpose includes Gibraltar, which is not represented at Westminster but is represented in the European Parliament as part of the ‘South West England’ constituency.  The Channel Islands and the Isle of Man are Crown dependencies, for most purposes outside both the UK and the EU.  The Channel Islands are the last remaining fragment of the Duchy of Normandy; during the Commonwealth period they narrowly avoided incorporation into Hampshire.  They have been part of the diocese of Winchester since 1569, though an acrimonious split in 2014 resulted in the Bishop handing many of his powers up the line to Canterbury.

2.    States that have been part of the British Empire, while not being part of the UK, also number 2: Cyprus (1878-1960) and Malta (1800-1964).  Running total 4.

3.    States whose territory includes territory that at one time was English or British number 4: France (a bloc from Normandy to Aquitaine, begun 1066, the last part lost 1453, also Ponthieu, 1279-1435, Calais, 1347-1558, Dunkirk, 1659-1662, and Corsica, 1794-1796), Germany (Heligoland, 1807-1890), Greece (Ionian Islands, 1809-1864) and Spain (Minorca, 1708-1802).  Running total 8.

4.    States that have shared a monarch with England, Great Britain or the UK, or include territory that has done so, number 6+: Denmark (1013-1042), France (1422-1435, contested by the Valois), Germany (Hanover, 1714-1837), the Netherlands (1689-1702), Spain (whose empire at the time included some or all of Belgium, France, Italy, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, 1554-1558) and Sweden (Scania, then part of Denmark, 1013-1042).  Running total 14.  Norway (1013-1035) would also feature in the list if it were a member of the EU.

Eastern Europe is poorly represented in this list, though English connections through marriage do exist: King Athelstan’s half-sister married the German Emperor Otto I and is buried at Magdeburg, Edgar Atheling’s mother was possibly Hungarian or Russian, and Harold Godwinesson’s daughter married the Grand Prince of Kiev.  Richard II renewed the connection with central Europe, marrying Anne of Bohemia.  One consequence was to forge links between England’s emergent Lollards, strong in mid-Wessex, and Bohemia, where they were known as Hussites.  

Cardinal Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester was Papal Legate for Germany, Hungary and Bohemia and led the struggle against the Hussites.  Beaufort also played a large role in the Hundred Years War, being present at the trial of Joan of Arc.  (He came home with her ring, which only returned to France this year when it was sold at auction to a historical theme park after centuries of English aristocratic ownership.)  Beaufort also served as Dean of Wells, Chancellor of Oxford University and Bishop of Lincoln (the city to which the see of Dorchester-on-Thames was removed in 1072).  And where was he born?  France, as the son of ‘Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster’, by Chaucer’s sister-in-law, and so a cousin of Richard II.  Confused yet?

You might think that Wessex, as close to the continent as it is, would bear some signs of these varied constitutional tie-ups, and you would be right.  The story begins with Cnut, King of Denmark, England and Norway, who died in 1035 and was buried in Winchester Cathedral.  His name appears on the mortuary chests there.  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records that in 1029, “King Cnut returned home to England”: as good an indication as any of where his primary interests lay.  

Danish Cnut and his Norman wife Emma donate a cross to Winchester's New Minster (from the Liber Vitae of Hyde Abbey)

We have mentioned before King Louis of England, a little-known monarch who occupied London and Winchester in the dying days of King John.  King Philip is another little-known monarch.  The man we know as the Spanish king Philip II married Queen Mary I – ‘Bloody Mary’ – at Winchester Cathedral in 1554.  Why Winchester?  Probably as the nearest large church to Southampton, to which he could swiftly beat a retreat if things turned nasty.  Parliament was greatly concerned that the marriage should be merely personal and not give Philip any claim to the English throne after Mary’s death.  (The Spanish Armada of 1588 was Philip’s bid to enforce a separate claim bequeathed by Mary, Queen of Scots.)  Despite these safeguards, the official line at the time was that a new, joint reign had begun.  Philip and Mary appeared together on the new coinage.  The new Great Seal bore their combined coat-of-arms, which featured the English lion as one supporter and the black imperial eagle as the other, displacing the red dragon of the Tudors.  The citation of Parliamentary statutes began afresh, the year ‘2 Mary’ being followed by  ‘1 & 2 Philip & Mary’.  The rulers were proclaimed jointly as ‘Philip and Mary, by the Grace of God, King and Queen of England and France, Naples, Jerusalem and Ireland, Defenders of the Faith, Princes of Spain and Sicily, Archdukes of Austria, Dukes of Milan, Burgundy and Brabant’.  (Philip did not ascend the Spanish throne until 1556.)  

A Philip & Mary shilling

Some of these titles were just delusional.  England had no territory in France except Calais, which was represented in at least ten English Parliaments at Westminster but which Mary was famously to lose.  The Kingdom of Jerusalem had lost Jerusalem itself in 1187 and its last possessions in 1291.  The Duchy of Burgundy had been taken back by the King of France in 1477.  The claims are worth noting as a demon-stration that history is about editing-in and editing-out, with perspective determining the choices to be made about breadth and depth: to tell us our past, it has to know who ‘we’ are.  Louis and Philip were real English monarchs but, like Edgar Atheling (or Edgar II) in 1066, they don’t appear in our king-lists because history is written by the victors.  And our own Henry VI was crowned Henri II of France in 1431 – by Cardinal Beaufort no less – but thanks to the example of Joan of Arc he doesn’t count either.

We’re equally selective about invasions, William the Bastard’s being often referred to as the last successful one.  In 1688, William of Orange turned up in Brixham with 15,000 Dutch troops and over the next few weeks marched across Wessex to Windsor before being crowned king.  That looks very much like an invasion and very much like success.  To redefine the Norman Conquest as the last successful opposed invasion is one way out: but only because in 1688 the opposition wasn’t coming from those who had invited the Dutch over.  The incumbent king, James II, wasn’t at all in favour of the coup and doubtless would have opposed it if he could.

William of Orange, like Cnut, chose to live and die in England, not in his home country.  George I was the opposite, a thorough-going German and the last ruler of England not to be buried in England, but his family’s English connections went back a long way.  His ancestor Matilda of England was the daughter of Henry II; one of her sons by Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, was William of Winchester, born there in 1184.  William, also known as William of Lüneburg, was born during his father’s exile in England.  He remained there when his father returned to Saxony and was raised in the court of Richard I.  (That’s Richard the Lionheart, the king married in Cyprus to a Navarrese who never visited England as queen.)  His dynasty continued to reign in north-west Germany until 1918.  Its impact on English life can be seen in the numerous streets and squares named ‘Brunswick’ or ‘Hanover’.  The last King of Hanover, its George V, was baptised in Berlin by Jane Austen’s brother, the Rev. Henry Thomas Austen, and is buried in St George’s Chapel at Windsor.  The British returned to Hanover in 1945 with an army of occupation, while the USA occupied the south of Germany.  It could not have been otherwise: D-Day was launched with the Americans on the right flank because that was where they had been gathered from the UK’s Atlantic ports and logistically they had to end up on the right flank too.

During the personal union of Great Britain/the UK and Hanover under the first four Georges and William IV, the smaller country could sometimes be the tail wagging the dog.  The Elector of Hanover was so-called because he was one of nine princes called upon to choose the next Holy Roman Emperor (a contest that the Habsburgs hardly ever lost).  He also got to use the title of Arch-Treasurer of the Empire and incorporate a representation of the crown of Charlemagne into his coat-of-arms, something that can be seen in the British royal arms of the time.  The same arms adorn the pediment of the parliament building of Lower Saxony in Hanover.

The royal coat-of-arms (1816-1837 pattern) at the Old Customs House, Bristol.  It includes two mottos in French, two gold lions for Brunswick, a blue lion for Lüneburg, the white horse of Westphalia and, at the very centre, the crown of Charlemagne.  The two gold lions are said to have been granted to the Duke of Brunswick by his father-in-law, the English King Henry II.  The white ‘Saxon’ horse, said to have been the emblem of Widukind, was widely adopted by the British Army for standards and uniforms, signalling loyalty to the Hanoverian rather than the Jacobite cause.

British troops were deployed in the defence of Hanover, while Hanoverian regiments were raised for British service, being known as the King’s German Legion.  Thomas Hardy’s 1889 short story, The Melancholy Hussar of the German Legion, recounts the fate of two soldiers based at Weymouth who are shot for desertion.  One is a native of the Saarland and the other of Alsace.

In The Return of the Native, Hardy created another foreign character to place in South Wessex.  Of Eustacia Vye he writes: Budmouth was her native place, a fashionable seaside resort at that date.  She was the daughter of the bandmaster of a regiment which had been quartered there – a Corfiote by birth…  Where did her dignity come from?  By a latent vein from Alcinous' line, her father hailing from Phaeacia's isle?"  A Corfiote being a native of Corfu, one of the Ionian Islands, he may be assumed to have played in a military band during the time of British rule.  One of the relics of that rule is the Order of St Michael and St George.  It was created as an award for British subjects in the Ionian Islands and in Malta but is today better known as the ‘gong’ given to senior diplomats and civil servants in the UK, ranked in its three grades of Companion (CMG: ‘Call Me God’), Knight Commander (KCMG: ‘Kindly Call Me God’) and Knight Grand Cross (GCMG: ‘God Calls Me God’).

Does this trans-European history still echo today?  The best place to look is in town-twinning arrangements, some of which might be seen as predictable.  Bristol is twinned with Bordeaux, the capital of Aquitaine, and with Hanover.  Bath is twinned with Brunswick.  Several counties are twinned with Norman equivalents: Devon with Calvados, Dorset with Manche, Somerset with Orne, and Hampshire with the whole of Lower Normandy (all three of these départements together).  As Upper and Lower Normandy have just been re-united, will Hampshire now try to speak for all Wessex or see itself alone as the equal of all Normandy?  That will be interesting to watch.  Berkshire and Wiltshire are twinned with the Vienne and Loiret départements in Poitou and central France respectively.  Port towns are easily paired: Plymouth/Brest, Poole/Cherbourg, Southampton/Le Havre, Portsmouth/Caen.  Romsey’s twinning is with Battenberg, the original home of the Mountbatten family.  Winchester’s is with Laon, the former capital of France.  Oxford is twinned with a clutch of university towns.  Wincanton is twinned with the fictional town of Ankh-Morpork in the late Sir Terry Pratchett’s Discworld – and Swindon with Walt Disney World in Florida.  Magic.

Review: Broadchurch Season 2

This review originally appeared in Wessex Chronicle Volume 16, Issue 1 (Spring 2015)

Broadchurch returned this year for a second series. The first was always going to be a tough act to follow. Critics soon dubbed its sequel ‘Boredchurch’, accusing lead writer Chris Chibnall of implausible plot turns and of repeatedly disregarding legal procedure in the interests of a good story. And yes, there was a lot of legal procedure. The second series picked up where the first left off, murder suspect Joe Miller unexpectedly pleading his innocence in a trial that proceeded to challenge much of what viewers believed to be the case against him.

David Tennant returned as the sickly Scots cop DI Alec Hardy, with Olivia Colman as his sidekick DS Ellie Miller. So too did the sparse, tension-building background music by Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds. Alec Hardy’s ex-wife appeared for the first time in series two, her name being Tess Henchard. As it had to be, if he’s the result of Chibnall’s juggling of Donald Farfrae and Alec d’Urberville.

Chibnall seems to have great fun naming his characters, as when his barristers are the white Knight for the prosecution and the black Bishop for the defence. Note too how many Broadchurch locals have traditional rural trades for surnames (Carter, Fisher, Miller, Wright). The Latimers take their name from latimmier, a keeper of records in Latin. Mark Latimer is a plumber, the only one of these trades named from a specifically Latin base. And the vicar – well, what else would a man of the cloth be than the Rev. Coates?

With the trial unfolding as the main theme, there was plenty else building around it, centred on ‘the Sandbrook case’, the unsolved murders tormenting Hardy from his earlier employment with the South Mercia force. This introduced a range of new characters and took Hardy and Miller up and down the M5 and across to Portsmouth in pursuit of the truth.

As before, much of the action was shot at Clevedon in Somerset and Bridport and West Bay in Dorset. To the list of locations last time, which also included Bristol, Portishead, Shepton Mallet, Weston-super-Mare and Yate, series two added Bracknell, Charmouth, Exeter, Lynton, Reading, Weymouth and other Wessex places. The University of Exeter’s Forum Building served as both the Wessex Police Headquarters and the Wessex Crown Court. Hardy (Thomas rather than Alec) would surely have been pleased at such a variety of places, spread right across Wessex and apart from studio scenes shot in Surrey and Yorkshire making few forays beyond it.

There will be a third series but, for those who just can’t wait, Erin Kelly, in collaboration with Chris Chibnall, has already penned a series of eight short stories based around themes from each of the recent episodes

Interview: Seif El Rashidi

This interview originally apperared in the Wessex Chronicle volume, 16, issue 4 (Winter 2015-16)

Seif El Rashidi is the Magna Carta Programme Manager at Salisbury Cathedral. Raised in Egypt, where he studied at the American University in Cairo, he has a background in art and architectural history. He has previously worked for Ahmad Hamid Architects, for the Aga Khan Trust for Culture’s historic cities programme and as the Co-ordinator of Durham World Heritage Site.

Salisbury Cathedral houses one of four surviving contemporary copies of the 1215 Magna Carta and organised an ambitious programme of events to mark the document’s 800th anniversary last year. Derek Pickett and David Robins recently interviewed Seif about this, in the very room where Magna Carta may have been stored when it first came to the cathedral.

DP: We know how Magna Carta came about, but how did it then evolve?

SE: King John never liked Magna Carta. It was imposed upon him and had the rebels not been in a strong position he never would have agreed. I doubt he intended to honour the terms, agreeing only in order to buy time. He had no choice. What he did next was appeal to the Pope to annul it and the Pope did so.

The Pope had had a long history of not getting on with John, and had excommunicated him and more, and finally he had John under his control, as a vassal paying him 1,000 marks a year to rule England. It wasn’t in the Pope’s interest to have a committee of 25 barons having a say in what the King could do. The initial falling-out had been over the freedom of the Church from royal control, especially whose candidate should be Archbishop of Canterbury. The Pope’s choice – Stephen Langton – now had the job and was probably the brains behind much of Magna Carta as well as the mediator between John and the barons. He made sure the Church’s interest was protected: Magna Carta begins and ends with provisions about the freedom of the Church. Nevertheless, the Pope’s wider interests lay in political control of John.

In 1216 both John and the Pope die. Magna Carta is still annulled, and so you’d expect it to come to nothing. If John came alive today and found Magna Carta still around I think he’d be very surprised indeed. The secret to its survival is what happened next. It’s during the civil strife following John’s death that the following month Magna Carta is re-issued in the name of Henry III, his nine-year-old son. The regent – William Marshal – and the papal legate agree a wording that strengthens Henry’s position as the legitimate heir against the rival French claim, protects the Church’s interests but leaves out the more controversial provisions such as the committee of 25 barons monitoring the King. That innovation, included in the 1215 document to ensure compliance, was no longer necessary with John gone and Henry under the barons’ control. The new Magna Carta, no longer imposed on the King, is almost a contract, setting out a relationship between the King and his people.

Above: the only surviving issue of the 1216 Magna Carta granted at Bristol, now preserved
at Durham Cathedral


The solution holds and in 1217 there is a further re-issue. Some provisions relating to the forest and the hunting grounds are expanded and put into a separate charter, the Charter of the Forest, leaving the rest in contrast as the Great Charter – hence the name ‘Magna Carta’. In 1225, Magna Carta is re-issued again, now that Henry III is a teenager and able to say it represents his own free will, though he’s probably still heavily dependent on others for advice. The 1225 version is the basis of what survives in law today. Although almost all its clauses have been updated and replaced by more modern legislation, the principles remain. One of the clauses that’s still part of the law is one saying that the City of London and other boroughs and towns and ports shall have their ancient rights and privileges. It’s strange that that one has survived in its 13th century form.

The re-issues provided the opportunity to qualify earlier statements in the light of experience. For example, instead of just saying that you can’t take horses and carts without the owner’s permission, they then add that you can pay a fee in lieu for taking them. The 1215 clauses mention things like ‘ancient fees’ – they refer to custom – so you can only demand payment or tax people according to what was the custom. The later versions of the charter are more explicit about financial details.

DP: What is Magna Carta’s historical significance in the longer-term?

SE: I think most societies have some idea of equality before the law and fair treatment. Even when they believe their kings have certain rights, there are few societies that believe they have absolute rights. I think too that one of the things about history is that we owe a lot of what we do to what people have already done. Very few ideas come out of nothing but we may be at risk of taking this as implicit and not really thinking about it. The Anglo-Saxons had their law codes and their Witan, so there were Anglo-Saxon precedents for Magna Carta and for Parliament. The idea of a parley at a riverside meadow or island – as at Runnymede – also has Anglo-Saxon precedents. Magna Carta explicitly acknowledges history in its references to ancient customs and rights. It’s reminding the King that his power is limited by long tradition, by Anglo-Saxon tradition.

Magna Carta is iconic, it’s a milestone, it has great symbolic value, but the Magna Carta of 1215 isn’t the beginning of rights and it’s not the end either. I disagree with David Starkey saying it’s unimportant. In some ways it looks back and is very traditional, in others it looks forward and is very radical. The committee of 25 barons can be seen as the forerunner of Parliamentary sovereignty. There’s a revolution over the course of the 13th century and Simon de Montfort can also be seen as part of that, building on earlier demands that the King confer over policies and taxes. It’s human nature not to want to confer, to believe that allowing other people a say slows things down and is inefficient. The re-issues of Magna Carta are usually related to some debate over taxation, to the King wanting money and the barons saying, ‘OK, but first you must confirm these rights’.

It would be naïve to think that from the 16th of June 1215 onwards suddenly everyone had their rights formalised in writing and no-one ever tried to take them away. What they did have – though only if they were free men – was a document they could use to defend themselves by reference to agreed rights. Later generations had varying views of Magna Carta. No-one seems to have tried – or dared – to refer to it at the time of Henry VIII, when royal control over the Church was being greatly extended. But what seems to have been established quite early on in England is that Parliament and other forces did try to defend these rights as much as they could. Charles I is a good example of someone who was seen to be ignoring these ancient agreements and paid the price, even though he was the King. Again, in the 19th century, political cartoons often refer to Magna Carta whenever rights are under threat. For example, a politician might be shown putting a dagger through it.

Part of Magna Carta’s value is that it has come to symbolise numerous things that were probably never intended in the first place. We’ve had visitors from all around the world to see our Magna Carta and I think it touches the hearts of everyone, especially this idea that no-one should be above the law and that even the King or the ruler has to follow the law, and that the law has to be fair. In the same way as Shakespeare manages often in his plays to capture some human emotion or human condition so well, I think Magna Carta does too. I think it’s a great British contribution to world culture – internationally it’s probably seen as British though within the British Isles views may differ. I’m from Egypt and I was going there in June after we’d held our celebrations here and there in the Arabic newspaper I was reading on the plane was an article about Magna Carta, with a photo of our Archivist!

DP: Was there anyone with a moral high level in the project? I’m speaking about being judged by your peers, etc. – what we know as Magna Carta today. You mentioned Archbishop Stephen Langton.

SE: Yes, Langton must have been hugely influential. He made sure his own institution benefited, but arguably the interests of the Church and the view of the Church also benefited society. The famous clauses – not denying or delaying or selling justice, not taking people’s possessions or putting them in prison except in accordance with the law of the land – these are clauses for the common good and I imagine everyone could see their benefit. Likewise the standardisation of weights and measures across the kingdom. So there are some clauses where the common benefit is very clear, other clauses that benefit certain barons or the barons as a group, and others where the motivation isn’t clear at all. There’s one clause against forced labour on bridge-building and the like but David Carpenter has argued that this was to prevent the King taking other people’s workmen to do his building for him. The barons were more likely to be acting out of self-interest here.

The Church also occupied the moral high ground in keeping John to his word. It isn’t a coincidence that three out of the four 1215 Magna Cartas we still have survived in cathedrals. It appears that Magna Carta was given to bishops for two reasons. One is that the first clause guarantees the freedom of the Church, but also this was a document imposed upon the King and the royal system, so the rebels needed a way of enforcing it and the Church was a good institution to do this because it had quite a lot of autonomy. We know it was important to cathedrals because they copied the text out into their registers, so we have a register from the 13th century where the text of our Magna Carta, word for word, is copied out. Canterbury had the same. These registers were where you copied documents of relevance to you. So if there was a new policy regarding land or a new law and it was important to you, you copied that in the register to record that you had it. So cathedrals were almost like the independent judiciary, in a way, or the election monitors of the day, people who would ask, is the King doing what he’s saying he’s doing? I think they were worried that if the sheriffs – the King’s men – were entrusted with Magna Carta they’d be instructed to ignore it. The 1216 Magna Carta isn’t distributed to cathedrals but to the royal officials, which underlines that the 1216 version was a consensual agreement, one the King’s system was willing to respect.

Against a tyrannical ruler, having a mechanism for enforcement – such as the committee of 25 barons – is vital. One of the things we tried to do when thinking about Magna Carta here in 2014 was identify which countries’ constitutions are influenced by it. That didn’t work, because on paper every constitution sounds wonderful. It’s the application of the law that’s often the big difference between countries which are very despotic and oppressive and ones where people really do have rights.

DR: Can you tell us about the history of the Salisbury Magna Carta in particular?

SE: I think it’s a fascinating story, because the context, before and after the document, may be more interesting than the document itself. I think that’s what’s fascinating – its story as much as itself.

This little room that we’re in above the Vestry – octagonal like the Chapter House but smaller – is now the Choir Practice Room. Often I think these behind-the-scenes areas are the most interesting. So the choristers rehearse here every day. When this room was built in the 13th century it was as the Muniment Room, where valuable documents such as deeds to land would be kept. We still have one of the mediæval cupboards (below, left) in which Magna Carta may have been placed At some point they must have thought, ‘well, we’re now ready enough with this new cathedral to move the archives from Old Sarum’. And so the Salisbury Magna Carta would have come with other things to be stored here. The floor tiles in this room (below, right) are from about 1260, so maybe that’s the date.


It’s interesting that Elias de Dereham, who oversaw the construction of this building, had a key role to play in the distribution of Magna Carta around England in 1215. When the Pope annulled Magna Carta he also penalised all the people who had been involved in bringing it about and Elias was one of them. So it’s interesting that he had this link with Salisbury. He’s very important in 1215 as the Archbishop’s steward and for the distribution of the documents and then comes back to oversee the construction of this building in 1220. Another interesting person is William Longespée, King John’s half-brother, and the first person to be buried in this cathedral. So Elias and William Longespée would have been on different sides initially in 1215 but by 1220 they’re working together on building this cathedral. It’s another reminder that you find alliances change and people change sides.

Robert Key, the former MP for Salisbury, has been one of our leading supporters and there’s a story about him and Magna Carta. His father was the Bishop of Sherborne and on Robert’s 10th birthday he was told, ‘we have a birthday present for you but you’re not going to appreciate it until you’re older’. They took him to the library – Magna Carta was kept in the cathedral library then – they opened the safe and got Magna Carta out and they said, ‘here, hold this’. And so he held it, not really knowing what it was and then afterwards they told him ‘your 10th birthday present was that you got to hold Magna Carta’.

DR: If that doesn’t set you up for a political career, nothing will.

SE: I’ve heard the story said about others too, so maybe it was a regular thing back then. Until recently, Magna Carta used to be in a modern frame which was thought to be the best thing for it but it meant you couldn’t get it out and examine it, so one of the things we did in 2015 was move it to a different frame which makes it easier to access and the glass is much thinner so you can see it better. I told our Archivist, ‘my one request is, can I please touch Magna Carta?’, and she said, ‘OK but you can’t touch any of the ink!’ One day when they were examining it she said, ‘it’s out of its case, so if you want you can go down, the conservator’s there, and you can touch it quickly. Just in one corner.’ I touched it twice for good measure!

DR: The cathedral has been marking the 800th anniversary of Magna Carta. What has been the local reaction?

SE: One of the interesting things about Magna Carta is that most people know it’s important but very few people know much about it. It’s important but it isn’t beautiful like the Crown Jewels. It’s a legal document, in mediæval Latin that visitors can’t read. Our visitors tend to be people with average general knowledge, not specialists on Magna Carta, so we have to keep it simple and make it interesting. Many people will associate it with King John but they’re less sure what it comprises and its context. Our Magna Carta has been on display for a long time, so we already knew what kind of questions people asked and what they didn’t know and we tried to address that in our new exhibition.

We also wanted to make it fun and enjoyable, and to involve the community, so we had lots of different cultural projects inspired by Magna Carta. One of the things we certainly got right was to be diverse in the way we presented Magna Carta. For us, Magna Carta is a springboard for other things and I think it’s very relevant for the cathedral, which has a mission of social justice and equality. That’s why we worked with the prisons, trying to engage with even the people who have fallen foul of the law, to get them to think about what is justice and that it’s not only about rights but about responsibilities. Given that this is the cathedral, of course, the religious element and the importance of the Church was significant and we helped organise events like a pilgrimage from Old Sarum, where the Salisbury Magna Carta was originally taken, to this cathedral. The Salisbury International Arts Festival worked with the Globe to put on a performance of Shakespeare’s King John in the cathedral. Interestingly enough, Magna Carta isn’t mentioned in the play but it deals with the idea of usurping power and other aspects of John’s life.

Salisbury Playhouse Youth Theatre devised and performed Clause 39, about the clause specifying that you can’t arrest people arbitrarily, a play making implicit references to contemporary issues like Guantanamo Bay. It’s been important to us that Magna Carta isn’t just history. It’s relevant today and it’s relevant partly because it’s timeless and some of its clauses are still part of the law but partly because the struggles that the barons fought are still relevant struggles around the world. Amnesty International is one of our partners. So one thing that many people have discussed is the Human Rights Act and whether the idea of repealing the Human Rights Act is contrary to Magna Carta. Whatever the answer to that question may be, we know that we can’t take our rights for granted and have to remain vigilant. We also have a part to play directly in the workings of the system: for example, judgment by your peers only truly works if people get over their reluctance to do jury service. It’s the fact that human rights issues never go away that makes Magna Carta always relevant.

We were very interested in getting people to reflect on these things. Our exhibition downstairs asks people, ‘If you could get a group of barons together to fight for one thing, what would it be?’ If you look at the replies in our visitors’ book – and there are 20,000 of them, 60% from abroad – you find people valuing free education, equality, the environment, preservation of natural resources, and also people saying that politicians aren’t any less corrupt than they were in 1215. Many people are grateful we live in a free society, while others think about how society can be better and more just. We all have rights but there are also many examples of where we could have more.

We tried to make it all as broad and as engaging as possible and so we had everything from lectures by serious academics to the trail of baron sculptures in the city, painted by different artists. More highbrow people might query these things as frivolous, but they’re very important, because it is through initiatives like a trail of barons in the city that you get people asking questions: so who are these barons? what’s Magna Carta? Children start to get interested, so one of the things we were very keen to do was make sure that ours wasn’t just an academic programme of events. Some people loved the lecture series, but a ten-year-old probably isn’t going to enjoy a lecture by the former Lord Chief Justice!

We organised lots of activities involving children and schools and their engagement with what we’ve done is probably one of our greatest satisfactions. We had a concert, ‘Magna Cantata’ – composed by Philip Lawson and Andrew Mackay – which involved 800 schoolchildren telling the story of King John through music. They came from 20 schools across quite a wide catchment and many had never been in the cathedral and neither had their parents. I think our challenge has been to tell the story in a way that people remember it and think about it. Sometimes it’s the light-hearted ways that have the most impact. At the opening of our exhibition we had lots of schoolchildren in and one was asked by a reporter what he thought of Magna Carta. He said, ‘I never realised it was so important. I thought it was just going to be a scrappy bit of old paper – I never realised it was written on a partridge’! I suppose that’s a lesson that no matter how hard you try, some people are going to misunderstand you!

The English Love of Nature

This article originally appeared in the Wessex Chronicle volume 15, issue 3 (autumn 2014).

The following printed item – labelled ‘MALMS Whitsuntide 1918’ – was found pasted in the visitors’ book of Alfred Bowker of The Malms, a large house at Shawford, near Winchester.
As Mayor of Winchester, Bowker, an energetic local solicitor, was instrumental in the commissioning of King Ælfred’s statue in the Broadway. The Malms (now demolished) was a pioneering, if problematic example of the use of reinforced concrete.

Hanham Court, near Bristol

All the beauty of early summer bloomed out in one week. The apple trees were covered with pink flowers and red buds. In the grass below them the narcissus gleamed. The thorns came suddenly aglow with blossom; the lilacs were each a heavy mass of colour and scent; the wistaria hung its bunches over the house-walls. Outside the garden the woods were misty with bluebells; the meadows gaily spread with buttercups and daisies, or tricked
more daintily with cowslips and cuckoo flowers. And after the long heat of the day, the nights were magical with the cool moon and the wide-set stars, and the nightingale
singing near the stream where the garden ends.


Such days and nights are all but intoxicating. So beautiful are they, and so rare, that they seem like some choice and expensive pleasure, which only the rich can afford and only the leisured enjoy. They carry an air almost of dissipation. Yet they are open to all dwellers in the country; they cost nothing, and take no time from work. They are a condition, not an achievement. We did not buy them: still less did we earn them. We rob no one else by
njoying them, retard no good work, obstruct no reform. If we have no
right to them, at least we do no wrong in accepting them as a gift. And, while we feel that it is “almost wicked” to be so happy – the old English puritanism, or some far older human fear of happiness, prompting us to mistrust the gift – the truth is that we are in such moments much nearer goodness than when the sky is grey and the wind in the east, and life seems a continuous effort instead of a blessed state.

At such rare times as these past few days have brought, the joy of being alive is forced upon us as never else. The present insists upon recognition. Each moment demands conscious enjoyment. As a rule, man looks before and after. He is hardly aware of the present, so fondly does he dream of the past, so eagerly or timorously does he peer into the future. Only now and then does the beauty and the dearness of his earthly setting compel him to concentrate his being in each moment. You cannot overlook the apple blossom, the lilac, the moonlight, the sound of the nightingale, and of the running water.

You cannot even remember that a week hence it will all be over, so intensely are you aware of it and of yourself within it. And thence, perhaps, you pass to the thought that it would be well for you to be more continuously and consciously aware of the present, not a moment of which but must have in it something consoling, or enlarging, or strengthening. For now, more than ever before, we know, vicariously or from experience, that life is short and
uncertain. In these days there is “no knowing what will happen”; and the folly of making plans for the future, however bravely, is seen at first hand to be as foolish as the great wise
men have all declared it to be. In the world before the war (though we were far from as silly and as greedy as certain timorous people have tried to make out) we were, beyond doubt,
to be found scampering more than was reasonable. We planned elaborate pleasures, worked hard to contrive them, and in the act of enjoying them set about thinking of
what to do next. There is no room now for elaborate pleasures, no time to plan them; possibly no future to squeeze them into. But the present is ours, and nothing can take it from us. The simple pleasures which we used to take unheeding, and therefore to lose, in the past, are now all that we can count upon. An hour with a favourite book, the song of a
bird, something good to eat or drink, a moonrise, a flower, a good walk – the value of all such simple pleasures, that cost nothing, that need no planning, that are pleasures of the moment, gifts or states, not achievements, has been increased a hundredfold by the conditions under which we live to-day. And if ever the war is over, the survivors must count
that among their gains from it: that they have learned the existence of the present moment, with its store of happiness, hitherto neglected.

To live fully in the present is in most moments to be happier than by living in the past or the future. To live in the past is, in the nature of things, to feel regret. To live in the future is to
be constantly subject to disappointment or to evil apprehension. We are seldom as miserable at any moment as we believe ourselves. The greater part of human unhappiness comes from our fear of what may be going to happen; just as the secret cause of most quarrels is the fear in each party of what the other party may be going to do. Most moments, rid of regret and evil apprehension, have in them something good, something
enjoyable, if it be only the joy of bravely enduring one moment more of evil case. At least, there is about living in the present a blessed restfulness. The past is past. There may be no future. There is nothing to regret, and nothing to worry about. And, if we cannot always have lilac, red apple-buds, moonlight and a nightingale, not even pituita molesta can prevent drear-nighted November from being very pleasant now and then.

Sidmouth

Wessex Aviation Industry, by Mike Phipp (Amberley Publishing, 2011)

This review originally appeared in Wessex Chronicle volume 14, issue 2 (summer 2013)

Mike Phipp has been watching planes come and go at Bournemouth’s airport since the
1960s, so is well-placed to write the definitive book on the Wessex aviation industry. This is not yet it. He confines ‘Wessex’ to Dorset and Wiltshire and the western parts of Hampshire and Berkshire. Can you write our aviation history and exclude Westland of Yeovil, makers of the Wessex and the
Wyvern? Or Bristol, birthplace of the Brabazon and Concorde?

Or Farnborough, home of military flying? That the book actually makes frequent passing reference to all three places, and others in Wessex, only underlines its chief shortcoming. At 317 pages, however, Mike Phipp’s work does offer plenty to be getting on with.

It arranges alphabetically 26 locations used by aircraft manufacturers. The firms range from Vickers-Supermarine, with 13 locations, to single-site operations like Sheriff Aerospace of Sandown or Jackaroo Aircraft of Thruxton. There is a short bibliography but unfortunately the only thing like an index is the contents listing. The aircraft and their manufacturers have been written about before. What is new is their placing in a geographical context, allowing us to understand how the industry came into being. The south coast’s boat-builders were ready to apply their traditional skills to making seaplanes. In 1912 Saunders and Sopwith collaborated on the Bat Boat, the first flying boat to be built in Europe, with a hull based on Saunders’ racing boat construction methods. In 1959 the same firm, by now Saunders-Roe – ‘Saro’ – of Cowes, built the first full-size hovercraft, the SR-N1. And what exactly IS a hovercraft? The Navy’s were classified as aircraft until 1979, and since then as ships, but really they’re a bit of both, just like the industry that built them. Some firms went back to boat-building when aerial orders were few, with slipways rather than runways the most essential piece of infrastructure they needed to possess. Inland, it was the making of furniture, cars and railway rolling stock that was put on hold for aircraft, especially when Supermarine began to disperse Spitfire production in the summer of 1940. (Just in time, as the Itchen and Woolston factories were bombed in September.) The change has not been all one-way: Honda’s Swindon car plant stands on the old Vickers site at South Marston, with the runway now the test track. Wessex Aviation Industry is not an easy read for the non-specialist, who will struggle to keep up with the stream of carefully recorded design changes and all the details of who ordered what from whom and when. There are enough photos to keep a timetravelling plane-spotter very happy indeed. It’s at its best when the people involved come to the fore: entrepreneurs, designers and sheer enthusiasts for making the most of the air. I’m left wishing there was more about such splendidly-named characters as Major Hereward de Havilland, the family firm’s man at Christchurch Airfield in the 1950s, or Alliott Verdon Roe, who developed not one but two firms in succession (Avro and Saro). This may not be the definitive book but it does whet the appetite.