He becomes thirsty at times, and the village inn has already risen
to the occasion, usually, it must be admitted, without detriment to
the village street. The architecture of licensed premises is looking
up. His car also becomes thirsty, (hence the petrol-station), and
its occasional liability to gastric trouble involves the provision at
frequent intervals of telephone-cabins and repair-shops or garages.
We may profitably consider the design of these accessories and their
relation to country surroundings in the next chapter. The phenomenal
development in the use of motor charabancs has involved the provision
of extensive “parking-places” in all pleasure resorts, e.g., at
Brighton, where a large part of the sea-view from the Esplanade is
blocked. The provision of a “park” at Glastonbury has led to an outcry
recently, and everywhere the problem is pressing.
Finally comes the very vexed question of housing, municipal and
private, that has grown so acute since the War. In this movement the
motorist has played a prominent part, for he has helped to extend
the “Housing Problem,” from its obvious location on the fringes of
our towns, away to the remoter parts of the country. From Kent to
Hampshire the bungalows line our southern cliffs. Housing needs may
be divided into three groups: those of the townsman, the rustic, and
the week-ender. The first concerns us here only to the extent that
new housing in urban districts must of necessity be provided in the
adjoining rural areas: thus London is now so congested that its County
Council has had to acquire large estates in Essex, Kent, and Middlesex
to provide houses for city workers, who are quite properly dissatisfied
with the tenement-dwellings that are their only alternative. Then,
although in many country districts the population is decreasing, new
standards of decency impel the newly-wed to demand something better
than the leaking and verminous hovels where their parents dwell. All
these new houses, whether in country or town, have been provided in
increasing proportion by municipal enterprise since the War, and
hence their design is subject to a measure of control. Whether that
control is sufficient to ensure a tolerable standard of architectural
expression is a matter for further consideration: at this point it
is important to realise that practically all the post-War “Housing
Schemes” have been scientifically laid out on rational lines, with due
regard for the future. It is that central control, whether exercised
by a public body or by a properly constituted private organisation,
which makes all the difference between the “lay-out” of Becontree or
Port Sunlight on the one hand and an average bungalow settlement on the
other. One is a design, the other an accident,--and the Italian word
for “accident” is _disgrazia_!
Some sixteen years ago I endeavoured to interest the inhabitants of the
district where I live in the possibilities of the then newly-passed
Town-Planning Act. The more enlightened among them readily responded,
but there were some who said that this was a rural area and that they
had no wish to see it turned into a town. Since then it _has_ turned
itself into something resembling a town, but its growth has been
spasmodic and irregular. A few years later came a proposal to acquire
two fields in the centre of the district for a public park. Again
the objectors appeared; what does a semi-village need with a public
park, at a high price too? Fortunately the fields were acquired, and
already they are nearly encircled by building plots. Meanwhile a great
Arterial Road has been driven right across the new park, cutting it in
half and reducing its attractions. Under a proper town-planning scheme
such things would be impossible. Roads and parks would be laid out on
paper years before they were required; and, though modifications of
the first plan would become necessary from time to time, the ultimate
gain would be enormous. Groups of adjoining authorities are already
preparing regional town-planning schemes in concert, so that trunk
roads may be provided in such a way as to pass through each area to its
benefit and not to its detriment. If “Rusticus” stands too long while
the river flows by, as the quotation on my title-page suggests, he will
find the countryside engulfed.
In my last chapter something was said of the possibilities that the new
science of Town-planning has to offer us, as a result of many years’
experience and experiment. We have seen the appearance of innumerable
municipal housing-schemes, of “Satellite Towns” like Letchworth and
the new Welwyn, of model industrial communities like Bournville and
Port Sunlight, of communal efforts like the Hampstead Garden Suburb, of
many admirable achievements in the developments of private enterprise.
Originating at the time (1876 _et seq._) when Bedford Park was laid
out, the idea developed slowly before the War and has made great
strides since. It is one of the brightest spots in the history of
English progress, but it has not been sufficient to stem the rush of
_ersatz_ building that followed the War.
For it is the bungalow craze, with all that it now implies, which has
most seriously damaged the appearance of rural England during the last
eight years. There is nothing inherently unpleasant in the bungalow
type of house. Properly designed and constructed, it may be made a
thing of beauty harmonising perfectly with its surroundings. But, to
my mind, its advantages have been grossly exaggerated. On the count
of cost, the primary consideration nowadays, it shows no superiority
over the two-floor house; reasonable privacy for its bedrooms is
secured with difficulty; and it is apt to sprawl over the ground.
One cannot quite realise why it has been so much favoured in recent
years; possibly it is merely a transient fashion, like face-powder
or crinolines. There was a great and a genuine demand for houses
after the War, which had to be satisfied. Nine people out of ten took
what they could get, and they got bungalows. For the most part their
_ménage_ consisted of husband, wife, and a two-seater. Neither servants
nor children entered into the picture. There was a prejudice against
everything connected with the pre-War period, especially with its
social distinctions, and perhaps the ex-service man sought for the
antithesis of the suburban villa. Accustomed for four years to scenes
of ruin and to leaky Army huts, his mind readily accepted the slap-dash
bungalow with its familiar barbed-wire fence and no-man’s-land of a
garden. The effect of flimsiness and impermanence that characterises
so many of these little buildings may be ascribed to three causes: the
difficulty of paying for a house _and_ a car out of an income that
only provided a house before the War, the prevalent restlessness which
almost rejects the idea of settling down in one place and letting
oneself “take root,” and the insidious hold that the architecture of
dumps and sheds had gained on the average man’s mind in 1914-18. His
two-seater carried him out into what was (at first) the peace of the
country, where land was cheap. Run up at express speed to satisfy an
enormous demand, these bungalows spread out for miles along the roads
adjoining the towns, thus avoiding the road-making charges that have
to be met on an ordinary estate. And next this “ribbon” development
continued far out into the country, so that people who had a slight
surplus after meeting their hire-purchase payments for car and
furniture could enjoy a sight of the sea on Saturday and Sunday from a
bungalow perched on the Sussex cliffs. Thus this singular movement has
had its main effect in rural districts, whose little Councils, with
their often rudimentary by-laws, find the problem almost beyond their
power to solve.
For these bungalows are for the most part designed without knowledge
or taste, without regard to the tradition of English architecture
or the claims of the English landscape. They are generally built of
flimsy machine-made materials, largely imported from abroad. Yet they
have satisfied a perfectly legitimate demand for accommodation, they
have been erected honestly by builders and paid for by their owners,
and they have so far complied with the laws of the land that they have
earned a Government “subsidy” towards their cost. Hence the bungalow,
which many of us regard as the motorist’s least acceptable gift to the
countryside, constitutes a topic which must be criticised with extreme
tact and caution.
There must be many beauty-spots in England that have been spoilt by
motorists and charabancs since the War, but as a fair case one may cite
X---- in Romney Marsh. A few years ago this was an artists’ paradise
and a haven of peace. It has now become a glorified bus-park, where one
is surrounded by petrol-pumps, garages, blatant exorbitant cafés run
by loud-voiced aliens, “souvenir” shops full of Brummagem and German
products, ice-carts, and innumerable direction-posts to “ladies’ cloak
rooms.” All the charm of the place has gone in bribes to the tripper,
and when he tires of it the ugliness will remain. When one sees a
beautiful village or landscape prostituted to such ends, one wishes
that the petrol-engine had never been invented.
But is ugliness an inevitable concomitant of motoring? Last April
it was my good fortune to travel some 200 miles over the main
roads of Tuscany. In that considerable distance I saw not a single
petrol-station, and hardly a poster or a hoarding. The petrol-pumps
must have been there, but at any rate they were not obtrusive enough to
attract notice. Some people may say that the apparent absence of these
accessories of civilisation furnishes an additional proof of Italian
backwardness, others that the iron hand of Mussolini prevents progress;
but to me, as a lover of Italy, it is a satisfaction that she has
contrived to reconcile the legitimate needs of to-day with the beauty
of her countryside.
V
THE FUTURE
The first part of this little book described rural England as it
existed in its unsullied perfection, the second part the regrettable
changes due mainly to the use of coal and petrol, and now we have to
consider what prospect there is of saving the best of the old and
making the best of the new. If “Rusticus” desires to preserve the
remainder of his heritage, he must adopt some bolder policy than that
of gazing at the flowing stream. Nor will the tactics of Canute serve
his purpose: the tide of “civilisation” will not stop for him. There is
every indication that it will flow with undiminished velocity in the
coming years.
Our efforts must therefore be directed to two objects: the preservation
of such relics of the past as are of recognised worth, and the
regulation of all tendencies that are harmful to the beauty of
the countryside. It is heartening to see, in the recent formation
of the Council for the Preservation of Rural England, some public
expression of interest in this vital matter. Without presuming to offer
suggestions to so august a body, it is my purpose to set down in order
the chief factors in the situation, present and future.
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.