Rusticus

by Martin S. Briggs

In a previous passage it has been remarked that ruin as such is a matter for regret, not for admiration. One might go a step further and say that old buildings are not necessarily good buildings. Strictly speaking, that is true, but is also dangerous doctrine. Nearly all old buildings are good buildings, and when we find one that we are disposed to reckon as bad, we must not forget that the canons of architectural taste have always been fickle. In the eighteenth century Gothic buildings were ridiculed, and were treated accordingly. In the nineteenth, taste was completely reversed. On the other hand, certain architects of the Gothic Revival were so enamoured of a special variety of Gothic that they endeavoured to remould all old churches of any differing period nearer to their hearts’ desire. Hence the formation in 1877 of that body which is familiarly and even affectionately known as the “Anti-Scrape,” more precisely as the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. It was founded by architects and others to protest against excessive zeal in “restoration” by architects and others, and has done a noble work. It is still maintained partly by architects, whose disinterested efforts in preserving old buildings are worthy of note because architects naturally depend for their living mainly on new buildings. As its headquarters are in London, its work in other centres is most effectively done through the medium of a local committee. The essential qualifications for such a committee are taste and disinterestedness. Suppose that an old cottage or barn on a village street in Blankshire is threatened with demolition. If the matter is brought to the notice of the Blankshire local committee by any self-appointed (even anonymous) “informer,” that committee will offer an opinion, backed by the expert advice of the S.P.A.B., who may be able to suggest some alternative to demolition. Their knowledge of the technical details of restoration is unrivalled, especially as regards building materials suitable for use in an old structure. If the cottage is older than A.D. 1714 and of sufficient merit, the aid of the Ancient Monuments Commission may be invoked. Once such a building is scheduled as an “ancient monument,” the owner is deprived of his right to demolish or alter it, and its existence is safeguarded by the Government. Another means of frustrating base designs on an old building is to appeal to the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty, who may be induced to launch an appeal through the Press for funds to purchase it. At present they maintain over twenty buildings, including some which are of literary interest (e.g., Coleridge’s cottage) rather than of great antiquity. A third alternative is to enlist the sympathies of a local authority or a local philanthropist. In any case the delay in demolition caused by creating an outcry will serve a useful purpose, for a thoughtless owner may be led to reconsider his original intentions, and by so doing may find that the building may be preserved after all. The restoration of old buildings is much more practicable than any yet discovered use of monkey-gland is to old people. But of course there are cases,—and sentimentalists are apt to overlook this fact,—where an old building has no architectural merit, and simply must give way before the march of progress. It is difficult, too, to see how a man can be compelled to maintain a disused windmill. It may be added that bridges are among the “buildings” scheduled as “Ancient Monuments.”

As regards natural features, it must be generally known that the National Trust, already mentioned, has been very active during recent years in acquiring and preserving all manner of beauty-spots in England, including such various sites as the mountains of the Lake District, strategical points on the North and South Downs, river banks, hill-tops and cliff-tops all over the country. Unfortunately the era of enclosing commons is not yet over, and another organisation—the Commons and Footpaths Preservation Society—was founded in 1865 to further the excellent objects indicated by its title. It saved Epping Forest, Hampstead Heath, Wimbledon Common and many other familiar places for us, and continues to watch over the interests of all lovers of the country. But, like the other societies mentioned here, its activities are limited by its funds. However, we must remember that any district which has adopted a town-planning scheme can now invoke the majesty of the law to save its open spaces and natural features, for the first Schedule of the Town-Planning Act of 1925 includes a reference to “the preservation of objects of historical interest or natural beauty.”

There have been many recent agitations—notably in regard to Ken Wood, the Seven Sisters, the Devil’s Dyke, and the Darenth Valley—which have shown that, in the last extremity, the public will sometimes rise to the occasion when a beauty-spot is threatened.

Considering the narrowness of the average village High Street, and the concentration of its historical relics in its centre, there is much to be said for the construction of a “by-pass” road to carry through traffic round the village. Otherwise the village green, the pond, the stocks, the inns, and nearly all the old landmarks would have to go. Traders object in the case of the larger towns, but vested interests always turn up somewhere, and it seems fairly certain that the “by-pass” road meets the needs of the greater number besides preserving the old village intact. Eventually there will have to be a ring-road round all old cities, like Oxford, which stand at the intersection of important highways, or the concentration of traffic at the centre will become unmanageable.

We have hardly grown accustomed yet to the great new arterial roads, though several are already in use. They seem to me to represent one of our highest achievements in civil engineering as they sweep majestically through cuttings and over embankments with an uninterrupted width of a hundred feet or more. In some ways they are the biggest thing we have in England, out of scale with our doll’s-house villages and landscapes, and out of character with our little winding lanes. It will be years before the trees that line them turn them into magnificent avenues, but by that time we shall have learned to accept them and even to admire them. Presumably we shall see an end of telegraph-poles soon, and that will be all to the good. But there are other things that engineers might bear in mind. The great road that runs south-west from Birmingham to the Lickey Hills, a noble highway in width, is disfigured by tramway poles and wires. Is that necessary in 1927? Surely the petrol-engine, which has done much to spoil the country, can atone for some of its crimes here by taking the place of electrically driven vehicles?

In Birmingham, as in the narrow streets of Ipswich, and—still worse—in the beautiful Wharfedale valley, is to be seen a more frightful abortion, the “trackless tram.” There has been a proposal to extend this hideous system in Wharfedale on a broad highway cutting across some fine country. Surely motor-buses could serve every purpose that the lumbering trackless tram fulfils.

The new arterial roads start with a clean sheet: it is to be hoped that it will remain clean. Recently the Minister of Transport addressed a circular to local authorities, reminding them that, under the powers conferred on them by the Advertisement Regulation Act of 1907, they could take action in respect of unsightly advertisements along the great new arteries, and urging them to do so. One distinct advantage of modern road-construction is that the dust nuisance has practically ceased to exist. Another innovation that has recently appeared is a small black and white “lighthouse” at every important crossing. The Ministry of Transport might institute a competition for designs for these useful but not always beautiful accessories.

The question of road-development is inextricably bound up with the larger question of town-planning, on which I have touched already in another connection. Before approaching the vital matter of controlling the design of individual buildings, we must consider this wider aspect. The fact is that town-planning enthusiasts are disappointed with the progress made since the passing of the 1909 Act. We had hoped for more far-reaching results. The nation as a whole has failed to realise the importance of this question or the great responsibility that legislation has put upon all local authorities. Whether from the point of view of appearance, of health, or of mere business, town-planning is the only national method of providing for the future.

It is futile to write letters to The Times about lost opportunities: common-sense would have saved the situation in nearly every case, for town-planning is idealised common-sense. People who have bought a house in a half-developed suburb wake up one morning to find a shop rising on the opposite side of their road. They pack up their furniture and flit to another half-built district a mile further out; and then it happens again. So they keep on moving, at considerable expense to themselves. They lose all interest in local affairs, indeed they never stay long enough to acquire such an interest, and nobody gains by their journeys except the removal contractor. But in a town-planned district an area is set apart for dwelling-houses, another for shops, another for factories. The position of each area is determined by local conditions, by the “lie of the land,” by the prevailing wind, and by the situation of railways and roads. There is a place for everything, and everything is in its place. This branch of town-planning is called “zoning.” Sites are reserved for municipal buildings, for schools, churches, cinemas and all the other requirements of our complex life. Roads are planned wide where heavy traffic is anticipated, narrow elsewhere. Thus in a properly planned area there is no need for large sums to be paid out of the rates for compensation when a road has to be made or widened, because the land for the road has been earmarked in advance. A man who erects a shop in a new street runs no risk of having made an error of judgment in selecting his site: he knows that this will be the main shopping street and no other. Thus town-planning is good business, but like many other movements for reform its inception was due to far-sighted dreamers. However, it has not yet caught hold of the popular imagination, and, in the recent case of the East Kent coalfield, where, if ever, there was a crying need for its adoption, the imaginative enterprise of some leading Men of Kent seems to have started the movement which made it possible. This last example shows admirably how town-planning may be utilised to save the countryside. In one sense East Kent could not be saved: coal had been found there, and was too valuable to be neglected, for, after all, we cannot afford to throw away any of our natural resources at the present time. Yet it was unthinkable that this lovely district, the cradle of our race and the playground of half London, should be allowed to become a second Black Country. So everything that can be done will be done to preserve Canterbury and Sandwich and other priceless relics of antiquity, to save trees, to prevent the blackening of the fields by smoke and the disfigurement of the landscape by tall chimneys, above all to avoid any repetition of those squalid black villages that have driven miners to desperation in other colliery districts. This is one of the ways in which town-planning can serve the nation.

The development of a modern town is inevitably centrifugal; it spreads and sprawls outwards along the main roads into the country unless that tendency be checked. Every mile that it grows outwards means a few minutes’ extra time for travelling to and from work, congestion increases at the centre, and the country—as a place for recreation—is driven further and further away. A feeling that this system is essentially wrong has resulted in some well-meant efforts to create “Satellite Towns,” of which Letchworth and Welwyn are examples. They are satellites to London in the sense that London is within hail for emergencies: thus Harley Street is a useful resort in some cases, while the sanctuary of the British Museum Reading Room satisfies bookworms, and Oxford Street contents the other sex. But the main object of the promoters was to remove industries and workers bodily into the country, so that labour might be carried on in pleasant surroundings, never more than a few minutes’ walk from green fields. The intention is to limit the ultimate population of these towns to 30,000-50,000. When that figure is reached, another centre will be started. So far, neither town has grown very rapidly, and industry has been slow to move out, in spite of the heavy cost of carrying on business in London. But the “Satellite Town,” a praiseworthy attempt to secure the amenities of the old country town for modern workers, is a factor to be reckoned with in the future. The new L.C.C. town at Becontree in Essex is being properly laid out on rational town-planning lines, but is to be purely residential, for people working in London, so does not constitute a “Satellite Town.” A remarkably successful scheme for providing something better than the ordinary haphazard suburb, which normally deteriorates with the certainty of clockwork, is to be seen in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. This will never deteriorate appreciably, because its residents are guaranteed against any interference with their amenities. It is laid out scientifically, not merely exploited on short-sighted commercial methods.